possesses. What a fascinating 1 property that is.
How safe we feel with him. We put him next
our Irish friend who is a Roman Catholic, calmly
confident that he will not begin abusing the
Pope, or speaking disparagingly of the natives
of the Emerald Isle. We invite the leading
actor of the day to dinner, and we know that
our polite friend will not begin praising the other
leading actor of the day, keeping the subject
prominently forward for half an hour together.
This tact is almost an instinct, so little can it be
made a thing of rule; and this is the case also
with taste in the highest sense of the word.
There is, however, a form of taste which we call
"good taste," which is to a certain extent
acquirable by study and thoughtfulness, and which,
as such, may be described in words much better
than so subtle and delicate a thing as tact.

I was once dining with a worthy couple whose
ambition was somewhat above their position in
society. They had collected some rather smart
people together, who were continually in the
habit of meeting each other in " the world," and
who kept the whole conversation to themselves:
talking of people whom their host and hostess
did not know, and of entertainments at which
their host and hostess had not assisted. I was
infinitely glad when our excellent host, after
being thus condemned to speechlessness for some
time, at last addressed his wife, as the only lady
left for him to talk to, and asked her how she
liked Mr. Fechter's performance in Ruy Blas?
This was an apt way of conveying a well-merited
reproof to his guests for their intolerable violation
of all rules of good taste, and even common
politeness. And yet the people who erred in
this way would have been very much astonished
if they had been told that they were not
behaving like ladies and gentlemen.

There is another sin against good taste which
is the reverse of this. It is equally detestable
for the host and hostess to discourse with each
other on family or private matters, in the
presence of their guests.

"By-the-by, Polly," says Mr. Huggins, " whom
do you think I saw to-day?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, John," replies
Mrs. H.

"Guess."

"Indeed, John, I can't; one of the Bugginses?"

"Not a bit of it — try again."

"No, John, I give it up."

"Well, then, I'll tell you," continues Mr.
Huggins—it was no less a person than GEORGE
MUGGINS!"

"George Muggins!" echoes the lady, "why,
I thought he was in Australia."

"Ah!" replies the husband, "and so did
everybody else; but it appears the vessel in
which George sailed, had no sooner reached its
destination than the news came that a first-rate
appointment had been offered him in Ireland;
and the mail having travelled quicker than the
ship in which he sailed, he found the news
awaiting him when he arrived at Melbourne,"
&c. &c.

It is not once nor twice that dialogues like
this have taken place over mahoganies
beneath which the legs of the Small-Beer
Chronicler have been ensconced. While such talk is
going on, what becomes of those persons present,
to whom the affairs of the illustrious George
Muggins are not in the least interesting? They
have nothing for it but to look at the pictures
on the opposite wall, or, if they be of a
sycophantic habit, to assume an appearance of utterly
non-existent and impossible interest in Muggins.

Has it ever happened to the reader to be one
of a company, some of the members of which
have a joke of their own in which they delight,
and in which the rest of the society have no
share? It is at that terrific species of
entertainment, which I will venture to call,
ungrammatically, " a few friends," that this peculiar
development of bad taste may favourably be
studied, especially if " the few friends" meet at
the house of the Hugginses. We will suppose
that in the course of the entertainment, and at
a moment when the conversation is general,
some one present happens to allude to " bottled
stout."

"I say, George," says Mr. Huggins, in a
roguish way, " did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" replies George, evasively.

"What Professor Small-Beer has just
mentioned."

"No," says the other, in an obstinate way,
"I didn't."

"Bottled stout," replies Mr. Huggins, in strong
italics, " that's all."

"Come, none of that," says the victim.

"Was there any ' toasted cheese ' with it?"
suggests Mr. Buggins, who is one of the initiated.

"Come, don't you talk, Buggins," retorts the
injured George, " or else some of us may begin
thinking about 'Greenwich.''"

"Yes, and the ' Crown and Sceptre,' " puts
in Mr. Sluggins, another of the initiated. Then
all the enlightened ones roar simultaneously.

It is a matter of taste to know the exact
moment when you are beginning to bore people,
or are, at any rate, in danger of doing so. How
we have all been bored by those persons whose
taste does not tell them when to leave off, who
have good memories and plenty of brass, with no
originality of thought! What a dreadful thing
it is when they will give you the results of their
reading, or when they enter into a glowing
description of the localities they visited abroad.
There should be laws regulating the length of
time accorded to any one social speaker. There
should be an hour-glass, or, rather, an egg-glass,
which runs out in three minutes and a half; and
when it is turned it should be a sign that the
particular gentleman who is at the moment
enlightening the company should arrest the torrent
of his eloquence.

A new kind of Bore has of late years sprung