Letters of Abelard and Heloise
{"WorkMasterId":6981,"WpPageId":285892,"ParentWpPageId":193768,"Slug":"letters-of-abelard-and-heloise","Url":"https://chrisdeasy.com/theos/humanities/philosophy/philosophers/peter-abelard/letters-of-abelard-and-heloise/","RelativeUrl":"theos/humanities/philosophy/philosophers/peter-abelard/letters-of-abelard-and-heloise/","HasFullText":true,"RawHtmlLength":356754,"CleanHtmlLength":299570,"Kicker":"Philosophy Work","Title":"Letters of Abelard and Heloise","Deck":"The letters associated with Abelard and Heloise explore love, vocation, memory, authority, and religious life","BackLink":{"Text":"Back to Peter Abelard","Url":"https://chrisdeasy.com/theos/humanities/philosophy/philosophers/peter-abelard/"},"AuthorCard":{"Label":"Author","Title":"Peter Abelard","Url":"https://chrisdeasy.com/theos/humanities/philosophy/philosophers/peter-abelard/","MediaHref":"","ImageSrc":"https://chrisdeasy.com/wp-content/uploads/peter-abelard-01-peter-abelard-portrait.jpg","ImageAlt":"Peter Abelard in an Oleszczynski portrait","FilterTerra":"Western Europe","ClickText":"Peter Abelard","ClickHref":"https://chrisdeasy.com/theos/humanities/philosophy/philosophers/peter-abelard/","Copies":["1079 CE – 1142 CE","Le Pallet, Brittany","Medieval scholastic philosopher of logic, universals, dialectic, intention, moral responsibility, Trinitarian theology, Sic et Non, Heloise, and the schools of Paris."]},"ContextCards":[{"Label":"Period","Key":"Period:2","Title":"Medieval History","DateText":"500 CE – 1499 CE","Url":"https://chrisdeasy.com/theos/humanities/philosophy/eras-of-thought/philosophers-of-medieval-history/"},{"Label":"Era","Key":"Era:5","Title":"High Medieval","DateText":"1000 CE – 1299 CE","Url":"https://chrisdeasy.com/theos/humanities/philosophy/eras-of-thought/philosophers-of-medieval-history/philosophers-of-high-medieval/"},{"Label":"Composition","Title":"1133 CE","Url":"","DateText":""}],"DateNote":"Displayed year follows the available source evidence; uncertainty is preserved in the evidence notes","GeoCards":[{"Label":"Region","Key":"Region:1"},{"Label":"Terra Avita","Key":"TerraAvita:1"},{"Label":"Terra Avita Region","Key":"TerraAvitaRegion:1"},{"Label":"Modern Country","Key":"Country:FRA:1"}],"OriginalTitle":"Epistolae Abelardi et Heloissae","Language":"Latin","DisciplineCards":[{"Label":"Primary Discipline","Key":"Discipline:ethics"},{"Label":"Secondary Discipline","Key":"Discipline:aesthetics"}],"Tradition":"Medieval scholasticism","FullText":{"Title":"Full Text","Copy":"Public-domain full text from Project Gutenberg eBook #35977 .","Url":"","Label":"","Kicker":"","Cards":[]},"CoreThesis":["The letters associated with Abelard and Heloise explore love, vocation, memory, authority, and religious life"],"Classification":{"AlternateTitles":"Letters of Abelard and Heloise","KeyConcepts":"Letters of Abelard and Heloise","Methodology":"Bibliographic comparison and source-context review","Structure":"Documented work entry with complex manuscript and edition history"},"Arguments":["The letters associated with Abelard and Heloise explore love, vocation, memory, authority, and religious life"],"Influence":{"InfluencedBy":"","InfluenceOn":""},"Significance":["Register the correspondence as one work row; do not split individual letters","Letters of Abelard and Heloise is included as a direct work by Peter Abelard. Dates are source-backed approximations, and manuscript and edition histories are complex."],"EvidenceNote":["Register the correspondence as one work row; do not split individual letters"],"MainSections":[{"Kind":"RawSection","Title":"Full Versions","BodyHtml":"\u003cdiv class=\"dz-philo__full-version-grid\"\u003e\n \u003carticle class=\"dz-philo__full-version-card\"\u003e\n \u003cp class=\"dz-philo__full-version-provider\"\u003eProject Gutenberg\u003c/p\u003e\n \u003ch3 class=\"dz-philo__full-version-title\"\u003eProject Gutenberg eBook #35977\u003c/h3\u003e\n \u003cp class=\"dz-philo__full-version-meta\"\u003eHtmlText · Imported\u003c/p\u003e\n \u003ca class=\"dz-philo__full-version-link\" href=\"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35977\"\u003eOpen full version\u003c/a\u003e\n \u003c/article\u003e\n \u003c/div\u003e"},{"Kind":"TextSection","Title":"Core Thesis","Paragraphs":["The letters associated with Abelard and Heloise explore love, vocation, memory, authority, and religious life"]},{"Kind":"FieldSection","Title":"Classification","Fields":[{"Label":"Alternate Titles","Value":"Letters of Abelard and Heloise"},{"Label":"Key Concepts","Value":"Letters of Abelard and Heloise"},{"Label":"Methodology","Value":"Bibliographic comparison and source-context review"},{"Label":"Structure","Value":"Documented work entry with complex manuscript and edition history"}]},{"Kind":"TextSection","Title":"Arguments","Paragraphs":["The letters associated with Abelard and Heloise explore love, vocation, memory, authority, and religious life"]},{"Kind":"FieldSection","Title":"Influence","Fields":[{"Label":"Influenced By","Value":""},{"Label":"Influence On","Value":""}]},{"Kind":"TextSection","Title":"Significance","Paragraphs":["Register the correspondence as one work row; do not split individual letters","Letters of Abelard and Heloise is included as a direct work by Peter Abelard. Dates are source-backed approximations, and manuscript and edition histories are complex."]},{"Kind":"TextSection","Title":"Evidence Note","Paragraphs":["Register the correspondence as one work row; do not split individual letters"]},{"Kind":"RawSection","Title":"Full Text","BodyHtml":"\u003cp class=\"dz-philo__section-copy dz-philo__full-text-source\"\u003ePublic-domain full text from \u003ca href=\"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35977\"\u003eProject Gutenberg eBook #35977\u003c/a\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\n \u003carticle class=\"dz-philo__full-text-body\"\u003e\r\n\u003cpre\u003e\u003c/pre\u003e\r\n\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch1 style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_h1_align\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLETTERS\u003cbr\u003eof\u003cbr\u003eAbelard and Heloise.\u003c/h1\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLETTERS\u003cbr\u003eOF\u003cbr\u003eAbelard and\r\nHeloise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo which is prefix\u0027d\u003cbr\u003eA PARTICULAR ACCOUNT\u003cbr\u003eOF\r\nTHEIR\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eLives, Amours, and Misfortunes.\u003c/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBY THE LATE JOHN\r\nHUGHES, ESQ.\u003cbr\u003eTogether with the\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePOEM OF ELOISA TO ABELARD.\u003c/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBY\r\nMR. POPE.\u003cbr\u003eAnd, (to which is now added) the\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePOEM OF ABELARD\r\nTO ELOISA,\u003c/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBY MRS. MADAN.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e——————\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLONDON:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePrinted\r\nfor W. OSBORNE, and T. GRIFFIN in\u003cbr\u003eHolborn, and J. MOZLEY, in\r\nGainsborough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMDCCLXXXII.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"start\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003ch2 style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_h2_align\"\u003ePREFACE\r\n\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is very surprising that the \u003ci\u003eLetters of Abelard and Heloise\u003c/i\u003e\r\nhave not sooner appeared in English, since it is generally allowed,\r\nby all who have seen them in other languages, that they are written\r\nwith the greatest passion of any in this kind which are extant. And\r\nit is certain that the \u003ci\u003eLetters from a Nun to a Cavalier\u003c/i\u003e, which\r\nhave so long been known and admired among us, are in all respects\r\ninferior to them. Whatever those were, these are known to be genuine\r\nPieces occasioned by an amour which had very extraordinary\r\nconsequences, and made a great noise at the time when it happened,\r\nbeing between two of the most distinguished Persons of that age.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThese \u003ci\u003eLetters\u003c/i\u003e, therefore, being truly written by the\r\nPersons themselves, whose names they bear, and who were both\r\nremarkable for their genius and learning, as well as by a most\r\nextravagant passion for each other, are every where full of\r\nsentiments of the heart, (which are not to be imitated in a feigned\r\nstory,) and touches of Nature, much more moving than any which could\r\nflow from the Pen of a Writer of Novels, or enter into the\r\nimagination of any who had not felt the like emotions and distresses.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThey were originally written in Latin, and are extant in a\r\nCollection of the Works of \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, printed at Paris in the\r\nyear 1616. With what elegance and beauty of stile they were written\r\nin that language, will sufficiently appear to the learned Reader,\r\neven by those few citations which are set at the bottom of the page\r\nin some places of the following history. But the Book here mentioned\r\nconsisting chiefly of school-divinity, and the learning of those\r\ntimes, and therefore being rarely to be met with but in public\r\nlibraries, and in the hands of some learned men, the Letters of\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e are much more known by a\r\nTranslation, or rather Paraphrase of them, in French, first published\r\nat the Hague in 1693, and which afterwards received several other\r\nmore complete Editions. This Translation is much applauded, but who\r\nwas the Author of it is not certainly known. Monsieur Bayle says he\r\nhad been informed it was done by a woman; and, perhaps, he thought no\r\none besides could have entered so thoroughly into the passion and\r\ntenderness of such writings, for which that sex seems to have a more\r\nnatural disposition than the other. This may be judged of by the\r\nLetters themselves, among which those of \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e are the most\r\nmoving, and the Master seems in this particular to have been excelled\r\nby the Scholar.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn some of the later Editions in French, there has been prefixed\r\nto the Letters an Historical Account of \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e;\r\nthis is chiefly extracted from the Preface of the Editor of \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e\r\nWorks in Latin, and from the \u003ci\u003eCritical Dictionary\u003c/i\u003e of Monsieur\r\nBayle*, who has put together, under several articles, all the\r\nparticulars he was able to collect concerning these two famous\r\nPersons; and though the first Letter of \u003ci\u003eAbelard to Philintus\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nin which he relates his own story, may seem to have rendered this\r\naccount in part unnecessary; yet the Reader will not be displeased to\r\nsee the thread of the relation entire, and continued to the death of\r\nthe Persons whose misfortunes had made their lives so very\r\nremarkable.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e* \u003ci\u003eVide Artic\u003c/i\u003e. Abelard, Heloise, Foulques, \u003ci\u003eand\u003c/i\u003e\r\nParaclete\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is indeed impossible to be unmoved at the surprising and\r\nmultiplied afflictions and persecutions which befel a man of\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e fine genius, when we see them so feelingly described\r\nby his own hand. Many of these were owing to the malice of such as\r\nwere his enemies on the account of his superior learning and merit;\r\nyet the great calamities of his life took their rise from his unhappy\r\nindulgence of a criminal passion, and giving himself a loose to\r\nunwarrantable pleasures. After this he was perpetually involved in\r\nsorrow and distress, and in vain sought for ease and quiet in a\r\nmonastic life. The \u003ci\u003eLetters\u003c/i\u003e between him and his beloved \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e\r\nwere not written till long after their marriage and separation, and\r\nwhen each of them was dedicated to a life of religion. Accordingly we\r\nfind in them surprising mixtures of devotion and tenderness, and\r\nremaining frailty, and a lively picture of human nature in its\r\ncontrarieties of passion and reason, its infirmities, and its\r\nsufferings.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"TOC\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003ch2 style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_h2_align\"\u003eCONTENTS.\r\n\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_div_align\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_div_align\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#a_HIS\" id=\"a_sub_HIS\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eThe History of\r\nAbelard and Heloise\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_div_align\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#a_LET\" id=\"a_sub_LET\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eLETTERS.\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_div_align\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#a_CHI\" id=\"a_sub_CHI\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eI. Abelard to\r\nPhilintus.\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_div_align\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#a_CHII\" id=\"a_sub_CHII\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eII. Heloise to\r\nAbelard.\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_div_align\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#a_CHIII\" id=\"a_sub_CHIII\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eIII. Abelard\r\nto Heloise.\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_div_align\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#a_CHIV\" id=\"a_sub_CHIV\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eIV. Heloise to\r\nAbelard.\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_div_align\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#a_CHV\" id=\"a_sub_CHV\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eV. Heloise to\r\nAbelard.\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_div_align\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#a_CHVI\" id=\"a_sub_CHVI\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eVI. Abelard to\r\nHeloise.\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_div_align\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#a_CHVII\" id=\"a_sub_CHVII\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eVII. Eloisa to\r\nAbelard. A poem. by Mr. Pope.\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_div_align\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#a_CHVIII\" id=\"a_sub_CHVIII\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eVIII.\r\nAbelard to Eloisa. A poem. by Mrs. Madan.\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch2 style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_h2_align\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"a_HIS\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eThe History of Abelard and\r\nHeloise\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003ePeter Abelard\u003c/i\u003e was born in the village of Palais in Britany.\r\nHe lived in the twelfth century, in the reigns of \u003ci\u003eLouis the Gross\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nand \u003ci\u003eLouis the Young\u003c/i\u003e. His Father\u0027s name was \u003ci\u003eBeranger\u003c/i\u003e, a\r\ngentleman of a considerable and wealthy family. He took care to give\r\nhis children a liberal and pious education, especially his eldest son\r\n\u003ci\u003ePeter\u003c/i\u003e, on whom he endeavoured to bestow all possible\r\nimprovements, because there appeared in him an extraordinary vivacity\r\nof wit joined with sweetness of temper, and all imaginable presages\r\nof a great man.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen he had made some advancement in learning, he grew so fond of\r\nhis books, that, lest affairs of the world might interrupt his\r\nproficiency in them, he quitted his birthright to his younger\r\nbrothers, and applied himself entirely to the studies of Philosophy\r\nand Divinity.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOf all the sciences to which he applied himself, that which\r\npleased him most, and in which he made the greatest progress, was\r\nLogick. He had a very subtile wit, and was incessantly whetting it by\r\ndisputes, out of a restless ambition to be master of his weapons. So\r\nthat in a short time he gained the reputation of the greatest\r\nphilosopher of his age; and has always been esteemed the founder of\r\nwhat we call the \u003ci\u003eLearning of the Schoolmen\u003c/i\u003e.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHe finished his studies at Paris, where learning was then in a\r\nflourishing condition. In this city he found that famous professor of\r\nphilosophy William des Champeaux, and soon became his favourite\r\nscholar; but this did not last long. The professor was so hard put to\r\nit to answer the subtle objections of his new scholar, that he grew\r\nuneasy with him. The school soon run into parties. The senior\r\nscholars, transported with envy against \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, seconded\r\ntheir master\u0027s resentment. All this served only to increase the young\r\nman\u0027s presumption, who now thought himself sufficiently qualified to\r\nset up a school of his own. For this purpose he chose an advantageous\r\nplace, which was the town of Melun, ten leagues from Paris, where the\r\nFrench court resided at that time. Champeaux did all that he could to\r\nhinder the erecting of this school; but some of the great courtiers\r\nbeing his enemies, the opposition he made to it only promoted the\r\ndesign of his rival.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe reputation of this new professor made a marvellous progress,\r\nand eclipsed that of Champeaux. These successes swelled \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nso much that he removed his school to Corbeil, in order to engage his\r\nenemy the more closer in more frequent disputations. But his\r\nexcessive application to study brought upon him a long and dangerous\r\nsickness, which constrained him to return to his own native air.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAfter he had spent two years in his own country he made a second\r\nadventure to Paris, where he found that his old antagonist Champeaux\r\nhad resigned his chair to another, and was retired into a convent of\r\nCanons Regular, among whom he continued his lectures. \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nattacked him with such fury, that he quickly forced him to renounce\r\nhis tenets. Whereupon the poor monk became so despicable, and his\r\nantagonist in such great esteem, that nobody went to the lectures of\r\nChampeaux, and the very man who succeeded him in his professorship,\r\nlisted under \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, and became his scholar.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHe was scarce fixed in his chair before he found himself exposed\r\nmore than ever to the strokes of the most cruel envy. Endeavours were\r\nused to do him ill offices by all those who were any ways disaffected\r\nto him. Another professor was put into his place, who had thought it\r\nhis duty to submit to \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, in short so many enemies were\r\nraised against him that he was forced to retreat from Paris to Melun,\r\nand there revived his logick lectures. But this held not long; for\r\nhearing that Champeaux with all his infantry was retired into a\r\ncountry village, he came and posted himself on mount St. Genevieve,\r\nwhere he erected a new school, like a kind of battery against him\r\nwhom Champeaux had left to teach at Paris.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eChampeaux understanding that his substitute was thus besieged in\r\nhis school, brought the Regular Canons attack again to their\r\nmonastery. But this, instead of relieving his friend, caused all his\r\nscholars to desert him. At which the poor philosopher was so\r\nmortified, that he followed the example of his patron Champeaux, and\r\nturned monk too.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe dispute now lay wholly between Abelard and Champeaux, who\r\nrenewed it with great warmth on both sides; but the senior had not\r\nthe best on\u0027t. While it was depending, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e was obliged to\r\nvisit his father and mother, who, according to the fashion of those\r\ntimes, had resolved to forsake the world, and retire into convents,\r\nin order to devote themselves more seriously to the care of their\r\nsalvation.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHaving assisted at the admission of his parents into their\r\nrespective monasteries and received their blessing, he returned to\r\nParis, where during his absence, his rival had been promoted to the\r\nbishoprick of Chalons. And now being in a condition to quit his\r\nschool without any suspicions of flying from his enemy, he resolved\r\nto apply himself wholly to Divinity.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo this end he removed to Laon, where one \u003ci\u003eAnselm\u003c/i\u003e read\r\ndivinity-lectures with good reputation. But \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e was so\r\nlittle satisfied with the old man\u0027s abilities, who has he says, had a\r\nvery mean genius, and a great fluency of words without sense, that he\r\ntook a resolution for the future to hear no other master than the\r\nHoly Scriptures. A good resolution! if a man takes the Spirit of God\r\nfor his guide, and be more concerned to distinguish truth from\r\nfalsehood, than to confirm himself in those principles into which\r\nhis, own fancy or complexion, or the prejudices of his birth and\r\neducation, have insensibly led him.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, together with the Holy Scriptures, read the\r\nancient fathers and doctors of the church, in which he spent whole\r\ndays and nights, and profited so well, that instead of returning to\r\n\u003ci\u003eAnselm\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e lectures, he took up the same employment, and began\r\nto explain the Prophet \u003ci\u003eEzekiel\u003c/i\u003e to some of his fellow-pupils.\r\nHe performed this part so agreeably; and in so easy a method that he\r\nsoon got a crowd of auditors.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe jealous \u003ci\u003eAnselm\u003c/i\u003e could not bear this; he quickly found\r\nmeans to get the lecturer silenced. Upon this \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e removed\r\nto Paris once more, where he proceeded with his public exposition on\r\nEzekiel, and soon acquired the same reputation for his divinity he\r\nhad before gained for his philosophy. His eloquence and learning\r\nprocured him an incredible number of scholars from all parts; so that\r\nif he had minded saving of money, he might have grown rich with ease\r\nin a short time. And happy had it been for him, if, among all the\r\nenemies his learning exposed him to, he had guarded his heart against\r\nthe charms of love. But, alas! the greatest doctors are not always\r\nthe wisest men, as appears from examples in every age; but from none\r\nmore remarkable than that of this learned man, whose story I am now\r\ngoing to tell you.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, besides his uncommon merit as a scholar, had all\r\nthe accomplishments of a gentleman. He had a greatness of soul which\r\nnothing could shock; his passions were delicate, his judgment solid,\r\nand his taste exquisite. He was of a graceful person, and carried\r\nhimself with the air of a man of quality. His conversation was sweet,\r\ncomplaisant, easy, and gentleman-like. It seemed as tho\u0027 Nature had\r\ndesigned him for a more elevated employment than that of teaching the\r\nsciences. He looked upon riches and grandeur with contempt, and had\r\nno higher ambition than to make his name famous among learned men,\r\nand to be reputed the greatest doctor of his age: but he had human\r\nfrailty, and all his philosophy could not guard him from the attacks\r\nof love. For some time indeed, he had defended himself against this\r\npassion pretty well, when the temptation was but slight; but upon a\r\nmore intimate familiarity with such agreeable objects, he found his\r\nreason fail him: yet in respect to his wisdom, he thought of\r\ncompounding the matter and resolved at first, that love and\r\nphilosophy should dwell together in the same breast. He intended only\r\nto let out his heart to the former, and that but for a little while;\r\nnever considering that love is a great ruiner of projects; and that\r\nwhen it has once got a share in a heart, it is easy to possess itself\r\nof the whole.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHe was now in the seven or eight and twentieth year of his age,\r\nwhen he thought himself completely happy in all respects, excepting\r\nthat he wanted a mistress. He considered therefore of making a\r\nchoice, but such a one as might be most suitable to his notions, and\r\nthe design he had of passing agreeably those hours he did not employ\r\nin his study. He had several ladies in his eye, to whom as he says in\r\none of his \u003ci\u003eLetters\u003c/i\u003e, he could easily have recommended himself.\r\nFor you must understand, that besides his qualifications mentioned\r\nbefore, he had a vein of poetry, and made abundance of little easy\r\nsongs, which he would sing with all the advantage of a gallant air\r\nand pleasant voice. But tho\u0027 he was cut out for a lover, he was not\r\nover-hasty in determining his choice. He was not of a humour to be\r\npleased with the wanton or forward; he scorned easy pleasures, and\r\nsought to encounter with difficulties and impediments, that he might\r\nconquer with the greater glory. In short, he had not yet seen the\r\nwoman he was to love.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNot far from the place where \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e read his lectures\r\nlived one \u003ci\u003eDoctor Fulbert\u003c/i\u003e, a canon of the church of Notre-Dame.\r\nThis canon had a niece named \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e in his house whom he\r\neducated with great care and affection. Some writers say*, that she\r\nwas the good man\u0027s natural daughter; but that, to prevent a public\r\nscandal, he gave out that she was his niece by his sister, who upon\r\nher death-bed had charged him with her education. But though it was\r\nwell known in those times, as well as since, that the niece of an\r\necclesiastick is sometimes more nearly related to him, yet of this\r\ndamsel’s birth and parentage we have nothing very certain.\r\nThere is reason to think, from one of her \u003ci\u003eLetters to Abelard\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nthat she came of a mean family; for she owns that great honour was\r\ndone to her side by this alliance, and that he married much below\r\nhimself. So that what Francis d\u0027Amboise says, that she was of the\r\nname and family of Montmorency has no manner of foundation. It is\r\nvery probable she was really and truly Fulbert\u0027s niece, as he\r\naffirmed her to be. Whatever she was for birth, she was a very\r\nengaging woman; and if she was not a perfect beauty, she appeared\r\nsuch at least in \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e eyes. Her person was well\r\nproportioned, her features regular, her eyes sparkling, her lips\r\nvermillion and well formed, her complexion animated, her air fine,\r\nand her aspect sweet and agreeable. She had a surprising quickness of\r\nwit, an incredible memory, and a considerable share of learning,\r\njoined with humility; and all these accomplishments were attended\r\nwith something so graceful and moving, that it was impossible for\r\nthose who kept her company not to be in love with her.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e* Papyr. Maffo. Annal. 1. 3. \u003ci\u003eJoannes Canonicus Pariflus,\r\nHeloysiam naturalem filiam habehat prastanti ingenio formaque.\u003c/i\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs soon as \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e had seen her, and conversed with her,\r\nthe charms of her wit and beauty made such an impression upon his\r\nheart, that he presently conceived a most violent passion for her,\r\nand resolved to make it his whole endeavour to win her affections.\r\nAnd now, he that formerly quitted his patrimony to pursue his\r\nstudies, laid aside all other engagements to attend his new passion.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn vain did Philosophy and Reason importune him to return; he was\r\ndeaf to their call, and thought of nothing but how to enjoy the sight\r\nand company of his dear \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e. And he soon met with the\r\nluckiest opportunity in the world. Fulbert who had the greatest\r\naffection imaginable for his niece, finding her to have a good share\r\nof natural wit, and a particular genius for learning, thought himself\r\nobliged to improve the talents which Nature had so liberally bestowed\r\non her. He had already put her to learn several languages, which she\r\nquickly came to understand so well, that her fame began to spread\r\nitself abroad, and the wit and learning of \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e was every\r\nwhere discoursed of. And though her uncle for his own share was no\r\ngreat scholar, he was very felicitous that his niece should have all\r\npossible improvements. He was willing, therefore, she should have\r\nmasters to instruct her in what she had a mind to learn: but he loved\r\nhis money, and this kept him from providing for her education so well\r\nas she desired.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, who knew \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e inclinations, and the\r\ntemper of her uncle, thought this an opportunity favourable to his\r\ndesign. He was already well acquainted with Fulbert, as being his\r\nbrother canon in the same church; and he observed how fond the other\r\nwas of his friendship, and what an honour he esteemed it to be\r\nintimate with a person of his reputation. He therefore told him one\r\nday in familiarity, that he was at a loss for some house to board in;\r\nand if you could find room for me, said he, in yours, I leave to you\r\nname the terms.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe good man immediately considering that by this means he should\r\nprovide an able master for his niece who, instead of taking money of\r\nhim, offered to provide him well for his board, embraced his proposal\r\nwith the joy imaginable, gave him a thousand caresses, and desired he\r\nwould consider him for the future as one ambitious of the strictest\r\nfriendship with him.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhat an unspeakable joy was this to the amorous \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e! to\r\nconsider that he was going to live with her, who was the only object\r\nof his desires! that he should have the opportunity of seeing and\r\nconversing with her every day, and of acquainting her with his\r\npassion! However, he concealed his joy at present lest he should make\r\nhis intention suspected. We told you before how liberal Nature had\r\nbeen to our lover in making his person every way so agreeable; so\r\nthat he flattered himself that it was almost impossible * that any\r\nwoman should reject his addresses. Perhaps he was mistaken: the sex\r\nhas variety of humour. However, consider him as a philosopher who had\r\ntherto lived in a strict chastity †, he certainly reasoned\r\nwell in the business of love; when he concluded that \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e\r\nwould be an easier conquest to him than others because her learning\r\ngave him an opportunity of establishing a correspondence by letters,\r\nin which he might discover his passion with greater freedom than he\r\ndared presume to use in conversation.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e* \u003ci\u003eTanti quippe tune nominis eram \u0026amp; juventutis \u0026amp; forma\r\ngratia praeminebam, ut quamcunque foeminartn nostre dignarer amore\r\nnullam verer repulsam.\u003c/i\u003e 1 Epist. Abel. p. 10. Abel.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e† \u003ci\u003eFroena libidini\r\ncoepi laxare, qui antea viveram continantissime.\u003c/i\u003e Ibid.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSome time after the Canon had taken \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e into his own\r\nhouse, as they were discoursing one day about things somewhat above\r\nFulbert\u0027s capacity, the latter turned the discourse insensibly to the\r\ngood qualities of his niece; he informed \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e of the\r\nexcellency of her wit, and how strong a propensity she had to improve\r\nin learning; and withal made it his earnest request, that he would\r\ntake the pains to instruct her. \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e pretended to be\r\nsurprised at a proposal of this nature. He told him that learning was\r\nnot the proper business of women; that such inclinations in them had\r\nmore of humour or curiosity than a solid desire of knowledge; and\r\ncould hardly pass, among either the learned or ignorant, without\r\ndrawing upon them the imputation of conceit and affectation. Fulbert\r\nanswered, that this was very true of women of common capacities; but\r\nhe hoped, when he had discoursed with his niece, and found what\r\nprogress she had made already, and what a capacity she had for\r\nlearning, he would be of another opinion. \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e assured him,\r\nhe was ready to do all he could for her improvement, and if she was\r\nnot like other women, who hate to learn any thing beyond their\r\nneedle, he would spare no pains to make \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e answer the\r\nhopes which her uncle had conceived of her.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe canon was transported with the civility of the young doctor;\r\nhe returned him thanks, and protested he could not do him a more\r\nacceptable service than to assist his niece in her endeavours to\r\nlearn; he therefore entreated him once more to set apart some of his\r\ntime, which he did not employ in public, for this purpose: and, (as\r\nif he had known his designed intrigue, and was willing to promote it)\r\nhe committed her entirely to his care, and begged of him to treat her\r\nwith the authority of a master; not only to chide her, but even to\r\ncorrect her whenever she was guilty of any neglect or disobedience to\r\nhis commands.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFulbert, in this, showed a simplicity without example but the\r\naffection which he had for his niece was so blind, and \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nhad so well established his reputation for wisdom, that the uncle\r\nnever scrupled in the least to trust them together, and thought he\r\nhad all the security in the world for their virtue. \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nyou may be sure, made use of the freedom which was given him. He saw\r\nhis beautiful creature every hour, he set her lessons every day, and\r\nwas extremely pleased to see what proficiency she made. \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nfor her part, was so taken with her master, that she liked nothing so\r\nwell as what she learned from him; and the master was charmed with\r\nthat quickness of apprehension with which his scholar learned the\r\nmost difficult lessons. But he did not intend to stop here. He knew\r\nso well how to insinuate into the affections of this young person, he\r\ngave her such plain intimations of what was in his heart and spoke so\r\nagreeably of the passion which he had conceived for her, that he had\r\nthe satisfaction of seeing himself well understood. It is no\r\ndifficult matter to make a girl of eighteen in love; and \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nhaving so much wit and agreeable humour, must needs make a greater\r\nprogress in her affections than she did in the lessons which he\r\ntaught her; so that in a short time she fell so much in love with\r\nhim, that she could deny him nothing.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFulbert had a country-house at Corbeil, to which the lovers often\r\nresorted, under pretence of applying themselves more closely to their\r\nstudies: there they conversed freely and gave themselves up entirely\r\nto the pleasure of a mutual passion. They took advantage of that\r\nprivacy which study and contemplation require without subjecting\r\nthemselves to the censure of those who observed it.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn this retirement \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e owns that more time was employ\u0027d\r\nin soft caresses than in lectures of philosophy. Sometimes he\r\npretended to use the severity of a master; the better to deceive such\r\nas might be spies upon them, he exclaimed against \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, and\r\nreproached her for her negligence. But how different were his menaces\r\nfrom those which are inspired by anger!\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNever did two lovers give a greater loose to their delights than\r\ndid these two for five or six months; they lived in all the\r\nendearments which could enter into the hearts of young beginners.\r\nThis is \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e own account of the matter. He compares\r\nhimself to such as have been long kept in a starving condition, and\r\nat last are brought to a feast. A grave and studious man exceeds a\r\ndebauchee in his enjoyments of a woman whom he loves and of whom he\r\nis passionately beloved.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e being thus enchanted with the caresses of his\r\nmistress, neglected all his serious and important affairs. His\r\nperformances in public were wretched. His scholars perceived it, and\r\nsoon guessed the reason. His head was turned to nothing but amorous\r\nverses. His school was his aversion, and he spent as little time in\r\nit as he could. As for his lectures they were commonly the old ones\r\nserved up again: the night was wholly lost from his studies; and his\r\nleisure was employed in writing songs, which were dispersed and sung\r\nin diverse provinces of France many years after. In short our lovers,\r\nwho were in their own opinion the happiest pair in the world, kept so\r\nlittle guard, that their amours were every where talked of, and all\r\nthe world saw plainly that the sciences were not always the subject\r\nof their conversation. Only honest Fulbert, under whose nose all this\r\nwas done, was the last man that heard any thing of it; he wanted eyes\r\nto see that which was visible to all the world; and if any body went\r\nabout to tell him of it, he was prepossessed with so good an opinion\r\nof his niece and her master, that he would believe nothing against\r\nthem.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut at last so many discoveries were daily made to him, that he\r\ncould not help believing something; he therefore resolved to separate\r\nthem, and by that means prevent the ill consequences of their too\r\ngreat familiarity. However, he thought it best to convict them\r\nhimself, before he proceeded further; and therefore watched them so\r\nclosely, that he had one day an opportunity of receiving ocular\r\nsatisfaction that the reports he had heard were true. In short he\r\nsurprised them together. And though he was naturally cholerick, yet\r\nhe appeared so moderate on this occasion as to leave them under\r\ndismal apprehensions of something worse to come after. The result\r\nwas, that they must be parted.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWho can express the torment our lovers felt upon this separation!