Be assured, lovely Clara, I interest myself no less than you in the fate of this unfortunate couple; not out of a sentiment of compassion, which might perhaps be only a weakness, but out of a due regard to justice and the fitness of things, which require that every one should be disposed of in a manner the most advantageous to himself and to society. Their amiable minds were doubtless formed by the hands of nature for each other. In a peaceful and happy union, at liberty to exert their talents and display their virtues, they might have enlightened the world with the splendor of their examples. Why should an absurd prejudice then cross the eternal directions of nature, and subvert the harmony of thinking Beings? Why should the vanity of a cruel father thus _hide their light under a bushel_, and wound those tender and benevolent hearts which were formed to sooth the pangs of others? Are not the ties of marriage the most free, as well as the most sacred of all engagements? Yes, every law to lay a constraint on them is unjust. Every father, who presumes to form, or break them, is a tyrant. This chaste and holy tie of nature is neither subjected to sovereign power nor paternal authority but to the authority only of that common parent who hath the power over our hearts, and, by commanding their union, can at the same time make them love each other.
To what end are natural conveniences sacrificed to those of opinion? A disagreement in rank and fortune loses itself in marriage, nor doth any equality therein tend to make the marriage state happy; but a disagreement in person and disposition ever remains, and is that which makes it necessarily miserable. [13] A child, that has no rule of conduct but her fond passion, will frequently make a bad choice; but the father, who has no other rule for his than the opinion of the world, will make a worse. A daughter may want knowledge and experience to form a proper judgment of the discretion and conduct of men; a good father ought doubtless in that care to advise her. He has a right, it is even his duty, to say “My child, this is a man of probity, or that man is a knave, this is a man of sense, or that is a fool.” Thus far ought the father to judge, the rest belongs of right to the daughter. The tyrants, who exclaim that such maxims tend to disturb the good order of society, are those who, themselves, disturb it most.
Let men rank according to their merit; and let those hearts be united that are objects of each other’s choice. This is what the good order of society requires; those who would confine it to birth or riches are the real disturbers of that order; and ought to be rendered odious to the public, or punished, as enemies to society.
Justice requires that such abuses should be redressed: it is the duty of every man to set himself in opposition to violence, and to strengthen the bonds of society. You may be assured therefore, that, if it be possible for me to effect the union of these two lovers, in spite of an obstinate father, I shall put in execution the intention of heaven, without troubling myself about the approbation of men.
You, amiable Madam, are happy in having a father, who doth not presume to judge better than yourself of the means of your own happiness. It is not, however, from his greater sagacity, perhaps, nor from his superior tenderness, that he leaves you thus mistress of your own choice: but what signifies the cause if the effect be the same? Or whether, in the liberty he allows you his indolence supplies the place of his reason? Far from abusing that liberty, the choice you have made, at twenty years of age, must meet with the approbation of the most discreet parent. Your heart, taken up by a friendship without example, had little room for love. You have yet substituted in its place every thing that can supply the want of passion; and, though less a lover than a friend, if you should not happen to prove the fondest wife, you will be certainly the most virtuous; that union, which prudence dictated, will increase with age and end but with life. The impulse of the heart is more blind, but it is more irresistible; and the way to ruin is to lay one’s self under the cruel necessity of opposing it. Happy are those whom love unites as prudence dictates, who have no obstacles to surmount, nor difficulties to encounter! Such would be our friends, were it not for the unreasonable prejudice of an obstinate father. And such, notwithstanding, may they be yet, if one of them be well advised. By yours and Eloisa’s example, we may be equally convinced that it belongs only to the parties themselves to judge how far they will be reciprocally agreeable. If love be not predominant, prudence only directs the choice, as in your case; if passion prevail, nature has already determined it, as in Eloisa’s. So sacred also is the law of nature, that no human being is permitted to transgress it, or can transgress it with impunity; nor can any consideration of rank or fortune abrogate it, without involving mankind in guilt and misfortune.
