I.

_THE MONOPOLIST._

"Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing: more than any man in

Venice; his reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels

of chaff; you shall seek all day ere you find them; and when you

have them, they are not worth the search."--SHAKESPEARE.

The Monopolist enters into conversation with plenitude of speech enough

to make one think he has obtained a royal patent to do so. He talks

without much regard to what he says, or how he says it. Give him your

attention in the least degree, and he will show no lack of will or power

to surfeit you. It is not because he has anything to say worth your

hearing that he keeps up his talk, but only from his strange love of

talking. His conversation consists mainly in the exercise of his tongue,

as the faculties of his mind are generally dormant in proportion as that

works. He talks so much that you need do nothing but listen. He seldom

asks questions, and if he does, he cannot tarry for answers. While one

is speaking he either breaks in upon his discourse, heedless of what he

is saying; or he employs himself in gathering words to commence talking

again. And scarcely has the speaker finished his utterance ere he

begins and goes on at a rate that taxes both the ears and patience of

his listener. At the festive board he is not content to do one thing at

a time. He fills his mouth with food for his stomach, and with windy

words for the company; which two acts done at the same time prevent

necessary mastication, and produce a temporary collision of the contrary

elements in his guttural organs.

Monopolist is a talker with whom I am somewhat acquainted. I have on

different occasions met with him, and am, therefore, prepared to speak

of him as I have found him.

Some fifteen or sixteen years ago, as my memory serves, in the middle of

a severe winter, I met this gentleman as I was going to see a friend

about some business of pressing importance. I told him my business

required haste, and he must excuse me stopping just then. But taking me

by the hand, he held on until he was fairly on the track of talking.

What he talked about I cannot remember, though I am pretty sure there

was very little connection or sense in what he said. He spoke in such a

rapid manner that all I could say was "Yes," "No," "Ah," "Eh," "Indeed,"

"Is it possible?" and some of these, too, only half uttered because of

the rapid flow of his words in my ears. I did try once to make a remark

in response to a question he hurriedly asked; but I had scarcely spoken

three syllables (being slow of speech as I am) when he began at an

express rate to tell a story of a friend of his, in which I felt no

more interest than the man in the moon. I remember how I shivered with

cold; shuffled to keep myself warm, and made frequent attempts to leave

him, while with one hand he held the button of my coat, and with the

other wiped the perspiration from his brow. I finally took advantage of

a suspense while replacing his handkerchief; so abruptly wishing him

"good-bye," I went on my way, leaving him to resume his discourse to

himself. How long he stood talking after I left him he never told me.

One morning, not long ago, when in a studious mood upon a subject I was

anxious to complete, my wife informed me a certain gentleman had called

to see me. On entering the room, I saw, to my inner sorrow, the very

identical person who, above all others, I cared the least to see at that

time. Had he possessed a grain of ordinary discernment, which the

Monopolist does not, he would have seen from my manner I was little

inclined to give him even a courteous reception, not to say a long

interview. In fact I gave him several broad hints I was very busy, and

could ill spare much time in his company. But what did he care for

hints? He had commenced his talking journey, and must go through with

it; so away he went in his usual style, talking about everything in

general and nothing in particular, until he had out-talked the morning

hours, and allayed my mental afflatus by the vocal effusions of his

inane, twaddling loquacity. He then took a lingering departure, bid me

"good-bye, hoping that he had not intruded upon my duties of the

morning." Alas!

About a year or so after the incident referred to above, I invited a few

select friends to spend an evening at my house. Among the number were

the Rev. Mr. Peabody and Mrs. Peabody, Professor Jones, of Merton

College, and Mrs. Jones, Mr. and Mrs. Hungerford, Mr. and Mrs. Thuckton,

with others. I was very pleased with the character of my company, and

anticipated considerable pleasure during the evening. Mr. Peabody,

Professor Jones, and Mr. Hungerford were gentlemen of more than ordinary

attainments, and capable of communicating much varied and interesting

intelligence in conversation.

The early part of the evening passed in a manner apparently agreeable to

all present. But, alas, the happiness was destined to be short-lived!

for who should be ushered into the room by the servant but an unexpected

caller? I knew him well at first sight. He stepped into the room with

his usual display of self-assurance and self-gratulation. After the

ceremony of introduction to those who did not know him, he took his seat

in the most conspicuous part of the company.

