The subject of this memoir, as celebrated in her own particular department of literature as Shakspere or Moliere were in theirs, would have been very much surprised to find herself occupying a conspicuous place in the “Lives of Celebrated Women.” She made no pretensions to authorship, and her “Letters,” which have been esteemed models of epistolary composition, are the unpremeditated and unrevised outpourings of a mind rich in wit and good sense, and a heart filled with the warmest affections, and were written without the slightest idea that they would ever be read by any other persons than those to whom they were addressed.

Maria de Robertin-Chantal, Baroness de Chantal and Bombilly, was born on the 5th of February, 1626. Her father was the head of a distinguished and noble family of Burgundy. Of his rough wit and independence his daughter has preserved a specimen. When Schomberg was transformed, by Louis XIII., from a minister of finance to a field-marshal, Chantal wrote to him the following letter:

“My Lord,

“Rank black beard intimacy.

“CHANTAL.”

meaning that he owed his advancement, not to his military exploits, but to his rank, his having a black beard, like his master, and to his intimacy with that master.

When Maria was about a year and a half old, the English made a descent upon the Island of Rhé; and her father placed himself at the head of a party of gentlemen who volunteered to assist in repelling them, in which honorable service he lost his life. His widow survived him five years. She was the daughter of a secretary of state, and her family, that of De Coulanges, belonged to the class of nobility who owed that distinction to civil services, and who were known as “nobles of the robe,” to distinguish them from those who could trace their descent from the heroes of the crusades and the days of chivalry.

It seems to have been expected that the paternal grandmother would have taken charge of the education of the little orphan. But she was too much occupied with the affairs of the other world, and with founding religious houses, of which eighty-seven owed their existence to her, and Maria was left in the hands of her maternal relations. The pious labors of the “Blessed Mother of Chantal” were acknowledged by the head of the church, and her name now fills a place in the calendar, among the saints. The guardianship of the young baroness devolved on her uncle, Christophe de Coulanges, abbe de Livry.

Most men would have shrunk from the task of personally superintending the education of a young girl, and would, in conformity to the customs of the times, have consigned her to a convent, where she would have been taught to read, to write, to dance, and to embroider; and then her education would have been deemed complete. It is no slight evidence of the good sense of her uncle that he retained her in his own house. The decision was a fortunate one for posterity; for her faculties, which the formal training of the convent would have cramped, were called into exercise and expanded by an unusual indulgence in the range of reading, and probably by a familiar intercourse with the men of letters who sought her uncle’s society. Under his instructions she doubtless acquired a knowledge of the Latin and Italian languages, and something of the Spanish. All this, however, is to some extent matter of inference, for we have no record of her early life. She tells us in her “Letters” that she was brought up at court, and there she formed her manners and her tastes fortunately without the corruption of her morals.

From the accounts given by her witty and profligate cousin Bussy-Robertin, we can obtain a tolerably correct idea of her appearance when she entered as an actor upon the scene of life. She was somewhat tall for a woman; had a good shape, a pleasing voice, a fine complexion, brilliant eyes, and a profusion of light hair; but her eyes, though brilliant, were small, and, together with the eyelashes, were of different tints: her lips, though well colored, were too flat, and the end of her nose too square. De Bussy tells us that she had more shape than grace, yet danced well; she had also a taste for singing. He makes to her the objection that she was too playful “for a woman of quality.”

Not beautiful, but highly attractive, of cordial manners, and with a lively sensibility, at one moment dissolved in tears, and at another almost dying with laughter, Mademoiselle de Robertin, then eighteen years old, was married to the Marquis de Sevigne, of an ancient family of Brittany. Her letters written during the first years of her marriage are full of gayety; there is no trace of misfortune or sorrow. But her husband was fond of pleasure, extravagant in his expenses, heedless, and gay a character not likely to escape the contagion of that universal depravity of manners which prevailed at the French court. His conduct threw a cloud over their happiness. Madame de Sevigne bore her misfortunes with dignity and patience. In spite of his misconduct, she loved him deeply; and his death, not long afterwards, in a duel, caused her the most profound sorrow.

