part, I was so struck, so affected, that I stalked about the room with out knowing what I did: venting broken exclamations, and making involuntary motions to no purpose. Wolmar himself, the unsusceptible Wolmar, seemed affected. But where is the heart of iron whom such a scene of sensibility would not affect? where is the unfortunate mortal from whom such a scene of tenderness would not have extorted tears?
Instead of running to Eloisa, this fortunate husband threw himself on a settee, to enjoy the delightful scene. “Be not afraid,” says he, seeing our uneasiness. “In these accidents nature only is exhausted for a moment, to recover itself with new vigour; they are never dangerous. Let me prevail on you not to interrupt the pleasure I take in this transporting sight, but partake it with me. How ravishingly delightful must it be to you? I never tasted any thing like it, and am yet the most unhappy of all here.”
You may judge, my lord, by the first moment of their meeting, the consequences of the reunion of these charming friends. It has excited throughout the whole house a sound of gladness, a tumultuous joy, that has not yet subsided. Eloisa was in such an agitation as I never saw her in before; it was impossible for her to think of any thing all that day, but to gaze on her new visitor, and load her with fresh caresses. No body even thought of the saloon of Apollo; there was no occasion for thinking of it when every place gave equal pleasure. We were hardly, even the next day, composed enough to think of making an entertainment on the occasion. Had it not been for Wolmar, every thing would have gone wrong. In the mean time, every one was dressed in the best manner. No other care was admitted, than what tended to amusement. The entertainment was not grand, but extremely joyous; throughout the whole there reigned a pleasing confusion and disorder, which was its greatest embellishment.
The morning was spent in putting Mrs. Orbe in possession of her employment of intendant or housekeeper, and she betrayed the same eagerness to enter into her office, as a child does after a new plaything; at which we were highly diverted. In entering the saloon at dinner, both cousins were agreeably surprized to see on every side, their names in cypher, artificially formed with flowers. Eloisa guessed in an instant to whom she was obliged for that piece of ingenuity, and embraced me in a transport of joy. Clara, contrary to former custom, hesitated to follow her example; till Wolmar reprimanding her, she blushed, and embraced me. Her sweet confusion, which I observed but too plainly, had an effect on me which I cannot describe; but I could not feel myself in her arms without emotion.
After dinner, a fine collation was set out in the gynaeceum, or women’s apartment; where for once Mr. Wolmar and I were admitted, and were entertained agreeably. In the evening all the house, now increased by three persons, assembled to dance. Clara seemed ornamented by the hands of the Graces, never having appeared to so much advantage as on that day. She danced, she chatted, she laugh’d, she gave orders, she was capable of every thing. Having protested she would tire me out, she danced down five or six country dances in a breath; and then reproached me for footing it with the gravity of a philosopher. I, on the other hand, told her she danc’d like a fairy; that she was full as mischievous, and that she would not let me rest night nor day. You shall see to the contrary, says she, here’s that will set you to sleep presently: with that she started up, and led down another dance.
She was really indefatigable; but it was otherwise with Eloisa: she could hardly support herself; her knees trembled, as she danced; she was too much affected, to be chearful. One might observe a tear of joy every now and then trickle from her eyes; she regarded her cousin with a kind of delicious transport; took a pleasure in conceiving herself the guest for whom the entertainment was made, and looked fondly upon Clara as the mistress of the house who entertained her.
After supper, I play’d off the fireworks I brought from China, which had a pretty effect. We sat up great part of the night. At length it became time to break up: Mrs. Orbe was tired, or had danced enough to be so; and Eloisa was desirous she should not sit up too late.
After this we became insensibly tranquil, and good order took place.
