three days, drove me to despair. The Rhone causes me strange
alarm. I have a map before my eyes--I know all the places where you
sleep. This evening you are at Nevers; on Sunday you will be at
Lyons where you will receive this letter. I have received only two of
yours--perhaps the third will come; that is the only comfort I desire;
as for others, I seek none."

The letters of Mme. de Sevigne contain a great number of sayings
applicable to habits and conduct, and these have had their part
in shaping the customs and in depicting the time. To be modest and
moderate, friendly, and conciliatory, to be content with one's lot and
to bow to circumstances, to be sincere, to cultivate good sense and
good grace--these counsels have been and still are, according to
French opinion, the basis of French character: and Mme. de Sevigne's
own popularity and success attest their wisdom.

She had not the gift of seeing things vividly and reproducing them in
living form; her talent was a rarer one--it induced the reader to form
a mental picture of the scene described, so vivid as to be under the
illusion of being present in reality; and this is done with so much
grace, charm, happy ease and naturalness, that to read her letters
means to love the writer. What mother or friend would not fall a
willing victim to the charm of a woman who could write the following
letter?

"You ask me, my dear child, whether I continue to be really fond of
life; I confess to you that I find poignant sorrows in it, but I am
even more disgusted with death; I feel so wretched at having to end
all thereby, that, if I could turn back again, I would ask for nothing
better, I find myself under an obligation which perplexes me; I
embark upon life without my consent, and so must I go out of it; that
overwhelms me. And how shall I go? Which way? By what door? When will
it be? In what condition? Shall I suffer a thousand, thousand pains
which will make me die desperate? Shall I have brain fever? Shall I
die of an accident? How shall I be with God? What shall I have to show
Him? Shall fear, shall necessity bring me back to Him? Shall I have
sentiment except that of dread? What can I hope? Am I worthy of
heaven? Am I worthy of hell? Nothing is such madness as to leave one's
salvation in uncertainty, but nothing is so natural. The stupid life I
lead is the easiest thing in the world to understand; I bury myself
in these thoughts and I find death so terrible that I hate lif