No religious conference could meet in Washington that the Toombs house was not full of guests. Many Northern people visited the place to hear the statesman talk. Newspaper correspondents sought him out to listen to his fine conversation. These people were always sure of the most courteous treatment, and were prepared for the most candid expression. General Toombs was not solely a _raconteur_. He did not draw upon his memory for his wit. The cream of his conversation was his bold and original comment. His wit flashed all along the line. His speech at times was droll and full of quaint provincialisms. He treated subjects spontaneously, in a style all his own. Strangers, who sat near him in a railroad car, have been enchanted by his sage and spirited conversation, as his leonine features lighted up, and his irresistible smile and kindly eye forced good-humor, even where his sentiments might have challenged dissent. He was the finest talker of his day. A close friend, who used to visit him frequently at his home, declares that Toombs' powers did not wait upon the occasion. He did not require an emergency to bring him out. All his faculties were alert, and in a morning's chat he would pour out the riches of memory, humor, eloquence, and logic until the listener would be enthralled by his brilliancy and power. He delighted to talk with intellectual men and women. He was impatient with triflers or dolts. He criticised unsparingly, and arraigned men and measures summarily, but he was a seeker after truth, and even when severe, was free from malice or envy. General Toombs was a man of tender sympathies. Distress of his friends moved him to prompt relief. In 1855 a friend and kinsman, Mr. Pope, died in Alabama. He had been a railroad contractor and his affairs were much involved. General Toombs promptly went to his place, bought in his property for the family, and left the place for the wife and children, just as it stood. From Mobile he writes a grief-stricken letter to his wife, December 28, 1855: