there is not an instrument in common use, from a pencil to a piano,
which is used so imperfectly as language. If you will let me be plain, I
suspect that it would be safe to offer a gold medal as a prize to any
young lady here who will not, before to-morrow night, utter some
sentence that cannot be parsed; will put no singulars and plurals in
forbidden connections; will drop no particles, double no negatives, mix
no metaphors, tangle no parentheses; begin no statement two or three
times over without finishing it; and not once construct a proposition
after this manner:
"When a person talks like that, they ought to be ashamed of it.'"
These are frank statements to address to a class of young ladies; but
the Bishop's implication would hold with equal truth not only in the
case in point, but also with a large number of the high schools,
seminaries and colleges of this country. Surely such a charge against
the other practical branches of study could not be made and sustained.
When James Russell Lowell said: "We are the most common-schooled and the
least educated people in the world," he might have added that the
statement was especially applicable to our habits of using or abusing
our mother tongue.
This general indifference to good English is not, in most instances, the
result of a lack of knowledge, for time enough is devoted to the study
of technical grammar in almost all schools, to enable the pupil to
become thoroughly acquainted with the principles which govern the use of
our language.
It is because many persons, not having acquired the habit of correct
speech, do not think to apply the rules of grammar in conversation. Were
children accustomed from infancy to hear only correct English, there
would be but little need to memorize arbitrary rules of grammar, for
they would, from habit, speak and write correctly. Thus it is that the
children of educated parents are generally so easy and graceful in their
conversation, contrasted with the children of the uneducated. Our
language, like our manners, is caught from those with whom we associate.
Several other nations are far in advance of our own in the thoroughness
with which their youth are drilled in the use of language.
In France, a knowledge of the French language, spoken and written, is
regarded as of special importance. In all entrance examinations, or
examinations for promotion or graduation, the pupil's knowledge of his
native tongue is first determined; and no promotions are allowed, and no
diplomas granted, if the student is notably deficient in this regard,
even though his knowledge of the other required branches should prove to
be all that could be desired. We have not so high a standard in the
United States. It has been but a few years since a definite knowledge of
English was added to the requirements for admission to American
colleges, and even now it has not, in any of our educational
institutions, the relative weight in determining examinations which
French and German have in the systems of those countries. While great
improvement has been made in teaching English, and while better methods
are employed than formerly, it is still safe to say that in no other
branch of study, pursued with equal diligence, are the results so
unsatisfactory.
Surely in no other way do we so clearly show the degree of our culture
and refinement as by our every-day conversation. Is it not important,
then, that we devote our efforts seriously, and with infinite patience,
if necessary, to mastering a matter so essential?
The selection of good English does not necessarily imply either a
stilted monotony of speech, or a tiresome affectation. It is simply
elegance and naturalness. There is no reason why any person, however
humble his station in life, should not hope to speak his native language
correctly. It is an accomplishment which is not expensive. In its
acquirement one does not require high-priced teachers. It demands only
care and attention. Be critical of yourself. Watch your sentences. Get
your companions to correct your slips of the tongue. Say over correctly
the troublesome sentence until the mistake becomes impossible. Listening
to well educated persons and reading the best literature are both of
great assistance in this direction, especially if we offer to both the
sincere flattery of imitation. Our literature teems with masterpieces of
style. To read them consistently is to imbibe a certain facility of
diction.
There are many persons who, while they do not violate the rules of
technical grammar, habitually indulge in slang, hyperbole, and in many
"weeds of speech" which should be pulled up promptly and cast aside. A
great many boys and girls, and even some older persons, imagine that the
use of slang lends piquancy and force to their conversation. Slang is
always an element of weakness. It is bad enough in a man, but in women
it is far more questionable. It is not the expression of the refined. To
the cultivated taste it is discordant.
Another fault prevalent among girls is the habit of hyperbole.
