Conversation itself belongs to oratory. How many men there a_Talks on Talking

weighty in argument, who have abundant resources, and who are almost

boundless in their power at other times and in other places, but who,

when in company among their kind, are exceedingly unapt in their

methods. Having none of the secret instruments by which the elements of

nature may be touched, having no skill and no power in this direction,

they stand as machines before living, sensitive men. A man may be as a

master before an instrument; only the instrument is dead; and he has the

living hand; and out of that dead instrument what wondrous harmony

springs forth at his touch! And if you can electrify an audience by the

power of a living man on dead things, how much more should that audience

be electrified when the chords are living and the man is alive, and he

knows how to touch them with divine inspiration!

--_Beecher._

* * * * *

Every one endeavors to make himself as agreeable to society as he can;

but it often happens that those who most aim at shining in conversation,

overshoot their mark. Tho a man succeeds, he should not (as is

frequently the case) engross the whole talk to himself; for that

destroys the very essence of conversation, which is talking together. We

should try to keep up conversation like a ball bandied to and fro from

one to the other, rather than seize it all to ourselves, and drive it

before us like a football. We should likewise be cautious to adapt the

matter of our discourse to our company, and not talk Greek before

ladies, or of the last new furbelow to a meeting of country justices.

But nothing throws a more ridiculous air over our whole conversation

than certain peculiarities easily acquired, but very difficultly

conquered and discarded. In order to display these absurdities in a

truer light, it is my present purpose to enumerate such of them as are

most commonly to be met with; and first to take notice of those buffons

in society, the Attitudinarians and Face-makers. These accompany every

word with a peculiar grimace or gesture; they assent with a shrug, and

contradict with a twisting of the neck; are angry by a wry mouth, and

pleased in a caper or minuet step. They may be considered as speaking

harlequins; and their rules of eloquence are taken from the

posture-master. These should be condemned to converse only in dumb show

with their own persons in the looking-glass, as well as the Smirkers and

Smilers, who so prettily set off their faces, together with their words,

by a _je-ne-sais-quoi_ between a grin and a dimple. With these we may

likewise rank the affected tribe of mimics, who are constantly taking

off the peculiar tone of voice or gesture of their acquaintance, tho

they are such wretched imitators, that (like bad painters) they are

frequently forced to write the name under the picture before we can

discover any likeness.

Next to these whose elocution is absorbed in action, and who converse

chiefly with their arms and legs, we may consider the Profest Speakers.

And first, the Emphatical, who squeeze, and press, and ram down every

syllable with excessive vehemence and energy. These orators are

remarkable for their distinct elocution and force of expression; they

dwell on the important particulars _of_ and _the_, and the significant

conjunction _and_, which they seem to hawk up, with much difficulty, out

of their own throats, and to cram them, with no less pain, into the ears

of their auditors. These should be suffered only to syringe (as it were)

the ears of a deaf man, through a hearing-trumpet; tho I must confess

that I am equally offended with the Whisperers or Low-speakers, who seem

to fancy all their acquaintance deaf, and come up so close to you that

they may be said to measure noses with you, and frequently overcome you

with the full exhalations of a foul breath. I would have these oracular

gentry obliged to speak at a distance through a speaking-trumpet, or

apply their lips to the walls of a whispering-gallery. The Wits who will

not condescend to utter anything but a _bon-mot_, and the Whistlers or

Tune-hummers, who never articulate at all, may be joined very agreeably

together in concert; and to these tinkling cymbals I would also add the

sounding brass, the Bawler, who inquires after your health with the

bellowing of a town-crier.

The Tattlers, whose pliable pipes are admirably adapted to the "soft

parts of conversation," and sweetly "prattling out of fashion," make

very pretty music from a beautiful face and a female tongue; but from a

rough manly voice and coarse features mere nonsense is as harsh and

dissonant as a jig from a hurdy-gurdy. The Swearers I have spoken of in

a former paper; but the Half-Swearers, who split and mince, and fritter

their oaths into "gad's but," "ad's fish," and "demme," the Gothic

Humbuggers, and those who nickname God's creatures, and call a man a

cabbage, a crab, a queer cub, an odd fish, and an unaccountable skin,

should never come into company without an interpreter. But I will not

tire my reader's patience by pointing out all the pests of conversation,

nor dwell particularly on the Sensibles, who pronounce dogmatically on

the most trivial points, and speak in sentences; the Wonderers, who are

always wondering what o'clock it is, or wondering whether it will rain

or no, or wondering when the moon changes; the Phraseologists, who

explain a thing by all that, or enter into particulars, with this and

that and t'other; and lastly, the Silent Men, who seem afraid of

opening their mouths lest they should catch cold, and literally observe

the precept of the Gospel, by letting their conversation be only yea and

nay.

