In spite of the tea you are invariably given on such occasions, I
think calls--formal calls--are some of the most dreadful experiences
Mrs. Grundy obliges you to undergo. I dislike them immensely, and
always get out of them if possible. I hope servants do not afterwards
record the expression of my countenance when they tell me their
mistress is "out." It is radiant with an unholy joy!

These dreadful "at home" days, too, are so provoking. If you know a
dozen people in a neighborhood, you can only call on one at a time.
They all have different days! This may seem slightly impossible; but
it is not indeed. While one lady's house is open to visitors on the
first and third Wednesdays in the month, another is on view on the
second and fourth, and so on. Not two people agree!

Small talk, I think, is never so small as on these occasions. The poor
weather is thorougly worn out, a few mutual friends are picked to
pieces, and of course there is a discussion about dress. Sometimes you
hear some sad account of the lady's second cousin's daughter, and you
have immediately to clothe your countenance in a sober garb. You must
look grieved, and all the while not caring one straw if the cousin's
daughter has fits or gets insane, or anything else she cares to do.
You have never heard of her before, and therefore have not the
slightest interest in her eccentricities. I always feel so terribly
inclined to laugh, just because I ought to be doing the other thing.

People are so fond of talking about their troubles and griefs. The
greater the sorrow, the greater the discussion. They call up tears to
their eyes, as if the subject were too sacred to approach. But such
tears are kept for the purpose. They come at their bidding, and fall