Perfectly, awfully, nice, and splendid, are the four most overworked
words, and awfully is the most abused of them all. It is strange, the
hold this word has secured in the vocabulary of girls who, in almost all
other respects, are considerate in their use of English. Persons are
called awfully good, awfully bad, awfully clever, awfully stupid,
awfully nice, awfully jolly and awfully kind. It is made to do duty on
all occasions and under all circumstances, as though it were the only
adverb admissible in good society. Among adjectives, splendid easily
ranks as the most popular. To many, everything is splendid, whether it
is a flower, a sunset, a dinner, a football game, a friend, a sermon, or
a book. Then we are continually hearing that certain things are
_perfectly_ splendid, _perfectly_ lovely, _perfectly_ hateful,
_perfectly_ glorious, _perfectly_ magnificent and _perfectly_ sweet. How
word-stricken society would do without these expressions it is difficult
to determine, yet certain it is that the woman who deals recklessly in
superlatives demonstrates forthwith that her judgment is dominated by
her impulses, that her opinions are of doubtful reliability, and her
criticisms valueless.
In a recent number of one of the popular magazines Prof. Brander
Matthews has an article on the prevailing indifference in regard to the
proper use of words. The points which he emphasizes are these:
The gentleman is never indifferent, never reckless in his language. The
sloven in speech is quite as offensive as a sloven in manner and dress.
The neat turning of a phrase is as agreeable to the ear as neatness of
person is to the refined taste. A man should choose his words at least
as carefully as he chooses his clothing; even a hint of the dandy is not
objectionable, if it be but a hint. It is even better to go to the
extreme of fastidiousness than to indulge the opposite extreme of
negligence.
The art of writing letters is but another phase of the same matter.
Indeed it is but conversation carried on with the pen, when distance or
circumstances prevent the easier method of exchanging ideas by spoken
words. It is an art which should be faithfully cultivated by those who
desire to please. In social life, in business, in almost every other
circumstance of life, we find our pen called into requisition. Yet while
it is an almost indispensable accomplishment, it is one which is
pitifully neglected. The art of letter-writing is becoming obsolete;
that is, the art of writing such letters as enriched the epistolary
literature of a former generation. This is unfortunate, as there is
nothing that will so stimulate thought, and bring into activity,
practical, every-day niceties of phrase as the exercise of this art.
Constant drill in letter-writing will tend to take from one's vocabulary
words which have no place there, and will accomplish quite as much as
any other means to broaden, beautify, and to refine the language at our
command, as well as to train the mind to exact habits of thinking. A
further important consideration is the charm which "a gem of a letter"
has for the delighted recipient.
The indispensable requisites of a good letter are neatness of
chirography, simplicity, and grammatical correctness. Defects in any one
of these particulars are scarcely pardonable. We cannot all be pretty
writers, but we can all write legibly and give to the page the
appearance of neatness. Scribbling is inexcusable.
"A scribbled page points to a scribbling mind, while clear, legible
handwriting is not only an indication of clear thinking, but a means and
promoter of accurate thought. Indeed, simply as a business proposition,
one cannot afford to become a slovenly penman."
"And who," says _The Philadelphia Record_, "does not know the charm of a
gracefully worded, legibly written letter, with its wide margins, its
clear, black ink and dainty stationery? An art, indeed, is the writing
of such a missive; an art which it behooves every woman to cultivate.
A hastily written line betraying signs of carelessness, and scrawled
on an indifferent sheet of paper is a poor compliment, indeed, to the
receiver, and elicits anything but flattering comments upon the writer."
Careless speech is quite bad enough, but the charm of the speaker may be
so great as to disarm criticism. The letter, however, the written word,
stands on its own merits; "what is writ is writ." There is no graceful
vivacity to plead for the writer; no coquetry of manner to distract the
glance of the reader from the errors coldly set forth in black and
white. Observe, then, the utmost care in inditing an epistle, whether to
a friend or foe or to a lover. Never send forth a letter in undress, so
to speak, scarcely more than you would present yourself _en dishabille_
before your most formal acquaintances. The one is almost as flagrant as
the other.
