Were you, my friend, one of those who make a merit of their silence, I
should have little occasion to write this letter. But as I know you, on
the contrary, to have lamented your colloquial deficiencies as sincerely
as any one, as I know that you have most earnestly coveted greater
fluency of speech and admired most warmly those who possessed it, I
venture to hope that I may say something to convince you that your case
is not so bad as you think. Yes, I am bold enough to believe that you
may aspire to the character which now seems to you so utterly beyond
reach,--the character of a talker! Before you smile incredulously,
listen to me, a fellow-sufferer. I also have known the misery and
weakness of an unready tongue. No poor man ever looked upon a heap of
gold coin with more longing eyes than I have looked upon those who could
so easily coin their thoughts into words. From a boy I conceived myself
doomed to taciturnity. The charge, to "talk more," was a well-meant
appeal to awaken my powers of utterance, but its only effect was to shut
my mouth closer than ever. Few persons can talk upon compulsion, and
boys least of all. As I grew old enough, however, to recognize some
responsibility for conversation, I was the more distressed that I could
not do what I knew I ought to do. I was beyond measure vexed with myself
this incapacity. It stood in the way of my usefulness, it did not make
my company desirable, it drove me into morbid and depressing thoughts.
And yet--to make a long story short--I have gradually come to be, not a
"talker" certainly, but no longer afraid that I "can find nothing to
say," no longer trammelled by a false reserve, but presuming, on the
contrary, that with most persons whom I meet it will be quite possible
to engage in easy and fluent conversation,--a presumption, by the way,
always likely to justify itself by the event. I insist, therefore, from
my own experience, that conversation is an art as well as a gift; and
that where it is not a gift, the deficiency may be more surely
supplemented by art than almost any other. You will tell me, perhaps, in
common with others who are not talkers, that speech must be natural to
be attractive, and that all appearance of effort will spoil its charm.
Is not this rather the excuse of indolence than the valid objection of
reason? It has been finely argued, that even with children "work" must
precede "play." The proverb, too, says that "every beginning is hard." I
know that the _appearance_ of effort is not attractive; but after a
while there is no such appearance, not merely because "the province of
art is to conceal art," but because habit has become a second nature.
When you think what a trained and educated thing our life is in its
minutest particulars, and how not only the civilized, but the savage man
has to _learn_ the use of his senses, his muscles, and his brain, you
must admit that it is frivolous to urge against the charm or value of
conversation, that it must be studied. It is hardly too much to say,
that all the noblest things in the world are the result of study. Why
not also study the noble and most desirable art of framing our thoughts,
opinions, sentiments, tastes, into free, familiar, and appropriate
speech?
But here I fancy you may meet me with a question,--Is it, after all, so
desirable an art, and one well worth the learning? I have, it is true,
given you credit for coveting earnestly a greater facility of speech;
and yet you may have become more reconciled to your deficiency than you
like to acknowledge, through the influence of certain popular maxims and
fallacies. The one I wish especially to challenge now is expressed in
that German proverb which Mr. Carlyle has taken under his peculiar
patronage,--"Speech is silver, silence is gold." A great comfort, to be
sure, to one who is either too lazy or too diffident to open his lips to
get credit so cheaply for superior wisdom! When he does not talk, of
course it can only be because he keeps up such an incessant thinking!
"Too deep for utterance" is the character of all his meditations! Do you
remember Coleridge's amusing experience with one of these reputed sages?
But for the appearance of the "dumplings,"--almost as historic now as
King George's famous ones,--it might never have been suspected that this
empty-headed fellow was not the profoundest of philosophers. Can you or
anybody explain the reasons for this singular praise of silence and
disparagement of speech? You do not expect to be commended for shutting
your eyes instead of keeping them open. The feeble and unused hand is
not preferred to the strong cunning one. Nor is there any sense or
faculty of our nature of which the simple non-use is better than the
use. Why, then, account it a merit to refrain from using this wondrous
faculty of speech? I may grant all that you will tell me of the
deplorable amount of vapid, idle, bitter, malicious, foul, and profane
talk. Silence is better than the _abuse_ of words,--none of us will
question that. I am only defending the normal and legitimate exercise
of this faculty. And perhaps you will see the matter in still clearer
light, if you should undertake to apply the principle of the Carlyle
proverb to some other endowments and opportunities, to which in fact
many do apply it. If one may say, "I am weary of all this talking,
henceforth let there be silence," why may not another, improving upon
this hint, say, "I am sick of these miserable daubs, there shall be no
more painting," and another, "I am disgusted with politics, I will have
nothing more to do with the science or the art of government"? Because
there are infelicities of married life, is it so certain that "single
blessedness" is the best estate? Because there are some timeservers and
worldlings among the clergy, shall we join in denunciation of priests
and churches everywhere? I see that you are prepared to answer, that
speech is peculiarly liable to abuse. Exactly, and that is true of all
the most excellent and valuable gifts of Providence. It is impossible to
escape the condition of peril attached to everything under the sun that
is most worthy of desire. Have we not learned by this time the folly of
every form of asceticism, of every attempt to trample upon God's gifts
as evil instead of using them for good?
