Except the ADMIRABLE CRICHTON, I have never heard of a genius that was
fitted to shine in every art and science. Even Newton was dull in
languages; and Pope used to say of himself, that "he had as leave hear
the squeal of pigs in a gate, as hear the organ of Handel!" Neither
was our Ben the "_omnis homo_" or "_Jack of all trades_." He never
could bear the mathematics! and even arithmetic presented to him no
attractions at all. Not that he was not capable of it; for, happening
about this time, still in his sixteenth year, to be laughed at for his
ignorance in the art of calculation, he went and got himself a copy of
old Cocker's Arithmetic, one of the toughest in those days, and went
through it by himself with great ease. The truth is, his mind was at
this time entirely absorbed in the ambition to be a finished writer of
the English language; such a one, if possible, as the SPECTATOR, whom
he admired above all others.
While labouring, as we have seen, to improve his style, he laid his
hands on all the English Grammars he could hear of. Among the number
was a treatise of that sort, an old shabby looking thing, which the
owner, marking his curiosity in those matters, made him a present of.
Ben hardly returned him a thankee, as doubting at first whether it was
worth carrying home. But how great was his surprise, when coming
towards the close of it, he found, crammed into a small chapter, a
treatise on the art of disputation, after the manner of SOCRATES. The
treatise was very short, but it was enough for Ben; it gave an
outline, and that was all he wanted. As the little whortle-berry boy,
on the sands of Cape May, grabbling for his breakfast in a turtle's
nest, if he but reaches with his little hand but one egg, instantly
laughs with joy, as well knowing that all the rest will follow, like
beads on a string. So it was with the eager mind of Ben, when he first
struck on this plan of Socratic disputation. In an instant his
thoughts ran through all the threads and meshes of the wondrous net;
and he could not help laughing in his sleeve, to think what a fine
puzzling cap he should soon weave for the frightened heads of Collins,
Adams, and all others who should pretend to dispute with him. But the
use which he principally had in view to make of it, and which tickled
his fancy most, was how completely he should now confound those
ignorant and hypocritical ones in Boston, who were continually boring
him about religion. Not that Ben ever took pleasure in confounding
those who were honestly desirous of _showing their religion by their
good works_; for such were always his ESTEEM and DELIGHT. But he could
never away with those who neglected JUSTICE, MERCY, and TRUTH, and yet
affected great familiarities with the Deity, from certain conceited
wonders that Christ had wrought _in_ them. As no youth ever more
heartily desired the happiness of man and beast than Ben did, so none
ever more seriously resented that the religion of love and good works
tending to this, should be usurped by a _harsh, barren puritanism,
with her disfigured faces, whine and cant_. This appeared to him like
Dagon overturning the Ark of God with a vengeance. Burning with zeal
against such detestable phariseeism he rejoiced in his Socratic logic
as a new kind of weapon, which he hoped to employ with good effect
against it. He studied his Socrates day and night, and particularly
his admirable argumentations given by Xenophon, in his book, entitled
"MEMORABLE THINGS OF SOCRATES;" and in a little time came to wield his
new artillery with great dexterity and success.
But in all his rencontres with the _false_ christians, he adhered
strictly to the spirit of Socrates, as being perfectly congenial to
his own. Instead of blunt contradictions and positive assertions, he
would put modest questions; and after obtaining of them concessions of
which they did not foresee the _consequences_, he would involve them
in difficulties and embarrassments, from which they could never
extricate themselves. Had he possessed a vanity capable of being
satisfied with the triumph of wit over dulness, he might long have
crowed the master cock of this Socratic pit. But finding that his
victories seldom produced any practical good; that they were acquired
at a considerable expense of time, neglect of business, and injury of
his temper, which was never formed for altercation with bigots, he
abandoned it by degrees, retaining only the habit of expressing
himself with a modest diffidence. And not only at that time, but ever
afterwards through life, it was remarked of him, that in argument he
rarely used the words _certainly_, _undoubtedly_, or any others that
might convey the idea of being obstinately conceited of his own
opinion. His ordinary phrases were--_I imagine_--_I suppose-_-or, _it
appears to me, that such a thing is so and so_--or, _it is so, if I am
not mistaken_. By such soothing arts he gradually conciliated the good
will of his opponents, and almost always succeeded in bringing them
over to his wishes. Hence he used to say, it was great pity that
sensible and well-meaning persons should lessen their own usefulness
by a positive and presumptuous way of talking, which only serves to
provoke opposition from the passionate, and shyness from the prudent,
who rather than get into a dispute with such self-conceited
characters, will hold their peace, and let them go on in their errors.
In short, if you wish to answer one of the noblest ends for which
tongues were given to rational beings, which is to _inform_ or to be
_informed_, to _please_ and to _persuade_ them, for heaven's sake,
treat their opinions, even though erroneous, with great politeness.
"Men must be taught as though you taught them not,
And things unknown propos'd as things forgot,"
says Mr. Pope; and again
"To speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence;
For want of modesty is want of sense."