as well give her impressions, in her own words, from her diary, written the night of her arrival. She had reason to alter many of her judgments; and when she read the passage long afterwards, she declared that the only character it faithfully portrayed was—her own!
"I feel like one starting on a long voyage, who will be shut up in a ship for months with so many fellow-passengers. I hate the looks of them all—all except Madame Martineau herself. She is an old dear. But the men! I try and think that all men are alike. These certainly are not likely to raise my estimate of manity. Madame Martineau says three of them are very clever in their several ways; but all the Frenchmen here are so egotistical. It was 'moi qui vous parle—moi' from the beginning of dinner till the end. Opposite me sat Professor Genron, who reminded me of the statue of Voltaire in the gallery of the Théâtre Français. The same keen and cunning eyes, the same satirical smile, the head stooped forward, eager, I am sure, to catch all the meannesses of humanity, but with little sympathy for what is noble. Next to him was a Madame de Belcour, whom it amused me to watch. She is like a beautiful cat, so soft, and oh! so sentimental! On her other side was a young poet, a Monsieur Anatole Doucet, whom Madame Martineau says is a genius, as well as remarkable for his beauty. He has large eyes, which he fixes on one, like a cow who sees a train passing. He runs his fingers through his long black locks every few minutes, and he wears his napkin tacked into his shirt-collar! If I were a man, I would sooner pour a spoonful of gravy down my shirt-front than advertise my childish incapacity to eat properly. But all
