vernal bloom, or Summer's rose;

for what did she care for such particulars when her eyes were at their
clearest? Her perception was intellectual; and to the penetrating
glances of her mental vision the objects of the sensual world were mere
irrelevance. The kind of writing produced by such a quality of mind may
seem thin and barren to those accustomed to the wealth and variety of
the Romantic school. Yet it will repay attention. The vocabulary is very
small; but every word is the right one; this old lady of high society,
who had never given a thought to her style, who wrote--and spelt--by the
light of nature, was a past mistress of that most difficult of literary
accomplishments--'l'art de dire en un mot tout ce qu'un mot peut dire.'
The object of all art is to make suggestions. The romantic artist
attains that end by using a multitude of different stimuli, by calling
up image after image, recollection after recollection, until the
reader's mind is filled and held by a vivid and palpable evocation; the
classic works by the contrary method of a fine economy, and, ignoring
everything but what is essential, trusts, by means of the exact
propriety of his presentation, to produce the required effect. Madame du
Deffand carries the classical ideal to its furthest point. She never
strikes more than once, and she always hits the nail on the head. Such
is her skill that she sometimes seems to beat the Romantics even on
their own ground: her reticences make a deeper impression than all the
dottings of their i's. The following passage from a letter to Walpole is
characteristic:

Nous eumes une musique charmante, une dame qui joue de la harpe a
merveille; elle me fit tant de plaisir que j'eus du regret que vous
ne l'entendissiez pas; c'est un instrument admirable. Nous eumes
aussi un clavecin, mais quoiqu'il fut touche avec une grande
perfection, ce n'est rien en comparaison de la harpe. Je fus fort
triste toute la soiree; j'avais appris en partant que Mme. de
Luxembourg, qui etait allee samedi a Montmorency pour y passer
quinze jours, s'etait trouvee si mal qu'on avait fait venir
Tronchin, et qu'on l'avait ramenee le dimanche a huit heures du
soir, qu'on lui croyait de l'eau dans la poitrine. L'anciennete de
la connaissance; une habitude qui a l'air de l'amitie; voir
disparaitre ceux avec qui l'on vit; un retour sur soi-meme; sentir
que l'on ne tient a rien, que tou