verness! I have defined bad company; I may define
good company as that social intercourse which tends to bring out all
that is best in man. I have said my bitter word about the artificial
society of the capital; but I never forget the lovely quiet circles
which meet in places far away from the blare of the city. In especial I
may refer to the beautiful family assemblies which are almost
self-centred. The girls are all at home, but the boys are scattered.
Harry writes from India, with all sorts of gossip from Simla, and many
longings for home; a neighbour calls, and the Indian letter gives matter
for pleasant half-melancholy chat. Then the quiet evening passes with
books and placid casual talk; the nerves from the family stretch perhaps
all over the world, but all the threads converge on one centre. This
life is led in many places, and the folk who so live are good company
among themselves, and good company for all who meet them.

The very thought of the men who are usually described in set slang
phrases is enough to arouse a shudder. The loud wit who cracks his
prepared witticisms either at the head of a tavern-table or in private
society is a mere horror. The tavern men of the commercial traveller
class are very bad, for their mirth is prepared; their jokes have run
the length and breadth of the United Kingdom, and they are not always
prepared to sacrifice the privilege of being coarse which used to be
regarded as the joker's prerogative. In moving about the world I have
always found that the society of the great commercial room set up for
being jolly, but I could never exactly perceive where the jollity
entered. Noise, sham gentility, the cackle of false laughter were there;
but the strong, sincere cheerfulness of friendly men--never! Yet the
tavern humourist, or even the club joker, is as nothing compared with
the true professional wit. Who can remember that story about Theodore
Hook and the orange? Hook wrote a note to the hostess, saying, "Ask me
at dinner if I will venture on an orange." The lady did so, and then the
brilliant wit promptly made answer, "I'm afraid I should tumble off." A
whole volume of biography is implied in that one gruesome and vulgar
anecdote. In truth, the professional wit is no company at all; he has
the effect of a performing monkey suddenly planted on the table, and
his efforts are usually quite on a level with the monkey's.

Among the higher Bohemian sets--Bohemian they call themselves,