They will pace for ever the pavement of the Corso, they will wear out
the alleys of the Pincian Hill, the Villa Borghese, and the Villa
Pamphili. They will ride, drive, and walk about, armed with a whip,
eye-glass, or cane, as may be, until they are made to marry. Regular
at Mass, assiduous at the theatre, you may see them smile, gape,
applaud, make the sign of the cross, with an equal absence of emotion.
They are almost all inscribed on the list of some religious fraternity
or other. They belong to no club, play timidly, rarely make a parade
of social irregularities, drink without enthusiasm, and never ruin
themselves by horse-racing. In short, their general conduct is beyond
all praise; and the life of dolls made to say "Papa!" and "Mama!" is
equally irreproachable.
One fine day they attain their twenty-fifth year. At this age, an
American has already tried his hand at a dozen trades, made four
fortunes, and at least one bankruptcy, has gone through a couple of
campaigns, had a lawsuit, established a new religious sect, killed
half-a-dozen men with his revolver, freed a negress, and conquered an
island. An Englishman has passed some stiff examinations, been
attached to an embassy, founded a factory, converted a Catholic, gone
round the world, and read the complete works of Walter Scott. A
Frenchman has rhymed a tragedy, written for two newspapers, been
wounded in three duels, twice attempted suicide, vexed fourteen
husbands, and changed his politics nineteen times.
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