pected, certain admonitions respecting forms, of a nature which I now see to have been decidedly prejudicial, in as much as outward forms so frivolous as those which are commanded by the church to which I then belonged, have a direct tendency to lead the mind from seeking that inward and spiritual grace, of which outward forms are but the types. Amongst those forms which I particularly enforced, I well remember one, which was that of making the sign of the cross many times during the day; I also insisted that these young people should repeat the Ave Maria, and certain other prayers which I taught them in the Latin tongue, as often as they could make it convenient so to do; assuring them that by their obedience or disobedience in these particulars, they would rise or fall in favour with God and with the church. Thus I endeavoured, though on false principles, to shed the odour of sanctity on our little assemblies, and for some years I had no strong reason to perceive that the weapons of warfare which I had placed in the hands of my little pupils, were not sufficiently powerful to enable

them to resist the snares of Satan and the dangers of the world. For, as I remarked above, whilst Madame Bulé alone presided over her school, and whilst her pupils were small, the ill effects of the heartless and formal system inculcated by me did not appear; neither did the evil break out till the general agitation of the country was in some degree extended to this little society, by the arrival of Mademoiselle Victoire, who, according to the prevailing spirit of the age, no sooner found herself established in the seminary than she took the lead, before her superior, and commenced that work of disorganization which was already advancing in the capital.

At the time of which I am about to speak, namely, the year 1789, there were in Madame Bulé's seminary three young ladies, whom I shall have particular occasion to mention by and by, and shall therefore proceed to describe in this place. The eldest of these was named Susette, and was, in point of external perfection, the rose of the parterre-a blooming, lovely young person, but of a high and haughty spirit when opposed; yet one, I think, which

might have been led to any thing by a kind and gentle hand.

Susette was a chief favourite of Mademoiselle Victoire, and had her warm partisans, her open admirers, and secret enemies in the little establishment. Neither was she without her rival; for what favourite is so happy as not to have sometimes reason to dread the influence of another. Mademoiselle was capricious, and whereas at one time she caressed Susette, at another time she was all complacency to Fanchon, the only young lady amongst the pupils of Madame Bulé whose pretensions could be brought in comparison with those of Susette -but whereas I have called Susette a rose, Fanchon, whose hair was of a bright and rich auburn, might best have been compared to the golden lily, the pride and glory of the ⚫ oriental gardens-that flower which is, as some pretend, emblazoned on the arms of that noble house, the star of which at one time seemed to have sunk in hopeless darkness, though it has since arisen again, we trust, to shine with superior splendor, and with a purer light than in the period of its former

exaltation. It is my prayer, my daily and hourly prayer for my king and my country, that the same light which has been vouchsafed to me may be bestowed on them; and that as the holy scriptures are now, I trust, my only rule of life and test of faith, so also they may henceforward be the strength and bulwark of the people and land of my fathers.

But to return to my narrative: I must confess that the character of Fanchon never pleased me, she had none of that candour and openness of temper so agreeable in youth, and which I would rather see in its excess than its deficiency, although that excess may border on imprudence; for age assuredly must add prudence to the character, whereas it seldom deducts from a spirit of cold and selfish caution.

The third among the pupils of Madame Bulé whom I must particularly describe was an English girl, and an orphan. I never knew by what chance this child had been consigned to the care of Madame Bulé, neither do I recollect her real name; but she was called Aimée by her preceptress, and by that

name she went amongst us. Neither do I know more of her age, than that she was thought too young for confession till she had been in the house more than two years, and therefore I judge that she was between eleven and twelve years of age at the time of which I am speaking. This little girl was small for her years, and was one who would generally have passed unnoticed in a group of children, yet when closely examined, she had one of the sweetest countenances I ever beheld; her hair and complexion marked her Saxon origin, and the tender innocence and dimpled beauty of her sweet face brought her frequently in comparison, in my imagination, with some such figure as I have often seen of an infant Jesus, whom the artist has represented in the arms of his mother, looking down from some high altar with love and compassion on the multitude kneeling before him. Such were the high comparisons which I made for the lovely little Aimée-yet why do I call the comparison high? Are not images, however beautiful, however exalted, however held in honour, but blocks of wood and stone, carved into the