e Segur, Dumont, Suard, Camille
Jordan. In all circles the subject of politics was carefully avoided;
the company held themselves aloof, and wilfully ignored the important
issues that were surging around them; their conversation turned chiefly
on new plays, novels and critical essays. As is usual in such small
circles with limited interests, a good deal of mutual admiration was
practiced, and the Edgeworths received their due share.

At the Abbe Morellet's Miss Edgeworth met Madame d'Oudinot, Rousseau's
"Julie." This is her impression:--

Julie is now seventy-two years of age, a thin woman in a little
black bonnet; she appeared to me shockingly ugly; she squints so
much that it is impossible to tell which way she is looking; but no
sooner did I hear her speak than I began to like her, and no sooner
was I seated beside her than I began to find in her countenance a
most benevolent and agreeable expression. She entered into
conversation immediately; her manner invited and could not fail to
obtain confidence. She seems as gay and open-hearted as a girl of
fifteen. It has been said of her that she not only never did any
harm, but never suspected any. She is possessed of that art which
Lord Kaimes said he would prefer to the finest gift from the queen
of the fairies: the art of seizing the best side of every object.
She has had great misfortunes, but she has still retained the power
of making herself and her friends happy. Even during the horrors
of the Revolution, if she met with a flower, a butterfly, an
agreeable smell, a pretty color, she would turn her attention to
these, and for a moment suspend the sense of misery--not from
frivolity, but from real philosophy. No one has exerted themselves
with more energy in the service of her friends. I felt in her
company the delightful influence of a cheerful temper and soft,
attractive manners--enthusiasm which age cannot extinguish, and
which spends, but does not waste itself on small but not trifling
objects. I wish I could at seventy-two be such a woman! She told me
that Rousseau, whilst he was writing so finely on education, and
leaving his own children in the Foundling Hospital, defended
himself with so much eloquence that even those who blamed him in
their hearts could not find tongues to answer him. Once at dinner
at Madame d'Oudinot's