Her uncle, the abbe, resumed his former office of protector and counsellor. He withdrew her from the contemplation of her grief, and drew her attention to her duties, the chief and dearest of which was the education of her two children, a son and a daughter. To this object, and to rendering the life of her uncle happy, she resolved to devote herself. Of her obligations to her uncle she thus speaks in a letter written many years afterwards, on the occasion of his death: “I am plunged in sorrow: ten days ago I saw my dear uncle die; and you know what he was to his dear niece. He has conferred on me every benefit in the world, either by giving me property of his own, or preserving and augmenting that of my children. He drew me from the abyss into which M. de Sevigne’s death plunged me; he gained lawsuits; he put my affairs in good order; he paid our debts; he has made the estate on which my son lives the prettiest and most agreeable in the world.”

Time restored to the young widow her lost gayety, and she was the delight of the circles in which she was intimate. The Hotel de Rambouillet, at Paris, where she resided, was the resort of all who were celebrated for wit or talent, and her presence was always hailed with joy. Euphuism was the fashion of the day, and in this coterie it had reached the highest degree of perfection. Common appellations were discarded; water became “l’humeur céleste,” and a chaplet “une chaîne spirituelle.” The use of names was banished, and each was addressed as “ma chère” or “ma précieuse.” “Les Precieuses Ridicules” of Moliere at length put an end to the affectation. Many of the coterie were present at its first representation, and were obliged to swallow the vexation which the delight evinced by the public at seeing them held up to ridicule, could not fail to excite.

The early education of her children being completed, their establishment in life became a source of anxiety. Her son, when nineteen, joined the expedition to Candia; concerning which Madame de Sevigne writes to her cousin De Bussy, “I suppose you know that my son is gone to Candia. He mentioned it to M. de Turenne, to Cardinal de Retz, and to M. de la Rochefoucauld. These gentlemen so approved his design that it was resolved on and made public before I knew any thing of it. He is gone. I wept his departure bitterly, and am deeply afflicted. I shall not have a moment’s repose during the expedition. I see all the dangers, and they destroy me; but I am not the mistress. On such occasions mothers have no voice.” She had reason for anxiety. Few of the officers returned, but one of these was the Baron de Sevigne. A commission was purchased for him in the army, and he served with distinction during several campaigns; but his family had taken part against the court during the wars of the Fronde, and were Jansenists, so that he received no promotion, and at length left the army, and settled into a quiet, well-behaved, country gentleman. Rejecting many nice matches which his mother sought to make for him, he chose a wife for himself, and his choice fortunately met her approbation.

Her daughter was presented at court, in 1663, and took part in the brilliant fêtes of the following year. The mother’s heart was, no doubt, gladdened by the declaration of the Count de Treville, a sort of oracle in the great world, “That beauty will set the world on fire.” Her marriage became a subject of the deepest anxiety, and it was long before her mother was satisfied with any of those who pretended to the hand of “la plus jolie fille de France.” She at length accepted the proposals of the twice-widowed Count de Grignan, and the event is thus announced to her cousin: “I must tell you a piece of news which will doubtless delight you. At length the prettiest woman in France is about to marry, not the handsomest youth, but the most excellent man in the kingdom. You have long known M. de Grignan. All his wives are dead, to make room for your cousin, as well as, through wonderful luck, his father and his son; so that, being richer than he ever was, and being, through his birth, his position, and his good qualities, such as we desire, we conclude at once. The public appears satisfied, and that is much, for one is silly enough to be greatly influenced by it.”