Now I shall not attempt a dissertation, however tempting the theme, upon
the uses of speech in general. I will only ask you to consider that
single department of it which we call conversation. Did you ever think
how great a power in the world this is? See how early it begins to shape
our opinions, our plans, our studies, our tastes, our attachments, etc.
I remember that a casual remark, dropped in conversation by a beloved
and revered relative long before I had entered my teens, made me for
years feel more kindly towards the much-abused natives of the Emerald
Isle, though I have no doubt that she whose word I had listened to with
so much deference was entirely unsuspicious of having lodged such a
fruitful seed in my memory. If you can recall the formative periods of
your own life, I have no doubt you also will find hundreds of similar
instances, where a new direction was given to your sentiments and
purposes by some quite random words of friendly and domestic talk.
Consider how large a part of the life of most human beings is spent in
society of some sort, and then reflect how that society is bound
together and constituted, as it were, by familiar speech, and you will
begin to appreciate the extent of the power of conversation. Compare
this power with that of written language,--as books, letters, etc.,--or
even with more formal spoken language,--such as orations, sermons, and
the like,--and I think you will allow that it surpasses them all in its
diffusion and its permanence. Were the question solely as to the amount
of information imparted, books and deliberate addresses certainly stand
higher. But you must not fall into the common error, that the chief
object of conversation is or should be to instruct. It has manifold
objects, and some of them, to say the least, are quite as desirable as
instruction. We talk to keep up good feeling, to enliven the else dull
hours, to give expression to our interest in one another, to throw off
the burden of too much private care and thought. We have also, in
special cases, more serious ends in view, when we talk to reprove or
encourage, to console or arouse. Even this partial enumeration of the
offices of familiar speech may suffice to show you how desirable it is
to wield such a power. Conversation establishes a personal relation
between yourself and another soul. It is the open door through which
your spiritual treasures are interchanged. For the time, at least, it
supposes some degree of equality, some power both to give and receive,
in those who take part in the dialogue. I know very well how the cynics
like to quote the diplomatist's sarcasm, that "speech is the art of
hiding thought." Let this perversion have what force it may. I am
speaking now of the higher uses and possibilities of conversation. You
can hide your thoughts under your words, if you choose to be a
hypocrite; but I am taking for granted that you are a man of truth,--a
"man of your word," as the common phrase happily has it. I assume that
you would be glad to talk, because you wish to form sincere and friendly
relations with your fellow-men. When two or more human beings meet, the
rule, the normal condition, is, that they give utterance to some
thoughts, feelings, or sentiments in audible words. _Silence is
unsocial_: there lies its condemnation. It is true that silence may
often be justified, notwithstanding; for social claims must sometimes
yield to higher considerations, or even to physical necessity. But most
persons, I believe, feel instinctively that a persistent silence is an
affront to them,--a denial, in some sort, of their right to be received
into your company. "You won't speak to me" is their resentful
interpretation of your silence. You ought not to ask so much as "a penny
for your thoughts." They should, so far as practicable, be shared freely
by those whom you call friends. The limitations and exceptions to this
rule we will presently refer to, but the rule is important and clear.
