"Give me in preference such a man as le Comte ----," said Monsieur ----, slily, "who never bestows a thought but on self, and is too much occupied with that interesting subject to have time to meddle with the affairs of other people." "You are right," observed Madame ----, gravely, believing him to be serious; "it is much preferable." "But surely," said I, determined to continue the mystification, "you are unjustly severe in your animadversions on poor Monsieur ----. Does he not prove himself a true philanthropist in devoting the time to the affairs of others that might be usefully occupied in attending to his own?" "You are quite right," said Mrs. ----; "I never viewed his conduct in this light before; and now that I understand it I really begin to like him,--a thing I thought quite impossible before you convinced me of the goodness of his motives." How many Mrs. ----'s there are in the world, with minds ductile as wax, ready to receive any impression one wishes to give them! Yet I reproached myself for assisting to hoax her, when I saw the smiles excited by her credulity. Mademoiselle Delphine Gay[6] is one of the agreeable proofs that genius is hereditary. I have been reading some productions of hers that greatly pleased me. Her poetry is graceful, the thoughts are natural, and the versification is polished. She is a very youthful authoress, and a beauty as well as a _bel esprit_. Her mother's novels have beguiled many an hour of mine that might otherwise have been weary, for they have the rare advantage of displaying an equal knowledge of the world with a lively sensibility. All Frenchwomen write well. They possess the art of giving interest even to trifles, and have a natural eloquence _de plume_, as well as _de langue_, that renders the task an easy one. It is the custom in England to decry French novels, because the English unreasonably expect that the literature of other countries should be judged by the same criterion by which they examine their own, without making sufficient allowance for the different manners and habits of the nations. Without arrogating to myself the pretension of a critic, I should be unjust if I did not acknowledge that I have perused many a French novel by modern authors, from which I have derived interest and pleasure. The French critics are not loath to display their acumen in reviewing the works of their compatriots, for they not only analyze the demerits with pungent causticity, but apply to them the severest of all tests, that of ridicule; in the use of which dangerous weapon they excel.