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discouragement and terror can excite. Forgive, my sister, these sad complaints...you never more shall hear them...henceforth I will respect the rigorous duty that condemns me to silence...I will trouble you no more with my sufferings nor with the objectAnd you, my sister, O never mention his name. You will see him without doubt, and perhaps you will see him comforted...yet his letter is so ardent...think you that time and the dissipations of the world will be able to destroy a passion so deeply rooted and so sincere ?...Ah! If you think so, tell it not to me...you will tear open my poor heart afresh. The hope of living sometimes in his recollection, is the only satisfaction that can now reconcile me to life. My greatest misery...I will confess it to you ...is to think he knows how much I love him...Yes, if he knew my heart, never...never would he forget me. Perhaps, he thinks me insensible, ungrateful... O conceal from him this wildness of passion...... but, my sister...will you permit him to accuse me of ingratitude?... Gracious God! What do I hear? The passing bell summons me...it announces the last agonies of one of our sisters!...Happy happy soul... soon will she be at rest... God will wipe away all tears for ever from her eyes.

For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of Seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymenæals sing,

To sounds of heavenly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.'

Adieu, my dearest sister. I enclose my hair in this pacquet... that hair which your hands have so often adorned. You will not see these locks without emotion. These mournful relicts, when they bring to your remembrance my hapless fate...my tender friendship for you, may, perhaps, obtain your indulgence and compassion...the only comforts that now remain to the unfortunate

CECILIA.'

The Chevalier de Murville, after having read this letter, threw himself at the feet of Madame de Valmont, entreating her to grant him the dear tresses of his adorable Cecilia. He protested vehemently, that if she refused him this last consolation, he would never quit his country without revenging himself on M. d'Aimeri. His agitation and menaces so terrified Madame de Valmont, that she did not long hesitate to grant what he so earnestly desired. She gave him the casket that contained her sister's hair. The Chevalier received it on his knees...trembling, he opened it...impatient, yet dreading to view those long and beautiful locks, that had once adorned the head of the hapless Cecilia. A sudden paleness, and a most expressive silence, bespoke for some moments the violent workings of his soul. Then closing the casket, and pressing it to his heart; Adieu, Madam,' said. he, 'adieu for ever...I now quit a country that I abhor, and that I shall never re-visit. You will never hear of me again, till you recover the precious treasure you confide to me, and nothing but death shall tear me from it. When I am no more, it shall be restored to you !... With these words, without waiting for an answer, he hastily left the room. Since that time he has never once been heard of...we are absolutely ignorant of his fate. But as Cecilia's hair has not yet been restored

to Madame de Valmont, it is probable that the poor Chevalier still exists...he lives unknown perhaps, in some corner of the world....As to M. d'Aimeri, Heaven delayed not to punish him for his cruelty. His son, immoderately addicted to gaming and bad company, soon lost his character, ruined his constitution, encumbered his fortune, and at the end of three years after his marriage, died without children. M. d'Aimeri, who honourably discharged all his son's debts, retired with a fortune very much diminished, to the house of his second daughter `Madame de Valmont. Her son, the young Charles, he most tenderly loves, and to him, it is said, intends to leave the remains of his fortune. To return to Cecilia, I have the pleasure to assure you, that time and reason have insensibly triumphed over her unhappy passion. In the sublime consolations of Religion, she now gathers the delicious fruits of unaffected piety...Resignation and Peace. That genuine piety, indeed, which never reaches perfection but in Heaven, is such a copious source of satifactions, that it enriches with them the commencement of virtue, its progress, and its consummation. Our beautiful votary, in course, in fervour of devotion and sweetness of temper, is become a pattern to her companions; and, were her health but unimpaired, I should not conceive a more enviable object.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot;
The world forgetting, by the world forgot!
Eternal sun-shine of the spotless mind!
Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest that equal periods keep!
Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;
Desires composed, affections ever even;
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heaven.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,

And whisp'ring angels prompts her golden dreams.'

