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 hers. She found they interfered with serious conversation. I advisedly call Madame Geoffrin the “keeper” of a _salon_, because she made a business of it, and ruled and tamed her literary menagerie by a discreet and liberal use of her purse. I have often wondered if her great men in their hearts did not sometimes revolt against the thraldom in which they lived from the moment they became celebrated. To be bound to be brilliant and witty, in return for a good dinner and a consideration every evening of one’s life! And to be condemned to meet none but brilliant and witty persons, and listen to their splendid talk when not talking splendidly oneself! There is matter for reflection here to make dull and obscure persons occasionally thank their stars. If good talk is not spontaneous, I own it has no charm for me, but then I have never aspired to hold a _salon_, and if you hold a _salon_ and wish it to be a success, talk cannot be spontaneous.