By marrying her daughter to a courtier, Madame de Sevigne hoped to secure her daughter’s permanent residence near herself at Paris. The count, however, was deputy-governor of Provence, and received orders, soon after his marriage, to proceed to that distant province, where he continued to reside, with the exception of occasional visits to Paris, during the remainder of his mother-in-law’s life. The mother and daughter contrived to pass about half the time with each other, and, in the intervals, to keep up a conversation by means of constant epistolary correspondence, in which the former relates all the amusing gossip which would have been subject of discourse had they been together. To the mother’s share of these conversations we are delighted listeners. She speaks of events which in themselves are trifling, and of persons of whom we never before heard; yet she is never tedious. The vivacity of her intellect and the charms of her style give an interest to every thought and act. The task of selecting specimens is a difficult one; all is worthy of transcription; we will take those which throw the most light upon her character and mode of life. The following was written at an estate of her husband’s, called “The Rocks,” situated on the sea-coast of Brittany, where she delighted to pass her time: she had a love of the country, of nature, and of simple pleasures a rare taste for a Frenchwoman of that age. Nothing pleased her more than the song of the nightingale, the cuckoo, and the thrush, during the early spring; her writings are filled with her passion for the birds and avenues of “Les Rochers.” The letter is addressed, not to her daughter, but to her cousin, De Coulanges.

“I write, my dear cousin, over and above the stipulated fortnight communications, to advertise you that you will soon have the honor of seeing Picard; and, as he is brother to the lackey of Madame de Coulanges, I must tell you the reason why. You know that Madame the Duchess de Chaulnes is at Vitre; she expects the duke there, in ten or twelve days, with the states of Brittany. Well, and what then? say you. I say that the duchess is expecting the duke with all the states, and that meanwhile she is at Vitre all alone, dying with ennui. And what, return you, has this to do with Picard? Why, look; she is dying with ennui, and I am her only consolation; and so you may readily conceive that I carry it with a high hand. A pretty roundabout way of telling my story, I must confess; but it will bring us to the point. Well, then, as I am her only consolation, it follows that, after I have been to see her, she will come to see me, when, of course, I shall wish her to find my garden in good order those fine walks of which you are so fond. Still you are at a loss to conceive whither they are leading you now. Attend, then, if you please, to a little suggestion by the way. You are aware that haymaking is going forward? Well, I have no haymakers; I send into the neighboring fields to press them into my service; there are none to be found; and so all my own people are summoned to make hay instead. But do you know what haymaking is? I will tell you. Haymaking is the prettiest thing in the world. You play at turning the grass over in a meadow; and as soon as you know how to do that, you know how to make hay. The whole house went merrily to the task, all but Picard: he said he would not go; that he was not engaged for such work; that it was none of his business; and that he would sooner betake himself to Paris. Faith! didn’t I get angry? It was the hundredth disservice the silly fellow had done me. I saw he had neither heart nor zeal; in short, the measure of his offence was full. I took him at his word; was deaf as a rock to all entreaties in his behalf; and he has set off. It is fit that people should be treated as they deserve. If you see him, don’t welcome him; don’t protect him; and don’t blame me. Only look upon him as, of all servants in the world, the one least addicted to haymaking, and therefore the most unworthy of good treatment. This is the sum total of the affair. As for me, I am fond of straightforward histories, that contain not a word too much; that never go wandering about, and beginning again from remote points; and, accordingly, I think I may say, without vanity, that I hereby present you with a model of an agreeable narration.”

We will now go with her to Paris, and listen to a little of her gossip with her daughter.

“PARIS, March 13th.

“Behold me, to the delight of my heart, all alone in my chamber, writing to you in tranquillity. Nothing gives me comfort like being seated thus. I dined to-day at Madame de Lavardin’s, after having been to hear Bourdaloue, where I saw the mothers of the church; for so I call the Princesses de Conti and Longueville. All the world was at the sermon, and the sermon was worthy of all that heard it. I thought of you twenty times, and wished you as often beside me. You would have been enchanted to be a listener, and I should have been tenfold enchanted to see you listen.