True social feeling, true warmth and cordiality, naturally expresses
itself in words, and is strengthened by the expression. Will you not
admit, that, if we are conscious of having anything to say which might
please or profit a friend, it is a reproach to us to keep it back? Yes,
it is desirable to talk, were it simply a mark of interest and
confidence in those whom you come in contact with. I have noticed that a
great deal of taciturnity comes from a very discreditable diffidence, by
which I mean a distrust or suspicion that our words may be misconstrued,
or that they may not be appreciated, or that they may chance to give
serious offence. Now, in my opinion, one had better make innumerable
_faux pas_ than indulge such unworthy fears and suspicions. A little
less vanity, and vastly more courage and self-forgetfulness,--such is
the remedy to be administered to many of the taciturn. You are the best
judge whether it would suit your own case.
As an illustration of the value of conversation in its more familiar
forms and its daily requirements, consider its service at meal-times.
General usage has determined that three times a day we shall assemble
with our families for the common purpose of appeasing the demands of
hunger and satisfying the fancies or whims of the palate. Moreover, to
many men these are the only times of the day when they can have the
opportunity to meet all the members of their family in free and
unrestrained intercourse. Now to make this occasion something more than
mere "feeding," and to elevate it to the dignity of rational
intercourse, conversation is indispensable. We must open our mouths for
something more than the reception of food. As a mere hygienic rule, I
wish that excellent old proverb could be circulated among our
countrymen,--"Chatted food is half digested." I would almost pledge
myself by this single rule to cure or prevent nearly half the cases of
dyspepsia. But for higher reasons chiefly I speak of it now. We ought to
insist that everything shall be favorable at meal-times to the truest
sociality. No clouded brows, no absent or preoccupied demeanor, should
be permitted at our tables. Whoever is not ready to do his part in
making it a cheerful hour should be made to feel that he does not belong
there. Better the merest nonsense, better anything that is not scandal
and detraction, than absolute and freezing silence then. I am sure that
the usages of all the most civilized and refined people will bear me out
in this,--that the only way to dignify our meals, and make them
something better than the indulgence of mere animal appetites, is to
intersperse them largely with social talk. There, if not elsewhere, we
look for the _soluta lingua_. There all reserve and embarrassment of
speech, we trust, will have vanished, and each will feel free to impart
to the rest his brightest and most joyous moods. Shall we ever realize
this ideal, as long as "bolting" usurps the place of eating?
And what, after all, constitutes the charm and the power of
conversation, and makes it so desirable an attainment? Not, certainly,
the amount of knowledge one can bring into play; for, as I have already
shown you, instruction is a secondary object of conversation; and it is
well known also that some of the most learned and best-informed men have
been very poor talkers. Indeed, the scholastic habits which learning
usually engenders are almost a disqualification for fluent and eloquent
speech. The student is one of the last persons who are expected to shine
at a social reunion. But neither can you rely upon brilliant talents, or
original genius, or even upon wit and humor, to make the most charming
converser. The qualities more immediately in requisition for this end
are moral and social. Truth, courage, deference, good-nature,
cheerfulness, sympathy, courtesy, tact, charity,--these are ingredients
of the best conversation, which it would seem that no one need despair
of attaining, and without which, in large measure, the most brilliant
wit, the liveliest imagination, must soon repel rather than attract. And
observe also, in connection with this, that it is not so much the words
a man utters as the tones of his voice which express these moral and
social qualities. Harsh, rude, blunt, severe tones will spoil the
greatest flow of ideas or the utmost elegance of language. But when we
are listening to the low, sweet music in which a genial and joyous and
tender soul will utter itself, what care we for the wit or genius which
are so much envied elsewhere? We did not miss it here. We may have
brought away with us from such company no great fund of new ideas, but
you may be sure something deeper than thought has been awakened,--the
well-spring of purest and tenderest sensibilities has been made to
overflow, and our life will be the greener for it hereafter. Perhaps, if
you think of this a little more, my friend, you will not find it in your
heart to condemn so unsparingly the more ordinary staple of
conversation. Some cynical or unsocial character, deeming himself
superior to the vulgar vacuity and insipidity, will take no part in the
every-day talk which deals so largely in commonplace and truisms.
