Matinée Musicale given by the Philharmonic
Society after they had assisted at Mass, and
had attracted a congregation who gave to the
poor. Something which I had heard of its
reputation, curiosity, and a brilliant morning,
had tempted me to emerge from my quiet
home in the interior. Church over, the
company assembled for the matinée, and I found
myself in the midst of the cream of the
Calaisiens. The concert room is an elegant
apartment, built on a not very common plan.
It is circular, and lighted from above in the
centre by a lantern sky-light during the day,
and by a handsome chandelier at night
performances. Its decoration, though a little
faded—for the society is now in its twenty-
fifth year—is still of a lively and cheerful
character, The colouring is mixed, on the
same principles as prevailed in the interior of
the Crystal Palace. An oblong ante-room
communicating with it, breaks the uniformity
of a circular plan. Opposite to the ante-
room is the orchestra; around, next the walls,
is an amphitheatre of raised seats, which
admirably display the fair occupants thereof.
In the middle are benches, as in the pit of a
theatre, only upon a level floor. To this
simple and comfortable arrangement, is added
the great merit that the room is not too
large for its usual orchestra and audience.
Better a little crowding now and then, than
a thin-sounding tutti, a feeble fortissimo, and
long ranges of empty benches upon all
ordinary occasions. The beginning was fixed for
half-past twelve; but a little delay allowed
me to look around, and admire the ladies, as
well as their adornments, the flower of which
were the delicious head-dresses.

It is difficult for the French and English to
discuss the important subject of head-gear,
without falling into mutual misunderstandings.
Bonnet is the French word for a
woman's cap, and for a gentleman's night-
cap also. What our ladies call " a bonnet,"
in France is always styled a hat (chapeau);
and the difference of rank implied by the
wearing a bonnet, or a chapeau, respectively,
is a distinction quite unknown in England.
At this Matinée, there were no bonnets. Our
word " cap " is equally applicable to those
worn by females, and to the ugly thing of
cloth with a leathern peak (in French a
casquette), which serves as a thatch for the brain-
boxes of men. Many other such occasions of
quarrel exist. Conjurors and players of leger-
demain tricks, here call themselves Physiciens.
What would a fashionable London physician
think, if one of these amusing persons were
introduced, by mistake, to take part in a
consultation? The French verb remercier means
both " to thank," and " to dismiss, or take
leave of." I once heard a Frenchman say in
English to an acquaintance who had obliged
him, " I do not thank you," when he intended
to say, " I do not bid you farewell now; I
shall see you again before you go." His
words bore a sense the very reverse of what
he really intended them to bear. He
did mean to express thanks; but a civil
phrase incorrectly rendered had all the
appearance of an affront. There is no doubt
that between French and English individuals,
coolness and dislike often arise from such
foolish and obvious errors as these. Captious
people take offence at what the opposite party
considers a politeness. Tantœne animis
cœlestibus irœ? Can two great and high-
minded nations entertain a serious quarrel
without being first assured that their
antagonist truly and bonâ-fide- ly has malice
prepense in his heart? These very words,
malice and " malice," are instances in the two
languages where the same combinations of
letters bear quite a different meaning and
spirit.

Three young ladies amongst the audience
appeared without chapeau or other head-
dress. They had come to delight us with
the contribution of their skill and talent.
The concert began; and having begun,
proceeded. My first emotion was pleasure; my
second, surprise. Thankfulness was the last
sentiment excited; for good music is such a
real enjoyment. Then arose the doubt
whether many towns in England, with the
same population of twelve thousand souls,
could produce the same variety of amateur
ability.

A leading performance this Ascension
morning was a piano-forte duett, by sisters—
two of the ladies who appeared without
coiffure, the third grace being the contralto
of the day. It is exactly in such pleasant
little concerts as this, that the piano best
asserts its right to be heard as an
instrument. There is no crowding about the
performer, to watch the finger-work, as in
too many London drawing-rooms, where the
sounds are unfairly walled in, and muffled,
by a thick curtain of human bodies. The
area, too, is not so large that the richness
of the chords and the sweetness of the tone
are diluted by traversing an absorbent extent
of space. Our pianistes gave their duett
exceedingly well—with neither the power
of Thalberg nor the magic brilliancy of Liszt—
but neatly, accurately, and with that perfect
lady-like manner which, in public as well as
in private, has the most certain charm of all.
They were warmly applauded; and, I am
proud to add, they were English girls. They
also, as well as the rest of their coadjutors,
followed the fashion of the French stage, in
abstaining from any acknowledgment of the
applause bestowed upon them. I may
likewise mention that, on appearing in the
orchestra, they were equally free from any
bashful awkwardness or fear, but prepared
to utter their inspiration with all the
quiet composure of artists. The same true
artistic spirit was manifested by the lady
who sang; she entered at once into the
feeling of her scena, and thence derived
the main beauty of her performance. She