How comes it that the evil which men say spreads so widely and lasts so long, whilst our good, kind words don’t seem somehow to take root and bear blossom?  Is it that in the stony hearts of mankind these pretty flowers can’t find a place to grow?  Certain it is that scandal is good, brisk talk, whereas praise of one’s neighbor is by no means lively hearing.  An acquaintance grilled, scored, devilled, and served with mustard and cayenne pepper, excites the appetite; whereas a slice of cold friend with currant jelly is but a sickly, unrelishing meat.

Now, such being the case, my dear worthy Mrs. Candor, in whom I know there are a hundred good and generous qualities:  it being perfectly clear that the good things which we say of our neighbors don’t fructify, but somehow perish in the ground where they are dropped, whilst the evil words are wafted by all the winds of scandal, take root in all sods, and flourish amazingly—­seeing, I say, that this conversation does not give us a fair chance, suppose we give up censoriousness altogether, and decline uttering our opinions about Brown, Jones, and Robinson (and Mesdames B., J., and R.) at all.  We may be mistaken about every one of them, as, please goodness, those anecdote-mongers against whom I have uttered my meek protest have been mistaken about me.  We need not go to the extent of saying that Mrs. Manning was an amiable creature, much misunderstood; and Jack Thurtell a gallant, unfortunate fellow, not near so black as he was painted; but we will try and avoid personalities altogether in talk, won’t we?  We will range the fields of science, dear madam, and communicate to each other the pleasing results of our studies.  We will, if you please, examine the infinitesimal wonders of nature through the microscope.  We will cultivate entomology.  We will sit with our arms round each other’s waists on the pons asinorum, and see the stream of mathematics flow beneath.  We will take refuge in cards, and play at “beggar my neighbor,” not abuse my neighbor.  We will go to the Zoological Gardens and talk freely about the gorilla and his kindred, but not talk about people who can talk in their turn.  Suppose we praise the High Church? we offend the Low Church.  The Broad Church?  High and Low are both offended.  What do you think of Lord Derby as a politician?  And what is your opinion of Lord Palmerston?  If you please, will you play me those lovely variations of “In my cottage near a wood?” It is a charming air (you know it in French, I suppose?  Ah! te dirai-je, maman!) and was a favorite with poor Marie Antoinette.  I say “poor,” because I have a right to speak with pity of a sovereign who was renowned for so much beauty and so much misfortune.  But as for giving any opinion on her conduct, saying that she was good or bad, or indifferent, goodness forbid!  We have agreed we will not be censorious.  Let us have a game at cards—­at ecarte, if you please.  You deal.  I ask for cards.  I lead the deuce of clubs. . . .