and waistcoats of satin, what trig rapiers and flowing wigs and laces
and ruffles; and, ah me! what hoops and brocades, what paint and
patches! Behind the chair of every lady stands her cavaliere servente,
or bows before her with a cup of chocolate, or, sweet abasement!
stoops to adjust the foot-stool better to her satin shoe. There is a
buzz of satirical expectation, no doubt, till the abbate arrives,
"and then, after the first compliments and obeisances," says Signor
Torelli, "he throws his hat upon the great arm-chair, recounts
the chronicle of the gay world," and prepares for the special
entertainment of the occasion.

"'What is there new on Parnassus?' he is probably asked.

"'Nothing', he replies, 'save the bleating of a lambkin lost upon the
lonely heights of the sacred hill.'

"'I'll wager,' cries one of the ladies, 'that the shepherd who has
lost this lambkin is our Abbate Carlo!'

"'And what can escape the penetrating eye of Aglauro Cidonia?' retorts
Frugoni, softly, with a modest air.

"'Let us hear its bleating!' cries the lady of the house.

"'Let us hear it!' echo her husband and her cavaliere servente.

"'Let us hear it!' cry one, two, three, a half-dozen, visitors.

"Frugoni reads his new production; ten exclamations receive the first
strophe; the second awakens twenty _evvivas_; and when the reading