acute remarks, admirable banter,
pictures sketched with brilliant precision, all sparkled and flowed
without elaboration, were poured out without disdain, but without
effort, and were exquisitely expressed and delicately appreciated. The
men of the world especially were conspicuous for their really artistic
grace and spirit.

Elsewhere in Europe you will find elegant manners, cordiality, genial
fellowship, and knowledge; but only in Paris, in this drawing-room,
and those to which I have alluded, does the particular wit abound which
gives an agreeable and changeful unity to all these social qualities,
an indescribable river-like flow which makes this profusion of ideas, of
definitions, of anecdotes, of historical incidents, meander with ease.
Paris, the capital of taste, alone possesses the science which makes
conversation a tourney in which each type of wit is condensed into a
shaft, each speaker utters his phrase and casts his experience in a
word, in which every one finds amusement, relaxation, and exercise.
Here, then, alone, will you exchange ideas; here you need not, like the
dolphin in the fable, carry a monkey on your shoulders; here you will
be understood, and will not risk staking your gold pieces against base
metal.

Here, again, secrets neatly betrayed, and talk, light or deep, play and
eddy, changing their aspect and hue at every phrase. Eager criticism and
crisp anecdotes lead on from one to the next. All eyes are listening,
a gesture asks a question, and an expressive look gives the answer. In
short, and in a word, everything is wit and mind.

The phenomenon of speech, which, when duly studied and well handled,
is the power of the actor and the story-teller, had never so completely
bewitched me. Nor was I alone under the influence of its spell; we all
spent a delightful evening. The conversation had drifted into anecdote,
and brought out in its rushing course some curious confessions,
several portraits, and a thousand follies, which make this enchanting
improvisation impossible to record; still, by setting these things
down in all their natural freshness and abruptness, their elusive
divarications, you may perhaps feel the charm of a real French evening,
taken at the moment when the most engaging familiarity makes each one
forget his own interests, his personal conceit, or, if you like, his
pretensions.

At about two in the morning, as supper ended, no one was left sitting
round the table but intimate