HELOISE to ABELARD.
Heloisehad been dangerously ill at the Convent of the Paraclete: immediately upon her recovery she wrote this Letter toAbelard, She seems now to have disengaged herself from him, and to have resolved to think of nothing but repentance; yet discovers some emotions, which make it doubtful whether devotion had entirely triumphed over her passion.
DearAbelard, you expect, perhaps, that I should accuse you of negligence. You have not answered my last letter; and thanks to Heaven, in the condition I now am, it is a happiness to me that you show so much insensibility for the fatal passion which had engaged me to you. At lastAbelard, you have lostHeloisefor ever. Notwithstanding all the oaths I made to think of nothing but you only, and to be entertained with nothing but you, I have banished you from my thoughts, I have forgot you. Thou charming idea of a lover I once adored, thou wilt no more be my happiness! Dear image ofAbelard! thou wilt no more follow me every where; I will no more remember thee. O celebrated merit of a man, who, in spite of his enemies is the wonder of his age! O enchanting pleasures, to whichHeloiseentirely resigned herself, you, you have been my tormentors! I confessAbelard, without a blush, my infidelity; let my inconstancy teach the world that there is no depending upon the promises of women; they are all subject to change. This troubles you,Abelard; this news, without doubt, surprises you; you could never imagineHeloise, should be inconstant. She was prejudiced by so strong an inclination to you, that you cannot conceive how time could alter it. But be undeceived; I am going to discover to you my falseness, though instead of reproaching me, I persuade myself you will shed tears of joy. When I shall have told you what rival hath ravished my heart from you, you will praise my inconstancy, and will pray this rival to fix it. By this you may judge that it is God alone that takesHeloisefrom you. Yes, my dearAbelard, he gives my mind that tranquillity which a quick remembrance of our misfortunes would not suffer me to enjoy. Just Heaven! what other rival could take me from you? Could you imagine it possible for any mortal to blot you from my heart? Could you think me guilty of sacrificing the virtuous and learnedAbelardto any other but to God? No, I believe you have done me justice in this point. I question not but you are impatient to know what means God used to accomplish so great an end; I will tell you, and wonder at the secret ways of Providence. Some few days after you sent me your last letter I fell dangerously ill; the physicians gave me over; and I expected certain death. Then it was that my passion, which always before seemed innocent, appeared criminal to me. My memory represented faithfully to me all the past actions of my life, and I confess to you my love was the only pain I felt. Death which till then I had always considered as at a distance, now presented itself to me such as it appears to sinners. I began to dread the wrath of God, now I was going to experience it; and I repented I had made no better use of his grace. Those tender letters I have wrote to you, and those passionate conversations I have had with you, gave me as much pain now as they formerly did pleasure. Ah! miserableHeloise, said I, if it is a crime to give one's self up to such soft transports, and if after this life is ended punishment certainly follows them, why didst thou not resist so dangerous an inclination? Think on the tortures that are prepared for thee; consider with terror that store of torments, and recollect at the same time those pleasures which thy deluded soul thought so entrancing. Ah! pursued I, dost thou not almost despair for having rioted in such false pleasure? In short,Abelard, imagine all the remorse of mind I suffered, and you will not be astonished at my change.
Solitude is insupportable to a mind which is not easy, its troubles increase in the midst of silence, and retirement heightens them. Since I have been shut up within these walls, I have done nothing but wept for our misfortunes. This cloister has resounded with my cries, and like a wretch condemned to eternal slavery, I have worn out my days in grief and sighing. Instead of fulfilling God's merciful design upon me, I have offended him; I have looked upon this sacred refuge like a frightful prison, and have borne with unwillingness the yoke of the Lord. Instead of sanctifying myself by a life of penitence, I have confirmed my reprobation. What a fatal wandering! ButAbelard, I have torn off the bandage which blinded me, and if I dare rely upon the emotions which I have felt, I have made myself worthy of your esteem. You are no more that amorousAbelard, who, to gain a private conversation with me by night, used incessantly to contrive new ways to deceive the vigilance of our observers. The misfortune, which happened to you after so many happy moments, gave you a horror for vice, and you instantly consecrated the rest of your days to virtue and seemed to submit to this necessity willingly. I indeed, more tender than you, and more sensible of soft pleasures, bore this misfortune with extreme impatience. You have heard my exclamations against your enemies; you have seen my whole resentment in those Letters I wrote to you; it was this, without doubt, which deprived me of the esteem of myAbelard. You were alarmed at my transport, and if you will confess the truth, you, perhaps, despaired of my salvation. You could not foresee thatHeloisewould conquer so reigning a passion; but you have been deceived,Abelard; my weakness, when supported by grace, hath not hindered me from obtaining a complete victory. Restore me, then, to your good opinion; your own piety ought to solicit you to this.
