erhaps one of the great social faults of the American is, that he does not amuse himself enough, at least in a cheerful, innocent manner. We are never jolly. We are terribly troubled about our dignity. All other nations, the French, the German, the Italian, and even the dull English, have their relaxation, their merry-making; but we—why, a political or prayer-meeting is about the most hilarious affair in which we ever indulge. The French peasant has his ducas almost every week, when in some rustic orchard, lighted with variegated lamps, ornamented with showy booths, he dances the merry hours away with Pauline and Josephine, or sips his glass of wine with the chosen of his heart in a canvas cabaret, whilst the music of a band and the voices of a hundred merry laughers regale his ears. He has, too, numberless fÊtes, which he celebrates with masquerades and other undignified kinds of jollification. At these entertainments all are welcome, high and low, and all conduct themselves with a politeness worthy of our best society—only more. We, the writer of this, have often and often danced at these bals champÊtres with a hired girl, a cook, or a nurse for our partner. Does it not sound plebeian? The Germans enjoy endless festivals and gift periods, when they have the meanness to offer each other little presents "that an't worth more than two or three cents;" but they are tokens of love and kindness, which make them all feel better and happier. Then our grumpy friend, John Bull, has his free-and-easies, and his cosy tavern parlor-meetings, and song-singings, and his dinner-parties, and his tea-fights, at which latter, be the host rich or poor, you will get a good cup of tea, and tender muffins, and buttered toast, and cake, and shrimps, and fresh radishes, and Scotch marmalade, or similar delicacies.

A delightful repast and a cosy chat, followed, perhaps, by a rubber of whist and a glass of wine or whiskey-punch, or mug of ale, according to the condition of the entertainer; then there is a general "unbending of the bow," and no one is troubled about his dignity. We have seen, ourselves, in England, in a stately old castle, a party of lords and ladies—for we, like the boy who knew what good victuals were, having been from home several times—even we have seen good company—we say that we have seen a party of lords and ladies, knights and dames of high degree, and of mature years, romping and frolicking together, like a lot of children, playing Hunt the Slipper, Puss in the Corner, and Blindman's Buff, without the remotest idea that they had such a thing as dignity to take care of; and no one seemed to have the slightest fear that any one of the party could by any possibility do anything that would offend or mortify any one else. The fact is, gentlemen or gentlewomen can do anything; all depends on the way of doing it. If you are a snob, for heaven's sake don't be playful; keep a stiff upper lip and look grave; it is your only safety.

However, we are improving. We have skating clubs. We play cricket and base ball. We dine later, and take things a trifle more leisurely. Theatre-going, our chief amusement, can hardly be reckoned a healthy relaxation, though well enough now and then. Sitting in a cramped attitude, in a stifling atmosphere, is not conducive to moral or physical development. What we need are informal social gatherings, where we may laugh much and think little, and where dignity won't be invited; where we need not make ourselves ill with bad champagne and ice-starch, nor go into the other extreme of platitudes, ice-water and doughnuts: but where both body and mind will be treated considerately, tenderly, generously.

Now we are going to give a few hints that may help to make little meetings such as we mention pass pleasantly; and should any of our austere readers be afraid to risk our programme in full, they can call in the children and make them shoulder the responsibility. "It is," you can say, "a child's party," and then you can enjoy all the fun yourself. The juveniles will not object.

If merely for the purpose of promoting conversation, something ought to be done, on all occasions of social gatherings, something to talk about, something that will afford people an excuse for getting from their seats, something to bring people together, something to break the ice. We have seen a whole party of very estimable people sit round the room for hours together in an agony of silence, only broken now and then by a small remark fired off by some desperate individual, in the forlorn hope that he would bring on a general conversation.

In our little sketches we shall be discursive, erratic, and unsystematic, just as the fancy takes us. Still, there will be a method in our madness; we shall try to give in each chapter a programme somewhat suited to some one season, and of sufficient variety and quantity to afford amusement for one evening.