the air more temperate and serene than ever I did before; even the feathered songsters of the sky seem to tune their tender throats with more harmony and pleasure; the murmuring rills invite to loveinspiring dalliance, while the blossoms of the vine regale me from afar with the choicest perfumes. Some secret charm enlivens every object, or raises my sensations to a more exquisite degree. I am tempted to imagine that even the earth adorns herself to make a nuptial bed for your happy lover, worthy of the passion which he feels, and the goddess he adores. O, my Eloisa, my dearer better half!
let us immediately add to these beauties of the spring, the presence of two faithful lovers. Let us carry the true sentiments of pleasures to places which comparatively afford but an empty idea of it. Let us animate all nature which is absolutely dead without the genial warmth of love. Am I yet to stay three days, three whole days? Oh what an age to a fond expecting lover! Intoxicated with my passion, I wait that happy moment with the most melancholy impatience. Oh how happy should we be, if heaven would annihilate those tedious intervals which retard the blissful moment!
Letter XXXIX. From Eloisa.
There is not a single emotion of your heart, which I do not share with the tenderest concern. But talk no more of pleasures, whilst others, who have deserved much better than either of us, are suffering under the pressure of the severest afflictions. Read the inclosed, and then be composed if you can. I indeed, who am well acquainted with the good girl who wrote it, was not able to proceed without shedding tears of sorrow and compassion. The recollection it gave me of my blameable negligence, touched my very soul, and, to my bitter confusion, I perceive but too plainly, that a forgetfulness of the principal points of my duty, has extended itself to all those of inferior consideration. I had promised this poor child to take care of her; I recommended her to my mother, and kept her in some degree under my continual inspection: but, alas! when I became unable to protect myself, I abandoned her too, and exposed her to worse misfortunes than even I myself have fallen into. I shudder to think that had I not been roused from my carelessness, in two days time my ward would have been ruined; her own indigence, and the snares of others, would have ruined, for ever ruined, a modest and discreet girl, who may hereafter possibly prove an excellent parent. O, my dear friend! can there be such vile creatures upon earth, who would extort from the depth of misery what the heart alone should give? That any one can submit to receive the tender embraces of love from the arms of famine itself!
Can you be unmoved at my Fanny’s filial piety, at the integrity of her sentiments, and the simplicity of her innocence? But are you not affected with the uncommon tenderness of the lover, who will sell even himself to assist his poor mistress? Would not you think yourself too happy to be the instrument of uniting a couple so well formed for each other? If we, alas, (whose situation so much resembles theirs) do not compassionate lovers who are united by nature, but divided by misfortunes, where else can they seek relief with a probability of success? For my own part, I have determined to make some amends for my neglect, by contributing my utmost endeavours to unite these two young people. Heaven will, I hope, assist the generous undertaking, and my success may prove a good omen to us. I desire, nay, conjure you, by all that is good and dear to you, to set out for Neufchatel the very moment you receive this, or to-morrow morning at farthest. You will then go to Mr. Merveilleux, and try to obtain the young man’s release; spare neither money nor intreaties. Take Fanny’s letter along with you. No breast, that is not absolutely void of all sentiments of humanity, can read it without emotion. In short, whatever money it may cost, whatever pleasure of her own it may defer, be sure not to return without an entire free discharge for Claudius Anet; if you do, you may be assured, I shall never enjoy a single moment’s satisfaction during the remainder of my life.
I am aware that your heart will be raising many objections to the proposal I have made; but can you think, that I have not foreseen all those objections? Yet, notwithstanding them all, I repeat my request; for virtue must either be an empty name, or it requires of us some mortifying self-denials. Our appointment, my friend, my dear, dear friend, though lost for the present, may be made again and again. A few hours of the most agreeable intercourse vanish like a flash of lightening; but when the happiness of an honest couple is in your power, think, only think, what you are preparing for hereafter, if you neglect the opportunity; on the use then of the present time, depends an eternity of contentment or remorse. Forgive such frequent repetitions, they are the overflowings of my zeal. I have said, more than was necessary to any honest man, and an hundred times too much to my dear friend. I well know how you abominate that cruel turn of mind which hardens us to the calamities of others. You yourself have told me a thousand times, that he is a wretch indeed who scruples giving up one day of pleasure to the duties of humanity.