But what secret trouble rises in my soul, what unthought-of motion opposes the resolution I formed of sighing no more forAbelard? Just Heaven! have I not yet triumphed over my love? UnhappyHeloise! as long as thou drawest a breath it is decreed thou must loveAbelard: weep unfortunate wretch that thou art, thou never had a more just occasion. Now I ought to die with grief. Grace had overtaken me, and I had promised to be faithful to it, but I now perjure myself, and sacrifice even grace toAbelard. This sacrilegious Sacrifice fills up the measure of my iniquities. After this can I hope God should open to me the treasures of his mercy? Have I not tired out his forgiveness? I began to offend him from the moment I first sawAbelard; an unhappy sympathy engaged us both in a criminal commerce; and God raised us up an enemy to separate us. I lament and hate the misfortune which hath lighted upon us and adore the cause. Ah! I ought rather to explain this accident as the secret ordinance of Heaven, which disapproved of our engagement, and apply myself to extirpate my passion. How much better were it entirely to forget the object of it, than to preserve the memory of it, so fatal to the quiet of my life and salvation? Great God! shallAbelardalways possess my thoughts? can I never free myself from those chains which bind me to him? But, perhaps, I am unreasonably afraid; virtue directs all my motions, and they are all subject to grace, Fear no more, dearAbelard; I have no longer any of those sentiments which, being described in my Letters, have occasioned you so much trouble. I will no more endeavour, by the relation of those pleasures our new-born passion gave us, to awaken that criminal fondness you may have for me; I free you from all your oaths; forget the names of Lover and husband but keep always that of Father. I expect no more from you those tender protestations, and those letters so proper to keep up the commerce of love. I demand nothing of you but spiritual advice and wholesome directions. The path of holiness, however thorny it may be, will yet appear agreeable when I walk in your steps. You will always find me ready to follow you. I shall read with more pleasure the letters in which you shall describe to me the advantages of virtue than ever I did those by which you so artfully instilled the fatal poison of our passion. You cannot now be silent without a crime. When I was possessed with so violent a love, and pressed you so earnestly to write to me, how many letters did I send you before I could obtain one from you? You denied me in my misery the only comfort which was left me, because you thought it pernicious. You endeavoured by severities to force me to forget you; nor can I blame you; but now you have nothing to fear. A lucky disease which providence seemed to have chastised me with for my sanctification, hath done what all human efforts, and your cruelty in vain attempted. I see now the vanity of that happiness which we had set our hearts upon, as if we were never to have lost it. What fears, what uneasiness, have we been obliged to suffer!
No, Lord, there is no pleasure upon earth but that which virtue gives! The heart, amidst all worldly delights, feels a sting; it is uneasy and restless till fixed on thee. What have I not suffered,Abelard, while I kept alive in my retirement those fires which ruined me in the world? I saw with horror the walls which surrounded me; the hours seemed as long as years. I repented a thousand times the having buried myself here; but since grace has opened my eyes all the scene is changed. Solitude looks charming, and the tranquillity which I behold here enters my very heart. In the satisfaction of doing my duty I feel a pleasure above all that riches, pomp, or sensuality, could afford. My quiet has indeed cost me dear; I have bought it even at the price of my love; I have offered a violent sacrifice, and which seemed above my power. I have torn you from my heart; and, be not jealous, God reigns there in your stead, who ought always to have possessed it entire. Be content with having a place in my mind, which you shall never lose; I shall always take a secret pleasure in thinking of you and esteem it a glory to obey those rules you shall give me.
This very moment I receive a letter from you: I will read it, and answer it immediately. You shall see, by my exactness in writing to you, that you are always dear to me.—You very obligingly reproach me for delaying so long to write you any news; my illness must excuse that. I omit no opportunities of giving you marks of my remembrance. I thank you for the uneasiness you say my silence caused you, and the kind fears you express concerning my health. Yours, you tell me is but weakly, and you thought lately you should have died. With what indifference, cruel man! do you acquaint me with a thing so certain to afflict me? I told you in my former letter how unhappy I should be if you died; and if you loved me, you would moderate the rigour of your austere life. I represented to you the occasion I had for your advice, and consequently, the reason there was you should take care of yourself. But I will not tire you with the repetition of the same thing.You desire us not to forget you in your prayers.Ah! dearAbelard, you may depend upon the zeal of this society; it is devoted to you, and you cannot justly charge it with forgetfulness. You are our father, we your children; you are our guide, and we resign ourselves with assurance in your piety. We impose no pennance on ourselves but what you recommend, lest we should rather follow an indiscreet zeal than solid virtue. In a word, nothing is thought rightly done if withoutAbelard'sapprobation. You inform me of one thing that perplexes me, that you have heard that some of our sisters gave bad examples, and that there is a general looseness amongst them. Ought this to seem strange to you, who know how monasteries are filled now-a-days? Do fathers consult the inclinations of their children when they settle them? Are not interest and policy their only rules? This is the reason that monasteries are often filled with those who are a scandal to them. But I conjure you to tell me what are the irregularities you have heard of, and to teach me a proper remedy for them. I have not yet observed that looseness you mention; when I have, I will take due care. I walk my rounds every night, and make those I catch abroad return to their chambers; for I remember all the adventures which happened in the monasteries near Paris. You end your letter with a general deploring of your unhappiness, and wish for death as the end of a troublesome life. Is it possible a genius so great as yours should never get above his past misfortunes? What would the world say should they read your letters as I do? would they consider the noble motive of your retirement, or not rather think you had shut yourself up only to lament the condition to which my uncle's revenge had reduced you? What would your young pupils say who came so far to hear you, and prefer your severe lectures to the softness of a worldly life, if they should see you secretly a slave to your passions, and sensible of all those weakness from which your rules can secure them? ThisAbelardthey so much admire, this great personage which guides them, would lose his fame, and become the scorn of his pupils. If these reasons are not sufficient to give you constancy in your misfortunes, cast your eyes upon me, and admire my resolution of shutting myself up by your example. I was young when we were separated, and (if I dare believe what you were always telling me) worthy of any gentleman's affections. If I had loved nothing inAbelardbut sensual pleasure, a thousand agreeable young men might have comforted me upon my loss of him. You know what I have done, excuse me therefore from repeating it. Think of those assurances I gave you of loving you with the utmost tenderness. I dried your tears with kisses; and because you were less powerful I became less reserved. Ah! if you had loved with delicacy the oaths I made, the transports I accompanied them with, the innocent caresses I profusely gave you, all this, sure, might have comforted you. Had you observed me to grow by degrees indifferent to you, you might have had reason to despair; but you never received greater marks of my passion than after that cruel revenge upon you.