"Absurd waste of time and breath!" he exclaims. "Of what use this
incessant harping on the weather, or the renewed inquiries after one's
health, or the utterly pointless, if not insincere, exchange of daily
civilities? Who is the wiser for it? What possible good can it do
anybody?" Let us look a little at this, Mr. Cynic. You think it a waste
of breath to greet a friend with a "good morning," or to give your
testimony to the beauty of the day? Of course you are right, if one
should never open his mouth but to impart a new idea, or to announce
some startling fact. But what would you substitute for the morning
salutation? Nothing! And would you really have two friends or brothers
meet on the threshold of a new day, and interchange--blank silence? I
admit, there is no variety in the words,--they are stale, they have been
repeated a thousand times over. But it is the heartiness we put into
them which gives them their value, and I am sure that you, with all your
objections to the form of greeting, would find the world many shades
more dreary, were _no_ such forms to welcome us with the rising sun. For
myself I can truly say, that, many and many a time, this morning
salutation, spoken out with a generous fulness, and not with that
grudging curtness which sometimes distinguishes it, has touched my heart
as with a happy prophecy which the day was sure to fulfil. As to the
dreadfully threadbare topic of the weather, I must confess I often hear
it to satiety; but that is when it ceases to be the mere prelude to the
dialogue, and occupies one's whole talk. In itself you cannot deny that
it is natural and proper enough to invite another's sympathy in a
subject which so nearly concerns the physical, if not the moral
well-being of most of us. "What a glorious day we have!" when
interpreted rationally, means nothing less than this,--"Come, let us
enjoy together the lavish bounty of the Creator!" We may be sensible of
a new and purer joy for such an appeal. Already we were glad to have the
sun shine so brightly; but it seems doubly bright now that our friend
has invited us to share his joy. Does it seem to you superfluous,
perhaps, to give utterance to a thought which is obviously already in
the mind of your companion? Well, let us try this by some familiar test.
You have just gone among the mountains to spend a few weeks with an
agreeable company. You wake in the morning and find yourself in the
midst of a most majestic spectacle. At the very door of the farm-house
where you have taken lodgings, your eyes travel upward five thousand
feet to admire that cloud-piercing summit which stands there to give you
the welcome of the morning. As you watch its coursing shadows and all
its wondrous variety of beauty and grandeur, have you nothing to say to
the friend who has come with you there to see it all? What would be more
unnatural than to repress all words or tokens of admiration,--to meet
your friend day after day and interchange no word of recognition amid
such scenes? I know that he who feels most in the presence of these
sublimities will often say least. But because it is impossible to give
expression to one's deepest thoughts, shall one say nothing? You may
reasonably be supposed to care something for the sympathy of those whom
you have accompanied hither; and sympathy, though not entirely dependent
on words, naturally seeks some words to express itself, and is injured
when that expression is restrained.
But now I fancy you replying to all this,--"You do not hit my
difficulty. I have no trouble in talking with a chosen companion. My
friend 'draws me out,' because I am his friend. In his presence my
tongue is easily loosed, I have no hesitation in saying exactly what I
wish, and there are innumerable things that I wish to say. But the great
majority of men 'shut me up.' All my fluency departs when they enter.
There is an indescribable awkwardness in our interview. We belong to
different spheres, and it is mere pretence to affirm that we have
anything to communicate to each other."--Here I am willing to admit that
you have touched upon a very important consideration, although it by no
means justifies all that you would build upon it. I am myself conscious
that with some persons it is an effort to talk, and with others a
delight; nor can I always understand whence this difference. It is
certainly not owing to the length or shortness of acquaintance. It has
been no infrequent experience with me, to meet persons who at the first
interview broke down all my natural reserve. And on the other hand, I
have known men all my life with whom it is still a study what I shall
say when we meet. Who shall tell us what this magic is? Who shall give
us the "open sesame" to every heart? We name it "sphere,"
"organization," "sympathy," or what not, to cover our ignorance: all I
insist upon is, that you will not name it _fate_. Pride or indolence is
always suggesting that these lines of demarcation are fixed and
unalterable. Beware of entertaining that suggestion! Were two of the
most uncongenial persons in the world to be thrown together on a desert
island, would they have nothing to say to each other? Would they not
learn by the necessities of the case to communicate more and more? Would
it not probably be a constant discovery, that they had vastly more in
common than either had ever dreamed? I think so, at least. Well, if mere
external necessity can surmount these natural barriers, may not a
determined will, backed by a strong sense of moral obligation, do the
same? Let me tell you this also, as one of my experiences: that I have
not seldom reversed my first judgments or impressions of men, and have
found, that, after a very thin crust was once broken through, there was
no further obstacle to easy conversation. You will observe that some
persons, at the first encounter, bristle all over with uncongenial
points; and yet, if you will quietly ignore these, or boldly rush upon
them, you shall gain a true friend. Behind that formidable barrier is a
field all your own, and worth cultivating. This needs to be considered,
especially under our northern skies, where cultivated society intrenches
