hearts are less interested, is, that our correspondence is become less intelligible.
You have been an eye-witness of my concern, and fondly therefore imagine you can discover its true source. You endeavour to relieve me by the mere force of elocution, and while you are thinking to delude me, are yourself the dupe of your own artifice. The sacrifice I have made to my passion is a great one indeed; yet great as it is, it provokes neither my sorrow nor my repentance. But I have deprived this passion of its most engaging circumstances; ah there’s the cause! that virtue which enchanted every thing around it, is itself vanished like a dream. Those inexpressible transports which at once gave both vigour to our affections, and purity to our desires, are now no more. We have made pleasure our sole pursuit, and neglected happiness has bid adieu to us for ever. Call but to mind those Halcyon days, when the fervency of our passion bore a proportion to its innocence, when the violence of our affections gave us weapons against itself; then, the purity of our intentions could reconcile us to restraint, while with comfort we reflected, that even these restraints served to heighten our desires.
Compare those charming times with our present situation. Violent emotions, disquieting fears, endless suspicions, perpetual alarms, are the melancholy substitutes of our former gay companions. Where is that zeal for prudence and discretion which inspired every thought, directed every action, and sweetened and refined the delicacy of our love? Is the passion itself altered, or rather are not we most miserably changed? Our enjoyments were formerly both temperate and lasting; they are now degenerated into transports, resembling rather the fury of madness than the caresses of love. A pure and holy flame once lived in our hearts, but now we are sunk into mere common lovers, through a blind gratification of sensual indulgencies. We can now think ourselves sufficiently happy, if jealousy can give a poignancy to those pleasures, which even the very brutes can taste without it.
This, my dear friend, is the subject which nearly concerns us both, and which indeed pains me more on your account than my own. I say nothing of the distress which is more immediately mine. Your disposition, tender as it is, can sufficiently feel it: consider the shame of my present situation, and if you still love me, give a sigh to my lost honour. My crime is unatonable, my tears then I should hope will be as lasting as my dishonour. Do not you then, who are the cause of this sorrow, seek to deprive me of this also. My only hope is founded in its continuance. Hard as my lot is, it would be still more deplorable if I could ever be comforted. The being reconciled to disgrace is the last, worst state of the abandoned.
I am but too well acquainted with all the circumstances of my condition, and yet amidst all my horror, all my grief, I have one comfort left: it is the only one, but it is solid, it is pleasing.
You, my dear friend, are its constant object; and since I dare no longer consider myself, I take the greater satisfaction in thinking of you. The great share of self esteem which you, alas, have taken from me, is now transferred entirely to yourself; and what should have been your crime, is with me your apology, and endearment. Love, even that fatal love which has proved my destruction, is become the material circumstance in your favour. You are exalted while I am abased; nay, my very abasement is the cause of your exaltation. Be henceforward then my only hope. Your business is to justify my crime by your conduct. Excuse it at least by your virtuous demeanor. May your deserts prove a covering to my disgrace, and let the number of your virtues make the loss of mine less sensible to my view. Since I am no longer any thing, be thou my whole existence. The only honour I have left is solely centered in thee; and while thou in any degree art respected, I can never be wholly despised or rejected.
However sorry I may be for the quick recovery of my health, yet my artifice will no longer stand me in any stead. My countenance will soon give the lie to my pretences, and I shall no longer be able to impose on my parents a feigned indisposition. Be quick then in taking the steps we have agreed on; before I am forced to resume my usual business in my family. I perceive but too plainly, that my mother is suspicious, and continually watches us. My father, indeed, seems to know nothing of the matter. His pride has been hitherto our security.
Perhaps he thinks it impossible, that a mere common tutor can be in love with his daughter. But after all, you know his temper. If you do not prevent him, he will you; do not then through a fond desire of gaining your usual access, banish yourself entirely from the possibility of a return. Take my advice and speak to my mother in time. Pretend a multiplicity of engagements, in order to prevent your teaching me any longer; and let us give up the satisfaction of such frequent interviews that we may make sure, at least, of meeting sometimes. Consider, if you are once shut out, it is for ever; but if you can resolve to deny yourself for a time, you may then come when you please, and in time and by management may repeat your visits often, without any fear of suspicion. I will tell you this evening some other schemes I have in view for our more frequent meeting, and you will then be convinced that that _constant_ cousin, whom we used so grievously to detest, will now be very useful to two lovers, whom in truth she ought never to have left alone.
