to be announced. Most of their old friends were there still; only the
children had grown up and were now new friends to be greeted. It is a
confusion of names in visionary succession, comprising English people no
less than French. Miss Edgeworth notes it all with a sure hand and true
pen; it is as one of the sketch-books of a great painter, where whole
pictures are indicated in a few just lines. Here is a peep at the
Abbaye aux Bois in 1820:--

We went to Madame Recamier in her convent, l'Abbaye aux Bois, up
seventy-eight steps. All came in with asthma. Elegant room; she as
elegant as ever. Matthieu de Montmorenci, the ex-Queen of Sweden,
Madame de Boigne, a charming woman, and Madame la Marechale
de ----, a battered beauty, smelling of garlic and screeching in
vain to pass as a wit.... Madame Recamier has no more taken the
veil than I have, and is as little likely to do it. She is quite
beautiful; she dresses herself and her little room with elegant
simplicity, and lives in a convent only because it is cheap and
respectable.

One sees it all, the convent, the company, the last refrain of former
triumphs, the faithful romantic Matthieu de Montmorenci, and above all
the poor Marechale, who will screech for ever in her garlic. Let us turn
the page, we find another picture from these not long past days:--

Breakfast at Camille Jordan's; it was half-past twelve before the
company assembled, and we had an hour's delightful conversation
with Camille Jordan and his wife in her spotless white muslin and
little cap, sitting at her husband's feet as he lay on the sofa;
as clean, as nice, as fresh, as thoughtless of herself as my
mother. At this breakfast we saw three of the most distinguished
of that party who call themselves 'les Doctrinaires' and say they
are more attached to measures than to men.

Here is another portrait of a portrait and its painter:--

Princess Potemkin is a Russian, but she has all the grace,
softness, winning manner of the Polish ladies. Oval face, pale,
with the finest, softest, most expressive chestnut dark eyes. She
has a sort of politeness which pleases peculiarly, a mixture of
the ease of high rank and early habit with something that is
sentimental without affectation. Madame le Brun is painting her
picture. Madame le Brun is sixty-six, with great vivacity as well
as genius, and better worth s