Clara, giddy and inconsiderate as she seems, knows how to check her sallies, and put on an air of authority, when she pleases. She has, besides great good sense, an exquisite discernment, the penetration of Wolmar, and the goodness of Eloisa; and tho’ extremely liberal, has a good deal of discretion in her generosity: for, tho’ left so young a widow, and charged with the care of a daughter, the fortunes of both increase in her hands; so that there is no reason to apprehend the house will, under her direction, be less prudently governed than before. In the mean time, Eloisa has the satisfaction of devoting herself entirely to an occupation more agreeable to her taste; that is, the education of her children: and I doubt not but Harriot will profit greatly by one of her mothers having relieved the other. I say her mothers, because by the manner in which they both behave to her, it is difficult to distinguish which is really so; so that some strangers, who arrived here to day, are still, or appear to be, in doubt about it. In fact, they both call her _Harriot_, or _my child_, indifferently. She calls the one her _Mamma_, and the other her _little Mamma_: she has the same love for both, and pays them equal obedience. If the ladies are asked whose child it is, each answers it is hers: if Harriot be questioned, she says that she has two mothers; so that it is no wonder that people are puzzled. The most discerning, however, think her the child of Eloisa; Harriot, whose father was of a fair complexion, being fair like her, and something resembling her in features. A greater maternal tenderness appears also in the soft regards of Eloisa, than in the sprightlier looks of Clara. The child puts on also a more respectful air, and is more reserved in her behaviour before the former. She places herself involuntarily oftener on the side of Eloisa, because she most frequently talks to her. It must be confessed all appearances are in favour of our _little mamma_; and I perceive the deception is so agreeable to the two cousins, that it may be sometimes perhaps intended.
In a fortnight, my lord, nothing will be wanting here but your presence; and when you are arrived, I shall have a very bad opinion of that man, who should be tempted to ransack the world for a virtue, or a pleasure, which may not be found in this house.
Letter CXLIII. To Lord B----.
For these three days past I have attempted every evening successively to write to you; but found myself, through the fatigue of the day, too sleepy to effect my purpose at night, and in the morning I am again called upon early to my employment. A pleasing tranquillity, more intoxicating than wine, takes possession of my senses; and I cannot without regret bear a moment’s avocation from the new and agreeable amusements I find here.
I cannot indeed conceive that any place would be disagreeable to me in such company; but do you know why Clarens in itself is agreeable? it is that here I find myself actually in the country, which I could hardly ever say before. The inhabitants of cities know not how to enjoy the country; they know not what it is to be there; and, even when they are there, know not what to do with themselves. They are ignorant of all rustic business and amusements; they despise them; they seem at home as if they were in a foreign country, and I am not at all surprized that they are displeased with it. Among the country people, we should live as they do, or not associate with them at all.
The Parisians, who imagine they go into the country, mistake the thing; they carry Paris along with them. They are attended with their singers, their wits, their authors, and their parasites. Cards, music, and plays, engross all their attention; [88] their tables are spread in the same manner as at Paris; they sit down to their meals at the same hours; are served with the same dishes, and in the same pomp: in a word, they do just the same things in the country as they did in town, where, for that reason, it had been better they had stayed; for, however opulent they are, or careful to omit nothing they are accustomed to, they always find something wanting, and perceive the impossibility of carrying Paris altogether along with them. Thus, that variety they are so fond of eludes their search; they are acquainted only with one manner of living, and are therefore a continual burthen to themselves. To me every rural employment affords something agreeable; nor is there any so painful and laborious as to excite our compassion for the labourer. As the object of both public and private utility, husbandry is peculiarly interesting; and, as it was the first employment of man in his state of innocence, it fills the mind with the most pleasing sensations, and affects us with the agreeable ideas of the golden age. The imagination cannot help being warmed by the prospects of seedtime and harvest: If we look around us, and see the fields covered with hay makers, and with flocks of sheep scattered at a distance, one is sensibly affected with a pleasure arising one knows not how. The voice of nature thus sometimes softens our savage hearts, and, though its dictates are too often fruitless, it is so agreeable that we never hear it without pleasure.