TACT IN CONVERSATION.
_"Ask only the well about their health."_
_Discretion in speech is more than eloquence._
BACON.
_Brilliancy in conversation is to the company what a lighted
candle is to a dark room--it lightens the whole of it. But every
now and then some unskilful person, in attempting to clip the
wick to make it brighter, snuffs it out._
JAMES C. BEEKS.
Seldom does there occur in society any lapse so astonishing as the
uncomfortable remarks innocently made by men and women to each other.
Some persons who are careful and considerate in other respects, seem to
have a woeful lack of that quality which we call tact. They wish to be
pleasing; they would not for the world intentionally say or do anything
to injure or wound the sensitiveness of a friend; yet they are
continually saying those "things that would better have been left
unsaid."
_Harper's Bazar_ mentions some of these speeches which have no excuse
for being.
"What a dear little fellow that is!" said a caller to the mother of a
three-year-old.
"He is a great comfort to us," replied the mother, stroking the child's
long curls.
"Yes; I should think so. He is not pretty, is he? His hair is so
beautiful now that at the first glance one would call him pretty. But if
you imagine how he will look when those golden curls are cut off, you
will see that he will be a very plain child."
Said another woman to an acquaintance: "Mrs. A., I hope you will pardon
me for saying that I think I never saw a more beautiful piece of lace
than the flounce on the gown that you wore to the Assembly Ball last
week. I said to my husband afterward that if Mr. A. should fail again
and lose everything, as he has done once or twice already, you could
sell that lace and easily get a good price for it."
The same woman, while making a visit of several weeks, said to her
hostess, as the time of her departure drew near: "I always think that
the nicest thing about making a visit is the returning to one's home.
One's family are always so glad to see one, and there is always great
luxury to me in getting back to my own house, where I can do what I
please, say what I please, and order what I want to eat."
Again, there are people who seem to think that it is their mission to
puncture every person's infirmity with whom they come in contact. They
study to speak disagreeably. They corner you in the social circle, and
talk about the subject they know to be most disagreeable to you, and
talk in a tone sufficiently loud to be heard by all the other persons in
the room. If you have made a blunder they reveal it. If you have been
unsuccessful in any of your undertakings they are sure to inquire about
it, even to details. They unroll your past and dilate upon your future.
They put you on the rack every time you meet them and there is an
instinctive recoil when you perceive their approach.
"We all know these persons," says _Zion's Herald_, "the persons who
always utter the unsuitable word, who make themselves generally
disagreeable, who never, apparently, try to make a pleasing impression
upon others, but who delight to sting and wound."
Are we not all acquainted with the neighbor mentioned in this quotation:
"As a brief and sharp tormentor, as a nail in the boot, a rocker for
the shins on a dark night, or a sharp angle for the ulnar nerve, Mrs.
R----, our neighbor, excels all persons I ever saw. I am quite sure if
she could disturb a corpse by whispering to it that its shroud was
ill-fitting, and the floral gifts were not what had been expected, she
would do it."
If you are a woman have you not more than once gone out for a walk with
some other woman who is never satisfied with your appearance?
She gives your gown a pull, saying: "This dress never did fit you; it
isn't at all becoming to you, why didn't you wear your other one?" You
soon begin to feel uncomfortable, and to wish you were at home again.
Your bonnet may be never so becoming, or your new jacket may fit you to
perfection, but she never mentions either. She notices only defects; she
sees all that is disagreeable. Such persons always leave an
uncomfortable feeling behind them when they leave you.
Sarcasm is not a quality to be cultivated by either sex. Men do not like
it in women. It may be amusing when it is directed against another, but
there is always a lurking fear that it may some time be directed against
one's self. Sarcasm is a rank weed, that, once sprouted, grows and
grows, choking out the little plants of kindness, forethought and
consideration, until it overruns the garden of the mind, dominating and
controlling every thought with a disagreeable, pungent odor that cannot
be eradicated.