Letter XL. From Fanny Regnard to Eloisa.
Honoured Madam, Forgive this interruption, from a poor girl in despair, who being ignorant what to do, has taken the liberty of addressing herself to your benevolence; for you, Madam, are never weary of comforting the afflicted, and I am so unfortunate, alas, that I have tired all but God Almighty, and you, with my complaints. I am very sorry I was obliged to leave the mistress you had been so kind to put me apprentice to, but on my mother’s death, (which happened this winter) I was obliged to return home to my poor father, who is confined to his bed by the palsy.
I have never forgotten the advice you gave my mother, to try to settle me with some honest man, who might be of use to the family. Claud Anet (formerly in your father’s service) is a very sober discreet person, master of a good trade, and has taken a liking to me. Having been already so much indebted to your bounty, I did not dare to apply to you for any farther assistance, so that he has been our only support during the whole winter. He was to have married me this spring, and indeed had set his heart on it; but I have been so teased for three years rent due last Easter, that not knowing where to get so much money, the young man listed at once in M. Marveilleux’s company, and brought me all the money he had received for enlisting. M.
Merveilleux stays at Neufchatel about a week longer, and Claud Anet is to set out in three or four days with the rest of the recruits. So that we have neither time nor money to marry, and he is going to leave me without any help. If, through your interest or the Baron’s, five or six weeks longer might be given us, we would endeavour in that time either to get married, or repay the young man his money. But I am sure he can never be prevailed on to take the money again.
I received this morning some great offers from a very rich gentleman, but thank God, I have refused them. He told me, he would come again to-morrow to know my mind; but I desired him not to give himself so much trouble, and that he knew it already. By God’s assistance, he shall have the same answer to-morrow. I might indeed apply to the parish; but one is so despised after that, that my misfortunes are better than such a relief, and Claud Anet has too much pride to think of me after this. Forgive the liberty I have taken; you are the only person I could think of, and I feel so distressed, that I can write no more about it.
I am, Your humble servant to command.
Fanny Regnard.
Letter XLI. The Answer.
I have been wanting in point of memory, and you Fanny have been deficient in your confidence in me; in short, we have both of us been to blame, but I am the most inexcusable. However, I shall now endeavour to repair the injury which my neglect may have occasioned.
Bab, the bearer of this, has orders to satisfy your more immediate wants, and will be with you again to-morrow, for fear the gentleman should return. My cousin and I propose calling on you in the evening; for I know you cannot leave your poor father alone, and indeed I shall be glad of this opportunity, to inspect your economy a little.
You need not be uneasy on Claud Anet’s account; my father is from home, but we shall do all we can towards his immediate release. Be assured, that I will neither forget you, nor your generous lover.
Adieu, my dear, and may God ever bless you. I think you much in the right for not having recourse to public charity. Such steps as those, are never to be taken, while the hearts and purses of benevolent individuals are open, and accessible.
Letter XLII. To Eloisa.
I have received your letter, and shall set out this instant. This is all the answer I shall make. O Eloisa! how could you cruelly suppose me possessed of such a selfish unfeeling heart? But you command, and shall be obeyed. I would rather die a thousand times, than forfeit your esteem.
Letter XLIII. To Eloisa.
I arrived at Neufchatel yesterday morning, and on enquiry was told, that M. Merveilleux was just gone into the country. I followed him immediately, but as he was out a hunting all day, I was obliged to wait till the evening, before I could speak with him. I told him the cause of my journey, and desired he would set a price on Claud Anet’s discharge; to which he raised a number of objections. I then concluded, that the most effectual method of answering them, would be to increase my offers, which I did in proportion as his difficulties multiplied. But finding, after some time, that I was not likely to succeed, I took my leave, having previously desired the liberty to wait on him the next morning; determined in my own mind not to stir out of the house a second time, till I had obtained my request, by dint of larger offers, frequent importunity, or in short by whatever means I could think most effectual. I arose early next morning to put this resolution in practice, and was just going to mount my horse, when I received a note from M. Merveilleux with the young man’s discharge, in due form and order. The contents of the note were these.