Letter XXXIII. From Eloisa.
Ah! my dear friend, what a miserable asylum for lovers is a crowded assembly! What inconceivable torment, to see each other under the restraints of what is called good breeding! Surely absence were a thousand times more supportable! Is calmness and composure compatible with such emotions? Can the lover be self-consistent, or with what attention can he consider such a number of objects, when one alone possesses his whole soul? When the heart is fired, can the body be at rest? You cannot conceive the anxiety I felt, when I heard you were coming. Your name seemed a reproach to me, and I could not help imagining that the whole company’s attention was fixed upon me alone.
I was immediately lost, and blushed so exceedingly, that my cousin, who observed me, was obliged to cover me with her fan, and pretend to whisper me in the ear. This very artifice, simple as it was, increased my apprehensions, and I trembled for fear they should perceive it. In short, every the most minute circumstance was a fresh subject for alarm; never did I so fully experience the truth of that well known axiom, that a guilty conscience needs no accuser.
Clara pretended to observe that you was equally embarrassed, uncertain what to do, not daring either to advance or retire, to take notice of me or not, and looking all around the room to give you a pretence, as she said, to look, at last, on me. As I recovered from my confusion by degrees, I perceived your distress, till, by Mrs. Belon’s coming up to you, you was relieved.
I perceive, my dear friend, that this manner of living, which is imbittered with so much constraint, and sweetened with so little pleasure, is not suited to us. Our passion is too noble to bear perpetual chains. These public assemblies are only fit for those who are strangers to love, or who can with ease dispense with ceremony. My anxieties are too disquieting, and your indiscretions too dangerous; I cannot always have a Mrs. Belon to make a convenient diversion. Let us return, let us return to that calm state of life from whence I have so inadvertently drawn you. It was that situation which gave rise and vigour to our passion; perhaps too it may be weakened by this dissipated manner of living. The truest passions are formed and nourished in retirement. In the busy circle of the world there is no time for receiving impressions, and even, when received, they are considerably weakened by the variety of avocations which continually occur. Retirement too best suits my melancholy, which like my love can be supported only by thy dear image. I had rather see you tender and passionate in my heart, than under constraint and dissipation in an assembly. There may perhaps come a time, when I shall be forced to a much closer retreat. O that that time were already come! Common prudence, as well as my own inclinations, require that I should inure myself betimes to habits which necessity may demand. Oh, if the crime itself could produce the cause of its atonement! The pleasing hope of being one day----but I shall inadvertently say more than I am willing on the design I have in view. Forgive me this one secret, my dear friend; my heart shall never conceal any thing that would give you pleasure: yet you must, for a time, be ignorant of this. All I can say of it at present is, that love, which was the occasion of our misfortunes, ought to furnish us with relief. You may reason and comment upon this hint as much as you please; but I positively forbid all questions.
Letter XXXIV. The Answer.
_No, non vedrete mai Cambiar gl’ affeti mici, Bei lumi onde imparai A sospirar d’amor._ How greatly am I indebted to dear Mrs. Belon for the pleasure she procured me! Forgive me, my dearest Eloisa, when I tell you, that I even dared to take some pleasure in your distress, and that your very anxiety afforded me most exquisite delight. Oh, what raptures did I feel at those stolen glances, that downcast modesty, that care with which you avoided meeting my eyes! What then, think you, was the employment of your too, too happy lover? Was he indeed converting with Mrs. Belon? Did you really think so, my lovely Eloisa? Oh, no, enchanting fair! he was much more worthily employed. With what an amazing sympathy did my heart share each emotion of thine! With what a greedy impatience did I explore the beautiful symmetry of thy person!