“We have been to the fair, to see a great fright of a woman, bigger than Riberpre by a whole head. And now, if you fancy all the maids of honor run mad, you will not fancy amiss. Eight days ago, Madame de Ludre, Coetlogon, and little De Rouvroi were bitten by a puppy belonging to Theobon, and the puppy has died mad; so Ludre, Coetlogon, and De Rouvroi set off this morning for the coast, to be dipped three times in the sea. ’Tis a dismal journey. Benserade is in despair about it. Theobon does not choose to go, though she had a little bite too. The queen, however, objects to her being in waiting till the issue of the adventure is known. Don’t you think Ludre resembles Andromeda? For my part, I see her fastened to the rock, and Treville coming, on a winged horse, to deliver her from the monster. Ah, Bourdaloue! what divine truths you told us to-day about death! Madame de la Fayette heard him for the first time in her life, and was transported with admiration. She is enchanted with your remembrances. A scene took place yesterday at Mademoiselle’s, which I enjoyed extremely. In comes Madame de Gevres, full of her airs and graces. She looked as if she expected I should give her my poet; but, ’faith, I owed her an affront for her behavior the other day, so I didn’t budge. Mademoiselle was in bed; Madame de Gevres was therefore obliged to go lower down; no very pleasant thing that! Mademoiselle calls for drink; somebody must present the napkin; Madame de Gevres begins to draw off the glove from her skinny hand; I gave a nudge to Madame d’Arpajou, who was above me; she understands me, draws off her glove, and, advancing a step with a very good grace, cuts short the duchess, and takes and presents the napkin. The duchess was quite confounded; she had made her way up, and got off her gloves, and all to see the napkin presented before her by Madame d’Arpajou! My dear, I am a wicked creature; I was in a state of delight; and indeed what could have been better done? Would any one but Madame de Gevres have thought of depriving Madame d’Arpajou of an honor which fell so naturally to her share, standing as she did by the bedside? It was as good as a cordial to Madame de Puisieux. Mademoiselle did not dare to lift up her eyes; and, as for myself, I had the most good-for-nothing face!”

Who this Mademoiselle was, Madame de Sevigne shall herself tell. The following, one of the most curious of her letters, is addressed to her cousin, De Coulanges: “I am going to tell you a thing, which, of all things in the world, is the most astonishing, the most surprising, the most marvellous, the most miraculous, the most triumphant, the most bewildering, the most unheard-of, the most singular, the most extraordinary, the most incredible, the most unexpected, the most exalting, the most humbling, the most rare, the most common, the most public, the most private, till this moment, the most brilliant, the most enviable, in short, a thing of which no example is to be found in past times; at least, nothing quite like it; a thing which we do not know how to believe in Paris; how, then, are you to believe it at Lyons? a thing which makes all the world cry out, ’Lord, have mercy on us!’ a thing which has transported Madame de Rohan and Madame d’Hauterive; a thing which is to be done on Sunday, and yet perhaps will not be completed till Monday. I cannot expect you to guess it at once. I give you a trial of three times; do you give it up? Well, then, I must tell you. M. de Lauzun is to marry, next Sunday, at the Louvre; guess whom. I give you four times to guess it; I give you six; I give you a hundred. ‘Truly,’ cries Madame de Coulanges, ’it must be a very difficult thing to guess; ‘tis Madame de la Valliere.’ ’No, it isn’t, madame.’ ‘’Tis Mademoiselle de Retz, then.’ ’No, it isn’t, madame; you are terribly provincial.’ ’O, we are very stupid, no doubt,’ say you; ‘’tis Mademoiselle Colbert.’ Farther off than ever. ‘Well, then, it must be Mademoiselle de Crequi?’ You are not a bit nearer. Come, I see I must tell you at last. Well, M. de Lauzun marries, next Sunday, at the Louvre, with the king’s permission, Mademoiselle Mademoiselle de Mademoiselle de guess the name! he marries ’MADEMOISELLE,’ the great Mademoiselle; Mademoiselle, the daughter of the late Monsieur; Mademoiselle, granddaughter of Henry the Fourth; Mademoiselle d’Eu, Mademoiselle de Dombes, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, Mademoiselle d’Orléans, Mademoiselle, cousin of the king, Mademoiselle, destined to the throne, Mademoiselle, the only woman in France fit to marry Monsieur! Here’s pretty news for your coteries! Exclaim about it as much as you will; let it turn your heads; say, we ‘lie,’ if you please; that it’s a pretty joke; that it’s ‘tiresome;’ that we are a ‘parcel of ninnies;’ we give you leave; we have done just the same to others. Adieu! The letters that come by the post will show whether we have been speaking truth or not.”

