months longer to dress a salad with my fingers. Patience! to retort his sarcasm, however, I tell him I will dress it for him in that manner for these six years to come, and if I do, I protest to you he shall eat it;----but to return from my ramble. If we have not the absolute command over our sentiments, we have at least some over our conduct. I could, without doubt, have requested of heaven a heart more at ease; but may I be able to my last hour to plead at its dread tribunal, a life as innocent as that which I passed this winter! in fact, I have nothing in the least to reproach myself with, respecting the only man in whose power it might be to make me criminal. It is not quite the same, my dear, since his departure: being accustomed to think for him in his absence, I think of him every hour in the day, and, to confess the truth, find him more dangerous in idea than in person. When he is absent, I am over head and ears in love; when present, I am only whimsical. Let him return, and I shall be cured of all my fears. The chagrin his absence gives me, however, is not a little aggravated by my uneasiness at his dream. If you have placed all to the account of love, therefore you are mistaken; friendship has had part in my uneasiness. After the departure of our friends your looks were pale and changed; I expected you every moment to fall sick.
Not that I am credulous: I am only fearful. I know very well that a bad dream does not necessarily produce a sinister event; but I am always afraid lest such an event should succeed it. Not one night’s rest could I get for that unlucky dream, till I saw you recover your former bloom. Could I have suspected the effects his anxiety would have had on me, without knowing any thing of it, I would certainly have given every thing I had in the world that he should have shewn himself when he came back so much like a fool from Villeneuve.
At length, however, my fears vanished with your suspicious looks. Your health and appetite having a greater effect on me than your pleasantries. The arguments these sustained at table, against my apprehensions, in time dissipated them. To increase our happiness our friend is on his return, and I am in every respect delighted. His return, so far from alarming me, gives me confidence; and as soon as we see him again, I shall fear nothing for your life, nor my repose.
In the mean time be careful, dear cousin, of my friend; and be under no apprehensions for yours; she will take care of herself, I will engage for her. And yet I have still a pain at my heart----I feel an oppression which I cannot account for. Ah my dear! to think that we may one day part for ever! that one may survive the other! how unhappy will she be on whom that lot shall fall! She will either remain little worthy to live, or lifeless before her death.
You will ask me, to what purpose is all this vain lamentation? you will say, fie on these ridiculous terrors! instead of talking of death let us chuse a more entertaining topic, and talk about your marriage.
Your husband has indeed long entertained such a notion, and perhaps if he had never spoken of it to me, it would never have come into my head. I have since thought of it now and then, but always with disdain. It would be absolutely making an old woman of me; for, if I should have any children by a second marriage, I should certainly conceit myself the grandmother of those of the first. You are certainly very good to take upon yourself so readily to spare the blushes of your friend, and to look upon your taking that trouble as an instance of your charitable benevolence. For my own part, nevertheless, I can see very well that all the reasons, founded on your obliging solicitude, are not equal to the least of mine against a second marriage.
