been made in advance, they could not demand
even so much as a quarter's notice for the
sudden removal of their young lady-boarder.

OUR COUSINS' CONVERSATION.

THERE is, I think, a prevalent but erroneous
impression in England that the Americans are a
talkative people. Recent experience in the
way of travel in the States has convinced me
that this is not the case. Among the upper
million of refined and well-educated ladies and
gentlemen there are numbers of good
conversationalists who do not hide their light under a
bushel; and even those who are not so richly
endowed with the "gift of the gab" talk as
much as all who mix in good society in
England do—some from a sincere love of an
interchange of ideas, and a traffic in gossip; others
from motives of courtesy and politeness. An
American lady, for instance, however beautiful,
does not rely solely on the silent eloquence of
her personal charms; but will chat to you about
the war, politics, slavery, the last sensation
novel, the last style of head-dress in Paris, her
baby's teething, or her husband's aversion to
theatres. Young girls at home from school
during the holidays, who would be blushing
"bread-and-butter misses" in the old country,
will ask you an infinite variety of questions with
the utmost sang froid, and none of them of an
inquisitive or prying character. I was six
months among Our Cousins of all ranks and
degrees, and was only once asked whether I
was married or single. I hope I was not so
uninteresting as to fail in inspiring curiosity, or so
egotistical and communicative as to have
dispensed with all need for cross-examination.
But, unless I volunteered an account of my
pedigree and social position, I don't think that
my most intimate acquaintances knew whether
I was descended from kings and princes, or
the scion of a long line of shoe-blacks; and as to
my profession or calling, they did not care to
discover whether I was a bagman or a barrister-
at-law. The upper million have become far
less inquisitive, and the lower millions less
talkative, than when I first visited Yankeedom
more than twenty-five years ago.

The general run of ordinary folk with seedy-
dark clothes, square-toed boots, and strangely-
shaped hats, are so silent—so persistently and
pertinaciously silent—that a stranger naturally
thinks that this taciturnity must arise from
melancholy or moroseness. But this is not the
case. The majority can afford to be taciturn
because he is occupied with the inevitable
"quid;" he can "chaw" and think simultaneously;
and expectoration is a pastime which
does not hinder cogitation the most profound.
A good many are thinking of the last bargain
they have made, or the next they are likely to
make. They are meditating on the "Almighty
dollar," just as we go through elaborate
processes of ratiocination here about the omnipotent
sovereign and the not useless shilling; but
they don't talk about it so much, if they think
more. They are such keen folk, and have to
deal with fellow-citizens so keen, that a trader
must not waste his acuteness in conversation,
but reserve it for action. The climate, also,
may have something to do with this phenomenon,
I can bear witness that in summer it was
sometimes too hot to talk, and in winter it may be
occasionally too cold. Then again they read
incessantly—books and magazines to a fair
extent, but newspapers for ever. A journal, and
a cake of honeydew for "chawing" purposes,
are meat and drink to a travelling American,
Northerner or Southerner, in the absence of the
two usual supports of human life. In the railway
cars I have travelled miles and miles without
hearing the exchange of two words. The
well known Latin grammar quotation, Vir sapit,
qui pauca loquitur, should be inscribed on the
panels of the cars, and on the walls of the newsrooms
of the hotels, not as a caution, but as a
truism well known and regularly practised. In
churches and libraries I have now and then
overheard a little talking; but that merely, in
all probability, arose from the wayward tendencies
of the "child of freedom" to assert his
independence by the violation of established
custom.

I loafed about the Parker House, Boston, the
whole of the incessantly wet day last spring,
when the damp wires were reluctantly
transmitting the unwelcome news of the disastrous
defeat at Chancellorsville. I was vigilantly
watching the manners and customs of the
natives; prying ruthlessly into their wounded
pride, chagrin, and disappointment. Grief makes
some folk talkative and others taciturn. The
men of Massachusetts fell into the latter phase
of suffering. I lounged in chairs and sofas,
gazed out on the deluge in the streets, walked
now into the news-room where smoking was
allowed, now into that where it was prohibited—
all was silence in both. The dumb misery was
very oppressive; and nothing varied its wearisome
monotony but the frequently recurring
opportunities of purchasing the "latest extras,"
or last editions of the daily papers. The little
Irish boys drove a tremendous trade that
soaking dismal day in Boston. They were, I
think, the only personages in the hotel who
exercised their faculties of speech that morning,
and it was quite comforting in the midst of the
flood of rain and disagreeable intelligence to
hear that brogue which neither time nor travel
can entirely take away. Nor did the bad weather
and the bad news tend to fill " the bar." Our
Cousins very wisely " liquor up " in prosperity,
and in adversity shun the tap: a proof of their
sagacity; for a man may sometimes drink with
impunity if he is sailing with the wind,
whereas, if he drinks when it is ahead, he will
be obliged to " tack" in more senses than one.
There was one remarkable exception. I met
one old gentleman on the staircase who had
evidently solaced his sorrows with a copious
supply of stimulants. He was by very slow
advances descending the stairs, and clung to