The sarcastic girl is not fascinating, for she is not a pleasing
companion. She is too sharp to be agreeable. She may possess talent
above the average of her acquaintances; she may be able to talk in half
a dozen different languages; she may be as beautiful as a Greek statue;
but men fight shy of her. Sarcasm is not wit, though wit may be
sarcastic. One may be bright and say all manner of clever things without
hurting the feelings of others by keen, knife-edged opinions that are
full of bitterness and teeming with gall.
The tactful person does not make the mistake of talking too much about
himself. While we are young, at least, we are very interesting to
ourselves, and we are likely to imagine that all the world is interested
in our opinions, prejudices and tastes. But though this may be true of
our dearest friends, it is not true as far as other people are
concerned.
"Without question," says the _Magnet_, "our conversation must be based
upon what we have experienced in one way or another. But that does not
make it necessary for us to talk continually about ourselves. If we
should examine carefully the things we say to the merest acquaintances,
we would be astonished, oftentimes, to see that we assume an interest
in ourselves which we have no right to expect." People who are ill are
likely to make indiscriminate claims upon sympathy, entertaining
strangers as well as friends with detailed descriptions of their latest
symptoms, and the doctor's latest remedies. Some of us who have not the
excuse of illness, impose on the persons we meet by obliging them to
listen to a great deal of personal information which may be of interest
to ourselves, and possibly to those who love us very dearly, but
scarcely to any one else.
Several years ago the _Christian Union_ related this incident: The
social occasion was a dinner. One of the guests was a woman who had
passed middle life; good taste, ample means, with womanly grace and
natural refinement, made her an addition to any circle. The hostess of
the occasion was a woman who prided herself on her ability to meet the
requirements of her station. She had no doubt as to her fitness in any
social capacity, but her friends had not the same unquestioning faith in
her tact.
The gentle guest found to her delight that she was assigned to the care
of the son of an old school friend, and inwardly thanked her hostess for
the consideration and thoughtfulness which made it possible for her to
hear from her friend, whom she had not met in years. The guests were no
sooner seated at the table than the hostess leaned toward the young man,
and, in a voice perfectly audible to the entire company, said: "Never
mind, Bob, I will do better for you next time."
For one minute there was perfect silence, the lady and her escort alike
appalled by what had been said; but the kindliness of the guest overcame
the embarrassing moment by calling the attention of the young man to the
roses on the table, which, she said to him with a smile, were great
favorites of his mother when she was in school. This broke the ice. The
hostess was perfectly unconscious that she had been guilty of any
rudeness. Her intention was to be particularly polite to the young man;
first to assure him that he would be her guest again, and, secondly,
that she would then have a rosebud to assign to his care. The amusing
part was that the young man greatly admired his mother's friend, and had
frequently been her guest on his visits to the city.
It is difficult to imagine how a woman could move in society to any
extent and remain capable of such a blunder, and yet we have all passed
through similar experiences at the hands of people whose social
experience should render such tactlessness impossible. There comes to
mind now an imposing woman, who prided herself on the fact that she
always said just what she thought. At a reception, she filled the room
by her manner; it was impossible to continue oblivious of her presence.
Bowing affably to her acquaintances, she sailed--for women of this type
do not walk--up to a modest little lady whose health, she had heard, was
declining, and in a loud voice exclaimed: "What have you been doing to
yourself? You have aged fifteen years since last I saw you!" Not unkind
by intention, she was but practising her system of saying just what she
thought, and she was constantly urging upon her friends the propriety of
this course; but what an unbearable place our world would be if we all
followed this example of inane and inconsiderate bluntness.
So the woman who is always finding in you resemblances to some other
person whom she has met, creates many of the uncomfortable experiences
of social life, and when she thinks it interesting to exploit the
character of your prototype, dwelling upon the mental and physical
defects, she becomes unbearable. Yet society has, as yet, found no sure
way to eliminate her.