I must confess, that the misery which appears on the face of some countries, where the taxes devour the produce of the earth, the eager avarice of a greedy collector, the inflexible rigour of an inhuman master, take away much of the beauty of the prospect. To see the poor jaded cattle ready to expire under the whip; to see the unhappy peasants themselves emaciated with fasting, clothed in rags, groaning with fatigue, and hardly secured from the inclemencies of the weather by their wretched huts; these are deplorable sights, and it makes one almost blush to be a man when one thinks how the very vitals of such poor objects are drained to satisfy their cruel masters. But what pleasure is it, on the other hand, to see the prudent and humane proprietors, in milder governments, make the cultivation of their lands the instrument of their benevolence, their recreation, their pleasures! to see them with open hands distribute the bounties of providence! to see their servants, their cattle, and every creature about them, fatten on the abundance that flows from their barns, their cellars and granaries! to see them surrounded with peace and plenty, and make, of the employment that enriches them, a continual entertainment! How is it possible for one to be inattentive to the agreeable illusions which such objects present? we forget the age we live in, and the vices of our cotemporaries, and are transported in imagination to the time of the patriarchs; we are desirous to set one’s own hands to work; to join in the rustic employment, and partake of the happiness annexed to it. Oh! how delightful were the days of love and innocence, when the women were affectionate and modest, the men simple and content! such were the days when a lover did not regret fourteen years of servitude to obtain his mistress. Fair daughter of Laban! keeper of thy father’s flocks, how amiable must thou have been!
how irresistible thy charms! No, never doth beauty exert its power so much as when in the midst of rural scenes and rustic simplicity. Here is the real seat of its empire; here she sits on her throne, surrounded by the graces; adorned by whose lands, she captivates all beholders. Excuse this rhapsody, my lord; I return now to my subject.
For this month past the autumnal heats have been preparing a favourable vintage, which the first has already induced us to begin; [89] the parched leaves falling off the vines, and exposing to view the clustered grapes, whose juicy ripeness invites the hands of the gatherers. Vines loaded with this salutary fruit, which heaven bestows on the unfortunate as a cure for all their woes; the sound of the casks, tubs, and tons, which they are hooping anew on every side, the songs of the gatherers with which the vintage re-echoes; the continual trotting backwards and forwards of those who carry the grapes to the press, the harsh sound of the rustic instruments that animate the people to work; the agreeable and affecting picture of a general good humour, which seems to be extended at that time over the face of the whole earth; add to these the fog, which the sun exhales in a morning and draws up like the curtain of theatre, to display so delightful a scene; all conspire to give it the air of an entertainment; and that an entertainment which is the more pleasing on reflection, that it is the only one in which mankind have art enough to join utility with delight.
Mr. Wolmar, who has one of the best vineyards in the country, has made all the necessary preparations for his vintage. His backs, his winepress, his cellar, his casks, are all ready for that delicious liquor for which they are designed. Mrs. Wolmar herself takes charge of the crop; the choice of the labourers, and the order and distribution of the several parts of the work falling to her share.
Mrs. Orbe takes care of all entertainments, and of the payment of the day-labourers agreeable to the police established here; the laws of which are never infringed or broken. As to my part, I am set to inspect the press and enforce the directions of Eloisa, who cannot bear the steam of the backs; and Clara did not fail to recommend me to this employ, as it was so well adapted to a toper. Thus every one having an allotted task, we are all up early in the morning, and are assembled to go to the vineyard. Mrs. Orbe, who never thinks herself sufficiently employed, undertaking further to observe and rate those that are idle; in doing which I can safely say, with respect to me at least, that she acquits herself with a malicious assiduity. As to the old baron, while we are all employed, he walks out with his gun, and comes, every now and then, to take me from my work, to go with him a thrush-shooting; and I am taxed by my companions with being secretly engaged to him. So that by degrees I lose my old name of philosopher and get that of an idler; appellations which in reality are not so very different. You see, by what I have told you of the baron, that we are quite reconciled, and that Wolmar has reason to be content with his second experiment. [90] Shall I hate the father of my friend? no, were I his son, I could not respect him more than I do. In fact, I know not any man more sincere, more open, more generous, or more honourable in every respect than this old gentleman. But the extravagance of his notions and prejudices is odd enough. Since he is certain I cannot be united to his family, he is extremely civil; and, provided I be not his son-in-law, he will readily give up every thing, and allow me a superiority to himself. The only thing I cannot forgive him, is, that when we are alone, he will some time rally the pretended philosopher on his former lectures. His pleasantry on this head hurts me, and I am always vexed at it; but he turns my resentment into ridicule, and says, Come along, let us go bring down a thrush or two; we have carried this argument far enough. And then he calls out, as we go out of doors; here, Clara, Clara! provide a good supper for your master; I am going to get him an appetite. Notwithstanding his age, also, I can assure you, he brushes among the vines with his gun, with as much activity as myself, and is incomparably a better marksman. I have some satisfaction, however, in that he dares not drop a word before his daughter; the little scholar prescribing no less to her father than to her preceptor. But to return to our vintage.
