exclaiming against fortune and my negligence, you see that I have been busied in obtaining the information necessary to insure our correspondence, and prevent your anxiety. Which of us hath been best employed, I leave to your own decision.
Let us, my dear friend, talk no more of pain; rather partake the joy I feel at the return of my kind father, after a tedious absence of eight months. He arrived on Thursday evening, since which happy moment I have thought of nobody else. [7] O thou, whom, next to the Author of my being, I love more than all the world! why must thy letters, thy complainings affect my soul, and interrupt the first transports of a reunited happy family?
You expect to monopolize my whole attention. But tell me, could you love a girl, whose passion for her lover could extinguish all affection for her parents? Would you, because you are uneasy, have me insensible to the endearments of a kind father? No, my worthy friend, you must not imbitter my innocent joy by your unjust reproaches. You, who have so much sensibility, can surely conceive the sacred pleasures of being prest to the throbbing heart of a tender parent. Do you think that in those delightful moments it is possible to divide one’s affection?
_Sol che son figlia io mi rammento adesso._ Yet you are not to imagine I can forget you. Do we ever forget what we really love? No, the more lively impressions of a moment have no power to efface the other. I was not unaffected with your departure hence, and shall not be displeased to see you return. But----be patient like me, because you must, without asking any other reason. Be assured that I will recall you as soon as it is in my power; and remember, that those who complain loudest of absence, do not always suffer most.
Letter XXI. To Eloisa.
How was I tormented in receiving the letter which I so impatiently expected! I waited at the post-house. The mail was scarce opened before I gave in my name, and begun to importune the man. He told me there was a letter for me; my heart leaped; I asked for it with great impatience, and at last received it. O Eloisa! how I rejoiced to behold the well-known hand! A thousand times would I have kissed the precious characters, but I wanted resolution to press the letter to my lips, or to open it before so many witnesses. Immediately I retired, my knees trembled; I scarce knew my way; I broke the seal the moment I had past the first turning; I run over, or rather devoured, the dear lines, till I came to that part which so movingly speaks your tenderness and affection for your venerable father; I wept; I was observed; I then retired to a place of greater privacy, and there mingled my joyful tears with yours. With transport I embraced your happy father, though I hardly remember him. The voice of nature reminded me of my own, and I shed fresh tears to his memory.
O incomparable Eloisa! what can you possibly learn of me? It is from you only can be learnt every thing that is great and good, and especially that divine union of nature, love, and virtue, which never existed but in you. Every virtuous affection is distinguished in your heart by a sensibility so peculiar to yourself, that, for the better regulation of my own, as my actions are already submitted to your will, I perceive, my sentiments also must be determined by yours.
Yet what a difference there is between your situation and mine! I do not mean as to rank or fortune; sincere affection, and dignity of soul, want none of these. But you are surrounded by a number of kind friends who adore you; a tender mother, and a father who loves you as his only hope; a friend and cousin who seem to breathe only for your sake: you are the ornament and oracle of an entire family, the boast and admiration of a whole town; these, all these divide your sensibility, and what remains for love is but a small part in comparison of that which is ravished from you by duty, nature and friendship. But I, alas! Eloisa, a wanderer without a family, and almost without country, have no one but you upon earth, and am possessed of nothing, save my love. Be not, therefore, surprized, though your heart may have more sensibility, that mine should know better how to love; and that you, who excel me in every thing else, must yield to me in this respect.
You need not, however, be apprehensive lest I should indiscreetly trouble you with my complaints. No, I will not interrupt your joy, because it adds to your felicity, and is in its nature laudable.
Imagination shall represent the pathetic scene; and, since I have no happiness of my own, I will endeavour to enjoy yours.
Whatever may be your reasons for prolonging my absence, I believe them just; but though I knew them to be otherwise, what would that avail?
Have I not promised implicit obedience? Can I suffer more in being silent, than in parting from you? But remember, Eloisa, your soul now directs two separate bodies, and that the one she animates by choice will continue the most faithful.