To be serious, I am not mean-spirited enough to number among those reasons any reluctance I should have to break an engagement rashly made with myself, nor the fear of being censured for doing my duty, nor an inequality in point of fortune in a circumstance where that person reaps the greatest honour to whom the other would be obliged for his: but, without repeating what I have so often told you concerning my case of independency and natural aversion to the marriage yoke, I will abide by only one objection, and this I draw from those sacred dictates which nobody in the world pays a greater regard to than yourself. Remove this obstacle, cousin, and I give up the point. Amidst all those airs of mirth and drollery, which give you so much alarm, my conscience is perfectly easy. The remembrance of my husband excites not a blush; I even take pleasure to think him a witness of my innocence; for why should I be afraid to do that, now he is dead, which I used to do when he was living? but will this be the case, Eloisa, if I should violate those sacred engagements which united us; if I should swear to another that everlasting love, which I have so often swore to him; if my divided heart should rob his memory of what it bestowed on his successor, and be incapable without offending one to discharge the obligations it owes the other? will not that form, now so pleasing to my imagination, fill me with horror and affright? will it not be ever present to poison my delight? and will not his remembrance, which now constitutes the happiness of my life, be my future torment? with what face can you advise me to take a second husband, after having vowed never to do the like yourself, as if the same reasons which you give me were not as applicable to yourself in the same circumstances? they were friends, you say and loved each other. So much the worse. With what indignation will not his shade behold a man who was dear to him, usurp his rights, and seduce his wife from her fidelity? in short, though it were true that I owed no obligation to the deceased, should I owe none to the dear pledge of his love? and can I believe he would ever have chosen me, had he foreseen that I should ever have exposed his only child to see herself undistinguished among the children of another? another word, and I have done: who told you, pray, that all the obstacles between us arise from me? In answering for him, have you not rather consulted your will than your power? Or, were you certain of his consent, do you make no scruple to offer me a heart exhausted by a former passion? do you think that mine ought to be content with it, and that I might be happy with a man I could not make so? think better of it, my dear cousin. Not requiring a greater return of love than I feel, I should not be satisfied with less, and I am too virtuous a woman to think the pleasing my husband a matter of indifference. What security have you then for the completion of your hopes? Is the pleasure he may take in my company, which may be only the effect of friendship; is that transitory delight, which at his age may arise only from the difference of sex; Is this, I say, a sufficient foundation? If such pleasure had produced any lasting sentiment, is it to be thought he would have been so profoundly silent, not only to me, but to you, and even to your husband; by whom an eclairissement of that nature could not fail of being favourably received.
Has he ever opened his lips on this head to any one? in all the private conversations I have had with him, he talked of no body but you. In those which you have had, did he ever say anything of me? how can I imagine that, if he had concealed a secret of this kind in his breast, I should not have perceived him to be under some constraint, or that it would not, by some indiscretion or other, have escaped him?
nay, since his departure, which of us does he most frequently mention in his letters? which of us is the subject of his dreams? I admire that you should think me so tender and susceptible, and should not at the same time suppose my heart would suggest all this. But I see through your device, my sweet friend; it is only to authorise your pretensions to reprisals, that you charge me with having formerly saved my heart at the expense of yours. But I am not so to be made the dupe of your subtlety. And so here is an end of my confession; which I have made, not to contradict, but to set you right; having nothing farther to say on this head, than to acquaint you with my resolution.
You now know my heart as well, if not better, than myself. My honour, my happiness are equally dear to you as to myself; and, in the present tranquillity of your passions, you will be the best able to judge of the means to secure both the one and the other. Take my conduct therefore under your direction. I submit it entirely to you. Let us return to our natural state, and reciprocally change our employment; we shall both do the better for it: do you govern, and you shall find me tractable: let it be your place to direct what I should do, and it shall be mine to follow your directions.
Take my heart, and inclose it up in yours; what business have inseparables for two? but to return to our travellers; though, to say truth, I have already said so much about one, that I hardly dare speak a word about the other, for fear you should remark too great a difference in my stile, and that even my friendship for the generous Englishman should betray too much regard for the amiable Swiss.
Besides, what can I say about letters I have not seen? you ought at least to send me that of Lord B----. But you durst not send it without the other. ’Tis very well. You might however have done better. Well, recommend me to your duennas of twenty: they are infinitely more tractable than those of thirty.
I must revenge myself, however, by informing you of the effect of your fine reserve. It has only made me imagine the letter in question, that letter which breathes such a----only a hundred times more tender than it really is. Out of spite, I take pleasure in conceiving it filled with soft expressions which cannot be in it; so that if I am not passionately admired, I shall make you suffer for it. After all, I cannot see with what face you can talk to me of the Italian post. You prove in your letter that I was not in the wrong to wait for it, but for not having waited long enough. Had I stayed but one poor quarter of an hour longer, I should have met the packet, have laid hold of it first, and read it at my ease. It had then been my turn to make a merit of giving it you. But, since the grapes are too sour, you may keep the letters. I have two others which I would not change for them were they better worth reading than I imagine they are. There is that of Harriot, I can assure you, even exceeds your own; nor have either you or I, in all our lives, ever wrote any thing so pretty. And yet you give yourself airs forsooth of treating this prodigy as a little impertinent. Upon my word I suspect that to arise from mere envy; and, since I have discovered in her this new talent, I purpose, before you spoil her writing as you have done her speech, to establish between her apartment and mine an Italian post, from whence I will have no pilfering of packets.