“Inclosed, Sir, is the discharge, you request. I denied it to your pecuniary offers, but have granted it in consideration of your charitable design, and desire you would not think that I am to be bribed into a good action.”
You will easily conceive by your own satisfaction, what joy I must have felt. But why is it not as compleat as it ought to be? I cannot possibly avoid going to thank, and indeed to reimburse M. Merveilleux, and if this visit, necessary as it is, should retard my return a whole day, as I am apprehensive it will, is he not generous at my expense?
But no matter: I have done my duty to Eloisa, and am satisfied. Oh what a happiness it is thus to reconcile benevolence to love! to unite in the same action the charms of conscious virtue, with the soft sensations of the tendered affection. I own freely, Eloisa, that I began my journey, full of sorrow and impatience; I even dared to reproach you with feeling too much the calamities of others, while you remained insensible to my sufferings, as if I alone of all created beings had been unworthy your compassion. I thought it quite barbarous in you, after having disappointed me of my sweetest hopes, thus unnecessarily and wantonly as it were to deprive me of a happiness which you had voluntarily promised. All these secret repinings are now happily changed into a fund of contentment, and solid satisfaction, to which I have hitherto lived a stranger. I have already enjoyed the recompense you bade me expect; you spake from experience. Oh! what an amazing kind of empire is yours, which can convert even disappointment into pleasure, and cause the same satisfaction in obeying you, as could result from the greatest self-gratification! Oh my dearest, kindest Eloisa, you are indeed an angel; if any thing could be wanting to confirm the truth of this, your unbounded empire over my soul would be a sufficient confirmation. Doubtless it partakes much more of the divine nature, than of the human; and who can resist the power of heaven? And to what purpose should I cease to love you, since you must ever remain the object of my adoration?
P. S. According to my calculation we shall have five or six days to ourselves before your mother returns. Will it be impossible for you during this interval to undertake a pilgrimage to the dairy-house?
Letter XLIV. From Eloisa.
Repine not, my dear friend, at this unexpected return. It is really more advantageous to us than you can possibly imagine, and indeed, supposing our contrivances could have effected what our regard to appearance has induced us to give up, we should have succeeded no better. Judge what would have been the consequence, had we followed our inclinations. I should have gone into the country but the very evening before my mother’s return, should have been sent for them thence, before I could have possibly given you any notice, and must consequently have left you in the most dreadful anxiety; we should have parted just on the eve of our imaginary bliss, and the disappointment would have been cruelly aggravated by the near approach of our felicity. Besides, notwithstanding the utmost precautions we could have taken, it would have been known that we were both in the country; perhaps too, they might have heard that we were together, it would have been suspected at least, and that were enough. An imprudent avidity of the present moment, would have deprived us of every future resource, and the remorse for having neglected such an act of benevolence, would have imbittered the remainder of our lives.
Compare then, I beseech you, our present situation with that I have been describing. First, your absence has been productive of several good effects. My Argus will not fail to tell my mother, that you have been but seldom at my cousin’s. She is acquainted with the motives of your journey; this may probably prove a means of raising you in her esteem, and how think you, can they conceive it possible that two young people who have an affection for each other should agree to separate, at the very time they are left most at liberty? What an artifice have we employed to destroy suspicions which are but too well founded! The only stratagem in my opinion consistent with honour, is the carrying our discretion to such an incredible height, that, what is in reality the utmost effort of self-denial, may be mistaken for a token of indifference. How delightful, my dear friend, must a passion thus concealed be to those who enjoy it! Add to this the pleasing consciousness of having united two despairing lovers, and contributed to the happiness of so deserving a couple. You have seen my Fanny; tell me, is not she a charming girl? Does not she really deserve every thing you have done for her? Is not she too beautiful and too unfortunate to remain long unmarried, without some disaster? And do you think that Claud Anet, whose natural good disposition has miraculously preserved him during three years service, could have resolution to continue three years more without becoming as perfidious, and as wretched as all those of that profession? Instead of that, they love, and will be united, they are poor, and will be relieved; they are honest, and will be enabled to continue so; for my father has promised them a competent provision. What a number of advantages then has your kindness procured to them, and to ourselves; not to mention the additional obligations you have conferred on me?
