remember all the follies we committed here, and every thing you did or said: the recollection never quits me. All the young plantations you saw are delicious. I delight in raising this young generation; and often, without thinking of the injury to my profit, I cut down great trees, because they overshadow and inconvenience my young children. My son looks on; but I do not suffer him to make the application my conduct might inspire." It was not, however, always solitude at the Rochers. The duke of Chaulnes was lieutenant-governor of Britany; and he and the duchess were too happy to visit madame de Sévigné, and to persuade her to join them when they visited the province, to hold the assembly of the states. From such a busy scene she gladly plunges again into her avenues and old halls, her moonlight walks, and darling reveries. [Sidenote: 1672. Ætat. 46.] She returned to Paris in December; and, in July of the following year, visited her daughter in Provence, where she spent fifteen months. These periods, so full of happiness to her, are blanks to us; and when, with tears and sighs, she tears herself away from Grignan, and the letters begin again, our amusement and delight recommences. [Sidenote: 1674. Ætat. 48.] In 1674, madame de Grignan visited Paris, and remained fourteen months. Parisian society was invested for the tender mother with a charm and an interest, which became mingled with sadness on her daughter's departure. [Sidenote: 1675. Ætat. 49.] The letters on this separation are rendered interesting by the circumstance of her intimacy with cardinal de Retz, who was then projecting abdicating his cardinal's hat, which the pope forbade, and his retreat, for the sake of paying his debts. This last was a measure founded on motives of honour and integrity, whatever his adversary, M. de la Rochefoucauld, may say to the contrary. The esteem, amounting to respect, which madame de Sévigné expresses for him, raises them both. The death of Turenne happened also during this spring, and the letters are redeemed from the only fault which a certain sort of minds might find with them, that of frivolity. If they are frivolous, what are our own lives? Let us turn our eyes towards ourselves, and ask, if we daily put down our occupations, the subjects of our conversation, our pleasures and our serious thoughts, would they not be more empty of solid information than madame de Sévigné's letters; or, if more learned, will they not be less wise, and, above all, deficient in the warmth of heart that burns in hers? In the summer of this year, she would fain have visited her daughter; but her uncle insisted that a journey to Britany was necessary for the final settlement of their mutual affairs, as he was grown old, and might die any day. She arrived at the Rochers at the end of September. Her life was more lonely than during the previous visit, for her only companion was her uncle. She had felt deeply disappointed at giving up her journey to Provence, and the