Mrs General had no opinions. Her way of forming

a mind was to prevent it from forming opinions. She had a little

circular set of mental grooves or rails on which she started little

trains of other people's opinions, which never overtook one another, and

never got anywhere. Even her propriety could not dispute that there was

impropriety in the world; but Mrs General's way of getting rid of it was

to put it out of sight, and make believe that there was no such thing.

This was another of her ways of forming a mind--to cram all articles of

difficulty into cupboards, lock them up, and say they had no existence.

It was the easiest way, and, beyond all comparison, the properest.

Mrs General was not to be told of anything shocking. Accidents,

miseries, and offences, were never to be mentioned before her. Passion

was to go to sleep in the presence of Mrs General, and blood was to

change to milk and water. The little that was left in the world,

when all these deductions were made, it was Mrs General's province to

varnish. In that formation process of hers, she dipped the smallest of

brushes into the largest of pots, and varnished the surface of every

object that came under consideration. The more cracked it was, the more

Mrs General varnished it. There was varnish in Mrs General's voice,

varnish in Mrs General's touch, an atmosphere of varnish round Mrs

General's figure. Mrs General's dreams ought to have been varnished--if

she had any--lying asleep in the arms of the good Saint Bernard, with

the feathery snow falling on his house-top.




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