Such, my friend, are the certain effects of sacrifices to virtue; which, though they are difficult to perform, are always grateful in remembrance. No one ever repented of having performed a good action.
I suppose, you will say, with the _constant_, that all this is mere _preaching_, and indeed it is but too true that I no more practise what I preach than those who are preachers by profession. However, if my discourses are not so elegant, I have the satisfaction to find that mine are not so entirely thrown away as theirs. I do not deny it, my dear friend, that I would willingly add as many virtues to your character, as a fatal indulgence to love has taken away from mine; and Eloisa herself having forfeited my regard, I would gladly esteem her in you. Perfect affection is all that is required on your part, and the consequence will flow easy and natural. With what pleasure ought you to reflect, that you are continually increasing those obligations, which love itself engages to pay!
My cousin has been made privy to the conversation you had with her father, about M. Orbe, and seems to think herself as much indebted to you, as if we had never been obliged to her in our lives. Gracious heaven, how every particular incident contributes to my happiness! How dearly am I beloved, and how I am charmed with their affection!
Father, mother, friend and lover, all conspire in their tender concern for my happiness, and notwithstanding my eager endeavours to requite them, I am always either prevented or outdone. It should seem, as if all the tenderest feelings in nature verged towards my heart, whilst I, alas, have but one sensation to enjoy them.
I forgot to mention a visit you are to receive to-morrow morning. ’Tis from L. B---- lately come from Geneva, where he has resided about eight months; he told me he had seen you at Sion, in his return from Italy. He found you very melancholy, but speaks of you in general in the manner you yourself would wish, and in which I have long thought. He commended you so a propos to my father yesterday, that he has prejudiced me already very much in his favour: and indeed his conversation is sensible, lively and spirited. In reciting heroic actions, he raises his voice, and his eyes sparkle as men usually do who are capable of performing the deeds they relate. He speaks also emphatically in matters of taste, especially of the Italian music which he extols to the very skies. He often reminded me of my poor brother.
But his lordship seems not to have sacrificed much to the graces; his discourse in general is rather nervous than elegant, and even his understanding seems to want a little polishing.
Letter XLV. To Eloisa.
I was reading your last letter, the second time, only, when Lord B---- came in. But as I have so many other things to say, how can I think of his lordship? When two people are entirely delighted and satisfied with each other, what need is there of a third person? However since you seem to desire it, I will tell you what I know of him. Having passed the Semplon, he came to Sion, to wait for a chaise which was to come from Geneva to Brigue; and as want of employment often makes men seek society, we soon became acquainted, and as intimate, as the reserve of an Englishman, and my natural love of retirement, would permit. Yet we soon perceived, that we were adapted to each other; there is a certain union of souls which is easily discernable. At the end of eight days, we were full as familiar, as we ever were afterwards, and as two Frenchmen would have been in the same number of hours. He entertained me with an account of his travels; and knowing he was an Englishman, I immediately concluded he would have talked of nothing but pictures or buildings. But I was soon pleased to find, that his attention to the politer arts had not made him neglect the study of men and manners: yet whatever he said on those subjects of refinement was judicious, and in taste, but with modesty and diffidence. As far as I could perceive, his opinions seemed rather founded on reflection, than science, and that he judged from effects, rather than rules, which confirmed me in my idea of his excellent understanding. He spake to me of the Italian music with as much enthusiasm as he did to you, and indeed gave me a specimen of it; his valet plays extremely well on the violin, and he himself tolerably on the violencello. He picked out what he called some very affecting pieces, but whether it was by being unused to it, or that music, which is so soothing in melancholy, loses all its soft charms when our grief is extreme, I must own I was not much delighted; the melody was agreeable, but wild, and without the least expression.