Such infelicities are not the outcrop of unkindness so much as of a
certain ineptitude or lack of _savoir faire_. Such people feel
constrained to do their share of the talking, but have not acquired
tactfulness in selecting the topic, nor alertness to avoid the
pitfalls--both of which traits may by sedulous self-training be acquired
by any one in whom, unhappily, they are not innate.
In one of these instances bad manners were the natural expression of the
woman, because her impulse was selfish; for it is certainly true that a
person of truly unselfish nature will not offend by making personal
remarks. Manners are the expression of the heart, and the man or woman
who lives mentally in kindly, thoughtful relations with fellow men and
women will refrain from expressing the thought which might possibly give
offence. There is no mystery in social grace. It is remembering other
people in their several relations to us. The woman who is a social
success is not the one who has for her purpose in life so much the
desire merely to please, but the one whose desire, rather, is to make
others happy. One is a polite purpose; the other is a fine type of
unselfishness that makes impossible the utterance of unwelcome truths to
the chagrin of anyone encountered in the casual personal contact that we
term society.
Holmes gave us some good advice when he said: "Don't flatter yourselves
that friendship authorizes you to say disagreeable things to your
intimates. On the contrary, the nearer you come into relation with a
person, the more necessary do tact and courtesy become."
THE COMPLIMENT OF ATTENTION.
_"Were we as eloquent as angels we should please some people more
by listening than by talking."_
_"A good listener is as needful to a witty talker as steel to
flint. It is the sharp contact of the two which makes the sparks
fly."_
There are certain amenities attending social intercourse with which we
are all familiar, yet we are constantly forgetting to put them into
practice. In no respect is this forgetfulness more noticeable than in
conversation, and especially in connection with what may be called "the
compliment of attention."
If you despair of becoming a good talker you can, at least, make
yourself a good listener, and that is something not to be despised.
There are apt to be more good talkers than good listeners, and, although
to say so may sound paradoxical, the better you listen, the greater
will be your reputation as a conversationalist.
In the opinion of the cynical Rochefoucauld, the reason why so few
persons make themselves agreeable in conversation, is because they are
more concerned about what they are themselves going to say, than what
others are saying to them.
If you have read "Nicholas Nickleby," you remember Mrs. Nickleby tells
how remarkable Smike was as a converser. She entertained poor Smike for
several hours with a genealogical account of her family, including
biographical sketches, while he sat looking at her and wondering what it
was all about, and whether she learned it from a book or said it from
her own head.
Said a writer in the _Chicago Herald_: "What is there, indeed, more
colloquial than an intelligent countenance, eagerly intent upon one
while telling a story? What language can be compared to the speaking
blush or flashing eye of an earnest listener? It was Desdemona, with
greedy ear devouring his discourse, who won Othello's heart. He told his
wondrous story, and she listened--that only was the witchcraft he had
used."
It is said of Sir Walter Scott that, although one of the best talkers in
the world, he was also the best listener. With the same bland look he
would watch, throughout an entire evening, the lips of his garrulous
tormentor ignorantly discoursing on Greek epigrams, or crassly dilating
on the intricacies of a parliamentary debate.
It was said of Madame Recamier that she listened most winningly, and
this was one secret of her wonderful power to charm.
We have all heard the story of Madame de Stael, who, by a clever
stratagem, was introduced to a deaf mute at a party. She talked to him
the whole evening, and afterward declared that never before had she met
so intelligent a listener and so fine a conversationalist.
Do you remember the story told by Sterne in "The Sentimental Journey"?
He had been represented to a French lady as a great wit and an engaging
converser, and the lady was impatient for an introduction that she might
hear him talk.
They met, and, writes Sterne: "I had not taken my seat before I saw she
did not care a sou whether I had any wit or no. I was to be convinced
that she had. I call heaven to witness I never once opened the door of
my lips."
The lady afterward said she never in her life had a more improving
conversation with a man.
Many other instances might be mentioned derived from both fact and
fiction, to show how attentive listening may enhance the delights of
conversation, and that one may sometimes gain a reputation for
conversational powers by exercising one's ear instead of one's tongue.