Of course, there are a very few people who have a genius for conversation.  Such persons are not as a rule great talkers themselves, though they every now and then emit a flash of soft brilliance; but they are rather the people who send every one else away contented; who see the possibilities in every remark; who want to know what other people think; and who can, by some deft sympathetic process which is to me very mysterious, expand a blunt expression of opinion into an interesting mental horizon, or fructify some faltering thought into a suggestive and affecting image.  Such people are worth their weight in gold.  Then there is a talker who is worth much silver, a man of irresistible geniality, who has a fund of pleasant banter for all present.  This is a great art; banter, to be agreeable, must be of a complimentary kind; it must magnify the object it deals with—­a perverse person may be bantered on his strength of character; a stingy person may be bantered on his prudence.  There is, indeed, a kind of banter, not unknown in academical circles, which takes the heart out of every one by displaying them in a ludicrous and depreciating light; a professor of this art will make out a sensitive person to be a coward, and a poetical man to be a sentimental fool; and then the conversation, “like a fountain’s sickening pulse, retires.”

The talker who is worth much copper is the good, commonplace, courteous person who keeps up an end and has something to say; and these must be the basis of most parties—­the lettuce, so to speak, of the salad.

The thing to beware of is to assemble a purely youthful party, unless you know your men well; a shy, awkward young man, or a noisy, complacent young man, are each in their way distressing.  But a mixture of youth and age will produce the happiest results, if only your luck does not desert you.

After all, the essence of the thing is to have simple, unaffected people; the poseur is the ruin of genial intercourse, unless he is a good fellow whose pose is harmless.  Some of the best talks I have ever had have been in the company of sensible and good-natured men, of no particular brilliance, but with a sense of justice in the matter of talk and no taste for anecdote; just as some of the best meals I have ever had have been of the plainest, when good digestion waited upon appetite.  And, on the other hand, some of the very saddest entertainments I have ever taken a hand in have been those conducted by a host bubbling with geniality, and with a stock of reminiscences, who turned the hose in the face of guest after guest till they writhed with boredom.

Bless me, it is midnight!  The hour is pealed from innumerable towers; then comes a holy silence, while I hear the drip of the fountain in the court.  This incomparable Oxford!  I wish that fate or Providence would turn my steps this way!—­Ever yours,

T. B.

Pelham house,
Hammersmith,
Dec. 28, 1904.