Let me see no more in your letters, dearAbelard, such murmurs against Fortune; you are not the only one she has persecuted, and you ought to forget her outrages. What a shame is it for a philosopher not to be comforted for an accident which might happen to any man! Govern yourself by my example. I was born with violent passions; I daily strive with the most tender emotions, and glory in triumphing and subjecting them to reason. Must a weak mind fortify one that is so much superior? But whither am I transported? Is this discourse directed to my dearAbelard? one that practices all those virtues he teaches? If you complain of Fortune, it is not so much that you feel her strokes, as that you cannot show your enemies how much to blame they were in attempting to hurt you. Leave them,Abelard, to exhaust their malice, and continue to charm your auditors. Discover those treasures of learning Heaven seems to have reserved for you: your enemies, struck with the splendor of your reasoning, will do you justice. How happy should I be could I see all the world as entirely persuaded of your probity as I am! Your learning is allowed by all the world; your greatest enemies confess you are ignorant of nothing that the mind of man is capable of knowing.
My dear husband! (this is the last time I shall use that expression) shall I never see you again? shall I never have the pleasure of embracing you before death? What doth thou say, wretchedHeloise? dost thou know what thou desirest? Canst thou behold those lovely eyes without recollecting those amorous glances which have been so fatal to thee? canst thou view that majestic air ofAbelardwithout entertaining a jealousy of every one that sees so charming a man? that mouth, which cannot be looked upon without desire? In short all the person ofAbelardcannot be viewed by any woman without danger. Desire therefore no more to seeAbelard. If the memory of him has caused thee so much trouble,Heloise, what will not his presence do? what desires will it not excite in thy soul? how will it be possible for thee to keep thy reason at the sight of so amiable a man? I will own to you what makes the greatest pleasure I have in my retirement: After having passed the day in thinking of you, full of the dear idea, I give myself up at night to sleep. Then it is thatHeloise, who dares not without trembling think of you by day, resigns herself entirely to the pleasure of hearing you and speaking to you. I see you,Abelard, and glut my eyes with the sight. Sometimes you entertain me with the story of your secret troubles and grievances, and create in me a sensible sorrow; sometimes forgetting the perpetual obstacles to our desires, you press me to make you happy, and I easily yield to your transports. Sleep gives you what your enemies rage has deprived you of; and our souls, animated with the same passion, are sensible of the same pleasure. But, oh! you delightful illusion, soft errors, how soon do you vanish away! At my awaking I open my eyes and see noAbelard; I stretch out my arm to take hold of him, but he is not there; I call him, he hears me not. What a fool am I to tell you my dreams, who are sensible of these pleasures? But do you,Abelard, never seeHeloisein your sleep? how does she appear to you? do you entertain her with the same language as formerly when Fulbert committed her to your care? when you awake are you pleased or sorry? Pardon me;Abelard, pardon a mistaken lover. I must no more expect that vivacity from you which once animated all your actions. 'Tis no more time to require from you a perfect correspondence of desires. We have bound ourselves to severe austerities, and must follow them, let them cost us ever so dear. Let us think of our duties in these rigours, and make a good use of that necessity which keeps us separate. YouAbelard, will happily finish your course; your desires and ambition will be no obstacles to your salvation.Heloiseonly must lament, she only must weep, without being certain whether all her tears will be available or not to her salvation.
