The tall figure entered at a side door, and sat down upon a sofa
behind the desk. Age seemed not to have touched him since the evenings
in the country Sunday-school room. As he stood at the desk the
posture, the figure, the movement, were all unchanged. There was the
same rapt introverted glance as he began in a low voice, and for an
hour the older tree shook off a ceaseless shower of riper, fairer
fruit. The topic was "Table-Talk, or Conversation;" and the lecture
was its own most perfect illustration. It was not a sermon, nor an
oration, nor an argument; it was the perfection of talk; the talk of a
poet, of a philosopher, of a scholar. Its wit was a rapier, smooth,
sharp, incisive, delicate, exquisite. The blade was pure as an icicle.
You would have sworn that the hilt was diamond. The criticism was
humane, lofty, wise, sparkling; the anecdote so choice and apt, and
trickling from so many sources, that we seemed to be hearing the best
things of the wittiest people. It was altogether delightful, and the
audience sat glowing with satisfaction. There was no rhetoric, no
gesture, no grimace, no dramatic familiarity and action; but the
manner was self-respectful and courteous to the audience, and the tone
supremely just and sincere. "He is easily king of us all," whispered
an orator.

Yet it was not oratory either in its substance or purpose. It was a
statement of what this wise man believed conversation ought to be. Its
inevitable influence--the moral of the lecture, dear Lady Flora--was a
purification of daily talk, and the general good influence of incisive
truth-telling. If we have ever had a greater preacher of that gospel
who is he?