Guests Are The Delight Of Leisure, And

Sensuality, Too, Which Used To Show Itself Course, Smiling, Unmasked, And Unmistakable, Is Now Serious, Analytic, And So Burdened With A Sense Of Its Responsibilities That It Passes Muster Half The Time As A New Type Of Asceticism.

What Strange Impulse Is It Which Induces Otherwise Truthful People To Say They Like Music When They Do Not, And Thus Expose Themselves To Hours Of Boredom?

The Gayety Of Life, Like The Beauty And The Moral Worth Of Life, Is A Saving Grace, Which To Ignore Is Folly, And To Destroy Is Crime. There Is No More Than We Need; There Is Barely Enough To Go Round.

[mary Wortley Montagu] Wrote More Letters, With Fewer Punctuation Marks, Than Any Englishwoman Of Her Day; And Her Nephew, The Fourth Baron Rokeby, Nearly Blinded Himself In Deciphering The Two Volumes Of Undated Correspondence Which Were Printed In 1810. Two More Followed In 1813, After Which The Gallant Baron Either Died At His Post Or Was Smitten With Despair; For Sixty-eight Cases Of Letters Lay Undisturbed ... 'les Morts N'écrivent Point,' Said Madame De Maintenon Hopefully; But Of What Benefit Is This Inactivity, When We Still Continue To Receive Their Letters?

But Self-satisfaction, If As Buoyant As Gas, Has An Ugly Trick Of Collapsing When Full Blown, And Facts Are Stony Things That Refuse To Melt Away In The Sunshine Of A Smile.