The rational intercourse kept up by conversation is one of our principal

distinctions from brutes. We should, therefore, endeavor to turn this

peculiar talent to our advantage, and consider the organs of speech as

the instruments of understanding; we should be very careful not to use

them as the weapons of vice, or tools of folly, and do our utmost to

unlearn any trivial or ridiculous habits, which tend to lessen the value

of such an inestimable prerogative. It is, indeed, imagined by some

philosophers, that even birds and beasts (tho without the power of

articulation) perfectly understand one another by the sounds they utter;

and that dogs, cats, etc., have each a particular language to

themselves, like different nations. Thus it may be supposed that the

nightingales of Italy have as fine an ear for their own native woodnotes

as any signor or signora for an Italian air; that the boars of

Westphalia gruntle as expressively through the nose as the inhabitants

in High German; and that the frogs in the dykes of Holland croak as

intelligibly as the natives jabber their Low Dutch. However this may be,

we may consider those whose tongues hardly seem to be under the

influence of reason, and do not keep up the proper conversation of human

creatures, as imitating the language of different animals. Thus, for

instance, the affinity between Chatterers and Monkeys, and Praters and

Parrots, is too obvious not to occur at once; Grunters and Growlers may

be justly compared to Hogs; Snarlers are Curs that continually show

their teeth, but never bite; and the Spitfire passionate are a sort of

wild cats that will not bear stroking, but will purr when they are

pleased. Complainers are Screech-Owls; and Story-Tellers, always

repeating the same dull note, are Cuckoos. Poets that prick up their

ears at their own hideous braying are no better than Asses. Critics in

general are venomous Serpents that delight in hissing, and some of them

who have got by heart a few technical terms without knowing their

meaning are no other than Magpies. I, myself, who have crowed to the

whole town for near three years past may perhaps put my readers in mind

of a Barnyard Cock; but as I must acquaint them that they will hear the

last of me on this day fortnight, I hope that they will then consider me

as a Swan, who is supposed to sing sweetly at his dying moments.

--_Cowper._

* * * * *

It is almost a definition of a gentleman to say that he is one who never

inflicts pain. This description is both refined, and, so far as it goes,

accurate. He is mainly occupied in merely removing the obstacles which

hinder the free and unembarrassed action of those about him, and he

concurs with their movements rather than takes the initiative himself.

His benefits may be considered as parallel to what are called the

comforts or conveniences in arrangements of a personal nature--like an

easy chair or a good fire, which do their best in dispelling cold and

fatigue, tho nature provides both means of rest and animal heat without

them. The true gentleman in like manner carefully avoids whatever may

cause a jar or a jolt in the mind of those with whom he is cast--all

clashing of opinion or collision of feeling, all restraint or suspicion

or gloom or resentment, his great concern being to make every one at

ease and at home. He has his eyes on all his company, he is tender

toward the bashful, gentle toward the distant, and merciful toward the

absurd. He can recollect to whom he is speaking; he guards against

unseasonable allusions or topics which may irritate; he is seldom

prominent in conversation, and never wearisome. He makes light of favors

when he does them, and seems to be receiving when he is conferring. He

never speaks of himself except when compelled, never defends himself by

a mere retort; he has no ears for slander or gossip, is scrupulous in

imputing motive to those who interfere with him, and interprets

everything for the best. He is never mean or little in his disputes,

never takes unfair advantage, never mistakes personalities or sharp

sayings for arguments, or insinuates evil which he dare not say out.

From a long-sighted prudence, he observes the maxim of the ancient sage,

that we should ever conduct ourselves toward our enemy as if he were

one day to be our friend. He has too much good sense to be affronted at

insults. He is too well employed to remember injuries and too indolent

to bear malice. He is patient, forbearing, and resigned on philosophical

principle; he submits to pain because it is inevitable, to bereavement,

because it is irreparable, and to death because it is his destiny. If he

engages in controversy of any kind, his disciplined intellect preserves

him from the blundering discourtesy of better, perhaps, but less

educated minds, who, like blunt weapons, tear and hack instead of

cutting clean, who mistake the point in argument, waste their strength

on trifles, misconceive their adversary, and leave the question more

involved than they find it. He may be right or wrong in his opinion, but

he is too clear-headed to be unjust; he is as simple as he is forcible,

and as brief as he is decisive. Nowhere shall we find greater candor,

consideration, indulgence; he throws himself into the minds of his

opponents, he accounts for their mistakes. He knows the weakness of

human reason as well as its strength, its province, and its limits. If

he can be an unbeliever, he will be too profound and large-minded to

ridicule religion or to act against it; he is too wise to be a dogmatist

or fanatic in his infidelity. He respects piety and devotion; he even

supports institutions as venerable, beautiful or useful, to which he

does not assent; he honors the ministers of religion, and it contents

him to decline its mysteries without assailing or denouncing them. He is

a friend of religious toleration, and that not only because his

philosophy has taught him to look on all forms of faith with an

impartial eye, but also from the gentleness and effeminacy of feeling

which is attendant on civilization.

--_Cardinal Newman._

* * * * * *

Conversation itself belongs to oratory. How many men there are who are