in, is to deprive talk of its fortuitous charm.  When two celebrated talkers of the kind that I have described used to meet, the talk was nothing but a smart interchange of anecdotes.  There is a story of Macaulay and some other great conversationalist getting into the swing at breakfast when staying, I think, with Lord Lansdowne.  They drew their chairs to the fire, the rest of the company formed a circle round them, and listened meekly to the dialogue until luncheon.  What an appalling picture!  One sympathizes with Carlyle on the occasion when he was asked to dinner to meet a great talker, who poured forth a continuous flow of jest and anecdote until the meal was far advanced.  Then came a lull; Carlyle laid down his knife and fork, and looking round with the famous “crucified” expression on his face, said in a voice of agonized entreaty, “For God’s sake take me away, and put me in a room by myself, and give me a pipe of tobacco!” He felt, as I have felt on such occasions, an imperative need of silence and recollection and repose.  Indeed, as he said on another occasion, of one of Coleridge’s harangues, “to sit still and be pumped into is never an exhilarating process.”

That species of talker is, however, practically extinct; though indeed I have met men whose idea of talk was a string of anecdotes, and who employed the reluctant intervals of silence imposed upon them by the desperate attempt of fellow-guests to join in the fun, in arranging the points of their next anecdote.

What seems to me so odd about a talker of that kind is the lack of any sense of justice about his talk.  He presumably enjoys the exercise of speech, and it seems to me strange that it should not occur to him that others may like it too, and that he should not concede a certain opportunity to others to have their say, if only in the interests of fair play.  It is as though a gourmet’s satisfaction in a good dinner were not complete unless he could prevent every one else from partaking of the food before them.

What is really most needed in social gatherings is a kind of moderator of the talk, an informal president.  Many people, as I have said, are quite capable of talking interestingly, if they get a lead.  The perfect moderator should have a large stock of subjects of general interest.  He should, so to speak, kick-off.  And then he should either feel, or at least artfully simulate, an interest in other people’s point of view.  He should ask questions, reply to arguments, encourage, elicit expressions of opinion.  He should not desire to steer his own course, but follow the line that the talk happens to take.  If he aims at the reputation of being a good talker, he will win a far higher fame by pursuing this course; for it is a lamentable fact that, after a lively talk, one is apt to remember far better what one has oneself contributed to the discussion than what other people have said; and if you can send guests away from a gathering feeling that they have talked well, they will be disposed in that genial mood to concede conversational merit to the other participators.  A naive and simple-minded friend of my own once cast an extraordinary light on the subject, by saying to me, the day after an agreeable symposium at my own house, “We had a very pleasant evening with you yesterday.  I was in great form”!