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curtly, "I hardly think so!" I remained silent, as is my habit, whatever she may do or say; but she behaves as if she had 20,000 francs income, and we were trying to make her marry a wretch, whereas, between you and me, he is her superior from every point of view. In a word, I am not able to keep her, nor desirous of so doing. If she wants to withdraw, well and good; but I consider it a good match for her, and nothing but my desire to see her happy makes me wish she might behave with propriety and good sense. If she goes on as she has begun, I can hardly believe that a husband's good humor could be proof against boxing her ears when she assumes those contemptuous airs she is sure to indulge in, unless you can influence her. She has a great friendship for you, and no one but yourself can exercise control over her mind.

TO MADAME DE VEILHANT.

DINANT, May 28th, 1692.

Imagine our surprise, Madame, when yesterday, after driving for six hours on a fairly good road, we saw a castle built upon a rock which did not seem to us a habitable place, even if we could have been hoisted up there. We came very near to it without passing any houses on the way. Then we finally spied out, at the foot of the castle, down in the depths, almost as if in a deep well, the roofs of quite a number of tiny buildings which looked to us like dolls' houses, surrounded on all sides by rocks frightful in height and color, apparently of iron, and terribly steep. The road down to this horrible place is rougher than I can describe; all the carriage springs threatened to break, and the ladies held in as best they could. After a quarter-hour of this torture we got down, and found ourselves in a town consisting of one street, called the Broad, where two carriages cannot go abreast, and there are lesser ones where two sedan chairs could not pass. It is as dark as pitch, the houses are something frightful, and Madame de la Villeneuve would surely have the vapors there. The water is bad, and the bakers have orders to bake only for the army, so that the servants can buy no bread. Undressed fowl sell for thirty cents, meat is eight cents a pound, and bad at that; everything goes to the camp. It has poured ever since we have been here, and they assure us that when the heat comes the reflection from the

rocks makes it unendurable. I have as yet seen only two churches, both on the ground floor, and such that one could only enter them from a sense of duty. The benediction is given with very bad music, and the incense is so strong, so abundant, and so continuous, that one cannot see through the smoke, and few heads could stand the fumes. Besides all this, the town is so dirty that one literally sticks in the mud, the paving-stones are so sharp that they cut one's feet, and the narrow streets where carriages cannot pass serve, I verily believe, as all things to all men! Suzon says the King makes a great mistake in taking such towns, and that we should not grudge them to our enemies.

The siege of Namur goes on well; they are steadily moving forward, and up to this time there are very few deaths. They hope to take the city about the fourth or fifth of this month, but the castle will apparently hold out longer. The Prince of Orange promises to come to relieve the town, but there is reason to believe he will come too late. The King has the gout in both feet, and I assure you I am not sorry for it. A red hot ball from the enemy fell in M. de Boufflers' quarter and blew up seven thousand; this fine town trembled with the explosion, for in addition to all the other delights we hear the firing of the siege. But do not worry about me after this beautiful account of our life here! I am very well-well lodged and well served -and glad to be where God has placed me. I embrace you, my dear daughters, together and individually.

Four hundred steps lead from the town up to the castle I spoke of.

MADAME DE MAINTENON'S PRAYER.

My Lord God, you have seen fit to invest me with my present rank. I will adore all my life your providential care of me, and give myself up to it without reserve. Grant me, my God, the sanctity of the estate unto which you have called me, that I may humbly endure its sadness, that I may sanctify its pleasures, that I may seek in all things your glory, that I may bear it before the princes in whose midst you have placed me, that I may be instrumental in the King's salvation. Preserve me from the agitations and excitements of an uneasy mind, which is wearied or grows faint in the performance of the duties of its position, and which envies the happi

ness imagined to exist in other lives. May your will be done, O Lord, not mine! The sole good in this life or the next is to be submissive unto it without reserve. Fill me with the wisdom and all the gifts of the spirit which I have need of in the lofty position to which you have called me; make fruitful the talents with which you have graciously endowed me. You who hold within the hollow of your hand the hearts of kings, open the King's heart, that I may help enter there all the good which you desire. Grant me the power of making his heart glad, of consoling him, of encouraging him, and also of making him sad, when it is necessary for your glory. May I conceal naught of the things he should learn of through me, and which no one else would have the courage to tell him. And And may I save my own soul through his, may I love him in you and for you, and may he love me in like manner. Grant us that we may walk together justified by you and without reproof until the day of your coming.

