I am just returned, my dear friend, from the enjoyment of one of the most delightful sights I shall ever behold. The most prudent, the most amiable girl in the world is at length become the most deserving, the best of women. The worthy man, to whom she has given her hand, lives only to revere, to cherish, to make her happy; and I feel that inexpressible pleasure of being a witness to the happiness of my friend, and of sharing it with her: nor will you, I am convinced, partake of it less than my self; you, for whom she had always the tenderest esteem, who were dear to her almost from her infancy, and have received from her obligations which should render her yet more dear to you. Yes, we will sympathize with all her sensations; if to her they give pleasure they shall afford us consolation; for, so great is the value of that friendship which unites us, that the happiness of either of the three is sufficient to moderate the afflictions of the other two. Let us not, however, too highly felicitate ourselves; our incomparable friend is going in some measure to forsake us. She is now entered on a new scene of life, is bound by new engagements, and become subject to new obligations. Her heart, which once was only ours, will now find room for other affections, to which friendship must give place. We ought therefore, my friend, to be more scrupulous hereafter in the services we impose on her zeal; we ought not only to consult the sincerity of her attachment, and the need we have of her service, but what may with propriety be required in her present situation; what may be agreeable or displeasing to her husband. We have no business to enquire what virtue demands in such a case, the laws of friendship are sufficient. He, who, for his own sake, could expose his friend, deserves not to have one. When ours was unmarried, she was at liberty; she had no body to call her to account for her conduct, and the uprightness of her intentions was sufficient to justify her to herself. She considered us as man and wife, destined for each other; and, her chaste yet susceptible heart, uniting a due regard for herself to the most tender compassion for her culpable friend, she concealed my fault without abetting it: but at present, circumstances are changed; and she is justly accountable to the man, to whom she has not only plighted her vows, but resigned her liberty. She is now entrusted not only with her own honour, but with that of her husband; and it is not enough that she is virtuous, her virtue must be respected, and her conduct approved: She must not onlydeservethe esteem of her husband, but she mustobtainit: if he blames her, she is to blame: and tho' she be innocent, she is in the wrong the moment she is suspected; for to study appearances, is an indispensable part of her duty.
I cannot determine precisely how far I am right in my judgment; I leave that to you: but there is a monitor within that tells me it is not right, my cousin should continue to be my confident; nor that she should be the first to tell me so. I may be frequently mistaken in my arguments, but I am convinced I am always right in the sensations on which they are founded; and this makes me confide more in those sensations than on the deductions of my reason.
From this consideration, I have already formed a pretence to get back your letters, which, for fear of a surprise I had put into her hands. She returned them with an oppression of heart, which that of mine made me easily perceive; and which convinced me I had acted as I ought. We entered into no explanation, but our looks were sufficiently expressive; she embraced me, and burst into tears: the tender sensibility of friendship hath little occasion for the assistance of language.
With respect to the future address of your letters, I thought immediately of my little Anet, as the safest; but if this young woman be inferior in rank to my cousin, is that a reason we should less regard her virtue? have I not reason, on the contrary, to fear my example may be more dangerous to one of less elevated sentiments; that what was only an effort of the sublimest friendship in one, may be the first step to corruption in the other; and that, in abusing her gratitude, I may make virtue itself subservient to the promotion of vice? is it not enough, alas! for me to be culpable, without seducing accomplices, and aggravating my own crime, by involving others in my guilt? of this, therefore, no more: I have hit on another expedient, less safe indeed, but less exceptionable, as it lays nobody open to censure, nor requires a confident. It is for you to write to me under a fictitious name; as for example, that of Mr. Bosquet, and to send your letters under cover addressed to Regianino, whom I shall take care to instruct. Thus Regianino himself may know nothing of our correspondence, or at most can only form suspicions, which he dares not confirm; for Lord B——, on whose favour he depends, has answered for his fidelity. In the mean time, while our correspondence is maintained by this means, I will try if it be possible to resume the method we made use of in your voyage to the Valois, or some other that may be durable and safe.
There is something in the turn and stile of your letters, that would convince me, were I even unacquainted with the state of your heart, that the life you lead at Paris is in no wise agreeable to your inclinations. The letters of Muralt, of which they so loudly complain in France, are even less satirical and severe than yours. Like a child that is angry with its tutors, you revenge the disagreeable necessity you are under of studying the world, upon your first teachers.
What I am surprized at the most, however, is, that the very circumstance, which usually prejudices foreigners in favour of the French, should give you disgust. I mean their polite reception of strangers, and their general turn of conversation; tho' by your own confession, you have met with great civility. I have not forgot your distinction between Paris in particular, and great cities in general; but I see plainly, that, without knowing precisely what belongs to either, you censure without considering whether it be truth or slander. But, however, this be, the French are my favourites, and you don't at all oblige me in reviling them. It is to the many excellent writings France has produced, that I am indebted for most of those lessons, by which we have together profited. If Switzerland is emerged from its ancient barbarity, to whom is it obliged? the two greatest and most virtuous men in modern story, Catinat and Fenelon, were both Frenchmen. Henry the fourth, the good king, whose character I admire, was a Frenchman. If France be not the country of liberty, it is properly that of men; a superior advantage in the eyes of a philosopher to that of licentious freedom. Hospitable, protectors of the stranger, the French overlook real insult, and a man would be pelted in London for saying half so much against the English, as the French will bear at Paris. My father, who hath spent the greatest part of his life in France, never speaks but with rapture of this agreeable people. If he has spilt his blood in the service of its king, he has not been forgotten in his retirement, but is still honoured by royal beneficence. Hence, I think myself in some degree interested in the glory of a nation, to which that of my father is indebted. If the people of all nations, my friend, have their good and ill qualities, you ought surely to pay the same regard to that impartiality which praises, as to that which blames them.