_--------Nodo piu forte: Fabricato da noi, non dalla forte._ No, Eloisa, you shall hear no repining. Till you are pleased to recall me from exile, I will try to deceive the tedious hours in exploring the mountains of Valais, whilst they are yet practicable. I am of opinion that this unfrequented country deserves the attention of speculative curiosity, and that it wants nothing to excite admiration, but a skilful spectator. Perhaps my excursion may give rise to a few observations, that may not be entirely undeserving your perusal. To amuse a fine lady one should describe a witty and polite nation; but, I know, my Eloisa will have more pleasure in a picture where simplicity of manners and rural happiness are the principal objects.
Letter XXII. From Eloisa.
At last, the ice is broken: you have been mentioned. Notwithstanding your poor opinion of my learning, it was sufficient to surprize my father; nor was he less pleased with my progress in music and drawing: Indeed, to the great astonishment of my mother, who was prejudiced by your scandal, [8] he was satisfied with my improvement in every thing, except heraldry, which he thinks I have neglected. But all this could not be acquired without a master: I told him mine, enumerating at the same time all the sciences he proposed to teach me, except one. He remembers to have seen you several times on his last journey, and does not appear to retain any impression to your disadvantage.
He then enquired about your fortune; he was told, it was not great: Your birth? he was answered, _honest_. This word _honest_ sounds very equivocal in the ears of nobility; it excited some suspicions, which were confirmed in the explanation. As soon as he was informed that your birth was not noble, he asked, what you had been paid per month.
My mother replied, that you had not only refused to accept a stipend, but that you had even rejected every present she had offered. This pride of yours served but to inflame his own: who indeed could bear the thought of being obliged to a poor _plebeian_? Therefore it was determined, that a stipend should be offered, and that, in case you refused it, notwithstanding your merit, you should be dismissed. Such, my friend, is the result of a conversation held concerning my most honoured master, during which his very humble scholar was not entirely at ease. I thought I could not be in too great a hurry to give you this information, that you might have sufficient time to consider it maturely. When you have come to a resolution, do not fail to let me know it; for it is a matter entirely within your own province, and beyond my jurisdiction.
I am not much pleased with your intended excursion to the mountains: not that I think it will prove an unentertaining dissipation, or that your narrative will not give me pleasure; but I am fearful lest you may not be able to support the fatigue. Besides, the season is already too far advanced. The hills will soon be covered with snow, and you may possibly suffer as much from cold as fatigue. If you should fall sick in that distant country, I should be inconsolable. Come therefore, my dear friend, come nearer to your Eloisa: it is not yet time to return to Vevey; but I would have you less rudely situated, and so as to facilitate our correspondence. I leave the choice of place to yourself; only take care that it be kept secret from the people here, and be discreet without being mysterious. I know you will be prudent for your own sake, but doubly so for mine.
Adieu. I am forced to break off. You know I am obliged to be very cautious. But this is not all: my father has brought with him a venerable stranger, his old friend, who once saved his life in a battle. Judge then of the reception he deserves! To-morrow he leaves us, and we are impatient to procure him every sort of entertainment that will best express our gratitude to such a benefactor. I am called, and must finish. Once more, adieu.
Letter XXIII. To Eloisa.
I have employed scarce eight days in surveying a country that would require some years. But, besides that I was driven off by the snow, I chose to be before the post, who brings me, I hope, a letter from Eloisa. In the mean time I begin this, and shall afterwards, if it be necessary, write another in answer to that which I shall receive.
I do not intend to give you an account of my journey in this letter; you shall see my remarks when we meet; they would take up too much of our precious correspondence. For the present, it will be sufficient to acquaint you with the situation of my heart: it is but just to render you an account of that which is entirely yours.