I had like to have ended my letter without acquainting you with what happened here a few days ago. A young nun, who was one of those who are forced to take up with a convent without any examination. whether it will suit with their tempers or not, is by a stratagem I knew nothing of, escaped, and, as they say, fled with a young gentleman she was in love with into England. I have ordered all the house to conceal the matter. Ah,Abelard! if you were near us these disorders would not happen. All the sisters, charmed with seeing and hearing you, would think of nothing but practicing your rules and directions. The young nun had never formed so criminal a design as that of breaking her vows, had you been at our head to exhort us to live holily. If your eyes were witnesses of our actions, they would be innocent. When we slipt, you would lift us up, and establish us by your counsels; we should march with sure steps in the rough paths of virtue. I begin to perceive;Abelard, that I take too much pleasure in writing to you. I ought to burn my letter. It shows you I am still engaged in a deep passion for you, though at the beginning of it I designed to persuade you of the contrary. I am sensible of the motions both of grace and passion, and by turns yield to each. Have pity,Abelard, of the condition to which you have brought me, and make, in some measure, the latter days of my life as quiet as the first have been uneasy and disturbed.
ABELARD to HELOISE.
Abelard, having at last conquered the remains of his unhappy passion, had determined to put an end to so dangerous a correspondence as that betweenHeloiseand himself. The following Letter therefore, though written with no less concern than his former, is free from mixtures of a worldly passion, and is full of the warmest sentiments of piety, and the most moving exhortations.
Write no more to me,Heloise; write no more to me; it is a time to end a commerce which makes our mortifications of no advantage to us. We retired from the world to sanctify ourselves; and by a conduit directly contrary to Christian morality, we become odious to Jesus Christ. Let us no more deceive ourselves; by flattering ourselves with the remembrance of our past pleasures, we shall make our lives troublesome, and we shall be incapable of relishing the sweets of solitude. Let us make a good use of our austerities, and no longer preserve the ideas of our crimes amongst the severities of penitence. Let a mortification of body and mind, a strick fasting, continual solitude, profound and holy meditations, and a sincere love of God, succeed our former irregularities.
Let us try to carry religious perfection to a very difficult point. 'Tis beautiful to find, in Christianity minds so disengaged from the earth, from the creatures and themselves, that they seem to act independently of those bodies they are joined to, and to use them as their slaves. We can never raise ourselves to too great heights when God is the object. Be our endeavours ever so great, they will always come short of reaching that exalted dignity, which even our apprehensions cannot reach. Let us act for God's glory, independent of the creatures or ourselves, without any regard to our own desires, or the sentiments of others. Were we in this temper of mind,Heloise, I would willingly make my abode at the Paraclete. My earnest care for a house I have founded would draw a thousand blessings on it. I would instruct it by my words, and animate it by my example. I would watch over the lives of my sisters, and would command nothing but what I myself would perform. I would direct you to pray, meditate, labour and keep vows of silence; and I would myself pray, meditate, labour and be silent.
However, when I spoke, it should be to lift you up when you should fall, to strengthen you in your weaknesses, to enlighten you in that darkness and obscurity which might at any time surprise you. I would comfort you under those severities used by persons of great virtue. I would moderate the vivacity of your zeal and piety, and give your virtue an even temperament. I would point out those duties which you ought to know, and satisfy you in those doubts which the weakness of your reason might occasion. I would be your master and father; and, by a marvellous talent, I would become lively, flow, soft or severe, according to the different characters of those I should guide in the painful path of Christian perfection.
But whither does my vain imagination carry me?
Ah?Heloise! how far are we from such a happy temper? Your heart still burns with that fatal fire which you cannot extinguish, and mine is full of trouble and uneasiness. Think not,Heloise, that I enjoy here a perfect peace: I will, for the last time open my heart to you. I am not yet disengaged from you; I fight against my excessive tenderness for you; yet in spite of all endeavours, the remaining fraility makes me but too sensible of your sorrows, and gives me a share in them. Your Letters have indeed moved me; I could not read with indifference characters wrote by that dear hand. I sigh, I weep, and all my reason is, scarce sufficient to conceal my weakness from my pupils. This, unhappyHeloise! is the miserable condition ofAbelard. The world, which generally errs in its notion, thinks I am easy, and as if I had loved only in you the gratification of sense, imagines I have now forgot you; but what a mistake is this! People, indeed, did not mistake in thinking, when we separated, that shame and grief for having been so cruelly used made me abandon the world. It was not, as you know, a sincere repentance for having offended God which inspired me with a design of retiring; however, I considered the accident which happened to us as a secret design of Providence to punish our crimes; and only looked upon Fulbert as the instrument of Divine vengeance. Grace drew me into an asylum, where I might yet have remained, if the rage of my enemies would have permitted. I have endured all their persecutions, not doubting but God himself raised them up in order to purify me.
When he saw me perfectly obedient to his holy will, he permitted that I should justify my doctrine. I made its purity public, and showed in the end that my faith was not only orthodox, but also perfectly clear from even the suspicion of novelty.