I thought to myself, "The pleasure of the evening is now at an end,

excepting what he will have in hearing himself talk." I could see in the

very expression of his face that he was full-primed, and ready for a

long discharge. There was a short pause after he had taken his seat (as

there generally is in all company after the introduction of a

stranger); but not being accustomed to this sort of thing, he began with

a rapid utterance of some common-place observations, which elicited no

response, excepting a gentle bend of the head from Mr. Thuckton, to whom

he seemed more particularly to direct his attention. This was enough to

assure him what he had said met with approval. He now commenced in good

earnest, and went on so fast and so long, one wondered how the effort

was sustained by the ordinary vocal powers and breathing functions of a

mere mortal.

Every now and then the thought seemed to cross his mind, "Now I have

something to say of great importance." At which time he threw his head

back, winked with his left eye, cast a significant glance at Mr.

Hungerford, and said, "Mark, sir, what I am going to say:" then, bending

forward, placed his hands on his knees, and lo the "mountain in labour

brought forth a mouse."

He had a most singular way of snapping with his thumb and finger,

according to the nature of his talk; and when he reached a climax in an

argument, or made a statement with emphasis, he brought down his hands

with such violence on his knees as to make one fear the consequences.

The gentlemen smiled at the snapping and thumping. The ladies were

annoyed at his want of decorum and good breeding, and my son, a boy six

years old, asked in his innocence, "Who in the room is letting off

pop-guns?"

At this juncture he gave himself a respite, thinking, perhaps, common

decency called for it, so that some one else might have a chance of

speaking as well as himself. But the fact was he had talked all the talk

out of the company, and no one cared to enter on the arena of

conversation to be instantly pushed off by his egregious monopoly. He

was, however, determined there should be talk, even if he did it all

himself. He asked Mr. Thuckton a question, but before he had time to

give an answer, Monopolist was half-way through his own views on the

subject. He then appealed to Mr. Hungerford as to the correctness of a

certain sentiment he had expressed a moment before, and while Mr.

Hungerford was cautiously replying, he set off in a circuitous route to

show he was unquestionably right in what he had affirmed. He proposed a

question to Professor Jones upon a scientific difficulty. The Professor

began calmly to answer, and all the time he was speaking, I observed

Monopolist fidgety to go on, and ere he had finished he broke out of his

restraint and found relief in hearing himself say his own thoughts on

the subject.

His conduct was becoming unbearable. I had never seen him in such an

objectionable light. I almost wished he had gone to Bombay rather than

have called at my house that evening. I expected an intellectual "feast

of fat things" from my friends, and just as I was in the act of tasting,

in came this talker and substituted his fiddle-faddle of saws and

stories, which he had repeated, perhaps, a hundred times. We were jaded

with his superfluity of loquaciousness, and were not sorry when the

time of departure arrived. He was last of the company to retire, and he

did so with much self-complacency, doubtless thinking to himself, as he

walked home, "How great are my powers of conversation! I have talked

more than the Rev. Peabody; more than Professor Jones; more than Mr.

Hungerford, or any of the company. They scarcely talked at all. I am

surprised they had so little to say. I wonder what they thought of my

powers." Such probably were the reflections with which he entertained

himself after he left my house that evening.

The next day I met Mr. Hungerford, and almost the first thing he said

was,--

"What is the name of that individual who called upon you last night?"

"He is called Monopolist."

"A very appropriate name indeed; for he is the greatest case of monopoly

in conversation I ever met with or heard of. He is insufferable,

unpardonable. He did nothing but talk, talk, talk, to the almost

absolute exclusion of every one else,--

'He was tedious

As a tir'd horse, a railing wife;

Worse than a smoky chimney.'"

"I know him of old, Mr. Hungerford. I regretted very much his call at

that time; but I did hope for once he would restrain himself and keep

within the bounds of propriety. But I do think he went beyond anything I

have seen of him on any former occasion."

"If you are a friend of Monopolist," said Mr. Hungerford, "let me

suggest that you give him some suitable advice upon the subject."

"It is what he needs," I remarked, "and when I meet with him again I

will bear it in mind."

Some time after this I met Professor Jones. He had not forgotten

Monopolist. In course of conversation he said,--

"Mr. Golder, is that gentleman who called at your house the last time I

had the pleasure of visiting you yet living?"

"Yes, sir, he is still living, for anything I know to the contrary."

