turning my humid eyes from the expanse below to the vault above, my
sight pierced the fleecy clouds that softened the azure brightness;
and imperceptibly recalling the reveries of childhood, I bowed
before the awful throne of my Creator, whilst I rested on its
footstool.

You have sometimes wondered, my dear friend, at the extreme
affection of my nature. But such is the temperature of my soul. It
is not the vivacity of youth, the heyday of existence. For years
have I endeavoured to calm an impetuous tide, labouring to make my
feelings take an orderly course. It was striving against the
stream. I must love and admire with warmth, or I sink into sadness.
Tokens of love which I have received have wrapped me in Elysium,
purifying the heart they enchanted. My bosom still glows. Do not
saucily ask, repeating Sterne's question, "Maria, is it still so
warm?" Sufficiently, O my God! Has it been chilled by sorrow and
unkindness; still nature will prevail; and if I blush at
recollecting past enjoyment, it is the rosy hue of pleasure
heightened by modesty, for the blush of modesty and shame are as
distinct as the emotions by which they are produced.

I need scarcely inform you, after telling you of my walks, that my
constitution has been renovated here, and that I have recovered my
activity even whilst attaining a little embonpoint. My imprudence
last winter, and some untoward accidents just at the time I was
weaning my child, had reduced me to a state of weakness which I
never before experienced. A slow fever preyed on me every night
during my residence in Sweden, and after I arrived at Tonsberg. By
chance I found a fine rivulet filtered through the rocks, and
confined in a basin for the cattle. It tasted to me like a