I should be happy if I had none to fear but my enemies, and no other hinderance to my salvation but their calumny: but,Heloise, you make me tremble. Your Letters declare to me that you are enslaved to a fatal passion; and yet if you cannot conquer it you cannot be saved; and what part would you have me take in this case? Would you have me stifle the inspirations of the Holy Ghost? shall I, to soothe you dry up those tears which the evil spirit makes you shed? Shall this be the fruit of my meditations? No; let us be more firm in our resolutions. We have not retired but in order to lament our sins, and to gain heaven; let us then resign ourselves to God with all our heart.
I know every thing in the beginning is difficult, but it is glorious to undertake the beginning of a great action, and that glory increases proportionably as the difficulties are more considerable. We ought upon this account to surmount bravely all obstacles which might hinder us in the practice of Christian virtue. In a monastery men are proved as gold in the furnace. No one can continue long there unless he bear worthily the yoke of our Lord.
Attempt to break those shameful chains which bind you to the flesh; and, if by the assistance of grace you are so happy as to accomplish this, I intreat you to think of me in your prayers. Endeavour with all your strength to be the pattern of a perfect Christian. It is difficult, I confess, but not impossible; and I expect this beautiful triumph from your teachable disposition. If your first endeavours prove weak, give not yourself up to despair; that would be cowardice: besides, I would have you informed, that you must necessarily take great pains; because you drive to conquer a terrible enemy, to extinguish raging fire, and to reduce to subjection your dearest affections. You must fight against your own desires; be not therefore pressed down with the weight of your corrupt nature: you have to do with a cunning adversary, who will use all means to seduce you; be always upon your guard; While we live we are exposed to temptations: this made a great saint say, thatthe whole life of man was a temptation.The devil, who never sleeps, walks continually around us, in order to surprise us on some unguarded side, and enters into our soul to destroy it.
However perfect any one may be, yet he may fall into temptations, and, perhaps, into such as may be useful. Nor is it wonderful that men should never be exempt from them, because he hath always within himself their force, concupiscence. Scarce are we delivered from one temptation, but another attacks us. Such is the lot of the posterity of Adam, that they should always have something to suffer, because they have forfeited their primitive happiness. We vainly flatter ourselves that we shall conquer temptations by flying; if we join not patience and humility, we shall torment ourselves to no purpose. We shall more certainly compass our end by imploring God's assistance than by using any means drawn from ourselves.
Be constant,Heloise; trust in God, and you will fall into few temptations: whenever they shall come, stifle them in their birth; let them not take root in your heart. Apply remedies to a disease, said an Ancient, in its beginning; for when it hath gained strength medicines will be unavailable. Temptations have their degrees; they are at first mere thoughts, and do not appear dangerous; the imagination receives them without any fears; a pleasure is formed out of them; we pause upon it, and at last we yield to it.
Do you now,Heloise, applaud my design of making you walk in the steps of the saints? do my words give you any relish for penitence? have you not remorse for your wanderings? and do you not wish you could like Magdalen, wash our Saviour's feet with your tears? If you have not these ardent emotions, pray that he would inspire them. I shall never cease to recommend you in my prayers, and always beseech him to assist you in your design of dying holily. You have quitted the world, and what object was worthy to detain you there? Lift up your eyes always to him so whom you have consecrated the rest of your days. Life upon this earth is misery. The very necessities to which our body is subject here are matter of affliction to a saint.Lord,said the Royal Prophet,deliver me from my necessities! They are wretched who do not know themselves for such, and yet they are more wretched who know their misery, and do not hate the corruption of the age. What fools are men to engage themselves to earthly things! they will be undeceived one day, and will know but too late how much they have been too blame in loving such false good. Persons truly pious do not thus mistake, they are disengaged from all sensual pleasures, and raise their desires to heaven. BeginHeloise; put your design in execution without delay; you have yet time enough to work out your salvation. Love Christ, and despise yourself for his sake. He would possess your heart, and be the sole object of your sighs and tears; seek for no comfort but in him. If you do not free yourself from me, you will fall with me; but if you quit me, and give up yourself to him, you will be stedfast and immoveable. If you force the Lord to forsake you, you will fall into distress; but if you be ever faithful to him, you will always be in joy. Magdalen wept, as thinking the Lord had forsaken her; but Martha said, See, the Lord calls you. Be diligent in your duty, and obey faithfully the motions of his grace, and Jesus will remain always with you.
Attend,Heloise, to some instructions I have to give you. You are at the head of a society, and you know there is this difference between those who lead a private life and such as are charged with the conduct of others; that the first need only labour for their own sanctification, and, in acquitting themselves of their duties, are not obliged to practise all the virtues in such an apparent manner; whereas they who have the conduct of others intruded to them, ought by their example to engage them to do all the good they are capable of in their condition. I beseech you to attend to this truth, and so to follow it, as that your whole life may be a perfect model of that of a religious recluse.
