Of course we have our drawbacks—­what society has not?  There is the argumentative, hair-splitting Professor, who is never happy unless he is landing you in a false position and ruthlessly demolishing it.  There is the crusted old Don, whose boots creak, whose clothes seem to be made of some hard, unyielding material, and whose stiff collars scrape his shaven cheeks with a rustling noise; he speaks rarely and gruffly; he opens his mouth to insert food, and closes it with a snap; but he is a humorous old fellow, with a twinkle in his eye; generous if whimsical; and more good-natured than he wishes you to believe.  Some of my friends are silent and abrupt; there is the statuesque chaplain who, whatever you may talk of, appears to be preoccupied with something else; there are brisk, bird-like men, who pick up their food and interject disconnected remarks.  But the majority are lively, sensible fellows, with abundance of interest in life and people, and a considerable sense of humour; and, after all, I think it matters very little what a man talks about as long as you feel that the talk is sincere and natural, and not a pose; the only kind of talker whom I find really discomposing is the shy man, who makes false starts, interrupts in order to show his sympathy, and then apologises for his misapprehension; but this is an unknown species in a College Hall.  What one does weary of more and more every year is the sort of surface cackle that has to be indulged in in general society, simply to fill the time.

But of course, in conversation, much depends upon what may be called luck.  You may invite three or four of the best conversationalists you know to a quiet dinner; and yet, though the same party may have on some previous occasion played the game with agility and zest, yet for some reason, on the present occasion, all may go heavily.  You may light upon a tiresome subject; your most infectious humorist may be tired or out of temper, and the whole thing may languish and droop; people may misunderstand each other, perversely or unintentionally; the dredge may bring up nothing but mud; a contagion of yawning may set in, and you are lost.  Again, some party which has been assembled from motives of duty, and from which no species of social pleasure was expected, may turn out brisk, lively, and entertaining.

A good party should contain, if possible, a humorist, a sentimentalist, and a good-tempered butt; the only kind of men who should be rigidly excluded are the busy mocker, the despiser, the superior person.  It does not matter how much people disagree, if they will only admit in their minds that every one has a right to a point of view, and that their own does not necessarily rule out all others.  I had two friends once, a husband and wife, who had strong political views; the wife believed it probable that all Radicals were either wicked or stupid, but it was possible to argue the point with her; whereas the husband knew that any person who, however slightly, entertained Liberal views was a fool or a knave, and thus argument was impossible.