vied the
snow-laden wings of the crows that flew northward through the mist!
What a pang I felt as I saw the carriages rolling towards Paris! How
many of my useless days of youth would I not have given to be in the
place of one of those listless old men who glanced unconcernedly
through their carriage windows at the solitary youth by the wayside,
whose steps travelled in the contrary direction to his heart. Oh, how
interminably long did the short days of December and January appear!
There was one bright hour for me, among all my hours,--it was when I
heard from my room the step, the voice, and the rattle of the postman,
who was distributing the letters in the neighborhood. As soon as I
heard him I opened my window; I saw him coming up the street, with his
hands full of letters, which he distributed to all the maid-servants,
and waited at each door till he received the postage. How I cursed the
slowness of the good women, who seemed never to have done reckoning the
change into his hand! Before the postman rang at my fathers door I had
already flown downstairs, crossed the vestibule, and stood panting at
the door. While the old man fumbled among his letters, I strove to
discover the envelope of fine post paper, and the pretty English
handwriting that distinguished my treasure among all the coarse papers
and clumsy superscriptions of commercial or vulgar letters. I seized it
with a trembling hand; my eyes swam, my heart beat, and my legs refused
their office. I hid the letter in my bosom for fear of meeting some one
on the stairs; and lest so frequent a correspondence should appear
suspicious to my mother, I would run into my room and bolt my door, so
as to devour the pages at leisure, without fear of interruption. How
many tears and kisses I impressed on the paper! Alas, when many years
afterwards I opened the volume of these letters, how many words effaced
by my lips, and that my tears or my transports had washed or torn out,
were wanting to the sense of many sentences!

LII.

After breakfast I used to retire to my upper room, to read my letter
over again and to answer it. These were the most feverish and
delightful hours in the day. I would take four sheets of the largest
and thinnest paper that Julie had sent me on purpose from Paris, and
whose every page, commencing very high up, ending very low down,
crossed, and written on the margin, contained thousands of words. These
sheets I covered every morning, an