God, who heartily desires our salvation, hath made all the means of it easy to us; In theOld Testamenthe hath written in the Tables of the Law what he requires of us, that we might not be bewildered in seeking after his will. In theNew Testamenthe hath written that law of grace in our hearts, to the intent that it might be always present with us; and, knowing the weakness and incapacity of our nature, he hath given us grace to perform his will; and, as if this were not enough, he hath, at all times, in all dates of the church, raised up men who, by their exemplary life, might excite others to their duty. To effect this, he hath chosen persons of every age, sex, and condition. Strive now to unite in yourself all those virtues which have been scattered in these different states. Have the purity of virgins, the austerity of anchorites, the zeal of pastors and bishops, and the constancy of martyrs. Be exact in the course of your whole life to fulfil the duties of a holy and enlightened superior, and then death, which is commonly considered as terrible, will appear agreeable to you.
The death of his saints, says the Prophet,is precious in the sight of the Lord.Nor is it difficult to comprehend why their death should have this advantage over that of sinners. I have remarked three things which might have given the Prophet an occasion of speaking thus. First, Their resignation to the will of God. Secondly, The continuation of their good works. And, lastly, The triumph they gain over the devil.
A saint, who has accustomed himself to submit to the will of God, yields to death without reluctance. He waits with joy (says St. Gregory) for the Judge who is to reward him; he fears not to quit this miserable mortal life, in order to begin an immortal happy one. It is not so with the sinner, says the same Father; he fears, and with reason, he trembles, at the approach of the least sickness; death is terrible to him, because he cannot bear the presence of an offended Judge; and having so often abused the grace of God, he sees no way to avoid the punishment due to his sins.
The saints have besides this advantage over sinners that having made works of piety familiar to them during their life, they exercise them without trouble, and having gained new strength against the devil every time they overcome him, they will find themselves in a condition at the hour of death to obtain that victory over him, on which depends all eternity, and the blessed union of their souls with their Creator.
I hope,Heloise, that after having deplored the irregularities of your past life, you will die (as the Prophet prayed) the death of the righteous. Ah! how few are there who make their end after this manner! and why? It is because there are so few who love the Cross of Christ. Every one would be saved, but few will use those means which Religion prescribes. And yet we can be saved by nothing but the Cross, why then do we refuse to bear it? Hath not our Saviour borne it before us, and died for us, to the end that we might also bear it and desire to die also? All the saints have been afflicted; and our Saviour himself did not pass one hour of his life without some sorrow. Hope not, therefore to be exempted from sufferings. The Cross,Heloise, is always at hand, but take care that you do not bear it with regret; for by so doing you will make it more heavy, and you will be oppressed by it unprofitably. On the contrary, if you bear it with affection and courage, all your sufferings will create in you a holy confidence, whereby you will find comfort in God. Hear our Saviour who says: "My child renounce yourself, take up your cross and follow me." Oh,Heloise! do you doubt? Is not your soul ravished at so saving a command? are you deaf to his voice? are you insensible to words so full of kindness? Beware,Heloise, of refusing a husband who demands you, and is more to be feared, if you slight his affection, than any profane lover. Provoked at your contempt and ingratitude, he will turn his love into anger, and make you feel his vengeance, How will you sustain his presence when you shall stand before his tribunal? He will reproach you for having despised his grace; he will represent to you his sufferings for you. What answer can you make? he will then be implacable. He will say to you, Go, proud creature, dwell in everlasting flames. I separated you from the world to purify you in solitude, and you did not second my design; I endeavoured to save you, and you took pains to destroy yourself; go wretch, and take the portion of the reprobates.
Oh,Heloise, prevent these terrible words, and avoid by a holy course, the punishment prepared for sinners. I dare not give you a description of those dreadful torments which ere the consequences of a life of guilt. I am filled with horror when they offer themselves to my imagination: and yetHeloiseI can conceive nothing which can reach the tortures of the damned. The fire which we see upon earth is but the shadow of that which burns them; and without enumerating their endless pains, the loss of God which they feel increases all their torments. Can any one sin who is persuaded of this? My God! can we dare to offend thee? Tho' the riches of thy mercy could not engage us to love thee, the dread of being thrown into such an abyss of misery would restrain us from doing any thing which might displease thee?
I question not,Heloise, but you will hereafter apply yourself in good earnest to the business of your salvation: this ought to be your whole concern. Banish me, therefore, for ever from your heart; it is the best advice I can give you: for the remembrance of a person we have loved criminally cannot but be hurtful, whatever advances we have made in the ways of virtue. When you have extirpated your unhappy inclination towards me, the practice of every virtue will become easy; and when at last your life is conformable to that of Christ, death will be desireable to you. Your soul will joyfully leave this body, and direct its flight to heaven. Then you will appear with confidence before your Saviour. You will not read characters of your reprobation written in the book of life; but you will hear your Saviour say, Come, partake of my glory, and enjoy the eternal reward I have appointed for those virtues you have practised.
FarewellHeloise. This is the last advice of your dearAbelard; this is the last time, let me persuade you to follow the holy rules of the Gospel. Heaven grant that your heart, once so sensible of my love, may now yield to be directed by my zeal! May the idea of your lovingAbelard, always present to your mind, be now changed into the image ofAbelardtruly penitent! and may you shed as many tears for your salvation as you have done during the course of our misfortunes!
