CONVERSATION.
Conversation is the verbal interchange of thoughts and feelings. To form
a _perfect_ conversationist, many qualifications are requisite. There
must be knowledge of the world, knowledge of books, and a facility of
imparting that knowledge; together with originality, memory, an
intuitive perception of what is best to say, and best to omit, good
taste, good temper, and good manners. An agreeable and instructive
talker has the faculty of going “from gay to grave, from lively to
serene,” without any apparent effort; neither skimming so slightly over
a variety of topics as to leave no impression of any, or dwelling so
long upon one subject as to weary the attention of the hearers. Persons
labouring under a monomania, such as absorbs their whole mind into one
prevailing idea, are never pleasant or impressive talkers. They defeat
their own purpose by recurring to it perpetually, and rendering it a
perpetual fatigue. A good talker should cultivate a temperance in
talking; so as not to talk too much, to the exclusion of other good
talkers. Conversation is dialogue, not monologue. It was said of Madame
de Stael that she did not converse, but delivered orations.
To be a perfect conversationist, a good voice is indispensable—a voice
that is clear, distinct, and silver-toned. If you find that you have a
habit of speaking too low, “reform it altogether.” It is a bad one; and
will render your talk unintelligible.
Few things are more delightful than for one intelligent and well-stored
mind to find itself in company with a kindred spirit—each understanding
the other, catching every idea, and comprehending every allusion. Such
persons will become as intimate in half an hour, as if they had been
personally acquainted for years.
On the other hand, the pleasure of society is much lessened by the habit
in which many persons indulge, of placing themselves always in the
opposition, controverting every opinion, and doubting every fact. They
talk to you as a lawyer examines a witness at the bar; trying to catch
you in some discrepancy that will invalidate your testimony; fixing
their scrutinizing eyes upon your face “as if they would look you
through,” and scarcely permitting you to say, “It is a fine day,”
without making you prove your words. Such people are never popular.
Nobody likes perpetual contradiction, especially when the subject of
argument is of little or no consequence. In young people this dogmatic
practice is generally based upon vanity and impertinence. In the old it
is prompted by pride and selfishness. We doubt if in the present day the
talk and manners of Johnson would have been tolerated in really good
society.
Unless he first refers to it himself, never talk to a gentleman
concerning his profession; at least do not question him about it. For
instance, you must not expect a physician to tell you how his patients
are affected, or to confide to you any particulars of their maladies.
These are subjects that he will discuss only with their relatives, or
their nurses. It is also very improper to ask a lawyer about his
clients, or the cases in which he is employed. A clergyman does not like
always to be talking about the church. A merchant, when away from his
counting-house, has no wish to engage in business-talk with ladies; and
a mechanic is ever willing “to leave the shop behind him.” Every
American is to be supposed capable of conversing on miscellaneous
subjects; and he considers it no compliment to be treated as if he knew
nothing but what the Scotch call his “bread-winner.” Still, there are
some few individuals who like to talk of their bread-winner. If you
perceive this disposition, indulge them, and listen attentively. You
will learn something useful, and worth remembering.
Women who have begun the world in humble life, and have been
necessitated to give most of their attention to household affairs, are
generally very shy in talking of housewifery, after their husbands have
become rich, and are living in style, as it is called. Therefore, do not
annoy them by questions on domestic economy. But converse as if they had
been ladies always.
Lord Erskine, having lived a bachelor to an advanced age, finally
married his cook, by way of securing her services, as she had frequently
threatened to leave him. After she became Lady Erskine she lost all
knowledge of cookery, and it was a mortal affront to hint the
possibility of her knowing how any sort of eatable should be prepared
for the table.
Never remind any one of the time when their situation was less genteel,
or less affluent than at present, or tell them that you remember their
living in a small house, or in a remote street. If they have not moral
courage to talk of such things themselves, it is rude in you to make any
allusion to them.
On the other hand, if invited to a fashionable house, and to meet
fashionable company, it is not the time or place for you to set forth
the comparative obscurity of your own origin, by way of showing that you
are not proud. If _you_ are not proud, it is most likely that your
entertainers may be, and they will not be pleased at your
ultra-magnanimity in thus lowering yourself before their aristocratic
guests. These communications should be reserved for _tête-à-têtes_ with
old or familiar friends, who have no more pride than yourself.
