and talent to be found in the ultra party, for she professed to
be quite a female Maecenas; and whether it was a mathematician or a
romance-writer, a naturalist or a poet, she held open house for all, and
conversed with each with equal fluency and self-satisfaction.

A new play had just been acted, and the conversation, after a few
preliminary hoverings, settled upon it.

"You see," said the duchesse, "that we have actors, you authors; of what
avail is it that you boast of a Shakspeare, since your Liseton, great as
he is, cannot be compared with our Talma?"

"And yet," said I, preserving my gravity with a pertinacity, which
nearly made Vincent and the rest of our compatriots assembled lose
their's "Madame must allow, that there is a striking resemblance in
their persons, and the sublimity of their acting?"

"Pour ca, j'en conviens," replied this 'critique de l'Ecole des Femmes.'
"Mais cependant Liseton n'a pas la Nature! l'ame! la grandeur de Talma!"

"And will you then allow us no actors of merit?" asked Vincent.

"Mais oui!--dans le genre comique, par exemple, votre buffo Kean met dix
fois plus d'esprit et de drollerie dans ses roles que La Porte."

"The impartial and profound judgment of Madame admits of no further
discussion on this point," said I. "What does she think of the present
state of our dramatic literature?"

"Why," replied Madame, "you have many great poets, but when they write
for the stage they lose themselves entirely; your Valter Scote's play of
Robe Roi is very inferior to his novel of the same name."

"It is a great pity," said I, "that Byron did not turn his Childe Harold
into a tragedy--it has so much energy--action--variety!"

"Very true," said Madame, with a sigh; "but the tragedy is, after all,
only suited to our nation--we alone carry it to perfection."

"Yet," said I, "Goldoni wrote a few fine tragedies."

"Eh bien!" said Madame, "one rose does not constitute a garden!"

And satisfied with this remark, la femme savante turned to a celebrated
traveller to discuss with him the chance of discovering the North Pole.

There were one or two clever Englishmen present; Vincent and I joined
them.

"Have you met the Persian prince yet?" said Sir George Lynton to me; "he
is a man of much talent, and great desire of knowledge. He intends
to publish his observations on Paris, and I suppose we shall have an
admirable supplement to Montesquieu's Lettres Persannes!"

"I wish we had," said V