Do not do all the talking; give your tired listener a chance.

He.—You haven't asked me about my golden discovery.

She.—Oh, dear! is there still another rule to learn? You know, we have already had four.

He.—No; this isn't a rule. I have about come to the conclusion that people are charming in proportion as they can rise above the commonplace. Of course they must observe all our golden rules, but this observance alone will not make them interesting in conversation. Last night, for example, I never was so greatly bored as when talking with a young lady to whom I had been recently introduced. She was so well bred that she observed all the golden rules from A to Z, and yet she was tiresome beyond endurance, simply because she hadn't a soul. She was a Philistine of the deepest dye. I must say that I am so conventional, in a way, that I eschew Bohemianism, but an out-and-out Philistine,—give me a Bohemian every time.

She.—Then, I suppose that Golden Rule Number V. would be: "Acquire a soul,—and assume one if you have it not."

He.—I suppose it is innate—one's soul, which to me stands for one's love of the beautiful—for the ideal. You see, whatever you speak about, you lift out of the commonplace. Life seems quite "worth the while," when I am with you. All the inspiring things—books, music, painting—take on a new meaning when we talk about them. Last evening my newly-made acquaintance and I discussed these subjects, but they did not interest me. Julia Marlowe, whom she had just seen, was merely a pretty woman who dressed perfectly; the latest book was something that bored, but that had to be read because everybody else was reading it. Music was an unknown quantity. What shall we do with Philistines like this?

She.—Leave them to their idols. They will not be alone, for there are many to keep them company. The trouble with many persons is that they do not cultivate an admiration for the beautiful—beautiful pictures, exquisite music, delightful books. They live in a world of materialism. Handsome houses, exquisite paintings, well-filled libraries are to them mere possessions—valuable because they are the embodied insignia of wealth. The person of high ideals delights in the beautiful, because it brings him into harmony with that perfection for which he strives. In a beautiful painting, he sees the reaching out of the artist to produce not what is, but what should be; in a great literary production, the master intellect that can mold words as wax in the hands of an artisan; in beautiful music, the soul of the composer who can make one feel all that he has felt when under the magic sway of harmony; and, so, beautiful things are loved, not alone for themselves, but for what they represent; for nothing beautiful has ever existed without its master creator—the power behind the throne—where the monarch beauty is at the beck and call of that giant—intellect.

He.—Then, if we are to belong to the class who love the beautiful or what it represents, we are to cultivate our souls—that part of us which brings us en rapport with the divine in the universe. We are not to be sordid; we must not wish simply to possess—we must cultivate a love for the ideal—for what the beautiful represents.

She.—Yes; and this can be done. In our modern schools, the best in literature, in art, in music, is brought to the children. The child of to-day learns of Mozart, of Handel, of Wagner, and hears their music. He sees representations of great masterpieces of art, and learns to love the beautiful Madonnas of Raphael—to know the paintings of Rosa Bonheur—of Jean Francois Millet. This education can not fail to instill in children a love for the beautiful. To them the world takes on a roseate tinge, while their minds eventually become store-houses in which are garnered the treasured thoughts of the ages. Nothing in every-day life can be wholly commonplace; each peculiar incident in life, each peculiar mood of nature brings its accompanying suggestion.

He.—Do you know, you are saying what I should like to say, but what I cannot find words to express. Possibly, that is one reason why I enjoy your society more than that of all others—because you say the things that I would say, if I could but express my thoughts. It is for this reason that we admire an author, because he puts into words what we think; what we feel.

She.—I think we should add Golden Rule Number V. to our list, namely, Do not do all the talking; give your tired listener an opportunity to speak.

He.—I am sure that I would rather listen than talk when you are with me.

She.—I am half inclined to believe you, for you are certainly perfect—as a listener.