he invariably achieves the same disagreeable result, namely, to silence every body else, and keep the field entirely to himself. Of such a person we shall say with Jacques, “I have been all day to avoid him. He is too ‘disputable’ for my company. I think of as many matters as he: but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast.” There are two words in the English language which really comprise all the rules, laws, and regulations necessary for the good government of conversation, and these are “brevity,” “reciprocity.” If each individual would remember when he takes part in conversation that there are others to do so as well as himself, he would necessarily be brief in his own performances. And this brevity has many advantages. Our time is short; our meetings together for conversation are commonly, like angels’ visits, “few and far between,” and in general short; tediousness is the sure destroyer, as brevity is “the soul,” of wit, and therefore he that would enliven his hearers, and dispose them to hear him again, should be above all things “short.” It is acting upon the second golden line, also, and shows a proper consideration for the rights of others. It is doing as a man would be done by. In addition to which, we may observe, that each should listen, if he desire to be listened to--should hear, if he desire to be heard in return. Thus these two words “brevity” and “reciprocity” form a concise but plain and simple code upon the subject. Much might be said, indeed, in the way of commentary; but commentary sometimes tends rather to obscure than to elucidate, and in this case is manifestly uncalled for. It must be remembered, however, that these laws can only conduce to the _improvement_ and _regulation_ of conversational intercourse, but are wholly inadequate to _originate_ or _insure_ that “good talking” of which the report has come down to us. This is an object not to be accomplished by rule. The proverb of the wise man says that “out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh;” and we may safely affirm that where there is plenty of matter weighing upon the mind, and where it is of a kind that interests the feelings, there will be at least no lack of utterance. Under an opposite state of things, a contrary result may be expected, and cannot, by any rule of art that we have ever heard of, be contravened. But we must proclaim a truce with this train of observation. We feel that we have been twaddling after the manner of some of our elder essayists, oblivious of the age in which we actually exist. Who has time to think _now_ of good talking, or of talking at all?