Farewell, my dear friend, you will find inclosed the answers to your letters, which will give you no mean idea of my interest here. I would write to you something about this country and its inhabitants; but it is high time to put an end to this volume of a letter. You have besides quite perplexed me with your strange fancies. As we have five or six days longer to stay here, and I shall have time to give another look at what I have already seen, you will be no loser by the delay; and you may depend on my transmitting you another volume as big as this, before my departure.
Letter CLIII. Lord B---- to Mr. Wolmar.
No! my dear Wolmar, you were not mistaken: St. Preux is to be depended on; but I am not; and I have paid dear for the experience that hath convinced me of it. Without his assistance I should have been a dupe to the very proof to which I put his fidelity. You know that, to satisfy his notions of gratitude; and divert his mind with new objects, I pretended that my journey to Italy was of greater importance than it really was. To bid a final adieu to the attachments of my youth, and bring back a friend perfectly cured of his, were, the fruits I promised myself from the voyage. I informed you that his dream, at Villeneuve, gave me some uneasiness for him. That dream made me even suspect the motives of his transport, on being told that you had chosen him preceptor for your children, and that he should pass the remainder of his life with you. ‘The better’ to observe the effusions of his heart, I had at first removed all difficulties, by declaring my intention of settling also in your part of the world; and thus I prevented any of those objections his friendship might have made on account of leaving me. A change in any resolutions, however, made me soon alter my tale.
He had not seen the marchioness thrice, before we were both agreed in our opinion of her. Unfortunate woman! possessed of noble qualities, but without virtue! her ardent, sincere passion, at first affected me, and nourished mine; but her passion was tinged with the blackness of her soul, and inspired me in the end with horror. When he had seen Laura, and knew her disposition; her beauty, her wit and unexampled attachment, I formed a resolution to make use of her to acquire a perfect knowledge of the situation of St. Preux. If I marry Laura, said I to him, it is not my intention to carry her to London, where she may be known; but to a place, where virtue is respected in whomsoever it is found: you will there discharge your duty of preceptor, and we shall still continue to live together. If I do not marry her, it is time for me, however, to think of settling. You know my house in Oxfordshire, and will make your choice, either to take upon you the education of Mr. Wolmar’s children, or to accompany me in my retirement. To this, he made me just such an answer as I expected; but I had a mind to observe his conduct. If, in order to spend his time at Clarens, he had promoted a marriage which he ought to have opposed, or on the contrary, preferred the honour of his friend to his own happiness; in either case, I say, the experiment answered my end, and I knew what to think of the situation of his heart.
On trial, I found him to be such as I wished; firmly resolved against the project I pretended to have formed, and ready with all his arguments to oppose it; but I was continually in her company, and was moved by her tenderness and affliction. My heart, totally disengaged from the marchioness, began to fix itself on her rival, by this constant intercourse. The sentiments of Laura increased the attachment she had before inspired; and I began to be ashamed of sacrificing to that prejudice I despised, the esteem which I was so well convinced was due to her merit; I began even to be in doubt, whether I had not laid myself under some obligation to do that merit justice, by the hopes I had given her, if not in words, at least by my actions. Though I never promised her any thing, yet to have kept her in suspense and expectation for nothing, would be to deceive her; and I could not help thinking such a deception extremely cruel. In short, annexing a kind of duty to my inclination, and consulting happiness more than reputation, I attempted to reconcile my passion to reason, and resolved to carry my pretended scheme as far as it would go, and even to execute it in reality, if I could not recede without injustice.