Once more with her to Paris, and listen to the graphic description which she gives her daughter of the French court:

“PARIS, Wednesday, July 24th, 1676.

“We have a change of the scene here, which will gratify you as much as it does all the world. I was at Versailles last Saturday with the Villarses. You know the queen’s toilet, the mass, and the dinner? Well, there is no longer any need of suffocating ourselves in a crowd to get a glimpse of their majesties at table. At three, the king, the queen, monsieur, madame, mademoiselle, and every thing else which is royal, together with De Montespan and train, and all the courtiers, and all the ladies, all, in short, which constitutes the court of France, is assembled in that beautiful apartment of the king’s which you remember. All is furnished divinely; all is magnificent. Such a thing as heat is unknown; you pass from one place to another without the slightest pressure. A game at reversis gives the company a form and a settlement. The king and Madame de Montespan keep a bank together; different tables are kept by monsieur, the queen, Dangeau and party, &c.; every where you see heaps of Louis d’ors; they have no counters. I saw Dangeau play, and thought what fools we were beside him. He dreams of nothing but what concerns the game; he wins where others lose; he neglects nothing, and profits by every thing; never has his attention diverted; in short, his science bids defiance to chance. Two hundred thousand francs in ten days a pretty memorandum to put down in his pocket-book! He was kind enough to say that I was partner with him, so that I got an excellent seat. I made my obeisance to the king, as you told me; and he returned it as if I had been young and handsome. The queen talked to me about my illness; the duke said a thousand pretty things, without minding a word he uttered. Marechal de Lorges attacked me in the name of the Chevalier de Grignan; in short, all the company. You know what it is to get a word from every body you meet. Madame de Montespan talked to me of Bourbon, and asked me how I liked Vichi, and whether the place did me good. She said that Bourbon, instead of curing the pain in one of her knees, did mischief to both. Her size is reduced one half, and yet her complexion, her eyes, and her lips, are as fine as ever. She was dressed all in French point, her hair in a thousand ringlets, the two side ones hanging low on her cheeks, black ribbons on her head, pearls, the same that belonged to Madame de l’Hopital, the loveliest diamond ear-rings, three or four bodkins, nothing else on the head; in short, a triumphant beauty, worthy the admiration of all foreign ambassadors. She was accused of preventing the whole French nation from seeing the king; she has restored him, you see, to their eyes; and you cannot conceive the joy it has given all the world, and the splendor it has thrown upon the court. This charming confusion, without confusion, of all which is the most select, continues from three to six. If couriers arrive, the king retires a moment to read the despatches, and returns. There is always some music going on, to which he listens, and which has an excellent effect. He talks with such of the ladies as are accustomed to enjoy that honor. In short, they leave play at six; there is no trouble of counting, for there is no sort of counters; the pools consist of five or six Louis; the bigger one, of a thousand or twelve hundred. Talking is incessantly going on, and there is no end of hearts. ‘How many hearts have you?’ ‘I have two;’ ’I have three;’ and Dangeau is delighted with all this chatter; he sees through the game; he draws his conclusions; he discovers which is the person he wants: truly he is your man for holding the cards. At six the carriages are at the door. The king is in one of them, with Madame de Montespan, Monsieur and Madame de Thianges, and honest D’Heudicourt, in a fool’s paradise on the stool. You know how those open carriages are made; they do not sit face to face, but all looking the same way. The queen occupies another, with the princess; and the rest come flocking after, as it may happen. There are then gondolas on the canal; and music; and at ten they come back, and then there is a play; and twelve strikes, and they go to supper; and thus rolls round the Saturday.”