\r\nHowever, it served only to unite their hearts more firmly; they were\r\nbut the more eager to see one another. Difficulties increased their\r\ndesires, and put them upon any attempts without regarding what might\r\nbe the consequence. \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e finding it impossible to live\r\nwithout his dear \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, endeavoured to settle a\r\ncorrespondence with her by her maid Agaton, who was a handsome brown\r\ngirl, well shaped, and likely enough to have pleased a man who was\r\nnot otherwise engaged. But what a surprise was it to our Doctor, to\r\nfind this girl refuse his money, and in recompence of the services\r\nshe was to do him with his mistress, demanded no less a reward than\r\nhis heart, and making him at once a plain declaration of love!\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e who could love none but \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, turned from\r\nher abruptly, without answering a word. But a rejected woman is a\r\ndangerous creature. Agaton knew well how to revenge the affront put\r\nupon her, and failed not to acquaint Fulbert with \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e\r\noffers to her, without saying a word how she had been disobliged.\r\nFulbert thought it was time to look about him. He thanked the maid\r\nfor her care, and entered into measures with her, how to keep \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nfrom visiting his niece.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Doctor was now more perplexed than ever: he had no ways left\r\nbut to apply himself to \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e singing-master; and the gold\r\nwhich the maid refused prevailed with him. By this means \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nconveyed a letter to \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, in which he told her, that he\r\nintended to come and see her at night, and that the way he had\r\ncontrived was over the garden-wall by a ladder of cords. This project\r\nsucceeded, and brought them together. After the first transports of\r\nthis short interview, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, who had found some more than\r\nordinary symptoms within her, acquainted her lover with it. She had\r\ninformed him of it before by a letter; and now having this\r\nopportunity to consult about it; they agreed that she should go to a\r\nsister of his in Britany, at whose house she might be privately\r\nbrought to bed. But before they parted, he endeavored to comfort her,\r\nand make her easy in this distress, by giving her assurances of\r\nmarriage. When \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e heard this proposal she peremptorily\r\nrejected it, and gave such reasons * for her refusal, as left \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nin the greatest astonishment.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e* See \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e letter to \u003ci\u003ePhilintus\u003c/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e\r\nfirst \u003ci\u003eLetter to Abelard\u003c/i\u003e.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIndeed a refusal of this nature is so extraordinary a thing, that\r\nperhaps another instance of it is not to be found in history. I\r\npersuade myself, therefore, that I shall not offend my reader, if I\r\nmake some few remarks upon it. It often happens, that the passion of\r\nlove stifles or over-rules the rebukes of conscience; but it is\r\nunusual for it to extinguish the sensibility of honour. I don\u0027t speak\r\nof persons of mean birth and no education; but for others, all young\r\nwomen, I suppose, who engage in love-intrigues, flatter themselves\r\nwith one of these views; either they hope they shall not prove with\r\nchild, or they shall conceal it from the world, or they shall get\r\nthemselves married. As for such as resolve to destroy the fruit of\r\ntheir amours, there are but few so void of all natural affections as\r\nto be capable of this greatest degree of barbarity. However, this\r\nshows plainly, that if Love tyrannizes sometimes, it is such a tyrant\r\nas leaves honour in possession of its rights. But \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e had\r\na passion so strong, that she was not at all concerned for her honour\r\nor reputation. She was overjoyed to find herself with child, and yet\r\nshe did her utmost not to be married. Never fore was so odd an\r\nexample as these two things made when put together. The first was\r\nvery extraordinary; and how many young women in the world would\r\nrather be married to a disagreeable husband than live in a state of\r\nreproach? They know the remedy is bad enough, and will cost them\r\ndear; but what signifies that, so long as the name of husband hides\r\nthe flaws made in their honour? But as for \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, she was\r\nnot so nice in this point. An excess of passion, never heard of\r\nbefore, made her chuse to be \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e mistress rather than\r\nhis wife. We shall see, in the course of this history, how firm she\r\nwas in this resolution, with what arguments she supported it, and how\r\nearnestly she persuaded her gallant to be of the same mind.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, who was willing to lose no time, least his dear\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e should fall into her uncle\u0027s hands, disguised her in\r\nthe habit of a nun, and sent her away with the greatest dispatch,\r\nhoping that after she was brought to bed, he should have more leisure\r\nto persuade her to marriage, by which they might screen themselves\r\nfrom the reproach which must otherwise come upon them, as soon as the\r\nbusiness should be publickly known.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs soon as \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e was set forward on her journey, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nresolved to make Fulbert a visit in order to appease him, if\r\npossible, and prevent the ill effects of his just indignation.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe news that \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e was privately withdrawn soon made a\r\ngreat noise in the neighbourhood; and reaching Fulbert\u0027s ears, filled\r\nhim with grief and melancholy. Besides, that he had a very tender\r\naffection for his niece, and could not live without her, he had the\r\nutmost resentment of the affront which \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e had put upon\r\nhim, by abusing the freedom he had allowed him. This fired him with\r\nsuch implacable fury, as in the end fell heavy upon our poor lovers,\r\nand had very dreadful consequences.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen Fulbert saw \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, and heard from him the reason why\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e was withdrawn, never was man in such a passion. He\r\nabandoned himself to the utmost distractions of rage, despair, and\r\nthirst of revenge. All the affronts, reproaches, and menaces that\r\ncould be thought of, were heaped upon \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e; who was, poor\r\nman, very passive, and ready to make the Canon all the satisfaction\r\nhe was able. He gave him leave to say what he pleased; and when he\r\nsaw that he tired himself with exclaiming, he took up the discourse,\r\nand ingenuously confess\u0027d his crime. Then he had recourse to all the\r\nprayers, submissions, and promises, he could invent; and begged of\r\nhim to consider the force of Love, and what foils this tyrant has\r\ngiven to the greatest men: that the occasion of the present\r\nmisfortunes was the most violent passion that ever was; that this\r\npassion continued still; and that he was ready to give both him and\r\nhis niece all the satisfaction which this sort of injury required.\r\nWill you marry her then? said Fulbert, interrupting him. Yes, replied\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, if you please, and she will consent. If I please!\r\nsaid the Canon, pausing a little; if she will consent! And do you\r\nquestion either? Upon this he was going to offer him his reasons,\r\nafter his hasty way, why they should be married: But \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nentreated him to suppress his passion a while, and hear what he had\r\nto offer: which was, that their marriage might for some time be kept\r\nsecret. No, says the Canon, the dishonor you have done my niece is\r\npublic, and the reparation you make her shall be so too, But \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\ntold him, that since they were to be one family, he hoped he would\r\nconsider his interest as his own. At last after a great many\r\nintreaties, Fulbert seemed content it should be as \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\ndesired; that he should marry \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e after she was brought to\r\nbed, and that in the mean time the business should be kept secret.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, having given his scholars a vacation, returned\r\ninto Britany to visit his designed spouse, and to acquaint her with\r\nwhat had passed. She was not at all concerned at her uncle\u0027s\r\ndispleasure; but that which troubled her was, the resolution which\r\nshe saw her lover had taken to marry her, She endeavoured to dissuade\r\nhim from it with all the arguments she could think of. She begun with\r\nrepresenting to him the wrong he did himself in thinking of marriage:\r\nthat as she never loved him but for his own sake, she preferred his\r\nglory, reputation, and interest, before her own. I know my uncle,\r\nsaid she, will never be pacified with any thing we can do, and what\r\nhonour shall I get by being your wife, when at the same time I\r\ncertainly ruin your reputation? What curse may I not justly fear,\r\nshould I rob the world of so eminent a person as you are? What an\r\ninjury shall I do the Church? how much shall I disoblige the learned?\r\nand what a shame and disparagement will it be to you, whom Nature has\r\nfitted for the public good, to devote yourself entirely to a wife?\r\nRemember what St. \u003ci\u003ePaul\u003c/i\u003e says, \u003ci\u003eArt thou loosed from a wife?\r\nseek not a wife.\u003c/i\u003e If neither this great man, not the fathers of\r\nthe church, can make you change your resolution, consider at least\r\nwhat your philosophers say of it. Socrates has proved, by many\r\narguments, that a wife man ought not to marry. Tully put away his\r\nwife Terentia; and when Hircius offered him his sister in marriage he\r\ntold him, he desired to be excused, because he could never bring\r\nhimself to divide his thoughts between his books and his wife. In\r\nshort, said she, how can the study of divinity and philosophy comport\r\nwith the cries of children, the songs of nurses, and all the hurry of\r\na family? What an odd fight will it be to see maids and scholars,\r\ndesks and cradles, books and distaffs, pens and spindles, one among\r\nanother? Those who are rich are never disturbed with the care and\r\ncharges of housekeeping; but with you scholars it is far otherwise*.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e* \u003ci\u003eHeloissa dehortabat me nuptiis. Nuptia non conveniunt cum\r\nphilosophia\u003c/i\u003e, \u0026amp;c. Oper. Abel. p 14.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHe that will get an estate must mind the affairs of the world, and\r\nconsequently is taken off from the study of divinity and philosophy.\r\nObserve the conduct of the wife Pagans in this point, who preferred a\r\nsingle life before marriage, and be ashamed that you cannot come up\r\nto them. Be more careful to maintain the character and dignity of a\r\nphilosopher. Don\u0027t you know, that there is no action of life which\r\ndraws after it so sure and long a repentance, and to so little\r\npurpose? You fancy to yourself the enjoyments you shall have in being\r\nbound to me by a bond which nothing but death can break: but know\r\nthere is no such thing as sweet chains; and there is a thousand times\r\nmore glory, honour, and pleasure, in keeping firm to an union which\r\nlove alone has established, which is supported by mutual esteem and\r\nmerit, and which owes its continuance to nothing but the satisfaction\r\nof seeing each other free. Shall the laws and customs which the gross\r\nand carnal world has invented hold us together more surely than the\r\nbonds of mutual affection? Take my word for it, you\u0027ll see me too\r\noften when you see me ev\u0027ry day: you\u0027ll have no value for my love nor\r\nfavours when they are due to you, and cost you no care. Perhaps you\r\ndon\u0027t think of all this at present; but you\u0027ll think of nothing else\r\nwhen it will be too late. I don\u0027t take notice what the world will\r\nsay, to see a man in your circumstances get him a wife, and so throw\r\naway your reputation, your fortune and your quiet. In short,\r\ncontinued she, the quality of mistress is a hundred times more\r\npleasing to me than that of a wife. Custom indeed, has given a\r\ndignity to this latter name, and we are imposed upon by it; but\r\nHeaven is my witness, I had rather be \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e mistress than\r\nlawful wife to the Emperor of the whole world. I am very sure I shall\r\nalways prefer your advantage and satisfaction before my own honour,\r\nand all the reputation, wealth, and enjoyments, which the most\r\nsplendid marriage could bring me. Thus \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e argued, and\r\nadded a great many more reasons, which I forbear to relate, lest I\r\nshould tire my reader. It is enough for him to know, that they are\r\nchiefly grounded upon her preference of love to marriage, and liberty\r\nto necessity.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe might therefore suppose that \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e was afraid lest\r\nmarriage should prove the tomb of love. The Count de Buffi, who\r\npasses for the translator of some of her Letters, makes this to be\r\nher meaning, though cloathed in delicate language. But if we examine\r\nthose which she writ to \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e after their separation, and\r\nthe expressions she uses to put him in mind, that he was indebted for\r\nthe passion she had for him to nothing but love itself, we must allow\r\nthat she had more refined notions, and that never woman was so\r\ndisinterested. She loved \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e \u0027tis true; but she declared\r\nit was not his sex that she most valued in him.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSome authors * are of opinion, that it was not an excess of love\r\nwhich made \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e press \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e to marriage, but only\r\nto quiet his conscience: but how can any one tell his reasons for\r\nmarriage better than he himself? Others say † that if \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e\r\ndid really oppose \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e design of marrying her so\r\nearnestly, it was not because she thought better of concubinage than\r\na married life, but because her affection and respect for her lover\r\nleading her to seek his honour and advantage in all things, she was\r\nafraid that by marrying him she should stand between him and a\r\nbishoprick, which his wit and learning well deserved. But there is no\r\nsuch thing in her Letters, nor in the long account which \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nhas left us of the arguments which his mistress used to dissuade him\r\nfrom marriage. These are the faults of many authors, who put such\r\nwords in the mouths of persons as are most conformable to their own\r\nideas. It is often more advantageous, that a woman should leave her\r\nlover free for church dignities, than render him incapable of them by\r\nmarriage: but is it just therefore to suppose that \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e had\r\nany such motives? There is indeed a known story of a man that was\r\npossessed of a prebend, and quitted it for a wife. The day after the\r\nwedding, he said to his bride, My dear, consider how passionately I\r\nloved you, since I lost my preferment to marry you. You have done a\r\nvery foolish thing, said she; you might have kept that, and have had\r\nme notwithstanding.\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e* \u003ci\u003eD\u0027ctionnaire de Moreri \u003c/i\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e†\r\n\u003ci\u003eFran. d\u0027Amboise. \u003c/i\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut to return to our lovers. A modern author, who well understood\r\nhuman nature, has affirmed, \"That women by the favours they\r\ngrant to men, grow she fonder of them; but, on the contrary, the men\r\ngrow more indifferent*.\" This is not always true, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nwas not the less enamoured with \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e after she had given\r\nhim the utmost proofs of her love; and their familiarity was so far\r\nfrom having abated his flame, that it seems all the eloquence of\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e could not persuade \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e that he wronged\r\nhimself in thinking to marry her. He admired the wit, the passion,\r\nand the ingenuity of his mistress, but in these things he did not\r\ncome short of her. He knew so well how to represent to her the\r\nnecessity of marriage, the discourse which he had about it with\r\nFulbert, his rage if they declined it, and how dangerous it might be\r\nto both of them, that at last she consented to do whatever he\r\npleased: but still with an inconceivable reluctance, which showed\r\nthat she yielded for no other reason but the fear of disobliging him.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e* \u003ci\u003eM. de la Bruyere. \u003c/i\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e was willing to be near his mistress till she was\r\nbrought to bed, which in a short time she was of a boy. As soon as\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e was fit to go abroad, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e carried her to\r\nParis, where they were married in the most private manner that could\r\nbe, having no other company but Fulbert, and two or three particular\r\nfriends. However, the wedding quickly came to be known. The news of\r\nit was already whispered about; people soon began to talk of it more\r\nopenly, till at last they mentioned it to the married pair.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFulbert who was less concerned to keep his word than to cover the\r\nreproach of his family, took care to spread it abroad. But \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nwho loved \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e a thousand times better than she did\r\nherself, and always valued her dear Doctor\u0027s honour above her own,\r\ndenied it with the most solemn protestations, and did all she could\r\nto make the world believe her. She constantly affirmed, that the\r\nreports of it were mere slanders; that \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e never proposed\r\nany such thing; and if he had, she would never have consented to it.\r\nIn short, she denied it so constantly, and with such earnestness,\r\nthat she was generally believed. Many people thought, and boldly\r\naffirmed, that the Doctor\u0027s enemies had spread this story on purpose\r\nto lessen his character. This report came to Fulbert\u0027s ears, who,\r\nknowing that \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e was the sole author of it, fell into so\r\noutrageous a passion at her, that after a thousand reproaches and\r\nmenaces, he proceeded to use her barbarously. But \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, who\r\nloved her never the worse for being his wife, could not see this many\r\ndays with patience. He resolved therefore to order matters so as to\r\ndeliver her from this state of persecution. To this purpose they\r\nconsulted together what course was to be taken; and agreed, that for\r\nsetting them both free, her from the power and ill-humour of her\r\nuncle, and him from the persecuting reports which went about of him,\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e should retire into a convent, where she should take\r\nthe habit of a nun, all but the veil, that so she might easily come\r\nout again, when they should have a more favourable opportunity. This\r\ndesign was proposed, approved, and executed, almost at the same time.\r\nBy this means they effectually put a stop to all reports about a\r\nmarriage. But the Canon was too dangerous a person to be admitted to\r\nthis consultation; he would never have agreed to their proposal; nor\r\ncould he hear of it without the utmost rage. \u0027Twas then that he\r\nconceived a new desire of revenge, which he pursued till he had\r\nexecuted it in the most cruel manner imaginable. This retreat of\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e gave him the more sensible affliction, because she was\r\nso far from covering her own reputation, that she completed his\r\nshame. He considered it as \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e’s contrivance, and a\r\nfresh instance of his perfidious dealing towards him. And this\r\nreflection put him upon studying how to be revenged on them both at\r\none stroke; which, aiming at the root of the mischief, should forever\r\ndisable them from offending again.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhile this plot was in agitation, the lovers, who were not apt to\r\ntrouble their heads about what might happen, spent their time in the\r\nmost agreeable manner that could be. \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e could not live\r\nlong without a sight of his dear wife. He made her frequent visits in\r\nthe convent of Argenteuil, to which she was retired. The nuns of this\r\nabbey enjoyed a very free kind of life: the grates and parlours were\r\nopen enough. As for \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, she had such excellent\r\nqualifications as made the good sisters very fond of her, and\r\nextremely pleased that they had such an amiable companion. And as\r\nthey were not ignorant what reports there were abroad, that she was\r\nmarried to the famous \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, (though she denied it to the\r\nlast,) the most discerning among them, observing the frequent visits\r\nof the Doctor, easily imagined that she had reasons for keeping\r\nherself private, and so they took her case into consideration, and\r\nexpressed a wonderful compassion for her misfortunes.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSome of them, whom \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e loved above the rest, and in\r\nwhom she put great confidence, were not a little aiding and assisting\r\nin the private interviews which she had with \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, and in\r\ngiving him opportunities to enter the convent. The amorous Doctor\r\nmade the best use of every thing. The habit which \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e wore\r\nthe place where he was to see her, the time and seasons proper for\r\nhis visit, the stratagems which must be used to facilitate his\r\nentrance, and carry him undiscovered to \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e chamber, the\r\ndifficulties they met with, the reasons they had for not letting it\r\nbe known who they were, and the fear they were in of being taken\r\ntogether; all this gave their amours an air of novelty, and added to\r\ntheir lawful embraces all the taste of stolen delights.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThese excesses had then their charms, but in the end had fatal\r\nconsequences. The furious Canon persisting in his design of being\r\nrevenged on \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, notwithstanding his marriage with his\r\nniece, found means to corrupt a domestic of the unfortunate Doctor,\r\nwho gave admittance into his master\u0027s chamber to some assassins hired\r\nby Fulbert, who seized him in his sleep, and cruelly deprived him of\r\nhis manhood, but not his life. The servant and his accomplices fled\r\nfor it. The wretched \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e raised such terrible outcries,\r\nthat the people in the house and the neighbours being alarmed,\r\nhastened to him, and gave such speedy assistance, that he was soon\r\nout of a condition of fearing death.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe news of this accident made great noise, and its singularity\r\nraised the curiosity of abundance of persons, who came the next day\r\nas in procession, to see, to lament and comfort him. His scholars\r\nloudly bewailed his misfortune, and the women distinguished\r\nthemselves upon this occasion by extraordinary marks of tenderness.\r\nAnd \u0027tis probable among the great number of ladies who pitied\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, there were some with whom he had been very intimate:\r\nfor his philosophy did not make him scrupulous enough to esteem every\r\nsmall infidelity a crime, when it did not lessen his constant love of\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis action of Fulbert was too tragical to pass unpunished: the\r\ntraiterous servant and one of the assassins were seized and condemned\r\nto lose their eyes, and to suffer what they had done to \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e.\r\nBut Fulbert denying he had any share in the action saved himself from\r\nthe punishment with the loss only of his benefices. This sentence did\r\nnot satisfy \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e; he made his complaint to no purpose to\r\nthe bishop and canons; and if he had made a remonstrance at Rome,\r\nwhere he once had a design of carrying the matter, \u0027tis probable he\r\nwould have had no better success. It requires too much money to gain\r\na cause there. One \u003ci\u003eFoulques\u003c/i\u003e, prior of Deuil, and intimate\r\nfriend of \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, wrote thus to him upon the occasion of his\r\nmisfortune: \"If you appeal to the Pope without bringing an\r\nimmense sum of money, it will be useless: nothing can satisfy the\r\ninfinite avarice and luxury of the Romans. I question if you have\r\nenough for such an undertaking; and if you attempt it, nothing will\r\nperhaps remain but the vexation of having flung away so much money.\r\nThey who go to Rome without large sums to squander away, will return\r\njust as they went, the expence of their journey only excepted*.\"\r\nBut since I am upon Foulques\u0027s letters which is too extraordinary to\r\nbe passed over in silence, I shall give the reader some reflections\r\nwhich may make him amends for the trouble of a new digression.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e* \u003ci\u003eThis Letter is extant in\u003c/i\u003e Latin \u003ci\u003ein \u003c/i\u003eAbelard\u0027s\r\n\u003ci\u003eWorks\u003c/i\u003e.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis friend of \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e lays before him many advantages\r\nwhich might be drawn from his misfortune. He tells him his\r\nextraordinary talents, subtilty, eloquence and learning had drawn\r\nfrom all parts an incredible number of auditors, and so filled him\r\nwith excessive vanity: he hints gently at another thing, which\r\ncontributed not a little towards making him proud, namely, that the\r\nwomen continually followed him, and gloried in drawing him into their\r\nsnares. This misfortune, therefore, would cure him of his pride, and\r\nfree him from those snares of women which had reduced him even to\r\nindigence, tho\u0027 his profession got him a large revenue; and now he\r\nwould never impoverish himself by his gallantries.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e herself, in some passages of her \u003ci\u003eLetters\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nsays, that there was neither maid nor wife †, who in \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e\r\nabsence did not form designs for him, and in his presence was not\r\ninflamed with love: the queens themselves, and ladies of the first\r\nquality, envied the pleasures she enjoyed with him. But we are not to\r\ntake these words of \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e in a strict sense; because as she\r\nloved \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e to madness, so she imagined every one else did.\r\nBesides, that report, to be sure, hath added to the truth. It is not\r\nat all probable that a man of \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e sense, and who\r\naccording to all appearance passionately loved his wife, should not\r\nbe able to contain himself within some bounds, but should squander\r\naway all his money upon mistresses, even to his not reserving what\r\nwas sufficient to provide for his necessities. Foulques owns, that he\r\nspeaks only upon hearsay, and in that, no doubt, envy, and jealousy\r\nhad their part.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e† \u003ci\u003eQua\r\nconjugata, que virgo non concupiscebat absentem, \u0026amp; non\r\nexardescebat in presentem? Qua regina, vel prapotens foemina gaudiis\r\nmeis non invidebat, vel thalamis?\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFoulques tells him besides, that the amputation of a part of his\r\nbody, of which he made such ill use, would suppress at the same time\r\na great many troublesome passions, and procure him liberty of\r\nreflecting on himself, instead of being hurried to and fro by his\r\npassions: his meditations would be no more interrupted by the\r\nemotions of the flesh, and therefore he would be more successful in\r\ndiscovering the secrets of Nature. He reckons it as a great advantage\r\nto him, that he would no more be the terror of husbands, and might\r\nnow lodge any where without being suspected. And forgets not to\r\nacquaint him, that he might converse with the finest women without\r\nany fear of those temptations which sometimes overpower even age\r\nitself upon the sight of such objects. And, lastly, he would have the\r\nhappiness of being exempt from the illusions of sleep; which\r\nexemption, according to him is a peculiar blessing.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt was with reason that Foulques reckons all these as advantages\r\nvery extraordinary in the life of an ecclesiastick. It is easy to\r\nobserve, that, to a person who devotes himself to continence, nothing\r\ncan be more happy than to be insensible to beauty and love, for they\r\nwho cannot maintain their chastity but by continual combats are very\r\nunhappy. The life of such persons is uneasy, their state always\r\ndoubtful. They but too much feel the trouble of their warfare; and if\r\nthey come off victorious in an engagement, it is often with a great\r\nmany wounds. Even such of them as in a retired life are at the\r\ngreatest distance from temptations, by continually struggling with\r\ntheir inclinations, setting barriers against the irruptions of the\r\nflesh, are in a miserable condition. Their entrenchments are often\r\nforced, and their conscience filled with sorrow and anxiety. What\r\nprogress might one make in the ways of virtue, who is not obliged to\r\nfight an enemy for every foot of ground? Had \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e\r\nmisfortune made him indeed such as Foulques supposed, we should see\r\nhim in his \u003ci\u003eLetters\u003c/i\u003e express his motives of comfort with a\r\nbetter grace. But though he now was in a condition not able to\r\nsatisfy a passion by which he had suffered so much, yet was he not\r\ninsensible at the sight of those objects which once gave him so much\r\npleasure. This discourse therefore of Foulques, far from comforting\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e in his affliction, seems capable of producing the\r\ncontrary effect; and it is astonishing if \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e did not take\r\nit so, and think he rather insulted him, and consequently resent it.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs to dreams, St. Austin informs us of the advantage Foulques\r\ntells his friend he had gained. St. Austin implores the grace of God\r\nto deliver him from this sort of weakness, and says, he gave consent\r\nto those things in his sleep which he should abominate awake, and\r\nlaments exceedingly so great a regaining weakness.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut let us go on with this charitable friend\u0027s letter; it hath too\r\nnear a relation to this to leave any part of it untouched.\r\nMatrimonial functions (continues Foulques) and the cares of a family,\r\nwill not now hinder your application to please God. And what a\r\nhappiness is it, not to be in a capacity of sinning? And then he\r\nbrings the examples of Origen, and other martyrs, who rejoice now in\r\nheaven for their being upon earth in the condition \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nlaments; as if the impossibility of committing a sin could secure any\r\none from desiring to do it. But one of the greatest motives of\r\ncomfort, and one upon which he insists the most is, because his\r\nmisfortune is irreparable. This is indeed true in fact, but the\r\nconsequence of his reasoning is not so certain; \u003ci\u003eAfflict not\r\nyourself\u003c/i\u003e (says he) \u003ci\u003ebecause your misfortune is of such a nature\r\nas is never to be repaired.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt must be owned, that the general topics of consolation have two\r\nfaces, and may therefore be considered very differently, even so as\r\nto seem arguments for sorrow. As for instance, one might argue very\r\njustly, that a mother should not yield too much to grief upon the\r\nloss of a son, because her tears are unavailable; and tho\u0027 she should\r\nkill herself with sorrow, she can never, by these means, bring her\r\nson to life. Yet this very thing, that all she can do is useless, is\r\nthe main occasion of her grief; she could bear it patiently, could\r\nshe any ways retrieve her loss. When Solon lamented the death of his\r\nson, and some friend, by way of comfort, told him his tears were\r\ninsignificant. \u003ci\u003eThat\u003c/i\u003e, said he, \u003ci\u003eis the very reason why I\r\nweep\u003c/i\u003e.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut Foulques argues much better afterwards; he says, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\ndid not suffer this in the commission of an ill act, but sleeping\r\npeaceably in his bed; that is he was not caught in any open fact,\r\nsuch has cost others the like loss. This is indeed a much better\r\ntopic than the former, though it must be allowed that \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nhad drawn this misfortune on himself by a crime as bad as adultery;\r\nyet the fault was over, and he had made all the reparation in his\r\npower, and when they maimed him he thought no harm to any body.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e friend makes use likewise of other consolatory\r\nreasons in his Letter, and represents to him, after a very moving\r\nmanner, the part which the Bishop and Canons, and all the\r\nEcclesiasticks of Paris, took in his disgrace, and the mourning there\r\nwas among the inhabitants and especially the women, upon this\r\noccasion. But, in this article of consolation, how comes it to pass\r\nthat he makes no mention of \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e? This ought not to appear\r\nstrange: she was the most injured, and therefore questionless, her\r\nsorrows were sufficiently known to him; and it would be no news to\r\ntell the husband that his wife was in the utmost affliction for him.\r\nFor as we observed before, though she was in a convent, she had not\r\nrenounced her husband, and those frequent visits he made her were not\r\nspent in reading homilies. But let us make an end of our reflections\r\non Foulques\u0027s curious Letter, Foulques, after advising \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nnot to think of carrying the matter before the Pope, by assuring him\r\nthat it required too great expence to obtain any satisfaction at that\r\ncourt, concludes all with this last motive of consolation, that the\r\nimagined happiness he had lost was always accompanied with abundance\r\nof vexation; but if he persevered in his spirit of resignation, he\r\nwould, without doubt, at the last day obtain that justice he had now\r\nfailed of. \u0027Tis great pity we have not \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e answer to\r\nthis delicate Letter, the matter then would look like one of Job\u0027s\r\nDialogues with his friends. \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e would generally have\r\nenough to reply, and Foulques would often be but a sorry comforter.\r\nHowever, it is certain this Letter was of some weight with \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e;\r\nfor we find afterwards he never thought of making a voyage to Rome.\r\nResolved to hear his calamity patiently, he left to God the avenging\r\nof the cruel and shameful abuse he had suffered.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut let us return to \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e. \u0027Tis probable her friends of\r\nthe convent of Argenteuil concealed so heavy a misfortune from her\r\nfor some time; but at last she heard the fatal news. Though the rage\r\nand fury of her uncle threatened her long since with some punishment,\r\nyet could she never suspect any thing of this nature. It will be\r\nsaying too little to tell the reader she felt all the shame and\r\nsorrow that is possible. She only can express those violent emotions\r\nof her soul upon so severe an occasion.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn all probability this misfortune of \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e would have\r\nbeen a thorough cure of her passion, if we might argue from like\r\ncases: but there is no rule so general as not to admit of some\r\nexceptions; and \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e love upon this severe trial proved\r\nlike Queen Stratonice\u0027s, who was not less passionate for her\r\nfavourite Combabus, when she discovered his impotence, than she had\r\nbeen before.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eShame and sorrow had not less seized \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e than \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nnor dared he ever appear in the world; so that he resolved,\r\nimmediately upon his cure, to banish himself from the sight of men,\r\nand hide himself in the darkness of a monastick life avoiding all\r\nconversation with any kind of persons excepting his dear \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nby whose company he endeavoured to comfort himself. But she at last\r\nresolved to follow his example, and continue forever in the convent\r\nof Argenteuil where she was. \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e himself confesses, that\r\nshame rather than devotion had made him take the habit of a monk; and\r\nthat it was jealousy more than love which engaged him to persuade\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e to be professed before he had made his vow. The\r\nLetters which follow this history will inform us after what manner\r\nand with what resolution they separated. \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e in the\r\ntwenty-second year of her age generously quitted the world, and\r\nrenounced all those pleasures she might reasonably have promised\r\nherself, to sacrifice herself entirely to the fidelity and obedience\r\nshe owed her husband, and to procure him that ease of mind which he\r\nsaid he could no otherwise hope for.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTime making \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e misfortune familiar to him, he now\r\nentertained thoughts of ambition, and of supporting the reputation he\r\nhad gained of the most learned man of the age. He began with\r\nexplaining the \u003ci\u003eActs of the Apostles\u003c/i\u003e to the monks of the\r\nmonastery of St. \u003ci\u003eDennis\u003c/i\u003e to which he had retired; but the\r\ndisorders of the abbey, and debauchees of the Abbot, which equally\r\nwith his dignity, were superior to those of the simple monks, quickly\r\ndrove him hence. He had made himself uneasy to them by censuring\r\ntheir irregularity. They were glad to part with him, and he to leave\r\nthem.