you could persuade her caro sposo to die, and so leave her honourably free to wed Lord Nottingham. Even then, I doubt her being happy. She would, the moment her good lord was gathered to his ancestors, begin to find out that she had not been so aimable to him as she might have been. Forgetting all his defects, she would magnify her own; endow the dear deceased with all manner of good qualities, and, because she could not love him while he lived, mourn for him, when dead, with an obstinacy that might lead her to shut out the future consolations of a more fortunate union. I have seen one or two examples of this folly, in women precisely of the same character and temperament as you describe Lady Annandale to possess people who, not finding it possible to be happy in their own way, refuse to be so in any other. Now, I am one of those practical people who, eager for happiness, or even its semblance (which often does nearly as well-on the same principle, that the portrait of a lover consoles us, in some degree, for his absence), grasp at every substitute that offers to replace the rarely attainable and unalloyed good. The result is, that I seldom torment others, and never myself. I wish you could infuse a little of my philosophy into the mind of Lady Annandale, and then all might be well. Nay, I know not, chère Caroline, if you also have not occasion for some portion of it, notwithstanding your imagined proficiency in the science. Your philosophy is not, I can already begin to perceive, a very practical one; or, if so, is more exercised towards others than self. With all the advantages of travel, and a perfect knowledge of society on the Continent, you have never been able to master the effects of an atrabilarious temperament, peculiar to your nation, that leads them to view all en noir, whenever events begin to turn contrary to their expectations or desires. A year in the country, with some man who loved you, and whom you loved, with a few romanesque female neighbours, would convert you into a sentimentalist de la première force; repenting past errors as if they were crimes of the deepest die, and atoning for them by every future step, with scrupulous goodness while I, who am a true optimist, would take all things as the inevitable course of events, which, as I could not control, I would support with gaiety. I am aware that I am indebted to my country for the happy mercurial temperament that assists my philosophy; and I am grateful for it. I am interrupted, to examine my dress for a ball to night. Toujours à vous, DELPHINE, MARQUISE DE VILLEROI. MISS MONTRESSOR TO LA MARQUISE : MILLE remercimens, chère Delphine, for the charming robe you have sent me. It reflects honour on your taste, and on the talent of that empress of couturières, Victorine, who has surpassed herself on this occasion. This jolie robe de bal looks as if made by the touch of the magical wand of some beneficent fairy, for a Cendrillon to figure in. It arrived without being the least chiffonné, grâce à monsieur l'ambassadeur de France, whose frequent couriers and roomy despatch-bags are very utiles to us ladies. Indeed, so frequently have I profited by them of late, that I begin, for the first time, to understand the necessity of having such official dignitaries in our capitals -a necessity I have hitherto rather been inclined to question. Who was the French writer who called Ambassadeurs "the only spies who were openly accredited and respectfully received?" Apropos des Ambassadeurs, a ci-devant one of France has lately been here, Monsieur le Duc de ; and his reception has been so frigid as to make me feel not a little ashamed of my compatriots. You may remember how enthusiastically he used to speak of ces chers Anglais, ces bons Anglais, si amicals, si hospitaliers, si prévenans, qui lui etoient tellement attachés et dévoués. Eh bien, ma chère, would you believe it, le bon duc has visited London, no longer an ambassador giving magnificent balls, and recherché dinners, as a short time before he had been in the habit of doing, but as a private individual; and in that now rare, but always honourable, position, the faithful friend of a deposed master. You may guess the consequences; ces chers bons Anglais have |