that a man who is perfectly master of the
subject in discussion, from the effect of shyness or embarrassment, will
convey his information with such an appearance of awkwardness and
hesitation, as to create a temporary suspicion of dulness, or of
incapacity. But upon further examination, the true and sterling value of
his remarks is easily discernible. The same can very seldom be said of a
Frenchman. His conversation, which delights at the moment, generally
fades upon recollection. The information of the first is like a
beautiful gem, whose real value is concealed by the encrustation with
which it is covered; the other is a dazzling but sorry paste in a
brilliant setting. [47]"Un Francais," says M. de Stael, with great
truth, "scait encore parler, lors meme il n'a point d'idees;" and the
reason why a Frenchman can do so is, because ideas, which are the
essential requisites in conversation to any other man, are not so to
him. He is in possession of many substitutes, composed of a few of those
set phrases and accommodating sentences which fit into any subject; and
these, mixed up with appropriate nods, significant gestures, and above
all, with the characteristic shrugging of the shoulders, are ever ready
at hand when the tide of his ideas may happen to run shallow.

The perpetual cheerfulness of the French, under almost every situation,
is well known, and has been repeatedly remarked. One great secret by
which they contrive to preserve this invariable levity of mind, is
probably this extraordinary talent of theirs for a particular kind of
conversation. An Englishman, engaged in the business and duties of life,
even at his hours of relaxation, is occupied in thinking upon them. In
the midst of company he is often an insulated being; his mind, refusing
intercourse with those around him, retires within itself. In this manner
he inevitably becomes, even in his common hours, grave and serious, and
if under misfortunes, perhaps melancholy and morose. A Frenchman is in
every respect a different being: He cannot be grave or unhappy, because
he never allows himself time to become so. His mind is perpetually
busied with the affairs of the moment. If he is in company, he speaks,
without introduction, to every gentleman in the room. Any thing, the
most trivial, serves him for a hook on which to hang his story; and this
generally lasts as long as he has breath to carry him on. He recounts to
you, the first hour you meet with him, his wh