Thy love, thy charms, entirely filled my whole soul, which was hardly able to contain the ravishing idea. The only allay to all this pleasure was, that I feasted at your expense, and felt the tender sensations which you, alas, was absolutely unable to participate. Can I tell one word that Mrs. Belon said to me? Could I have told it at the very time she was speaking? Do I know what answers I made? or did she understand me at all? But indeed how could she comprehend the discourse of one who spoke without thinking, and answered without conceiving the question.
_Com’ buom, che par ch’ ascolti, e nulla intende._ I appeal to the event for a confirmation. She has since told all the world, and perhaps you among the rest, that I have not common sense; but what is still worse, not a single grain of wit, and that I am as dull and foolish as my books. But no matter how she thinks, or what she says of me. Is not Eloisa the sole mistress of my fate, and does not she alone determine my future rank and estimation? Let the rest of the world say of me what they think proper; myself, my understanding, and my accomplishments, all absolutely depend on the value you are pleased to fix on them.
Be assured, neither Mrs. Belon, nor any superior beauty, could ever delude my attention from Eloisa. If after all this, you still doubt my sincerity, and can injure my love and your own charms so much as still to suspect me, pray tell me, how I became acquainted with every minute particular of your conduct? Did not I see you shine among the inferior beauties, like the sun among the stars, that were eclipsed by your radiance? Did not I see the young fellows hovering about your chair, and buzzing in your ear? Did not I perceive you singled out from the rest of your sex to be the only object of universal admiration? Did not I perceive their studied assiduities, their continual compliments, and your cold and modest indifference, infinitely more affecting than the most haughty demeanor you could possibly have assumed? Yes, my Eloisa, I saw the effect produced by the sight of your snowy delicate arm, when you pulled off your glove; I saw too that the young stranger who picked it up seemed tempted to kiss the charming hand that received it. And did not I see a still bolder swain, whose steady stare obliged you to add another pin to your tucker? All this may perhaps convince you I was not so absent as you imagine; not that I was the least jealous; for I know your heart was not cast in such a mold as to be susceptible of every passion: nor will you, I hope, think otherwise of mine.
Let us then return to that calm, blest retirement, which I quitted with such regret. My heart finds no satisfaction in the tumultuous hurry of the world. Its empty tinsel pleasures dispose it only to lament the want of more substantial joys the more feelingly, and make it prefer its own real sufferings to the melancholy train of continual disappointments. Surely, Eloisa, we may attain much more solid satisfaction, in any situation, than under our present restraint. And yet you seem to forget it. To be so near each other for a whole fortnight without meeting! Oh, it is an age of time to an enamoured enraptured heart! Absence itself would be infinitely more supportable.
Tell me to what end you can make use of a discretion, which occasions more misfortunes than it is able to prevent? Of what importance can it be to prolong a life, in which every succeeding moment brings fresh punishment? Were it not better, yes surely a thousand times, to meet once more at all events, and then submit to our fate with resignation.
I own freely, my dear friend, I would fain know the utmost of the secret you conceal. There never was a discovery that could interest me so deeply: but all my endeavours are in vain. I can however be as silent as you would wish, and repress my forward curiosity. But may I not hope soon to be satisfied? Perhaps you are still in the castlebuilding system. Oh thou dear object of my affections! surely now it is high time to improve all our schemes into reality.
P. S. I had almost forgot to tell you that M. Roguin made me the offer of a company in the regiment he is raising for the king of Sardinia. I was highly pleased at this brave man’s signal mark of his esteem, and thanking him for his kindness, told him, the shortness of my sight, and great love of a studious and sedentary life, unfitted me for so active an employment. My love can claim no great share in this sacrifice. Every one in my opinion owes his life to his country, which therefore he should not risk in the service of those princes to whom he is no ways indebted; much less is he at liberty to let himself out for hire, and turn the noblest profession in the world into that of a vile mercenary. These maxims I claim by inheritance from my father; and happy enough should I be, could I imitate him as well in his steady adherence to his duty, and love to his country. He never would enter into the service of any foreign prince, but in the year 1712, acquired great reputation in fighting for his country: he served in many engagements, in one of which he was wounded, and at the battle of Wilmerghen was so fortunate as, in the fight of general Sacconex, to take a standard from the enemy.