And thus rolled round every day; and to support this wanton and profligate expenditure of money, the people were ground to the dust with taxes. Nothing can more strongly mark the general debasement of sentiment, than that Madame de Sevigne, a woman whose character the breath of slander had never ventured to asperse, should describe this scene without one word of reprobation, but, on the contrary, should conclude with a wish that this season of happiness at the court may endure.

The following extract seems to show that she had a yearning for something better in the midst of this idle dissipation though the terms in which she expresses herself are far from commendable: “I wish I could be religious. I plague La Moresse the abbe about it every day. I belong at present neither to God nor devil; and I find this condition very uncomfortable; though, between you and me, I think it the most natural in the world. One does not belong to the devil, because one fears God, and has at bottom a principle of religion; but then, on the other hand, one does not belong to God, because his laws appear hard, and self-denial is not pleasant. Hence the great number of the lukewarm, which does not surprise me at all; I enter perfectly into their reasons; only God, you know, hates them, and that must not be. But there lies the difficulty. Why must I torment you with these rhapsodies? My dear child, I ask your pardon, as they say in these parts. I rattle on in your company, and forget every thing else in the pleasure of it. Don’t make me any answer. Send me only news of your health, with a spice of what you feel at Grignan, that I may know you are happy; that is all. Love me. We have turned the phrase into ridicule; but it is natural; it is good.”

Perhaps she was led into these reflections by her admiration for the beautiful Duchess de Longueville, who, from having been “the greatest of sinners, became the greatest of saints:” a princess of the blood royal, a leader in all the dissolute scenes which characterized the wars of the Fronde, she voluntarily retired to a convent, where she practised all those austerities, by which the pious Catholic believed he might atone for past transgressions. Of the sincerity of her conversion she gave repeated testimonies, and Madame de Sevigne ever speaks of her with the greatest veneration and respect. That she had too much good practical sense to be deceived by those who sought by the excitement of religious rites to make up for the loss of the excitements of pleasure, or who assumed the garb of religion in mere compliance with the fashion which prevailed at court, under the rule of Madame de Maintenon, is apparent from the light tone of the following passage: “Madame de T. wears no rouge, and hides her person, instead of displaying it. Under this disguise it is difficult to know her again. I was sitting next her at dinner the other day, and a servant brought her a glass of vin de liqueur; she turned to me, and said, ‘This man does not know that I am devote.’ This made us all laugh, and she spoke very naturally of her changes, and of her good intentions. She now minds what she says of her neighbors, and stops short in her recitals, with a scream at her bad habits. There are bets made that Madame d’H. will not be devote within a year, and that she will resume her rouge. This rouge is the law and the prophets, and on this rouge turns the whole of the Christian religion.”

