sense.

All the world is met here, on purpose to be merry; and merry they are
determined to be. The occasion is a marriage, in the true French style,
between my very good friend, the Marquis de Villebrun, an old fellow
upwards of sixty, and a young creature of fifteen; a child, a chit,
just taken out of a convent; in which, but for this or some such
preposterous match, she might have remained, till time should have
bestowed wrinkles and ugliness as bountifully upon her as it has done
upon her Narcissus, the bridegroom. The women flock busily round her,
in their very good-natured way, purposely to form her. The men too are
very willing to lend their aid; and, under such tuition, she cannot but
improve apace. Why are not you here, Fairfax? I have had twenty
temptations to take her under my pupillage; but that I dare not risk
the loss of this divinity.

The purpose of our meeting however is, as I said, to be joyous. It is
teeming time therefore with every brain, that has either wit, folly, or
fancy enough to contribute to the general festivity. And various are
their inventions, and stratagems, to excite surprise, attract visitors,
and keep up the holiday farce of the scene. Musicians, painters,
artists, jugglers, sages, all whose fame, no matter of what motley
kind, has reached the public ear, and whom praise or pay can bring
together, are assembled. Poets are invited to read their productions;
and as reading well is no mean art, and writing well still much more
difficult, you may think what kind of an exhibition your every day
poetasters make. Yet, like a modern play, they are certain of
unbounded applause.

Last night we had a _Fete Champetre_, which, it must be granted, was a