Letter XXXV. From Eloisa.
I could never think, my dear friend, that what I hinted of Mrs. Belon in jest could have excited so long or so serious an explanation. An over eagerness in one’s own defence is sometimes productive of the very reverse of its intention, and fixes a lasting suspicion instead of removing or lightening the accusation. The most trifling incidents, when attended to minutely, immediately grow up into events of importance. Our situation indeed secures us from making this case our own; for our hearts are too busy to listen to mere punctilios; though all disputes between lovers on points of little moment, have too often a much deeper foundation than they imagine.
I am rather glad however of the opportunity which this accident has given me, of saying somewhat to you on the subject of jealousy; a subject which, alas, but too nearly concerns me. I see, my dear friend, by the similitude of our tempers and near alliance of our dispositions, that love alone will be the great business of our lives: and surely when such impressions as we feel have been once made, love must either extinguish or absorb every other passion. The least relaxation in our passion must inevitably produce a most dangerous lethargy: a total apathy, an indifference to every enjoyment, and a disrelish of every present comfort would very soon take place if our affections were once cooled, and indeed life itself would then become a burthen. With respect to myself, you cannot but perceive, that the present transports of my passion could alone veil over the horror of my disastrous situation, and the sad alternative proposed to my choice, is the extravagance of love, or a death of despair. Judge then if after this I am able to determine a point on which the happiness or misery of my future life so absolutely depends.
If I may be allowed to know any thing of my own temper and disposition, though I am oftentimes distracted with violent emotions, it is but seldom that their influence can hurry me into action. My sorrows must have preyed on my heart for a long time before I could ever be prevailed on to discover the source of them to their author; and being firmly persuaded that there can be no offence without intention, I would much rather submit to a thousand real subjects of complaint than ever come to an explanation. A disposition of this kind will neither easily give way to suspicion, nor be anxiously concerned at the jealousy of others. Oh, shield me, gracious heaven, from the tormenting pangs of causeless jealousy! I am fully assured that your heart was made for mine and for no other; but self-deceit is of all others the most easy imposition: a transient liking is often mistaken for a real passion, as it is difficult to distinguish the effects of sudden fancy from the result of a sincere and settled affection. If you yourself can doubt your own constancy without any reason, how could you blame me were I capable of mistrusting you? But that way leads to misery. So cruel a doubt as that would imbitter the remainder of my life. I should sigh in secret without complaining, and die an inconsolable martyr to my passion.
But let me intreat you to prevent a misfortune, the idea of which shocks my very soul. Swear to me, my dear, dear friend! but not by love, for lover’s oaths are never made but with intention to be broken; but swear by the sacred name of honour, which you highly revere, that I shall ever be the confident of your inmost thoughts, the repository of all your secrets, the witness of all your emotions, and if perchance, (which gracious heaven avert!) if any change should take place in your affections, swear moreover that you will instantly inform me of so interesting a revolution. Think not to excuse yourself by alleging, that such a change is impossible. I believe, I hope, nay, I am well assured of your sincerity; oblige me, however, and prevent all false alarms; take from me the possibility of doubting, and secure my present peace. To hear my fate from you, how hard soever it might be, were much better than through ignorance of the truth to be perpetually exposed to the tortures of imaginary evils. Some comfort, some alleviation of my sorrows would arise from your remorse; though my affections must cease, you would necessarily become the partner of my griefs: and even my own anxiety, when poured into your breast, would seem less distracting.
