It is quite the reverse in France.  “I arrived there in 1774,"[2] says an English gentleman, “having just left the house of my father, who never came home from Parliament until three o’clock in the morning, and who was busy the whole morning correcting the proofs of his speech for the newspapers, and who, after hastily kissing us, with an absorbed air, went out to a political dinner. . . .  In France I found men of the highest rank enjoying perfect leisure.  They had interviews with the ministers but only to exchange compliments; in other respects they knew as little about the public affairs of France as they did about those of Japan; and less of local affairs than of general affairs, having no knowledge of their peasantry other than that derived from the accounts of their stewards.  If one of them, bearing the title of governor, visited a province, it was, as we have seen, for outward parade; whilst the intendant carried on the administration, he exhibited himself with grace and magnificence by giving receptions and dinners.  To receive, to give dinners, to entertain guests agreeably is the sole occupation of a grand seignior; hence it is that religion and government only serve him as subjects of conversation.  The conversation, moreover, occurs between him and his equals, and a man may say what he pleases in good company.  Moreover the social system turns on its own axis, like the sun, from time immemorial, through its own energy, and shall it be deranged by what is said in the drawing-room?  In any event he does not control its motion and he is not responsible.  Accordingly there is no uneasy undercurrent, no morose preoccupation in his mind.  Carelessly and boldly he follows in the track of his philosophers; detached from affairs he can give himself up to ideas, just as a young man of family, on leaving college, lays hold of some principle, deduces its consequences, and forms a system for himself without concerning himself about its application[3].

Nothing is more enjoyable than this speculative inspiration.  The mind soars among the summits as if it had wings; it embraces vast horizons in a glance, taking in all of human life, the economy of the world, the origin of the universe, of religions and of societies.  Where, accordingly, would conversation be if people abstained from philosophy?  What circle is that in which serious political problems and profound criticism are not admitted?  And what motive brings intellectual people together if not the desire to debate questions of the highest importance? — For two centuries in France the conversation has been related to all that, and hence its great charm.  Strangers find it irresistible; nothing like it is found at home; Lord Chesterfield sets it forth as an example: 

“It always turns, he says, on some point in history, on criticism or even philosophy which is much better suited to rational beings than our English discussions about the weather and whist.”