8014. SOCIETY, Parisian.—
To what
does the bustle of Paris tend? At eleven
o'clock, it is day, chez madame. The curtains
are drawn. Propped on bolsters and pillows,
and her head scratched into a little order, the
bulletins of the sick are read, and the billets of
the well. She writes to some of her acquaintance,
and receives the visits of others. If the
morning is not very thronged, she is able to
get out and hobble round the cage of the
Palais Royal; but she must hobble quickly, for
the coiffeur's turn is come; and a tremendous
turn it is! Happy, if he does not make her
arrive when dinner is half over! The torpitude
of digestion a little passed, she flutters half an
hour through the streets, by way of paying
visits, and then to the spectacles. These finished,
another half hour is devoted to dodging
in and out of the doors of her very sincere
friends, and away to supper. After supper,
cards; and after cards, bed; to rise at noon the
next day, and to tread, like a mill horse, the
same trodden circle over again. Thus the days
of life are consumed, one by one, without an
object beyond the present moment; ever flying
from the ennui of that, yet carrying it
with us; eternally in pursuit of happiness,
which keeps eternally before us. If death or
bankruptcy happen to trip us out of the circle,
it is matter for the buzz of the evening, and
is completely forgotten by the next morning.—
To Mrs. Bingham. Washington ed. ii, 116.
(P.
1787)