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BY MR POPE.
In these deep solitudes and awful cells.Where heav'nly-pensive Contemplation dwells,And ever-musing Melancholy reigns;What means this tumult in a Vestal’s veins?Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?Why feels my heart its long-forgotten beat?Yet, yet I love!——FromAbelardit came,AndEloisayet must kiss the name.Dear fatal name! rest ever onreveal'd,Nor pass those lips in holy silence seas'd:Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lyes;Oh write it not, my hand—the name appearsAlready written—wash it out, my tears!In vain lostEloisaweeps and prays,Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.Relentless walls! whose darksome round containsRepentant sighs, and voluntary pains:Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;Ye grotes and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn!Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!Tho' cold like you unmov'd and silent grown,I have not yet forgot myself to stone.Heav'n claims me all in vain, while he has part,Still rebel Nature holds out half my heart;Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,Nor tears, for ages taught to flow in vain.Soon as thy Letters, trembling, I unclose,That well-known name awakens all my woes.Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!Still breath'd in sighs, still utter'd with a tear.I tremble too where'er my own I find,Some dire misfortune follows close behind.Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,Led through a sad variety of woe:Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom,Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame.There died the best of passions, love and same.Yet write, oh write me all, that I may joinGriefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away;And is myAbelardless kind than they?Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r;No happier talk these faded eyes pursue;To read and weep is all they now can do.Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief.Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid,Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid;They live they speak, they breathe what love inspires,Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires,The virgin's wish without her fears impart,Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame,When Love approach'd me under Friendship’s name;My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,Some emanations of th' all-beauteous Mind.Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring every ray,Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.Guiltless I gaz'd; Heav'n listen'd while you sung;And truths divine came mended from that tongue,From lip like those what precepts fail'd to move?Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love:Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,Nor wish'd an angel whom I lov'd a man.Dim and remote the joys of saints I see,Nor envy them that heav'n I lose for thee.
How oft', when prest to marriage, have I said,Curse on all laws but those which Love has made!Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,August her deed, and sacred be her fame;Before true passion all those views remove,Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to love?The jealous God, when we profane his fires,Those restless passions in revenge inspires,And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,Who seek in love for ought but love alone.Should at my feet the world's great master fall,Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all;NotCeasar'sempress would I deign to prove;No, make me mistress to the man I love;If there be yet another name more free,More fond, than Mistress, make me that to thee!Oh happy state! when souls each other draw.When love is liberty, and nature law,All then is full possessing and possess'd,No craving void left akeing in the breast?Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.This sure is bliss, (if bliss on earth there be,)And once the lot ofAbelardand me.
Alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise!A naked lover bound and bleeding lyes!Where, where wasEloisa? her voice, her hand,Her poinard, had oppos'd the dire command.Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;The crime was common, common be the pain.I can no more; by shame, by rage, suppress'd,Let tears and burning blushes speak the rest.
Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,When victims at yon altar's foot we lay?Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?As, with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,The shrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale:Heav'n scarces believ'd the conquest it survey'd,And saints with wonder heard the vows I made.Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,Not on the Cross my eyes were fix'd, but you:Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;Those still at least are left thee to bestow.Still on that breast enamour'd let me lye,Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd;Give all thou canst——and let me dream the rest,Ah, no! instruct me other joys to prize,With other beauties charm my partial eyes.Full in my view set all the bright abode,And make my soul quitAbelardfor God.
Ah! think at least thy flock deserves thy care,Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r.From the false world in early youth they fled,By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desart smil'd,And Paradise was open'd in the wild.No weeping orphan saw his father's storesOur shines irradiate, or emblaze the floors:No silver saints, by dying misers given,Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited Heav'n:But such plain roofs as piety could raise,And only vocal with the maker's praise.In these lone walls (their days eternal bound)These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd,Where awful arches make a noon-day night,And the dim windows shed a solemn light;Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day,But now no face divine contentment wears,'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears.See how the force of others' pray'rs I try,(Oh pious fraud of am'rous charity!)But why should I on others' prayers depend?Come thou, my Father, Brother, Husband, Friend!Ah, let thy Handmaid, Sister, Daughter, move,And all those tender Names in one, thy Love!The darksome pines, that o'er yon rocks reclin'dWave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills,The grotes that echo to the tinkling rills,The dying gales that pant upon the trees,The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;No more these scenes my meditation aid,Or lull to rest the visionary maid.But o'er the twilight groves, and dusky caves,Long founding aisles, and intermingled graves,Black Melancholy sits, and round her throwsA death like silence, and a dread repose:Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene.Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green,Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,And breathes a browner horror on the woods,
Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;Sad proof how well a lover can obey!Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain;
Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,And wait, till 'tis no sin to mix with thine.