After some time, however, I began to be more uneasy on account of St.
Preux, as he did not appear to act the part he had undertaken with that zeal I expected. Indeed he opposed my professed design of marriage, but took little pains to check my growing inclination; speaking to me of Laura in such a strain of encomium as, at the same time that he appeared to dissuade me from marrying her, added fuel to the flame by increasing my affection. This inconsistency gave me some alarm; I did not think him so steady as before. He seemed shy of directly opposing my sentiments, gave way to my arguments, was fearful of giving offence, and indeed seemed to have lost all that intrepidity in doing his duty, which the true passion for it inspires. Some other observations which I made also, increased my distrust. I found out that he visited Laura unknown to me; and that, by their frequent signs, there was a secret understanding between them. On her part, the prospect of being united to the man she loved seemed to give her no pleasure; I observed in her the same degree of tenderness indeed, but that tenderness was no longer mixed with joy at my approach; a gloomy sadness perpetually clouding her features. Nay, sometimes in the tenderest part of our conversations, I have caught her casting a side glance on St. Preux; on which a tear would often steal silently down her check, which she endeavoured to conceal from me. In short, they carried the matter so far, that I was at last greatly perplexed. What could I think? it is impossible, said I to myself, that I can all this while have been cherishing a serpent in my bosom? how far have I not reason to extend my suspicions, and return those he formerly entertained of me? weak and unhappy as we are, our misfortunes are generally of our own seeking! Why do we complain that bad men torment us, while the good are so ingenious at tormenting each other! All this operated but to induce me to come to a determination. For, though I was ignorant of the bottom of their intrigue, I saw the heart of Laura was still the same; and that proof of her affection endeared her to me the more. I proposed to come to an explanation with her before I put an end to the affair; but I was desirous of putting it off till the last moment, in order to get all the light I could possibly beforehand. As for St. Preux, I was resolved to convince myself, to convince him, and in short to come at the truth of the matter before I took any step in regard to him; for it was easy to suppose that an infallible rupture must happen, and I was unwilling to place a good disposition and a reputation of twenty years standing, in the balance against mere suspicions.
The marchioness was not ignorant of what passed; having her spies in the convent where Laura resides, who informed her of the report of her marriage. Nothing more was necessary to excite her rage. She wrote me threatening letters; nay; she went farther; but, as it was not the first time she had done so, and we were on our guard, her attempts were fruitless. I had only the pleasure to see that our friend did not spare himself on this occasion nor make any scruple to expose his own life to save that of his friend.
Overcome by the transports of her passion, the marchioness fell sick, and was soon past recovery; putting at once an end to her misfortunes and her guilt. [94] I could not help being afflicted to hear of her illness, and sent doctor Eswin to give her all the assistance in his power, as a physician. St. Preux went also to visit her in my behalf; but she would neither see one nor the other. She would not even bear to hear me named during her illness, and inveighed against me with the most horrid imprecations every time I was mentioned. I was grieved at heart for her situation, and felt my wounds ready to bleed afresh; reason however supported my spirits and resolution, but I should have been one of the worst of men to think of marriage, while a woman, so dear to me, lay in that extremity. In the mean time our friend, fearing I should not be able to resist the strong inclination I had to see her, proposed a journey to Naples; to which I consented.
The second day after our arrival there, he came into my chamber with a fixed and grave countenance, holding a letter in his hand, which he seemed to have just received. I started up, and cried out, The marchioness is dead! would to God, said he, coldly, she were! it were better not to exist, than to exist only to do evil; but it is not of her I bring you news; tho’ what I bring concerns you nearly; be pleased, my lord, to give me an uninterrupted hearing. I was silent, and thus he began.