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs soon as he had obtained leave of the Abbot, he retired to\r\nThinbaud in Champaign, where he set up a school, persuading himself\r\nthat his reputation would bring him a great number of scholars. And\r\nindeed they flocked to him, not only from the most distant provinces\r\nof Prance, but also from Rome, Spain, England, and Germany, in such\r\nnumber, that the towns could not provide accommodation, nor the\r\ncountry provisions, enough for them*, But \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e did not\r\nforesee, that this success and reputation would at the same time\r\noccasion him new troubles. He had made himself two considerable\r\nenemies at Laon, Alberic of Rheims, and Lotulf of Lombardy, who, as\r\nsoon as they perceived how prejudicial his reputation was to their\r\nschools, sought all occasions to ruin him; and thought they had a\r\nlucky handle to do so from a book of his, intituled, \u003ci\u003eThe Mystery\r\nof the Trinity\u003c/i\u003e. This they pretended was heretical, and through\r\nthe Archbishop’s means they procured a council at Soissons in\r\nthe year 1121; and without suffering \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e to make any\r\ndefence, ordered his book to be burnt by his own hands, and himself\r\nto be confined to the convent of St. Medard. This sentence gave him\r\nsuch grief, that he says himself, the unhappy fate of his writing\r\ntouched him more sensibly than the misfortune he had suffered through\r\nFulbert\u0027s means. Nor was it only his fatherly concern for his own\r\nproductions, but the indelible mark of heresy which by this means was\r\nfixed on him, which so exceedingly troubled him.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e* \u003ci\u003eAd quas scholas tanta scholarium multitudo confluxit ut nec\r\nlocus hospitiis, nec terra sufficeret alimentis.\u003c/i\u003e Abel.\r\nOper. p. 19\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat the curious reader may have a complete knowledge of this\r\nmatter, I shall here give an account of that pretended heresy which\r\nwas imputed to \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e. The occasion of his writing this book\r\nwas, that his scholars demanded * philosophical arguments on that\r\nsubject; often urging that it was impossible to believe what was not\r\nunderstood; that it was to abuse the world, to preach a doctrine\r\nequally unintelligible to the speaker and auditor; and that it was\r\nfor the blind to lead the blind. These young men were certainly\r\ninclined to Sabellinism. \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e enemies however did not\r\naccuse him of falling into this, but another heresy as bad,\r\nTritheism; though indeed he was equally free from both: he explained\r\nthe unity of the Godhead by comparisons drawn from human things but\r\naccording to a passage of St. Bernard†, one of his greatest\r\nenemies, he seemed to hold, that no one ought to believe what he\r\ncould not give a reason for. However \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e treatise upon\r\nthis subject pleased every one except those of his own profession,\r\nwho, stung with envy that he should find out explanations which they\r\ncould not have thought of, raised such a cry of heresy upon him, that\r\nhe and some of his scholars had like to have been stoned by the mob‡.\r\nBy their powerful cabals they prevailed with Conan bishop of Preneste,\r\nthe Pope\u0027s legate, who was president of the council, to condemn his\r\nbook, pretending that he asserted three Gods, which they might easily\r\nsuggest, when he was suffered to make no defence. \u0027Tis certain he was\r\nvery orthodox in the doctrine of the Trinity; and all this process\r\nagainst him was only occasioned by the malice of his enemies. His\r\nlogical comparison (and logic was his masterpiece) proved rather the\r\nthree Divine Persons One, than multiplied the Divine Nature into\r\nThree. His comparison is, that as the three proportions * in a\r\nsyllogism are but one truth, so the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, are\r\nbut one Essence; and it is certain the inconveniences which may be\r\ndrawn from this parallel are not more than what may be drawn from the\r\ncomparison of the three dimensions of solids, so much insisted on by\r\nthe famous orthodox mathematician Dr. Wallis of England. But great\r\nnumbers of pious and learned divines, who have not been over-subtile\r\nin politics, have been persecuted and condemned as well as \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nby the ignorance and malice of their brethren.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e* \u003ci\u003eHumanas \u0026amp; philosophicas rationes requirebant. \u0026amp; plus\r\nquae inteligi, quam quae dici poffenter, efflagitabant.\u003c/i\u003e Abel\r\nOp.\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e†\r\n\u003ci\u003eBenardi Epist.\u003c/i\u003e 190.\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e‡ \u003ci\u003eIta\r\nme in clero \u0026amp; populo diffamaverunt, ut pene me populos paucosque\r\nqui advenerant ex discipulis nostris prima die nostri anventus\r\nlapidarent; dicentes me tres Deos praedicare \u0026amp; scripsisse, sicut\r\nipsis persuasum fuerat. \u003c/i\u003e Abel\r\nOper. p. 20. \u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e* \u003ci\u003eSicut eadem oratio est, propositio, assumptio \u0026amp;\r\nconuclusio, ita eadem Essentia est Pater, Filius, and Spiritus\r\nSanctis. \u003c/i\u003e Ibid.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA little after his condemnation, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e was ordered to\r\nreturn to St. Dennis. The liberty he had taken to censure the vicious\r\nlives of the monks had raised him a great many enemies. Amongst these\r\nwas St. Bernard, not upon the same motives as those monks, but\r\nbecause \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e great wit, joined with so loose and sensual\r\na life, gave him jealousy, who thought it impossible the heart should\r\nbe defiled without the head being likewise tainted.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eScarce had he returned to St. Dennis, when one day he dropped some\r\nwords, intimating he did not believe that the St. Dennis their patron\r\nwas the Areopagite mentioned in the Scripture, there being no\r\nprobability that he ever was in France. This was immediately carried\r\nto the Abbot, who was full of joy, that he had now a handle to\r\nheighten the accusations of heresy against him with some crime\r\nagainst the state; a method frequently used by this sort of gentlemen\r\nto make sure their revenge. In those times, too, the contradicting\r\nthe notions of the monks was enough to prove a man an atheist,\r\nheretic, rebel, or any thing; learning signified nothing. If any one\r\nof a clearer head and larger capacity had the misfortune to be\r\nsuspected of novelty, there was no way to avoid the general\r\npersecution of the monks but voluntarily banishing himself. The Abbot\r\nimmediately assembled all the house, and declared he would deliver up\r\nto the secular power a person who had dared to reflect upon the\r\nhonour of the kingdom and of the crown. \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e very rightly\r\njudging that such threatenings were not to be despised, fled by night\r\nto Champaign, to a cloister of the monks of Troies, and there\r\npatiently waited till the storm should be over. After the death of\r\nthis Abbot, which, very luckily for him happened soon after his\r\nflight, he obtained leave to live where he pleased, though it was not\r\nwithout using some cunning. He knew the monks of so rich a house had\r\nfallen into great excesses, and were very obnoxious to the court, who\r\nwould not fail to make their profit of it: he therefore procured it\r\nshould be represented to his council as very disadvantageous to his\r\nMajesty’s interest, that a person who was continually censuring\r\nthe lives of his brethren should continue any longer with them. This\r\nwas immediately understood, and orders given to some great men at\r\ncourt to demand of the Abbot and monks why they kept a person in\r\ntheir house whose conduct was so disagreeable to them; and, far from\r\nbeing an ornament to the society, was a continual vexation, by\r\npublishing their faults? This being very opportunely moved to the new\r\nAbbot, he gave \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e leave to retire to what cloister he\r\npleased.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, who indeed had all the qualities which make a\r\ngreat man, could not however bear, without repining, the numerous\r\nmisfortunes with which he saw himself embarrassed, and had frequent\r\nthoughts of publishing a manifesto to justify himself from the\r\nscandalous imputations his enemies had laid upon him and to undeceive\r\nthose whom their malice had prejudiced against him. But upon cooler\r\nthought he determined, that it was better to say nothing and to shew\r\nthem by his silence how unworthy he thought them of his anger. Thus\r\nbeing rather enraged than troubled at the injuries he had suffered,\r\nhe resolved to found a new society, consisting chiefly of monks. To\r\nthis purpose he chose a solitude in the diocese of Troies, and upon\r\nsome ground which was given by permission of the Bishop, he built a\r\nlittle house and a chapel, which he dedicated to the most Holy\r\nTrinity.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eMen of learning were then scarce, and the desire of science was\r\nbeginning to spread itself. Our exile was inquired after and found;\r\nscholars crowded to him from all parts: they built little huts, and\r\nwere very liberal to their master for his lectures; content to live\r\non herbs, and roots, and water, that they might have the advantage of\r\nlearning from so extraordinary a man; and with great zeal they\r\nenlarged the chapel building that and their professor\u0027s house with\r\nwood and stone.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eUpon this occasion \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, to continue the memory of the\r\ncomfort he had received in this desart, dedicated his new built\r\nchapel to the Holy Ghost, by the name of the Paraclete, or Comforter.\r\nThe envy of Alberic and Lotulf, which had long since persecuted him,\r\nwas strangely revived, upon seeing so many scholars flock to him from\r\nall parts, notwithstanding the inconvenience of the place, and in\r\ncontempt of the masters who might so commodiously be found in the\r\ntowns and cities.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThey now more than ever sought occasion to trouble him; the name\r\nof Paraclete furnished them with one. They gave out that this novelty\r\nwas a consequence of his former heresy, and that it was no more\r\nlawful to dedicate churches to the Holy Ghost than to God the Father:\r\nthat this title was a subtile art of instilling that poison which he\r\ndurst not spread openly, and a consequence of his heretical doctrine\r\nwhich had been condemned already by a council. This report raised a\r\ngreat clamour among numbers of people, whom his enemies employed on\r\nall sides. But the persecution grew more terrible when St. Bernard\r\nand St. Norbet declared against him; two great zealots, fired with\r\nthe spirit of Reformation, and who declared themselves restorers of\r\nthe primitive discipline, and had wonderfully gained upon the\r\naffections of the populace. They spread such scandal against him that\r\nthey prejudiced his principal friends, and forced those who still\r\nloved him not to shew it any ways; and upon these accounts made his\r\nlife so bitter to him that he was upon the point of leaving\r\nChristendom*. But his unhappiness would not let him do a thing which\r\nmight have procur\u0027d his ease; but made him still continue with\r\nChristians, and with monks (as himself expresses it) worse than\r\nHeathens†.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e* \u003ci\u003eSaepe autem (Deus scit) in tantam lapsus sum desperationem ut\r\nChristianorum finibus excessis, ad Gentes transire disponerem, atque\r\nibi quiete sub quacunque tributi pactione inter inimicos Christi\r\nchristiane vivere.\u003c/i\u003e Abel Op. p. 32.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e† \u003ci\u003eIncedi in\r\nChristianos atque monachos Gentibus longe saeviores atque pejores.\u003c/i\u003e\r\n Abel Op. p. 20.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Duke of Britany, informed of his misfortunes, and of the\r\nbarbarity of his enemies, named him to the abbey of St. Gildas, in\r\nthe diocese of Vannes, at the desire of the monks who had already\r\nelected him for their superior. Here he thought he had found a refuge\r\nfrom the rage of his enemies, but in reality he had only changed one\r\ntrouble for another. The profligate lives of the monks, and the\r\narbitrariness of a lord, who had deprived them of the greater part of\r\ntheir revenues, so that they were obliged to maintain their\r\nmistresses and children at their own private expence, occasioned him\r\na thousand vexations and dangers. They several times endeavoured to\r\npoison him in his ordinary diet, but proving unsuccessful that way,\r\nthey cried to do it in the holy sacrament. Excommunications, with\r\nwhich he threatened the most mutinous, did not abate the disorder. He\r\nnow feared the poniard more than poison, and compared his case to his\r\nwhom the tyrant of Saracuse caused to be seated at his table, with a\r\nsword hanging over him, fastened only by a thread.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhilst \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e thus suffered in his abbey by his monks, the\r\nnuns of Argenteuil, of whom \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e was prioress, grew so\r\nlicentious, that Sugger, abbot of Dennis, taking advantage of their\r\nirregularities, got possession of their monastery. He sent the\r\noriginal writings to Rome; and having obtained the answer he desired,\r\nhe expelled the nuns, and established in their place monks of his\r\norder.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSome censorious people upon reading this passage, will be apt to\r\nentertain strong suspicions of \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, and judge it probable\r\nthat a governor does not behave well when dissoluteness is known to\r\nreign in the society. I have never read that she was included by name\r\nin the general scandal of the society, and therefore am cautious not\r\nto bring any accusations against her. Our Saviour says, \u003ci\u003eNo one\r\nhath condemned thee, neither do I condemn thee.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, at her departure from the convent of Argenteuil,\r\napplied to her husband; who by permission of the Bishop Troies, gave\r\nher the house and chapel of the \u003ci\u003eParaclete\u003c/i\u003e, with its\r\nappendages; and placing there some nuns, founded a nunnery. Pope\r\nInnocent II. confirmed this donation in the year 1131. This is the\r\norigin of the abbey of the \u003ci\u003eParaclete\u003c/i\u003e, of which \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e\r\nwas the first abbess. Whatever her conduct was among the licentious\r\nnuns of Argenteuil, it is certain she lived so regular in this her\r\nnew and last retreat, and behaved herself with that prudence, zeal,\r\nand piety, that she won the hearts of all the world, and in a small\r\ntime had abundance of donations. \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e himself says she had\r\nmore in one year than he could have expected all his life, had he\r\nlived there. The bishops loved her as their child, the abbesses as\r\ntheir sister, and the world as their mother. It must be owned some\r\nwomen have had wonderful talents for exciting Christian charity. The\r\nabbesses which succeeded \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e have often been of the\r\ngreatest families in the kingdom. There is a list of them in the\r\n\u003ci\u003eNotes\u003c/i\u003e of \u003ci\u003eAndrew du Chene\u003c/i\u003e upon \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e works,\r\nfrom the time of the foundation in 1130, to 1615; but he has not\r\nthought fit to take notice of Jane Cabot, who died the 25th of June\r\n1593, and professed the Protestant religion, yet without marrying, or\r\nquitting her habit, though she was driven from her abbey.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAfter \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e had settled \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e here, he made\r\nfrequent journies from Britany to Champaign, to take care of the\r\ninterest of this rising house, and to ease himself from the vexations\r\nof his own abbey. But slander so perpetually followed this unhappy\r\nman, that though his present condition was universally known, he was\r\nreproached with a remaining voluptuous passion for his former\r\nmistress. He complains of his hard usage in one of his Letters; but\r\ncomforts himself by the example of St. Jerom, whose friendship with\r\nPaula occasioned scandal too; and therefore he entirely confuted this\r\ncalumny, by remarking that even the most jealous commit their wives\r\nto the custody of eunuchs.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe thing which gives the greatest handle to suspect \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e\r\nprudence, and that \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e did not think himself safe with\r\nher, is his making a resolution to separate himself forever from her.\r\nDuring his being employed in establishing this new nunnery, and in\r\nordering their affairs, as well temporal as spiritual, he was\r\ndiligent in persuading her, by frequent and pious admonitions, to\r\nsuch a separation; and insisted, that in order to make their\r\nretirement and penitence more profitable, it was absolutely necessary\r\nthey should seriously endeavour to forget each other, and for the\r\nfuture think on nothing but God. When he had given her directions for\r\nher own conduct, and rules for the management of the nuns, he took\r\nhis last leave of her and returned to his abbey in Britany where he\r\ncontinued a long time without her hearing any mention of him.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBy chance, a letter he wrote to one of his friends, to comfort him\r\nunder some disgrace, wherein he had given him a long account of all\r\nthe persecutions he himself had suffered, fell into Heloise’s\r\nhands. She knew by the superscription from whom it came, and her\r\ncuriosity made her open it. The reading the particulars of a story\r\nshe was so much concerned in renewed all her passion, and she hence\r\ntook an occasion to write to him, complaining of his long silence.\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e could not forbear answering her. This occasioned the\r\nseveral Letters between them which follow this History; and in these\r\nwe may observe how high a woman is capable of railing the sentiments\r\nof her heart when possessed of a great deal of wit and learning, at\r\nwell as a most violent love.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI shall not tire the reader with any farther reflections on the\r\nLetters of those two lovers, but leave them entirely to his own\r\njudgment; only remarking, that he ought not to be surprised to find\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e more tender, passionate, and expressive, than those\r\nof \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e. She was younger and consequently more ardent than\r\nhe. The sad condition he was in had not altered her love. Besides,\r\nshe retired only in complaisance to a man she blindly yielded to; and\r\nresolving to preserve her fidelity inviolable, she strove to conquer\r\nher desires, and make a virtue of necessity. But the weakness of her\r\nsex continually returned, and she felt the force of love in spite of\r\nall resistance. It was not the same with \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e; for though\r\nit was a mistake to think, that by not being in a condition of\r\nsatisfying his passion, he was as \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e imagined, wholly\r\ndelivered from the thorn of sensuality; yet he was truly sorry for\r\nthe disorders of his past life, he was sincerely penitent, and\r\ntherefore his Letters are less violent and passionate than those of\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAbout ten years after \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e had retired to his abbey,\r\nwhere study was his chief business, his enemies, who had resolved to\r\npersecute him to the last, were careful not to let him enjoy the ease\r\nof retirement. They thought he was not sufficiently plagued with his\r\nmonks, and therefore brought a new process of heresy against him\r\nbefore the Archbishop of Sens. He desired he might have the liberty\r\nof defending his doctrine before a public assembly, and it was\r\ngranted him. Upon this account the Council of Sens was assembled, in\r\nwhich Louis the VII, assisted in person, in the year 1140. St.\r\nBernard was the accuser, and delivered to the assembly some\r\npropositions drawn from \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e book, which were read in the\r\nCouncil. This accusation gave \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e such fears, and was\r\nmanaged with such inveterate malice by his enemies, and with such\r\ngreat unfairness, in drawing consequences he never thought of, that,\r\nimagining he had friends at Rome who would protect his innocence, he\r\nmade an appeal to the Pope. The Council notwithstanding his appeal,\r\ncondemned his book, but did not meddle with his person; and gave an\r\naccount of the whole proceeding to Pope Innocent II. praying him to\r\nconfirm their sentence. St. Bernard had been so early in\r\nprepossessing the Pontiff, that he got the sentence confirmed before\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e heard any thing of it, or had any time to present\r\nhimself before the tribunal to which he had appealed. His Holiness\r\nordered besides, that \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e books should be burnt, himself\r\nconfined, and for ever prohibited from teaching.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis passage of St. Bernard\u0027s life is not much for the honour of\r\nhis memory: and whether he took the trouble himself to extract the\r\ncondemned propositions from \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e works, or intrusted it\r\nto another hand, it is certain the paper he gave in contained many\r\nthings which \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e never wrote, and others which he did not\r\nmean in the same sense imputed to him.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen a few particular expressions are urged too rigidly, and\r\nunthought of consequences drawn from some assertions, and no regard\r\nis had to the general intent and scope of an author, it is no\r\ndifficult matter to find errors in any book. For this reason,\r\nBeranger of Poitiers, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e scholar defended his master\r\nagainst St. Bernard, telling him he ought not to persecute others,\r\nwhose own writings were not exempt from errors; demonstrating, that\r\nhe himself had advanced a position which he would not have failed to\r\nhave inserted in this extract as a monstrous doctrine, if he had\r\nfound them in the writings of \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSome time after \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e condemnation, the Pope was\r\nappeased at the solicitation of the Abbot of Clugni, who received\r\nthis unfortunate gentleman into his monastery with great humanity,\r\nreconciled him with St. Bernard, and admitted him to be a Religious\r\nof his society.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis was \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e last retirement, in which he found all\r\nmanner of kindness; he read lectures to the monks, and was equally\r\nhumble and laborious. At last growing weak, and afflicted with a\r\ncomplication of diseases, he was sent to the priory of St. Marcel\r\nupon the Saone, near Chalons, a very agreeable place, where he died\r\nthe 21st of April 1142, in the 63d year of his age. His corpse was\r\nsent to the chapel of \u003ci\u003eParaclete\u003c/i\u003e, to \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, to be\r\ninterred, according to her former request of him, and to his own\r\ndesire. The Abbot of Clugni, when he sent the body to \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e\r\naccording to the custom of those times, sent with it an absolution,\r\nto be fixed, together with his epitaph, on his grave-stone, which\r\nabsolution was at follows:\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\"I Peter, Abbot of Clugni, having received Father \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\ninto the number of my Religions, and given leave that his body be\r\nprivately conveyed to the abbey of the Paraclete, to be disposed of\r\nby \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e Abbess of the same abbey; do, by the authority of\r\nGod and all the saints, absolve the said \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e from all his\r\nsins*.\"\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e* \u003ci\u003eEgo Petrus Cluniacensis Abbas, qui Pet. Abselardum in monacum\r\nCluniacensem recepi, \u0026amp; corpus ejus surtim delatum Heloissa\r\nabbatissae \u0026amp; monialibus Paracleti concessi, authoritate\r\nomnipotentis Dei \u0026amp; omnium sanctorum, absolvo eum pro officio ab\r\nomnibus peccatis suis.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, who survived him twenty years, had all the leisure\r\nthat could be to effect the cure of her unhappy passion. Alas! she\r\nwas very long about it! she passed the rest of her days like a\r\nreligions and devout Abbess, frequent in prayers, and entirely\r\nemployed in the regulation of her society. She loved study; and being\r\na mistress of the learned languages, the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew,\r\nshe was esteemed a miracle of learning.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, in a letter he wrote to the Religious of his new\r\nhouse, says expressly, that \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e understood these three\r\nlanguages. The Abbot of Clugni, likewise, in a letter he wrote to\r\nher, tells her, she excelled in learning not only all her sex, but\r\nthe greatest part of men†. And in the calendar of the house of\r\nthe Paraclete she is recorded in these words: \u003ci\u003eHeloise, mother and\r\nfirst abbess of this place, famous for her learning and religion.\u003c/i\u003e\r\nI must not here pass by a custom the Religious of the \u003ci\u003eParaclete\u003c/i\u003e\r\nnow have to commemorate how learned their first Abbess was in the\r\nGreek, which is, that every year, on the day of Pentecost, they\r\nperform divine service in the Greek tongue. What a ridiculous vanity!\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e† \u003ci\u003eStudio tuo \u0026amp;\r\nmulieres omnes eviciti, \u0026amp; pene viros universos suparasti. \u003c/i\u003e Abel\r\nOp.\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFrancis d’Amboise tells us how subtilely one day she\r\nsatisfied St. Bernard, upon asking her, why in her abbey, when they\r\nrecited the Lord\u0027s Prayer, they did not say, \u003ci\u003eGive us this day our\u003c/i\u003e\r\nDaily \u003ci\u003ebread\u003c/i\u003e, but \u003ci\u003eGive us this day our\u003c/i\u003e\r\nSupersubstantial \u003ci\u003ebread\u003c/i\u003e, by an argument drawn from the\r\noriginals, affirming we ought to follow the Greek version of the\r\ngospel of St. \u003ci\u003eMatthew\u003c/i\u003e wrote in \u003ci\u003eHebrew\u003c/i\u003e. Without doubt,\r\nit was not a little surprising to St. Bernard, to hear a woman oppose\r\nhim in a controversy, by citing a \u003ci\u003eGreek\u003c/i\u003e text. \u0027Tis true, some\r\nauthors say, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e made this answer to St. Bernard, after\r\nhearing from \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e that objections were made to that form of\r\nprayer. However the case was, a woman with a small competency of\r\nlearning might in those time pass for a miracle; and though she might\r\nnot equal those descriptions which have been given of her, yet she\r\nmay deservedly be placed in the rank of women of the greatest\r\nlearning. Nor was she less remarkable for her piety, patience, and\r\nresignation, during her sicknesses in the latter part of her life.\r\nShe died the 17th of May 1163. \u0027Tis said she desired to be buried in\r\nthe same tomb with her \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, though that probably was not\r\nexecuted. Francis d’Amboise says, he saw at the convent the\r\ntombs of the founder and foundress near together. However a\r\nmanuscript of Tours gives us an account of an extraordinary miracle\r\nwhich happened when \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e’s grave was opened for\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e’s body, namely that \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e stretched out\r\nhis arms to receive her, and embraced her closely, though there were\r\ntwenty good years passed since he died. But that is a small matter to\r\na writer of miracles.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI shall conclude this history with an epitaph on \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nwhich the Abbot of Clugni sent \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, and which is now to be\r\nread on his tomb; it hath nothing in it delicate either for thought\r\nor language, and will scarcely bear a translation. It is only added\r\nhere for the sake of the curious, and as an instance of the respect\r\npaid to the memory of so great a man, and one whom envy had loaded\r\nwith the greatest defamations.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\"Petrus in hac petra latitat, quem mundus Homerum\u003cbr\u003e Clamabat,\r\nfed jam sidera sidus habent.\u003cbr\u003eSol erat hic Gallis, sed eum jam fata\r\ntulerunt:\u003cbr\u003e Ergo caret Regio Gallica sole suo.\u003cbr\u003eIlle\r\nsciens quid quid fuit ulli scibile, vicit\u003cbr\u003e Artifices,\r\nartes absque docente docens.\u003cbr\u003eUndecimae Maij petrum rapuere\r\nCalendae,\u003cbr\u003e Privantes Logices atria Rege fuo.\u003cbr\u003eEst\r\nfatis, in tumulo Petrus hic jacit Abaelardus,\u003cbr\u003e Cui soli\r\npatuit scibile quid quid erat.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eGallorum Socrates, Plato maximus Hesperianum\u003cbr\u003eNoster\r\nAristoteles, Logicis (quicumque fuerunt)\u003cbr\u003eAut par aut melior;\r\nstudioium cognitus orbi\u003cbr\u003ePrinceps, ingeuio varius, subtilius \u0026amp;\r\nacer,\u003cbr\u003eOmnia vi superans rationis \u0026amp; arte loquendi,\u003cbr\u003eAbaelardus\r\nerat. Sed nunc magis omnia vincit.\u003cbr\u003eCum Cluniacensem monacum,\r\nmoremque professus,\u003cbr\u003eAd Christi veram transivit philosophiam,\u003cbr\u003eIn\r\nqua longaevae bene complens ultima vitae,\u003cbr\u003ePhilosophis quandoque\r\nbonis se connumerandum\u003cbr\u003eSpem dedit, undenas Maio renovante\r\nCalendas.\"\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003e——————\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003ch3 style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_h3_align\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"a_LET\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eLETTERS of ABELARD and HELOISE.\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003e———\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch2 style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_h2_align\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"a_CHI\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eLETTER I.\u003c/h2\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eABELARD to PHILINTUS.\u003c/i\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eIt may be proper to acquaint the reader, that the\r\nfollowing Letter was written by \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e to a friend, to\r\ncomfort him under some afflictions which had befallen him, by a\r\nrecital of his own sufferings, which had been much heavier. It\r\ncontains a particular account of his amour with \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, and\r\nthe unhappy consequences of it. This Letter was written several years\r\nafter \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e separation from \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe last time we were together, \u003ci\u003ePhilintus\u003c/i\u003e, you gave me a\r\nmelancholy account of your misfortunes. I was sensibly touched with\r\nthe relation, and, like a true friend, bore a share in your griefs.\r\nWhat did I not say to stop your tears? I laid before you all the\r\nreasons Philosophy could furnish, which I thought might any ways\r\nsoften the strokes of Fortune: but all endeavours have proved\r\nuseless: grief I perceive, has wholly seized your spirits: and your\r\nprudence, far from assisting, seems quite to have forsaken you. But\r\nmy skilful friendship has found out an expedient to relieve you.\r\nAttend to me a moment; hear but the story of my misfortunes, and\r\nyours, \u003ci\u003ePhilintus\u003c/i\u003e, will be nothing, if you compare them with\r\nthose of the loving and unhappy \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e. Observe, I beseech\r\nyou, at what expence I endeavour to serve you: and think this no\r\nsmall mark of my affection; for I am going to present you with the\r\nrelation of such particulars, as it is impossible for me to recollect\r\nwithout piercing my heart with the most sensible affliction.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eYou know the place where I was born; but not perhaps that I was\r\nborn with those complexional faults which strangers charge upon our\r\nnation, an extreme lightness of temper, and great inconstancy. I\r\nfrankly own it, and shall be as free to acquaint you with those good\r\nqualities which were observed in me. I had a natural vivacity and\r\naptness for all the polite arts. My father was a gentleman, and a man\r\nof good parts; he loved the wars, but differed in his sentiments from\r\nmany who followed that profession. He thought it no praise to be\r\nilliterate, but in the camp he knew how to converse at the same time\r\nwith the Muses and Bellona. He was the same in the management of his\r\nfamily, and took equal care to form his children to the study of\r\npolite learning as to their military exercises. As I was his eldest,\r\nand consequently his favourite son, he took more than ordinary care\r\nof my education. I had a natural genius to study, and made an\r\nextraordinary progress in it. Smitten with the love of books, and the\r\npraises which on all sides were bestowed upon me, I aspired to no\r\nreputation but what proceeded from learning. To my brothers I left\r\nthe glory of battles, and the pomp of triumphs; nay more, I yielded\r\nthem up my birthright and patrimony. I knew necessity was the great\r\nspur to study, and was afraid I should not merit the title of\r\nLearned, if I distinguished myself from others by nothing but a more\r\nplentiful fortune. Of all the sciences, Logic was the most to my\r\ntaste. Such were the arms I chose to profess. Furnished with the\r\nweapons of reasoning, I took pleasure in going to public disputations\r\nto win trophies; and wherever I heard that this art flourished, I\r\nranged like another Alexander, from province to province, to seek new\r\nadversaries, with whom I might try my strength.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe ambition I had to become formidable in logic led me at last to\r\nParis, the centre of politeness, and where the science I was so\r\nsmitten with had usually been in the greatest perfection. I put\r\nmyself under the direction of one \u003ci\u003eChampeaux\u003c/i\u003e a professor, who\r\nhad acquired the character of the most skilful philosopher of his\r\nage, by negative excellencies only, by being the least ignorant. He\r\nreceived me with great demonstrations of kindness, but I was not so\r\nhappy as to please him long: I was too knowing in the subjects he\r\ndiscoursed upon. I often confuted his notions: often in our\r\ndisputations I pushed a good argument so home, that all his subtilty\r\nwas not able to elude its force. It was impossible he should see\r\nhimself surpassed by his scholar without resentment. It is sometimes\r\ndangerous to have too much merit.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eEnvy increased against me proportionably to my reputation. My\r\nenemies endeavoured to interrupt my progress, but their malice only\r\nprovoked my courage; and measuring my abilities by the jealousy I had\r\nraised, I thought I had no farther occasion for Champeaux\u0027s lectures,\r\nbut rather that I was sufficiently qualified to read to others. I\r\nstood for a place which was vacant at Melun. My master used all his\r\nartifice to defeat my hopes, but in vain; and on this occasion I\r\ntriumphed over his cunning, as before I had done over his learning.\r\nMy lectures were always crouded, and beginnings so fortunate, that I\r\nentirely obscured the renown of my famous master. Flushed with these\r\nhappy conquests, I removed to Corbeil to attack the masters there,\r\nand so establish my character of the ablest Logician, the violence of\r\ntravelling threw me into a dangerous distemper, and not being able to\r\nrecover my strength, my physician, who perhaps were in a league with\r\nChampeaux, advised me to retire to my native air. Thus I voluntarily\r\nbanished myself for some years. I leave you to imagine whether my\r\nabsence was not regretted by the better sort. At length I recovered\r\nmy health, when I received news that my greatest adversary had taken\r\nthe habit of a monk. You may think was an act of penitence for having\r\npersecuted me; quite contrary, it was ambition; he resolved to raise\r\nhimself to some church-dignity therefore he fell into the beaten\r\ntrack, and took on him the garb of feigned austerity; for this is the\r\neasiest and and shortest way to the highest ecclesiastical dignities.\r\nHis wishes were successful, and he obtained a bishoprick: yet did he\r\nnot quit Paris, and the care of the schools. He went to his diocese\r\nto gather in his revenues, but returned and passed the rest of his\r\ntime in reading lectures to those few pupils which followed him.\r\nAfter this I often-engaged with him, and may reply to you as Ajax did\r\nto the Greeks;\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003e\"If you demand the fortune of that day,\u003cbr\u003eWhen\r\nstak\u0027d on this right hand your honours lay\u003cbr\u003eIf I did not oblige the\r\nfoe to yield,\u003cbr\u003eYet did I never basely quit the field.\"\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAbout this time my father Beranger, who to the age of sixty had\r\nlived very agreeably, retired from the world and shut himself up in a\r\ncloister, where he offered up to Heaven the languid remains of a life\r\nhe could make no farther use of. My mother, who was yet young, took\r\nthe same resolution. She turned a Religious, but did not entirely\r\nabandon the satisfactions of life. Her friends were continually at\r\nthe grate; and the monastery, when one has an inclination to make it\r\nso, is exceeding charming and pleasant. I was present when my mother\r\nwas professed. At my return I resolved to study divinity, and\r\ninquired for a director in that study. I was recommended to one\r\n\u003ci\u003eAnselm\u003c/i\u003e, the very oracle of his time; but to give you my own\r\nopinion, one more venerable for his age and wrinkles than for his\r\ngenius or learning. If you consulted him upon any difficulty, the\r\nsure consequence was to be much more uncertain in the point. Those\r\nwho only saw him admired him, but those who reasoned with him were\r\nextremely dissatisfied. He was a great master of words, and talked\r\nmuch, but meant nothing. His discourse was a fire, which, instead of\r\nenlightening, obscured every thing with its smoke; a tree beautified\r\nwith variety of leaves and branches, but barren. I came to him with a\r\ndesire to learn, but found him like the fig-tree in the Gospel, or\r\nthe old oak to which Lucan compares Pompey. I continued not long\r\nunderneath his shadow. I took for my guides the primitive Fathers,\r\nand boldly launched into the ocean of the Holy Scriptures. In a short\r\ntime I made such a progress, that others chose me for their director.\r\nThe number of my scholars were incredible, and the gratuities I\r\nreceived from them were answerable to the great reputation I had\r\nacquired. Now I found myself safe in the harbour; the storms were\r\npassed, and the rage of my enemies had spent itself without effect.