with the pleasure of a free conversation with a new acquaintance, and the consciousness of lodging in his memory a kind admonition never to be forgotten.

But, after all, there is a general ideal of religious conversation which we must strive to fill up; a common ground where all its excellences meet; a garden blooming with every flower, shaded by every tree, and watered by a confluence of all the crystal streams of social delight. A point

"Where thought meets thought ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart."

Such occasions do not wholly depend upon human volition.
They turn up; they are gifts of a gracious Providence in a
benignant hour. To their success all the compartments of
felicity must concur, - intelligence, cultivation, civility, con-
fidence in ourselves and each other, a clear head, a sound
heart, a mixture of taste and utility, and a light which, like
the coruscations of the northern sky, flames without burning,
and flashes, but does not blind us with its excess.
One rea-
son why some parties waste their time at cards, or some
other game, is their mental barrenness. They really have
nothing to discuss; they are incapable of it. An intelligent
Christian does not resign these things from self-denial; it is
the last thing to think of. He is in pursuit of a nobler
gratification. He can say without poetic exaggeration:

"Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks

That idleness has ever yet contrived

To fill the void of an unfurnished brain;
To palliate dullness, and give time a shove
Time as he passes us has a dove's wing,

Unsoiled, and swift, and of a silken sound.”

We have thus endeavored to give some of the elements of conversation: first, the small talk, which, like cement in a tower, binds the more solid parts together; secondly, earnest discussion, the most difficult and the most happy attainment of cultivated life; thirdly, the more pleasing art of relating anecdotes, and of putting them in the right place, and, I may add here, not repeating them too often;

fourthly, relating the news and bringing bad tidings; fifthly, the power of an apophthegm and repartee; and, lastly, the luxury and improvement of a rightly-adjusted and well-sustained religious conversation. I will not pledge myself that these are all the parts of conversation; but these are speci

mens.

It is time now to say a word on the question how this divine art is to be acquired. It is unfortunate that at the best time of learning, it is hardest to receive the lesson. Youth is the best time; but youth is sensitive; youth is timorous and bashful. How often is it the case that in our first attempts to sustain our parts in the dialogue of society we go home abashed and confounded. We fly to solitude; we blush in midnight darkness; we cover our heads beneath the bedclothes; we sink into despair, and sadly suppose that our character is ruined forever. And, after all, what have you done? Have you violated the ten commandments? No; but perhaps you were in a party, and stooped suddenly down to pick up a lady's fan, and pitched over at her feet-it may be tore her dress, and set your own nose a bleeding; or the minister came to see you, and, in sitting closely around the tea-table, in handing him the cream-pitcher with a trembling hand, you turned the contents into his lap, on his silk vest, or his black pantaloons, and the whole table was in confusion; towels were brought; women screamed; chairs were shoved back; and you stood aghast, thinking, Oh if this earth would only open and swallow me up forever! But after all, my young friend, be comforted. All those squalls will blow over, and sunshine will come at last. I should not wonder if the very girl at whose feet you fell, and set your nose a bleeding, should marry you at last. Stranger things than that have happened in this strange world; at any rate, this is the discipline by which we sometimes learn to talk; and oftentimes the sensibilities from which we suffer so keenly become the very monitors by which we are prompted to excel. Who would give it away for clownish indifference? Who would barter a blushing modesty for a brazen face?

In order to learn this celestial art we must have a social disposition and a benevolent heart. We must recollect our Saviour's maxim: "Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh." We must try to furnish ourselves with abundance. We must have a storehouse, and keep it always full. Think what a wonderful power language is; what a long line of improvement it has gone through; what an implement of pleasure; what an image of reason; what a magical power of expressing all the shades of thought! Recollect the most happy expressions you have ever heard. It has not probably reached its consummation. We must be free also; we must lay aside that skittish prudence, that selfish economy, which leads a man, when going into company, to think only of his own reputation. We must be willing to learn as well as to teach, and mingle our silence with our vocal activity. We must consider the rôle which the great author of the drama of life intended us to fill. Though the general rule may be, not to be austere, yet if that is the shape of your nature, be so to a degree. Act well your part, and know what your part is; and shape the image of your conversation according to the wood or marble of which the original form was composed. You must learn principally from practice, accompanied with attention and observation, and aconstant desire to excel.

