had found only a questionable gem, or perhaps
an indifferent pebble.

Equally does many a writer wonder how good
debating, which is talking on an heroic scale, is
done at all. The readiness, the grasp of mind,
the fast hold on a subject, the logical following
up of their adversaries' arguments, and above
all, the looking before they leap, their laying out
the sentence which is to follow while uttering
the sentence still unfinished, the avoidance of
tautology, the impromptu construction of
harmonious paragraphs, the happy phrases and
allusions dashed off, by practised and eloquent
orators, are indeed marvellous to listen to. They
are as wonderful as the pearls and roses which
fell, when she spake, from the princess's lips.

Not a few talkers in private circles imitate
the mosaic-worker's plan of preparing a few
good things beforehand, plums to insert in their
otherwise plain pudding, were it only a conundrum
or a pun. But the talker has much
greater difficulty than the writer in inserting his
selected flowers of speech. If thrust in too
abruptly, or dragged in head and shoulders, the
device is evident, and the result a failure. The
public never likes to see the wires which are
really the life of the puppet-show. Professional
talkers, like professional conjurors, are often
aided by a confederate, who introduces what
they require into the right place, at exactly the
right moment. The best cricketer in the world
would show but sorry play without a bowler
to send him the ball.

In social talk, it is quite allowable to get out
of a delicate or untenable position by a good-
humoured paradox or a jocose exaggeration.

The late M. Proudhon, whose ultra-
radicalism was notorious, was one day dining at the
table of a very exalted personage. Of course,
there was plenty of lively chat; and by the
time dessert was on the table, Proudhon had
demolished everything. Politics, religion, ethics
—all was in ruins. The host, considerably
annoyed, observed, "But really, monsieur, you
ought to do something besides criticising and
finding fault. Tell us what form of government
would please you." "Monseigneur,"
replied the author of the Confessions d'un
Révolutionnaire, "you are aware of my social and
political opinions. Well! I am longing for a
state of things in which I should be guillotined
as a retrograde conservative!"

Even without being driven up a corner,
a joke, in familiar converse, may be none the
worse for a little long-bow flavour. Many of
Sydney Smith's pleasantries were of that
description; as when he talked of Lord John
Russell being equally ready, at a moment's
warning, to cut off a leg or take the command
of the Channel Fleet; when he spoke of cold
missionary being served on New Zealand
sideboards; and when he complained of people
into whom you could thrust a joke only by a
surgical operation.

As soon as talk is admitted to be an essential
element of social intercourse, Politeness
waves her sceptre over it, and commands it to
conform to her rules and principles. Dissent,
and still more actual contradiction, should be
expressed in the mildest possible terms. Our
English vestry and public-meeting habits make
us a little blunt at times. In decent French
society, a discrepancy of views is always
manifested with a certain courtesy both in manner
and words: "Je vous demande pardon," "I
beg your pardon," is the urbane substitute for
"No; you are wrong." It is polite to suppose
that other people may be in the right, even if
you feel in duty bound to protest that you do
not think them so.

In the drawing-room of a Florentine boarding-
house, we were sociably seated round the
fire. We had all been acquainted a month or
six weeks; some of the inmates much longer.
The hostess had announced an addition to our
party, by the arrival, that day, of two American
ladies, sisters, of distinguished family and
certain age, who were to join us at dinner.
The topics of the hour were being discussed—
either the last grand-ducal ball; Mrs. G.'s
success as Judith, in a tableau vivant with
Holofernes; or the chance of meeting malaria
and brigandage by posting, at that time of
year, to Rome. The door opened, and two
female figures, dressed alike in rustling black
silk, entered without the slightest ceremony or
salutation. Whether they had been listening
at the door, or whether their apprehension was
uncommonly keen, "I don't at all agree with
you," the elder lady observed, addressing
herself to the gentleman who was speaking.

"And I totally differ from you," sharply
added the junior.

That was the letter of introduction which
they presented for our united acceptance. We
smiled, not very broadly nor openly, and
instantly made room for them in our social circle.
But, were the ladies quite polite?

Talk, to be interesting and amusing, need not
be made unkind or libellous. Spiteful talk is
very bad policy, setting aside its offensiveness,
both to politeness and friendly feeling.
Venomous tongues are hated even more than they
are feared; and no one knows how susceptible
his neighbour may be to undeserved and
reckless sarcasms. Racine used to say that the
most wretched criticism always gave him more
pain than the greatest applause had caused him
pleasure. If people must talk, and cannot keep
silence, better than indulging in scandal is to
take refuge in the sunshine and the rain. The
latter, especially, is a great resource for those
who are afraid to venture on more serious topics.
There are two unfailing points of conversational
meeting for the highest and the humblest
intellects; namely, the neutral chatting-ground
of the state of your health and the change in the
weather.

Coarse, brutal, or self-sufficient talk sometimes
has the effect of driving away social angels
whom you fall in with unawares. When King
Leopold, travelling incognito, recently made a
short stay at Marseilles, he entered the Café
Bodoul, and sat down at a table close to two
persons who were playing dominoes. He
appeared to watch the game with interest, and