SENTIMENTS BY JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE.

[JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE, French moralist and satirist, was born at Paris in 1645, studied law, and for some years filled an administrative position in Normandy. Through Bossuet's influence he was appointed tutor to the young Duke of Bourbon, grandson of the great Condé, and remained attached to the house of Condé until his death at Versailles in May, 1696. In 1693 he was admitted to the French Academy. His "Caractères de Théophraste" (1688) was written in imitation of Theophrastus, and consisted of maxims, reflections, and character portraits of men and women of his own day. The ninth edition, containing over eleven hundred "caractères," was in press at the time of La Bruyère's death. In the “Dialogues on Quietism,” a severe attack is made on Fénelon.]

MEN and women rarely agree as to the merits of a woman: their interests are too diverse. It does not please a woman to find in another the very perfections which captivate a man. The many charms which awake in us the tender passion cause in them mutual antipathy and dislike.

Friendship may exist between a man and a woman, quite apart from any influence of sex. Yet a woman always looks upon a man, and so a man regards a woman. This intimacy is neither pure friendship nor pure love. It is a sentiment which stands alone.

Love is born suddenly, without deliberation, either through temperament or weakness: some grace or beauty attracts, determines us. Friendship, on the contrary, grows by degrees through time and long familiar acquaintance. How many years of affection, kindness, and good service it takes to do what a lovely face or a beautiful hand will often do in a moment!

Time, which strengthens friendship, weakens love.

Perfect friendship is more rare than excessive love.
Love and friendship exclude each other.

He who loves so passionately that he wishes he could love a thousand times more than he loves already, yields only to him who loves more than he would love.

Granted that in the intensity of a great passion it is possible to love another more than one's self, who has the truest pleasure - he who loves, or he who is beloved?

He who loves deeply finds a sweet revenge in acting so that his beloved one shall appear ungrateful.

Hatred is not so remote from friendship as antipathy.

In friendship we confide our secrets: in love they escape us.

In friendship we perceive only those faults which may be prejudicial to our friends; in those we love we see no faults, except those from which we suffer ourselves.

Friendship does not cool without cause; love diminishes for no other reason than that we have been too well beloved.

The beginning, as the end, of love is manifested by our anxiety to be alone.

Our desire is that all the good fortune of those we love, or, if that is impossible, all their evil fortune, should come to them from our hands.

It is happier by comparison to mourn one we love than to live with one we hate.

However disinterested we may be with regard to those we love, we must sometimes force ourselves to give them pleasure by accepting their gifts. He who is capable of receiving a gift delicately displays as much generosity as he who gives.

Liberality consists less in giving much than in giving appropriately.

If it is true that pity and compassion are drawn from us by a kind of selfish fear lest we should ever be in the same circumstances, how does it happen that the unfortunate extract so little help from us in their misery?

However unpleasant it may be to feel ourselves responsible for the maintenance of an indigent person, we seldom relish the better fortune which at last withdraws him from our patronage. In the same way, the pleasure which we feel in the exaltation of a friend is counterbalanced by the slight annoyance of seeing him become our equal or superior. He does not suit us so well thus, for we like to have dependents who do not cost us anything. We wish good fortune for our friends; but when it comes, our first feeling is not one of pure delight.

To live with our enemies as if they might one day be our friends, and with our friends as if they might be our enemies, is neither in accordance with the nature of hatred or the rules of friendship. It may be a good political maxim, but it is a bad moral one.

We ought not to make enemies of those who, if better known, might rank among our friends. We ought to choose as friends persons of such honor and probity that, should they ever cease to be our friends, they would never abuse our confidence, nor give us cause to fear them as enemies.

He who knows how to wait for what he desires will not despair if he happens to have to do without it. On the other hand, he who impatiently longs for a thing has been too much engrossed with the thought of it to feel that success rewards him for all his anxiety.

The things most wished for never happen; or if they do, they come at such a time or in such circumstances as spoil the enjoyment of them.

We must laugh before we are happy, for fear we should die before we have ever laughed at all.

It is hard for a proud man to forgive one who has found him out in some fault and who has good reason to complain of him his resentment is never healed till he has regained his advantage by putting the other in the wrong.

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