’Tis on this account, my dear friend, that I congratulate myself more especially on the fond choice of my heart; that honour strengthens and confirms the bond which affection first begun; and that my security depends not on the violence of passion, but the more sober and settled dictates of principle: ’tis this which cements, at the same time that it ensures, the affections; ’tis this virtue that must reconcile us to our woes. Had it been my sad misfortune to have fixed my affections on a lover void of principle, even supposing those affections should continue unchangeable, yet what security should I have of the continuance of his lover? By what methods could I silence those perpetual misgivings that would be ever rising in my mind, and in what manner could I be assured that I was not imposed on, either by his artifice or my own credulity? But thou, my dear, my honourable friend, who hast no dark designs to cover, no secret frauds to practise, thou wilt, I am well assured, preserve the constancy thou hast vowed. You will never be shamed out of your duty, through the false bashfulness of owning an infidelity, and when you can no longer love your Eloisa, you will frankly tell her----yes, you will say, my Eloisa I do not---- I cannot; indeed I cannot, finish the sentence.
What do you think of my proposal? I am sure it is the only one I can think of to pluck up jealousy by the root. There is a certain delicacy, a tender confidence which persuades me to rely so entirely on your sincerity, as to make me incapable of believing any accusation which came not from your own lips. These are the good effects I expect from your promise; for though I should easily believe, that you are as fickle as the rest of your sex, yet I can never be persuaded, that you are equally false and deceitful, and however I might doubt of the constancy of your affections, I can never bring myself to suspect your honour. What a pleasure do I feel in taking precautions in this matter, which I hope will always be useless, and to prevent the very possibility of a change, which I am persuaded will never happen! Oh how delightful is it to talk of jealousy to so faithful a lover! If I thought you capable of inconstancy I should not talk thus. My poor heart would not be so discreet in the time of so much danger, and the least real distrust would deprive me of the prudence necessary for my security.
This subject, _honoured master_, may be more fully discussed this evening; for your two _humble scholars_ are to have the honour of supping with you at my uncle’s. Your learned commentaries on the Gazette have raised you so highly in his esteem, that no great artifice was wanting to persuade him to invite you. The daughter has put her harpsicord in tune, the father has been poring over Lamberti, and I shall perhaps repeat the lesson I first learnt in Clarens grove.
You who are a master of every science must adapt your knowledge and instructions to our several capacities. Mr. Orbe (who is invited you may be sure) has had notice given him to prepare a dissertation on the nature of the king of Naples’s future homage; this will give us three an opportunity of going into my cousin’s apartment. There, vassal, on thy knees, before thy sovereign mistress, thy hands clasped in hers, and in the presence of her chancellor, thou shalt vow truth and loyalty on every occasion; I do not say eternal love, because that is a thing which no one can absolutely promise; but truth, sincerity, and frankness are in every one’s disposal; to these therefore thou shalt swear. You need not vow eternal fealty; but you must and shall vow to commit no act of felonious intention, and at least to declare open war before you shake off the yoke. This done, you shall seal it with an embrace and be owned and acknowledged for a true and loyal knight.
Adieu, my dear friend; the expectations I have formed of this evening have given me all these spirits. I shall be doubly blessed to see you a partaker of my joy.
Letter XXXVI. From Eloisa.
Kiss this welcome letter, and leap for joy at the news I am going to tell you: but be assured that though my emotions should prove less violent, I am not a whit less rejoiced. My father being obliged to go to Bern on account of a law suit, and from thence to Soleure for his pension, proposes to take my mother along with him, to which she is the more willing to consent, as she hopes to receive benefit from the journey and change of air. They were so obliging as to offer to take me along with them. I did not think proper to say all I thought on the occasion; but their not being able to find convenient room for me made them change their intentions with respect to my going, and they are now all endeavouring to comfort me for the disappointment. I was obliged to assume a very melancholy air, as if almost inconsolable; and, ridiculous as it is, I have dissembled so long, that I am sometimes apt to fancy I feel a real sorrow.
I am not however to be absolutely my own mistress while my parents are absent, but to live at my uncle’s; so that during the whole time I shall be always with my _constant_ cousin. My mother choses to leave her own woman behind; Bab, therefore, will be considered as a kind of governess to me. But we need not be very apprehensive of those whom we have no need either to bribe or to trust, but who may be easily got rid of whenever they grow troublesome, by means of any trifling allurement.