It is now a week since we have been employed in this agreeable occupation, yet we have hardly done half our work. Besides the wines intended for sale and for common use, which are only simply tho’ carefully made, our benevolent fairy makes others of a more exquisite flavour for us drinkers; I myself assisting in the magical operations.
We make wines of all countries from the grapes of one vineyard: to make one sort, she orders the stalks of the bunches to be twisted when the grape is ripe, and lets them dry by the heat of the sun upon the stock; for another, she has the grapes picked and stoned before they are put into the press; Again, for a third sort, she has the red grapes gathered before sunrising, and carefully conveyed to the press, fresh with their bloom and covered with the morning dew, to make white wine. She makes a sweet wine, by putting into the casks _must_, reduced to a syrup by evaporation; a dry wine, by checking its fermentation; a bitter cordial by steeping wormwood; [91] and a muscadel wine, with the help of simples. All those different wines have their peculiar methods of preparation; every one of which is simple and wholesome. And thus an industrious economy makes up for a diversity of soils, and unites twenty climates in one. You cannot conceive with what assiduity, with what alacrity, all our business is done. We sing and laugh all day long, without the least interruption to our work. We live altogether in the greatest familiarity; are all treated on a footing, and yet no one forgets himself. The ladies put on none of their airs, the countrywomen are decent, the men droll, but never rude. Those are the most caressed who sing the best songs, tell the best stories, or hit off the best joke. Our good understanding even gives rise to pleasant bickerings between us, and our mutual raillery is exerted only to shew how far we can bear with good temper each others severity. There is no returning home to play the gentle folks; we stay all the day long in the vineyard; Eloisa having caused a lodge to be built there, whither we retreat to warm ourselves when cold, or to shelter us from the rain. We dine with the peasants, and at their hour, as well as work with them. We eat their soup, a little coarse indeed, but very good, and seasoned with excellent herbs. We laugh not at their downright behaviour and rustic compliments; but, in order to free them from constraint, give into their own ways without affectation. This complacence on our side, also, is not lost upon them; they are sensible of it; and, seeing that we are so ready to go out of our way for them, are more willing to go on in their own for us. At dinner the children are brought from the house, and pass the rest of the day in the vineyard. How rejoiced are the peasants to see them! then, taking them up in their sturdy arms, they bless them, and wish heaven may prolong their days to resemble their parents, and make them in like manner a blessing to their country. When I think that the most of these men have born arms, and understand the use of the sword and musket, as well as the management of the hoe and pruning-knife, in seeing Eloisa so loved and respected by them, and herself and children received with such affecting acclamations, I cannot help calling to mind the virtuous and illustrious Agrippina, shewing her son to the troops of Germanicus. Incomparable Eloisa! who exercises in the simplicity of private life, the despotic power of wisdom and beneficence; your person a dear and sacred trust deposited in the hands of your country-men, every one of whom would defend and protect you at the hazard of his own life; it is yours to live more securely, more honourably, in the midst of a whole people who love you, than monarchs surrounded with guards.
