ersal admiration; and the
ice thus once broken, a succession of proficients followed, bringing the
produce of their talents; some, miniatures--some, sketches of French and
Swiss scenery--some, illustrations of Racine and the French theatre;
and, of course, many with embroidery, and the graceful works of the
needle. Strangers are too apt to conceive that Paris is France and that
the frivolity of life in the capital was always its model in the
provinces. I here saw evidence to the contrary, and was not a little
surprised to see performances so seldom to be found among the French
arts, as admirable oil-paintings, carvings in ivory, marble busts, and
bas-reliefs, casts of antique vases and groups, and even models of the
chief temples and palaces of antiquity. The leisure of the chateau was
often vividly, and even vigorously employed; and while the youths of the
great families were solely directed to military prospects, the females
often acquired solid and grave accomplishments. In short, we had among
us as many artificers, not a few of them delicate and lovely, as could
have furnished a Tower of Babel, if not built it; but _our_ fabric
would have had one exception, it would have had no "confusion of
tongues;" for tongues there were none to be heard among us--all was
silence, but when some work of striking beauty, and this was not
unfrequently the case, was handed round with a murmur of applause.

The harp and piano were then brought forward and this was the most
trying part of all--not from any want of skill in the performers, for
the majority were perfect on both instruments, but from the nature of
the performances themselves. France is not renowned for native music,
but neither Italian genius, nor German science, has produced more
exquisite little snatches of melody than are to be found in some of the
nooks and corners of the provinces. Paris is, like other capitals, an
epitome of the world; but Languedoc, the wild country of Auvergne, the
Vosges mountains, the hidden and quiet vales of Normandy, and even the
melancholy sands of the Breton, have airs of singular and characteristic
sweetness. Gretry and Rousseau were but their copyists. Sorrow,
solitude, and love, are every where, and their inspiration is worth all
the orchestras in the globe.

Those simple airs were more congenial to the depressed spirits of the
whole assemblage than the most showy bravuras; and, sung by those
handsome creatures--for beauty adds a charm