In honouring me with the sacred name of friend, you taught me how to deserve it. I have acquitted myself of the charge you entrusted with me, and, seeing you ready to forget yourself, have ventured to assist your memory. I saw you unable to break one connection but by entering into another; both equally unworthy of you. Had an unequal marriage been the only point in question, I should only have reminded you, that you was a peer of England, and advised you either to renounce all pretensions to public honour, or to respect public opinion. But a marriage so scandalous! can you? no, my lord, you will not make so unworthy a choice. It is not enough that your wife should be virtuous, her reputation should be unstained. Believe me, a wife for Lord B---- is not easily to be found. Read that, my lord, and see what I have done.
He then gave me a letter. It was from Laura. I opened it with emotion and read as follows.
My Lord, “Love at length prevailed, and you were willing to marry me: but I am content. Your friend has pointed out my duty, and I perform it without regret. In dishonouring you, I should have lived unhappy; in leaving your honour unstained, methinks I partake of it. The sacrifice of my felicity to a duty so severe, makes me forget even the shame of my youth. Farewell! from this moment I am no longer in your power or my own. Farewell, my lord, for ever! pursue me not in my retreat, to despair; but: hear my last request. Confer not on any other woman, that honour I could not accept. There was but one heart in the world made for yours, and it was that of” _Laura_.
The agitation of mind I was in, on reading this letter, prevented me from speaking. He took the advantage of my silence, to tell me that, after my departure, she had taken the veil in the convent where she boarded; that the court of Rome, being informed she was going to be married to a Lutheran, had given orders to prevent his seeing her; and confessed to me frankly, that he had taken all these measures in concert with herself. I did not oppose your designs, continued he, with all the power I might; fearing your return to the marchioness, and being desirous of combating your old passion by that which you entertained for Laura. In seeing you run greater lengths than I intended, I applied to your understanding: but, having from my own experience but too just reason to distrust the power of argument, I sounded the heart of Laura; and, finding in it all that generosity which is inseparable from true love, I prevailed on her to make this sacrifice. The assurance of being no longer the object of your contempt, inspired her with a fortitude which renders her the more worthy of your esteem. She has done her duty, you must now do yours.
Then eagerly embracing and pressing me to his heart, “I read, says he, in our common destiny, those laws which heaven dictates to both, and requires us to obey. The empire of love is at an end, and that of friendship begins: my heart attends only to its sacred call; it knows no other tie than that which unites me to you. Fix on whatever place of residence you please, Clarens, Oxford, London, Paris, or Rome; it is equal to me, so we but live together. Go whither you will, seek an asylum wherever you think fit, I will follow you throughout the world: for I solemnly protest, in the face of the living God, that I will never leave you till death.”
I was greatly affected at the zeal and affection of this young man; his eyes sparkling with pleasure on this effusion of his heart. I forgot at once both the marchioness and Laura. Is there indeed any thing in the world to be regretted, while one preserves so dear a friend? Indeed, I was now fully convinced, by the part he so readily took on this occasion, that he was entirely cured of his ancient passion; and that the pains you had taken, were not thrown away upon him. In short, I could not doubt, by the solemn engagement he had thus voluntarily made, that his attachment to me was truly sincere; and that his virtue had entirely got the better of his inclinations. I can therefore bring him back with confidence. Yes, my dear Wolmar, he is worthy to educate youth; and what is more, of being received into your house.
A few days after, I received an account of the death of the marchioness; at which I was but little affected, as she had indeed been long dead in respect to me. I had hitherto regarded marriage as a debt, which every man contracts at the time of his birth, with his country and mankind; for which reason, I had resolved to marry, the less out of inclination than duty; but I am now of another opinion.
The obligation to marriage, I now conceive, is not so universal; but that it depends on the rank and situation which every man holds in life. Celibacy is, doubtless, wrong in the common people, such as manufacturers, husbandmen, and others, who are really useful and necessary to the state. But for those superior orders of men, who compose the legislature and the magistracy, to which every other aspires, and which are always sufficiently supplied, it is both lawful and expedient. For were the rich all obliged to marry, the increase of number among those subjects which are a dead weight on the state, would only tend to its depopulation. Mankind will always find masters enough, and England will sooner want labourers than peers.