itself behind a triple wall of reserve. The code of this society seems
to assume, that no stranger has a right to our confidence, that every
new person may be supposed to have little in common with us, till we
learn the contrary. Hence conversation in the saloons is a dexterous
tossing about of the most vapid generalities, or a series of desperate
attempts at non-committal. I do not wonder that you, my friend, like
many other sensible people, infinitely prefer saying nothing to talking
on this wise. But, with a little more courage, may not one break boldly
through these artificial restraints, and ignore these supposed claims of
polite society? Do not call me Quixotic, because I exhort you to show
something like independence. Why may you not establish your own claim to
confidence by confiding in others? Why not, without affectation, have to
some extent your own standard of polite usage,--not, indeed, rashly
despising all conventionalisms, but conforming to whatever is
essentially refined, courteous, and deferential, yet proving in your
manners and language that such conformity does not require one to
suppress all that is simple, natural, spontaneous, enthusiastic, and
fresh? Do not be afraid, however, that I would have you addicted to
superlatives,--though I might object to them for another reason than
that given by our American Essayist. He complains of them, that "they
put whole drawing-rooms to flight,"--a result which I am almost
malicious enough to say might sometimes be by no means undesirable. I do
not say it, however. I merely express my impatience at the extremely
artificial barriers which society interposes to any genuine, unaffected
intercourse of human souls.
To return to the question of spheres and sympathy. I frankly admit, that
it is very unreasonable to suppose we can talk equally well and feel
equally at ease with all kinds of persons. Not only organization, but
habits, occupations, and culture, make inevitable differences between
men, such as render it less easy for them to converse together. The
scholar and the mechanic, the sailor and the farmer, the mistress and
the maid, in most cases will have little to interest each other. Their
interview will probably be awkward and brief, their words few and
constrained. This, perhaps, cannot be essentially remedied. But I trust
you will agree with me, that the true remedy is to be sought in a more
hearty recognition of that _common humanity_ which underlies all the
shades and diversities of human character. "_Nihil humani alienum_"--we
must go back to old Terence still, even to learn how to talk. You happen
to be thrown into the same public conveyance with a man of no literary
or intellectual tastes. "All his talk is of oxen," or perchance of his
speculations and profits in trade. Moreover, he offends your ear by a
shocking disregard of grammar, and vulgarisms of pronunciation. Your
first reflection is,--"What can I have to say to such a man? How
unfortunate to be condemned to such company!" Yet is there not _aliquid
humani_ even here? Were it only as an intellectual exercise, why not try
to find out the real man beneath all these wrappages? The gold-miner
does not grumble at having to crush the quartz, that he may bring to
light the few grains of precious metal hidden in it. Infinitely more is
it worth all the labor it costs to break through that harder shell in
which man hides his intrinsic gold. And besides, it will not reflect
much credit on the largeness of your own culture, if you suffer a mere
offence against taste and manners to keep you ignorant of your
companion's deeper nature. "But how to draw him out? What effectual
method to break through this hard or coarse covering?" I have no
infallible directions to give you. But you must first have a genuine
interest in him as a new specimen of _a man_; and then you must be able
to inspire him with confidence in you, confidence that you respect him
for his human nature and hold yourself to be on an equality with him,
inasmuch as "man measures man the world over." Start some topic which
will evidently not be remote from his familiar range, and by a little
tact you will easily find other related topics, till at last, as the
field continually widens, you will both be amazed to see how many common
interests, desires, beliefs you had, and how much unexpected benefit
each has received from the other. Were there no other advantage to be
sought from the power of general conversation, this alone should be
enough to induce us to cultivate it: that so many uncomfortable social
distinctions would thereby be removed. Have you not heard it often said,
that, if certain classes only "knew each other better," they would be
better friends, no longer separated by mutual envies, jealousies, and
contempt? Now conversation is the readiest way to this mutual
acquaintance, and it specially behooves one of the educated class to
make the first advances in conversation. I have in my mind an instance
of a man of natural reserve and diffidence, and of scholastic habits,
who greatly to his grief had the reputation among some uneducated people
of being "proud." But having occasion to do some little service to a
woman of this class, he entered her plain dwelling, seated himself at
once as if at home, and had no sooner uttered a few words of sympathy,
such as the occasion called for, than all that suspicion of pride was
most thoroughly dissipated, leaving only the wonder that it could ever
have been entertained. My friend, will you not, in this world of
frequent misunderstanding, do your part, by _word_ as well as deed, to
show others, whom society classes below you, that you are not divided
from them in respect to all those great interests which make the true
dignity of human nature? Talk of the virtue of silence! I will tell you
from my own experience of a thousand cases where the simple failure to
speak has kept up a coolness and alienation which one little word would
have dispersed forever. Among the many sins and weaknesses which I have
to lay at my own door, few give me greater compunction than the
cowardice--or whatever else it was--which kept back the timely words
that ought to have been uttered, but were not.