Tested by the morality of our day, Madame de Sevigne could not claim a very exalted character: yet we are bound to mention one trait, which honorably distinguishes her from her contemporaries. Louis XIV., for the purpose of reducing the power of his nobles, systematically encouraged them in the most boundless extravagance, of which he himself set them the example. The natural consequence followed; they became inextricably involved in debts, with so little idea of ever paying them, that the conduct of the Cardinal de Retz, who sought to atone for early excesses by retiring to the country, and husbanding his resources for this purpose, excited universal wonder, and was too extraordinary to be generally credited. Madame de Sevigne fully appreciated the propriety of this conduct of De Retz, and bestows upon it many commendations. When such were the sentiments of her mother, it is not a little surprising to hear of a poor milliner, whose necessities compelled her to undertake a journey of five hundred miles, from Paris to Provence, to collect a debt from Madame de Grignan, being dismissed without her money, and being told in substance, if not in words, that she might thank her good fortune that she did not make her exit through the window a summary mode of cancelling debts, often threatened, if not executed, when creditors were importunate. Nor were Madame de Sevigne’s mere professions. The occasion arose which tried her principles. The extravagance of her husband left her with estates encumbered with debts; the education and maintenance of her children were expensive; her son’s commission in the army was purchased at a high price; her rents were not paid with punctuality, and she was obliged to remit large debts to her tenants. From all these causes, she found herself, at the age of fifty-eight, involved in debts, which nothing but a retirement from Paris, and the practice of a rigid economy, would enable her to pay. She did not hesitate to withdraw herself from her beloved society in Paris, and to retire to “The Rocks.” The sacrifice was rendered more complete by the fact that her daughter was at that time residing at Paris. Her absence was felt bitterly by her friends, and she was at once mortified and gratified by the offer of a loan of money to facilitate her return. Madame de la Fayette wrote to make her the proposition: “You must not, my dear, at any price whatever, pass the winter in Brittany. You are old; ‘The Rocks’ are thickly wooded; colds will destroy you; you will get weary; your mind will become sad, and lose its tone: this is certain; and all the business in the world is nothing in comparison. Do not speak of money nor of debts;” and then follows the proposal. Madame de Sevigne declined the offer, being unwilling to incur the obligation. Conceived with all possible kindness, there was a sting in the letter which Madame de Sevigne confesses to her daughter, that she felt. “You were, then, struck by Madame de la Fayette’s expression mingled with so much kindness. Although I never allow myself to forget this truth, I confess I was quite surprised; for as yet I feel no decay to remind me of it. However, I often reflect and calculate, and find the conditions on which we enjoy life very hard. It seems to me that I was dragged, in spite of myself, to the fatal term when one must suffer old age. I see it am there. I should at least like to go no farther in the road of decrepitude, pain, loss of memory, and disfigurement, which are at hand to injure me. I hear a voice that says, ’Even against your will you must go on; or, if you, refuse, you must die;’ which is another necessity from which nature shrinks. Such is the fate of those who go a little too far. What is their resource? To think of the will of God, and the universal law; and so restore reason to its place, and be patient. Be you, then, patient, my dear child, and let not your affection soften into such tears as reason must condemn.”

As Madame de Sevigne would not return to Paris, her friends heard with pleasure that she had resolved to go to Grignan, the residence of her daughter in Provence. Here the greater part of her remaining life was spent, and the correspondence with her daughter entirely ceases from this time. Madame de Sevigne died, after a sudden and short illness, in April, 1696, at the age of seventy.

It may gratify some to know that the letters of Madame de Sevigne were apparently written in haste, beginning the writing on the second page of the paper, continuing to the third and fourth, and returning to the first: she used neither sand nor blotting-paper. Speaking to her daughter, Madame de S. says, “The princess is always saying that she is going to write to you; she mends her pens; for her writing is a great affair, and her letters a sort of embroidery; not done in a moment. We should never finish, were we to make fine twists and twirls to our D’s and L’s;” in allusion to the German and Italian fashion of the day of making ornaments with their pens, called lacs d’amour. The letters were sealed on both sides, and a piece of white floss silk fastened it entirely round.

Of the English admirers of Madame de Sevigne, the most distinguished and the most warm in the expression of their admiration are Horace Walpole and Sir James Mackintosh, men of totally opposite turns of mind; the former a professed wit, and himself a letter-writer, the latter a grave lawyer and statesman. We conclude this memoir by giving the character of Madame de Sevigne as drawn by the latter. “The great charm of her character seems to me a natural virtue. In what she does, as well as in what she says, she is unforced and unstudied; nobody, I think, had so much morality without constraint, and played so much with amiable feelings without falling into vice. Her ingenious, lively, social disposition gave the direction to her mental power. She has so filled my heart with affectionate interest in her as a living friend, that I can scarcely bring myself to think of her as a writer, or as having a style; but she has become a celebrated, perhaps an immortal writer, without expecting it: she is the only classical writer who never conceived the possibility of acquiring fame. Without a great force of style, she could not have communicated those feelings. In what does that talent consist? It seems mainly to consist in the power of working bold metaphors, and unexpected turns of expression, out of the most familiar part of conversational language.”