The first few chapters (on conversation--or not--in the ancient world) were pretty throwaway, with the exception of the discussion of Cicero. The ending chapters (rants about cell phones, TV, and the f-word) were predictable and tedious.
The middle chapters were excellent. Miller first discussed the rise of conversation as an art, beginning in the salons of France and reaching full stature in the London coffee houses. Particularly interesting to me was the notion of conversation as a civilizing agent, a unifying and constructive force in society. The idea is reminiscent of Richard Weaver's work on rhetoric. It seems to me there is some interesting potential for a discussion of "Eucharist as conversation" or "Eucharist as rhetoric."
I loved reading about Johnson, Addison, Burke, Goldsmith--all the masters of conversation who incredibly appeared in the same generation, in the same city. I admit I was hoping for details of what made them great conversationalists, and some principles for good conversation, but not much beyond the standard appeared (don't fight, pay attention when someone else is speaking, keep the topics general). Miller did draw out one interesting observation: it is not truly conversation unless actual converse is held. Much of modern "conversation" consists of alternating monologues by two people facing each other.
The author then relates the circumstances under which conversation declined. Mostly it came down to a changed view of what Richard Weaver would call ethics and piety--our relations with our fellow men and with the natural world. The greats believed that the proper occupation of man was man. Beginning with Rousseau (the braying egotist and wannabe noble rustic), men started believing the proper occupation of man was a combination of "me" and "nature." In England Thomas Gray and others began to lose sight of the city as paradigm and turned to nature, especially "sublime" wilderness scenes far from all traces of man.
(I wish here to note that the antithesis of city is wilderness, not farm. The conservative agrarian view of farm as paradigm is in direct continuity with the classic view of the city. Farms are cultivated, ordered, articulated models of the universe. In the Bible, garden and city are congruent images. It is no accident that when the highest image of our contemplation became the wilderness, our cities went from bulwarks of civilization to concrete jungles.)
In America, conversation did not fare well. Despite the intellectual pretensions of Boston, Johnsonian-style conversation was never robust. Even the European-minded Franklin was inclined to view conversation as "networking"--talking not for intellectual fellowship, but to make connections and get ahead in life. Emerson and Thoreau were wannabe Rousseaux. European visitors, to a man, remarked on the propensity of American men to be wholly preoccupied with business, and American women to chat about sermons and charities. (Tocqueville, to my uncharitable satisfaction, mentioned the South excelled the north at conversation, having more leisure and being less obsessed with making money. On the whole, though, no one met with any hearty approval from the acknowledged masters.)
Despite the shortcomings of both Boston and Charleston, a worse fate was to meet American conversation with the rise of the frontier. The author quotes a saying of Paul Bunyan's: "Since becoming a Real American, I can look any man straight in the eye and tell him to go to hell!" (p 199). The blunt, taciturn loner became the American ideal of character. John Wayne and Humphrey Bogart, despite their numerous merits, would not have shone at the coffee house or the dinner party. However, I would like to point out that Andy Griffith most certainly would have.