Can I make this letter more practically useful by a few rules? It would
seem, that, if conversation is an art, like other arts, there must be
rules and methods to attain to it. This is true; but I must first remind
you that mere facility, propriety, or elegance of speech is but a small
part of the discipline required to make an agreeable and profitable
talker. You must have something to express, something that you long to
utter, something that you feel it would be for the advantage of others
to hear. For the furnishing of mind and heart comes before any special
power to _bring out_ of one's treasury things new or old. In other
words, the power to converse well is not an isolated and independent
power; it has a close relation to the entire character, moral and
intellectual. An enlightened conscience would make many persons better
talkers than they are now, for it would present the matter in the light
of a duty. A consciousness of intellectual power or of ample learning
makes one more ready to open his mouth before intelligent men; for,
whether rightly or not, one does not like to talk before others of
subjects on which he knows that they are better informed than he. And
yet it is no good reason for maintaining silence in the company of some
eminent scholar, that he _knows_ so much more than you. You are
naturally shy of expressing your opinion on the "origin of species," or
the "antiquity of man," before some great naturalist. But why not come
to him as a learner, then? The art of putting questions well is no small
part of the art of conversation. You can derive information from him in
the most direct and impressive manner, while at the same time you are
showing a pleasing deference to his superior knowledge. Or suppose the
case reversed, and that you are the more learned of the two, may you not
benefit some young scholar by questioning him so skilfully that he
shall seem to have imparted all the information evolved, instead of
receiving it? The "wisest of mankind" always declared that he merely
drew out the sentiments of those he talked with. He assisted in the
delivery of their thoughts. He simply helped them to that most valuable
knowledge,--the knowledge of themselves. He was forever putting
questions to them, with a result which often surprised and sometimes
made them angry, but which, at any rate, effectually served the
interests of truth. And, upon the whole, I do not know any rule for
making a good talker which deserves a more prominent place than this:
Put your questions properly, and ask many questions. Observe how
naturally nearly all conversation begins with an inquiry. "When did you
arrive?" "Are you a stranger here?" "How far did you walk to-day?"
"Which view did you most enjoy?" "Did you hear any news from the seat of
war?" The simple reason of this method, as already intimated, is, that
it puts the questioner in a more modest position. He whom you question
has the agreeable consciousness of being able to impart something which
you have not. You put yourself in the background, and make him the
important person. He is therefore at once amicably disposed towards you,
and is not likely to let the conversation languish, so auspiciously
begun. He in turn becomes the questioner, and so in not many moments you
stand on the footing of equals. But remember, all this is true only on
condition that the questions are _properly put_. If they manifest an
impertinent curiosity, a mere disposition to pry into affairs which do
not belong to one,--if they are of a nature to expose the ignorance of
the questioned, even though not intended for such,--if they are
incessant, and unrelieved by any affirmations, as though you were
unwilling to commit yourself, or grudged to impart your knowledge,--and,
finally, if the tone and voice of the questioner imply a feeling of
superiority,--then, instead of promoting conversation, you will have
done your worst to check it. You will have made the breach wider than if
you had said nothing. Again, before putting your questions, consider a
little the character of the man or woman whom you would address; for,
while some evidently delight in being the objects of interrogation,
others are as plainly, beyond a very moderate amount, annoyed by it. You
must, of course, take this into account. You will gain nothing by the
rudeness of pressing your questions upon unwilling ears. If one
obstinately (or not obstinately) refuses to be drawn out, there is no
help for it but silence. Conversation implies _some_ reciprocity,--not
by any means an equal amount of words on both sides, but at any rate
some sign of intelligence, some expression of interest, some listening
ear and face to encourage you; else it were better to utter your
monologue to the woods and flowers.