"Well, sir, I have thought and spoken of him many times since that

evening. He certainly exceeded on that occasion anything I ever heard in

talkativeness. I should not like again to endure the torment I suffered

after his entrance into the company that night. I do not consider myself

very slow of speech; but you know how difficult it was for me to

interject even a sentence after he came. And my friend, Mr. Peabody,

with all his intelligence and natural communicativeness, was placed in

the same dilemma. Neither of us was quick enough to compete with him.

Everybody, in fact, was crowded out by his incessant talking; and, after

all, what did it amount to?

'Talking, he knew not why, and car'd not what.'"

"I think equally as strong as you do, Professor, respecting him, and I

am determined the first opportunity I have to lay before him a few

counsels, which if he take will be of service to him in the correction

of his great fault."

My reader must not think the conduct of Monopolist, as above described,

peculiar to the times and occasions mentioned. I have only spoken of him

as he appeared to me. I do not speak for any one else. Yet if so

disposed I could relate facts heard from others equal to, if not

surpassing, those given above.

As I have promised to give Monopolist a little advice, I will now enter

upon my task. I hope he will mortify that talking member of his body for

a few moments while I am discharging this necessary duty. After I have

done he may speak on to his heart's content, that is, in my absence.

* * * * *

Mr. Monopolist,--It is an old maxim that a man has two ears and but one

mouth, to teach him that he should hear twice as much as he should talk.

This is a very wise maxim, and worthy your serious meditation. You have

doubtless heard it before, but not attended to it. Would it not be much

to your credit in company, and much to the comfort of those with whom

you converse, if you allowed this maxim to have its due weight upon your

mind? Common sense, if such you have, must certainly intimate when you

exceed the bounds of propriety in the volume of your talk. How would you

like another to impose his talk upon you to the extent you impose your

talk upon him? When you talk I have noticed you are so pleased with

yourself as to think very little of what you say, or of how people hear.

If you talked about fifty or seventy-five per cent. less than you do,

you would be welcomed into the circles of society with fifty or

seventy-five per cent. greater pleasure than you are. Do not imagine,

because people _seem_ to listen, therefore they _like_ to hear you talk.

It is nothing of the kind. They must at least have a _show_ of good

behaviour. Were they to forget their manners in being listless, as you

do in talking so much, there would be an end to all decorum. (Do not be

impatient. Do be quiet for once.) Have you not sometimes seen one or

more go to sleep in company while you have been talking? Did not that

show they were unable to resist the soothing influence of your

long-continued and thoughtless words? And have you not sometimes talked

upon subjects in such a peculiar and protracted manner that when you

have done, your hearers have been so absent-minded that they have not

known anything you have said? Has not this taught you that you have been

a drag upon their mental powers? Have they not said in the words of Job,

"O that you would altogether hold your peace, and it should be your

wisdom"? (Job xiii. 5.)

Conversation is a means of mutual interchange of thought and feeling

upon subjects which may be introduced. And if the right subject be

brought forward, each one could contribute his quota to the general

stock. But to do so we must talk _with_ people and not _at_ them. We

must be willing to hear as well as to be heard. We must give others

credit to know something as well as ourselves. We must remember it is

not he who talks most that talks best. One man may give a long, wordy,

dry essay on a topic of conversation, and another may speak a sentence

of a score words which shall contain far more sense than his long

discourse.

"Words learned by rote a parrot may rehearse,

But talking is not always to converse.

Not more distinct from harmony divine,

The constant creaking of a country sign."

* * * * *

"If in talking from morning till night,

A sign of our wisdom it be,

The swallows are wiser by right,

For they prattle much faster than we."

"The talking lion of the evening circle," observes an English writer,

"generally plays off his part as obviously to his own satisfaction as to

the nausea of the company who forbear to hear him. Were he a

distinguished and illustrious talker like Johnson and Coleridge, he

might be excused, though in their case they laid too much embargo upon

the interchange of thought; but when the mind is an ordinary one, the

offence is insufferable, if not unpardonable. Those that talk much

cannot often talk well. There is generally the least of originality and

interest about what they say. It is the dry, old, oft-repeated things

which are nearly as well stereotyped upon the minds of the hearers as

they are upon their own. And even those who have the gift of talking

sensibly as well as loquaciously should remember that few people care

to be eclipsed, and that a superiority of sense is as ill to be borne as

superiority of fortune."

