truly, I have not weakly yielded, I have not "gone about to cause my
heart to despair," but have striven, and not in vain? I took the
remedies they gave me, and was grateful; I resigned myself to _live_,
when had I but willed it, I might have died; and when to die and be at
rest, seemed to my sick heart the only covetable boon.

_Sept. 3._--A terrible anniversary at Paris--still ill and very weak.
Edmonde came, _pour me désennuyer_. He has soul enough to bear a good
deal of wearing down; but whether the fine qualities he possesses will
turn to good or evil, is hard to tell: it is evident his character has
not yet settled: it vibrates still as nature inclines him to good, and
all the circumstances around him to evil. We talked as usual of women,
of gallantry, of the French and English character, of national
prejudices, of Shakspeare and Racine (never failing subjects of
discussion), and he read aloud Delille's Catacombes de Rome, with
great feeling, animation, and dramatic effect.

_La mode_ at Paris is a spell of wondrous power: it is most like what
we should call in England a rage, a mania, a torrent sweeping down the
bounds between good and evil, sense and nonsense, upon whose surface
straws and egg-shells float into notoriety, while the gold and the
marble are buried and hidden till its force be spent. The rage for
cashmeres and little dogs has lately given way to a rage for Le
Solitaire, a romance written, I believe, by a certain Vicomte
d'Arlincourt. Le Solitaire rules the imagination, the taste, the dress
of half Paris: if you go to the theatre, it is to see the "Solitaire,"
either as tragedy, opera, or melodrame; the men dress their hair and
throw their cloaks about them _à la Solitaire_; bonnets and caps,
flounces and ribbons, are all _à la Solitaire_; the print shops are
full of scenes from Le Solitaire; it is on every toilette, on every