See the young barrister walking up and down the lobby of the courts.  He is freshly shaven:  in the folds of his new gown he hides a pile of documents, and on his head, in which a world of thought is stirring, is a fine advocate’s coif, which he bought yesterday, and which this morning he coquettishly crushed in with a blow from his fist before putting it on.  This young fellow is happy; amid the general din he can distinguish the echo of his own footsteps, and the ring of his bootheels sounds to him like the great bell of Notre Dame.  In a few minutes he will find an excuse for descending the great staircase, and crossing the courtyard in costume.  You may be sure that he will not disrobe except to go to dinner.  What joy in these five yards of black stuff; what happiness in this ugly bit of cloth stretched over stiff cardboard!

First pair of breeches—­I think I recognize you.

And you, Madame, with what happiness do you renew each season the enjoyment caused by new clothes?  Do not say, I beg of you, that such enjoyments are secondary ones, for their influence is positive upon your nature and your character.  Why, I ask you, did you find so much captivating logic, so much persuasive eloquence, in the sermon of Father Paul?  Why did you weep on quitting the church, and embrace your husband as soon as you got home?  You know better than I do, Madame, that it was because on that day you had put on for the first time that little yellow bonnet, which is a gem, I acknowledge, and which makes you look twice as pretty.  These impressions can scarcely be explained, but they are invincible.  There may be a trifle of childishness in it all, you will admit, but it is a childishness that can not be got rid of.

As a proof of it, the other day, going to St. Thomas’s to hear Father Nicholas, who is one of our shining lights, you experienced totally different sentiments; a general feeling of discontent and doubt and nervous irritability at every sentence of the preacher.  Your soul did not soar heavenward with the same unreserved confidence; you left St. Thomas’s with your head hot and your feet cold; and you so far forgot yourself as to say, as you got into your carriage, that Father Nicholas was a Gallican devoid of eloquence.  Your coachman heard it.  And, finally, on reaching home you thought your drawing-room too small and your husband growing too fat.  Why, I again ask you, this string of vexatious impressions?  If you remember rightly, dear Madame, you wore for the first time the day before yesterday that horrible little violet bonnet, which is such a disgusting failure.  First pair of breeches, dear Madame.