Another rule of conversation, as old at least as George Herbert, is, to
talk with men on the subjects which belong to their peculiar calling or
occupation,--with a farmer about his crops, with a merchant about the
markets, with a sailor about the charms and perils of the sea, etc. Let
it be only with considerable qualification that you accept this rule. I
like Coleridge's comment on it: Talk with a man about his trade or
business, if your object is to get information on such points; but if
you wish to know the man himself, try him on all other topics sooner.
The rule, however, is a convenient one; it is almost instinctively
adopted in general society; and if judiciously applied, it may express a
friendly feeling, which it is very desirable to commence with. It is not
applied judiciously, when you seem to assume by it that your
interlocutor is _limited_ to these topics, and that "the cobbler must
stick to his last," in word as well as deed. Or, again, if your
questions shall have the air of "pumping" him, you will not make much
progress towards friendly communication; for that seems an unfair
advantage to take of your position, besides that it is making of him a
mere convenience, not treating him as an equal. No one likes to be
catechized after he has grown to man's estate. I advise you, therefore,
to use this rule simply as a convenient introduction to conversation
where other methods fail, and to rely more upon a rule which is in some
respects the reverse of this: Begin by talking about those things which
interest yourself, assuming that your interlocutor is interested in them
also. But I must warn you that here even more tact and discretion are
required than in the other case. Follow such a rule literally and
everywhere, and you would often have no hearer left. Fancy some student,
fresh from his Greek or Sanscrit, endeavoring to impart his enthusiasm
to a crowd of rustics! It is plain that I must add to my rule,
_provided_ your interest does not lie in things too remote from common
apprehension and sympathy. Remember what I have already said about our
"common humanity." Do not be so absorbed in your favorite study that you
shall not also have an eye and a heart for matters pertaining to the
general welfare. Then there will be no company in which you need be
wholly silent, though there will always be preference for a company
which sympathizes with your more decided tastes and pursuits. I cannot,
indeed, understand how one should ever arrive at that state in which he
has no preference for any particular class or society. Yet the more one
cultivates acquaintance with a variety of characters, the more one will
enjoy conversation in the favorite circle. Looking upon society simply
as the means of developing the power of speech in man, the wider and
more intimate our acquaintance with it, the more varied and attractive
will be that power. I have somewhere read of two prisoners of state in
Europe, who, entire strangers to each other before, were thrown into the
same prison-cell to pass years together. One of them, after his release,
relates, that, for the first year, they told each other all that they
ever did,--every incident that memory could possibly rake up out of
their past lives. For the second year, they talked over all their
interior life, confiding to each other every phase of thought and
affection and spiritual experience. But in the third year, they were
_utterly silent_. They had "talked out." And what could more strikingly
picture the misery of such a confinement than this entire exhaustion of
materials for mutual communication? Yet how could it be otherwise? With
absolutely nothing new to flow in, how could anything new be drawn out?
The story impresses upon us the lesson, that, if we would enrich and
enliven our conversation, we must always be supplying ourselves with new
resources, new studies, new experiences. Let me lay it down, then, as a
further rule to help one in the attainment of this valuable art: Make it
a point to inform yourself on a variety of topics. One of the greatest
hindrances, you will observe, to profitable or entertaining conversation
is the extremely limited range of ideas with which most persons are
familiar. Take any miscellaneous company, brought together in some
public conveyance, or detained at some public house. The chances are,
that very few out of the whole number will be conscious of any definite
opinions to express on the higher departments of thought. They could
doubtless tell you a great many _facts_ which have interested them; but
ask them for their _ideas_ upon science, theology, politics, or morals,
and they are dumb. They will talk with you of _persons_ as long as you
will listen, but of _principles_ they seem to have only the remotest
conception. Now I do not quite agree with the "Guesses at Truth," that
"personality is the bane of conversation"; for persons come nearer to
our every-day sympathies, and one need not, one does not, always bring
them forward for gossip and scandal. But does it not denote extreme
poverty of thought to introduce personalities into every conversation?
