ins who are said to look their best by lamplight. And
doubtless this is an excellent thing, and not without its advantages.
But for my part, commend me to one who loses nothing by the early
morning illumination,--one who brings all her attractions with her when
she comes down to breakfast,--she is a very pleasant maid.

Talk is that form of human speech which is exempt from all duties,
foreign and domestic. It is the nearest thing in the world to thinking
and feeling aloud. It is necessarily not for publication,--solely an
evidence of good faith and mutual kindness. You tell me what you have
seen and what you are thinking about, because you take it for granted
that it will interest and entertain me; and you listen to my replies and
the recital of my adventures and opinions, because you know I like
to tell them, and because you find something in them, of one kind or
another, that you care to hear. It is a nice game, with easy, simple
rules, and endless possibilities of variation. And if we go into it
with the right spirit, and play it for love, without heavy stakes, the
chances are that if we happen to be fairly talkable people we shall have
one of the best things in the world,--a mighty good talk.

What is there in this anxious, hide-bound, tiresome existence of ours,
more restful and remunerative? Montaigne says, "The use of it is more
sweet than of any other action of life; and for that reason it is that,
if I were compelled to choose, I should sooner, I think, consent to lose
my sight than my hearing and speech." The very aimlessness with which
it proceeds, the serene disregard of all considerations of profit and
propriety with which it follows its wandering course, and brings up
anywhere or nowhere, to camp for the night, is one of its attractions.
It is like a day's fishing, not valuable chiefly for the fish you bring
home, but for the pleasant country through which it leads you, and the
state of personal well-being and health in which it leaves you, warmed,
and cheered, and content with life and friendship.

The order in which you set out upon a talk, the path which you pursue,
the rules which you observe or disregard, make but little difference
in the end. You may follow the advice of Immanuel Kant if you like, and
begin with the weather and the roads, and go on to current events, and
wind up with history, art, and philosophy. Or you may reverse the order
if you prefer, like that admirable talker Clarence King,