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 not believe the first word," and I leave the definition with its pleasing French savour of composition and sentiment), a Frenchman says: "There is not a man in the whole of France about whom we have more joked than about M. Brisson, the ancient minister, the only political man to whom nothing could ever be reproached, but the epithet 'austere' deprived him of three-fourths of his authority, though Frenchmen are, after all, as sensible as other people to the virtue of honesty." And so may be said of Molière. He was as well aware as anyone could be of the immense benefit to his race and to his language of the establishment of the salon, even when he laughed at it.

Though the century of the salon has passed away, and carried along with it some of the glory of French literature, some of its traditions still linger, and will never be lost as long as the race delights in good conversation. English people visit to kill time, to fulfil a social obligation, and consider that their duty to themselves and their neighbours is done if they happen to remark that it is a fine day. Now, the French visit to talk. A pretty and well-dressed woman will, perhaps, have other more private and personal preoccupations, and wish to distract masculine attention to an adorable gown or a bewitching bonnet; this was one of the reasons why that model keeper of a salon, Madame Geoffrin, excluded women from