\r\nHappy, had I known to make a right use of this calm! But when the\r\nmind is most easy, it is most exposed to love, and even security here\r\nis the most dangerous state.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAnd now, my friend, I am going to expose to you all my weaknesses.\r\nAll men, I believe, are under a necessity of paying tribute, at some\r\ntime or other, to Love, and it is vain to strive to avoid it. I was a\r\nphilosopher, yet this tyrant of the mind triumphed over all my\r\nwisdom; his darts were of greater force than all my reasoning, and\r\nwith a sweet constraint he led me whither he pleased. Heaven, amidst\r\nan abundance of blessings with which I was intoxicated, threw in a\r\nheavy affliction. I became a most signal example of its vengeance;\r\nand the more unhappy, because having deprived me of the means of\r\naccomplishing my satisfaction, it left me to the fury of my criminal\r\ndesires. I will tell you, my dear friend, the particulars of my\r\nstory, and leave you to judge whether I deserved so severe a\r\ncorrection. I had always an aversion for those light women whom it is\r\na reproach to pursue; I was ambitious in my choice, and wished to\r\nfind some obstacles, that I might surmount them with the greater\r\nglory and pleasure.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere was in Paris a young creature, (ah! \u003ci\u003ePhilintus\u003c/i\u003e!)\r\nformed in a prodigality of Nature, to show mankind a finished\r\ncomposition; dear \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e! the reputed niece of one \u003ci\u003eFulbert\u003c/i\u003e\r\na canon. Her wit and her beauty would have fired the dullest and most\r\ninsensible heart; and her education was equally admirable. \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e\r\nwas a mistress of the most polite arts. You may easily imagine that\r\nthis did not a little help to captivate me. I saw her; I loved her; I\r\nresolved to endeavour to gain her affections. The thirst of glory\r\ncooled immediately in my heart, and all my passions were lost in this\r\nnew one. I thought of nothing but \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e; every thing brought\r\nher image to my mind. I was pensive, restless; and my passion was so\r\nviolent as to admit of no restraint. I was always vain and\r\npresumptive; I flattered myself already with the most bewitching\r\nhopes. My reputation had spread itself every where; and could a\r\nvirtuous lady resist a man that had confounded all the learned of the\r\nage? I was young;—could she show an infallibility to those vows\r\nwhich my heart never formed for any but herself? My person was\r\nadvantageous enough and by my dress no one would have suspected me\r\nfor a Doctor; and dress you know, is not a little engaging with\r\nwomen. Besides, I had wit enough to write a \u003ci\u003ebillet doux\u003c/i\u003e, and\r\nhoped, if ever she permitted my absent self to entertain her, she\r\nwould read with pleasure those breathings of my heart.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFilled with these notions, I thought of nothing but the means to\r\nspeak to her. Lovers either find or make all things easy. By the\r\noffices of common friends I gained the acquaintance of Fulbert. And,\r\ncan you believe it, \u003ci\u003ePhilintus\u003c/i\u003e? he allowed me the privilege of\r\nhis table, and an apartment in his house. I paid him, indeed, a\r\nconsiderable sum; for persons of his character do nothing without\r\nmoney. But what would I not have given! You my dear friend, know what\r\nlove is; imagine then what a pleasure it must have been to a heart so\r\ninflamed as mine to be always so near the dear object of desire! I\r\nwould not have exchanged my happy condition for that of the greatest\r\nmonarch upon earth. I saw \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, I spoke to her: each\r\naction, each confused look, told her the trouble of my soul. And she,\r\non the other side, gave me ground to hope for every thing from her\r\ngenerosity. Fulbert desired me to instruct her in philosophy; by this\r\nmeans I found opportunities of being in private with her and yet I\r\nwas sure of all men the most timorous in declaring my passion.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs I was with her one day, alone, Charming \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, said I,\r\nblushing, if you know yourself, you will not be surprised with what\r\npassion you have inspired me with. Uncommon as it is, I can express\r\nit but with the common terms;—I love you, adorable \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e!\r\nTill now I thought philosophy made us masters, of all our passions,\r\nand that it was a refuge from the storms in which weak mortals are\r\ntossed and shipwrecked; but you have destroyed my security, and\r\nbroken this philosophic courage. I have despised riches; honour and\r\nits pageantries could never raise a weak thought in me; beauty alone\r\nhath fired my soul. Happy, if she who raised this passion kindly\r\nreceives the declaration; but if it is an offence—No, replied\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e; she must be very ignorant of your merit who can be\r\noffended at your passion. But, for my own repose, I wish either that\r\nyou had not made this declaration, or that I were at liberty not to\r\nsuspect your sincerity. Ah, divine \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, said I, flinging\r\nmyself at her feet, I swear by yourself—I was going on to\r\nconvince her of the truth of my passion, but heard a noise, and it\r\nwas Fulbert. There was no avoiding it, but I must do a violence to my\r\ndesire, and change the discourse to some other subject. After this I\r\nfound frequent opportunities to free \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e from those\r\nsuspicions which the general insincerity of men had raised in her;\r\nand she too much desired what I said were truth, not to believe it.\r\nThus there was a most happy understanding between us. The same house,\r\nthe same love, united our persons and our desires. How many soft\r\nmoments did we pass together! We took all opportunities to express to\r\neach other our mutual affections, and were ingenious in contriving\r\nincidents which might give us a plausible occasion for meeting.\r\nPyramus and Thisbe\u0027s discovery of the crack in the wall was but a\r\nslight representation of our love and its sagacity. In the dead of\r\nnight, when Fulbert and his domestics were in a sound sleep, we\r\nimproved the time proper to the sweets of love. Not contenting\r\nourselves, like those unfortunate loves, with giving insipid kisses\r\nto a wall, we made use of all the moments of our charming interviews.\r\nIn the place where we met we had no lions to fear, and the study of\r\nphilosophy served us for a blind. But I was so far from making any\r\nadvances in the sciences that I lost all my taste of them; and when I\r\nwas obliged to go from the sight of my dear mistress to my\r\nphilosophical exercises, it was with the utmost regret and\r\nmelancholy. Love is incapable of being concealed; a word, a look, nay\r\nsilence, speaks it. My scholars discovered it first: they saw I had\r\nno longer that vivacity thought to which all things were easy: I\r\ncould now do nothing but write verses to sooth my passion. I quitted\r\nAristotle and his dry maxims, to practise the precepts of the more\r\ningenious Ovid. No day passed in which I did not compose amorous\r\nverses. Love was my inspiring Apollo. My songs were spread abroad,\r\nand gained me frequent applauses. Those whom were in love as I was\r\ntook a pride in learning them; and, by luckily applying my thoughts\r\nand verses, have obtained favours which, perhaps, they could not\r\notherwise have gained. This gave our amours such an \u003ci\u003eeclat\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nthat the loves of \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e were the subject\r\nof all conversations.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe town-talk at last reached Fulbert\u0027s ears. It was with great\r\ndifficulty he gave credit to what he heard, for he loved his niece,\r\nand was prejudiced in my favour; but, upon closer examination, he\r\nbegan to be less incredulous. He surprised us in one of our more soft\r\nconversations. How fatal, sometimes, are the consequences of\r\ncuriosity! The anger of Fulbert seemed to moderate on this occasion,\r\nand I feared in the end some more heavy revenge. It is impossible to\r\nexpress the grief and regret which filled my soul when I was obliged\r\nto leave the canon\u0027s house and my dear \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e. But this\r\nseparation of our persons the more firmly united our minds; and the\r\ndesperate condition we were reduced to, made us capable of attempting\r\nany thing.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eMy intrigues gave me but little shame, so lovingly did I esteem\r\nthe occasion. Think what the gay young divinities said, when Vulcan\r\ncaught Mars and the goddess of Beauty in his net, and impute it all\r\nto me. Fulbert surprised me with \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, and what man that\r\nhad a soul in him would not have borne any ignominy on the same\r\nconditions? The next day I provided myself of a private lodging near\r\nthe loved house, being resolved not to abandon my prey. I continued\r\nsome time without appearing publickly. Ah, how long did those few\r\nmoments seem to me! When we fall from a state of happiness, with what\r\nimpatience do we bear our misfortunes!\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt being impossible that I could live without seeing \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nI endeavoured to engage her servant, whose name was \u003ci\u003eAgaton\u003c/i\u003e, in\r\nmy interest. She was brown, well shaped, a person superior to the\r\nordinary rank; her features regular, and her eyes sparkling; fit to\r\nraise love in any man whose heart was not prepossessed by another\r\npassion. I met her alone, and intreated her to have pity on a\r\ndistressed lover. She answered, she would undertake any thing to\r\nserve me, but there was a reward.—At these words I opened my\r\npurse and showed the shining metal, which lays asleep guards, forces\r\naway through rocks, and softens the hearts of the most obdurate fair.\r\nYou are mistaken, said she, smiling, and shaking her head—you\r\ndo not know me. Could gold tempt me, a rich abbot takes his nightly\r\nstation, and sings under my window: he offers to send me to his\r\nabbey, which, he says, is situate in the most pleasant country in the\r\nworld. A courtier offers me a considerable sum of money, and assures\r\nme I need have no apprehensions; for if our amours have consequences,\r\nhe will marry me to his gentleman, and give him a handsome\r\nemployment. To say nothing of a young officer, who patroles about\r\nhere every night, and makes his attacks after all imaginable forms.\r\nIt must be Love only which could oblige him to follow me; for I have\r\nnot like your great ladies, any rings or jewels to tempt him: yet,\r\nduring all his siege of love, his feather and his embroidered coat\r\nhave not made any breach in my heart. I shall not quickly be brought\r\nto capitulate, I am too faithful to my first conqueror—and then\r\nshe looked earnestly on me. I answered, I did not understand her\r\ndiscourse. She replied, For a man of sense and gallantry you have a\r\nvery slow apprehension; I am in love with you \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e. I know\r\nyou adore \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, I do not blame you; I desire only to enjoy\r\nthe second place in your affections. I have a tender heart as well as\r\nmy mistress; you may without difficulty make returns to my passion.\r\nDo not perplex yourself with unfashionable scruples; a prudent man\r\nought to love several at the same time; if one should fail, he is not\r\nthen left unprovided.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eYou cannot imagine, \u003ci\u003ePhilintus\u003c/i\u003e, how much I was surprised at\r\nthese words. So entirely did I love \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e that without\r\nreflecting whether Agaton spoke any thing reasonable or not, I\r\nimmediately left her. When I had gone a little way from her I looked\r\nback, and saw her biting her nails in the rage of disappointment,\r\nwhich made me fear some fatal consequences. She hastened to Fulbert,\r\nand told him the offer I had made her, but I suppose concealed the\r\nother part of the story. The Canon never forgave this affront. I\r\nafterwards perceived he was more deeply concerned for his niece than\r\nI at first imagined. Let no lover hereafter follow my example, A\r\nwoman rejected is an outrageous creature. Agaton was day and night at\r\nher window on purpose to keep me at a distance from her mistress, and\r\nso gave her own gallants opportunity enough to display their several\r\nabilities.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI was infinitely perplexed what course to take; at last I applied\r\nto \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e singing-master. The shining metal, which had no\r\neffect on Agaton, charmed him; he was excellently qualified for\r\nconveying a billet with the greatest dexterity and secrecy. He\r\ndelivered one of mine to \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, who, according to my\r\nappointment was ready at the end of a garden, the wall of which I\r\nscaled by a ladder of ropes. I confess to you all my failings,\r\n\u003ci\u003ePhilintus\u003c/i\u003e. How would my enemies, Champeaux and Anselm, have\r\ntriumphed, had they seen the redoubted philosopher in such a wretched\r\ncondition? Well—I met my soul\u0027s joy, my \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e. I shall\r\nnot describe our transports, they were not long; for the first news\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e acquainted me with plunged me in a thousand\r\ndistractions. A floating \u003ci\u003edelos\u003c/i\u003e was to be sought for, where she\r\nmight be safely delivered of a burthen she began already to feel.\r\nWithout losing much time in debating, I made her presently quit the\r\nCanon\u0027s house, and at break of day depart for Britany; where, she\r\nlike another goddess, gave the world another Apollo, which my sister\r\ntook care of.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis carrying off \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e was sufficient revenge upon\r\nFulbert. It filled him with the deepest concern, and had like to have\r\ndeprived him of all the little share of wit which Heaven had allowed\r\nhim. His sorrow and lamentation gave the censorious an occasion of\r\nsuspecting him for something more than the uncle of \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn short, I began to pity his misfortune, and think this robbery\r\nwhich love had made me commit was a sort of treason. I endeavoured to\r\nappease his anger by a sincere confession of all that was past, and\r\nby hearty engagements to marry \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e secretly. He gave me\r\nhis consent and with many protestations and embraces confirmed our\r\nreconciliation. But what dependence can be made on the word of an\r\nignorant devotee. He was only plotting a cruel revenge, as you will\r\nsee by what follows.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI took a journey into Britany, in order to bring back my dear\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, whom I now considered as my wife. When I had\r\nacquainted her with what had passed between the Canon and me, I found\r\nshe was of a contrary opinion to me. She urged all that was possible\r\nto divert me from marriage: that it was a bond always fatal to a\r\nphilosopher; that the cries of children, and cares of a family, were\r\nutterly inconsistent with the tranquility and application which the\r\nstudy of philosophy required. She quoted to me all that was written\r\non the subject by Theophrastus, Cicero, and, above all, insisted on\r\nthe unfortunate Socrates, who quitted life with joy, because by that\r\nmeans he left Xantippe. Will it not be more agreeable to me, said\r\nshe, to see myself your mistress than your wife? and will not love\r\nhave more power than marriage to keep our hearts firmly united?\r\nPleasures tasted sparingly, and with difficulty, have always a higher\r\nrelish, while every thing, by being easy and common, grows flat and\r\ninsipid.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI was unmoved by all this reasoning. \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e prevailed upon\r\nmy sister to engage me. Lucille (for that was her name) taking me\r\naside one day, said, What do you intend, brother? Is it possible that\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e should in earnest think of marrying \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e?\r\nShe seems indeed to deserve a perpetual affection; beauty, youth, and\r\nlearning, all that can make a person valuble, meet in her. You may\r\nadore all this if you please; but not to flatter you, what is beauty\r\nbut a flower, which may be blasted by the least fit of sickness? When\r\nthose features, with which you have been so captivated, shall be\r\nsunk, and those graces lost, you will too late repent that you have\r\nentangled yourself in a chain, from which death only can free you. I\r\nshall see you reduced to the married man\u0027s only hope of survivorship.\r\nDo you think learning ought to make \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e more amiable? I\r\nknow she is not one of those affected females who are continually\r\noppressing you with fine speeches, criticising books, and deciding\r\nupon the merit of authors, When such a one is in the fury of her\r\ndiscourse, husbands, friends, servants, all fly before her. \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e\r\nhas not this fault; yet it is troublesome not to be at liberty to use\r\nthe least improper expression before a wife, that you bear with\r\npleasure from a mistress.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut you say, you are sure of the affections of \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e I\r\nbelieve it; she has given you no ordinary proofs. But can you be sure\r\nmarriage will not be the tomb of her love? The name of Husband and\r\nMaster are always harsh, and \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e will not be the phenix\r\nyou now think her. Will she not be a woman? Come, come, the head of a\r\nphilosopher is less secure than those of other men. My sister grew\r\nwarm in the argument, and was going to give me a hundred more reasons\r\nof this kind; but I angrily interrupted her, telling her only, that\r\nshe did not know \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA few days after, we departed together from Britany, and came to\r\nParis, where I completed my project. It was my intent my marriage\r\nshould be kept secret, and therefore \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e retired among the\r\nnuns of Argenteuil.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI now thought Fulbert\u0027s anger disarmed; I lived in peace: but,\r\nalas! our marriage proved but a weak defence against his revenge.\r\nObserve, \u003ci\u003ePhilintus\u003c/i\u003e, to what a barbarity he pursued it! He\r\nbribed my servants; an assassin came into my bed chamber by night\r\nwith a razor in his hand, and found me in a deep sleep. I suffered\r\nthe most shameful punishment that the revenge of an enemy could\r\ninvent; in short without losing my life, I lost my manhood. I was\r\npunished indeed in the offending part; the desire was left me, but\r\nnot the possibility of satisfying the passion. So cruel an action\r\nescaped not unpunished; the villain suffered the same infliction;\r\npoor comfort for so irretrievable an evil; I confess to you, shame,\r\nmore than any sincere penitence; made me resolve to hide myself from\r\nmy \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e. Jealousy took possession of my mind; at the very\r\nexpence of her happiness I decreed to disappoint all rivals. Before I\r\nput myself in a cloister, I obliged her to take the habit, and\r\nretire into the nunnery of Argenteuil. I remember somebody would have\r\nopposed her making such a cruel sacrifice of herself, but she\r\nanswered in the words of Cornelia, after the death of Pompey the\r\nGreat;\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003e\"—O conjux, ego te scelereta peremi,\u003cbr\u003e—Te\r\nfata extrema petente\u003cbr\u003eVita digna fui? Moriar——\u0026amp;c.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eO my lov\u0027d lord! our fatal marriage draws\u003cbr\u003eOn thee this\r\ndoom, and I the guilty cause!\u003cbr\u003eThen whilst thou go\u0027st th\u0027 extremes\r\nof Fate to prove,\u003cbr\u003eI\u0027ll share that fate, and expiate thus my love.\"\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSpeaking these verses, she marched up to the altar, and took the\r\nveil with a constancy which I could not have expected in a woman who\r\nhad so high a taste of pleasure which she might still enjoy. I\r\nblushed at my own weakness; and without deliberating a moment longer,\r\nI buried myself in a cloister, resolving to vanquish a fruitless\r\npassion. I now reflected that God had chastised me thus grievously,\r\nthat he might save me from that destruction in which I had like to\r\nhave been swallowed up. In order to avoid idleness, the unhappy\r\nincendiary of those criminal flames which had ruined me in the world,\r\nI endeavoured in my retirement to put those talents to a good use\r\nwhich I had before so much abused. I gave the novices rules of\r\ndivinity agreeable to the holy fathers and councils. In the mean\r\nwhile, the enemies which my fame had raised up, and especially\r\nAlberic and Lotulf, who after the death of their masters Champeaux\r\nand Anselm affirmed the sovereignty of learning, began to attack me.\r\nThey loaded me with the falsest imputations, and, notwithstanding all\r\nmy defence, I had the mortification to see my books condemned by a\r\ncouncil and burnt. This was a cutting sorrow, and, believe me,\r\n\u003ci\u003ePhilintus\u003c/i\u003e, the former calamity suffered by the cruelty of\r\nFulbert was nothing in comparison to this.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe affront I had newly received, and the scandalous debaucheries\r\nof the monks, obliged me to banish myself, and retire near Nogent. I\r\nlived in a desart, where I flattered myself I should avoid fame, and\r\nbe secure from the malice of my enemies. I was again deceived. The\r\ndesire of being taught by me, drew crowds of auditors even thither.\r\nMany left the towns and their houses, and came and lived in tents;\r\nfor herbs, coarse fare, and hard lodging, they abandoned the\r\ndelicacies of a plentiful table and easy life. I looked like a\r\nprophet in the wilderness attended by his disciples. My lectures were\r\nperfectly clear from all that had been condemned. And happy had it\r\nbeen if our solitude had been inaccessible to Envy! With the\r\nconsiderable gratuities I received I built a chapel, and dedicated it\r\nto the Holy Ghost, by the name of the Paraclete. The rage of my\r\nenemies now awakened again, and forced me to quit this retreat. This\r\nI did without much difficulty. But first the Bishop of Troies gave me\r\nleave to establish there a nunnery, which I did, and committed the\r\ncare of it to my dear \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e. When I had settled her here,\r\ncan you believe it, \u003ci\u003ePhilintus\u003c/i\u003e? I left her without taking any\r\nleave. I did not wander long without settled habitation; for the Duke\r\nof Britany, informed of my misfortunes, named me to the Abbey of\r\n\u003ci\u003eGuildas\u003c/i\u003e, where I now am, and where I now suffer every day\r\nfresh persecutions.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI live in a barbarous country, the language of which I do not\r\nunderstand. I have no conversation with the rudest people. My walks\r\nare on the inaccessible shore of a sea which is perpetually stormy.\r\nMy monks are known by their dissoluteness, and living without rule or\r\norder. Could you see the abbey \u003ci\u003ePhilintus\u003c/i\u003e, you would not call\r\nit one. The doors and walls are without any ornament except the heads\r\nof wild boars and hinds\u0027 feet, which are nailed up against them, and\r\nthe heads of frightful animals. The cells are hung with the skins of\r\ndeer. The monks have not so much as a bell to wake them; the cocks\r\nand dogs supply that defect. In short, they pass their whole days in\r\nhunting; would to Heaven that were their greatest fault, or that\r\ntheir pleasures terminated there! I endeavour in vain to recall them\r\nto their duty; they all combine against me, and I only expose myself\r\nto continual vexations and dangers. I imagine that every moment a\r\nnaked sword hang over my head. Sometimes they surround me and load me\r\nwith infinite abuses; sometimes they abandon me, and I am left alone\r\nto my own tormenting thoughts. I make it my endeavour to merit by my\r\nsufferings, and to appease an angry God. Sometimes I grieve for the\r\nhouse of the \u003ci\u003eParaclete\u003c/i\u003e, and wish to see it again. Ah,\r\n\u003ci\u003ePhilintus\u003c/i\u003e! does not the love of \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e still burn in\r\nmy heart\u003ci\u003e?\u003c/i\u003e I have not yet triumphed over that happy passion. In\r\nthe midst of my retirement I sigh, I weep, I pine, I speak the dear\r\nname of \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, pleased to hear the sound, I complain of the\r\nseverity of Heaven. But, oh! let us not deceive ourselves: I have not\r\nmade a right use of grace. I am thoroughly wretched. I have not yet\r\ntorn from my heart deep roots which vice has planted in it. For if my\r\nconversion was sincere, how could I take a pleasure to relate my past\r\nfollies? Could I not more easily comfort myself in my afflictions?\r\nCould I not turn to my advantage those words of God himself, \u003ci\u003eIf\r\nthey have persecuted me, they will also persecute you; if the world\r\nhate you, ye know that it hated me also\u003c/i\u003e? Come \u003ci\u003ePhilintus\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nlet us make a strong effort, turn our misfortunes to our advantage,\r\nmake them meritorious, or at least wipe out our offences; let us\r\nreceive, without murmuring, what comes from the hand of God, and let\r\nus not oppose our will to his. Adieu. I give you advice, which could\r\nI myself follow, I should be happy.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch2 style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_h2_align\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"a_CHII\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eLETTER II.\u003c/h2\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eHELOISE to ABELARD.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eThe foregoing Letter would probably not have produced any\r\nothers, if it had been delivered to the person to whom it was\r\ndirected; but falling by accident into \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e hands, who\r\nknew the character she opened it and read it; and by that means her\r\nformer passion being awakened, she immediately set herself to write\r\nto her husband as follows.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003e* To her Lord, her Father; her Husband, her Brother; his\r\nServant his Child; his Wife, his Sister; and to express all that is\r\nhumble, respectful and loving to her \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e\r\nwrites this.\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003e* \u003ci\u003eDomino suo, imo Patri; Conjugi suo, imo Fratri;\r\nAncilla sua, imo Filia; ipsius Uxor, imo Soror; Abaelardo Heloisa,\r\n\u0026amp;c. Abel. Op. \u003c/i\u003e\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA consolatory letter of yours to a friend happened some days since\r\nto fall into my hands. My knowledge of the character, and my love of\r\nthe hand, soon gave me the curiosity to open it. In justification of\r\nthe liberty I took, I flattered myself I might claim a sovereign\r\nprivilege over every thing which came from you nor was I scrupulous\r\nto break thro\u0027 the rules of good breeding, when it was to hear news\r\nof \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e. But how much did my curiosity cost me? what\r\ndisturbance did it occasion? and how was I surprised to find the\r\nwhole letter filled with a particular and melancholy account of our\r\nmisfortunes? I met with my name a hundred times; I never saw it\r\nwithout fear: some heavy calamity always, followed it, I saw yours\r\ntoo, equally unhappy. These mournful but dear remembrances, puts my\r\nspirits into such a violent motion, that I thought it was too much to\r\noffer comfort to a friend for a few slight disgraces by such\r\nextraordinary means, as the representation of our sufferings and\r\nrevolutions. What reflections did I not make, I began to consider the\r\nwhole afresh, and perceived myself pressed with the same weight of\r\ngrief as when we first began to be miserable. Tho\u0027 length of time\r\nought to have closed up my wounds, yet the seeing them described by\r\nyour hand was sufficient to make them all open and bleed afresh.\r\nNothing can ever blot from my memory what you have suffered in\r\ndefence of your writings. I cannot help thinking of the rancorous\r\nmalice of Alberic and Lotulf. A cruel uncle and an injured lover,\r\nwill be always present to my aking sight. I shall never forget what\r\nenemies your learning, and what envy your glory, raised against you.\r\nI shall never forget your reputation, so justly acquired, torn to\r\npieces, and blasted by the inexorable cruelty of half-learned\r\npretenders to science. Was not your Treatise of Divinity condemned to\r\nbe burnt? Were you not threatened with perpetual imprisonment? In\r\nvain you urged in your defence, that your enemies imposed on you\r\nopinions quite different from your meaning; in vain you condemned\r\nthose opinions; all was of no effect towards your justification; it\r\nwas resolved you should be a heretic. What did not those two false\r\nprophets† accuse you of, who declaimed so severely against you\r\nbefore the Council of Sens? What scandals were vented on occasion of\r\nthe name Paraclete given to your chapel? What a storm was raised\r\nagainst you by the treacherous monks, when you did them the honour to\r\nbe called their Brother? This history of our numerous misfortunes,\r\nrelated in so true and moving a manner, made my heart bleed within\r\nme. My tears, which I could not restrain, have blotted half your\r\nletter: I wish they had effaced the whole and that I had returned it\r\nto you in that condition. I should then have been satisfied with the\r\nlittle time; kept it, but it was demanded of me too soon.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e† St.\r\nBernard and St. Norbet.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI must confess I was much easier in my mind before I read your\r\nletter. Sure all the misfortunes of lovers are conveyed to them thro\u0027\r\ntheir eyes. Upon reading your letter I felt all mine renewed, I\r\nreproached myself for having been so long without venting my sorrows,\r\nwhen the rage of our unrelenting enemies still burns with the same\r\nfury. Since length of time, which disarms the strongest hatred, seems\r\nbut to aggravate theirs; since it is decreed that your virtue shall\r\nbe persecuted till it takes refuge in the grave, and even beyond\r\nthat, your ashes perhaps, will not be suffered to rest in peace,—let\r\nme always meditate on your calamities, let me publish them thro\u0027 all\r\nthe world, if possible, to shame an age that has not known how to\r\nvalue you. I will spare no one, since no one would interest himself\r\nto protect you, and your enemies are never weary of oppressing your\r\ninnocence, Alas! my memory is perpetually filled with bitter\r\nremembrances of past evils, and are there more to be feared still?\r\nshall my \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e be never mentioned without tears? shall thy\r\ndear name be never spoken but with sighs? Observe, I beseech you, to\r\nwhat a wretched condition you have reduced me: sad, afflicted,\r\nwithout any possible comfort, unless it proceed from you. Be not then\r\nunkind, nor deny, I beg you that little relief which you can only\r\ngive. Let me have a faithful account of all that concerns you. I\r\nwould know every thing, be it ever so unfortunate. Perhaps, by\r\nmingling my sighs with yours, I may make your sufferings less, if\r\nthat observation be true, that all sorrows divided are made lighter.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTell me not, by way of excuse, you will spare our tears; the tears\r\nof women, shut up in a melancholy place, and devoted to penitence,\r\nare not to be spared. And if you wait for an opportunity to write\r\npleasant and agreeable things to us, you will delay writing too long.\r\nProsperity seldom chuses the side of the virtuous; and Fortune is so\r\nblind, that in a crowd in which there is perhaps but one wife and\r\nbrave man, it is not to be expected she should single him out. Write\r\nto me then immediately, and wait not for miracles; they are too\r\nscarce, and we too much accustomed to misfortunes to expect any happy\r\nturn. I shall always have this, if you please, and this will be\r\nalways agreeable to me, that when I receive any letters from you, I\r\nshall know you still remember me. Seneca, (with whose writings you\r\nmade me acquainted,) as much a Stoic as he was, seemed to be so very\r\nsensible of this kind of pleasure, that upon opening any letters from\r\nLucilius, he imagined he felt the same delight as when they conversed\r\ntogether.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI have made it an observation, since our absence, that we are much\r\nfonder of the pictures of those we love, when they are at a great\r\ndistance, than when they are near to us. It seems to me, as if the\r\nfarther they are removed their pictures grow the more finished, and\r\nacquire a greater resemblance; at least, our imagination, which\r\nperpetually figures them to us by the desire we have of seeing them\r\nagain, makes us think so. By a peculiar power, Love can make that\r\nseem life itself, which, as soon as the loved object returns, is\r\nnothing but a little canvas and dead colours. I have your picture in\r\nmy room; I never pass by it without stopping to look at it; and yet\r\nwhen you were present with me, I scarce ever cast my eyes upon it. If\r\na picture, which is but a mute representation of an object, can give\r\nsuch pleasure, what cannot letters inspire? They have souls; they can\r\nspeak; they have in them all that force which expresses the\r\ntransports of the heart; they have all the fire of our passions; they\r\ncan raise them as much as if the persons themselves were present;\r\nthey have all the softness and delicacy of speech, and sometimes a\r\nboldness of expression even beyond it.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe may write to each other; so innocent a pleasure is not\r\nforbidden us. Let us not lose, through negligence, the only happiness\r\nwhich is left us, and the only one, perhaps, which the malice of our\r\nenemies can never ravish from us. I shall read that you are my\r\nhusband, and you shall see me address you as a wife. In spite of all\r\nyour misfortunes, you may be what you please in your letter. Letters\r\nwere first invented for comforting such solitary wretches as myself.\r\nHaving lost the substantial pleasures of seeing and possessing you, I\r\nshall in some measure compensate this loss by the satisfaction I\r\nshall find in your writing. There I shall read your most secret\r\nthoughts; I shall carry them always about me; I shall kiss them every\r\nmoment: if you can be capable of any jealousy, let it be for the fond\r\ncaresses I shall bestow on your letters, and envy only the happiness\r\nof those rivals. That writing may be no trouble to you, write always\r\nto me carelessly, and without study: I had rather read the dictates\r\nof the heart than of the brain. I cannot live if you do not tell me\r\nyou always love me; but that language ought to be so natural to you,\r\nthat I believe you cannot speak otherwise to me without great\r\nviolence to yourself. And since, by that melancholy relation to your\r\nfriend, you have awakened all my sorrows, it is but reasonable you\r\nshould allay them by some marks of an inviolable love.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI do not, however, reproach you for the innocent artifice you made\r\nuse of to comfort a person in affliction, by comparing his misfortune\r\nto another much greater. Charity is ingenious in finding out such\r\npious artifices, and to be commended for using them. But do you owe\r\nnothing more to us than to that friend, be the friendship between you\r\never so intimate? We are called your sisters; we call ourselves your\r\nChildren; and if it were possible to think of any expression which\r\ncould signify a dearer relation, or a more affectionate regard and\r\nmutual obligation between us, we would use them: if we could be so\r\nungrateful as not to speak our just acknowledgments to you, this\r\nchurch, these altars, these Walls, would reproach our silence, and\r\nspeak for us, But without leaving it to that, it will be always a\r\npleasure to me to say, that you only are the founder of this house;\r\nit is wholly your work. You, by inhabiting here, have given fame and\r\nfunction to a place known before only for robberies and murders. You\r\nhave, in the literal sense, made the den of thieves a house of\r\nprayer. These cloisters owe nothing to public charities; our walls\r\nwere not raised by the usury of publicans, nor their foundations laid\r\nin base extortion. The God whom we serve sees nothing but innocent\r\nriches and harmless votaries, whom you have placed here. Whatever\r\nthis young vineyard is, is owing all to you; and it is your part to\r\nemploy your whole care to cultivate and improve it; this ought to be\r\none of the principal affairs of your life. Though our holy\r\nrenunciation, our vows, and our manner of life, seem to secure us\r\nfrom all temptations; though our walls and grates prohibit all\r\napproaches, yet it is the outside only, the bark of the tree is\r\ncovered from injuries; while the sap of original corruption may\r\nimperceptibly spread within, even to the heart, and prove fatal to\r\nthe most promising plantation, unless continual care be taken to\r\ncultivate and secure it. Virtue in us is grafted upon Nature and the\r\nWoman; the one is weak, and the other is always changeable. To plant\r\nthe Lord\u0027s vine is a work of no little labour; and after it is\r\nplanted it will require great application and diligence to manure it.\r\nThe Apostle of the Gentiles; as great a labourer as he was, says, \u003ci\u003eHe\r\nhath planted, and Apollo hath watered; but it is God that giveth the\r\nincrease.\u003c/i\u003e Paul had planted the Gospel among the Corinthians, by\r\nhis holy and earnest preaching; \u003ci\u003eApollos\u003c/i\u003e, a zealous disciple of\r\nthat great master, continued to cultivate it by frequent\r\nexhortations; and the grace of God, which their constant prayers,\r\nimplored for that church, made the endeavours of both successful.