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60 them. My mind and heart are hampered on all sides by the obstacles of custom and the chains of prejudice, and I exhaust my strength in vainly shaking my fetters. To what use can I turn my enthusiasm for the public good, when I can do absolutely nothing to serve it?"

Yes; in spite of stoicism, philosophy, and a wise reflection on the noble functions of wifehood and motherhood, was it possible for such a nature as that not to rebel against the tyranny of petticoats? One cannot but be surprised that, with such a sense of native power, predilection for literary pursuits, and facility of expression, Manon should not have turned her pen to practical account. Michelet somewhat captiously makes it a reproach, both to Madame Roland and to Robespierre, that they were born scribblers, and were unable to see, think, feel anything without straightway pulling out their "tablets." It was so, no doubt, and from a very tender age Madame Roland had begun, in her letters to Sophie, chronicling every incident in her inner or outer life. On first opening the two bulky volumes of this correspondence (carefully edited by M. Dauban), written by a young girl leading an uneventful life amid seemingly common-place surroundings, the prospect of their perusal is rather appalling. But this strong nature, through which life continually rushes with a torrent of thoughts, sensations, and feelings, invests the most trivial incidents with fresh dramatic interest. A Sunday afternoon walk to the Jardin du Roi becomes an idyll; midnight vigils, passed in the study of some ancient philosopher, grow astir with action; girlish friendship is invested with the glamour of romance. The more one reads, the more fully does this powerful