was a friend of my grandmother's;—a witty, but a very ugly woman; how she should have attracted so many lovers remains a mystery; and I have always suspected that they would have preferred the attachment to remain platonic! My mother had the most beautiful arm in Europe, and perhaps she chose the instrument for that reason. It displays the arm as no other does.—I saw a woman play the flute once! Bon Dieu! what a spectacle! Her mouth all twisted to one side and her eyes squinting down her nose as though she were endeavouring to perceive a smut upon it! She was already laide à faire peur, however—like Madame de Staël—so it was of little consequence. Begin, then, my child; begin! We are ready for you! But let it be something romantic, passionate.—Not any of your mournful religious elegiacs.'