Lord B---- was very anxious to know my situation. I accordingly told him, as much as was necessary for him to know. He made an offer of taking me with him into England, and proposed several advantages, which were no inducements to me in a country where Eloisa was not. He had formerly told me that he intended to pass the winter at Geneva, the summer at Lausanne and that he would come to Vevey before he returned into Italy.
Lord B---- is of a lively hasty temper, but virtuous and steady. He piques himself on being a philosopher, and upon those principles which we have frequently discussed. But I really believe his own disposition leads him naturally to that which he imagines the effect of method and study, and that the varnish of stoicism, which he glosses over all his actions, only covers the inclination of his heart.
I do not know what want of polish you have found in his manner; it is really not very engaging, and yet I cannot say there is any thing disgusting in it. Though his address is not so easy and open as his disposition, and he seems to despise the trifling punctilios of ceremony, yet his behaviour in the main is very agreeable: though he has not that reserved and cautious politeness, which confines itself alone to mere outward form, and which our young officers learn in France, yet he is less solicitous about distinguishing men and their respective situations at first sight, than he is assiduous in paying a proper degree of respect to every one in general. Shall I tell you the plain truth? Want of elegance is a failing which women never overlook, and I fear that in this instance, Eloisa has been a woman for once in her life.
Since I am now upon a system of plain dealing, give me leave to assure you, my pretty preacher, that it is to no purpose that you endeavour to invalidate my pretensions, and that sermons are but poor food for a famished lover. Think, think of all the compensations you have promised, and which indeed are my due; but though every thing you have said is exceeding just and true, one visit to the dairy-house would have been a thousand times more agreeable.
Letter XLVI. From Eloisa.
What, my friend, still the dairy-house? Surely this dairy house sits heavy on your heart. Well, cost what it will, I find you must be humoured. But is it possible you can be so attached to a place you never saw, that no other will satisfy you? Do you think that Love, who raised Armida’s palace in the midst of a desert, cannot give us a dairy-house in the town? Fanny is going to be married, and my father, who has no objection to a little parade and mirth, is resolved it shall be a public wedding. You may be sure there will be no want of noise and tumult, which may not prove unfavourable to a private conversation. You understand me. Do not you think it will be charming to find the pleasures we have denied ourselves in the effect of our benevolence?
Your zeal to apologize for Lord B---- was unnecessary, as I was never inclined to think ill of him. Indeed how should I judge of a man, with whom I spent only one afternoon? or how can you have been sufficiently acquainted with him in the space of a few days? I spoke only from conjecture; nor do I suppose that you can argue on any better foundation: his proposals to you are of that vague kind of which strangers are frequently lavish, from their being easily eluded, and because they give them an air of consequence. But your character of his Lordship is another proof of your natural vivacity, and of that ease with which you are prejudiced for or against people at first sight. Nevertheless, we will think of his proposals more at leisure.
If love should favour my project, perhaps something better may offer.
O, my dear friend, patience is exceeding bitter; but its fruits are most delicious!
To return to our Englishman, I told you he appeared to have a truly great and intrepid soul; but that he was rather sensible than agreeable. You seem almost of the same opinion, and then, with that air of masculine superiority, always visible in our humble admirers, you reproach me with being a woman once in my life; as if a woman ought ever to belie her sex.