In the evening, we all return home chearfully together; the workpeople being lodged and boarded with us all the time of the vintage; and even on Sundays after the evening service, we assemble and dance together till supper time. On the other days of the week, also, we remain altogether, after we are returned home, except the baron, who, eating no suppers, goes to bed early, and Eloisa, who with her children stays with him till his bedtime. Thus, from the time we take upon ourselves the business of the vintage till we quit it, we never once mix the city and country life together. These Saturnalia are much more agreeable and discreet than those of the Romans. The constraint they affected was too preposterous to improve either the master or the slave; but the peaceful equality which prevails here, re-establishes the order of nature, is productive of instruction to some, of consolation to others, and of a friendly connection between all. [92] Our assembly room is an old hall with a great chimney and a good fire in it. On the mantlepiece are lighted up three lamps, made by Mr.
Wolmar’s orders, of tin, just to catch the smoke and reflect the light. To prevent giving rise to envy, every thing is carefully avoided that might in the eyes of these poor people, appear more costly than what they meet with at home; no other mark of opulence being displayed than the choice of the best of common things, and a little more profusion in their distribution. Supper is served upon two long tables; where the pomp and luxury of entertainments is amply supplied by good humour and plenty. Every one sits down to table, master, labourers, and servants; every one without distinction gets up to help himself, without exception or preference; the whole repast ending in gratitude and festivity. All drink at their discretion, subject to no other rules than those of decency and sobriety. The presence of superiors, whom they so truly respect, keeps the workpeople within bounds; yet lays no restraint on their ease and chearfulness. And should any one happen to forget himself and give offence, the company is not disturbed by reprimands, the offender being dismissed the next day, without farther notice.
Thus, do I take advantage of the pleasures of the country and the season. I resume the freedom of living after the manner of the country, and to drink pure wine pretty often; but I drink none that is not poured out by the hands of one or other of the two cousins; who take upon them to measure my thirst by the strength of my head, and to manage my reason as they think proper; nor does any one know better how to manage it, or has like them the art to give or take it away from me at pleasure. When the fatigue of the day, or the length and festivity of the repast, add to the strength of the liquor, I indulge myself without restraint in the sallies it inspires. They are no longer such as I need suppress, even in the presence of the sagacious Wolmar. I am no longer afraid his penetrating eye should see into the bottom of my heart; and, when a tender idea arises in my memory, one look from Clara dissipates it; one look of Eloisa makes me blush for my weakness.
After supper, we sit up an hour or two to peel hemp; every one singing a song in turn. Sometimes the women sing all together, or one sings alone, and the rest join in chorus to the burthen of the song. Most of their songs are old tales, set to no very agreeable tunes. There is, not withstanding something antique and affecting, which on the whole is very pleasing. The words are generally very simple, unaffected, and often very sorrowful: they are, nevertheless, diverting. Clara cannot forbear smiling, Eloisa blushing, and myself from giving a sigh, when the same turns and expressions are repeated in these songs, which have heretofore been made use of between us. On those occasions, as I look upon them, the remembrance of times past rushes upon my mind: I am seized with a trembling, an insupportable burthen oppresses my heart, and leaves so deep an impression of sorrow that I can hardly shake it off. I find, nevertheless, in these evenings a sort of pleasure which I cannot describe, and which is nevertheless very great.
The union of people of different conditions, the simplicity of their occupation, the idea of ease, concord and tranquillity, the peaceful sensation it awakes in the soul; these altogether have something affecting that disposes every one to make choice of the most interesting songs. The concert of female voices is also not without its charms. For my part, I am convinced, that of all kinds of harmony there is none so agreeable as singing in unison; and that we only require a variety of concords, because our taste is depraved. Does not harmony in fact exist in every single note? What then can we add to it, without changing the proportions which nature has established in the relation of harmonious sounds.
Nature has done every thing in the best manner, but we would do better, and so spoil all.
