luminous rather than sparkling; you were interested and instructed
while you listened, but the words seldom dwelt in your memory.

After the death of Thomas Carlyle he was beyond dispute the best
talker in London, and a talker far more agreeable than either
Carlyle or Macaulay, inasmuch as he was no less ready to listen than
to speak, and never wearied the dinner-table by a monologue. His
simplicity, his spontaneity, his genial courtesy, as well as the
vast fund of knowledge and of personal recollections at his command,
made him extremely popular in society, so that his opponents used to
say that it was dangerous to meet him, because one might be forced
to leave off hating him. He was, perhaps, too prone to go on
talking upon one subject which happened to fill his mind at the
moment; nor was it easy to divert his attention to something else
which others might deem more important. Those who stayed with him
in the same country house sometimes complained that the perpetual
display of force and eagerness fatigued them, as one tires of
watching the rush of Niagara. His guests, however, did not feel
this, for his own home life was quiet and smooth. He read and wrote
a good many hours daily, but never sat up late, almost always slept
soundly, never missed early morning service at the parish church,
never seemed oppressed or driven to strain his strength. With all
his impetuosity, he was remarkably regular, systematic, and
deliberate in his habits and ways of doing business. A swift reader
and a surprisingly swift writer, he was always occupied, and was
skilful in using even the scraps and fragments of his time. No
pressure of work made him fussy or fidgety, nor could any one
remember to have seen him in a hurry.