As I resolved to combat the melancholy which gives so dark a colouring to all objects, I sought a kind of aid from your Sevigné, whose connexion with her daughter has, in fact many points of resemblance to that which subsists between us, only with the exception, 'que j'ai plus de votre sang,'[1] than Madame de Grignan had of her mother's. But your resemblance to the charming Sevigné is like the hereditary likeness to the portrait of an ancestor. The advantages which she possesses over you are those of her time and education; you have others over her; and what in her appears more finished and definite--classic,--in you assumes a romantic character; it becomes richer, and blends with the infinite,--I opened the book at random: it was pleasant enough that I lighted upon this passage-- "N'aimons jamais, ou n'aimons guères, Il est dangereux d'aimer tant." On which she remarks with great feeling, "Pour moi, j'aime encore mieux le mal que le remède, et je trouve plus doux d'avoir de la peine à quitter les gens que j'aime, que de les aimer médiocrement." It is a real consolation to me to have already written a few lines to you: since I have conversed with you, I feel as if I were nearer to you. I have no adventures to relate as yet. I was so entirely engrossed by my own thoughts and feelings, that I scarcely knew through what places my road lay. Dresden appeared to me less cheerful than usual, and I was thankful when I found myself quietly established in my room at the inn. The storm which blew in my face during the whole day, has heated and fatigued me; and as I am, you know, otherwise unwell, I want rest. Heaven send you also a tranquil night, and affectionate dreams of your friend! _Sept. 10th.--Morning._