To be more particular with you, I will ask you why you throw away in idle visits the time you are to spend at Paris? Is not Paris a theatre, wherein great talents may be displayed, as well as London? and do strangers find more difficulties in their way to reputation in the former, than they do in the latter? believe me, all the English are not like Lord B——, nor do all the French resemble those fine talkers that give you so much disgust. Try, put them to the proof, tho' it be only to acquire a more intimate acquaintance with their manners; and judge of people, that you own speak so well, by their deeds. My cousin's father says, you know the constitution of the empire, and the interests of princes. My Lord B—— acknowledges also, that you are well versed in the principles of politics, and the various systems of government: and I have got it into my head that of all countries in the world you will succeed best in that where merit is most esteemed, and that you want only to be known, to be honourably employed. As to your religion's being an obstacle, why should yours be more so than another's? is not good sense a security against fanaticism and persecution? does bigotry prevail more in France, than in Germany? and is there any thing that should hinder your succeeding at Paris, as Mr. St. Saphorin has done at Vienna? if you consider the end, the more speedy your attempts the sooner may you promise yourself success. If you balance the means, it is certainly more reputable for a man to advance himself by his own abilities, than to be obliged for preferment to his friends. But, if you purpose a longer voyage——ah! thatsea!——I should like England better if it lay on this side Paris.——But, a-propos, now I talk of Paris, may I venture to take notice of another piece of affection, I have remarked in your letters? how comes it that you, who spoke to me so freely of the women of this country, say nothing about the Parisian ladies? can those celebrated and polite females be less worth your description, than the simple and unpolished inhabitants of the mountains? or are you apprehensive of giving me uneasiness by a picture of the most charming and seductive creatures in the universe? If this be the case, my friend, undeceive yourself, and rest assured, that the worst thing you can do for my repose is to say nothing about them and that, however, you might praise them, your silence in that respect is more suspicious than would be your highest encomiums. I shall be glad also to have some little account of the opera at Paris, of which we hear such wonders;[27]for, after all, the music may be bad, and yet the representation have its beauties; but if not, it will at least, afford a subject for your criticism, which will offend no body.
I know not whether it be worth while to tell you, that my cousin's wedding produced me two suitors; they met here a few days ago; one of them from Yverdon, hunting all the way from castle to castle, and the other from Germany, in the stage-coach from Berne. The first is a kind of smart, that speaks loud and peremptory enough to make his repartees pass for wit, among those who attend only to his manner. The other is a great bashful simpleton, whose timidity, however, is not of that amiable kind which arises from the fear of displeasing; but is owing to the embarrassment of a blockhead, that knows not what to say, and the awkwardness of a libertine who is at a loss how to behave himself in the company of modest women. As I well know the intentions of my father in regard to these two gentlemen, I took, with pleasure, the freedom he gave me, of treating them agreeable to my own humour, which, I believe, is such as will soon get the better of that which brought them hither. I hate them for their presumption, in pretending to a heart which is yours, without the least merit to dispute it with you; yet if they had ever so much, I should hate them the more; but where could they acquire it? they or any other man in the universe? no, my dear friend, rest satisfied, it is impossible. Nay, were it possible that another should be possessed of equal merit, or even that anotheryoushould attack my heart, I should never listen to any but the first. Be not uneasy, therefore, at these two animals, which I have with regret condescended to mention. What pleasure should I have in being able to give them both such equal portions of disgust, as that they should resolve to depart both together as they came.
M. de Crouzas has lately given us a refutation of the ethic epistles of Mr. Pope, which I have read, but it did not please me. I will not take upon me to say which of these two authors is in the right, but I am conscious that M. de Crouza's will never excite the reader to do any one virtuous action, while our zeal for every thing great and good is awakened by that of Pope. For my own part, I have no other rule by which to judge of what I read, than that of consulting the dispositions in which I rise up from my nor can I well conceive what sort of merit any piece has to boast, the reading of which leaves no benevolent impression behind it, nor stimulates the reader to any thing that is good.[28]
Adieu, my dear friend, I would not finish my letter so soon, but am called away. I leave you with regret, for I am at present in a chearful disposition, and I love you should partake of my happiness. The cause which now inspires it is, that my dear mother is much better within these few days; she has indeed found herself so well as to be present at the wedding, and to give away her niece, or rather her other daughter. Poor Clara wept for joy to see her; and I——but you may judge of my sensations, who, deserving her so little, hourly tremble at the thoughts of losing her. In fact, she did the honours of the table, and acquitted herself on the occasion with as good a grace as if she had been in perfect health. Nay, it seemed to me that some remains of languor in her disposition rendered her elegant complacencies still more affecting. Never did this incomparable parent appear so good, so charming, so worthy to be revered!——Do you know that she asked Mr. Orbe concerning you several times? Although she never speaks of you to me, I am not ignorant of her esteem for you; and that if ever she were consulted, your happiness and mine would be her first concern. Ah! my friend, if your heart can be truly grateful, you owe many, many obligations!
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