versation upon any special occasion with as much pains as they prepare their toilet, for they know that no matter what they may wear, a heavy, uninteresting tongue may spoil it all.

No amount of natural ability or education or good clothes, no amount of money, will make you appear well if you murder the English language.

The truth of this was vividly brought home to me at a gathering some time since. I was profoundly impressed by the striking figure and imposing appearance of a stranger present. I could not keep my eyes from him, and sought an introduction. But the moment the man opened his mouth the bubble burst. The great hopes which his noble appearance had raised were shattered the instant he began to talk, for the poverty and awkwardness of his language betrayed a total absence of culture.

Nothing will indicate your culture or lack of it so much as your conversation—the words you use. Your conversation will give your whole history. A discerning mind can analyze your past by it. It is easy to give a picture of your environment, the kind of people you have lived with, whether the vulgar and common or the educated and refined. What you say will give the world the true measure of your manhood or womanhood.

Many people are troubled by not being able to find topics for conversation. They are in the position of Artemus Ward, who, when called upon to make a speech without a chance to prepare,

said, "I have the gift of oratory, but I haven't it just now with me." These people have the gift of speech, but they have nothing ready to say.

There is a good suggestion for them in the advice which Longfellow once gave to a young friend: "See some good picture,—in nature, if possible, or on a canvas,—hear a page of the best music, or read a great poem every day. You will always find a free half hour for one or the other, and at the end of the year your mind will shine with such an accumulation of jewels as will astonish even yourself."

Read good books, a good newspaper and some of the best magazines and, if you live in a city, go to a good play, an opera or a concert, whenever

you can.

All these things will give you food for thought and raw material for conversation. Practise talking about anything and everything you see and hear and read, your experiences during the day, whatever interests you or arouses your attention. There is practically no limit to the topics of conversation available to the keen observer, the intelligent reader and thinker. Make use of these topics.

Form a conversation club in your neighborhood and get together one or two evenings a week to talk. In these days there are few places so remote from civilization that one cannot get books and magazines and newspapers; and none so sparsely populated that there will not be enough

young people to form a reading and conversation circle.

Follow the lines adopted by a young woman in New York, who has recently formed such a circle for young society débutantes, many of whom, according to this bright woman, need drill in interesting conversation.

"The time has passed," she says, "when men do not want intelligence in a woman. Life is so much keener to-day that beauty no longer satisfies the average man; he demands responsive interest in the affairs of the day.

"So," she said, in outlining her work to an interviewer, "I'm gathering a group of the debutantes about me here in the Plaza Hotel once a week, very informally, to discuss the affairs of the day. I want to interest them in something beside the society column of the newspaper. I don't lecture to them, I just try to call to their attention the movements and projects in various fields with which intelligent people are concerned; topics that they may like to watch, so new, still, so up to the minute, that they have not yet found their way into books. I want to encourage the broadest scope of interests, the broadest world views.

"One week we discussed diplomacy and the sort of work which our representatives, our consuls and ambassadors in foreign lands are called upon to do.

"We are also interested in the merchant marine, particularly since that question is being debated in

Congress. That is one of the romantic subjects; it is interesting to compare the 'clippers' of old with the racing yachts of to-day.

"Most girls enjoy learning about interesting things when they are not conscious they are being instructed.

"When we talk about the drama of to-day I shall have photographs of the leading lights in the dramatic world.

"My aim having these talks for—or with— debutantes is not to tell them what to think on any subject, but to carry out the thought with which Demosthenes used to conclude his orations, 'I beg of you to think.' "

"I beg of you to think." If you do, and if you act as well, any young man or woman, either in town or country, can readily do what this lady is doing in New York.

In practising conversation, don't make the mistake of being always serious or solemn. Conversation is not preaching, although some people seem to think it is. They are always delivering monologues, little preachments; they can not, seemingly, talk in any other way. They have an idea that conversation must always and everywhere be a serious educative matter, that people should converse only to improve their minds, to increase their knowledge, that there should be no frivolity or lightness about it. One might just as well say theaters only to improve their

people should go to

minds; that they must not go for enjoyment, for the purpose of being entertained. A monotonous, heavy conversation has about the same effect upon the mind as the resting of the eye for a long time upon a single solid color, like red or green. The monotony tires the nerves of the eye and the brain, and as the constant changing of color, the variety that passes before the eye, rests it so is the changing of the tone of conversation from grave to gay, from serious to light and playful, restful to the mind.

A popular society woman counseling a debutante protegee on behavior is quoted as saying, "Talk, talk, talk. It does not matter much what you say, but chatter away lightly and gaily. Nothing embarrasses and bores the average man so much as a girl who has to be entertained."

Light, frothy talk can hardly be called conversation, but it has its uses and is very valuable on occasion. It relieves monotony, and in any event, provided it is not ill-natured, is better than an awkward, embarrassing silence. The touch and go of society talkers, the small talk of social intercourse, has its place in the repertory of the skilled conversationalist as well as more serious subjects.

What has been said of pudding,—that it is not so much the flour and eggs as the sugar and spices and extracts that make it pleasant to the taste,— may be said with equal truth of conversation. It is not so much the flour and eggs, the solid facts,