taste, and there little streams of transparent water crossed in serpentine play the scented walks of turf, where violets and wild thyme were profusely scattered; and a thousand other pleasing objects concurred torender this rural habitation one of the most charming, that Fancy could conceive. Theodore ruus before us, opens the door, and we all immediately enter. We find our favourite young woman, sitting between her mother and husband, her youngest child in her arms; her eldest girl is on her knees before her, caressing her little brother; while the second is standing by the side of her father, her face carelessly reclining on his shoulder. With what pleasure would we continue to contemplate this sweet picture of domestic union, and rural felicity! But they all rise, the moment they perceive us. Nicola bids her husband gather some flowers, while her good mother is preparing to spread a table with the produce of their dairy. We admire the neatness and good order in which every thing is kept; we caress the children; while Nicola delights us, by dwelling on her happiness, and her affection for her family. Her husband soon returns with a basket of nosegays; they present us with flowers, fruits, and cream; but while the good people are thus busily employed in entertaining us, M. d'Aimeri on a sudden observes, that Cecilia is not with us. He perceives her retired to the further end of the room. He approaches her. The unhappy Nun turns her head aside; yet she cannot conceal from him that she is pale and trembling, and that her face is bedewed with tears. She would speak, but her emotion deprives her of utterance. Her sister hastens to her, and Cecilia, in unspeakable confusion and despair, can only whisper to her, in a voice broken by her sobbing, Take me, take me hence; I am dying.......Madame de Valmont, equally surprised and afflicted, in vain endeavours to find some excuse for the situation of her hapless sister; her father had but too well perceived the reason. Incapable of supporting the dreadful sight, he suddenly seizes the young Charles by the hand, and, dragging him along, rushes precipitately out of the cottage. M. de Almane and M. de Valmont also instantly leave it, with a view to follow the witched father, and accompany him home on foot. Cecilia we hurry, as soon as possible, from a spot so fatal to her peace, and help her into the carriage. She spoke not a single word the whole time we were returning to the Castle. Her head hung drooping upon her bosom, and her eyes were hardly open a moment. Affected by her distressing situation, I would have taken her hand to kiss it; but, with a gloomy pensive air, she withheld it; nor could I obtain one look expressive of her being in the least sensible to my tenderness; for one of the most fatal effects of despair, is in a manner to benumb the soul, to deprive it even of the faculty of feeling, and to render it insensible of the compassion it inspires. Cecilia, however, has naturally so sweet a disposition, that she soon repented of this unkind deportment; and when we arrived at the Castle, she pressed my hand, and embraced me with all the expression of the most grateful sensibility. As soon as I had left the two sisters alone, and at liberty to converse without restraint, Cecilia, anticipating the curiosity of Madame de Valmont, threw herself into her arms, and, bursting into tears, 'Learn my dear sister,' said she, all that has passed within my heart...... this poor heart, that is pierced with a dart which death only can remove. Oh! what a sweet picture of happiness did I see in that cottage! I envied......I could not forbear to envy it. At that moment, a gloomy sentiment of repining took pos

session of my soul. I saw you smiling at the charming view of a felicity that in part reminded you of your own. To you, my sister, it was the most exquisite enjoyment; but to me......it only displayed, with a deeper horror, the wretchedness of my fate......it taught me to comprehend, in its whole dreadful extent, the cruel sacrifice I was compelled to make. Alas! this woman is encircled by her children....in the arms of an affectionate mother and a beloved husband,...and I, unhappy that I am, deprived of my mother in my most tender years, banished by my father, and, condemned to oblivion and slavery, am forced to renounce the sweetest sentiments of nature!......Oh! my sister, whither did you carry me? Ought one to display the enchanting picture of happiness to the wretches who can neither enjoy, nor ever hope to obtain it? Ah! why was not I born of inferior rank, like this happy, happy woman? I too could have loved. This poor heart would then have been as innocent and pure, as it is fond and affectionate! Remorse, cruel remorse, would then have been unknown to me; and the very sentiments that now destroy my peace, would have ensured my feli city!"

Madame de Valmont could only answer by her tears, to these just and affecting complaints. However, when Cecilia, at length, appeared somewhat calmer, she did not fail to urge to her whatever reason and affection could suggest. Cecilia heard her with kindness and attention; she expressed the utmost anxiety not to afflict her father; she promised to banish, if possible, all desponding ideas; and to submit to her fate with that virtue and resolution which she had till then displayed. When her father returned, she went to meet him, and exerted herself so much, that she even spoke almost with pleasantry of the scene she had witnessed, attributing it to her being suddenly taken ill. M. d'Aimeri, whom M. d'Almane had brought back in a situation truly piti able, began now to revive, and to hope that the impression which his unhappy daughter had received would have no permanent ef

fects.

