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People are so fond of talking about their troubles and griefs. The greater the sorrow, the greater the discussion. They call up tears to their eyes, as if the subject were too sacred to approach. But such tears are kept for the purpose. They come at their bidding, and fall as naturally into their place as if the exhibition had been practiced beforehand. It is a positive enjoyment to such people to detail their grievances.

With the lower classes, this, so to speak, gloating over your losses is even more apparent. One comparatively well-to-do woman I know, seems to have a monopoly of funerals. There is always some relation dead, and off she goes with an important air, draped from head to foot in black; the picture of “loathed melancholy” outwardly; inwardly, glowing with pride; while all her neighbors stand outside their doors, literally consumed with jealousy at her good fortune! And then the terrible moment of her return, when you are obliged, whether you will or not, to listen to the whole account, the description, the progress, and finally the interment of “the corpse”! I hope, however dead I may be one day, that I shall never be described as “a corpse”! There is something so horrible in the word, I always think. It makes you even more dead than you are. It cuts you so absolutely off from the living.

Then there are those tiresome people who talk of nothing but their own families. The mother from whom you hear all the ailments of her children if they are young, all the conquests of her daughters if they are old. The sisters, to prevent the accusation of vanity, do not praise themselves, but arrive at the same end by lauding up each other! These “mutual admiration” families, as Wilkie Collins so aptly terms them, are families to be shunned.

You do not very often come across men on these “at home” days. If they are in the house, they wisely avoid the drawing-room; and if you ever do meet one, he is sure to be a very milk-and-water young man–one who delights in small talk and small matters; or else a curate.

I met one of the former class the other day. He was a dreadful specimen! A large head, a bland smile, a vacant stare, and an enormous capacity for eating!

He came and sat by me when I first arrived; but when he made a slip of the tongue, and I brought it to his notice kindly, but firmly, he went away and sulked for the rest of the afternoon.

He was talking about the recent muzzling order, and added, in quick little tones, “They are talking about muzzling cats, I see.”

“But cats do not bite,” I objected.

“No,” in mild surprise at my ignorance; “but they scratch.”

“And do they intend to muzzle their paws?” I asked, smiling; adding a suggestion that two pairs of goloshes apiece would answer the purpose admirably, besides having the combined advantage of keeping the poor things from rheumatism!

But he did not smile. He saw nothing funny in what he had said. He thought I was laughing at him, and so left me at the very first opportunity, and went and sat by himself at the tea table. I could not very well see what he was doing, for his back was turned; howbeit it was a very eloquent back–a back which appeared absorbed in bread and butter and cakes! He must have cleared the table, I should think, before he had finished!

It certainly is not nice to be caught up suddenly and made to appear foolish. If you ever make a mistake, the best way is to confess it at once, to tell the tale yourself. It sounds very different from your lips than from those of your dearest friends. People laugh, but it is a laugh that lacks the sting it would have if someone else told it at your expense.