I might as well have staid
bird-nesting in Berkshire. I found the happiest contrivances against the
universal invader fail. Pigeon-matches; public dinners; coffee-houses;
bluestocking _reunions_; private morning quadrille practice, with public
evening exhibitions of their fruits; dilettanti breakfasts, with a
bronze Hercules standing among the bread and butter, or a reposing cast
of Venus, fresh from Pompeii, as black and nude as a negress disporting
on the banks of the Senegal, but dear and delicate to the eyes of taste;
Sunday mornings at Tattersal's, jockeying till the churches let out
their population, and the time for visits was come; and Sunday evening
routs at _the_ duchess's, with a cotillon by the _vraies danseuses_ of
the opera, followed by a concert, a round game, and a _select_ supper
for the initiated;--the whole failed. I had always an hour too
much--sixty mortal minutes, and every one of them an hour in itself,
that I could never squeeze down.
"Ye gods, annihilate both space and time,
And make two lovers happy,"
may have been called a not over-modest request; but I can vouch for at
least one half of it being the daily prayer of some thousands of the
best-dressed people that the sun ever summoned to a day of twenty-four
hours long.
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