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis ought to be an example for your conduct towards us. I know\r\nyou are not slothful; yet your labours are not directed to us; your\r\ncares are wasted upon a set of men whose thoughts are only earthly,\r\nand you refuse to reach out your hand to support those who are weak\r\nand staggering in their way to heaven, and who, with all their\r\nendeavours, can scarcely preserve themselves from falling. You fling\r\nthe pearls of the gospel before swine, when you speak to those who\r\nare filled with the good things of this world, and nourished with the\r\nfatness of the earth; and you neglect the innocent sheep, who, tender\r\nas they are, would yet follow you thro\u0027 deserts and mountains. Why\r\nare such pains thrown away upon the ungrateful, while not a thought\r\nis bestowed upon your children, whose souls would be filled with a\r\nsense of your goodness? But why should I intreat you in the name of\r\nyour children? Is it possible I should fear obtaining any thing of\r\nyou, when I ask it in my own name? And must I use any other prayers\r\nthan my own to prevail upon you? The St. Austins, Tertullians, and\r\nJeromes, have wrote to the Eudoxas, Paulas, and Melanias; and can you\r\nread those names, though of saints, and not remember mine? Can it be\r\ncriminal for you to imitate St. Jerome, and discourse with me\r\nconcerning the Scripture? or Tertullian, and preach mortification? or\r\nSt. Austin, and explain to me the nature of grace? Why should I only\r\nreap no advantage from your learning? When you write to me, you will\r\nwrite to your wife. Marriage has made such a correspondence lawful;\r\nand since you can, without giving the least scandal, satisfy me, why\r\nwill you not? I have a barbarous uncle, whose inhumanity is a\r\nsecurity against any criminal desire which tenderness and the\r\nremembrance of our past enjoyments might inspire. There is nothing\r\nthat can cause you any fear; you need not fly to conquer. You may see\r\nme, hear my sighs, and be a witness of all my sorrows, without\r\nincurring any danger, since you can only relieve me with tears and\r\nwords. If I have put myself into a cloister with reason, persuade me\r\nto continue in it with devotion: you have been the occasion of all my\r\nmisfortunes, you therefore must be the instrument of all my comforts.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eYou cannot but remember, (for what do not lovers remember?) with\r\nwhat pleasure I have past whole days in hearing your discourse. How,\r\nwhen you were absent, I shut myself from everyone to write to you;\r\nhow uneasy I was till my letter had come to your hands; what artful\r\nmanagement it required to engage confidents. This detail, perhaps,\r\nsurprises you, and you are in pain for what will fellow. But I am no\r\nlonger ashamed that my passion has had no bounds for you; for I have\r\ndone more than all this: I have hated myself that I might love you; I\r\ncame hither to ruin myself in a perpetual imprisonment, that I might\r\nmake you live quiet and easy. Nothing but virtue, joined to a love\r\nperfectly disengaged from the commerce of the senses, could have\r\nproduced such effect. Vice never inspires any thing like this; it is\r\ntoo much enslaved to the body. When we love pleasures, we love the\r\nliving, and not the dead; we leave off burning with desire for those\r\nwho can no longer burn for us. This was my cruel uncle\u0027s notions; he\r\nmeasured my virtue by the frailty of my sex, and thought it was the\r\nman, and not the person, I loved. But he has been guilty to no\r\npurpose. I love you more than ever; and to revenge myself of him, I\r\nwill still love you with all the tenderness of my soul till the last\r\nmoment of my life. If formerly my affection for you was not so pure,\r\nif in those days the mind and the body shared in the pleasure of\r\nloving you, I often told you, even then, that I was more pleased with\r\npossessing your heart than with any other happiness, and the man was\r\nthe thing I least valued in you.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eYou cannot but be entirely persuaded of this by the extreme\r\nunwillingness I showed to marry you: tho\u0027 I knew that the name of\r\nWife was honourable in the world, and holy in religion, yet the name\r\nof your mistress had greater charms, because it was more free. The\r\nbonds of matrimony, however honourable, still bear with them a\r\nnecessary engagement; and I was very unwilling to be necessitated to\r\nlove always a man who, perhaps, would not always love me. I despised\r\nthe name of Wife, that I might live happy with that of Mistress; and\r\nI find, by your letter to your friend, you have not forgot that\r\ndelicacy of passion in a woman who loved you always with the utmost\r\ntenderness, and yet wished to love you more, you have very justly\r\nobserved in your letter, that I esteemed those public engagements\r\ninsipid which form alliances only to be dissolved by death, and which\r\nput life and love under the same unhappy necessity. But you have not\r\nadded how often I have made protestations that it was infinitely\r\npreferable to me to live with \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e as his mistress than\r\nwith any other as empress of the world, and that I was more happy in\r\nobeying you, than I should have been in lawfully captivating the lord\r\nof the universe. Riches and pomp are not the charms of love. True\r\ntenderness make us to separate the lover from all that is external to\r\nhim, and setting aside his quality, fortune, and employments,\r\nconsider him singly by himself.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u0027Tis not love, but the desire of riches and honour, which makes\r\nwomen run into the embraces of an indolent husband. Ambition, not\r\naffection, forms such marriages. I believe indeed they may be\r\nfollowed with some honours and advantages, but I can never think that\r\nthis is the way to enjoy the pleasures of an affectionate union, nor\r\nto feel those secret and charming emotions of hearts that have long\r\nstrove to be united. These martyrs of marriage pine always for large\r\nfortunes, which they think they have lost. The wife sees husbands\r\nricher that her own, and the husband wives better portioned than his.\r\nTheir interested vows occasion regret, and regret produces hatred.\r\nThey soon part, or always desire it. This restless and tormenting\r\npassion punishes them for aiming at other advantages of love than\r\nlove itself.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf there is any thing which may properly be called happiness here\r\nbelow, I am persuaded it is in the union of two persons who love each\r\nother with perfect liberty, who are united by a secret inclination,\r\nand satisfied with each other\u0027s merit; their hearts are full and\r\nleave no vacancy for any other passion; they enjoy perpetual\r\ntranquillity, because they enjoy content.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf I could believe you as truly persuaded of my merit as I am of\r\nyours, I might say there has been such a time when we were such a\r\npair. Alas! how was it possible I should not be certain of your\r\nmerit? If I could ever have doubted it, the universal esteem would\r\nhave made me determine in your favour. What country, what city, has\r\nnot desired your presence? Could you ever retire but you drew the\r\neyes and hearts of all after you? Did not every one rejoice in having\r\nseen you? Even women, breaking through the laws of decorum, which\r\ncustom had imposed upon them, showed manifestly they felt something\r\nmore for you than esteem. I have known some who have been profuse in\r\ntheir husband\u0027s praises, who have yet envied my happiness, and given\r\nstrong intimations they could have refused you nothing. But what\r\ncould resist you? Your reputation, which so much soothed the vanity\r\nof our sex; your air, your manner; that life in your eyes, which so\r\nadmirably expressed the vivacity of your mind; your conversation with\r\nthat ease and elegance which gave every thing you spoke such an\r\nagreeable and insinuating turn; in short, every thing spoke for you;\r\nvery different from some mere scholars, who, with all their learning,\r\nhave not the capacity to keep up an ordinary conversation, and with\r\nall their wit cannot win the affection of women who have a much less\r\nshare than themselves.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWith what ease did you compose verses? and yet those ingenious\r\ntrifles, which were but a recreation after your more serious studies,\r\nare still the entertainment and delight of persons of the best taste.\r\nThe smallest song, nay, the least sketch of any thing you made for\r\nme, had a thousand beauties capable of making it last as long as\r\nthere are love or lovers in the world. Thus those songs will be sung\r\nin honour of other women which you designed only for me? and those\r\ntender and natural expressions which spoke your love will help others\r\nto explain their passion, with much more advantage than what they\r\nthemselves are capable of.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhat rivals did your gallantries of this kind occasion me? How\r\nmany ladies laid claim to them? \u0027Twas a tribute their self-love paid\r\nto their beauty. How many have I seen with sighs declare their\r\npassion for you, when, after some common visit you had made them,\r\nthey chanced to be complimented for the Sylvia of your poems? others,\r\nin despair and envy, have reproached me, that I had no charms but\r\nwhat your wit bestowed on me, nor in any thing the advantage over\r\nthem but in being beloved by you. Can you believe if I tell you,\r\nthat, notwithstanding the vanity of my sex, I thought myself\r\npeculiarly happy in having a lover to whom I was obliged for my\r\ncharms, and took a secret pleasure in being admired by a man who,\r\nwhen he pleased, could raise his mistress to the character of a\r\ngoddess? Pleased with your glory only, I read with delight all those\r\npraises you offered me, and without reflecting how little I deserved,\r\nI believed myself such as you described me, that I might be more\r\ncertain I pleased you.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut oh! where is that happy time fled? I now lament my lover, and\r\nof all my joys there remains nothing but the painful remembrance that\r\n\u003ci\u003ethey are past\u003c/i\u003e. Now learn, all you my rivals who once viewed my\r\nhappiness with such jealous eyes, that he you once envied me can\r\nnever more be yours or mine. I loved him, my love was his crime, and\r\nthe cause of his punishment. My beauty once charmed him: pleased with\r\neach other, we passed our brightest days in tranquillity and\r\nhappiness. If that was a crime, \u0027tis a crime I am yet fond of, and I\r\nhave no other regret, than that against my will I must necessarily be\r\ninnocent. But what do I say? My misfortune was to have cruel\r\nrelations, whose malice disturbed the calm we enjoyed. Had they been\r\ncapable of the returns of reason, I had now been happy in the\r\nenjoyment of my dear husband. Oh! how cruel were they when their\r\nblind fury urged a villain to surprise you in your sleep! Where was\r\nI? Where was your \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e then? What joy should I have had in\r\ndefending my lover! I would have guarded you from violence, though at\r\nthe expence of my life; my cries and the shrieks alone would have\r\nstopped the hand.—! Oh! whither does the excess of passion\r\nhurry me? Here love is shocked, and modesty, joined with despair,\r\ndeprive me of words. \u0027Tis eloquence to be silent, where no expression\r\ncan reach the greatness of the misfortune.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut, tell me, whence proceeds your neglect of me since my being\r\nprofessed? You know nothing moved me to it but your disgrace, nor did\r\nI give any consent but yours. Let me hear what is the occasion of\r\nyour coldness, or give me leave to tell you now my opinion. Was it\r\nnot the sole view of pleasure which engaged you to me? and has not my\r\ntenderness, by leaving you nothing to wish for, extinguished your\r\ndesires? Wretched \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e! You could please when you wished to\r\navoid it; you merited incense, when you could remove to a distance\r\nthe hand that offered it; but since your heart has been softened, and\r\nhas yielded; since you have devoted and sacrificed yourself, you are\r\ndeserted and forgotten. I am convinced, by sad experience, that it is\r\nnatural to avoid those to whom we have been too much obliged; and\r\nthat uncommon generosity produces neglect rather than\r\nacknowledgement. My heart surrendered too soon to gain the esteem of\r\nthe conqueror; you took it without difficulty, and give it up easily.\r\nBut, ungrateful as you are, I will never content to it. And though in\r\nthis place I ought not to retain a wish of my own, yet I have ever\r\nsecretly preserved the desire of being beloved by you. When I\r\npronounced my sad vow, I then had about me your last letter, in which\r\nyou protested you would be wholly mine, and would never live but to\r\nlove me. \u0027Tis to you, therefore, I have offered myself; you had my\r\nheart, and I had yours; do not demand any thing back; you must bear\r\nwith my passion as a thing which of right belongs to you, and from\r\nwhich you can no ways be disengaged.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAlas! what folly is it to talk at this rate? I see nothing here\r\nbut marks of the Deity, and I speak of nothing but man! You have been\r\nthe cruel occasion of this by your conduct. Unfaithful man! ought you\r\nat once to break off loving me. Why did you not deceive me for a\r\nwhile, rather than immediately abandon me? If you had given me at\r\nleast but some faint signs even of a dying passion, I myself had\r\nfavoured the deception. But in vain would I flatter myself that you\r\ncould be constant; you have left me no colour of making your excuse.\r\nI am earnestly desirous to see you; but if that be impossible, I will\r\ncontent myself with a few lines from your hand. Is it so hard for one\r\nwho loves to write? I ask for none of your letters filled with\r\nlearning, and writ for reputation; all I desire is such letters as\r\nthe heart dictates, and which the hand can scarce write fast enough.\r\nHow did I deceive myself with the hopes that you would be wholly mine\r\nwhen I took the veil, and engaged myself to live for ever under your\r\nlaws? For in being professed, I vowed no more than to be yours only,\r\nand I obliged myself voluntarily to a confinement in which you\r\ndesired to place me. Death only then can make me leave the place\r\nwhere you have fixed me; and then too, my ashes shall rest, here and\r\nwait for your, in order to shew my obedience and devotedness to you\r\nto the latest moment possible.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhy should I conceal from you the secret of my call? You know it\r\nwas neither zeal nor devotion which led me to the cloister. Your\r\nconscience is too faithful a witness to permit you to disown it. Yet\r\nhere I am, and here I will remain; to this place an unfortunate love,\r\nand my cruel relations, have condemned me. But if you do not continue\r\nyour concern for me, If I lose your affection, what have I gained by\r\nmy imprisonment? What recompense can I hope for? The unhappy\r\nconsequence of a criminal conduit, and your disgraces, have put on me\r\nthis habit of chastity, and not the sincere desire of being truly\r\npenitent. Thus I strive and labour in vain. Among those whose are\r\nwedded to God I serve a man: among the heroic supporters of the\r\nCross, I am a poor slave to a human passion: at the head of a\r\nreligious community I am devoted to \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e only. What a\r\nprodigy am I? Enlighten me, O Lord! Does thy grace or my own despair\r\ndraw these words from me? I am sensible I am in the Temple of\r\nChastity, covered only with the ashes of that fire which hath\r\nconsumed us. I am here, I confess, a sinner, but one who, far from\r\nweeping for her sins, weeps only for her lover; far from abhorring\r\nher crimes, endeavours only to add to them; and who, with a weakness\r\nunbecoming the state I am in, please myself continually with the\r\nremembrance of past actions, when it is impossible to renew them.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eGood God! what is all this! I reproach myself for my own faults, I\r\naccuse you for yours, and to what purpose? Veiled as I am, behold in\r\nwhat a disorder you have plunged me! How difficult is it to fight\r\nalways for duty against inclination? I know what obligations this\r\nveil lays on me, but I feel more strongly what power a long habitual\r\npassion has over my heart. I am conquered by my inclination. My love\r\ntroubles my mind, and disorders my will. Sometimes I am swayed by the\r\nsentiments of piety which arise in me, and the next moment I yield up\r\nmy imagination to all that is amorous and tender. I tell you to-day\r\nwhat I would not have said to you yesterday. I had resolved to love\r\nyou no more; I considered I had made a vow, taken the veil, and am as\r\nit were dead and buried; yet there rises unexpectedly from the bottom\r\nof my heart a passion which triumphs over all these notions, and\r\ndarkens all my reason and devotion. You reign in such inward retreats\r\nof my soul, that I know not where to attack you. When I endeavour to\r\nbreak those chains by which I am bound to you, I only deceive myself,\r\nand all the efforts I am able to make serve but to bind them the\r\nfaster. Oh, for Pity\u0027s sake help a wretch to renounce her desires\r\nherself, and if it be possible, even to renounce you! If you are a\r\nlover, a father, help a mistress, comfort a child! These tender\r\nnames, cannot they move you? Yield either to pity or love. If you\r\ngratify my request I shall continue a Religious without longer\r\nprofaning my calling. I am ready to humble myself with you to the\r\nwonderful providence of God, who does all things for our\r\nsanctification; who, by his grace, pacifies all that is vicious and\r\ncorrupt in the principle, and; by the inconceivable riches of his\r\nmercy, draws us to himself against our wishes, and by degrees opens\r\nour eyes to discern the greatness of his bounty, which at first we\r\nwould not understand.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI thought to end my letter here. But now I am complaining against\r\nyou, I must unload my heart, and tell you all its jealousies, and\r\nreproaches. Indeed I thought it something hard, that when we had both\r\nengaged to consecrate ourselves to Heaven, you should insist upon\r\ndoing it first. Does \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e then, said I, suspect he shall\r\nsee renewed in me the example of Lot\u0027s wife, who could not forbear\r\nlooking back when she left Sodom? If my youth and sex might give\r\noccasion of fear that I should return to the world, could not my\r\nbehaviour, my fidelity, and this heart which you ought to know, could\r\nnot banish such ungenerous apprehensions? This distrustful foresight\r\ntouched me sensibly. I said to myself, there was a time when he could\r\nrely upon my bare word, and does he now want vows to secure himself\r\nof me? What occasion have I given him in the whole course of my life\r\nto admit the least suspicion? I could meet him at all his\r\nassignations, and would I decline following him to the feats of\r\nholiness? I who have not refused to be a victim of pleasure to\r\ngratify him, can he think I would refuse to be a sacrifice of honour\r\nto obey him? Has Vice such charms to well-born souls? and, when we\r\nhave once drank of the cup of sinners, is it with such difficulty\r\nthat we take the chalice of saints? Or did you believe yourself a\r\ngreater master to teach vice than virtue, or did you think it was\r\nmore easy to persuade me to the first than the latter? No, this\r\nsuspicion would be injurious to both. Virtue is too amiable not to be\r\nembraced, when you reveal her charms; and Vice too hideous not to be\r\navoided, when you show her deformities. Nay, when you please, any\r\nthing seems lovely to me, and nothing is frightful or difficult when\r\nyou are by. I am only weak when I am alone and unsupported by you,\r\nand therefore it depends on you alone that I may be such as you\r\ndesire. I wish to Heav\u0027n you had not such a power over me. If you had\r\nany occasion to fear, you would be less negligent. But what is there\r\nfor you to fear? I have done too much, and now have nothing more to\r\ndo but to triumph over your ingratitude. When we lived happy\r\ntogether, you might have made it doubt whether pleasure or affection\r\nunited me more to you; but the place from whence I write to you must\r\nnow have entirely taken away that doubt. Even here I love you as much\r\nas ever I did in the world. If I had loved pleasures, could I not yet\r\nhave found means to have gratified myself? I was not above twenty-two\r\nyears old; and there were other men left though I was deprived of\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e and yet did I not bury myself alive in a nunnery, and\r\ntriumph over love, at an age capable of enjoying it in its full\r\nlatitude? \u0027Tis to you I sacrifice these remains of a transitory\r\nbeauty, these widowed nights and tedious days which I pass without\r\nseeing you; and since you cannot possess them, I take them from you\r\nto offer them to Heaven, and to make, alas! but a secondary oblation\r\nof my heart, my days, and my life!\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI am sensible I have dwelt too long on this head; I ought to speak\r\nless to you of your misfortunes, and of my own sufferings, for love\r\nof you. We tarnish the lustre of our most beautiful actions when we\r\napplaud them ourselves. This is true, and yet there is a time when we\r\nmay with decency commend ourselves; when we have to do with those\r\nwhom base ingratitude has stupefied, we cannot too much praise our\r\nown good actions. Now, if you were of this sort of men, this would be\r\na home-reflection on you. Irresolute as I am, I still love you, and\r\nyet I must hope for nothing, I have renounced life, and stripped\r\nmyself of every thing, but I find I neither have nor can renounce my\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e. Though I have lost my lover, I still preserve my\r\nlove. O vows! O convent! I have not lost my humanity under your\r\ninexorable discipline! You have not made me marble by changing my\r\nhabit. My heart is not totally hardened by my perpetual imprisonment;\r\nI am still sensible to what has touched me, though, alas I ought\r\nnot to be so. Without offending your commands, permit a lover to\r\nexhort me to live in obedience to your rigorous rules. Your yoke will\r\nbe lighter, if that hand support me under it; your exercises will be\r\namiable, if he shows me their advantage. Retirement, solitude! you\r\nwill not appear terrible, if I may but still know I have any place in\r\nhis memory. A heart which has been so sensibly affected as mine\r\ncannot soon be indifferent. We fluctuate long between love and hatred\r\nbefore we can arrive at a happy tranquillity, and we always flatter\r\nourselves with some distant hope that we shall not be quite\r\nforgotten.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eYes, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, I conjure you by the chains I bear here to\r\nease the weight of them, and make them as agreeable as I wish they\r\nwere to me. Teach me the maxims of divine love. Since you have\r\nforsaken me, I glory in being wedded to Heaven. My heart adores that\r\ntitle, and disdains any other. Tell me how this divine love is\r\nnourished, how it operates, and purifies itself. When we were tossed\r\nin the ocean of the world, we could hear of nothing but your verses,\r\nwhich published every where our joys and our pleasures: now we are in\r\nthe haven of grace, is it not fit that you should discourse to me of\r\nthis happiness, and teach me every thing which might improve and\r\nheighten it? Shew me the same complaisance in my present condition as\r\nyou did when we were in the world. Without changing the ardour of our\r\naffections, let us change their object; let us leave our songs, and\r\nsing hymns; let us lift up our hearts to God, and have no transports\r\nbut for his glory.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI expect this from you as a thing you cannot refuse me. God has a\r\npeculiar right over the hearts of great men which he has created.\r\nWhen he pleases to touch them, he ravishes them, and lets them not\r\nspeak nor breathe but for his glory. Till that moment of grace\r\narrives, O think of me——do not forget me;—remember\r\nmy love, my fidelity, my constancy; love me as your mistress, cherish\r\nme as your child, your sister, your wife. Consider that I still love\r\nyou, and yet strive to avoid loving you. What a word, what a design\r\nis this! I shake with horror, and my heart revolts against what I\r\nsay. I shall blot all my paper with tears—I end my long letter,\r\nwishing you, if you can desire it, (would to Heaven I could,) for\r\never adieu.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003eADVERTISEMENT.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat the reader may make a right judgment on the following Letter,\r\nit is proper he should be informed of the condition \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nwas in when he wrote it. The Duke of Britany whose subject he was\r\nborn, jealous of the glory of France, which then engrossed all the\r\nmost famous scholars of Europe, and being, besides, acquainted with\r\nthe persecution \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e had suffered from his enemies, had\r\nnominated him to the Abbey of St. Gildas, and, by this benefaction\r\nand mark of his esteem, engaged him to past the rest of his days in\r\nhis dominions. He received this favour with great joy, imagining,\r\nthat by leaving France he should lose his passion, and gain a new\r\nturn of mind upon entering into his new dignity. The Abbey of St.\r\nGildas is seated upon a rock, which the sea beats with its waves.\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, who had lain on himself the necessity of vanquishing\r\na passion which absence had in a great measure weakened, endeavoured\r\nin this solitude to extinguish the remains of it by his tears. But\r\nupon his receiving the foregoing letter he could not resist so\r\npowerful an attack, but proves as weak and as much to be pitied as\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e. \u0027Tis not then a master or director that speaks to\r\nher, but a man who had loved her, and loves her still: and under this\r\ncharacter we are to consider \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e when he wrote the\r\nfollowing Letter. If he seems, by some passages in it, to have begun\r\nto feel the motions of divine grace they appear as yet to be only by\r\nstarts, and without any uniformity.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch2 style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_h2_align\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"a_CHIII\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eLETTER III.\u003c/h2\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e to \u003ci\u003eHeloise.\u003c/i\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eCould I have imagined that a letter not written to yourself could\r\nhave fallen into your hands, I had been more cautious not to have\r\ninserted any thing in it which might awaken the memory of our past\r\nmisfortunes. I described with boldness the series of my disgraces to\r\na friend, in order to make him less sensible of the loss he had\r\nsustained. If by this well meaning artifice I have disturbed you, I\r\npurpose here to dry up those tears which the sad description\r\noccasioned you to shed: I intend to mix my grief with yours, and pour\r\nout my heart before you; in short, to lay open before your eyes all\r\nmy trouble, and the secrets of my soul, which my vanity has hitherto\r\nmade me conceal from the rest of the world, and which you now force\r\nfrom me, in spite of my resolutions to the contrary.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is true, that in a sense of the afflictions which had befallen\r\nus, and observing that no change of our condition was to be expected;\r\nthat those prosperous days which had seduced us were now past, and\r\nthere remained nothing but to eraze out of our minds, by painful\r\nendeavours, all marks and remembrance of them, I had wished to find\r\nin philosophy and religion a remedy for my disgrace; I searched out\r\nan asylum to secure me from love. I was come to the sad experiment of\r\nmaking vows to harden my heart. But what have I gained by this? If my\r\npassion has been put under a restraint, my ideas yet remain. I\r\npromise myself that I will forget you, and yet cannot think of it\r\nwithout loving you; and am pleased with that thought. My love is not\r\nat all weakened by those reflections I make in order to free myself.\r\nThe silence I am surrounded with makes me more sensible to its\r\nimpressions; and while I am unemployed with any other things, this\r\nmakes itself the business of my whole vacation; till, after a\r\nmultitude of useless endeavours, I begin to persuade myself that it\r\nis a superfluous trouble to drive to free myself; and that it is\r\nwisdom sufficient if I can conceal from every one but you my\r\nconfusion and weakness.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI removed to a distance from your person, with an intention of\r\navoiding you as an enemy; and yet I incessantly seek for you in my\r\nmind; I recall your image in my memory; and in such different\r\ndisquietudes I betray and contradict myself. I hate you: I love you.\r\nShame presses me on all sides: I am at this moment afraid lest I\r\nshould seem more indifferent than you, and yet I am ashamed to\r\ndiscover my trouble.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHow weak are we in ourselves, if we do not support ourselves on\r\nthe cross of Christ? Shall we have so little courage, and shall that\r\nuncertainty your heart labours with, of serving two masters, affect\r\nmine too? You see the confusion I am in, what I blame myself for, and\r\nwhat I suffer. Religion commands me to pursue virtue, since I have\r\nnothing to hope for from love. But love still preserves its dominion\r\nin my fancy, and entertains itself with past pleasures. Memory\r\nsupplies the place of a mistress. Piety and duty are not always the\r\nfruits of retirement; even in deserts, when the dew of heaven falls\r\nnot on us, we love what we ought no longer to love. The passions,\r\nstirred up by solitude, fill those regions of death and silence; and\r\nit is very seldom that what ought to be is truly followed there, and\r\nthat God only is loved and served. Had I always had such notions as\r\nthese, I had instructed you better. You call me your Master \u0027tis\r\ntrue, you were intrusted to my care. I saw you, I was earnest to\r\nteach you vain sciences; it cost you your innocence, and me my\r\nliberty. Your uncle, who was fond of you, became therefore me enemy,\r\nand revenge himself on me. If now, having lost the power of\r\nsatisfying my passion, I had lost too that of loving you, I should\r\nhave some consolation. My enemies would have given me that\r\ntranquillity which Origen purchased by a crime. How miserable am I!\r\nMy misfortune does not loose my chains, my passion grows furious by\r\nimpotence; and that desire I still have for you amidst all my\r\ndisgraces makes me more unhappy than the misfortune itself. I find\r\nmyself much more guilty in my thoughts of you, even amidst my tears,\r\nthan in possessing yourself when I was in full liberty. I continually\r\nthink of you, I continually call to mind that day when you bestowed\r\non me the first marks of your tenderness. In this condition, O Lord!\r\nif I run to prostrate myself before thy altars, if I beseech thee to\r\npity me, why does not the pure flame of thy Spirit consume the\r\nsacrifice that is offered to thee? Cannot this habit of penitence\r\nwhich I wear interest Heaven to treat me more favourably? But that is\r\nstill inexorable; because my passion still lives in me, the fire is\r\nonly covered over with deceitful ashes, and cannot be extinguished\r\nbut by extraordinary graces. We deceive men, but nothing is hid from\r\nGod.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eYou tell me, that it is for me you live under that veil which\r\ncovers you; why do you profane your vocation with such words? Why\r\nprovoke a jealous God by a blasphemy? I hoped, after our separation,\r\nyou would have changed your sentiments; I hoped too, that God would\r\nhave delivered me from the tumult of my senses, and that contrariety\r\nwhich reigns in my heart. We commonly die to the affections of those\r\nwhom we see no more, and they to ours: absence is the tomb of love.\r\nBut to me absence is an unquiet remembrance of what I once loved,\r\nwhich continually torments me. I flattered myself, that when I should\r\nsee you no more, you would only rest in my memory, without giving any\r\ntrouble to my mind; that Britany and the sea would inspire other\r\nthoughts; that my fasts and studies would by degrees eraze you out of\r\nmy heart; but in spite of severe fasts and redoubled studies, in\r\nspite of the distance of three hundred miles which separates us, your\r\nimage, such as you describe yourself in your veil, appears to me, and\r\nconfounds all my resolutions.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhat means have I not used? I have armed my own hands against\r\nmyself? I have exhausted my strength in constant exercises; I comment\r\nupon St. Paul; I dispute with Aristotle; in short, I do all I used to\r\ndo before I loved you, but all in vain; nothing can be successful\r\nthat opposes you. Oh! do not add to my miseries by your constancy;\r\nforget, if you can, your favours, and that right which they claim\r\nover me; permit me to be indifferent. I envy their happiness who have\r\nnever loved; how quiet and easy are they! But the tide of pleasures\r\nhas always a reflux of bitterness. I am but too much convinced now of\r\nthis; but though I am no longer deceived by love, I am not cured:\r\nwhile my reason condemns it, my heart declares for it. I am\r\ndeplorable that I have not the ability to free myself from a passion\r\nwhich so many circumstances, this place, my person, and my disgraces,\r\ntend to destroy. I yield, without considering that a resistance would\r\nwipe out my past offences, and would procure me in their stead merit\r\nand repose. Why should you use eloquence to reproach me for my\r\nflight, and for my silence? Spare the recital of our assignations,\r\nand your constant exactness to them; without calling up such\r\ndisturbing thoughts, I have enough to suffer. What great advantages\r\nwould philosophy give us over other men, if by studying it we could\r\nlearn to govern our passions? but how humbled ought we to be when we\r\ncannot master them? What efforts, what relapses, what agitations, do\r\nwe undergo? and how long are we tossed in this confusion, unable to\r\nexert our reason, to possess our souls, or to rule our affections?\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhat a troublesome employment is love! and how valuable is virtue\r\neven upon consideration of our own ease! Recoiled your extravagances\r\nof passion, guess at my distractions: number up our cares, if\r\npossible, our griefs, and our inquietudes; throw these things out of\r\nthe account, and let love have all its remaining softness and\r\npleasure. How little is that? and, yet for such shadows of\r\nenjoyments, which at first appeared to us, are we so weak our whole\r\nlives that we cannot now help writing to each other, covered as we\r\nare with sackcloth and ashes! How much happier should we be, if, by\r\nour humiliation and tears, we could make our repentance sure! The\r\nlove of pleasure is not eradicated out of the soul but by\r\nextraordinary efforts; it has so powerful a party in our breasts,\r\nthat we find it difficult to condemn it ourselves. What abhorrence\r\ncan I be said to have of my sins, if the objects of them are always\r\namiable to me? How can I separate from the person I love the passion\r\nI must detest? Will the tears I shed be sufficient to render it\r\nodious to me? I know not how it happens, there is always a pleasure\r\nin weeping for a beloved object. \u0027Tis difficult in our sorrow to\r\ndistinguish penitence from love. The memory of the crime, and the\r\nmemory of the object which has charmed us, are too nearly related to\r\nbe immediately separated: and the love of God in its beginning does\r\nnot wholly annihilate the love of the creature. But what excuses\r\ncould I not find in you, if the crime were excusable? Unprofitable\r\nhonour, troublesome riches, could never tempt me; but those charms,\r\nthat beauty, that air, which I yet behold at this instant, have\r\noccasioned my fall. Your looks were the beginning of my guilt; your\r\neyes, your discourse, pierced my heart; and in spite of that ambition\r\nand glory which filled it, and offered to make defence, love soon\r\nmade itself master. God, in order to punish me, forsook me. His\r\nprovidence permitted those consequences which have since happened.\r\nYou are no longer of the world; you have renounced it; I am a\r\nReligious, devoted to solitude; shall we make no advantage of our\r\ncondition? Would you destroy my piety in its infant-state? Would you\r\nhave me forsake the convent into which I am but newly entered? Must I\r\nrenounce my vows? I have made them in the presence of God; whither\r\nshall I fly from his wrath if I violate them? Suffer me to seek for\r\nease in my duty; how difficult it is to procure that! I pass whole\r\ndays and nights alone in this cloister, without closing my eyes. My\r\nlove burns fiercer, amidst the happy indifference of those who\r\nsurround me, and my heart is at once pierced with your sorrows and\r\nits own. Oh what a loss have I sustained, when I consider your\r\nconstancy! What pleasures have I missed enjoying! I ought not to\r\nconfess this weakness to you: I am sensible I commit a fault: if I\r\ncould have showed more firmness of mind, I should, perhaps, have\r\nprovoked your resentment against me, and your anger might work that\r\neffect in you which your virtue could not. If in the world I\r\npublished my weakness by verses and love-songs, ought not the dark\r\ncells of this house to conceal that weakness, at least, under an\r\nappearance of piety? Alas! I am still the same! or if I avoid the\r\nevil, I cannot do the good; and yet I ought to join both, in order to\r\nmake this manner of living profitable. But how difficult is this in\r\nthe trouble which surrounds me? Duty, reason, and decency, which,\r\nupon other occasions have such power over me, are here entirely\r\nuseless. The gospel is a language I do not understand, when it\r\nopposes my passion. Those oaths which I have taken before the holy\r\naltar, are feeble helps when opposed to you. Amidst so many voices\r\nwhich call me to my duty, I hear and obey nothing but the secret\r\ndictates of a desperate passion. Void of all relish for virtue, any\r\nconcern for my condition, or any application to my studies, I am\r\ncontinually present by my imagination where I ought not to be, and I\r\nfind I have no power, when I would at any time correct it. I feel a\r\nperpetual strife between my inclination and my duty. I find myself\r\nentirely a distracted lover; unquiet in the midst of silence, and\r\nrestless in this abode of peace and repose. How shameful is such a\r\ncondition!\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eConsider me no more, I intreat you, as a founder, or any great\r\npersonage; your encomiums do but ill agree with such multiplied\r\nweaknesses. I am a miserable sinner, prostrate before my Judge, and,\r\nwith my face pressed to the earth, I mix my tears and my sighs in the\r\ndust, when the beams of grace and reason enlighten me. Come, see me\r\nin this posture, and solicit me to love you! Come, if you think fit,\r\nand in your holy habit thrust yourself between God and me and be a\r\nwall of separation! Come, and force from me those sighs, thoughts,\r\nand vows, which I owe to him only. Assist the evil spirits, and be\r\nthe instrument of their malice. What cannot you induce a heart to,\r\nwhose weakness you so perfectly know? But rather withdraw yourself,\r\nand contribute to my salvation. Suffer me to avoid destruction, I\r\nintreat you, by our former tenderest affection, and by our common\r\nmisfortune. It will always be the highest love to show none. I here\r\nrelease you of all your oaths and engagements. Be God\u0027s wholly, to\r\nwhom you are appropriated; I will never oppose so pious a design. How\r\nhappy shall I be if I thus lose you! then shall I be indeed a\r\nReligious, and you a perfect example of an Abbess.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eMake yourself amends by so glorious a choice; make your virtue a\r\nspectacle worthy men and angels: be humble among your children,\r\nassiduous in your choir, exact in your discipline, diligent in your\r\nreading; make even your recreations useful. Have you purchased your\r\nvocation at so slight a rate, as that you should not turn it to the\r\nbest advantage? Since you have permitted yourself to be abused by\r\nfalse doctrine, and criminal instructions, resist not those\r\ngood-counsels which grace and religion inspire me with. I will\r\nconfess to you, I have thought myself hitherto an abler master to\r\ninstill vice than to excite virtue, My false eloquence has only set\r\noff false good. My heart drunk with voluptuousness, could only\r\nsuggest terms proper and moving to recommend that. The cup of sinners\r\noverflows with so inchanting a sweetness and we are naturally so much\r\ninclined to taste it, that it needs only be offered to us. On the\r\nother hand, the chalice of saints is filled with a bitter draught,\r\nand nature starts from it. And yet you reproach me with cowardice for\r\ngiving it you first; I willingly submit to these accusations. I\r\ncannot enough admire the readiness you showed to take the religious\r\nhabit: bear, therefore, with courage the Cross, which you have taken\r\nup so resolutely. Drink of the chalice of saints, even to the bottom,\r\nwithout turning your eyes with uncertainty upon me, Let me remove far\r\nfrom you, and obey the apostle, who hath said, \u003ci\u003eFly.