In the evening she sat down to supper, eat as usual, and was continually talking. In a word, she exerted herself to such a degree, that all but myself were deceived by her. I would much rather have seen her melancholy and pensive than lively and animated. I was convinced that she did great violence to her feelings; and besides, the unusual colour of her cheeks, the sparkling vivacity of her eyes, and a certain precipitancy that accompanied her every motion, all persuaded me that she was not without a fever. We retired to rest soon after supper; and I had hardly been in bed an hour, when I heard a gentle knocking at my chamber-door. I instantly rose, and found Madame de Valmont all in tears, who told me that her sister was in a violent fever, and quite delirious. I sent immediately to Carcassonne for a Physician, who did not arrive till five o'clock in the morning; when we thought it necessary to awaken M. d'Aimeri, whose rest we had till now been unwilling to disturb. We had been apprehensive, moreover, of the horror with which the sight of this unhappy daughter must have impressed him; for, exclusive of her dangerous situation, she was, in her delirium, continually calling upon the Chevalier de Murville; and, with tears, entreating him to see her once more before she died. At other times, when she seemed more composed, she would ask her sister what was become of him, and receiving only her tears for answer, she would ex

claim with terror, He is dead! He has been killed! My father has killed him!'......At these words, she was seized with dreadful convulsions, which disfigured her features, and scemed as if they would soon terminate her miserable life. In short, during these shocking deliriums, she discovered all the sentiments that had been locked up in her bosom for these ten years past. Judge of the situation of her father, on hearing these cruel speeches. He was struck with such horror, he was so overwhelmed by his distress, that he appeared insensible to what she said. Grief, when carried to a certain height, is seldom manifested by outward appearances: it crushes; it oppresses; it is dreadfully tranquil : for, being hopeless of consolation, it at once ceases to complain. In the mean time, the physician delared that Cecilia was in the most imminent danger, and that we should take advantage of the first lucid interval, in order to administer the Sacraments to her. At this awful sentence, M. d'Aimeri turned pale, and exclaimed, Her first lucid interval? And what......if she should die without one?'...... It is impossible to give you any idea of the distress and horror that were visible in his countenance, when this unfortunate father pronounced these words. Penetrated with a lively sense of the sublime truths of religion, he saw himself at this moment, not only the author of his daughter's death, but the cause, perhaps, of her eternal condemnation.* Distracted, almost beside himself, he instantly sent for a Priest, and made him wait the event in an adjoining chamber. In the evening, Cecilia, all at once, became more composed, and by degrees recovered her understanding. M. d'Aimeri then approached her bed, and embraced her. Cecilia looking with astonishment on all around her, said, 'I have been very ill......am I out of danger?'...... We are under no apprehensions for your life,' answered M. d'Aimeri, but for the sake of your peace of mind, I have sent for a Priest,'......' A Priest!'......ah! am I fit......no, I will not see him.'...... Why not, my child? Think of your situation!'

6

Ah! my father, if you knew my heart!...... No, no......I have lost all hope of pardon.'..............Shuddering at these words, M. d'Aimeri looked at his daughter with eyes equally expressive of terror, surprise, and the most teuder compassion.......Oh! my daughter!' he cried, you plunge a dagger into my heart......What! what have you to fear? Be composed. God will ever pardon an involuntary failing... No, thou hast nothing to reproach thyself with. Thou, alas! art the innocent victim only. I am the guilty......Yes,' continued he, falling upon his knees, thy wretched father only ought to endure these dreadful terrors. He only will be punished for every sigh that escapes thee, and for the horrors that fill thy broken heart. All thy errors will fall upon his guilty head.'......As he finished these words, Cecilia, almost choaked with tears, threw her arms round her father's neck, and, dropping hep

Irrational and unlovely must be that system of religion, which can inculcate the supposition, that the errors, and even the cruelty of a father, could draw down the rengeance of the All Merciful and All Good upon an innocent and virtuous daughter, unless charmed away by the expiating pomp of unctions, crucifixes, prayers, and flaming tapers! But the amiable Authoress of these Letters, perceives, as a good Catholic, the most sublime truths in the Ceremonies, which the laws of her country had established, and which the hand of Tine had rendered yener

able.

Be com

face on his: No more, no more,,' said she, such cruel words! Grieve no longer for my fate. My father, my dear father, you love me....... You now make amends for all......pardon the distraction of a moment... my poor heart, now restored to itself, shall henceforth be devoted only to God and you......The Priest......where is he? Let him come. My dear father, assure yourself that he will find me full of resignation and hope. It is upon this hand, this dear hand, I now declare it. posed. If they can save me from death, I can yet be attached to life...I will live for your sake.'....She then desired Madame de Valmont to send the Confessor, and we all left the room. The same day she received the Sacrament; she slep tolerably well that night; in four and twenty hours, she was pronounced out of danger, and, by the end of the week, was so well recovered, as to be able to return to Madame de Valmont's. She has now been gone a fortnight, in which time I have frequently seen her. She is very much altered, and extremely thin. But she says she is very well. We can perceive no alteration in her disposition. She is perfectly chearful in company. But I know her resolution, and the command she has over herself so well, that I greatly fear she is in a much more dangerous state than her friends imagine...... Adieu! my dear friend, let me know if your daughter's marriage with M. de Valce is still in agitation? From your last letter I flatter myself the treaty is at an end; for, if M. de Limours promised to take time to reflect on it, I doubt not but you will easily prevail on him to renounce it.

