Well-bred persons, abhorring the pedantry of the blues, are usually _anti-blues_, or _ultra-antis_. But though there exists in a certain circle a natural honest aversion to every thing like wit or learning, is it absolutely certain that if taking thought won’t do it, taking none will do? They are determined, they declare, to have easy conversation, or none. But let the ease be high-bred and silent as possible--let it be the repose of the Transcendental--the death-like silence of the Exclusive in the perfumed atmosphere of the Exquisite; then begins the danger of going to sleep--desperate danger. In these high circles are to be found, _apparently_, the most sleepy of all animated beings. _Apparently_, I say, because, on close observation, it will usually be found that, like the spider, who, from fear, counterfeits death, these, from pride, counterfeit sleep. They will sometimes pretend to be asleep for hours together, when any person or persons are near whom they do not choose to notice. They lie stretched on sofas, rolled up in shawls most part of the day, quite empty. At certain hours of the night, found congregated, sitting up dressed, on beds of roses, back to back, with eyes scarce open. They are observed to give sign of animation only on the approach of a blue--their antipathy. They then look at each other, and shrink. That the _sham-sleeping bore_ is a delicate creature, I shall not dispute, but they are intolerably tiresome. For my own part, I would rather give up the honour and the elegance, and go to the antipodes at once, and live with their antagonists, the _lion-hunters_--yea, the _lion-loving_ bores.