"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 Vincent: "there are few better satires on a