But, alas! the severe distresses that had so long distracted her, have at length produced the most alarming symptoms; the austerities of her profession have concurred no less to impair her health; and, for six months past, the sweet saint has been apparently in a decline. Madame de Valmont is earnestly desirous that she should take a journey to Paris, in order to consult the most celebrated physicians. For this purpose it will not be difficult to obtain the permission of the Lady Abbess....And now, my dear friend, let me communicate to you my commission. It is to request that you will repair to Madame d'Olcy, and prevail upon her to receive her into her house for two or three months. It will doubtless appear very extraordinary to you, that as Madame d'Olcy is the sister of Cecilia and of Madame de Valmont, the latter should charge you with this commission. It is therefore requisite to give you some idea of this lady's character. In the immense fortune she possesses, she finds no consolation for being the wife of a farmer of the King's revenue. Not having the good sense to be superior to this weakness, she suffers so much the more from it, as she only converses with the dependents of the Court, and that very conversation, in course, perpetually reminds her of the misfortunes for which which she grieves. In other respects, she is sufficiently compensated in all the considerations that one may suppose to result from a noble

house, a magnificent stile of living, and boxes in the theatre. But she is incapable of forming a tender attachment of friendship, or of enjoying any of the pleasures that encircle her. She never forms a judgment but after the opinion of others; and to all this absurdity of character, she unites arrogant pretensions to superior sense, with much fantastic humour, and insipidity of deportment. Though she prides herself much in being the daughter of a man of family, she has never evinced the least affection for her father...for he has retired from the service and from the world, and from him she expects no increase of fortune. She has not a greater partiality to Madame de Valmont, whom' she regards as a mere country lady; and she has doubtless forgotten that she has a sister, who has consecrated her days to Religion. You' see, therefore, that your assistance is very necessary. I enclose a letter from Madame de Valmont; you will present it to Madame d'Olcy; you will express an anxious interest in the concerns of the two sisters; and I am certain that we shall obtain from the vanity of this silly woman, what we might in vain expect from her heart...Adieu, my dear friend: it is time to finish this letter, the length of which you will surely pardon, for the sake of the affecting history of the beautiful Cecilia.

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I HAVE the happiness to inform you, my dear friend, that Cecilia arrived here yesterday. She is, indeed, every thing you have described her, lovely and engaging beyond expression; and Charles, her nephew, bears a most striking resemblance of her. The whole family are come to spend a week with us. You may imagine how anxiously I wished to be present at the interview between the sweet votary and her father; and never have I seen any thing that has affected me so much. M. d'Aimeri waited for the approaching moment with a mixture of terror and impatience. He rose yesterday before day-break; and, when, he came to our house, I could easily perceive, from his countenance, what a restless night he had passed. After dinner, Madame de Valmont, M. d'Aimeri, and myself, set out in our carriage, to meet Ceci lia. M. d'Aimeri was pale and treinbling; and, it was evident that he laboured under the most cruel constraint. He avoided our looks, and seemed desirous of concealing from us the internal agony that devoured' him. I could see, in the bottom of his soul, how much he dreaded the impressions, with which the affecting sight of his victim might inspire us; and that he was apprehensive, that the presence of Cecilia would' destroy all the compassion we had felt for him. So long as we are flattered with the idea of deeply interesting others, while we permit them to see the remorse that preys upon our minds, we love to dwell upon it openly; but when we lose this hope of exciting the tender emotions of pity, we are equally solicitous to conceal our sorrows and our anguish; and we imagine, that while we thus conceal them, we diminish, in the estimation of others, at least a part of our guilt. We had hardly proceeded six miles, when suddenly Madame de Valmont, perceiving a carriage at a distance, exclaimed, Ah! my sister! M. d'Aimeri alter nately turned pale and red; and, seeing that Madame de Valmont was

VOL. II.

