Large routes are rare, and not at all suited to the tastes of the French people; who comment with merriment, if not with ridicule, on the evening parties in London, where the rooms being too small to contain half the guests invited, the stairs and ante-rooms are filled by a crowd, in which not only the power of conversing, but almost of respiring is impeded.
The French ladies attribute the want of freshness so remarkable in the toilettes of Englishwomen, to their crowded routes, and the knowledge of its being impossible for a robe, or at least of a greater portion of one than covers a bust, to be seen; which induces the fair wearers to economise, by rarely indulging in new dresses.
At Paris certain ladies of distinction open their _salons_, on one evening of each week, to a circle of their acquaintances, not too numerous to banish that ease and confidence which form the delight of society.

Each lady takes an evening for her receptions, and no one interferes with her arrangements by giving a party on the same night.
The individuals of each circle are thus in the habit of being continually in each other's society; consequently the etiquette and formality, so _genant_ among acquaintances who seldom meet, are banished.
To preserve the charm of these unceremonious _reunions_, strangers are seldom admitted to them, but are invited to the balls, dinners, or large parties, where they see French people _en grande lenue_, both in dress and manner, instead of penetrating into the more agreeable parties to which I have referred, where the graceful _neglige_ of a _demi-toilette_ prevails, and the lively _causerie_ of the _habitues de la maison_ supersedes the constraint of ceremony.
Such a society is precisely the sort of one that literary men would, I should suppose, like to mingle in, to unbend their minds from graver studies, and yet not pass their time unprofitably; for in it, politics, literature, and the fine arts, generally furnish the topics of conversation: from which, however, the warmth of discussion, which too frequently renders politics a prohibited subject, is excluded, or the pedantry that sometimes spoils literary _causerie_ is banished.
French people, male and female, talk well; give their opinions with readiness and vivacity; often striking out ideas as original as they are brilliant; highly suggestive to more profound thinkers, but which they dispense with as much prodigality as a spendthrift throws away his small coin, conscious of having more at his disposal.

Quick of perception, they jump, rather than march, to a conclusion, at which an Englishman or a German would arrive leisurely, enabled to tell all the particulars of the route, but which the Frenchman would know little of from having arrived by some shorter road.

This quickness of perception exempts them from the necessity of devoting much of the time and study which the English or Germans employ in forming opinions, but it also precludes their being able to reason as justly or as gravely on those they form.
Walked in the gardens of the Tuileries to-day.

What a contrast their frequenters offer to those of the Luxembourg! In the Tuileries, the promenaders look as if they only walked there to display their tasteful dresses and pretty persons.
The women eye each other as they pass, and can tell at a glance whether their respective _chapeaux_ have come from the _atelier_ of Herbault, or the less _recherce magasin de modes_ of some more humble _modiste_.
How rapidly can they see whether the Cashmere shawl of some passing dame owes its rich but sober tints to an Indian loom, or to the fabric of M.Ternaux, who so skilfully imitates the exotic luxury; and what a difference does the circumstance make in their estimation of the wearer! The beauty of a woman, however great it may be, excites less envy in the minds of her own sex in France, than does the possession of a fine Cashmere, or a _garniture_ of real Russian sable--objects of general desire to every Parisian _belle_.
I met few handsome women to-day, but these few were remarkably striking.