WE

LETTER IV.

E have no longer any hopes of our amiable Cecilia. She is hastening very sensibly to the period of all her sufferings. It is now more than two months since she extorted a confession of her real danger from M. Lambert, her physician; forbidding him, at the same time, with a generous anxiety, to communicate the fatal intelligence to her friends. Yesterday morning I received a note from her, written in her own hand, desiring me, if possible, not to lose a moment in coming to see her. I instantly obeyed the summons; and when I arrived at the Castle I found her alone; M. d'Aimeri and Madame de Valmont being gone to pay a visit in the neighbourhood. She was seated in an arm chair, not having yet kept her bed a single day. I was quite shocked at her pale and languid appearance. She seemed, however, to revive at the sight of me, and desiring me to sit by her: 'Dear Madame,' said she, I know your sensibility. Let me assure you then, before I explain myself further, that no person in the world can be more perfectly happy than I am now.'......This affecting preface but too well prepared me for the awful circumstance she was going to disclose..............' Ah'! cried I, has M. Lambert said'......' I saw him this morning'......' And what, what did he say ?'...... Ah! Madam, I must now bid you an everlasting adieu....... At these words, some drops moistened her eye-lids; but, for my part, I wept profusely. We were for some moments silent. At length Cecilia resumed: And what, Madam, does my happiness afflict you?'...... Ah! Cecilia! you deceived us then, when you assured us

that you could wish to live!...... No, I did not deceive you. If it had been the Divine Will to prolong my exile here, I would have submitted to it without repining, and without regret. Since my last illness God has changed my heart, that heart which was once so weak...In Nicola's Cottage I received the blow that puts a period to my days. What I suffered then was beyond expression......you can have no idea of it. I detested existence; and yet I could not contemplate the approach of death, without inexpressible terror. In those dreadful moments I was sensible, that there can be no real fortitude without innocence and purity of soul. When my physician pronounced me out of danger, I felt an inward conviction, that I was then only rescued from the tomb, to be in a little time its certain victim. I was grateful for this delay......I made haste to profit by it. I reflected on my errors, and on the guilty illusion of all human passions. I ventured to address myself with humble confidence to God: he graciously heard my prayers, and restored peace and serenity to my wounded mind. He raised, he exalted my soul to himself: he became the sole object of all my affections, and of my dearest hopes....... While Cecilia was thus speaking, I perceived her paleness vanish; her eyes had something of a divine animation in them; and her face was enlivened with a certain nobleness of expression, that was unspeakably affecting. The firm tone of her voice, the sweetness of her looks, and the majestic serenity of her countenance, led me insensibly from grief to admiration. I thought I saw, I thought I heard an angel. I looked at her with earnestness, I listened to her with reverence and awe. When she ceased to speak, I continued to regard her with a kind of ecstacy; and to such a degree was I affected, that for some time I was unable to speak. At length she explained to me her reasons for wishing to see me alone. She entreated me to prepare her father and sister, with all possible tenderness for an event, which,' added she,' I feel to be fast approaching.' You may imagine with what reluctance I undertook this commission, and with what painful emotions I performed-it !M. d'Aimeri and Madame de Valmont had seen nothing in Cecilia's situa ation, but that weakness which is the sequel of a severe illness. They had suffered themselves to be flattered by her youth, and by the air of satifaction, which, in tenderness to her father, she had assumed; and they were absolutely ignorant of the symptoms which announced her situation to be so dangerous. However, as our anxiety for those we love, leads us easily from one extreme to another, M. d'Aimeri, from the very first words I uttered, seemed to anticipate his misfortune. But, as if he still wished to encourage a feeble ray of hope, he all at once ceased to question me; and, a moment after, he left me, in order to go and shut himself up in his apartment. As to Madame de Valmont, she had so much difficulty to understand me, that I was obliged to repeat to her almost all the conversation that had passed between Cecilia and me. I remained with her till the evening. It is now three days since I saw her; and she writes to me, that there is yet no alteration in her sister; that M. d'Aimeri is overwhelmed with the most poignant grief; and that the only consolation of which he is now susceptible, is in the perfect resignation and piety of Cecilia...Adieu, my dear friend these scenes have so much distressed me, that I have been extremely ill. I shall go the day after to-morrow to Madame de Valmont's, and I will not fail to write to you the same evening.