Let them rather be illustrations, and thus stepping-stones to something
higher and more edifying. Come now and then, at least, fully prepared
for something like intellectual gymnastics. Put your whole strength into
the conflict. Gather up all your forces of thought and knowledge, and do
your best as a man among men, contending not for victory or display, but
for the truth and the right. If you ever belonged to a literary club or
debating-society of any kind, you will remember what healthy glow and
freshness it gave to all your faculties to enter into this intellectual
arena. You could read and study with a great deal more interest after
that. You knew better what you really believed and thought concerning
the great interests of humanity. Your ideas of art, of ethics, of
history, of government, of philosophy, were set in clearer order, and
made you conscious of greater power. Now I am not pretending that you
can make a debating-club out of every mixed company you may chance to
meet, but only that you should carry into all society a readiness to
discuss the higher topics, whenever they come up naturally to mind. Here
it is _tact_ again, and evermore tact, which is required to make the
rule efficient,--tact to prevent "lugging in" unseasonable topics,--tact
to avoid too long a discussion,--tact to keep out offensive
egotism,--tact, in general, to adapt one's self to one's surroundings.
I will not conclude this letter, however imperfectly it may meet your
wants, without devoting a few words to the grave question, Shall we talk
of a subject so sacred as _religion_ in mixed society? For myself, I
must confess to some change of opinion on this point. I have greater
respect than I once had for that reserve which keeps one habitually
silent on this highest of all themes. I protest against the assumption,
that a religious man will feel it his duty to converse often about
religion. His duty must be governed by the peculiar circumstances of
each case. He certainly must not do violence to his own feelings of
reverence; nor ought he to suppose that the mere introduction of
religious themes into conversation, anyhow and anywhere, is sure to do
good. On the contrary, I believe that an injudicious treatment of this
subject has done vastly more harm than good. And yet there is no power,
in my opinion, within the whole range of the human faculties, more
desirable than that of awakening religious life and thought by means of
familiar speech. Whoever would wield such a power must know, as one of
the chief requisites, how to seize the _mollia tempora fandi_. The word
in season,--the very word to reach and move this individual heart,--find
_this_, and you have found the great secret of influence. And be sure
there is such a key to every man. Somewhere and sometime, if you watch
for it, you shall discover the tender place in the roughest and hardest
character. Men arm themselves against you by a thousand assumptions of
indifference, stoicism, and irreverence, put on for the occasion, that
you may not invade their inner sanctuary. Do not therefore be led into
the mistake that for them there is no sanctuary, no citadel to defend.
Better take for granted the reverse, and use every lawful art and
persuasion to find the entrance to it. Of multitudes it is indeed true,
that they have "no religion to speak of"; but that with any intelligent
man is no longer a reproach. To sound a trumpet before one has a
disagreeable reminder of certain ancient pretenders. Some men, when the
heart is fullest, cannot speak; and nothing would be more unjust than to
charge with want of feeling for the deepest and highest subjects of
thought those who cannot frame a sentence to convey their emotions. Yet,
after all these considerations have been fairly weighed, it is still
desirable that men should communicate with each other far oftener than
they do, on the interests which concern all men alike,--the interests,
not of a temporal, but of an eternal state. A wholly unnatural reserve,
the result of false education, hedges in the subject of religion.
Never,--let this he a sacred and inviolable rule to you,--never, by
word, tone, or manner, falsify your own nature and experience, when
referring to this subject; never affect in the slightest degree an
interest you do not feel; never dare to open your mouth merely because
you are expected to do so,--and, my word for it, you will already
possess important negative qualifications, to say the least, for
conversing on the highest of all topics. I have exalted "tact" in
conversation, but here I would exalt simplicity no less. Lay aside the
_too many_ folds. Learn the courage to "speak right out," when you know
that your heart is charged with no malice or vanity, that you should
fear to speak. Have you never envied the courage of children in this
respect? I have. And it has seemed to me that to "become as little
children" is nowhere more urgently required than here, and that no rule
would sooner make talkers out of the silent ones,--you, my friend,
included. So with this, my last and best word, I take leave of you, not
despairing that you will yet be able to overcome your taciturnity, if
you take to heart these counsels of