——­It is a fine thing to be an oracle to which an appeal is always made in all discussions.  The men of facts wait their turn in grim silence, with that slight tension about the nostrils which the consciousness of earning a “settler” in the form of a fact or a revolver gives the individual thus armed.  When a person is really full of information, and does not abuse it to crush conversation, his part is to that of the real talkers what the instrumental accompaniment is in a trio or quartette of vocalists.

——­What do I mean by the real talkers?—­Why, the people with fresh ideas, of course, and plenty of good warm words to dress them in.  Facts always yield the place of honor, in conversation, to thoughts about facts; but if a false note is uttered, down comes the finger on the key and the man of facts asserts his true dignity.  I have known three of these men of facts, at least, who were always formidable,—­and one of them was tyrannical.

——­Yes, a man sometimes makes a grand appearance on a particular occasion; but these men knew something about almost everything, and never made mistakes.—­He? Veneers in first-rate style.  The mahogany scales off now and then in spots, and then you see the cheap light stuff.—­I found ——­ very fine in conversational information, the other day, when we were in company.  The talk ran upon mountains.  He was wonderfully well acquainted with the leading facts about the Andes, the Apennines, and the Appalachians; he had nothing in particular to say about Ararat, Ben Nevis, and various other mountains that were mentioned.  By and by some Revolutionary anecdote came up, and he showed singular familiarity with the lives of the Adamses, and gave many details relating to Major Andre.  A point of Natural History being suggested, he gave an excellent account of the air-bladder of fishes.  He was very full upon the subject of agriculture, but retired from the conversation when horticulture was introduced in the discussion.  So he seemed well acquainted with the geology of anthracite, but did not pretend to know anything of other kinds of coal.  There was something so odd about the extent and limitations of his knowledge, that I suspected all at once what might be the meaning of it, and waited till I got an opportunity.—­Have you seen the “New American Cyclopaedia?” said I.—­I have, he replied; I received an early copy.—­How far does it go?—­He turned red, and answered,—­To Araguay.—­Oh, said I to myself,—­not quite so far as Ararat;—­that is the reason he knew nothing about it; but he must have read all the rest straight through, and, if he can remember what is in this volume until he has read all those that are to come, he will know more than I ever thought he would.