I set out, dejected with my own sufferings, but consoled with your joy; which held me suspended in a state of languor that is not disagreeable to true sensibility. Under the conduct of a very honest guide, I crawled up the towering hills through many a rugged unfrequented path. Often would I muse, and then, at once, some unexpected object caught my attention. One moment I beheld stupendous rocks hanging ruinous over my head; the next, I was enveloped in a drizling cloud, which arose from a vast cascade that dashing thundered against the rocks below my feet; on one side, a perpetual torrent opened to my view a yawning abyss, which my eyes could hardly fathom with safety; sometimes I was lost in the obscurity of a hanging wood, and then was agreeably astonished with the sudden opening of a flowery plain. A surprising mixture of wild, and cultivated, nature, points out the hand of man, where one would imagine man had never penetrated. Here you behold a horrid cavern, and there a human habitation; vineyards where one would expect nothing but brambles; delicious fruit among barren rocks, and corn fields in the midst of cliffs and precipices.
But it is not labour only that renders this strange country so wonderfully contrasted; for here nature seems to have a singular pleasure in acing contradictory to herself, so different does she appear in the same place, in different aspects. Towards the east, the flowers of spring; to the south; the fruits of autumn; and northwards the ice of winter. She unites all the seasons in the same instant, every climate in the same place, different soils on the same land, and with a harmony elsewhere unknown, joins the produces of the plains to those of the highest Alps. Add to these, the illusions of vision, the tops of the mountains variously the illumined, the harmonious mixture of light and shade, and their different effects in the morning and the evening as I travelled; you may then form some idea of the scenes which engaged my attention, and which seemed to change, as I past, as on an enchanted theatre; for the prospect of mountains being almost perpendicular to the horizon, strikes the eye at the same instant, and more powerfully, than that of a plane, where the objects are seen obliquely and half concealed behind each other.
To this pleasing variety of scenes I attributed the serenity of my mind during my first day’s journey. I wondered to find that inanimate beings should over-rule our most violent passions, and despised the impotence of philosophy for having less power over the soul than a succession of lifeless objects. But finding that my tranquility continued during the night, and even increased with the following day, I began to believe it followed from some other source, which I had not yet discovered. That day I reached the lower mountains, and passing over their rugged tops, at last ascended the highest summit I could possibly attain. Having walked a while in the clouds, I came to a place of greater serenity, whence one may peacefully observe the thunder and the form gathering below: ah! too flattering picture of human wisdom, of which the original never existed, except in those sublime regions whence the emblem is taken.
Here it was that I plainly discovered; in the purity of the air, the true cause of that returning tranquility of soul, to which I had been so long a stranger. This impression is general, though not universally observed. Upon the tops of mountains, the air being subtle and pure, we respire with greater freedom, our bodies are more active, our minds more serene, our pleasures less ardent, and our passions much more moderate. Our meditations acquire a degree of sublimity from the grandeur of the objects around us. It seems as if, being lifted above all human society, we had left every low, terrestrial, sentiment behind; and that as we approach the aethereal regions, the soul imbibes something of their eternal purity. One is grave without being melancholy, peaceful, but not indolent, pensive yet contented: our desires lose their painful violence, and leave only a gentle emotion in our hearts. Thus the passions which in the lower world are man’s greatest torment, in happier climates contribute to his felicity. I doubt much whether any violent agitation, or vapours of the mind, could hold out against such a situation, and I am surprized that a bath of the reviving and wholesome air of the mountains is not frequently prescribed both by physic and morality.
_Quì non palazzi, non teatro o loggia, Ma’n lor vece un’ abete, un faggio, un pino Trà l’erba verde e’l bel monte vicino Levan di terra al Ciel nostr’ intelletto._ Imagine to yourself all these united impressions; the amazing variety, magnitude and beauty of a thousand stupendous objects; the pleasure of gazing at an entire new scene, strange birds, unknown plants, another nature, and a new world. To these even the subtilty of the air is advantageous; it enlivens their natural colours, renders every object more distinct, and brings it nearer to the eye. In short, there is a kind of supernatural beauty in these mountainous prospects which charms both the senses and the mind into a forgetfulness of one’s self and of every thing in the world.
