equivoque, or an observation immediately; has a taste and knowledge
of books, of music, of medals; manages an argument adroitly; is genteel
and gallant, and has a set of bye-phrases and quaint allusions always at
hand to produce a laugh:--if he has a fault, it is that he does not listen
so well as he speaks, is impatient of interruption, and is fond of being
looked up to, without considering by whom. I believe, however, he has
pretty well seen the folly of this. Neither is his ready display of
personal accomplishment and variety of resources an advantage to his
writings. They sometimes present a desultory and slipshod appearance,
owing to this very circumstance. The same things that tell, perhaps, best,
to a private circle round the fireside, are not always intelligible to the
public, nor does he take pains to make them so. He is too confident and
secure of his audience. That which may be entertaining enough with the
assistance of a certain liveliness of manner, may read very flat on paper,
because it is abstracted from all the circumstances that had set it off to
advantage. A writer should recollect that he has only to trust to the
immediate impression of words, like a musician who sings without the
accompaniment of an instrument. There is nothing to help out, or slubber
over, the defects of the voice in the one case, nor of the style in the
other. The reader may, if he pleases, get a very good idea of L. H----'s
conversation from a very agreeable paper he has lately published, called
the _Indicator_, than which nothing can be more happily conceived or
executed.

The art of conversation is the art of hearing as well as of being heard.
Authors in general are not good listeners. Some of the best talkers are,
on this account, the worst company; and some who are very indifferent, but
very great talkers, are as bad. It is sometimes wonderful to see how a
person, who has been entertaining or tiring a company by the hour
together, drops his countenance as if he had been shot, or had been seized
with a sudden lock-jaw, the moment anyone interposes a single observation.
The best converser I know is, however, the best listener. I mean Mr.
Northcote, the painter. Painters by their profession are not bound to
shine in conversation, and they shine the more. He lends his ear to an
observation, as if you had brought him a piece of news, and enters into it
with as much avidity and earnestness, as if it interested himself
personally. If