\u003c/i\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eYou intreat me to return, under a pretence of devotion, Your\r\nearnestness in this point creates a suspicion in me, and makes me\r\ndoubtful how to answer you. Should I commit an error here, my words\r\nwould blush, if I may say so, after the history of my misfortunes.\r\nThe Church is jealous of its glory, and commands that her children\r\nshould be induced to the practice of virtue by virtuous means. When\r\nwe have approached God after an unblameable manner, we may then with\r\nboldness invite others to him. But to forget \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, to see\r\nher no more, is what Heaven demands of \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e; and to expect\r\nnothing from \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, to lose him even in idea, is what Heaven\r\nenjoins \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e. To forget in the case of love is the most\r\nnecessary penitence, and the most difficult. It is easy to recount\r\nour faults. How many through indiscretion have made themselves a\r\nsecond pleasure of this, instead of confessing them with humility.\r\nThe only way to return to God is, by neglecting the creature which we\r\nhave adored, and adoring God whom we have neglected. This may appear\r\nharsh, but it must be done if we would be saved.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo make it more easy, observe why I pressed you to your vow before\r\nI took mine; and pardon my sincerity, and the design I have of\r\nmeriting your neglect and hatred, if I conceal nothing from you of\r\nthe particular you inquire after. When I saw myself so oppressed with\r\nmy misfortune, my impotency made me jealous, and I considered all\r\nmen as my rivals. Love has more of distrust than assurance. I was\r\napprehensive of abundance of things, because I saw I had abundance of\r\ndefects; and being tormented with fear from my own example, I\r\nimagined your heart, which had been so much accustomed to love, would\r\nnot be long without entering into a new engagement. Jealousy can\r\neasily believe to most dreadful consequences, I was desirous to put\r\nmyself out of a possibility of doubting you. I was very urgent to\r\npersuade you, that decency required you should withdraw from the\r\nenvious eyes of the world; that modesty, and our friendship, demanded\r\nit; nay, that your own safety obliged you to it; and, that after such\r\na revenge taken upon me, you could expect to be secure no where but\r\nin a convent.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI will do you justice; you were very easily persuaded to it. My\r\njealousy secretly triumphed over your innocent compliance; and yet,\r\ntriumphant as I was, I yielded you up to God with an unwilling heart.\r\nI still kept my gift as much as was possible, and only parted with it\r\nthat I might effectually put it out of the power of men. I did not\r\npersuade you to religion out of any regard to your happiness, but\r\ncondemned you to it, like an enemy who destroys what he cannot carry\r\noff. And yet you heard my discourses with kindness; you sometimes\r\ninterrupted me with tears, and pressed me to acquaint you which of\r\nthe convents was most in my esteem. What a comfort did I feel in\r\nseeing you shut up! I was now at ease, and took a satisfaction in\r\nconsidering that you did not continue long in the world after my\r\ndisgrace, and that you would return into it no more.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut still this was doubtful. I imagined women were incapable of\r\nmaintaining any constant resolutions, unless they were forced by the\r\nnecessity of fixed vows. I wanted those vows, and Heaven itself, for\r\nyour security, that I might no longer distrust you. Ye holy mansions,\r\nye impenetrable retreats, from what numberless apprehensions have you\r\nfreed me? Religion and Piety keep a strict guard round your grates\r\nand high walls. What a haven of rest is this to a jealous mind? and\r\nwith what impatience did I endeavour it! I went every day trembling\r\nto exhort you to this sacrifice; I admired, without daring to mention\r\nit then, a brightness in your beauty which I had never observed\r\nbefore. Whether it was the bloom of a rising virtue, or an\r\nanticipation of that great loss I was going to suffer, I was not\r\ncurious in examining the cause, but only hastened your being\r\nprofessed. I engaged your Prioress in my guilt by a criminal bribe,\r\nwith which I purchased the right of burying you. The professed of the\r\nhouse were also bribed, and concealed from you, by my directions, all\r\ntheir scruples and disgusts. I omitted nothing, either little or\r\ngreat: and if you had escaped all my snares, I myself would not have\r\nretired: I was resolved to follow you every where. This shadow of\r\nmyself would always have pursued your steps, and continually\r\noccasioned either your confusion or fear, which would have been a\r\nsensible gratification to me.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut, thanks to Heaven, you resolved to make a vow; I accompanied\r\nyou with terror to the foot of the altar: and while you stretched out\r\nyour hand to touch the sacred cloth, I heard you pronounce distinctly\r\nthose fatal words which for ever separated you from all men. \u0027Till\r\nthen your beauty and youth seemed to oppose my design, and to\r\nthreaten your return into the world. Might not a small temptation\r\nhave changed you? Is it possible to renounce one\u0027s self entirely at\r\nthe age of two and twenty? at an age which claims the most absolute\r\nliberty, could you think the world no longer worthy of your regard?\r\nHow much did I wrong you, and what weakness did I impute to you? You\r\nwere in my imagination nothing but lightness and inconstancy. Might\r\nnot a young woman, at the noise of the flames, and the fall of Sodom,\r\nlook back, and pity some one person? I took notice of your eyes, your\r\nmotion, your air; I trembled at every thing. You may call such a\r\nself-interested conduct treachery, perfidiousness, murder. A love\r\nwhich was so like to hatred ought to provoke the utmost contempt and\r\nanger.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is fit you should know, that the very moment when I was\r\nconvinced of your being entirely devoted to me, when I saw you were\r\ninfinitely worthy of all my love and acknowledgement, I imagined I\r\ncould love you no more; I thought it time to leave off giving you any\r\nmarks of affection; and I considered, that by your holy espousals you\r\nwere now the peculiar care of Heaven, even in the quality of a wife.\r\nMy jealousy seemed to be extinguished. When God only is our rival, we\r\nhave nothing to fear: and being in greater tranquillity than ever\r\nbefore, I dared even to offer up prayers, and beseech him to take you\r\naway from my eyes: but it was not a time to make rash prayers; and my\r\nfaith was too imperfect to let them be heard. He who sees the depth\r\nand secrets of all men\u0027s hearts, saw mine did not agree with my\r\nwords. Necessity and despair were the springs of this proceeding.\r\nThus I inadvertently offered an insult to Heaven rather than a\r\nsacrifice. God rejected my offering and my prayers, and continued my\r\npunishment, by suffering me to continue my love. Thus, under the\r\nguilt of your vows, and of the passion which preceded them, I must be\r\ntormented all the days of my life.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf God spoke to your heart, as to that of a Religious, whose\r\ninnocence had first engaged him to heap on it a thousand favours, I\r\nshould have matter of comfort; but to see both of us victims of a\r\ncriminal love; to see this love insult us, and invest itself with our\r\nvery habits, as with spoils it has taken from our devotion, fills me\r\nwith horror and trembling. Is this a state of reprobation? or are\r\nthese the consequences of a long drunkenness in profane love? We\r\ncannot say love is a drunkenness and a poison till we are illuminated\r\nby grace; in the mean time, it is an evil which we dote on. When we\r\nare under such a mistake the knowledge of our misery is the first\r\nstep towards amendment. Who does not know that it is for the glory of\r\nGod to find no other foundation in man for his mercy than man\u0027s very\r\nweakness? When he has shewed us this weakness, and we bewail it, he\r\nis ready to put forth his omnipotence to assist us. Let us say for\r\nour comfort that what we suffer is one of those long and terrible\r\ntemptations which have sometimes disturbed the vocations of the most\r\nHoly.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eGod can afford his presence to men, in order to soften their\r\ncalamities, whenever he shall think fit. It was his pleasure when you\r\ntook the veil, to draw you to him by his grace. I saw your eyes, when\r\nyou spoke your last farewell, fixed upon the cross. It was above six\r\nmonths before you wrote me a letter, nor during all that time did I\r\nreceive any message from you. I admired this silence, which I durst\r\nnot blame, and could not imitate. I wrote to you; you returned me no\r\nanswer. Your heart was then shut; but this guardian of the spouse is\r\nnow opened, he is withdrawn from it, and has left you alone. By\r\nremoving from you, he has made trial of you; call him back and strive\r\nto regain him. We must have the assistance of God that we may break\r\nour chains; we have engaged too deeply in love to free ourselves. Our\r\nfollies have penetrated even into the most sacred places. Our amours\r\nhave been matter of scandal to a whole kingdom. They are read and\r\nadmired; love which produced them has caused them to be described. We\r\nshall be a consolation for the failings of youth hereafter. Those who\r\noffend after us will think themselves less guilty. We are criminals\r\nwhose repentance is late. O may it be sincere! Let us repair, as far\r\nis possible, the evils we have done; and let France, which has been\r\nthe witness of our crimes, be astonished at our penitence. Let us\r\nconfound all who would imitate our guilt, let us take the part of God\r\nagainst ourselves, and by so doing prevent his judgment. Our former\r\nirregularities require tears, shame, and sorrow to expiate them. Let\r\nus offer up these sacrifices from our hearts; let us blush, let us\r\nweep. If in these weak beginnings, Lord, our heart is not entirely\r\nthine, let it at least be made sensible that it ought to be so!\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eDeliver yourself, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, from the shameful remains of a\r\npassion which has taken too deep root. Remember that the least\r\nthought for any other than God is adultery. If you could see me here,\r\nwith my meagre face and melancholy air, surrounded with numbers of\r\npersecuting monks, who are alarmed at my reputation for learning, and\r\noffended at my lean visage, as if I threatened them with a\r\nreformation; what would you say of my base sighs, and of those\r\nunprofitable tears which deceive these credulous men? Alas! I am\r\nhumbled under love, and not under the Cross. Pity me, and free\r\nyourself. If your vocation be, as you say, my work, deprive me not of\r\nthe merit of it by your continual inquietudes. Tell me that you, will\r\nhonour the habit which covers you, by an inward retirement. Fear God,\r\nthat you may be delivered from your frailties. Love him, if you would\r\nadvance in virtue. Be not uneasy in the cloister, for it is the\r\ndwelling of saints. Embrace your bands, they are the chains of Christ\r\nJesus: he will lighten them, and bear them with you, if you bear them\r\nwith humility.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWithout growing severe to a passion which yet possesses you, learn\r\nfrom your own misery to succour your weak sisters; pity them upon\r\nconsideration of your own faults. And if any thoughts too natural\r\nshall importune you, fly to the foot of the Cross, and beg for mercy;\r\nthere are wounds open; lament before the dying Deity. At the head of\r\na religious society be not a slave, and having rule over queens,\r\nbegin to govern yourself. Blush at the least revolt of your senses.\r\nRemember, that even at the foot of the altar we often sacrifice to\r\nlying spirits, and that no incense can be more agreeable to them than\r\nthat which in those places burns in the heart of a Religious still\r\nsensible of passion and love. If, during your abode in the world,\r\nyour soul has acquired a habit of loving, feel it now no more but for\r\nJesus Christ, Repent of all the moments of your life which you have\r\nwasted upon the world, and upon pleasure; demand them of me, it is a\r\nrobbery which I am guilty of; take courage and boldly reproach me\r\nwith it.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI have been indeed your master, but it was only to teach you sin.\r\nYou call me your Father; before I had any claim to this title I\r\ndeserved that of Parricide. I am your brother, but it is the\r\naffinity of our crimes that has purchased me that distinction. I am\r\ncalled your Husband, but it is after a public scandal. If you have\r\nabused the sanctity of so many venerable names in the superscription\r\nof your letters, to do me honour, and flatter your own passion, blot\r\nthem out, and place in their stead those of a Murtherer, a Villain,\r\nan Enemy, who has conspired against your honour, troubled your quiet,\r\nand betrayed your innocence. You would have perished thro\u0027 my means,\r\nbut by an extraordinary act of grace, which that you might be saved,\r\nhas thrown me down in the middle of my course.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis is the idea that you ought to have of a fugitive, who\r\nendeavours to deprive you of the hope of seeing him any more. But\r\nwhen love has once been sincere, how difficult it is to determine to\r\nlove no more? \u0027Tis a thousand times more easy to renounce the world\r\nthan love. I hate this deceitful faithless world; I think no more of\r\nit; but my heart, still wandering, will eternally make me feel the\r\nanguish of having lost you, in spite of all the convictions of my\r\nunderstanding. In the mean time tho\u0027 I so be so cowardly as to\r\nretract what you have read, do not suffer me to offer myself to your\r\nthoughts but under this last notion. Remember my last endeavours were\r\nto seduce your heart. You perished by my means, and I with you. The\r\nsame waves swallowed us both up. We waited for death with\r\nindifference, and the same death had carried us headlong to the same\r\npunishments. But Providence has turned off this blow, and our\r\nshipwreck has thrown us into an haven. There are some whom the mercy\r\nof God saves by afflictions. Let my salvation be the fruit of your\r\nprayers! let me owe it to your tears, or exemplary holiness! Tho\u0027 my\r\nheart, Lord! be filled with the love of one of thy creatures, thy\r\nhand can, when it pleases, draw out of it those ideas which fill its\r\nwhole capacity. To love \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e truly is to leave her entirely\r\nto that quiet which retirement and virtue afford. I have resolved it:\r\nthis letter shall be my last fault. Adieu.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf I die here, I will give orders that my body be carried to the\r\nhouse of the Paraclete. You shall see me in that condition; not to\r\ndemand tears from you, it will then be too late; weep rather for me\r\nnow, to extinguish that fire which burns me. You shall see me, to\r\nstrengthen your piety by the horror of this carcase; and my death,\r\nthen more eloquent than I can be, will tell you what you love when\r\nyou love a man. I hope you will be contented, when you have finished\r\nthis mortal life, to be buried near me. Your cold ashes need then\r\nfear nothing, and my tomb will, by that means, be more rich and more\r\nrenowned.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch2 style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_h2_align\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"a_CHIV\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eLETTER IV.\u003c/h2\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eHELOISE to ABELARD.\u003c/i\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eIn the following Letter the passion of \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e\r\nbreaks, out with more violence than ever. That which she had received\r\nfrom \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, instead of fortifying her resolutions, served\r\nonly to revive in her memory all their past endearments and\r\nmisfortunes. With this impression she writes again to her husband;\r\nand appears now, not so much in the charter of a Religious, striving\r\nwith the remains of her former weakness, as in that of an unhappy\r\nwoman abandoned to all the transport of love and despair.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eTo \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, her well beloved in Christ Jesus, from\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, his well-beloved, in the same Christ Jesus.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI read the letter I received from you with abundance of\r\nimpatience. In spite of all my misfortunes, I hoped to find nothing\r\nin it besides arguments of comfort; but how ingenious are lovers in\r\ntormenting themselves! Judge of the exquisite sensibility and force\r\nof my love by that which causes the grief of my soul; I was disturbed\r\nat the superscription of your letter! why did you place the name of\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e before that of \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e? what means this most\r\ncruel and unjust distinction? \u0027Twas your name only, the name of\r\nFather, and of a Husband, which my eager eyes sought after. I did not\r\nlook for my own, which I much rather, if possible, forget, as being\r\nthe cause of your misfortune. The rules of decorum, and the character\r\nof Master and Director which you have over me, opposed that\r\nceremonious manner of addressing me; and Love commanded you to banish\r\nit. Alas! you know all this but too well.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eDid you write thus to me before Fortune had ruined my happiness? I\r\nsee your heart has deserted me, and you have made greater advances in\r\nthe way of devotion than I could wish. Alas! I am too weak to follow\r\nyou; condescend at least to stay for me, and animate me with your\r\nadvice. Will you have the cruelty to abandon me? The fear of this\r\nstabs my heart: but the fearful presages you make at the latter end\r\nof your Letter, those terrible images you draw of your death, quite\r\ndistracts me. Cruel \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e! you ought to have stopped my\r\ntears, and you make them flow; you ought to have quieted the disorder\r\nof my heart, and you throw me into despair.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eYou desire that after your death I should take care of your ashes,\r\nand pay them the last duties. Alas! in what temper did you conceive\r\nthese mournful ideas? and how could you describe them to me? Did not\r\nthe apprehension of causing my present death make the pen drop from\r\nyour hand? You did not reflect, I suppose, upon all those\u0027 torments\r\nto which you were going to deliver me. Heaven, as severe as it has\r\nbeen against me, is not in so great a degree so, as to permit me to\r\nlive one moment after you. Life without my \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e is an\r\nunsupportable punishment, and death a most exquisite happiness, if by\r\nthat means I can be united with him. If Heaven hears the prayers I\r\ncontinually make for you, your days will be prolonged, and you will\r\nbury me.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIs it not your part to prepare me, by your powerful exhortations\r\nagainst that great crisis, which shakes the most resolute and\r\nconfirmed minds? Is it not your part to receive my last sighs; take\r\ncare of my funeral, and give an account of my manners and faith? Who\r\nbut you can recommend us worthily to God; and by the fervour and\r\nmerit of your prayers, conduct those souls to him which you have\r\njoined to his worship by solemn contracts? We expect these pious\r\noffices from your paternal charity. After this you will be free from\r\nthose disquietudes which now molest you, and you will quit life with\r\nmore ease, whenever it shall please God to call you away. You may\r\nfollow us, content with what you have done, and in a full assurance\r\nof our happiness: but till then, write not to me any such terrible\r\nthings. Are we not already sufficiently miserable? must we aggravate\r\nour sorrows? Our life here is but a languishing death? will you\r\nhasten it? Our present disgraces are sufficient to employ our\r\nthoughts continually, and shall we seek new arguments of grief in\r\nfuturities? How void of reason are men, said Seneca, to make distant\r\nevils present by reflection, and to take pains before death to lose\r\nall the comforts of life?\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen you have finished your course here below, you say it is your\r\ndesire that your body be carried to the house of the Paraclete, to\r\nthe intent that, being always exposed to my eyes, you may be for ever\r\npresent to my mind; and that your dear body may strengthen our piety,\r\nand animate our prayers. Can you think that the traces you have drawn\r\nin my heart can ever be worn out? or that any length of time can\r\nobliterate the memory we have here of your benefits? And what time\r\nshall I find for those prayers you speak of? Alas! I shall then be\r\nfilled with other cares. Can so heavy a misfortune leave me a\r\nmoment\u0027s quiet? can my feeble reason resist such powerful assaults?\r\nWhen I am distracted and raving, (if I dare to say it,) even against\r\nHeaven itself, I shall not soften it by my prayers, but rather\r\nprovoke it by my cries and reproaches! But how should I pray! or how\r\nbear up against my grief? I should be more urgent to follow you than\r\nto pay you the sad ceremonies of burial. It is for you for \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nthat I have resolved to live; if you are ravished from me, what use\r\ncan I make of my miserable days? Alas! what lamentations should I\r\nmake, if Heaven, by a cruel pity, should preserve me till that\r\nmoment? When I but think of this last separation; I feel all the\r\npangs of death; what shall I be then, if I should see this dreadful\r\nhour? Forbear, therefore, to infuse into my mind such mournful\r\nthoughts, if not for love, at least for pity.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eYou desire me to give myself up to my duty, and to be wholly\r\nGod\u0027s, to whom I am consecrated. How can I do that when you frighten\r\nme with apprehensions that continually possess my mind day and night?\r\nWhen an evil threatens us, and it is impossible to ward it off, why\r\ndo we give up ourselves to the unprofitable fear of it, which is yet\r\neven more tormenting than the evil itself?\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhat have I to hope for after this loss of you? what can confine\r\nme to earth when Death shall have taken away from me all that was\r\ndear upon it? I have renounced without difficulty all the charms of\r\nlife, preserving only my love, and the secret pleasure of thinking\r\nincessantly of you, and hearing that you live; and yet alas! you do\r\nnot live for me, and I dare not even flatter myself with the hopes\r\nthat I shall ever enjoy a sight of you more. This is the greatest of\r\nmy afflictions. Merciless Fortune! hast thou not persecuted me\r\nenough? Thou dost not give me any respite? thou hast exhausted all\r\nthy vengeance upon me, and reserved thyself nothing whereby thou\r\nmayst appear terrible to others. Thou hast wearied thyself in\r\ntormenting me, and others have nothing now to fear from thy anger.\r\nBut to what purpose dost thou still arm thyself against me? The\r\nwounds I have already received leave no room for new ones; why cannot\r\nI urge thee to kill me? or dost thou fear, amidst the numerous\r\ntorments thou heapest on me, dost thou fear that such a stroke would\r\ndeliver me from all? Therefore thou preservest me from death, in\r\norder to make me die every moment.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eDear \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, pity my despair! Was ever any thing so\r\nmiserable! The higher you raised me above other women who envied me\r\nyour love, the more sensible am I now of the loss of your heart. I\r\nwas exalted to the top of happiness, only that I might have a more\r\nterrible fall. Nothing could formerly be compared to my pleasures,\r\nand nothing now can equal my misery. My glory once raised the envy of\r\nmy rivals; my present wretchedness moves the compassion of all that\r\nsee me. My fortune has been always in extremes, she has heaped on me\r\nher most delightful favours, that she might load me with the greatest\r\nof her afflictions. Ingenious in tormenting me, she has made the\r\nmemory of the joys I have lost, an inexhaustible spring of my tears.\r\nLove, which possest was her greatest gift, being taken away,\r\noccasions all my sorrow. In short, her malice has entirely succeeded,\r\nand I find my present afflictions proportionably bitter as the\r\ntransports which charmed me were sweet.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut what aggravates my sufferings yet more, is, that we began to\r\nbe miserable at a time when we seemed the least to deserve it. While\r\nwe gave ourselves up to the enjoyment of a criminal love, nothing\r\nopposed our vicious pleasures. But scarce had we retrenched what was\r\nunlawful in our passion, and taken refuge in marriage against that\r\nremorse which might have pursued us, but the whole wrath of heaven\r\nfell on us in all its weight. But how barbarous was your punishment?\r\nThe very remembrance makes me shake with horror. Could an outrageous\r\nhusband make a villain suffer more that had dishonoured his bed? Ah!\r\nWhat right had a cruel uncle over us? We were joined to each other\r\neven before the altar, which should have protected you from the rage\r\nof your enemies. Must a wife draw on you that punishment which ought\r\nnot to fall on any but an adulterous lover? Besides, we were\r\nseparated; you were busy in your exercises, and instructed a learned\r\nauditory in mysteries which the greatest geniuses before you were not\r\nable to penetrate; and I, in obedience to you, retired to a cloister.\r\nI there spent whole days in thinking of you, and sometimes meditating\r\non holy lessons, to which I endeavoured to apply myself. In this very\r\njuncture you became the victim of the most unhappy love. You alone\r\nexpiated the crime common to us both: You only were punished, though\r\nboth of us were guilty. You, who were least so, was the object of the\r\nwhole vengeance of a barbarous man. But why should I rave at your\r\nassassins? I, wretched I, have ruined you, I have been the original\r\nof all your misfortunes! Good Heaven! Why was I born to be the\r\noccasion of so tragical an accident? How dangerous is it for a great\r\nman to suffer himself to be moved by our sex! He ought from his\r\ninfancy to be inured to insensibility of heart, against all our\r\ncharms. \u003ci\u003eHearken, my Son\u003c/i\u003e, (said formerly the wisest of Men)\r\n\u003ci\u003eattend and keep my instructions; if a beautiful woman by her\r\nlooks endeavour to intice thee, permit not thyself to be overcome by\r\na corrupt inclination; reject the poison she offers, and follow not\r\nthe paths which she directs. Her house is the gate of destruction and\r\ndeath\u003c/i\u003e. I have long examined things, and have found that death\r\nitself is a less dangerous evil than beauty. \u0027Tis the shipwreck of\r\nliberty, a fatal snare, from which it is impossible ever to get free.\r\n\u0027Twas woman which threw down the first man from that glorious\r\ncondition in which heaven had placed him. She who was created in\r\norder to partake of his happiness, was the sole cause of his ruin.\r\nHow bright had been the glory, \u003ci\u003eSampson\u003c/i\u003e, if thy heart had been\r\nas firm against the charms of \u003ci\u003eDalilah\u003c/i\u003e, as against the weapons\r\nof the \u003ci\u003ePhilistines\u003c/i\u003e! A woman disarmed and betrayed thee, who\r\nhadst been a glorious conqueror of armies. Thou saw\u0027st thyself\r\ndelivered into the hands of they enemies; thou wast deprived of thy\r\neyes, those inlets of love into thy soul: distracted and despairing\r\ndidst thou die, without any consolation but that of involving thy\r\nenemies in thy destruction. \u003ci\u003eSolomon\u003c/i\u003e, that he might please\r\nwomen, forsook the care of pleasing God. That king, whose wisdom\r\nprinces came from all parts to admire, he whom God had chose to build\r\nhim a temple, abandoned the worship of those very alters he had had\r\ndefended, and proceeded to such a pitch of folly as even to burn\r\nincense to idols. \u003ci\u003eJob\u003c/i\u003e had no enemy more cruel than his wife:\r\nwhat temptations did he not bear? The evil spirit, who had declared\r\nhimself his persecutor, employed a woman as an instrument to shake\r\nhis constancy; and the same evil spirit made \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e an\r\ninstrument to ruin \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e! All the poor comfort I have is,\r\nthat I am not the voluntary cause of your misfortune. I have not\r\nbetrayed you; but my constancy and love have been destructive to you.\r\nIf I have committed a crime in having loved you with constancy, I\r\nshall never be able to repent of that crime. Indeed I gave myself up\r\ntoo much to the captivity of those soft errors into which my rising\r\npassion seduced me. I have endeavoured to please you even at the\r\nexpence of my virtue, and therefore deserve those pains I feel. My\r\nguilty transports could not but have a tragical end. As soon as I was\r\npersuaded of your love, alas! I scarce delayed a moment, resigning\r\nmyself to all your protestations. To be beloved by \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nwas, in my esteem, too much glory, and I too impatiently desired it\r\nnot to believe it immediately. I endeavoured at nothing but\r\nconvincing you of my utmost passion. I made no use of those defences\r\nof disdain and honour; those enemies of pleasure which tyrannize over\r\nour sex, made in me but a weak and unprofitable resistance. I\r\nsacrificed all to my love, and I forced my duty to give place to the\r\nambition of making happy the most gallant and learned person of the\r\nage. If any consideration had been able to stop me, it would have\r\nbeen without doubt the interest of my love. I feared, lest having\r\nnothing further for you to desire, your passion might become languid,\r\nand you might seek for new pleasures in some new conquest. But it was\r\neasy for you to cure me of a suspicion so opposite to my own\r\ninclination. I ought to have forseen other more certain evils, and to\r\nhave considered, that the idea of lost enjoyments would be the\r\ntrouble of my whole life.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHow happy should I be could I wash out with my tears the memory of\r\nthose pleasures which yet I think of with delight? At least I will\r\nexert some generous endeavour, and, by smothering in my heart those\r\ndesires to which the frailty of my nature may give birth, I will\r\nexercise torments upon myself, like those the rage of your enemies\r\nhas made you suffer. I will endeavour by that means to satisfy you at\r\nleast, if I cannot appease an angry God. For, to show you what a\r\ndeplorable condition I am in, and how far my repentance is from being\r\navailable, I dare even accuse Heaven every moment of cruelty for\r\ndelivering you into those snares which were prepared for you. My\r\nrepinings kindle the divine wrath, when I should endeavour to draw\r\ndown mercy.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn order to expiate a crime, it is not sufficient that we bear the\r\npunishment; whatever we suffer is accounted as nothing, if the\r\npassions still continue, and the heart is inflamed with the same\r\ndesires. It is an easy matter to confess a weakness, and to inflict\r\nsome punishment upon ourselves; but it is the last violence to our\r\nnature to extinguish the memory of pleasures which, by a sweet habit,\r\nhave gained absolute possession of our minds. How many persons do we\r\nobserve who make an outward confession of their faults, yet, far from\r\nbeing afflicted for them, take a new pleasure in the relating them.\r\nBitterness of heart ought to accompany the confession of the mouth,\r\nyet that very rarely happens. I, who have experienced so many\r\npleasures in loving you, feel, in spite of myself that I cannot\r\nrepent of them, nor forbear enjoying them over again as much as is\r\npossible, by recollecting them in my memory. Whatever endeavours I\r\nuse, on whatever side I turn me, the sweet idea still pursues me and\r\nevery object brings to my mind what I ought to forget. During the\r\nstill night, when my heart ought to be in quiet in the midst of\r\nsleep, which suspends the greatest disturbances, I cannot avoid those\r\nillusions my heart entertains. I think I am still with my dear\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e. I see him, I speak to him, and hear him answer.\r\nCharmed with each other, we quit our philosophic studies to entertain\r\nourselves with our passion. Sometimes, too, I seem to be a witness of\r\nthe bloody enterprise of your enemies; I oppose their fury; I fill\r\nour apartment with fearful cries, and in a moment I wake in tears.\r\nEven in holy places before the altar I carry with me the memory of\r\nour guilty loves. They are my whole business, and, far from lamenting\r\nfor having been seduced, I sigh for having lost them.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI remember (for nothing is forgot by lovers) the time and place in\r\nwhich you first declared your love to me, and swore you would love me\r\ntill death. Your words, your oaths, are all deeply graven in my\r\nheart. The disorder of my discourse discovers to everyone the trouble\r\nof my mind. My sighs betray me; and your name is continually in my\r\nmouth. When I am in this condition, why dost not thou, O Lord, pity\r\nmy weakness, and strengthen me by thy grace? You are happy, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e;\r\nthis grace has prevented you; and your misfortune has been the\r\noccasion of your finding rest. The punishment of your body has cured\r\nthe deadly wounds of your soul. The tempest has driven you into the\r\nhaven. God who seemed to lay his hand heavily upon you, fought only\r\nto help you: he is a father chastising, and not an enemy revenging; a\r\nwife physician, putting you to some pain in order to preserve your\r\nlife. I am a thousand times more to be lamented than you; I have a\r\nthousand passions to combat with. I must resist those fires which\r\nJove kindles in a young heart. Our sex is nothing but weakness, and I\r\nhave the greater difficulty to defend myself, because the enemy that\r\nattacks me pleases. I dote on the danger which threatens me, how then\r\ncan I avoid falling?\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the midst of these struggles I endeavour at least to conceal my\r\nweakness from those you have entrusted to my care. All who are about\r\nme admired my virtue, but could their eyes penetrate into my heart,\r\nwhat would they not discover? My passions there are in a rebellion; I\r\npreside over others, but cannot rule myself. I have but a false\r\ncovering, and this seeming virtue is a real vice. Men judge me\r\npraise-worthy, but I am guilty before God, from whose all-seeing eye\r\nnothing is hid, and who views, through all their foldings, the\r\nsecrets of all hearts. I cannot escape his discovery. And yet it is a\r\ngreat deal to me to maintain even this appearance of virtue. This\r\ntroublesome hypocrisy is in some sort commendable. I give no scandal\r\nto the world, which is so easy to take bad impressions. I do not\r\nshake the virtue of these feeble ones who are under my conduct. With\r\nmy heart full of the love of man, I exhort them at least to love only\r\nGod: charmed with the pomp of worldly pleasures, I endeavour to show\r\nthem that they are all deceit and vanity. I have just strength enough\r\nto conceal from them my inclinations, and I look upon that as a\r\npowerful effect of grace. If it is not sufficient to make me embrace\r\nvirtue, it is enough to keep me from committing sin.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAnd yet it is in vain to endeavour to separate those two things.\r\nThey must be guilty who merit nothing; and they depart from virtue\r\nwho delay to approach it. Besides, we ought to have no other motive\r\nthan the love of God. Alas! what can I then hope for? I own, to my\r\nconfusion, I fear more the offending of man than the provoking of\r\nGod, and study less to please him than you. Yes, it was your command\r\nonly, and not a sincere vocation, as is imagined, that shut me up in\r\nthese cloisters. I fought to give you ease, and not to sanctify\r\nmyself. How unhappy am I? I tear myself from all that pleases me? I\r\nbury myself here alive, I exercise my self in the most rigid\r\nfastings; and such severities as cruel laws impose on us; I feed\r\nmyself with tears and sorrows, and, notwithstanding this, I deserve\r\nnothing for all the hardships I suffer. My false piety has long\r\ndeceived you as well as others. You have thought me easy, and yet I\r\nwas more disturbed than ever. You persuaded yourself I was wholly\r\ntaken up with my duty, yet I had no business but love. Under this\r\nmistake you desire my prayers; alas! I must expect yours. Do not\r\npresume upon my virtue and my care. I am wavering, and you must fix\r\nme by your advice. I am yet feeble, you must sustain and guide me by\r\nyour counsel.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhat occasion had you to praise me? praise is often hurtful to\r\nthose on whom it is bestowed. A secret vanity springs up in the\r\nheart, blinds us, and conceals from us wounds that are ill cured. A\r\nseducer flatters us, and at the same time, aims at our destruction. A\r\nsincere friend disguises nothing from us, and from passing a light\r\nhand over the wound, makes us feel it the more intensely, by applying\r\nremedies. Why do you not deal after this manner with me? Will you be\r\nesteemed a base dangerous flatterer; or, if you chance to see any\r\nthing commendable in me, have you no fear that vanity, which is so\r\nnatural to all women, should quite efface it? but let us not judge of\r\nvirtue by outward appearances, for then the reprobates as well as the\r\nelect may lay claim to it. An artful impostor may, by his address\r\ngain more admiration than the true zeal of a saint.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe heart of man is a labyrinth, whose windings are very difficult\r\nto be discovered. The praises you give me are the more dangerous, in\r\nregard that I love the person who gives them. The more I desire to\r\nplease you, the readier am I to believe all the merit you attribute\r\nto me. Ah, think rather how to support my weaknesses by wholesome\r\nremonstrances! Be rather fearful than confident of my salvation: say\r\nour virtue is founded upon weakness, and that those only will be\r\ncrowned who have fought with the greatest difficulties: but I seek\r\nnot for that crown which is the reward of victory, I am content to\r\navoid only the danger. It is easier to keep off than to win a battle.\r\nThere are several degrees in glory, and I am not ambitious of the\r\nhighest; those I leave to souls of great courage, who have been often\r\nvictorious. I seek not to conquer, out of fear lest I should be\r\novercome. Happy enough, if I can escape shipwreck, and at last gain\r\nthe port. Heaven commands me to renounce that fatal passion which\r\nunites me to you; but oh! my heart will never be able to consent to\r\nit. Adieu.