I could have spent the whole time in contemplating these magnificent landskips, if I had not found still greater pleasure in my conversation with the inhabitants. In my observations you will find a slight sketch of their manners, their simplicity, their equality of soul, and of that peacefulness of mind, which renders them happy by an exemption from pain, rather than by the enjoyment of pleasure. But what I was unable to describe, and which is almost impossible to be conceived, is their disinterested humanity, and hospitable zeal to oblige every stranger whom chance or curiosity brings to visit them.
This I myself continually experienced, I who was entirely unknown, and who was conducted from place to place only by a common guide. When, in the evening, I arrived in any hamlet at the foot of a mountain, each of the inhabitants was so eager to have me lodge at his house, that I was always embarrassed which to accept; and he who obtained the preference seemed so well pleased that, at first, I supposed his joy to arise from a lucrative prospect. But I was amazed, after having used the house like an inn, to find my host not only refuse to accept the least gratuity, but offended that it was offered. I found it universally the same. So that it was true hospitality, which, from its unusual ardour, I had mistaken for avarice. So perfectly disinterested are this people, that during eight days, it was not in my power to leave one dollar among them. In short, how is it possible to spend money in a country where the landlord will not be paid for his provisions, nor the servant for his trouble, and where there are no beggars to be found? Nevertheless, money is by no means abundant in the upper Valais, and for that very reason the inhabitants are not in want; for the necessaries of life are plentiful, yet nothing is sent out of the country; they are not luxurious at home, nor is the peasant less laborious. If ever they have more money they will grow poor? and of this they are so sensible that they tread upon mines of gold which they are determined never to open.
I was at first greatly surprized at the difference between the customs and manners of these people and those of the lower Valais; for in the road through that part of the country to Italy, travellers pay dearly enough for their passage. An inhabitant of the place explained the mystery. The strangers, says he, which pass through the lower Valais are chiefly merchants, or people that travel in pursuit of gain; it is but just that they should leave us a part of their profit; and that we should treat them as they treat others; but here our travellers meet with a different reception, because we are assured their journey must have a disinterested motive: they visit us out of friendship, and therefore we receive them as our friends. But indeed our hospitality is not very expensive; we have but few visitors. No wonder, I replied, that mankind should avoid a people, who live only to enjoy life, and not to acquire wealth and excite envy. Happy, deservedly happy, mortals! I am pleased to think that one must certainly resemble you in some degree, in order to approve your manners and taste your simplicity.
What I found particularly agreeable whilst I continued among them was the natural ease and freedom of their behaviour. They went about their business in the house, as if I had not been there; and it was in my power to act as if I were the sole inhabitant. They are entirely unacquainted with the impertinent vanity of _doing the honours of the house_, as if to remind the stranger of his dependence. When I said nothing, they concluded I was satisfied to live in their manner; but the least hint was sufficient to make them comply with mine, without any repugnance or astonishment. The only compliment which they made me, when they heard that I was a Swiss, was that they looked upon me as a brother, and I ought therefore to think myself at home. After this, they took but little notice of me, not supposing that I could doubt the sincerity of their offers, or refuse to accept them whenever they could useful. The same simplicity subsists among themselves: when the children are once arrived at maturity, all distinction between them and their parents seems to have ceased; their domestics are seated at the same table with their master; the same liberty reigns in the cottage as in the republic, and each family is an epitome of the state.
They never deprived me of my liberty, except when at table: indeed it was always in my power to avoid the repast; but, being once seated, I was obliged to sit late, and drink much. What a Swiss, and not drink!
so they would exclaim. For my own part, I confess, I am no enemy to good wine, and that I have no dislike to a chearful glass; but I dislike compulsion. I have observed that deceitful men are generally sober, and that peculiar reserve at table frequently indicates a duplicity of soul. A guileless heart is not afraid of the unguarded eloquence and affectionate folly which commonly precede drunkenness; but we ought always to avoid the excess. Yet even that was sometimes impossible among these hearty Valaisians, their wine being strong, and water absolutely excluded. Who could act the philosopher here, or be offended with such honest people? In short, I drank to shew my gratitude, and since they refused to take my money, I made them a compliment of my reason.