I think myself at full liberty, therefore, in the rank to which I was born, to indulge my own inclination in this respect. At my age, it is too late to think of repairing the shocks my heart hath sustained from love. I shall devote my future hours therefore to friendship, the pleasures of which I can no where cultivate so well as at Clarens. I accept, therefore, your obliging offers, on such conditions, as my fortune ought to add to yours, that it may not be useless to me.
Besides, after the engagement St. Preux hath entered into, I know no other method of detaining him with you, but by residing with you myself; and if ever he grows tired or troublesome, it will be sufficient for me to leave you, to make him follow. The only embarrassment I shall in this case lie under, respects my customary voyages to England; for, tho’ I have no longer any interest in the house of peers, yet while I am one of the number, I think it necessary I should continue to do my duty as such. But I have a faithful friend among my brother peers, whom I can empower to answer for me in ordinary cases; and on extraordinary occasions, wherein I think it my duty to go over in person, I can take my pupil along with me; and even he, his pupils with him, when they grow a little bigger and you can prevail on yourself to trust them with us. Such voyages cannot fail of being useful to them, and will not be so very long as to make their absence afflicting to their mother.
I have not shewn this letter to St. Preux, nor, do I desire you should shew every part of it to the ladies: it is proper that my scheme to sound the heart of our friend, should be known only to you and me. I would not have you conceal anything from them, however, that may do honour to this worthy youth, even tho’ it should be discovered at my expense: but I must here take my leave.
I have sent the designs and drawings for my pavilion, for you to reform, alter, and amend, as you please; but I would have you to execute them immediately if possible. I would have struck out the music room; for I have now lost almost all pretensions to taste, and am careless of amusement: at the request of St. Preux, however, I have left it, as he proposes now and then to exercise your children there.
You will receive also some few books, to add to your library. But what novelty will you find in books? No, my dear Wolmar, you only want to understand that of nature, to be the wisest of men.
Letter CLIV. Answer.
I was impatient, my dear B----, to come to the end of your adventures.
It seemed very strange to me, that, after having so long resisted the force of your inclinations, you had waited only for a friend to assist you to give way to them: tho’, to say truth, we find ourselves often more weak when supported by others, than when we rely solely on our own strength. I confess, however, I was greatly alarmed by your last letter, when you told me your marriage with Laura was a thing absolutely determined. Not but that, in spite of this assurance, I still entertained some doubts of the event; and, if my suspicions had been disappointed, I would never have seen St. Preux again. As it is, you have both acted as I flattered myself you would, and have so fully justified the good opinion I had of you, that I shall be delighted whenever you think proper to return, and settle here agreeable to the design we had planned. Come, ye uncommon friends! come to increase and partake of the happiness we here enjoy. However flattering the hopes of those who believe in a future state, for my part, I had rather enjoy the present in their company; nay, I perceive you are both more agreeable to me with the tenets you possess, than you would be if unhappy enough to think as I do.
As to St. Preux, you know what were my sentiments of him at your departure; there was no need to make any experiment on his heart to settle my judgment concerning him. My proof had been before made, and I thought I knew him as well as it was possible for one man to know another. I had, besides, more than one reason to place a confidence in him; and was more secure of him than he was of himself. For tho’ he seems to have followed your example in renouncing matrimony, you will perhaps find reason here to prevail on him to change his system. But I will explain myself farther on this head when I see you.
With respect to yourself, I think your sentiments on celibacy quite new and refined. They may, for ought I know, be judicious also, when applied to political institutions, intended to balance and keep in equilibrium the relative powers of states; but I am in doubt, whether they are not more subtle than solid, when applied to dispense with the obligations that individuals lie under to the laws of nature. It seems to me that life is a blessing we receive on condition of transmitting it to our successors; a kind of tenure which ought to pass from generation to generation; and that every one who had a father, is indispensably obliged to become one. Such has been hitherto your opinion also; it was one of your motives for going to Italy: but I know from whence you derive your new system of philosophy; there is an argument in Laura’s letter, which your heart knows not how to invalidate.
