fact, that order and attention were not among the number of
M. de Guibert's good qualities ; he takes no care of his friend's
letters : he mingles them with his other papers, he drops them
from his pocket by mistake, while at the same time he forgets
to seal his own. Sometimes he returns them to her, but
among the number returned some are not hers ! In that we
see M. de Guibert undisguised. Nevertheless, I do not know
why he should be held responsible and guilty to-day for the
pleasure we derive from these Letters. He doubtless returned
many, and many were destroyed. But Mile, de Lespinasse
wrote many. It is but a handful, preserved by chance, which
have come to us. What matter ? the thread of the story is
there, and it suffices. Throughout, they are almost one and
the same letter, ever novel, ever unexpected, beginning
afresh.
Amid their anguish, their plaints, one word, the divine
eternal word, returns again and again and redeems all.
Here is one of her letters in two lines which says more
than many words : —
"From every instant of my life, 1774.
"Mon ami, — I suffer, I love you, I await you."
It is very rare in France to meet (pushed to this degree) with the class of passion and " sacred ill " of which Mile, de Lespinasse was the victim. This is not a reproach that I make — God forbid ! — to the amiable women of our nation; it is a simple remark, which others have made before me. A moralist of the eighteenth century who knew his times, M. de Meilhan, has said, " In France, great passions are as rare as great men." M. de Mora declared that even the Spanish women could not enter into comparison with his friend. " Oh ! they are not worthy to be your pupils," he tells her constantly ; " your soul was warmed by the sun of Lima, but