They have another custom, not less embarrassing, which is practised even in the houses of the magistrates themselves; I mean that of their wives and daughters standing behind one’s chair, and waiting at table like so many servants. This would be insupportable to the gallantry of a Frenchman, especially as the women of this country are in general so extremely handsome that one can hardly bear to be attended by the maid. You may certainly believe them beautiful, since they appeared so to me; for my eyes have been accustomed to Eloisa, and are therefore extremely difficult to please.
As for me, who pay more regard to the manners of the people with whom I reside, than to any rules of politeness, I received their services in silence, and with a degree of gravity equal to that of Don Quixote when he was with the Duchess. I could not however help smiling now and then at the contrast between the rough old grey-beards at the table, and the charming complexions of the fair attendant nymphs, in whom a single word would excite a blush, which rendered their beauty more glowing and conspicuous. Not that I could admire the enormous compass of their necks, which resemble, in their dazzling whiteness only, that perfect model which always formed in my imagination (for though veiled, I have sometimes stolen a glance) that celebrated marble which is supposed to excel in delicate proportion the most perfect work of nature.
Be not surprized to find me so knowing in mysteries which you so carefully conceal: it happens in spite of all your caution; one sense instructs another. Notwithstanding the most jealous vigilance, there will always remain some friendly interstice or other, through which the sight performs the office of the touch. The curious, busy eye insinuates itself with impunity under the flowers of a nosegay, wanders beneath the spreading gauze, and conveys that elastic resistance to the hand which it dares not experience.
_Parte appar deble mamme acerbe e crude, Parte altrui ne ricopre invida vesta; Invida, ma s’ agli occhi il varco chiude, L’amoroso pensier gia non arresta._ I am also not quite satisfied with the dress of the Valaisian ladies: their gowns are raised so very high behind, that they all appear round shouldered; yet this, together with their little black coifs, and other peculiarities of their dress, has a singular effect, and wants neither simplicity nor elegance. I shall bring you one of their compleat suits, which I dare say will fit you; it was made to the finest shape in the whole country.
But whilst I traversed with delight these regions which are so little known, and so deserving of admiration, where was my Eloisa? Was she banished my memory? Forget my Eloisa! Forget my own soul! Is it possible for me to be one moment of my life alone, who exist only through her? O no! our souls are inseparable, and, by instinct, change their situation together according to the prevailing state of mine.
When I am in sorrow, she takes refuge with yours, and seeks consolation in the place where you are; as was the case the day I left you. When I am happy, being incapable of enjoyment alone, they both attend upon me, and our pleasure becomes mutual: thus it was during my whole excursion. I did not take one step without you, nor admire a single prospect without eagerly pointing its beauties to Eloisa. The same tree spread its shadow over us both, and we constantly reclined against the same flowery bank. Sometimes as we sat I gazed with you at the wonderful scene before us, and sometimes, on my knees I gazed with rapture on an object more worthy the contemplation of human sensibility. If I came to a difficult pass, I saw you skip over it with the activity of the bounding doe. When a torrent happened to cross our path, I presumed to press you in my arms, walked slowly through the water, and was always sorry when I reached the opposite bank. Every thing in that peaceful solitude brought you to my imagination; the pleasing awfulness of nature, the invariable serenity of the air, the grateful simplicity of the people, their constant and natural prudence, the unaffected modesty and innocence of the sex, and every object that gave pleasure to the eye or to the heart, seemed inseparably connected with the idea of Eloisa.
O divine maid! I often tenderly exclaimed, that we might spend our days in there unfrequented mountains, unenvied and unknown! Why can I not here collect my whole soul into thee alone, and become, in turn, the universe to Eloisa! Thy charms would then receive the homage they deserve; then would our hearts taste without interruption the delicious fruit of the soft passion with which they are filled: the years of our long elysium would pass away untold, and when the frigid hand of age should have calmed our first transports, the constant habit of thinking and acting from the same principle would beget a lasting friendship no less tender than our love, whose vacant place should be filled by the kindred sentiments which grew and were nourished with it in our youth. Like this happy people, we would practice every duty of humanity, we would unite in acts of benevolence, and at last die with the satisfaction of not having lived in vain.
