Perhaps one ought not to use the word dulness, because it may be
misunderstood. The kind of dulness of which I speak is not
inconsistent with a high degree, not only of practical, but even of
mental, ability. I know several people of very great intellectual
power who are models of dulness. Their memories are loaded with
what is no doubt very valuable information, and their conclusions
are of the weightiest character; but they have no vivid perception,
no alertness, they are not open to new ideas, they never say an
interesting or a suggestive thing; their presence is a load on the
spirits of a lively party, their very facial expression is a rebuke
to all light-mindedness and triviality. Sometimes these people are
silent, and then to be in their presence is like being in a thick
mist; there is no outlook, no enlivening prospect. Sometimes they
are talkers; and I am not sure that that is not even worse, because
they generally discourse on their own subjects with profound and
serious conviction. They have no power of conversation, because
they are not interested in any one else's point of view; they care
no more who their companions are, than a pump cares what sort of a
vessel is put under it--they only demand that people should listen
in silence. I remember not long ago meeting one of the species, in
this case an antiquarian. He discoursed continuously, with a hard
eye, fixed as a rule upon the table, about the antiquities of the
neighbourhood. I was on one side of him, and was far too much
crushed to attempt resistance. I ate and drank mechanically; I said
"Yes" and "Very interesting" at intervals; and the only ray of hope
upon the horizon was that the hands of the clock upon the
mantelpiece did undoubtedly move, though they moved with leaden
slowness. On the other side of the savant was a lively talker,
Matthews by name, who grew very restive under the process. The
great man had selected Dorchester as his theme, because he had