"He that cannot refrain from much speaking," says Sir W. Raleigh, "is

like a city without walls, and less pains in the world a man cannot

take, than to hold his tongue; therefore if thou observest this rule in

all assemblies thou shalt seldom err; restrain thy choler, hearken much

and speak little, for the tongue is the instrument of the greatest good

and greatest evil that is done in the world."

"As it is the characteristic," says Lord Chesterfield, "of great wits to

say much in few words, so it is of small wits to talk much and say

nothing. Never hold any one by the button or the hand in order to be

heard out; for if people are unwilling to hear you, you had better hold

your tongue than them."

"The evil of this" (much speaking), says Bishop Taylor, "is very

considerable in the accounts of prudence, and the effects and plaisance

of conversation: and the ancients described its evil well by a

proverbial expression; for when a sudden silence arose, they said that

Mercury was entered, meaning that, he being their 'loquax numen,' their

'prating god,' yet that quitted him not, but all men stood upon their

guard, and called for aid and rescue, when they were seized upon by so

tedious an impertinence. And indeed, there are some persons so full of

nothings, that, like the strait sea of Pontus, they perpetually empty

themselves by their mouth, making every company or single person they

fasten on to be their Propontis, such a one as was Anaximenes, who was

an ocean of words, but a drop of understanding."

You would do well to study the lesson, _When to talk, and when to be

silent_. Silence is preferred by the wise and the good to superfluity of

talking. You may read strange stories of some of the ancients, choosing

silence to talking. St. Romualdus maintained a seven years' silence on

the Syrian mountains. It is said of a religious person in a monastery in

Brabant, that he did not speak a word in sixteen years. Ammona lived

with three thousand brethren in such silence as though he was an

anchoret. Theona was silent for thirty years together. Johannes,

surnamed Silentarius, was silent for forty-seven years. I do not mention

these as examples for your imitation, and would not have you become

_such_ a recluse. These are cases of an extreme kind,--cases of

moroseness and sullenness which neither reason nor Scripture justify.

"This was," as Taylor observes, "to make amends for committing many sins

by omitting many duties; and, instead of digging out the offending eye,

to pluck out both, that they might neither see the scandal nor the duty;

for fear of seeing what they should not, to shut their eyes against all

light." The wiser course for you to adopt is the practice of silence for

a time, as a discipline for the correction of the fault into which you

have fallen. Pray as did the Psalmist, "Put a guard, O Lord, unto my

mouth, and a door unto my lips." "He did not ask for a wall," as St.

Gregory remarks, "but for a door, a door that might open and shut." It

is said of Cicero, he never spake a word which himself would fain have

recalled; he spake nothing that repented him. Silence will be a cover to

your folly, and a disclosure of your wisdom.

"Keep thy lips with all diligence."

"A man that speaketh too much, and museth but little and lightly,

Wasteth his mind in words, and is counted a fool among men:

But thou when thou hast thought, weave charily the web of meditation,

And clothe the ideal spirit in the suitable garments of speech."

Note well the _discretion of silence_. What man ever involved himself in

difficulties through silence? Who thinks another a fool because he does

not talk? Keep quiet, and you may be looked upon as a wise man; open

your mouth and all may see at once that you are a simpleton. Ben Jonson,

speaking of one who was taken for a man of judgment while he was silent,

says, "This man might have been a Counsellor of State, till he spoke;

but having spoken, not the beadle of the ward."

Lord Lytton tells of a groom who married a rich lady, and was in fear as

to how he might be treated by the guests of his new household, on the

score of his origin and knowledge: to whom a clergyman gave this advice,

"Wear a black coat, and hold your tongue." The groom acted on the

advice, and was considered a gentlemanly and wise man.

The same author speaks of a man of "weighty name," with whom he once

met, but of whom he could make nothing in conversation. A few days

after, a gentleman spoke to him about this "superior man," when he

received for a reply, "Well, I don't think much of him. I spent the

other day with him, and found him insufferably dull." "Indeed," said the

gentleman, with surprise; "why, then I see how it is: Lord ---- has been

positively talking to you."

This reminds one of the story told of Coleridge. He was once sitting at

a dinner-table admiring a fellow guest opposite as a wise man, keeping

himself in solemn and stately reserve, and resisting all inducements to

join in the conversation of the occasion, until there was placed on the

table a steaming dish of apple-dumplings, when the first sight of them

broke the seal of the wise man's intelligence, exclaiming with

enthusiasm, "Them be the jockeys for me."