You will readily conceive, I dare say, what opportunities we shall have of meeting during their absence; but our discretion must furnish those restraints, which our situation has taken off for a while, and we must then voluntarily submit to that reserve, to which at present we are obliged by sad necessity. You must, when I am at my cousin’s, come no oftener than you did before, for fear of giving her offence, and I hope there will be no need of reminding you of the assiduous respect and civility, which her sex and the sacred laws of hospitality require; and that you yourself will sufficiently consider what is due to the friendship that gives an asylum to your love. I know your eager disposition; but I am convinced, at the same time, that there are bounds which can restrain it. Had you never governed your violence by the known laws of honour, you had not been troubled at present with any admonitions, at least with none from me.
But why that downcast look, that louring air? why repine at the restraints which duty prescribes? Be it thy Eloisa’s care to sooth and soften them. Had you ever cause to repent of having listened to my advice? Near the flowery banks of the head of the river _Vevey_ there stands a solitary hut, which serves sometimes as a shelter to sportsmen, and surely may also shelter lovers. Hard by the mansion house which belongs to Mr. Orbe are several thatched dairy houses sufficiently remote, which may serve to cover love and pleasure, ever the truest friends to rustic simplicity. The prudent milkmaids will keep the secret; for they have often need of secrecy. The streams which water the adjoining meadows are bordered with flowering shrubs, and charming shady groves, while at some little distance the thickness of the neighbouring wood seems to promise a more gloomy and secluded retreat.
_Al bel seggio riposto, ombroso e fosco, Ne mai pastori appressan, ne bifolci._ In this delightful place, no vestiges are seen of human toil, no appearance of studied and laborious art; every object around presents only a view of the tender care of nature, our common mother. Here then, my dear friend, we shall be only under nature’s directions, and know no other laws but hers. At Mr. Orbe’s invitation, Clara has already persuaded her father to take the diversion of hunting for two or three days in this part of the world, and to carry the two inseparables with him. These inseparables have others likewise closely connected with them, as you know but too well. The one assuming the character of master of the house, will consequently do the honours, while the other with less parade will do the honours of a dairy-house, and this rural hut dedicated to love, will be to them the temple of Gnidus. To succeed the more effectually in this charming project, there will be wanting a little previous contrivance, which may be easily settled between us, and the very consideration of which will form a part of those pleasures they are intended to produce. Adieu, my dear life! I leave off abruptly for fear of being surprized. The heart of thy devoted Eloisa anticipates, alas, too eagerly the pleasures of the dairy-house.
P. S. Upon second thoughts, I begin to be of opinion that we may meet every day without any great danger; at my cousin’s every other day, and in the field on every intermediate one.
Letter XXXVII. From Eloisa.
They left me this very morning; my tender father and still fonder mother, took leave of me but just now, overwhelming their beloved daughter (too unworthy, alas, of all their affection) with repeated caresses. For my own part, indeed, I did not feel much reluctance at this separation! I embraced them with an outward appearance of concern, while my ungrateful and unnatural heart was leaping within me for joy. Where, alas, is now that happy time, when I led an innocent life under their continual observation, when my only joy was their approbation, my only concern their absence or neglect? Behold now the melancholy reverse! Guilty and fearful as I now am, the very thought of them gives me pain, and the recollection of myself makes me blush with confusion. All my virtuous ideas now vanish away like a dream, and leave in their stead empty disquietudes and barren remorse, which, bitter as they are, are nevertheless insufficient to lead me to repentance. These cruel reflections have brought on all that sorrow, which the taking leave of my parents was unable to effect. And yet immediately on their departure, I felt an agony of grief. While Bab was setting the things to rights, I went into my mother’s room as it were mechanically, without knowing what I did, and seeing some of her cloaths lying scattered about, I took them up one by one, kissed them and bathed them with my tears. This vent to my anxiety afforded me present ease, and it was some comfort to me to reflect, that I was still awake to nature’s soft emotions, and that her gentle fires were not entirely extinguished in my soul. In vain, cruel tyrant! dost thou seek to subject this weak and tender heart, to thy absolute dominion: notwithstanding all thy fond illusions, it still retains the sentiments of duty, still cherishes and reveres parental rights, much more sacred than thy own.
