ttained the standing of a science whose rationale
is pretty well understood and established, and the subject is no longer
an affording subject for anecdote. Sulphites can even listen to tales
of Oriental magic, miraculously-growing trees, disappearing boys and
what-not, without suggesting that the audience was mesmerized. Above
all, the Sulphite recognizes as a principle that, if a story is really
funny, it is probably untrue, and he does not seek to give an adjuvant
relish to it, by dilating with verisimilitude upon the authenticity of
the facts in the case. But your Bromide is impressive and asserts, "I
knew the man that died!" The Sulphite, too, has little need for
euphemisms. He can speak of birth and death without metaphor.

But to the Bromide all such matters of fact and fancy are perpetually
picturesque, and, a discoverer, he leaps up and shouts out
enthusiastically that two and two are four, and defends his statement
with eloquent logic. Each scene, each incident has its magic
spell--like the little woolly toy lamb, he presses the fact, and
"_ba--ba_" the appropriate sentiment comes forth. Does he have,
back in the shadows of his mind, perhaps, the ghost of a perception
that the thing has been said before? Who can tell! But, if he does,
his vanity exorcises the spirit. Bromides seldom listen to one
another; they are content with talk for talk's sake, and so escape
all chance of education. It is this fact, most likely, which has
endowed the bromidiom with immortality. Never heard, it seems always
new, appropriate, clever.

No, it Isn't so much the things they say, as the way they say them! Do
you not recall the smug, confident look, the assurance of having said a
particularly happy thing? They come inevitably as the alarm clock; when
the hands of circumstance touch the hour, the bromidic remark will
surely go off.

* * * * *

But, lest one make too much of this particular symptom, let us consider
a few other tendencies. The Bromide has no surprises for you. When you
see one enter a room, you must reconcile yourself to the inevitable. No
hope for flashes of original thought, no illuminating, newer point of
view, no sulphitic flashes of fancy--the steady glow of bromidic
conversation and action is all one can hope for. He may be wise and
good, he may be loved and respected--but he lives inland; he puts not
forth to sea. He is there when you want him, always the same.

Bromides a