Though the winter be pretty far advanced and I am obliged to go to Rome, I shall not leave our friend till I have brought him to such a consistency of temper that I may safely trust him with himself. I shall be tender of him, as well on his own account, as because you have entrusted him to my care. If I cannot make him happy, I will endeavour at least to make him prudent; and to prevail on him to bear the evils of humanity like a man. I purpose to spend a fortnight with him here; in which time I hope to hear from you and Eloisa; and that you will both assist me in binding up the wounds of a broken heart, as yet unaffected by the voice of reason, unless it speak in the language of the passions.
Inclosed is a letter for your friend. I beg you will not trust it to a messenger, but give it her with your own hands.
Fragments, Annexed to the Preceding Letter.
Why was I not permitted to see you before my departure? You were afraid our parting would be fatal! Tender Eloisa! Be comforted----I am well----I am at ease----I live----I think of you----I think of the time when I was dear to you----My heart is a little oppressed----The chaise has made me giddy----My spirits are quite sunk----I cannot write much to-day; tomorrow, perhaps, I shall be able to----or I shall have no more occasion----
Whither do these horses hurry me so fast? Where is this man, who calls himself my friend, going to carry me? Is it from Eloisa? Is it by her order that I am dispatched so precipitately away? Mistaken Eloisa!---- How rapidly does the chaise move! Whence come I? Where am I going? Why all this expedition? Are ye afraid, ye persecutors, that I should not fly fast enough to ruin? O friendship! O love! is this your contrivance? Are these your favours?----
Have you consulted your heart in driving me from you so suddenly? Are you capable, tell me Eloisa, are you capable of renouncing me for ever? No, that tender heart still loves me, I know it does----In spite of fortune, in spite of itself, it will love me for ever.----I see it, you have permitted yourself to be persuaded [14]----What lasting repentance are you preparing for yourself!----Alas! it will be too late----how! forget me! I did not know your heart!----Oh consider yourself, consider me, consider----hear me: it is yet time enough---- ’twas cruel to banish me: I fly from you swifter than the wind.---- Say but the word, but one word, and I return quicker than lightening. Say but one word, and we will be united for ever. We ought to be---- We will be----Alas! I complain to the winds----I am going again----I am going to live and die far from Eloisa----Live I did I say? It is impossible.----
Letter LXVIII. Lord B---- to Eloisa.
Your cousin will give you information concerning your friend. I imagine, also, he has written to you himself, by the post. First satisfy your impatience on that head, that you may afterwards peruse this letter with composure; for, I give you previous notice, the subject of it demands your attention. I know mankind; I have lived a long time in a few years, and have acquired experience at my own cost; the progress of the passions having been my road to philosophy. But of all the extraordinary things that have come within the compass of my observation, I never saw any thing equal to you and your lover. It is not that either the one or the other has any peculiar characteristic, whereby you might at first be known and distinguished, and through the want of which yours might well enough be mistaken, by a superficial observer, for minds of a common and ordinary cast. You are eminently distinguished, however, by this very difficulty of distinguishing you, and in that the features of a common model, some one of which is wanting in every individual, are all equally perfect in you. Thus every printed copy that comes from the press has its peculiar defects, which distinguish it from the rest of its kind; and if there should happen to come one quite perfect, however beautiful it might appear at first sight, it must be accurately examined to know its perfection. The first time I saw your lover, I was struck as with something new; my good opinion of him increasing daily in proportion as I found cause. With regard to yourself, it was quite otherwise; and the sentiments you inspired were such as I mistook for those of love. The impression you made on me, however, did not arise so much from a difference of sex, as from a characteristical perfection of which the heart cannot be insensible, though love were out of the question. I can see what you would be, though without your friend; but I cannot pretend to say what he would prove without you. Many men may resemble him, but there is but one Eloisa in the world. After doing you an injury, which I shall never forgive myself, your letter soon convinced me of the nature of my sentiments concerning you. I found I was not jealous, and consequently not in love. I saw that you were too amiable for me; that you deserved the first fruits of the heart, and that mine was unworthy of you.