Forgive me, my dear friend, these involuntary emotions, nor imagine that I carry these reflections farther than I ought. Love’s soft moments are not to be expected amidst the tortures of anxiety. I cannot conceal my sufferings from you, and yet I would not overwhelm you with them; nay, you must know them, though not to share, yet to soften them. But into whose bosom dare I pour them, if not into, thine? Are not you my faithful friend, my prudent counselor, my tender comfort? Have not you been fostering in my soul the love of virtue, when, alas! that virtue itself was no longer within me? How often should I have sunk under the pressure of my afflictions had not thy pitying hand relieved me from my sorrows, and wiped away my tears? It is your tender care alone supports me. I dare not abuse myself while you continue to esteem me, and I flatter myself, that if I were indeed contemptible, none of you would or could so honour me with your regard. I am flying to the arms of my dear cousin, or rather to the heart of a tender sister, there to repose the load of grief with which I am oppressed. Come thither this evening, and contribute to restore to me that peace and serenity, of which I have long been deprived.
Letter XXXVIII. To Eloisa.
No, Eloisa, it is impossible! I can never bear to see you every day, if I am always to be charmed in the manner I was last night. My affection must ever bear proportion to the discovery of your beauties, and you are an inexhaustible source of endless wonder and delight, beyond my utmost hopes, beyond my most sanguine expectations! What a delicious evening to me was the last! What amazing raptures did I feel! O enchanting sorrow! How infinitely doth the pleasing languor of a heart softened by concern, surpass the boisterous pleasures, the foolish gaiety, and the extravagant joy with which a boundless passion inspires the ungovernable lover! O peaceful bliss! never, never shall thy pleasing idea be torn from my memory! Heavens, what an enchanting sight! it was extasy itself, to see two such perfect beauties embrace each other so affectionately; your face reclined upon her breast, mixing your tender tears together, and bedewing that charming bosom, just as heaven refreshes a bed of new blown flowers. I grew jealous of such a friendship, and thought there was some thing more interesting in it than even in love itself. I was grieved at the impossibility of consoling you, without disturbing you at the same time by the violence of my emotion. No, nothing, nothing upon earth is capable of exciting so pleasing a sensation as your mutual caresses. Even the sight of two lovers would have been less delightful.
Oh how could I have admired, nay, adored your dear cousin, if the divine Eloisa herself had not taken up all my thoughts! You throw, my dearest angel, an irresistible charm on every thing that surrounds you. Your gown, your gloves, fan, work, nay every thing that was the object of my outward senses, enchanted my very soul; and you yourself compleatd the enchantment. Forbear, forbear, my dear, dear Eloisa, nor deprive me of all sensation, by making my enjoyment too exquisite. My transports approach so nearly to phrenzy, that I begin to be apprehensive I shall lose my reason. Let me, at least, be sensible of my felicity; let me at least have a rational idea of those raptures, which are more sublime, and more penetrating, than my glowing imagination could paint. How can you think yourself disgraced? This very thought is a sure proof that your senses likewise are affected.
Oh, you are too perfect for frail mortality! I should believe you to be of a more exalted purer species, if the violence of my passion did not clearly evince, that we are of a kindred frame. No human being conceives your excellence; you are unknown even to yourself; my heart alone knows and can estimate its Eloisa. Were you only an idol of worship, could you have been enraptured with the dull homage of admiring mortals? Were you only an angel, how much you would lose of your real value!
Tell me, if you can, how such a passion as mine is capable of increasing? I am ignorant of the means, yet am but too sensible of the fact. You are indeed ever present with me, yet there are some days in which thy beautiful image is peculiarly before me, and haunts me as it were with such amazing assiduity that neither time nor place can deprive me of the delightful object. I even believe you left it with me in the dairy-house, at the conclusion of your last letter. Since you mentioned that rural spot, I have been continually rambling in the fields, and am always insensibly led towards the same place. Every time I behold it, it appears still more enchanting.
_Non vide il mondo si leggiadri rami, Ne mosse’l vento mai si verdi frondi._ I find the country more delightful, the verdure fresher and livelier,