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weeping, he said to her, with a severe aspect, but trembling voice, What, Madam, are you going to act a tragedy?'......Surprised with this harsh behaviour, and still more so with a look, that had something gloomy, savage, and distracted in it, Madame de Valmont wiped away her tears, without being able to divine the motive for such caprice. Presently, the carriage we had seen approaches and stops; I pull the coach string of mine; M. d'Aimeri, hardly capable of supporting himself, alights; at this instant, I hear an affecting cry, which, doubtless, pierced the unhappy man to his very soul; and, almost in the same moinent, Cecilia, the charming Cecilia appears, springs towards her father, and sinks fainting within his arms. Thus folding his daughter.... this injured daughter to his bosom, M. d'Aimeri sees no one but her; even his remorse...his sorrows are suspended; Nature resumes all her power in his heart; he sheds a flood of tears; he calls her by the most tender names; his legs tremble......his knees totter under him; and he is just ready to faint himself. Madame de Valmont and I would fain sup-. port Cecilia; he pushes us aside; he snatches from Madame de Valmont the smelling-bottle with which she was attempting to revive her sister; he alone would revive her; he impatiently watches for the moment that she may open her eyes; he chides......he repulses all who would approach her; he seems apprehensive, in short, that we may steal from him the first look......the first notice of Cecilia.......But I will not attempt to describe the moving scene that followed, when that lovely creature recovered her senses. It is a picture, which it is impossible for me to delineate half so well as I am sure you will imagine it. You will easily conceive the joy......the transports of Cecilia, in finding herself between her father and sister; the deep and painful sensations............ the whole softened soul of Monsieur d'Aimer; the extreme sensibility. of Madame de Valmont; the warm concern with which this affecting group inspired me; and the earnest attention with which I observed all their motions. I particularly admire the delicacy of our amiable Cecilia. She certainly reads in the heart of her unfortunate father......she easily perceives the remorse that tortures him; and ever since yesterday she has been continually intent on her compassionate endeavours to console him indirectly, by affecting a more than ordinary chearfulness and even gaiety, and by dwelling often on her delight in solitude; a delight, she says, which has been much augmented by every object she has seen .in the fashionable world. She speaks with rapture of her Convent, and of the friends she has left there. M. d'Aimeri listens with avidity to these conversations; it is evident that he endeavours to persuade himself of their sincerity; and then he seems a thousand times more affectionate to Cecilia, as if to thank her for thus endeavouring to justify him to his own heart, and in the eyes of her surrounding friends.

For my part, I am convinced that Cecilia has indeed adopted an heroic resolution, and that she is enterely resigned to her melancholy fate. But, alas! she is now only twenty-seven; so beautiful still, and so young; with a soul susceptible of such tenderness; an imagination so lively....how can we hope that she will be ever entirely free from every kind of regret? I was walking in the garden with her some time this morning. The conversation turned on indifferent objects, and particularly on the beauties of this month. In a moment she sighed, and said,This day is the sixteenth of May; it is now exactly ten years since I took my vows.......These words were accompanied by a look that

pierced my very soul, and which make a deeper impression still, from the emphasis with which she uttered these words, the sixteenth of May!” ......There was something, indeed, in her manner, that seemed mournfully, and even ominously, alarming. However, she shifted the conversation, and appeared instantly to resume her wonted serenity. But Madame de Valmont and I have both agreed, that it is requisite, particularly to-day, to procure her some amusement, that may banish from her mind, if possible, this dreadful recollection of the sixteenth of May.' Accordingly, we shall all pay a visit in the afternoon to Nicola, a happy young farmer's beautiful wife, and her pretty family. The delightful situation of her house, and the uncommon neatness of every thing within, render it a most pleasing habitation; and really, in this sweet season, her garden well deserves a visit. You, who are so fond of natural Streams, rural verdure, and rural flowers, would find it infinitely more agreeable than all the imitations of English gardening, that are inclosed within the walls of Paris.

I

LETTER III.

HAVE been a long time, my dear friend, without writing to you, but since my last letter I have been witness to a most melancholy scene, the deplorable consequences of which have so uncommonly affected me, that in the first impressions they left upon my mind, I was not capable of communicating those particulars, which I knew you would be anxious to know, when you were informed that they relate to the unfortunate Cecilia. Oh! how much now is that lovely woman to be pitied! You will judge yourself, whether in any of the trying scenes she had formerly experienced, she was more worthy than at present of exciting your compassion. I mentioned, in my last letter, the expression that had dropped from her, recollective of her profession on the sixteenth of May," an epocha, that is now doubly fatal for her! I added, that in order to divert her from this idea, we had proposed a ride to Nicola's farm. We set out, accordingly, at five o'clock in the afternoon. M. d'Aimeri, M. and Madame de Valmont, Cecilia, M. d'Almane, Charles, Theodore, and myself, were in the same landau: I thought I could perceive, while we were in the carriage, that Cecilia paid very little attention to the conversation. She seemed wholly absorbed in the contemplation of the beauties of the country, and of the variety of enchanting landscapes that opened at every view. A sigh, escaping from her now and then, in spite of herself, seemed to say, Ah! how happy are they, who are not like me, deprived of the pleasure of always admiring this delightful scene! At length, we had approached about five hundred paces of Nicola's habitation. M. de Valmont then proposed, that we should proceed to the house on foot, in order, he said, to surprise these good people in the midst of their houshold occupations. Pleased with this idea, we alighted, and, having crossed a fine meadow, we entered a walk of willow-trees, that led to the house. This was a neat cottage, covered with thatch, in the midst of a spacious garden, surrounded by a hedge of flowering thorn. All around was one beautiful landscape. Here hung fruits of exquisite Y 2

VOL. II.

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