ammar; my manner of expressing
myself is always the result of chance, independent of all rule and all
art."

But it is not to be supposed that women who were the daily and
lifelong companions and confidantes of men like Fontenelle, d'Alembert,
Montesquieu, Helvetius, and Marmontel were deficient in a knowledge of
books, though this was always subservient to a knowledge of life. It was
a means, not an end. When the salon was at the height of its power, it
was not yet time for Mme. de Stael; and, with rare exceptions, those who
wrote were not marked, or their literary talent was so overshadowed by
their social gifts as to be unnoted. Their writings were no measure of
their abilities. Those who wrote for amusement were careful to disclaim
the title of bel esprit, and their works usually reached the public
through accidental channels. Mme. de Lambert herself had too keen an
eye for consideration to pose as an author, but it is with an accent of
regret at the popular prejudice that she says of Mme. Dacier, "She knows
how to associate learning with the amenities; for at present modesty is
out of fashion; there is no more shame for vices, and women blush only
for knowledge."

But if they did not write, they presided over the mint in which books
were coined. They were familiar with theories and ideas at their
fountain source. Indeed the whole literature of the period pays its
tribute to their intelligence and critical taste. "He who will write
with precision, energy, and vigor only," said Marmontel, "may live with
men alone; but he who wishes for suppleness in his style, for amenity,
and for that something which charms and enchants, will, I believe, do
well to live with women. When I read that Pericles sacrificed every
morning to the Graces, I understand by it that every day Pericles
breakfasted with Aspasia." This same author was in the habit of reading
his tales in the salon, and noting their effect. He found a happy
inspiration in "the most beautiful eyes in the world, swimming in
tears;" but he adds, "I well perceived the cold and feeble passages,
which they passed over in silence, as well as those where I had mistaken
the word, the tone of nature, or the just shade of truth." He refers to
the beautiful, witty, but erring and unfortunate Mme. de la Popeliniere,
to whom he read his tragedy, as the best of all his critics. "Her
corrections," he said, "struck me as so many rays of light." "A point of
morals will be no better