Hark----it is the post. I will close my letter, and fly to receive another from Eloisa. How my heart beats? Why was I roused from my reverie? I was happy at least in idea. Heaven only knows what I am to be in reality.
Letter XXIV. To Eloisa.
I sit down to give you an immediate answer to that article of your letter concerning the stipend; thank God, it requires no reflection.
My sentiments, my Eloisa, on this subject, are these.
In what is called honour, there is a material distinction between that which is founded on the opinion of the world, and that which is derived from self esteem. The first is nothing but the loud voice of foolish prejudice, which has no more stability than the wind; but the basis of the latter is fixed in the eternal truth of morality. The honour of the world may be of advantage with regard to fortune but as it cannot reach the soul, it has no influence on real happiness. True honour, on the contrary, is the very essence of felicity; for it is that alone inspires the permanent interior satisfaction which constitutes the happiness of a rational being. Let us, my Eloisa, apply these principles to your question, and it will be soon resolved.
To become an instructor of philosophy, and like the fool in the fable, receive money for teaching wisdom, will appear rather low in the eyes of the world, and, I own, has something in it ridiculous enough. Yet, as no man can subsist merely of himself, and as there can be nothing wrong in eating the fruit of one’s labour, we will regard this opinion of mankind as a piece of foolish prejudice, to which it would be madness to sacrifice our happiness. I know you will not esteem me the less on this account, nor shall I deserve more pity for living upon the talents I have cultivated.
But, my Eloisa, there are other things to be considered. Let us leave the multitude and look a little into ourselves. What shall I in reality be to your father, in receiving from him a salary for instructing his daughter? Am I not from that moment a mercenary, a hireling, a servant? and do I not tacitly pledge my faith for his security, like the meanest of his domestics? Now what has a father to lose of greater value than his only daughter, even though she were not an Eloisa? and what should the man do who had thus pledged his faith and sold his service? Ought he to stifle the flame within his breast?
Ah! Eloisa, that you know to be impossible: or should he rather indulge this passion, and wound, in the most sensible part, the man who has an undoubted right to his fidelity? In this case I behold a perfidious teacher, trampling under foot every sacred bond of society, [9] a seducer, a domestic traitor, whom the law hath justly condemned to die. I hope Eloisa understands me. I do not fear death, but the ignominy of deserving it, and my own contempt.
When the letters of your name’s sake and Abelard fell into your hands, you remember my opinion of the conduct of that priest. I always pitied Eloisa; she had a heart made for love: but Abelard seemed to deserve his fate, as he was a stranger both to love and virtue. Ought I then to follow his example? What wretch dares preach that virtue which he will not practise? Whosoever suffers himself to be thus blinded by his passions, will soon find himself punished in a loathing for those very sensations to which he sacrificed his honour. There can be no pleasure in any enjoyment which the heart cannot approve, and which tends to sink in our estimation the object of our love. Abstract the idea of perfection, and our enthusiasm vanishes: take away our esteem, and love is at an end. How is it possible for a woman to honour a man who dishonours himself? and how can he adore the person who was weak enough to abandon herself to a vile seducer? Mutual contempt therefore is the consequence; their very passions will grow burthensome, and they will have lost their honour without finding happiness.
But how different, my Eloisa, is it with two lovers of the same age, influenced by the same passion, united by the same bonds, under no particular engagements, and both in possession of their original liberty. The most severe laws can inflict no other punishment, than the natural consequences of their passion: their sole obligation is to love eternally; and if there be in the world some unhappy climate where men’s authority dares to break such sacred bonds, they are surely punished by the crimes that must inevitably ensue.