Have you forgot our dispute, when we were reading your _Republic of Plato_, about the moral distinction between the sexes? I have still the same difficulty to suppose there can be but one common model of perfection for two beings so essentially different. Attack and defence, the impudence of the men, and female modesty, are by no means effects of the same cause as the philosophers have imagined; but natural institutions which may be easily accounted for, and from which may be deduced every other moral distinction. Besides, the designs of nature being different in each, their inclinations, their perceptions ought necessarily to be directed according to their different views: to till the ground, and to nourish children, require very opposite tastes and constitutions. A higher stature, stronger voice and features, seem indeed to be no indispensable marks of distinction; but this external difference evidently indicates the intention of the Creator in the modification of the mind. The soul of a perfect woman and a perfect man ought to be no more alike than their faces. All our vain imitations of your sex are absurd; they expose us to the ridicule of sensible men, and discourage the tender passions we were made to inspire. In short, unless we are near six foot high, have a bass voice, and a beard upon our chins, we have no business to pretend to be men.
What novices are you lovers in the art of reproaching! You accuse me of a fault which I have not committed, or of which, however, you are as frequently guilty as myself; and you attribute it to a defeat of which I am proud. But in return for your plain dealing, suffer me to give you my plain and sincere opinion of your sincerity. Why then, it appears to be a refinement of flattery, calculated, under the disguise of an apparent freedom of expression, to justify to yourself the enthusiastic praises which, upon every occasion, you are so liberally pleased to bestow on me. You are so blinded by my imaginary perfections, that you can discover no real ones to excuse your prepossessions in my favour.
Believe me, my friend, you are not qualified to tell me my faults. Do you think the eyes of love, piercing as they are, can discover imperfect? No, ’tis a power which belongs only to honest friendship, and in that your pupil Clara is much your superior. Yes, my dear friend, you shall praise me, admire me, and think me charming and beautiful and spotless. Thy praises please without deceiving me I know it to be the language of error and not of deceit; that you deceive yourself, but have no design to deceive me. O how delightful are the illusions of love! and surely all its flattery is truth; for the heart speaks, though the judgment is silent. The lover who praises in us that which we do not possess, represents our qualities truly as they appear to him; he speaks a falsity without being guilty of a lie; he is a flatterer without meanness, and one may esteem without believing him.
I have heard, not without some little palpitation, a proposal to invite two philosophers to-morrow to supper. One is my Lord B----, and the other a certain sage whose gravity hath sometimes been a little discomposed at the feet of a young disciple. Do you know the man? If you do, pray desire that he will to-morrow preserve the philosophic decorum a little better than usual. I shall take care to order the young damsel to cast her eyes downward, and to appear in his as little engaging as possible.
Letter XLVII. To Eloisa.
Malicious girl! Is this the circumspection you promised? Is it thus you spare my heart, and draw a veil over your charms? How often did you break your engagement! First, as to your dress; for you were in an undress, though you well know that you are never more bewitching.
Secondly, that modest air and sweetness in your manner so calculated for the gradual display of all your graces. Your conversation more refined, more studied, more witty than usual, which made every one so uncommonly attentive, that they seemed impatiently to anticipate every sentence you spoke. That delightful air you sung below your usual pitch, which rendered your voice more enchantingly soft, and which made your song, though French, please even Lord B----. Your down-cast eyes, and your timid glances which pierced me to the soul. In a word, that inexpressible enchantment which seemed spread over your whole person to turn the brains of the company, even without the least apparent design. For my part, I know not how to manage; but if this is the method you take to be _as little engaging as possible_, I assure you, however, it is being infinitely too much so for people to retain their senses in your company.
I doubt much whether the poor English philosopher has not perceived a little of the same influence. After we had conducted your cousin home, seeing us all in high spirits, he proposed that we should retire to his lodgings and have a little music, and a bowl of punch. While his servants were assembling, he never ceased talking of you; but with so much warmth, that, I confess, I should not hear his praise from your lips with as much pleasure as you did from mine. Upon the whole, I am not fond of hearing any body speak of you, except your cousin. Every word seems to deprive me of a part of my secret, or my pleasure, and whatever they say appears so suspicious, or is so infinitely short of what I feel, that I would hear no discourse upon the subject but my own.