There is as great an emulation among us about the work of the evening, as about that of the day; and a piece of roguery I was guilty of yesterday, brought me into a little disgrace. As I am not the most expert at hemp-peeling, and am sometimes absent in thought, I begun to be tired with always being pointed at for doing the least work. I shovelled the stalks with my feet therefore from my next neighbours, to enlarge my own heap; but that inexorable Mrs. Orbe, perceiving it; made a sign to Eloisa, who, detecting me in the fact, reprimanded me severely. Come, come, says she, aloud, I’ll have no injustice done here, though in jest; it is thus, people accustom themselves to cheating, and prove rogues in good earnest, and then, what is worse, make a jest of it.
In this manner we pass our evenings. When it is near bedtime, Mrs.
Wolmar stands up, and says, Come, now let us to our fireworks. On which, every one takes up his bundle of hemp-stalks, the honourable proofs of his labour, which are carried in triumph into the middle of the courtyard, and there laid as trophies in a heap, and set on fire.
Everyone, however, has not indiscriminately this honour; but those to whom Eloisa adjudges it, by giving the torch to him or her, who has done most work that evening; and when this happens to be herself, she does it with her own hands, without more to do. This ceremony is accompanied with acclamations and clapping of hands. The stalks soon burn up in a blaze, which ascends to the clouds; a real bonfire, about which we laugh and sing, till it is out. After this, the whole company are served with liquor, and every one drinks to the health of the conqueror, and goes to bed, content with a day past in labour, chearfulness and innocence, which he would willingly begin again the next day, the next after that, and every day, to the last of his life.
Letter CXLIV. To Mr. WOLMAR.
Enjoy, my dear Wolmar, the fruits of your labour. Receive the acknowledgements of a heart, which you have taken so much pains to render worthy of being offered to your acceptance. Never did any man undertake so arduous a task; never did any one attempt what you have executed; nor did ever a susceptible and grateful mind, feel more than that with which you have inspired me. Mine had lost its force, its vigour, its very being; but you have restored them all; I was dead to virtue, to happiness, and owe to you that moral life, to which you have raised me. O my benefactor! my father! in giving myself up entirely to you, I can only offer, as to the deity, the gifts I have received at your hands.
Must I confess to you my weakness and my fears? Hitherto I have always distrusted myself. It is not a week ago that I blushed for the weakness of my heart, and thought all our pains had been lost. That cruel and discouraging moment, however, thanks to heaven and you, is past, never to return. I do not think myself cured, only because you tell me so, but because I feel it: I stand no longer in need of your answering for me, who have put me in a state to answer for myself. It was necessary for me to be absent from you and Eloisa, to know what I should be without your support. It is at a distance from her abode, that I learn not to be afraid to approach her.
As I write the particulars of our journey to Mrs. Orbe, I shall not repeat them here; I am not unwilling you should know my foibles; but I have not the courage to tell you of them. It is, my dear Wolmar, my last fault. I feel myself so far already from being liable to commit the like again, that I cannot think of it without disdain; and yet it is so little a while since, that I cannot acknowledge it without shame. You, who can so readily forgive my errors, will doubtless forgive the shame which attends my repentance.
Nothing is now wanting to compleat my happiness. My Lord B---- has told me all. Shall I then, my dear friend, be devoted entirely to you?
shall I educate your children? shall the eldest of the three be preceptor to the rest? with what ardour have I not desired it? The hope of being thought worthy of such employment has redoubled my assiduity to second your paternal care and instructions.
How often have I not expressed my earnestness, in this particular, to Eloisa! with what pleasure have I not interpreted the discourse of both of you, in my favour! but although she was convinced of my zeal for your service, and seemed to approve of its object, she never entered so explicitly into my designs as to encourage me to speak more openly. I was sensible I ought rather to merit that honour than ask for it. I expected of you and her that proof of your confidence and esteem. I have not been deceived in my expectation, nor shall you, my dear friends, believe me, be deceived in yours.
You know that, in the course of our conversation on the education of your children, I have thrown together upon paper some of those sentiments which such conversation furnished me with, and which you approved. Since my departure, some new reflections have suggested themselves on the same subject: I have reduced the whole into a kind of system, which, when I have properly digested, I shall communicate to you for your examination. I do not think, however, I shall be able to make it fit for your inspection till after our arrival at Rome. My system begins, or finishes, that of Eloisa; or rather, it is nothing more than a connection and illustration of hers; for it consists only in rules to prevent the natural disposition from being spoiled, in subjecting it to the laws and customs of society.
