by it."

By marrying her daughter to a courtier, Madame de Sevigne hoped to
secure her daughter's permanent residence near herself at Paris. The
count, however, was deputy-governor of Provence, and received orders,
soon after his marriage, to proceed to that distant province, where he
continued to reside, with the exception of occasional visits to Paris,
during the remainder of his mother-in-law's life. The mother and
daughter contrived to pass about half the time with each other, and,
in the intervals, to keep up a conversation by means of constant
epistolary correspondence, in which the former relates all the amusing
gossip which would have been subject of discourse had they been
together. To the mother's share of these conversations we are
delighted listeners. She speaks of events which in themselves are
trifling, and of persons of whom we never before heard; yet she is
never tedious. The vivacity of her intellect and the charms of her
style give an interest to every thought and act. The task of selecting
specimens is a difficult one; all is worthy of transcription; we will
take those which throw the most light upon her character and mode of
life. The following was written at an estate of her husband's, called
"The Rocks," situated on the sea-coast of Brittany, where she
delighted to pass her time: she had a love of the country, of nature,
and of simple pleasures--a rare taste for a Frenchwoman of that age.
Nothing pleased her more than the song of the nightingale, the
cuckoo, and the thrush, during the early spring; her writings are
filled with her passion for the birds and avenues of "Les Rochers."
The letter is addressed, not to her daughter, but to her cousin, De
Coulanges.

"I write, my dear cousin, over and above the stipulated fortnight
communications, to advertise you that you will soon have the honor of
seeing Picard; and, as he is brother to the lackey of Madame de
Coulanges, I must tell you the reason why. You know that Madame the
Duchess de Chaulnes is at Vitre; she expects the duke there, in ten or
twelve days, with the states of Brittany. Well, and what then? say
you. I say that the duchess is expecting the duke with all the states,
and that meanwhile she is at Vitre all alone, dying with ennui. And
what, return you, has this to do with Picard? Why, look; she is dying
with ennui, and I am her only consolation; and so you may readily
conceive that I carry it with a high hand. A pretty roundabout way of