Ah, wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain,Confess'd within the slave of love and man.Assist me, Heav'n! But whence, arose that pray'r?Sprung it from piety, or from despair?Ev'n here, where frozen Chastity retires,Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;I view my crime, but kindle at the view,Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence,Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.Of all Affliction taught a lover yet,'Tis sure the hardest science to forget!How shall I lose the sin, yet, keep the sense.And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence?How the dear object from the crime remove,Or how distinguish penitence from love?Unequal talk! a passion to resign,For hearts so touched, so pierc'd, so lost as mine.Ere such a soul regains its peaceful slate.How often must it love, how often hate!How often hope, despair, resent, regret.Conceal, disdain—do all things but forget!But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd,Not touched but rapt; not waken'd but inspir'd!Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue.Renounce my love, my life, myself—and you.Fill my fond heart with God alone, for heAlone can rival, can succeed to thee.
How happy is the blameless Vestal's lot?The world forgetting, by the world forgot:Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;Labour and rest, that equal periods keep,'Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;Desires compos'd, affections ever even;Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to heav'n.Grace shines around her with serenest beams,And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams,For her the house prepares the bridal ring,For her white virginshymenealssing,For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes;To sounds of heavenly harps she dies away,And melts in visions of eternal day.Far other dreams my erring soul employ,Far other raptures of unholy joy:When at the close of each sad sorrowing dayFancy restores what Vengeance snatch'd away,Then Conscience sleeps, and leaving Nature free,All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.O curs'd dear horrors of all-conscious Night!How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!Provoking daemons all restraint remove,And stir within me ev'ry source of love,I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,And round thy phantoms glue my clasping arms.I wake——no more I hear, no more I view,The phantom flies me as unkind as you.I call aloud; it hears not what I say;I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.To dream once more I close my willing eyes;Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!Alas no more!——Methinks we wand'ring go,Thro' dreary waftes, and weep each other's woeWhere round some moulding tow'r pale ivy creeps,And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies:Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect findAnd wake to all the griefs I left behind.
For thee the fates, severely kind, ordainA cool suspence from pleasure and from pain;Thy life a long dead calm of fix'd repose;No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows;Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,Or moving Spirit bade the waters flow;Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n,And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n.Come,Abelard! for what hast thou to dread?The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves;Ev'n thou art cold——yetEloisaloves.Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn.To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.What scenes appear! where e'er I turn my view.The dear ideas where I fly pursue,Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,Thy image steals between my God and me;Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear,With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear.When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,And swelling organs lift the rising soul,One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,Priests, tapers, temples; swim before my sight:In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.While prostrate here in humble grief I lyeKind, virtuous drops, just gathering in my eye,While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,And dawning grace is opening on my soul:Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart;Come, with one glance of those deluding eyesBlot out each bright idea of the skies;Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;Take back my fruitless penitence and prayers;Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;Assist the fiend, and tear me from my God!
No, fly me! fly me! far as pole from pole;Rise Alps between us, and whose oceans roll!Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee,Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.Fair eyes, and tempting looks, which yet I view!Long-liv'd ador'd ideas, all adieu!O grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair!Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!Fresh blooming Hope, gay daughter of the sky!And faith, our early immortality!Enter, each mild, each amicable guest;Receive and wrap me in eternal rest!See in her cell sadEloisaspread,Propt on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead!In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,And more than echoes talk along the walls,Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound:'Come, sister, come I (it said, or seem'd to say,)'Thy place is here, sad sister come away!'Once like thyself I trembled, wept, and pray'd,'Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid:'But all is calm in this eternal sleep;'Here Grief forgets to groan, and Love to weep;'Ev'n Superstition loses ev'ry fear:'For God, not man, absolves our frailties here.'
I come, I come! prepare your roseat bow'rs,Celestial palm, and ever-blooming flow'rs.Thither, were sinners may have rest, I go,Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow:Thou,Abelard! the last sad office pay,And smooth my passage to the realms of day;See my lips tremble, and my eye-balk roll,Suck my last breath, and catch the flying soul!Ah no——in sacred vestments may'st thou stand,The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,Present the Cross before my lifted eye,Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.Ah then, the once lov'dEloisasee!It will be then no crime to gaze on me.See from my cheek the transient roses fly!See the last sparkle languish in my eye!'Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er;And ev'n myAbelard. be lov'd no more.O death, all eloquent! you only proveWhat dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.Then too, when Fate shall thy fair frame destroy?(That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy)In trance ecstatic may the pangs be drown'd,Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round,From opening skies may streaming glories shine,And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.
May one kind grave unite each hapless name,And graft my love immortal on thy fame!Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,When this rebellious heart shall beat no more.If ever Chance two wand'ring lovers bringsToParaclete'swhite walls and silver springs,O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads.And drink the falling tears each other sheds;Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,"Oh may we never love as these have lov'd!"From the full choir, when loud Hosannas rise,And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,Amid that scene, if some relenting eyeGlance on the stone where our cold relics lye,Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heav'n,One human tear shall drop, and be forgiven.And sure, if Fate some future bard shall joinIn sad similitude of griefs like mine,Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,And image charms he must behold no more;Such if there be, who loves so long, so well;Let him our sad, our tender, story tell;The well-sung woes will smooth my pensive ghost:He best can paint e'm, who shall feel 'em most.
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