I have recovered my reason by your care: my heart is again sound and at liberty: I see myself beloved by all whose love I could wish to possess: futurity presents me with an agreeable prospect. With all this, my situation should surely be delightful; but it is decreed, my soul shalt never enjoy tranquillity. As the end of our journey approaches, I see the crisis of the fate of my illustrious friend: it is I, who, so to speak, ought to decide it. Cannot I at least do that once for him which he has so often done for me? cannot I nobly discharge the greatest and most important duty of my life? My dear Wolmar, I retain all your lessons in my heart; but, to make them useful, why don’t I possess your sagacity? Ah could I but one day see Lord B---- happy! could I, agreeable to your projects, see us but all assembled together, never to part again! could I entertain a wish for any thing on earth besides! Yes one, the accomplishment of which depends not on you, nor me, nor on any other person in the world; but on him who has a reward in store for the virtues of Eloisa, and, keeps a secret register of your good actions.
Letter CXLV. To Mrs. Orbe.
Where are you, my charming cousin? where is the amiable confident of that feeble heart, which is, on so many accounts, yours; and which you have so often comforted in despair? come, and let me lay open to you the confession of its last error. Is it not always your province to purify it by confession and pardon? is there a fault which it can reproach itself with after it hath confessed it to you? No, it is no longer the same; and its regeneration is owing to you: you have given me a new heart, which now offers you its first services: but I shall not think myself quite free from that which I quit, till I have deposited it in your hands.
The moment of my life in which I had most reason to be contented with myself was that in which I left you. Recovered of my errors, I looked upon that instant as the tardy era of my return to my duty. I begun it therefore, by paying off part of that immense debt I owed to friendship, in leaving so delightful an abode to follow a benefactor, a philosopher, who, pretending to stand in need of my services, put the success of his to the proof. The more disagreeable my departure, the more I piqued myself, on making so great a sacrifice. After having spent half my time in nourishing an unhappy passion, I consecrated the other half to justify it, and to render, by my virtues a more worthy homage to her, who so long received that of my heart. I proudly contemplated the first of my days in which I had neither given occasion for my own blushes, for yours, for hers, nor for those of any one who was dear to me. My Lord B----, being apprehensive of a sorrowful parting, was for our setting out early, without taking a formal leave; but, though hardly any body was stirring in the house, we could not elude your friendly vigilance. Your door half open and your woman on the watch; your coming out to meet us, and our going in and finding a table set out and tea made ready, all these circumstances brought to my mind those of former times; and, comparing my present departure with that which came to my remembrance, I found myself so very differently disposed to what I was on the former occasion, that I rejoiced to think, Lord B----, was a witness of that difference, and hoped to make him forget at Milan the shameful scene of Besancon. I never found myself so resolute before; I prided myself in displaying my temper before you, behaving with more fortitude than you had ever seen in me; and gloried, in parting, to think I had appeared before you such as I was going ever afterwards to be. This idea added to my courage; I supported my spirits by your esteem; and perhaps should have left you without weeping, if a tear, trickling down your cheek, had not drawn a sympathetic drop from my eyes.
I left you with a heart fully sensible of its obligations, and particularly penetrated with such as your friendship has laid me under; resolved to employ the rest of my life in deserving them. My Lord B----, taking me to task for my past follies, laid before me no very agreeable picture; and I knew by the just severity with which he censured my foibles, that he was little afraid of imitating them. He pretended, nevertheless, to be apprehensive of it; and spoke to me with some uneasiness of his journey to Rome, and the unworthy attachments which, in spite of himself, led him thither: but I saw plainly that he exaggerated his own dangers, to engage my attention the more to him, and draw it off from those to which I was myself exposed. Just as we got into Velleneuve, one of our servants, who was but badly mounted, was thrown off his horse, and got a small contusion