\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003ch2 style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_h2_align\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"a_CHV\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eLETTER V.\u003c/h2\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eHELOISE to ABELARD.\u003c/i\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003e\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e had been dangerously ill at the Convent of\r\nthe Paraclete: immediately upon her recovery she wrote this Letter to\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, She seems now to have disengaged herself from him,\r\nand to have resolved to think of nothing but repentance; yet\r\ndiscovers some emotions, which make it doubtful whether devotion had\r\nentirely triumphed over her passion.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eDear \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, you expect, perhaps, that I should accuse you\r\nof negligence. You have not answered my last letter; and thanks to\r\nHeaven, in the condition I now am, it is a happiness to me that you\r\nshow so much insensibility for the fatal passion which had engaged me\r\nto you. At last \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, you have lost \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e for\r\never. Notwithstanding all the oaths I made to think of nothing but\r\nyou only, and to be entertained with nothing but you, I have banished\r\nyou from my thoughts, I have forgot you. Thou charming idea of a\r\nlover I once adored, thou wilt no more be my happiness! Dear image of\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e! thou wilt no more follow me every where; I will no\r\nmore remember thee. O celebrated merit of a man, who, in spite of his\r\nenemies is the wonder of his age! O enchanting pleasures, to which\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e entirely resigned herself, you, you have been my\r\ntormentors! I confess \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, without a blush, my infidelity;\r\nlet my inconstancy teach the world that there is no depending upon\r\nthe promises of women; they are all subject to change. This troubles\r\nyou, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e; this news, without doubt, surprises you; you\r\ncould never imagine \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, should be inconstant. She was\r\nprejudiced by so strong an inclination to you, that you cannot\r\nconceive how time could alter it. But be undeceived; I am going to\r\ndiscover to you my falseness, though instead of reproaching me, I\r\npersuade myself you will shed tears of joy. When I shall have told\r\nyou what rival hath ravished my heart from you, you will praise my\r\ninconstancy, and will pray this rival to fix it. By this you may\r\njudge that it is God alone that takes \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e from you. Yes,\r\nmy dear \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, he gives my mind that tranquillity which a\r\nquick remembrance of our misfortunes would not suffer me to enjoy.\r\nJust Heaven! what other rival could take me from you? Could you\r\nimagine it possible for any mortal to blot you from my heart? Could\r\nyou think me guilty of sacrificing the virtuous and learned \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nto any other but to God? No, I believe you have done me justice in\r\nthis point. I question not but you are impatient to know what means\r\nGod used to accomplish so great an end; I will tell you, and wonder\r\nat the secret ways of Providence. Some few days after you sent me\r\nyour last letter I fell dangerously ill; the physicians gave me over;\r\nand I expected certain death. Then it was that my passion, which\r\nalways before seemed innocent, appeared criminal to me. My memory\r\nrepresented faithfully to me all the past actions of my life, and I\r\nconfess to you my love was the only pain I felt. Death which till\r\nthen I had always considered as at a distance, now presented itself\r\nto me such as it appears to sinners. I began to dread the wrath of\r\nGod, now I was going to experience it; and I repented I had made no\r\nbetter use of his grace. Those tender letters I have wrote to you,\r\nand those passionate conversations I have had with you, gave me as\r\nmuch pain now as they formerly did pleasure. Ah! miserable \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nsaid I, if it is a crime to give one\u0027s self up to such soft\r\ntransports, and if after this life is ended punishment certainly\r\nfollows them, why didst thou not resist so dangerous an inclination?\r\nThink on the tortures that are prepared for thee; consider with\r\nterror that store of torments, and recollect at the same time those\r\npleasures which thy deluded soul thought so entrancing. Ah! pursued\r\nI, dost thou not almost despair for having rioted in such false\r\npleasure? In short, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, imagine all the remorse of mind I\r\nsuffered, and you will not be astonished at my change.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSolitude is insupportable to a mind which is not easy, its\r\ntroubles increase in the midst of silence, and retirement heightens\r\nthem. Since I have been shut up within these walls, I have done\r\nnothing but wept for our misfortunes. This cloister has resounded\r\nwith my cries, and like a wretch condemned to eternal slavery, I have\r\nworn out my days in grief and sighing. Instead of fulfilling God\u0027s\r\nmerciful design upon me, I have offended him; I have looked upon this\r\nsacred refuge like a frightful prison, and have borne with\r\nunwillingness the yoke of the Lord. Instead of sanctifying myself by\r\na life of penitence, I have confirmed my reprobation. What a fatal\r\nwandering! But \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, I have torn off the bandage which\r\nblinded me, and if I dare rely upon the emotions which I have felt, I\r\nhave made myself worthy of your esteem. You are no more that amorous\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, who, to gain a private conversation with me by night,\r\nused incessantly to contrive new ways to deceive the vigilance of our\r\nobservers. The misfortune, which happened to you after so many happy\r\nmoments, gave you a horror for vice, and you instantly consecrated\r\nthe rest of your days to virtue and seemed to submit to this\r\nnecessity willingly. I indeed, more tender than you, and more\r\nsensible of soft pleasures, bore this misfortune with extreme\r\nimpatience. You have heard my exclamations against your enemies; you\r\nhave seen my whole resentment in those Letters I wrote to you; it was\r\nthis, without doubt, which deprived me of the esteem of my \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e.\r\nYou were alarmed at my transport, and if you will confess the truth,\r\nyou, perhaps, despaired of my salvation. You could not foresee that\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e would conquer so reigning a passion; but you have been\r\ndeceived, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e; my weakness, when supported by grace, hath\r\nnot hindered me from obtaining a complete victory. Restore me, then,\r\nto your good opinion; your own piety ought to solicit you to this.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut what secret trouble rises in my soul, what unthought-of motion\r\nopposes the resolution I formed of sighing no more for \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e?\r\nJust Heaven! have I not yet triumphed over my love? Unhappy \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e!\r\nas long as thou drawest a breath it is decreed thou must love\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e: weep unfortunate wretch that thou art, thou never had\r\na more just occasion. Now I ought to die with grief. Grace had\r\novertaken me, and I had promised to be faithful to it, but I now\r\nperjure myself, and sacrifice even grace to \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e. This\r\nsacrilegious Sacrifice fills up the measure of my iniquities. After\r\nthis can I hope God should open to me the treasures of his mercy?\r\nHave I not tired out his forgiveness? I began to offend him from the\r\nmoment I first saw \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e; an unhappy sympathy engaged us\r\nboth in a criminal commerce; and God raised us up an enemy to\r\nseparate us. I lament and hate the misfortune which hath lighted upon\r\nus and adore the cause. Ah! I ought rather to explain this accident\r\nas the secret ordinance of Heaven, which disapproved of our\r\nengagement, and apply myself to extirpate my passion. How much better\r\nwere it entirely to forget the object of it, than to preserve the\r\nmemory of it, so fatal to the quiet of my life and salvation? Great\r\nGod! shall \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e always possess my thoughts? can I never\r\nfree myself from those chains which bind me to him? But, perhaps, I\r\nam unreasonably afraid; virtue directs all my motions, and they are\r\nall subject to grace, Fear no more, dear \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e; I have no\r\nlonger any of those sentiments which, being described in my Letters,\r\nhave occasioned you so much trouble. I will no more endeavour, by the\r\nrelation of those pleasures our new-born passion gave us, to awaken\r\nthat criminal fondness you may have for me; I free you from all your\r\noaths; forget the names of Lover and husband but keep always that of\r\nFather. I expect no more from you those tender protestations, and\r\nthose letters so proper to keep up the commerce of love. I demand\r\nnothing of you but spiritual advice and wholesome directions. The\r\npath of holiness, however thorny it may be, will yet appear agreeable\r\nwhen I walk in your steps. You will always find me ready to follow\r\nyou. I shall read with more pleasure the letters in which you shall\r\ndescribe to me the advantages of virtue than ever I did those by\r\nwhich you so artfully instilled the fatal poison of our passion. You\r\ncannot now be silent without a crime. When I was possessed with so\r\nviolent a love, and pressed you so earnestly to write to me, how many\r\nletters did I send you before I could obtain one from you? You denied\r\nme in my misery the only comfort which was left me, because you\r\nthought it pernicious. You endeavoured by severities to force me to\r\nforget you; nor can I blame you; but now you have nothing to fear. A\r\nlucky disease which providence seemed to have chastised me with for\r\nmy sanctification, hath done what all human efforts, and your cruelty\r\nin vain attempted. I see now the vanity of that happiness which we\r\nhad set our hearts upon, as if we were never to have lost it. What\r\nfears, what uneasiness, have we been obliged to suffer!\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNo, Lord, there is no pleasure upon earth but that which virtue\r\ngives! The heart, amidst all worldly delights, feels a sting; it is\r\nuneasy and restless till fixed on thee. What have I not suffered,\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, while I kept alive in my retirement those fires which\r\nruined me in the world? I saw with horror the walls which surrounded\r\nme; the hours seemed as long as years. I repented a thousand times\r\nthe having buried myself here; but since grace has opened my eyes all\r\nthe scene is changed. Solitude looks charming, and the tranquillity\r\nwhich I behold here enters my very heart. In the satisfaction of\r\ndoing my duty I feel a pleasure above all that riches, pomp, or\r\nsensuality, could afford. My quiet has indeed cost me dear; I have\r\nbought it even at the price of my love; I have offered a violent\r\nsacrifice, and which seemed above my power. I have torn you from my\r\nheart; and, be not jealous, God reigns there in your stead, who ought\r\nalways to have possessed it entire. Be content with having a place in\r\nmy mind, which you shall never lose; I shall always take a secret\r\npleasure in thinking of you and esteem it a glory to obey those rules\r\nyou shall give me.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis very moment I receive a letter from you: I will read it, and\r\nanswer it immediately. You shall see, by my exactness in writing to\r\nyou, that you are always dear to me.—You very obligingly\r\nreproach me for delaying so long to write you any news; my illness\r\nmust excuse that. I omit no opportunities of giving you marks of my\r\nremembrance. I thank you for the uneasiness you say my silence caused\r\nyou, and the kind fears you express concerning my health. Yours, you\r\ntell me is but weakly, and you thought lately you should have died.\r\nWith what indifference, cruel man! do you acquaint me with a thing so\r\ncertain to afflict me? I told you in my former letter how unhappy I\r\nshould be if you died; and if you loved me, you would moderate the\r\nrigour of your austere life. I represented to you the occasion I had\r\nfor your advice, and consequently, the reason there was you should\r\ntake care of yourself. But I will not tire you with the repetition of\r\nthe same thing. \u003ci\u003eYou desire us not to forget you in your prayers.\u003c/i\u003e\r\nAh! dear \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, you may depend upon the zeal of this\r\nsociety; it is devoted to you, and you cannot justly charge it with\r\nforgetfulness. You are our father, we your children; you are our\r\nguide, and we resign ourselves with assurance in your piety. We\r\nimpose no pennance on ourselves but what you recommend, lest we\r\nshould rather follow an indiscreet zeal than solid virtue. In a word,\r\nnothing is thought rightly done if without \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e\r\napprobation. You inform me of one thing that perplexes me, that you\r\nhave heard that some of our sisters gave bad examples, and that there\r\nis a general looseness amongst them. Ought this to seem strange to\r\nyou, who know how monasteries are filled now-a-days? Do fathers\r\nconsult the inclinations of their children when they settle them? Are\r\nnot interest and policy their only rules? This is the reason that\r\nmonasteries are often filled with those who are a scandal to them.\r\nBut I conjure you to tell me what are the irregularities you have\r\nheard of, and to teach me a proper remedy for them. I have not yet\r\nobserved that looseness you mention; when I have, I will take due\r\ncare. I walk my rounds every night, and make those I catch abroad\r\nreturn to their chambers; for I remember all the adventures which\r\nhappened in the monasteries near Paris. You end your letter with a\r\ngeneral deploring of your unhappiness, and wish for death as the end\r\nof a troublesome life. Is it possible a genius so great as yours\r\nshould never get above his past misfortunes? What would the world say\r\nshould they read your letters as I do? would they consider the noble\r\nmotive of your retirement, or not rather think you had shut yourself\r\nup only to lament the condition to which my uncle\u0027s revenge had\r\nreduced you? What would your young pupils say who came so far to hear\r\nyou, and prefer your severe lectures to the softness of a worldly\r\nlife, if they should see you secretly a slave to your passions, and\r\nsensible of all those weakness from which your rules can secure them?\r\nThis \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e they so much admire, this great personage which\r\nguides them, would lose his fame, and become the scorn of his pupils.\r\nIf these reasons are not sufficient to give you constancy in your\r\nmisfortunes, cast your eyes upon me, and admire my resolution of\r\nshutting myself up by your example. I was young when we were\r\nseparated, and (if I dare believe what you were always telling me)\r\nworthy of any gentleman\u0027s affections. If I had loved nothing in\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e but sensual pleasure, a thousand agreeable young men\r\nmight have comforted me upon my loss of him. You know what I have\r\ndone, excuse me therefore from repeating it. Think of those\r\nassurances I gave you of loving you with the utmost tenderness. I\r\ndried your tears with kisses; and because you were less powerful I\r\nbecame less reserved. Ah! if you had loved with delicacy the oaths I\r\nmade, the transports I accompanied them with, the innocent caresses I\r\nprofusely gave you, all this, sure, might have comforted you. Had you\r\nobserved me to grow by degrees indifferent to you, you might have had\r\nreason to despair; but you never received greater marks of my passion\r\nthan after that cruel revenge upon you.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eLet me see no more in your letters, dear \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, such\r\nmurmurs against Fortune; you are not the only one she has persecuted,\r\nand you ought to forget her outrages. What a shame is it for a\r\nphilosopher not to be comforted for an accident which might happen to\r\nany man! Govern yourself by my example. I was born with violent\r\npassions; I daily strive with the most tender emotions, and glory in\r\ntriumphing and subjecting them to reason. Must a weak mind fortify\r\none that is so much superior? But whither am I transported? Is this\r\ndiscourse directed to my dear \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e? one that practices all\r\nthose virtues he teaches? If you complain of Fortune, it is not so\r\nmuch that you feel her strokes, as that you cannot show your enemies\r\nhow much to blame they were in attempting to hurt you. Leave them,\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, to exhaust their malice, and continue to charm your\r\nauditors. Discover those treasures of learning Heaven seems to have\r\nreserved for you: your enemies, struck with the splendor of your\r\nreasoning, will do you justice. How happy should I be could I see all\r\nthe world as entirely persuaded of your probity as I am! Your\r\nlearning is allowed by all the world; your greatest enemies confess\r\nyou are ignorant of nothing that the mind of man is capable of\r\nknowing.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eMy dear husband! (this is the last time I shall use that\r\nexpression) shall I never see you again? shall I never have the\r\npleasure of embracing you before death? What doth thou say, wretched\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e? dost thou know what thou desirest? Canst thou behold\r\nthose lovely eyes without recollecting those amorous glances which\r\nhave been so fatal to thee? canst thou view that majestic air of\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e without entertaining a jealousy of every one that sees\r\nso charming a man? that mouth, which cannot be looked upon without\r\ndesire? In short all the person of \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e cannot be viewed by\r\nany woman without danger. Desire therefore no more to see \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e.\r\nIf the memory of him has caused thee so much trouble, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nwhat will not his presence do? what desires will it not excite in thy\r\nsoul? how will it be possible for thee to keep thy reason at the\r\nsight of so amiable a man? I will own to you what makes the greatest\r\npleasure I have in my retirement: After having passed the day in\r\nthinking of you, full of the dear idea, I give myself up at night to\r\nsleep. Then it is that \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, who dares not without\r\ntrembling think of you by day, resigns herself entirely to the\r\npleasure of hearing you and speaking to you. I see you, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nand glut my eyes with the sight. Sometimes you entertain me with the\r\nstory of your secret troubles and grievances, and create in me a\r\nsensible sorrow; sometimes forgetting the perpetual obstacles to our\r\ndesires, you press me to make you happy, and I easily yield to your\r\ntransports. Sleep gives you what your enemies rage has deprived you\r\nof; and our souls, animated with the same passion, are sensible of\r\nthe same pleasure. But, oh! you delightful illusion, soft errors, how\r\nsoon do you vanish away! At my awaking I open my eyes and see no\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e; I stretch out my arm to take hold of him, but he is\r\nnot there; I call him, he hears me not. What a fool am I to tell you\r\nmy dreams, who are sensible of these pleasures? But do you, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nnever see \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e in your sleep? how does she appear to you?\r\ndo you entertain her with the same language as formerly when Fulbert\r\ncommitted her to your care? when you awake are you pleased or sorry?\r\nPardon me; \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, pardon a mistaken lover. I must no more\r\nexpect that vivacity from you which once animated all your actions.\r\n\u0027Tis no more time to require from you a perfect correspondence of\r\ndesires. We have bound ourselves to severe austerities, and must\r\nfollow them, let them cost us ever so dear. Let us think of our\r\nduties in these rigours, and make a good use of that necessity which\r\nkeeps us separate. You \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, will happily finish your\r\ncourse; your desires and ambition will be no obstacles to your\r\nsalvation. \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e only must lament, she only must weep,\r\nwithout being certain whether all her tears will be available or not\r\nto her salvation.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI had like to have ended my letter without acquainting you with\r\nwhat happened here a few days ago. A young nun, who was one of those\r\nwho are forced to take up with a convent without any examination.\r\nwhether it will suit with their tempers or not, is by a stratagem I\r\nknew nothing of, escaped, and, as they say, fled with a young\r\ngentleman she was in love with into England. I have ordered all the\r\nhouse to conceal the matter. Ah, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e! if you were near us\r\nthese disorders would not happen. All the sisters, charmed with\r\nseeing and hearing you, would think of nothing but practicing your\r\nrules and directions. The young nun had never formed so criminal a\r\ndesign as that of breaking her vows, had you been at our head to\r\nexhort us to live holily. If your eyes were witnesses of our actions,\r\nthey would be innocent. When we slipt, you would lift us up, and\r\nestablish us by your counsels; we should march with sure steps in the\r\nrough paths of virtue. I begin to perceive; \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, that I\r\ntake too much pleasure in writing to you. I ought to burn my letter.\r\nIt shows you I am still engaged in a deep passion for you, though at\r\nthe beginning of it I designed to persuade you of the contrary. I am\r\nsensible of the motions both of grace and passion, and by turns\r\nyield to each. Have pity, \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, of the condition to which\r\nyou have brought me, and make, in some measure, the latter days of my\r\nlife as quiet as the first have been uneasy and disturbed.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch2 style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_h2_align\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"a_CHVI\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eLETTER VI.\u003c/h2\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eABELARD to HELOISE. \u003c/i\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003e\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, having at last conquered the remains of\r\nhis unhappy passion, had determined to put an end to so dangerous a\r\ncorrespondence as that between \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e and himself. The\r\nfollowing Letter therefore, though written with no less concern than\r\nhis former, is free from mixtures of a worldly passion, and is full\r\nof the warmest sentiments of piety, and the most moving exhortations.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWrite no more to me, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e; write no more to me; it is a\r\ntime to end a commerce which makes our mortifications of no advantage\r\nto us. We retired from the world to sanctify ourselves; and by a\r\nconduit directly contrary to Christian morality, we become odious to\r\nJesus Christ. Let us no more deceive ourselves; by flattering\r\nourselves with the remembrance of our past pleasures, we shall make\r\nour lives troublesome, and we shall be incapable of relishing the\r\nsweets of solitude. Let us make a good use of our austerities, and no\r\nlonger preserve the ideas of our crimes amongst the severities of\r\npenitence. Let a mortification of body and mind, a strick fasting,\r\ncontinual solitude, profound and holy meditations, and a sincere love\r\nof God, succeed our former irregularities.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eLet us try to carry religious perfection to a very difficult\r\npoint. \u0027Tis beautiful to find, in Christianity minds so disengaged\r\nfrom the earth, from the creatures and themselves, that they seem to\r\nact independently of those bodies they are joined to, and to use them\r\nas their slaves. We can never raise ourselves to too great heights\r\nwhen God is the object. Be our endeavours ever so great, they will\r\nalways come short of reaching that exalted dignity, which even our\r\napprehensions cannot reach. Let us act for God\u0027s glory, independent\r\nof the creatures or ourselves, without any regard to our own desires,\r\nor the sentiments of others. Were we in this temper of mind, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nI would willingly make my abode at the Paraclete. My earnest care for\r\na house I have founded would draw a thousand blessings on it. I would\r\ninstruct it by my words, and animate it by my example. I would watch\r\nover the lives of my sisters, and would command nothing but what I\r\nmyself would perform. I would direct you to pray, meditate, labour\r\nand keep vows of silence; and I would myself pray, meditate, labour\r\nand be silent.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHowever, when I spoke, it should be to lift you up when you should\r\nfall, to strengthen you in your weaknesses, to enlighten you in that\r\ndarkness and obscurity which might at any time surprise you. I would\r\ncomfort you under those severities used by persons of great virtue. I\r\nwould moderate the vivacity of your zeal and piety, and give your\r\nvirtue an even temperament. I would point out those duties which you\r\nought to know, and satisfy you in those doubts which the weakness of\r\nyour reason might occasion. I would be your master and father; and,\r\nby a marvellous talent, I would become lively, flow, soft or severe,\r\naccording to the different characters of those I should guide in the\r\npainful path of Christian perfection.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut whither does my vain imagination carry me?\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAh? \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e! how far are we from such a happy temper? Your\r\nheart still burns with that fatal fire which you cannot extinguish,\r\nand mine is full of trouble and uneasiness. Think not, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nthat I enjoy here a perfect peace: I will, for the last time open my\r\nheart to you. I am not yet disengaged from you; I fight against my\r\nexcessive tenderness for you; yet in spite of all endeavours, the\r\nremaining fraility makes me but too sensible of your sorrows, and\r\ngives me a share in them. Your Letters have indeed moved me; I could\r\nnot read with indifference characters wrote by that dear hand. I\r\nsigh, I weep, and all my reason is, scarce sufficient to conceal my\r\nweakness from my pupils. This, unhappy \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e! is the\r\nmiserable condition of \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e. The world, which generally\r\nerrs in its notion, thinks I am easy, and as if I had loved only in\r\nyou the gratification of sense, imagines I have now forgot you; but\r\nwhat a mistake is this! People, indeed, did not mistake in thinking,\r\nwhen we separated, that shame and grief for having been so cruelly\r\nused made me abandon the world. It was not, as you know, a sincere\r\nrepentance for having offended God which inspired me with a design of\r\nretiring; however, I considered the accident which happened to us as\r\na secret design of Providence to punish our crimes; and only looked\r\nupon Fulbert as the instrument of Divine vengeance. Grace drew me\r\ninto an asylum, where I might yet have remained, if the rage of my\r\nenemies would have permitted. I have endured all their persecutions,\r\nnot doubting but God himself raised them up in order to purify me.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen he saw me perfectly obedient to his holy will, he permitted\r\nthat I should justify my doctrine. I made its purity public, and\r\nshowed in the end that my faith was not only orthodox, but also\r\nperfectly clear from even the suspicion of novelty.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI should be happy if I had none to fear but my enemies, and no\r\nother hinderance to my salvation but their calumny: but, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nyou make me tremble. Your Letters declare to me that you are enslaved\r\nto a fatal passion; and yet if you cannot conquer it you cannot be\r\nsaved; and what part would you have me take in this case? Would you\r\nhave me stifle the inspirations of the Holy Ghost? shall I, to soothe\r\nyou dry up those tears which the evil spirit makes you shed? Shall\r\nthis be the fruit of my meditations? No; let us be more firm in our\r\nresolutions. We have not retired but in order to lament our sins, and\r\nto gain heaven; let us then resign ourselves to God with all our\r\nheart.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI know every thing in the beginning is difficult, but it is\r\nglorious to undertake the beginning of a great action, and that glory\r\nincreases proportionably as the difficulties are more considerable.\r\nWe ought upon this account to surmount bravely all obstacles which\r\nmight hinder us in the practice of Christian virtue. In a monastery\r\nmen are proved as gold in the furnace. No one can continue long there\r\nunless he bear worthily the yoke of our Lord.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAttempt to break those shameful chains which bind you to the\r\nflesh; and, if by the assistance of grace you are so happy as to\r\naccomplish this, I intreat you to think of me in your prayers.\r\nEndeavour with all your strength to be the pattern of a perfect\r\nChristian. It is difficult, I confess, but not impossible; and I\r\nexpect this beautiful triumph from your teachable disposition. If\r\nyour first endeavours prove weak, give not yourself up to despair;\r\nthat would be cowardice: besides, I would have you informed, that you\r\nmust necessarily take great pains; because you drive to conquer a\r\nterrible enemy, to extinguish raging fire, and to reduce to\r\nsubjection your dearest affections. You must fight against your own\r\ndesires; be not therefore pressed down with the weight of your\r\ncorrupt nature: you have to do with a cunning adversary, who will use\r\nall means to seduce you; be always upon your guard; While we live we\r\nare exposed to temptations: this made a great saint say, that \u003ci\u003ethe\r\nwhole life of man was a temptation.\u003c/i\u003e The devil, who never sleeps,\r\nwalks continually around us, in order to surprise us on some\r\nunguarded side, and enters into our soul to destroy it.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHowever perfect any one may be, yet he may fall into temptations,\r\nand, perhaps, into such as may be useful. Nor is it wonderful that\r\nmen should never be exempt from them, because he hath always within\r\nhimself their force, concupiscence. Scarce are we delivered from one\r\ntemptation, but another attacks us. Such is the lot of the posterity\r\nof Adam, that they should always have something to suffer, because\r\nthey have forfeited their primitive happiness. We vainly flatter\r\nourselves that we shall conquer temptations by flying; if we join not\r\npatience and humility, we shall torment ourselves to no purpose. We\r\nshall more certainly compass our end by imploring God\u0027s assistance\r\nthan by using any means drawn from ourselves.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBe constant, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e; trust in God, and you will fall into\r\nfew temptations: whenever they shall come, stifle them in their\r\nbirth; let them not take root in your heart. Apply remedies to a\r\ndisease, said an Ancient, in its beginning; for when it hath gained\r\nstrength medicines will be unavailable. Temptations have their\r\ndegrees; they are at first mere thoughts, and do not appear\r\ndangerous; the imagination receives them without any fears; a\r\npleasure is formed out of them; we pause upon it, and at last we\r\nyield to it.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eDo you now, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, applaud my design of making you walk\r\nin the steps of the saints? do my words give you any relish for\r\npenitence? have you not remorse for your wanderings? and do you not\r\nwish you could like Magdalen, wash our Saviour\u0027s feet with your\r\ntears? If you have not these ardent emotions, pray that he would\r\ninspire them. I shall never cease to recommend you in my prayers, and\r\nalways beseech him to assist you in your design of dying holily. You\r\nhave quitted the world, and what object was worthy to detain you\r\nthere? Lift up your eyes always to him so whom you have consecrated\r\nthe rest of your days. Life upon this earth is misery. The very\r\nnecessities to which our body is subject here are matter of\r\naffliction to a saint. \u003ci\u003eLord,\u003c/i\u003e said the Royal Prophet, \u003ci\u003edeliver\r\nme from my necessities\u003c/i\u003e! They are wretched who do not know\r\nthemselves for such, and yet they are more wretched who know their\r\nmisery, and do not hate the corruption of the age. What fools are men\r\nto engage themselves to earthly things! they will be undeceived one\r\nday, and will know but too late how much they have been too blame in\r\nloving such false good. Persons truly pious do not thus mistake, they\r\nare disengaged from all sensual pleasures, and raise their desires to\r\nheaven. Begin \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e; put your design in execution without\r\ndelay; you have yet time enough to work out your salvation. Love\r\nChrist, and despise yourself for his sake. He would possess your\r\nheart, and be the sole object of your sighs and tears; seek for no\r\ncomfort but in him. If you do not free yourself from me, you will\r\nfall with me; but if you quit me, and give up yourself to him, you\r\nwill be stedfast and immoveable. If you force the Lord to forsake\r\nyou, you will fall into distress; but if you be ever faithful to him,\r\nyou will always be in joy. Magdalen wept, as thinking the Lord had\r\nforsaken her; but Martha said, See, the Lord calls you. Be diligent\r\nin your duty, and obey faithfully the motions of his grace, and Jesus\r\nwill remain always with you.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAttend, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, to some instructions I have to give you.\r\nYou are at the head of a society, and you know there is this\r\ndifference between those who lead a private life and such as are\r\ncharged with the conduct of others; that the first need only labour\r\nfor their own sanctification, and, in acquitting themselves of their\r\nduties, are not obliged to practise all the virtues in such an\r\napparent manner; whereas they who have the conduct of others intruded\r\nto them, ought by their example to engage them to do all the good\r\nthey are capable of in their condition. I beseech you to attend to\r\nthis truth, and so to follow it, as that your whole life may be a\r\nperfect model of that of a religious recluse.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eGod, who heartily desires our salvation, hath made all the means\r\nof it easy to us; In the \u003ci\u003eOld Testament\u003c/i\u003e he hath written in the\r\nTables of the Law what he requires of us, that we might not be\r\nbewildered in seeking after his will. In the \u003ci\u003eNew Testament\u003c/i\u003e he\r\nhath written that law of grace in our hearts, to the intent that it\r\nmight be always present with us; and, knowing the weakness and\r\nincapacity of our nature, he hath given us grace to perform his will;\r\nand, as if this were not enough, he hath, at all times, in all dates\r\nof the church, raised up men who, by their exemplary life, might\r\nexcite others to their duty. To effect this, he hath chosen persons\r\nof every age, sex, and condition. Strive now to unite in yourself all\r\nthose virtues which have been scattered in these different states.\r\nHave the purity of virgins, the austerity of anchorites, the zeal of\r\npastors and bishops, and the constancy of martyrs. Be exact in the\r\ncourse of your whole life to fulfil the duties of a holy and\r\nenlightened superior, and then death, which is commonly considered as\r\nterrible, will appear agreeable to you.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe death of his saints\u003c/i\u003e, says the Prophet, \u003ci\u003eis precious\r\nin the sight of the Lord.\u003c/i\u003e Nor is it difficult to comprehend why\r\ntheir death should have this advantage over that of sinners. I have\r\nremarked three things which might have given the Prophet an occasion\r\nof speaking thus. First, Their resignation to the will of God.\r\nSecondly, The continuation of their good works. And, lastly, The\r\ntriumph they gain over the devil.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA saint, who has accustomed himself to submit to the will of God,\r\nyields to death without reluctance. He waits with joy (says St.\r\nGregory) for the Judge who is to reward him; he fears not to quit\r\nthis miserable mortal life, in order to begin an immortal happy one.\r\nIt is not so with the sinner, says the same Father; he fears, and\r\nwith reason, he trembles, at the approach of the least sickness;\r\ndeath is terrible to him, because he cannot bear the presence of an\r\noffended Judge; and having so often abused the grace of God, he sees\r\nno way to avoid the punishment due to his sins.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe saints have besides this advantage over sinners that having\r\nmade works of piety familiar to them during their life, they exercise\r\nthem without trouble, and having gained new strength against the\r\ndevil every time they overcome him, they will find themselves in a\r\ncondition at the hour of death to obtain that victory over him, on\r\nwhich depends all eternity, and the blessed union of their souls with\r\ntheir Creator.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI hope, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, that after having deplored the\r\nirregularities of your past life, you will die (as the Prophet\r\nprayed) the death of the righteous. Ah! how few are there who make\r\ntheir end after this manner! and why? It is because there are so few\r\nwho love the Cross of Christ. Every one would be saved, but few will\r\nuse those means which Religion prescribes. And yet we can be saved by\r\nnothing but the Cross, why then do we refuse to bear it? Hath not our\r\nSaviour borne it before us, and died for us, to the end that we might\r\nalso bear it and desire to die also? All the saints have been\r\nafflicted; and our Saviour himself did not pass one hour of his life\r\nwithout some sorrow. Hope not, therefore to be exempted from\r\nsufferings. The Cross, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, is always at hand, but take\r\ncare that you do not bear it with regret; for by so doing you will\r\nmake it more heavy, and you will be oppressed by it unprofitably. On\r\nthe contrary, if you bear it with affection and courage, all your\r\nsufferings will create in you a holy confidence, whereby you will\r\nfind comfort in God. Hear our Saviour who says: \"My child\r\nrenounce yourself, take up your cross and follow me.