Paris.

Would you believe, my dear friend, that I received but the other day, that is four months after the date, your journal of La Corniche, and the history of the Dutchess de C—? The man whom you charged with the packet, fell ill on the road, and arrived at Paris only last Thursday.

I shut myself up with Madame d’ Ostalis and the Chevalier D’ Herbain, in the little closet you know; and there we read, with inexpressible pleasure, that terrible and affecting story. The Chevalier D’ Herbain says, the Duke de C— is like Blue-beard; but not withstanding this piece of wit, he wept as much as we. He thinks the Dutchess has painted the various emotions she felt in her very extraordinary situations, with a truth that carries conviction along with it. – Oh! what a monster of an husband! – Shall we now complain of ours! – Shall we think much of any little contradictions that may fall out, after such an example of patience, resignation, and courage! – I feel myself humbled in thinking, how far I am from that degree of human perfection! Oh! surely I should have gone mad in that vault; I should have died, or rather, I should never have entered it; for I should have told all; I should have declared every thing. – At least I fear I should. – I am not very well pleased with the Count de Belmire. I can very well conceive why the Dutchess, coming out of the cavern, should not love him. Nine years of such confinement might well cool her passions; but her lover ought ever to have adored her; he, who had neither fasted, nor laid upon straw. He is to blame not to love her still. – To become all at once the son-in-law of his mistress, is a strange thing. I can excuse him, however, if the Countess de Belmire perfectly resembles her mother.