For this reason, my lovely scholar, I limit your studies to books of taste and manners. For this reason, changing my precepts into examples, I shall give you no other definitions of virtue than the pictures of virtuous men; nor other rules for writing well, than books which are well written. Be not surprized that I have thus contracted the circle of your studies; it will certainly render them more useful: I am convinced, by daily experience, that all instruction which tends not to improve the mind, is not worth your attention. We will diminish the languages, except the Italian, which you understand and admire. We will discard our elements of algebra and geometry. We would even quit our philosophy were it not for the utility of its terms. We will, for ever, renounce modern history, except that of our own country, and that only on account of our liberty, and the ancient simplicity of our manners: for let nobody persuade you that the history of one’s own country is the most interesting; it is false. The history of some countries will not even bear reading. The most interesting history is, that which furnishes the most examples, manners, and characters; in a word, the most instruction. We are told that we possess all these in as great a degree as the ancients; but turn to their histories and you will be convinced that this is also a mistake. There are people whose faces are so unmeaning, that the best painter cannot catch their likeness, and there are governments so uncharacteristic as to want no historian; but able historians will never be wanting where there is matter deserving the pen of a good writer. In short, they tell us that men are alike in all ages, that their virtues and vices are the same, and that we admire the ancients only because they are ancients. This is also false: in former times great effects were produced by trifling causes, but in our days it is just the reverse. The ancients were cotemporary with their historians, and yet we have learnt to admire them: should posterity ever admire our modern historians, they certainly will not have grounded their opinion upon ours. Out of regard to our _constant_ companion, I consent to a few volumes of belles lettres, which I should not have recommended to you. Except Petrarch, Tasso, Metastasio, and the best French theatrical authors, I leave you none of those amorous poets, which are the common amusement of your sex. The most inspired of them all cannot teach us to love? Ah, Eloisa, we are better instructed by our own hearts! The phrases borrowed from books are cold and insipid to us who speak the language of our souls. It is a kind of reading which cramps the imagination, enervates the mind, and dims its original brightness. On the contrary, real love influences all our sentiments, and animates them with new vigour. Letter XIII. From Eloisa.