have such a haunt?--what other people would
know so thoroughly how to enjoy it? The day was drawing to a close,
and the Piazzone was now filled with equipages. There were the
representatives of every European people, and of nations far away over
the seas,--splendid Russians, brilliant French, splenetic, supercilious
English, and ponderous Germans, mingled with the less marked
nationalities of Belgium and Holland, and even America. Everything that
called itself Fashion was there to swell the tide; and although a choice
military band was performing with exquisite skill the favorite overtures
of the day, the noise and tumult of conversation almost drowned their
notes. Now, the Cascine is to the world of society what the Bourse is to
the world of trade. It is the great centre of all news and intelligence,
where markets and bargains of intercourse are transacted, and where the
scene of past pleasure is revived, and the plans of future enjoyment are
canvassed. The great and the wealthy are there, to see and to meet with
each other. The proud equipages lie side by side, like great liners;
while phaetons, like fast frigates, shoot swiftly by, and solitary
dandies flit past in varieties of conveyance to which sea-craft can
offer no analogies. All are busy, eager, and occupied. Scandal holds
here its festival, and the misdeeds of every capital of Europe are
now being discussed. The higher themes of politics occupy but few; the
interests of literature attract still less. It is essentially of the
world they talk, and it must be owned they do it like adepts. The last
witticism of Paris,--the last duel at Berlin,--who has fled from his
creditors in England,--who has run away from her husband at Naples,--all
are retailed with a serious circumstantiality that would lead one to
believe that gossip maintained its "own correspondent" in every city of
the Continent. Moralists might fancy, perhaps, that in the tone these
subjects are treated they would mingle a reprobation of the bad, and a
due estimate of the opposite, if it ever occurred at all; but as surely
would they be disappointed. Never were censors more lenient,--never were
critics so charitable. The transgressions against good-breeding--the
"gaucheries" of manner, the solecisms in dress, language, or
demeanor--do indeed meet with sharp reproof and cutting sarcasm; but,
in recompense for such severity, how gently do they deal with graver
offences! For the felonies they can always di