or the same people might talk with all their
might and wisdom, on some grave and
important subject of the day, in that manner
which we have got into the way of calling
"earnest," but which term has struck me as
being slightly flavoured by cant, ever since I
heard of an "earnest uncle." At any rate,
whether grave or gay, people did not go up
to Madame de Sablé's salons with a set
purpose of being either the one or the other.
They were carried away by the subject of
the conversation, by the humour of the
moment. I have visited a good deal among
a set of people who piqued themselves on
being rational. We have talked what they
called sense, but what I called platitudes, till
I have longed, like Southey in the Doctor, to
come out with some interminable nonsensical
word (Aballibogibouganorribo was his, I
think), as a relief for my despair at not
being able to think of anything more that
was sensible. It would have done me good
to have said it, and I could have started
afresh on the rational tack. But I never
did. I sank into inane silence, which I hope
was taken for wisdom. One of this set paid
a relation of mine a profound compliment,
for so she meant it to be, "Oh, Miss F.! you
are so trite!" But as it is not in every one's
power to be rational, and "trite," at all
times and in all places, discharging our sense
at a given place, like water from a fireman's
hose; and as some of us are cisterns rather
than fountains, and may have our stores
exhausted, why is it not more general to call
in other aids to conversation, in order to
enable us to pass an agreeable evening?

But I will come back to this presently.
Only let me say that there is but one thing
more tiresome than an evening when everybody
tries to be profound and sensible, and
that is an evening when everybody tries to
be witty. I have a disagreeable sense of
effort and unnaturalness at both times; but
the everlasting attempt, even when it
succeeds, to be clever and amusing, is the worse
of the two. People try to say brilliant rather
than true things; they not only catch eager
hold of the superficial and ridiculous in other
persons and in events generally, but from
constantly looking out for subjects for jokes
and "mots," and satire, they become
possessed of a kind of sore susceptibility
themselves, and are afraid of their own working
selves, and dare give way to any expression
of feeling, or of and noble indignation or
enthusiasm.  This kind of wearying wit is
far different from humour, which wells up
and forces its way out irrepressibly, and
calls forth smiles and laughter, but not very
far apart from tears.  Depend upon it, some
of Madame de Sablé's friends have been
moved in a most abundant and genial
measure.  They know how to narrate too.
Very simple say you? I say no! I believe
the art of telling a story is born with some
people, and these have it to perfection; but
all might acquire some expertness in it, and
ought to do so, before launching out into the
muddled, complex, hesitating, broken,
disjointed poor, bald accounts of events, which
have neither unity, nor colour, nor life, nor
end in them, that one sometimes hears.

But as to the rational parties that are in truth
so irrational, when all talk up to an assumed
character, instead of showing themselves
what they really are, and so extending each
other's knowledge of the infinite and beautiful
capacities of human nature whenever
I see the grave, sedate faces, with their good
but anxious expression, I remember how I
was once, long ago, at a party like this;
every one had brought out his or her wisdom,
and aired it for the good of the company;
one or two had, from a sense of duty, and
without any special living interest in the
matter, improved us by telling us of some
new scientific discovery, the details of which
were all and each of them wrong, as I learnt
afterwards; if they had been right, we
should not have been any the wiser;—and
just at the pitch when any more useful
information might have brought on congestion
of the brain, a stranger to the town, a beautiful,
audacious, but most feminine romp,
proposed a game, and such a game, for us
wise men of Gotham! But she (now long
still and quiet after her bright life, so full of
pretty pranks) was a creature whom all
who looked on loved; and with grave hesitating
astonishment we knelt round a circular
table at her word of command. She made
one of the circle, and producing a feather,
out of some sofa pillow, she told us she
should blow it up into the air, and which-
ever of us it floated near, must puff away to
keep it from falling on the table. I suspect
we all looked like Keeley in the Camp at
Chobham, and were surprised at our own
obedience to this ridiculous, senseless mandate,
given with a graceful imperiousness, as
if it were too royal to be disputed. We
knelt on, puffing away with the utmost
intentness, looking like a set of elderly—

"Fools! "No! my dear sir. I was going
to say elderly cherubim. But making fools
of ourselves, was better than making owls, as
we had been doing.

I will mention another party where a
game of some kind would have been a blessing
It was at a very respectable tradesman's
house. We went at half-past four, and
found a well-warmed handsome sitting-room,
with block upon block of unburn coal behind
the fire; on the table there was a tray with
wine and cake, oranges and almonds and
raisins, of which we were urged to partake,
In half-an-hour came tea; none of your
flimsy meals, with wafer bread and butter,
and three biscuits and a half. This was a
grave and serious proceeding; tea, coffee,
bread of all kinds, cold fowl, tongue, ham,
potted meats—I don't know what. Tea
lasted about an hour, and then the cake and