Our sprightly cousin has been for these eight or ten days past at Geneva, with her relations, on family affairs: but we daily expect her return. I have told my wife as much as was expedient she should know of your letter. We had learnt of Mr. Miol, that your marriage was broken off; but she was ignorant of the part St. Preux had in that event: and you may be assured it will give her great pleasure to be informed of all he has done to merit your beneficence, and justify your esteem. I have shewn her the plan and designs for your pavilion, in which she thinks there is much taste. We propose to make some little alterations, however, as the ground requires; which, as they will make your lodging the more convenient, we doubt not you will approve.
We wait, nevertheless, for the sanction of Clara, before we resolve; for, without her, you know there is nothing to be done here. In the meantime I have set the people to work, and hope to have the masonry pretty forward before winter.
I am obliged to you for your books; but I no longer read those I am master of, and it is too late in life for me to begin to study those I do not understand. I am, however, not quite so ignorant as you would make me. The only volume of nature’s works which I read, is the heart of man; of my abilities for comprehending which, my friendship for you is a sufficient proof.
Letter CLV. Mrs. Orbe to Mrs. Wolmar.
My stay here, my dear cousin, gives me a world of anxieties; the worst of all which is, that the agreeableness of the place would induce me to stay longer. The city is delightful, its inhabitants hospitable, and their manners courteous; while liberty, which I love of all things, seems to have taken refuge amongst them. The more I know of this little state, the more I find an attachment to one’s country agreeable; and pity those who, pretending to call themselves of this or that country, have no attachment to any. For my part, I perceive that, if I had been born in this, I should have had truly a Roman soul. As it is, I dare not, however, pretend to say that _Rome is no more at Rome, but where I dwell._ For I am afraid you will be malicious enough, to think the contrary.
But why need we talk always about Rome, and Rome? the subject of this letter shall be Geneva. I shall say nothing about the face of the country, it is much like ours, except that it is less mountainous, and more rural. I shall also say nothing about the government: my good father will, doubtless, give you enough of it; as he is employed here all day long, in the fulness of his heart, talking politics with the magistrates; and I find him not a little mortified that the gazette so seldom makes mention of Geneva. You may judge of the tediousness of their conversation, by the length of my letters: for, when I am wearied with their discourse, I leave them, and, in order to divert myself am tiresome to you. All I remember of their long conferences is, that they hold in high esteem the great good sense which prevails in this city. When we regard indeed the mutual action and reaction of all parts of the state, which afford a reciprocal balance to each other, it is not to be doubted that there are greater abilities employed in the government of this little republic than in that of some great kingdoms, where every thing supports itself by its own proper strength; and the reins of administration may be thrown into the hands of a blockhead, without any danger to the constitution. I can assure you, this is not the case here. I never hear any body talk to my father about the famous ministers of great courts, without thinking of the wretched musician who thundered away upon our great organ at Lausanne, and thought himself a prodigious able hand because he made a great noise. The people here have only a little spinner, but in general they make good harmony, though the instrument be now and then a little out of tune.
Neither shall I say any thing about,----but with telling you what I shall not say, I shall never have done. To begin then with one thing, that I may sooner come to a conclusion. Of all people in the world those of Geneva are the most easily known and characterised. Their manners, and even their vices, are mixed with a certain frankness peculiar to themselves. They are conscious of their natural goodness of heart, and that makes them not afraid to appear such as they are.
They have generosity, sense and penetration; but they are apt to love money too well; a fault which I attribute to their situation and circumstances, which make it so necessary; the territory of this state not producing a sufficient nourishment for its inhabitants. Hence it happens that, the natives of Geneva, who are scattered up and down