\" Oh,\r\n\u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e! do you doubt? Is not your soul ravished at so saving\r\na command? are you deaf to his voice? are you insensible to words so\r\nfull of kindness? Beware, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, of refusing a husband who\r\ndemands you, and is more to be feared, if you slight his affection,\r\nthan any profane lover. Provoked at your contempt and ingratitude, he\r\nwill turn his love into anger, and make you feel his vengeance, How\r\nwill you sustain his presence when you shall stand before his\r\ntribunal? He will reproach you for having despised his grace; he will\r\nrepresent to you his sufferings for you. What answer can you make? he\r\nwill then be implacable. He will say to you, Go, proud creature,\r\ndwell in everlasting flames. I separated you from the world to purify\r\nyou in solitude, and you did not second my design; I endeavoured to\r\nsave you, and you took pains to destroy yourself; go wretch, and take\r\nthe portion of the reprobates.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOh, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, prevent these terrible words, and avoid by a\r\nholy course, the punishment prepared for sinners. I dare not give you\r\na description of those dreadful torments which ere the consequences\r\nof a life of guilt. I am filled with horror when they offer\r\nthemselves to my imagination: and yet \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e I can conceive\r\nnothing which can reach the tortures of the damned. The fire which we\r\nsee upon earth is but the shadow of that which burns them; and\r\nwithout enumerating their endless pains, the loss of God which they\r\nfeel increases all their torments. Can any one sin who is persuaded\r\nof this? My God! can we dare to offend thee? Tho\u0027 the riches of thy\r\nmercy could not engage us to love thee, the dread of being thrown\r\ninto such an abyss of misery would restrain us from doing any thing\r\nwhich might displease thee?\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI question not, \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e, but you will hereafter apply\r\nyourself in good earnest to the business of your salvation: this\r\nought to be your whole concern. Banish me, therefore, for ever from\r\nyour heart; it is the best advice I can give you: for the remembrance\r\nof a person we have loved criminally cannot but be hurtful, whatever\r\nadvances we have made in the ways of virtue. When you have extirpated\r\nyour unhappy inclination towards me, the practice of every virtue\r\nwill become easy; and when at last your life is conformable to that\r\nof Christ, death will be desireable to you. Your soul will joyfully\r\nleave this body, and direct its flight to heaven. Then you will\r\nappear with confidence before your Saviour. You will not read\r\ncharacters of your reprobation written in the book of life; but you\r\nwill hear your Saviour say, Come, partake of my glory, and enjoy the\r\neternal reward I have appointed for those virtues you have practised.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFarewell \u003ci\u003eHeloise\u003c/i\u003e. This is the last advice of your dear\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e; this is the last time, let me persuade you to follow\r\nthe holy rules of the Gospel. Heaven grant that your heart, once so\r\nsensible of my love, may now yield to be directed by my zeal! May the\r\nidea of your loving \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, always present to your mind, be\r\nnow changed into the image of \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e truly penitent! and may\r\nyou shed as many tears for your salvation as you have done during the\r\ncourse of our misfortunes!\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003e————————\u003c/p\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003ch2 style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_h2_align\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"a_CHVII\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eELOISA to ABELARD\u003c/h2\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003eBY MR POPE.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eIn these deep solitudes and awful cells.\u003cbr\u003eWhere\r\nheav\u0027nly-pensive Contemplation dwells,\u003cbr\u003eAnd ever-musing Melancholy\r\nreigns;\u003cbr\u003eWhat means this tumult in a Vestal’s veins?\u003cbr\u003eWhy\r\nrove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?\u003cbr\u003eWhy feels my heart its\r\nlong-forgotten beat?\u003cbr\u003eYet, yet I love!——From \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nit came,\u003cbr\u003eAnd \u003ci\u003eEloisa\u003c/i\u003e yet must kiss the name.\u003cbr\u003e Dear\r\nfatal name! rest ever onreveal\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003eNor pass those lips in holy\r\nsilence seas\u0027d:\u003cbr\u003eHide it, my heart, within that close\r\ndisguise,\u003cbr\u003eWhere mix\u0027d with God\u0027s, his lov\u0027d idea lyes;\u003cbr\u003eOh write\r\nit not, my hand—the name appears\u003cbr\u003eAlready written—wash\r\nit out, my tears!\u003cbr\u003eIn vain lost \u003ci\u003eEloisa\u003c/i\u003e weeps and prays,\u003cbr\u003eHer\r\nheart still dictates, and her hand obeys.\u003cbr\u003e Relentless\r\nwalls! whose darksome round contains\u003cbr\u003eRepentant sighs, and\r\nvoluntary pains:\u003cbr\u003eYe rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;\u003cbr\u003eYe\r\ngrotes and caverns shagg\u0027d with horrid thorn!\u003cbr\u003eShrines! where their\r\nvigils pale-ey\u0027d virgins keep,\u003cbr\u003eAnd pitying saints, whose statues\r\nlearn to weep!\u003cbr\u003eTho\u0027 cold like you unmov\u0027d and silent grown,\u003cbr\u003eI\r\nhave not yet forgot myself to stone.\u003cbr\u003eHeav\u0027n claims me all in vain,\r\nwhile he has part,\u003cbr\u003eStill rebel Nature holds out half my heart;\u003cbr\u003eNor\r\npray\u0027rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,\u003cbr\u003eNor tears, for ages\r\ntaught to flow in vain.\u003cbr\u003e Soon as thy Letters,\r\ntrembling, I unclose,\u003cbr\u003eThat well-known name awakens all my woes.\u003cbr\u003eOh\r\nname for ever sad! for ever dear!\u003cbr\u003eStill breath\u0027d in sighs, still\r\nutter\u0027d with a tear.\u003cbr\u003eI tremble too where\u0027er my own I find,\u003cbr\u003eSome\r\ndire misfortune follows close behind.\u003cbr\u003eLine after line my gushing\r\neyes o\u0027erflow,\u003cbr\u003eLed through a sad variety of woe:\u003cbr\u003eNow warm in\r\nlove, now with\u0027ring in thy bloom,\u003cbr\u003eLost in a convent\u0027s solitary\r\ngloom!\u003cbr\u003eThere stern religion quench\u0027d th\u0027 unwilling flame.\u003cbr\u003eThere\r\ndied the best of passions, love and same.\u003cbr\u003e Yet write,\r\noh write me all, that I may join\u003cbr\u003eGriefs to thy griefs, and echo\r\nsighs to thine.\u003cbr\u003eNor foes nor fortune take this pow\u0027r away;\u003cbr\u003eAnd\r\nis my \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e less kind than they?\u003cbr\u003eTears still are mine,\r\nand those I need not spare,\u003cbr\u003eLove but demands what else were shed\r\nin pray\u0027r;\u003cbr\u003eNo happier talk these faded eyes pursue;\u003cbr\u003eTo read and\r\nweep is all they now can do.\u003cbr\u003e Then share thy pain,\r\nallow that sad relief;\u003cbr\u003eAh, more than share it! give me all thy\r\ngrief.\u003cbr\u003eHeav\u0027n first taught letters for some wretch\u0027s aid,\u003cbr\u003eSome\r\nbanish\u0027d lover, or some captive maid;\u003cbr\u003eThey live they speak, they\r\nbreathe what love inspires,\u003cbr\u003eWarm from the soul, and faithful to\r\nits fires,\u003cbr\u003eThe virgin\u0027s wish without her fears impart,\u003cbr\u003eExcuse\r\nthe blush, and pour out all the heart,\u003cbr\u003eSpeed the soft intercourse\r\nfrom soul to soul,\u003cbr\u003eAnd waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.\u003cbr\u003e Thou\r\nknow\u0027st how guiltless first I met thy flame,\u003cbr\u003eWhen Love approach\u0027d\r\nme under Friendship’s name;\u003cbr\u003eMy fancy form\u0027d thee of angelic\r\nkind,\u003cbr\u003eSome emanations of th\u0027 all-beauteous Mind.\u003cbr\u003eThose smiling\r\neyes, attemp\u0027ring every ray,\u003cbr\u003eShone sweetly lambent with celestial\r\nday.\u003cbr\u003eGuiltless I gaz\u0027d; Heav\u0027n listen\u0027d while you sung;\u003cbr\u003eAnd\r\ntruths divine came mended from that tongue,\u003cbr\u003eFrom lip like those\r\nwhat precepts fail\u0027d to move?\u003cbr\u003eToo soon they taught me \u0027twas no sin\r\nto love:\u003cbr\u003eBack through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,\u003cbr\u003eNor\r\nwish\u0027d an angel whom I lov\u0027d a man.\u003cbr\u003eDim and remote the joys of\r\nsaints I see,\u003cbr\u003eNor envy them that heav\u0027n I lose for thee.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eHow oft\u0027, when prest to marriage, have I said,\u003cbr\u003eCurse\r\non all laws but those which Love has made!\u003cbr\u003eLove, free as air, at\r\nsight of human ties,\u003cbr\u003eSpreads his light wings, and in a moment\r\nflies.\u003cbr\u003eLet wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,\u003cbr\u003eAugust her\r\ndeed, and sacred be her fame;\u003cbr\u003eBefore true passion all those views\r\nremove,\u003cbr\u003eFame, wealth, and honour! what are you to love?\u003cbr\u003eThe\r\njealous God, when we profane his fires,\u003cbr\u003eThose restless passions in\r\nrevenge inspires,\u003cbr\u003eAnd bids them make mistaken mortals groan,\u003cbr\u003eWho\r\nseek in love for ought but love alone.\u003cbr\u003eShould at my feet the\r\nworld\u0027s great master fall,\u003cbr\u003eHimself, his throne, his world, I\u0027d\r\nscorn \u0027em all;\u003cbr\u003eNot \u003ci\u003eCeasar\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e empress would I deign to\r\nprove;\u003cbr\u003eNo, make me mistress to the man I love;\u003cbr\u003eIf there be yet\r\nanother name more free,\u003cbr\u003eMore fond, than Mistress, make me that to\r\nthee!\u003cbr\u003eOh happy state! when souls each other draw.\u003cbr\u003eWhen love is\r\nliberty, and nature law,\u003cbr\u003eAll then is full possessing and\r\npossess\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003eNo craving void left akeing in the breast?\u003cbr\u003eEv\u0027n\r\nthought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,\u003cbr\u003eAnd each warm\r\nwish springs mutual from the heart.\u003cbr\u003eThis sure is bliss, (if bliss\r\non earth there be,)\u003cbr\u003eAnd once the lot of \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e and me.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eAlas, how chang\u0027d! what sudden horrors rise!\u003cbr\u003eA naked\r\nlover bound and bleeding lyes!\u003cbr\u003eWhere, where was \u003ci\u003eEloisa\u003c/i\u003e? her\r\nvoice, her hand,\u003cbr\u003eHer poinard, had oppos\u0027d the dire\r\ncommand.\u003cbr\u003eBarbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;\u003cbr\u003eThe\r\ncrime was common, common be the pain.\u003cbr\u003eI can no more; by shame, by\r\nrage, suppress\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003eLet tears and burning blushes speak the rest.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eCanst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,\u003cbr\u003eWhen\r\nvictims at yon altar\u0027s foot we lay?\u003cbr\u003eCanst thou forget what tears\r\nthat moment fell,\u003cbr\u003eWhen, warm in youth, I bade the world\r\nfarewell?\u003cbr\u003eAs, with cold lips I kiss\u0027d the sacred veil,\u003cbr\u003eThe\r\nshrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale:\u003cbr\u003eHeav\u0027n scarces\r\nbeliev\u0027d the conquest it survey\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003eAnd saints with wonder heard\r\nthe vows I made.\u003cbr\u003eYet then, to those dread altars as I drew,\u003cbr\u003eNot\r\non the Cross my eyes were fix\u0027d, but you:\u003cbr\u003eNot grace, or zeal, love\r\nonly was my call,\u003cbr\u003eAnd if I lose thy love, I lose my all.\u003cbr\u003eCome!\r\nwith thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;\u003cbr\u003eThose still at least\r\nare left thee to bestow.\u003cbr\u003eStill on that breast enamour\u0027d let me\r\nlye,\u003cbr\u003eStill drink delicious poison from thy eye,\u003cbr\u003ePant on thy\r\nlip, and to thy heart be press\u0027d;\u003cbr\u003eGive all thou canst——and\r\nlet me dream the rest,\u003cbr\u003eAh, no! instruct me other joys to\r\nprize,\u003cbr\u003eWith other beauties charm my partial eyes.\u003cbr\u003eFull in my\r\nview set all the bright abode,\u003cbr\u003eAnd make my soul quit \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e\r\nfor God.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eAh! think at least thy flock deserves thy care,\u003cbr\u003ePlants\r\nof thy hand, and children of thy pray\u0027r.\u003cbr\u003eFrom the false world in\r\nearly youth they fled,\u003cbr\u003eBy thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts\r\nled.\u003cbr\u003eYou rais\u0027d these hallow\u0027d walls; the desart smil\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003eAnd\r\nParadise was open\u0027d in the wild.\u003cbr\u003eNo weeping orphan saw his\r\nfather\u0027s stores\u003cbr\u003eOur shines irradiate, or emblaze the floors:\u003cbr\u003eNo\r\nsilver saints, by dying misers given,\u003cbr\u003eHere brib\u0027d the rage of\r\nill-requited Heav\u0027n:\u003cbr\u003eBut such plain roofs as piety could\r\nraise,\u003cbr\u003eAnd only vocal with the maker\u0027s praise.\u003cbr\u003eIn these lone\r\nwalls (their days eternal bound)\u003cbr\u003eThese moss-grown domes with spiry\r\nturrets crown\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003eWhere awful arches make a noon-day night,\u003cbr\u003eAnd\r\nthe dim windows shed a solemn light;\u003cbr\u003eThy eyes diffus\u0027d a\r\nreconciling ray,\u003cbr\u003eAnd gleams of glory brighten\u0027d all the day,\u003cbr\u003eBut\r\nnow no face divine contentment wears,\u003cbr\u003e\u0027Tis all blank sadness, or\r\ncontinual tears.\u003cbr\u003eSee how the force of others\u0027 pray\u0027rs I try,\u003cbr\u003e(Oh\r\npious fraud of am\u0027rous charity!)\u003cbr\u003eBut why should I on others\u0027\r\nprayers depend?\u003cbr\u003eCome thou, my Father, Brother, Husband,\r\nFriend!\u003cbr\u003eAh, let thy Handmaid, Sister, Daughter, move,\u003cbr\u003eAnd all\r\nthose tender Names in one, thy Love!\u003cbr\u003eThe darksome pines, that o\u0027er\r\nyon rocks reclin\u0027d\u003cbr\u003eWave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,\u003cbr\u003eThe\r\nwand\u0027ring streams that shine between the hills,\u003cbr\u003eThe grotes that\r\necho to the tinkling rills,\u003cbr\u003eThe dying gales that pant upon the\r\ntrees,\u003cbr\u003eThe lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;\u003cbr\u003eNo more\r\nthese scenes my meditation aid,\u003cbr\u003eOr lull to rest the visionary\r\nmaid.\u003cbr\u003eBut o\u0027er the twilight groves, and dusky caves,\u003cbr\u003eLong\r\nfounding aisles, and intermingled graves,\u003cbr\u003eBlack Melancholy sits,\r\nand round her throws\u003cbr\u003eA death like silence, and a dread repose:\u003cbr\u003eHer\r\ngloomy presence saddens all the scene.\u003cbr\u003eShades ev\u0027ry flow\u0027r, and\r\ndarkens ev\u0027ry green,\u003cbr\u003eDeepens the murmur of the falling floods,\u003cbr\u003eAnd\r\nbreathes a browner horror on the woods,\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eYet here for ever, ever must I stay;\u003cbr\u003eSad proof how\r\nwell a lover can obey!\u003cbr\u003eDeath, only death, can break the lasting\r\nchain;\u003cbr\u003eAnd here, ev\u0027n then, shall my cold dust remain;\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eHere all its frailties, all its flames resign,\u003cbr\u003eAnd\r\nwait, till \u0027tis no sin to mix with thine.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eAh, wretch! believ\u0027d the spouse of God in vain,\u003cbr\u003eConfess\u0027d\r\nwithin the slave of love and man.\u003cbr\u003eAssist me, Heav\u0027n! But whence,\r\narose that pray\u0027r?\u003cbr\u003eSprung it from piety, or from despair?\u003cbr\u003eEv\u0027n\r\nhere, where frozen Chastity retires,\u003cbr\u003eLove finds an altar for\r\nforbidden fires.\u003cbr\u003eI ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;\u003cbr\u003eI\r\nmourn the lover, not lament the fault;\u003cbr\u003eI view my crime, but kindle\r\nat the view,\u003cbr\u003eRepent old pleasures, and solicit new;\u003cbr\u003eNow turn\u0027d\r\nto Heav\u0027n, I weep my past offence,\u003cbr\u003eNow think of thee, and curse my\r\ninnocence.\u003cbr\u003eOf all Affliction taught a lover yet,\u003cbr\u003e\u0027Tis sure the\r\nhardest science to forget!\u003cbr\u003eHow shall I lose the sin, yet, keep the\r\nsense.\u003cbr\u003eAnd love th\u0027 offender, yet detest th\u0027 offence?\u003cbr\u003eHow the\r\ndear object from the crime remove,\u003cbr\u003eOr how distinguish penitence\r\nfrom love?\u003cbr\u003eUnequal talk! a passion to resign,\u003cbr\u003eFor hearts so\r\ntouched, so pierc\u0027d, so lost as mine.\u003cbr\u003eEre such a soul regains its\r\npeaceful slate.\u003cbr\u003eHow often must it love, how often hate!\u003cbr\u003eHow\r\noften hope, despair, resent, regret.\u003cbr\u003eConceal, disdain—do all\r\nthings but forget!\u003cbr\u003eBut let Heav\u0027n seize it, all at once \u0027tis\r\nfir\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003eNot touched but rapt; not waken\u0027d but inspir\u0027d!\u003cbr\u003eOh come!\r\noh teach me nature to subdue.\u003cbr\u003eRenounce my love, my life,\r\nmyself—and you.\u003cbr\u003eFill my fond heart with God alone,\r\nfor he\u003cbr\u003eAlone can rival, can succeed to thee.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eHow happy is the blameless Vestal\u0027s lot?\u003cbr\u003eThe world\r\nforgetting, by the world forgot:\u003cbr\u003eEternal sunshine of the spotless\r\nmind!\u003cbr\u003eEach pray\u0027r accepted, and each wish resign\u0027d;\u003cbr\u003eLabour and\r\nrest, that equal periods keep,\u003cbr\u003e\u0027Obedient slumbers that can wake\r\nand weep;\u003cbr\u003eDesires compos\u0027d, affections ever even;\u003cbr\u003eTears that\r\ndelight, and sighs that waft to heav\u0027n.\u003cbr\u003eGrace shines around her\r\nwith serenest beams,\u003cbr\u003eAnd whisp\u0027ring angels prompt her golden\r\ndreams,\u003cbr\u003eFor her the house prepares the bridal ring,\u003cbr\u003eFor her\r\nwhite virgins \u003ci\u003ehymeneals\u003c/i\u003e sing,\u003cbr\u003eFor her th\u0027 unfading rose of\r\nEden blooms,\u003cbr\u003eAnd wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes;\u003cbr\u003eTo\r\nsounds of heavenly harps she dies away,\u003cbr\u003eAnd melts in visions of\r\neternal day.\u003cbr\u003e Far other dreams my erring soul\r\nemploy,\u003cbr\u003eFar other raptures of unholy joy:\u003cbr\u003eWhen at the close of\r\neach sad sorrowing day\u003cbr\u003eFancy restores what Vengeance snatch\u0027d\r\naway,\u003cbr\u003eThen Conscience sleeps, and leaving Nature free,\u003cbr\u003eAll my\r\nloose soul unbounded springs to thee.\u003cbr\u003eO curs\u0027d dear horrors of\r\nall-conscious Night!\u003cbr\u003eHow glowing guilt exalts the keen\r\ndelight!\u003cbr\u003eProvoking daemons all restraint remove,\u003cbr\u003eAnd stir\r\nwithin me ev\u0027ry source of love,\u003cbr\u003eI hear thee, view thee, gaze o\u0027er\r\nall thy charms,\u003cbr\u003eAnd round thy phantoms glue my clasping arms.\u003cbr\u003eI\r\nwake——no more I hear, no more I view,\u003cbr\u003eThe phantom\r\nflies me as unkind as you.\u003cbr\u003eI call aloud; it hears not what I\r\nsay;\u003cbr\u003eI stretch my empty arms; it glides away.\u003cbr\u003eTo dream once\r\nmore I close my willing eyes;\u003cbr\u003eYe soft illusions, dear deceits,\r\narise!\u003cbr\u003eAlas no more!——Methinks we wand\u0027ring go,\u003cbr\u003eThro\u0027\r\ndreary waftes, and weep each other\u0027s woe\u003cbr\u003eWhere round some moulding\r\ntow\u0027r pale ivy creeps,\u003cbr\u003eAnd low-brow\u0027d rocks hang nodding o\u0027er the\r\ndeeps.\u003cbr\u003eSudden you mount, you beckon from the skies:\u003cbr\u003eClouds\r\ninterpose, waves roar, and winds arise.\u003cbr\u003eI shriek, start up, the\r\nsame sad prospect find\u003cbr\u003eAnd wake to all the griefs I left behind.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eFor thee the fates, severely kind, ordain\u003cbr\u003eA cool\r\nsuspence from pleasure and from pain;\u003cbr\u003eThy life a long dead calm of\r\nfix\u0027d repose;\u003cbr\u003eNo pulse that riots, and no blood that glows;\u003cbr\u003eStill\r\nas the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,\u003cbr\u003eOr moving Spirit bade\r\nthe waters flow;\u003cbr\u003eSoft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv\u0027n,\u003cbr\u003eAnd\r\nmild as opening gleams of promis\u0027d heav\u0027n.\u003cbr\u003e Come,\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e! for what hast thou to dread?\u003cbr\u003eThe torch of Venus\r\nburns not for the dead.\u003cbr\u003eNature stands check\u0027d; Religion\r\ndisapproves;\u003cbr\u003eEv\u0027n thou art cold——yet \u003ci\u003eEloisa\u003c/i\u003e\r\nloves.\u003cbr\u003eAh hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn.\u003cbr\u003eTo\r\nlight the dead, and warm th\u0027 unfruitful urn.\u003cbr\u003eWhat scenes appear!\r\nwhere e\u0027er I turn my view.\u003cbr\u003eThe dear ideas where I fly pursue,\u003cbr\u003eRise\r\nin the grove, before the altar rise,\u003cbr\u003eStain all my soul, and wanton\r\nin my eyes.\u003cbr\u003eI waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,\u003cbr\u003eThy image\r\nsteals between my God and me;\u003cbr\u003eThy voice I seem in ev\u0027ry hymn to\r\nhear,\u003cbr\u003eWith ev\u0027ry bead I drop too soft a tear.\u003cbr\u003eWhen from the\r\ncenser clouds of fragrance roll,\u003cbr\u003eAnd swelling organs lift the\r\nrising soul,\u003cbr\u003eOne thought of thee puts all the pomp to\r\nflight,\u003cbr\u003ePriests, tapers, temples; swim before my sight:\u003cbr\u003eIn seas\r\nof flame my plunging soul is drown\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003eWhile altars blaze, and\r\nangels tremble round.\u003cbr\u003eWhile prostrate here in humble grief I\r\nlye\u003cbr\u003eKind, virtuous drops, just gathering in my eye,\u003cbr\u003eWhile\r\npraying, trembling, in the dust I roll,\u003cbr\u003eAnd dawning grace is\r\nopening on my soul:\u003cbr\u003eCome, if thou dar\u0027st, all charming as thou\r\nart!\u003cbr\u003eOppose thyself to Heav\u0027n; dispute my heart;\u003cbr\u003eCome, with one\r\nglance of those deluding eyes\u003cbr\u003eBlot out each bright idea of the\r\nskies; \u003cbr\u003eTake back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;\u003cbr\u003eTake\r\nback my fruitless penitence and prayers;\u003cbr\u003eSnatch me, just mounting,\r\nfrom the blest abode;\u003cbr\u003eAssist the fiend, and tear me from my God!\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eNo, fly me! fly me! far as pole from pole;\u003cbr\u003eRise Alps\r\nbetween us, and whose oceans roll!\u003cbr\u003eAh, come not, write not, think\r\nnot once of me,\u003cbr\u003eNor share one pang of all I felt for thee,\u003cbr\u003eThy\r\noaths I quit, thy memory resign;\u003cbr\u003eForget, renounce me, hate\r\nwhate\u0027er was mine.\u003cbr\u003eFair eyes, and tempting looks, which yet I\r\nview!\u003cbr\u003eLong-liv\u0027d ador\u0027d ideas, all adieu!\u003cbr\u003eO grace serene! oh\r\nvirtue heav\u0027nly fair!\u003cbr\u003eDivine oblivion of low-thoughted care!\u003cbr\u003eFresh\r\nblooming Hope, gay daughter of the sky!\u003cbr\u003eAnd faith, our early\r\nimmortality!\u003cbr\u003eEnter, each mild, each amicable guest;\u003cbr\u003eReceive and\r\nwrap me in eternal rest!\u003cbr\u003e See in her cell sad \u003ci\u003eEloisa\u003c/i\u003e\r\nspread,\u003cbr\u003ePropt on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead!\u003cbr\u003eIn each\r\nlow wind methinks a spirit calls,\u003cbr\u003eAnd more than echoes talk along\r\nthe walls,\u003cbr\u003eHere, as I watch\u0027d the dying lamps around,\u003cbr\u003eFrom\r\nyonder shrine I heard a hollow sound:\u003cbr\u003e\u0027Come, sister, come I (it\r\nsaid, or seem\u0027d to say,)\u003cbr\u003e\u0027Thy place is here, sad sister come\r\naway!\u003cbr\u003e\u0027Once like thyself I trembled, wept, and pray\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003e\u0027Love\u0027s\r\nvictim then, though now a sainted maid:\u003cbr\u003e\u0027But all is calm in this\r\neternal sleep;\u003cbr\u003e\u0027Here Grief forgets to groan, and Love to\r\nweep;\u003cbr\u003e\u0027Ev\u0027n Superstition loses ev\u0027ry fear:\u003cbr\u003e\u0027For God, not man,\r\nabsolves our frailties here.\u0027\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eI come, I come! prepare your roseat bow\u0027rs,\u003cbr\u003eCelestial\r\npalm, and ever-blooming flow\u0027rs.\u003cbr\u003eThither, were sinners may have\r\nrest, I go,\u003cbr\u003eWhere flames refin\u0027d in breasts seraphic glow:\u003cbr\u003eThou,\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e! the last sad office pay,\u003cbr\u003eAnd smooth my passage to\r\nthe realms of day;\u003cbr\u003eSee my lips tremble, and my eye-balk roll,\u003cbr\u003eSuck\r\nmy last breath, and catch the flying soul!\u003cbr\u003eAh no——in\r\nsacred vestments may\u0027st thou stand,\u003cbr\u003eThe hallow\u0027d taper trembling\r\nin thy hand,\u003cbr\u003ePresent the Cross before my lifted eye,\u003cbr\u003eTeach me\r\nat once, and learn of me to die.\u003cbr\u003eAh then, the once lov\u0027d \u003ci\u003eEloisa\u003c/i\u003e\r\nsee!\u003cbr\u003eIt will be then no crime to gaze on me.\u003cbr\u003eSee from my cheek\r\nthe transient roses fly!\u003cbr\u003eSee the last sparkle languish in my\r\neye!\u003cbr\u003e\u0027Till ev\u0027ry motion, pulse, and breath be o\u0027er;\u003cbr\u003eAnd ev\u0027n my\r\n\u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e. be lov\u0027d no more.\u003cbr\u003eO death, all eloquent! you only\r\nprove\u003cbr\u003eWhat dust we dote on, when \u0027tis man we love.\u003cbr\u003e Then\r\ntoo, when Fate shall thy fair frame destroy?\u003cbr\u003e(That cause of all my\r\nguilt, and all my joy)\u003cbr\u003eIn trance ecstatic may the pangs be\r\ndrown\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003eBright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round,\u003cbr\u003eFrom\r\nopening skies may streaming glories shine,\u003cbr\u003eAnd saints embrace thee\r\nwith a love like mine.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eMay one kind grave unite each hapless name,\u003cbr\u003eAnd graft\r\nmy love immortal on thy fame!\u003cbr\u003eThen, ages hence, when all my woes\r\nare o\u0027er,\u003cbr\u003eWhen this rebellious heart shall beat no more.\u003cbr\u003eIf\r\never Chance two wand\u0027ring lovers brings\u003cbr\u003eTo \u003ci\u003eParaclete\u0027s\u003c/i\u003e\r\nwhite walls and silver springs,\u003cbr\u003eO\u0027er the pale marble shall they\r\njoin their heads.\u003cbr\u003eAnd drink the falling tears each other\r\nsheds;\u003cbr\u003eThen sadly say, with mutual pity mov\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh may we\r\nnever love as these have lov\u0027d!\"\u003cbr\u003eFrom the full choir, when\r\nloud Hosannas rise,\u003cbr\u003eAnd swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,\u003cbr\u003eAmid\r\nthat scene, if some relenting eye\u003cbr\u003eGlance on the stone where our\r\ncold relics lye,\u003cbr\u003eDevotion\u0027s self shall steal a thought from\r\nheav\u0027n,\u003cbr\u003eOne human tear shall drop, and be forgiven.\u003cbr\u003eAnd sure,\r\nif Fate some future bard shall join\u003cbr\u003eIn sad similitude of griefs\r\nlike mine,\u003cbr\u003eCondemn\u0027d whole years in absence to deplore,\u003cbr\u003eAnd\r\nimage charms he must behold no more;\u003cbr\u003eSuch if there be, who loves\r\nso long, so well;\u003cbr\u003eLet him our sad, our tender, story tell;\u003cbr\u003eThe\r\nwell-sung woes will smooth my pensive ghost:\u003cbr\u003eHe best can paint\r\ne\u0027m, who shall feel \u0027em most.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote style=\"text-align: center\"\u003e\u003cdiv\u003e————————————\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote style=\"text-align: center\"\u003e\u003cdiv\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003ch2 style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_h2_align\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"a_CHVIII\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eABELARD to ELOISA\u003c/h2\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"pg_body_wrapper\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003eBY MRS MADAN.\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eIn my dark cell, low prostrate on the ground,\u003cbr\u003eMourning\r\nmy crimes, thy Letter entrance found;\u003cbr\u003eToo soon my soul the\r\nwell-known name confest,\u003cbr\u003eMy beating heart sprang fiercely in my\r\nbreast,\u003cbr\u003eThro\u0027 my whole frame a guilty transport glow\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003eAnd\r\nstreaming torrents from my eyes fast flow\u0027d: \u003cbr\u003e O\r\n\u003ci\u003eEloisa\u003c/i\u003e! art thou still the same?\u003cbr\u003eDost thou still nourish\r\nthis destructive flame?\u003cbr\u003eHave not the gentle rules of Peace and\r\nHeav\u0027n,\u003cbr\u003eFrom thy soft soul this fatal passion driv\u0027n?\u003cbr\u003eAlas! I\r\nthought you disengaged and free;\u003cbr\u003eAnd can you still, still sigh and\r\nweep for me?\u003cbr\u003eWhat powerful Deity, what hallow\u0027d Shrine,\u003cbr\u003eCan\r\nsave me from a love, a faith like thine?\u003cbr\u003eWhere shall I fly, when\r\nnot this awful Cave,\u003cbr\u003eWhose rugged feet the surging billows\r\nlave;\u003cbr\u003eWhen not these gloomy cloister\u0027s solemn walls,\u003cbr\u003eO\u0027er whose\r\nrough sides the languid ivy crawls,\u003cbr\u003eWhen my dread vews, in vain,\r\ntheir force oppose?\u003cbr\u003eOppos\u0027d to live—alas!—how vain are\r\nvows!\u003cbr\u003eIn fruitless penitence I wear away\u003cbr\u003eEach tedious night,\r\nand sad revolving day;\u003cbr\u003eI fast, I pray, and, with deceitful\r\nart,\u003cbr\u003eVeil thy dear image in my tortur\u0027d heart;\u003cbr\u003eMy tortur\u0027d\r\nheart conflicting passions move.\u003cbr\u003eI hope despair, repent——yet\r\nstill I love:\u003cbr\u003eA thousand jarring thoughts my bosom tear;\u003cbr\u003eFor,\r\nthou, not God, O \u003ci\u003eEloise!\u003c/i\u003e art there.\u003cbr\u003eTo the false world\u0027s\r\ndeluding pleasures dead,\u003cbr\u003eNor longer by its wand\u0027ring fires\r\nmisled,\u003cbr\u003eIn learn\u0027d disputes harsh precepts I infuse,\u003cbr\u003eAnd give\r\nthe counsel I want pow\u0027r to use.\u003cbr\u003eThe rigid maxims of the grave and\r\nwife\u003cbr\u003eHave quench\u0027d each milder sparkle of my eyes:\u003cbr\u003eEach lovley\r\nfeature of this once lov\u0027d face,\u003cbr\u003eBy grief revers\u0027d, assumes a\r\nsterner grace;\u003cbr\u003eO \u003ci\u003eEloisa\u003c/i\u003e! should the fates once\r\nmore,\u003cbr\u003eIndulgent to my view, thy charms restore,\u003cbr\u003eHow from my\r\narms would\u0027st thou with horror start\u003cbr\u003eTo miss the form familiar to\r\nthy heart;\u003cbr\u003eNought could thy quick, thy piercing judgment see,\u003cbr\u003eTo\r\nspeak me \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e—but love to thee.\u003cbr\u003eLean Abstinence,\r\npale Grief, and haggard Care.\u003cbr\u003eThe dire attendants of forlorn\r\nDespair,\u003cbr\u003eHave \u003ci\u003eAbelard\u003c/i\u003e, the young, the gay, remov\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003eAnd\r\nin the Hermit funk the man you lov\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003eWrapt in the gloom these\r\nholy mansions shed,\u003cbr\u003eThe thorny paths of Penitence I tread;\u003cbr\u003eLost\r\nto the world, from all its int\u0027rests free,\u003cbr\u003eAnd torn from all my\r\nsoul held dear in thee,\u003cbr\u003eAmbition with its train of frailties\r\ngone,\u003cbr\u003eAll loves and forms forget——but thine\r\nalone,\u003cbr\u003eAmid the blaze of day, the dusk of night,\u003cbr\u003eMy \u003ci\u003eEloisa\u003c/i\u003e\r\nrises to my sight;\u003cbr\u003eVeil\u0027d as in Paraclete\u0027s secluded tow\u0027rs,\u003cbr\u003eThe\r\nwretched mourner counts the lagging hours;\u003cbr\u003eI hear her sighs, see\r\nthe swift falling tears,\u003cbr\u003eWeep all her griefs, and pant with all\r\nher cares.\u003cbr\u003eO vows! O convent! your stern force impart,\u003cbr\u003eAnd\r\nfrown the melting phantom from my heart;\u003cbr\u003eLet other sighs a\r\nworthier sorrow show,\u003cbr\u003eLet other tears from sin repentance\r\nflow;\u003cbr\u003eLow to the earth my guilty eyes I roll,\u003cbr\u003eAnd humble to the\r\ndust my heaving soul,\u003cbr\u003eForgiving Pow\u0027r! thy gracious call I\r\nmeet,\u003cbr\u003eWho first impower\u0027d this rebel heart to heart;\u003cbr\u003eWho thro\u0027\r\nthis trembling, this offending frame,\u003cbr\u003eFor nobler ends inspir\u0027d\r\nlife\u0027s active flame.\u003cbr\u003eO! change the temper of this laboring\r\nbreast,\u003cbr\u003eAnd form anew each beating pulse to rest!\u003cbr\u003eLet springing\r\ngrace, fair faith, and hope remove\u003cbr\u003eThe fatal traces of destructive\r\nlove!\u003cbr\u003eDestructive love from his warm mansions tear,\u003cbr\u003eAnd leave\r\nno traits of \u003ci\u003eEloisa\u003c/i\u003e there!\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eAre these the wishes of my inmost soul?\u003cbr\u003eWould I its\r\nsoft, its tend\u0027rest sense controul?\u003cbr\u003eWould I, thus touch\u0027d, this\r\nglowing heart refine,\u003cbr\u003eTo the cold substance of this marble\r\nshrine?\u003cbr\u003eTransform\u0027d like these pale swarms that round me move,\u003cbr\u003eOf\r\nblest insensibles—who know no love?\u003cbr\u003eAh! rather let me keep\r\nthis hapless flame;\u003cbr\u003eAdieu! false honour, unavailing fame!\u003cbr\u003eNot\r\nyour harsh rules, but tender love, supplies\u003cbr\u003eThe streams that gush\r\nfrom my despairing eyes;\u003cbr\u003eI feel the traitor melt about my\r\nheart,\u003cbr\u003eAnd thro\u0027 my veins with treacherous influence dart;\u003cbr\u003eInspire\r\nme, Heav\u0027n! assist me, Grace divine,\u003cbr\u003eAid me, ye Saints! unknown to\r\npains like mine;\u003cbr\u003eYou, who on earth serene all griefs could\r\nprove,\u003cbr\u003eAll but the tort\u0027ring pangs of hopeless love;\u003cbr\u003eA holier\r\nrage in your pure bosoms dwelt,\u003cbr\u003eNor can you pity what you never\r\nfelt:\u003cbr\u003eA sympathising grief alone can lure,\u003cbr\u003eThe hand that heals,\r\nmust feel what I endure.\u003cbr\u003eThou, \u003ci\u003eEloise\u003c/i\u003e alone canst give me\r\nease,\u003cbr\u003eAnd bid my struggling soul subside to peace;\u003cbr\u003eRestore me\r\nto my long lost heav\u0027n of rest,\u003cbr\u003eAnd take thyself from my reluctant\r\nbreast;\u003cbr\u003eIf crimes like mine could an allay receive,\u003cbr\u003eThat blest\r\nallay thy wond\u0027rons charms might give.\u003cbr\u003eThy form, that first to\r\nlove my heart inclin\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003eStill wanders in my lost, my guilty\r\nmind.\u003cbr\u003eI saw thee as the new blown blossoms fair,\u003cbr\u003eSprightly as\r\nlight, more soft than summer\u0027s air,\u003cbr\u003eBright as their beams thy eyes\r\na mind disclose,\u003cbr\u003eWhilst on thy lips gay blush\u0027d the fragrant\r\nrose;\u003cbr\u003eWit, youth, and love, in each dear feature shone;\u003cbr\u003ePrest\r\nby my fate, I gaz\u0027d—and was undone.\u003cbr\u003e There dy\u0027d\r\nthe gen\u0027rous fire, whose vig\u0027rous flame\u003cbr\u003eEnlarged my soul, and\r\nurg\u0027d me on to same;\u003cbr\u003eNor fame, nor wealth, my soften\u0027d heart could\r\nmove,\u003cbr\u003eDully insensible to all but love.\u003cbr\u003eSnatch\u0027d from myself,\r\nmy learning tasteless grew;\u003cbr\u003eVain my philosophy, oppos\u0027d to you;\u003cbr\u003eA\r\ntrain of woes succeed, nor should we mourn,\u003cbr\u003eThe hours that cannot,\r\nought not to return.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eAs once to love I sway\u0027d your yielding mind,\u003cbr\u003eToo fond,\r\nalas! too fatally inclin\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003eTo virtue now let me your breast\r\ninspire,\u003cbr\u003eAnd fan, with zeal divine, the heav\u0027nly fire;\u003cbr\u003eTeach\r\nyou to injur\u0027d Heav\u0027n all chang\u0027d to turn,\u003cbr\u003eAnd bid the soul with\r\nsacred rapture burn.\u003cbr\u003eO! that my own example might impart\u003cbr\u003eThis\r\nnoble warmth to your soft trembling heart!\u003cbr\u003eThat mine, with pious\r\nundissembled care,\u003cbr\u003eCould aid the latent virtue struggling there;\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003eAlas! I rave—nor grace, nor zeal divine,\u003cbr\u003eBurn in\r\na heart oppress\u0027d with crimes like mine,\u003cbr\u003eToo sure I find, while I\r\nthe tortures prove\u003cbr\u003eOf feeble piety, conflicting love,\u003cbr\u003eOn black\r\ndespair my forc\u0027d devotion\u0027s built;\u003cbr\u003eAbsence for me has sharper\r\npangs than guilt.\u003cbr\u003eYet, yet, my \u003ci\u003eEloisa\u003c/i\u003e, thy charms I\r\nview,\u003cbr\u003eYet my sighs breath, my tears pour forth for you;\u003cbr\u003eEach\r\nweak resistance stronger knits my chain,\u003cbr\u003eI sigh, weep, love,\r\ndespair, repent——in vain,\u003cbr\u003eHaste, \u003ci\u003eEloisa\u003c/i\u003e, haste,\r\nyour lover free,\u003cbr\u003eAmidst your warmest pray\u0027r——O think\r\non me!\u003cbr\u003eWing with your rising zeal my grov\u0027ling mind,\u003cbr\u003eAnd let me\r\nmine from your repentance find!\u003cbr\u003eAh! labour, strife, your love,\r\nyour self control!\u003cbr\u003eThe change will sure affect my kindred soul;\u003cbr\u003eIn\r\nblest consent our purer sighs shall breath,\u003cbr\u003eAnd Heav\u0027n assisting,\r\nshall our crimes forgive,\u003cbr\u003eBut if unhappy, wretched, lost in\r\nvain,\u003cbr\u003eFaintly th\u0027 unequal combat you sustain;\u003cbr\u003eIf not to Heav\u0027n\r\nyou feel your bosom rise,\u003cbr\u003eNor tears refin\u0027d fall contrite from\r\nyour eyes;\u003cbr\u003eIf still, your heart its wonted passions move,\u003cbr\u003eIf\r\nstill, to speak all pains in one—you love;\u003cbr\u003eDeaf to the weak\r\nessays of living breath,\u003cbr\u003eAttend the stronger eloquence of\r\nDeath.\u003cbr\u003eWhen that kind pow\u0027r this captive soul shall free,\u003cbr\u003eWhich\r\nonly then can cease to doat on thee;\u003cbr\u003eWhen gently sunk to my\r\neternal sleep,\u003cbr\u003eThe Paraclete my peaceful urn shall keep!\u003cbr\u003eThen,\r\n\u003ci\u003eEloisa\u003c/i\u003e, then your lover view,\u003cbr\u003eSee his quench\u0027d eyes no\r\nlonger gaze on you;\u003cbr\u003eFrom their dead orbs that tender utt\u0027rance\r\nflown,\u003cbr\u003eWhich first to thine my heart\u0027s soft fate made known,\u003cbr\u003eThis\r\nbreast no more, at length to ease consign\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003ePant like the waving\r\naspin in the wind;\u003cbr\u003eSee all my wild, tumultuous passion o\u0027er,\u003cbr\u003eAnd\r\nthou, amazing change! belov\u0027d no more;\u003cbr\u003eBehold the destin\u0027d end of\r\nhuman love—\u003cbr\u003eBut let the fight your zeal alone improve;\u003cbr\u003eLet\r\nnot your conscious soul, to sorrow mov\u0027d,\u003cbr\u003eRecall how much, how\r\ntenderly I lov\u0027d:\u003cbr\u003eWith pious care your fruitless griefs\r\nrestrain,\u003cbr\u003eNor let a tear your sacred veil profane;\u003cbr\u003eNot ev\u0027n a\r\nsigh on my cold urn bestow;\u003cbr\u003eBut let your breast with new-born\r\nraptures glow;\u003cbr\u003eLet love divine, frail mortal love dethrone,\u003cbr\u003eAnd\r\nto your mind immortal joys make known;\u003cbr\u003eLet Heav\u0027n relenting strike\r\nyour ravish\u0027d view,\u003cbr\u003eAnd still the bright, the blest pursuit\r\nrenew!\u003cbr\u003eSo with your crimes shall your misfortune cease,\u003cbr\u003eAnd\r\nyour rack\u0027d soul be calmly hush\u0027d to peace.\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cdiv\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/blockquote\u003e\r\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: CENTER;\" class=\"xhtml_p_align\"\u003eTHE END\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\u003cpre\u003e\u003c/pre\u003e\r\n\u003c/article\u003e"}],"SectionSequence":["Back Link","Work Title","Deck","Author","Period","Era","Composition","Date Note","Region","Terra Avita","Terra Avita Region","Modern Country","Original Title","Language","Primary Discipline","Secondary Discipline","Tradition","Full Versions","Core Thesis","Classification","Arguments","Influence","Significance","Evidence Note","Full Text"],"Counts":{"ContextCards":3,"GeoCards":4,"DisciplineCards":2,"Links":11,"Sections":25,"Styles":3,"Scripts":1}}