The last thing suggested was the faults of this social art. They are many; they are constantly occurring; we cannot even sketch them. One of the chief is nothingism, or rather barrenness; a company where there is neither wit nor wisdom; neither imagination nor reason, curiosity nor improvement; one of those parties where nothing was said which you would even wish to remember; where not only nonsense filled the time, but undelightful nonsense. Suppose a person were to point out to me a heap of stones and ask me, Is it handsome? No. Is it homely? No. Is it indifferent? No; it is hardly that. What is it? Why, it is nothing. Now there are a great many conversations that are like a heap of stones. They have just about as much beauty, and just about as

much taste; for if you touch your tongue to one of the stones it is neither bitter nor sweet. Avoid then this dismal barrenness. I need not say avoid scandal, and indeed all private character. Do not spend your time like a bevy of surgeons in a hospital, in dissecting the carcass of a murdered reputation. Do not even carry into company a dismal tone, a discontented accent. Speak at least with a cheerful voice; do not aim to say smart things; do not let your wit, like the pump of an artesian well, draw up its clay-colored water from a depth that no one ever sounded before or ever wishes to sound again. It is a sad misfortune to have the reputation of a wit. In all companies he meets the ghost of his own reputation. It makes the victim a force-pump to throw out the blackest water that ever flowed through society. I have often thought that Sidney Smith must have been an unhappy man. If I remember right Shuter, the famous comic-actor, was once serious, and went to hear Whitefield preach, and frequently conversed with him; and among other things, he alluded to this very thing, — the burden of being obliged in all companies to make them laugh. If a good man ever says a pleasant thing, it must be in company where there are no expectations. Pleasant things rise up in conversation like bubbles on a pure stream, winding beneath the shades, and free in its winding. It is a great fault to talk too much. swift to hear, slow to speak," is a rule authority. If you will put your hands up, you will find that you have two ears and but one tongue. And if you go into company and see three chairs arranged side by side and you take the middle one, and two ladies are seated beside you, one on your right hand and one on your left, you will find you have an ear for each of them, and you have but one tongue, while they together have two, and it would be very strange if both their tongues could not run, to say the least, as fast as your one. This seems to be an indication of Providence that you should be full as ready to hear as to speak. Do not, then, occupy the time that belongs to others.

"Let every man be supported by divine

Dr. Johnson was not a good private converser; he was only tolerable when in the chair of instruction. The same may be said of Coleridge. He never talked; he only preached. Do not go into society to soliloquize; do not be violent; do not attitudinize; do not be surly; do not wound any one's feelings; do not growl like a lion, nor chatter like a monkey. Never play the mimic, certainly not in general company. In a word, maintain your ease without letting down your dignity; be playful, but not vulgar; sweet, but not insipid; copious, but not overflowing; learned without pedantry, and serious without gloom. For the most opposite excellences do not imply by their combination an impossible perfection.

There are few people that touch the summit of excellence in the art of conversation. Just as among the swallows that fly around a steeple, it is only a part of the number that settle on the vane. Various reasons may be suggested for this. Men of copious minds do not always pour out their effusions in a crystal stream. Some are irritable, some sullen; some have lost their tongues over their folios; some are sensitive; some tremblingly alive to their own reputation, and hazard nothing without preparation. But one of the most common causes why a man of ability fails in conversation is a double surface to his heart and a double tone to his tongue. He is like a tree that gives its fading blossoms before its flourishing fruit. He talks from a superficial consciousness, that is, he rattles away without the least effort, pouring out his first thoughts in his first language. Goldsmith was an example. Everybody that had read his books, was disappointed when they heard him talk. It was said of him, "he wrote like an angel, and talked like a parrot." Some could not believe that he was the author of his own "Traveller." It was a wonder that a man could have been so wise and so silly. The phenomenon is easily accounted for: he went into company in his mental undress. His reputation as an able man was secure; he could not talk that away. Most of us are kept straight by a regard to our reputation. If we talk like fools we shall be treated like fools. But