It is not that, like you, I am at all inclined to jealousy: no, I am better acquainted with the soul of my Eloisa; and I have certain sureties that exclude even the possibility of your inconstancy. After your protestations, I have nothing more to say concerning your other pretenders; but this Lord, Eloisa----equality of rank----your father’s prepossession----In short, you know my life is depending. For heaven’s sake, deign to give me a line or two upon this subject: one single word from Eloisa, and I shall be satisfied for ever.
I passed the night in attending to, and playing, Italian music; for there were some duets, and I was forced to take a part. I dare not yet tell you what effect it had on me; but I fear, I fear, the impression of last night’s supper influenced the harmony, and that I mistook the effect of your enchantment for the power of music. Why should not the same cause which made it disagreeable at Sion, gave it a contrary effect in a contrary situation? Are not you the source of every affection of my soul, and am I proof against the power of your magic?
If it had really been the music which produced the enchantment, every one present must have been affected in the same manner; but whilst I was all rapture and extasy, Mr. Orbe sat snoring in an armed chair, and when I awoke him with my exclamations, all the praise he bestowed was to ask, whether your cousin understood Italian.
All this will be better explained to-morrow; for we are to have another concert this evening. His Lordship is determined to have it compleat, and has sent to Lausanne for a second violin, who, he says, is a tolerable hand. On my part, I shall carry some French _scenes_ and cantatas.
When I first returned to my room I sunk into my chair, quite exhausted and overcome; for want of practice I am but a poor rake: but I no sooner took my pen to write to you, than I found myself gradually recover. Yet I must endeavour to sleep a few hours. Come with me; my sweet friend, and do not leave me whilst I slumber but whether thy image brings me pain or pleasure, whether it reminds me, or not, of Fanny’s wedding, it cannot deprive me of that delightful moment, when I shall awake and recollect my felicity.
Letter XLVIII. To Eloisa.
Ah! my Eloisa, how have I been entertained! What melting sounds! what music! delightful source of sensibility and pleasure! Lose not a moment; collect your operas, your cantatas, in a word all your French music; then make a very hot fire, and cast the wretched, stuff into the flames: be sure you stir it well, that, cold as it is, it may once at least send forth a little warmth. Make this sacrifice to the God of taste, to expiate our mutual crime in having profaned your voice with such doleful psalmody, and so long mistaking a noise that stunned our ears for the pathetic language of the heart. How entirely your worthy brother was in the right; and in what unaccountable ignorance have I lived, concerning the productions of that charming art! It gave me but little pleasure, and therefore I thought it naturally impotent.
music, I said, is a vain sound, that only flatters the ear, and makes little or no impression upon the mind. The effect of harmonic sounds is entirely mechanical or physical; and what have these to do with sentiment? Why should I expect to be moved with musical chords more than with a proper agreement of colours? But I never perceived, in the accents of melody applied to those of language, the secret but powerful unison between music and the passions. I had no idea that the same sensations which modulate the voice of an orator, gives the singer a still greater power over our hearts, and that the energic expression of his own feelings is the sympathetic cause of all our emotion.
This lesson I was taught by his lordship’s Italian singer, who, for a musician, talks pretty sensibly of his own art. Harmony, says he, is nothing more than a remote accessory in imitative music; for, properly speaking, there is not in harmony the least principle of imitation. Indeed, it assures the intonations, confirms their propriety, and renders the modulation more distinct; it adds force to the expression and grace to the air. But from melody alone proceeds that invincible power of pathetic accents over the soul. Let there be performed the most judicious succession of chords, without the addition of melody, and you would be tired in less than a quarter of an hour; whilst on the contrary, a single voice, without the assistance of harmony, will continue to please a considerable time. An air, be it ever so simple, if there be any thing of the true pathos in the composition, becomes immediately interesting; but, on the contrary, melody without expression will have no effect, and harmony alone can never touch the heart.
In this, continued he, consists the error of the French with regard to the power of music. As they can have no peculiar melody in a language void of musical accent, nor in their uniform and unnatural poetry, they have no idea of any other effect than that of harmony and a loud