These, my ever prudent and virtuous Eloisa, are many reasons; they are indeed but a frigid commentary on those which you urged with so much spirit and energy in one of your letters; but they are sufficient to shew you how entirely I am of your opinion. You remember that I did not persist in refusing your offer, and that notwithstanding the first scruples of prejudice, being convinced that it was not inconsistent with my honour, I consented to open the box. But in the present case, my duty, my reason, my love, all speak too plainly to be misunderstood. If I must chose between my honour and Eloisa, my heart is prepared to resign her. Oh I love her too well to purchase her at the price of my honour!
Letter XXV. From Eloisa.
You will easily believe, my dear friend, how extremely I was entertained with the agreeable account of your late tour. The elegance of the detail itself, would have engaged my esteem, even though its author had been wholly a stranger; but its coming from you, was a circumstance of additional recommendation. I could, however, find in my heart to chide you for a certain part of it, which you will easily guess, though I could scarce refrain from laughing at the ridiculous finesse you made use of to shelter yourself under Tasso. Have you never really perceived the wide difference that should be made between a narration intended for the view of the public, and that little sketch of particulars which is solely to be referred to the inspection of your mistress. Or is love, with all its fears, doubts, jealousies, and scruples, to have no more regard paid to it than the mere decencies of good breeding are entitled to? Could you be at a moment’s loss to conceive that the dry preciseness of an author must be displeasing, where the passionate sentiments of inspiring tenderness were expected? And could you deliberately resolve to disappoint my expectations? But I fear I have already said too much on a subject which perhaps had better been entirely passed over. Besides, the contents of your last letter have so closely engaged my thoughts, that I have had no leisure to attend to the particulars of the former. Leaving then, my dear friend, the Valais to some future opportunity, let us now fix our attention on what more immediately concerns ourselves; we shall find sufficient matter of employment.
I very clearly foresaw what your sentiments would be, and indeed the time we have known each other, had been spent to little purpose, if now our conjectures were vague or uncertain. If virtue ever should forsake us, be assured, it will not, cannot be in those instances, which require resolution and resignation. [10] When the assault is violent, the first step to be taken is, resistance; and we shall ever triumph, I hope, so long as we are forewarned of our danger. A taste of careless security is the most to be dreaded, and we may be taken by sap, e’er we perceive that the citadel is attacked. The most fatal circumstance of all, is the continuance of misfortunes; their very duration makes them dangerous to a mind that might bear up against the sharpest trials and most vigorous sudden onsets; it may be worn out by the tedious pressure of inferior sufferings, and give way to the length of those afflictions which have quite exhausted its forbearance. This struggle, my dear friend, falls to our lot. We are not called upon to signalize ourselves by deeds of heroism, or renowned exploits; but we are bound to the more painful task of supporting an indefatigable resistance, and enduring misfortunes without the least relaxation.
I foresaw but too well the melancholy event. Our happiness is passed away like a morning cloud, and our trials are beginning without the least prospect of any alteration for the better. Every circumstance is to me an aggravation of my distress, and what at other times would have passed unheeded and unobserved, now serves but too plainly to increase my dismay: my body sympathises with my mind in distressed situation, the one is as languid and spiritless as the other is alarmed and apprehensive. Involuntary tears are ever stealing down my cheeks, without my being sensible of any immediate cause of sorrow. I do not indeed foresee any very distressful events, but I perceive, alas, too well, my fondest hopes blasted, my most sanguine expectations continually disappointed, and what good purpose can it serve to water the leaves, when the plant is decayed and withered at the root.
I feel myself unable to support your absence; I feel, my dear friend, that I can never live without you, and this is a fresh subject to me of continual apprehensions. How often do I traverse the scenes which were once the witness of our happy interviews; but, alas! you are no where to be found. I constantly expect you at your usual time; but time comes and goes without your return. Every object of my senses presents a new monument, and every object, alas! reminds me that I have lost you. Whatever your sufferings may be in other respects, you are exempted however from this aggravation. Your heart alone is sufficient to remind you of my unhappy absence. Oh, if you did but know what endless pangs these fruitless expectations, there impatient longings perpetually occasion, how they imbitter and increase the torments I already feel, you would, without hesitation, prefer your condition to mine.
If indeed I might give vent to my sad tale, and trust the tender