When listening to a circumstance that is stated to have actually
occurred to the relater, even if it strikes you as being very
extraordinary, and not in conformity to your own experience, it is rude
to reply, “Such a thing never happened to _me_.” It is rude because it
seems to imply a doubt of the narrator’s veracity; and it is foolish,
because its not having happened to _you_ is no proof that it could not
have happened to any body else. Slowness in belief is sometimes an
evidence of ignorance, rather than of knowledge. People who have read
but little, travelled but little, and seen but little of the world out
of their own immediate circle, and whose intellect is too obtuse to
desire any new accession to their own small stock of ideas, are apt to
think that nothing can be true unless it has fallen under their own
limited experience. Also, they may be so circumstanced that nothing in
the least out of the common way is likely to disturb the still water of
their pond-like existence.
A certain English nobleman always listens incredulously when he hears
any person descanting on the inconveniences of travelling on the
continent, and relating instances of bad accommodations and bad fare;
uncomfortable vehicles, and uncomfortable inns; the short beds and
narrow sheets of Germany; the slow and lumbering diligence-riding of
France; the garlicky stews of Spain with a feline foundation; the little
vine-twig fires in the chilly winters of Northern Italy; and various
other ills which the flesh of travellers is heir to;—the duke always
saying, “Now really _I_ never experienced any of these discomforts, much
as I have traversed the continent. None of these inconveniences ever
come in my way.” And how should they, when, being a man of enormous
wealth, he always travels with a cavalcade of carriages; a retinue of
servants; a wagon-load of bedding and other furniture; a cook, with
cooking-utensils, and lots of luxurious eatables to be cooked at
stopping-places—his body-coach (as it is called) being a horse-drawn
palace. What inconveniences can possibly happen to _him_?
When you hear a gentleman speak in praise of a lady whom you do not
think deserving of his commendations, you will gain nothing by
attempting to undeceive him; particularly if she is handsome. Your
dissenting from his opinion he will, in all probability, impute to envy,
or ill-nature; and therefore the only impression you can make will be
against yourself.
Even if you have reason to dislike the lady, recollect that few are
without some good points both of person and character. And it will be
much better for you to pass over her faults in silence, and agree with
him in commending what is really commendable about her. What he would,
perhaps, believe implicitly if told to him by a man, he would attribute
entirely to jealousy, or to a love of detraction if related by a woman.
Above all, if a gentleman descants on the beauty of a lady, and in your
own mind you do not coincide with his opinion, refrain, on your part,
from criticizing invidiously her face and figure, and do not say that
“though her complexion may be fine, her features are not regular;” that
“her nose is too small,” or “her eyes too large,” or “her mouth too
wide.” Still less disclose to him the secret of her wearing false hair,
artificial teeth, or tinging her cheeks with rouge. If she is a bold,
forward woman, he will find that out as soon as yourself, and sooner
too,—and you may be sure that though he may amuse himself by talking and
flirting with her, he in reality regards her as she deserves.
If a foreigner chances, in your presence, to make an unfavourable remark
upon some custom or habit peculiar to your country, do not immediately
take fire and resent it; for, perhaps, upon reflection, you may find
that he is right, or nearly so. All countries have their national
character, and no character is perfect, whether that of a nation or an
individual. If you know that the stranger has imbibed an erroneous
impression, you may calmly, and in a few words, endeavour to convince
him of it. But if he shows an unwillingness to be convinced, and tells
you that what he has said he heard from good authority; or that, before
he came to America, “his mind was made up,” it will be worse than
useless for you to continue the argument. Therefore change the subject,
or turn and address your conversation to some one else.
Lady Morgan’s Duchess of Belmont very properly checks O’Donnell for his
ultra-nationality, and advises him not to be always running a tilt with
every Englishman he talks to, continually seeming as if ready with the
war-cry of “St. Patrick for Ireland, against St. George for England.”
Dr. Johnson was speaking of Scotland with his usual severity, when a
Caledonian who was present, started up, and called out, “Sir, _I_ was
born in Scotland.” “Very well, sir,” said the cynic calmly, “I do not
see why so small a circumstance should make any change in the national
character.”
English strangers complain (and with reason) of the American practice of
imposing on their credulity, by giving them false and exaggerated
accounts of certain things peculiar to this country, and telling them,
as truths, stories that are absolute impossibilities; the amusement
being to see how the John Bulls swallow these absurdities. Even General
Washington diverted himself by mystifying Weld the English traveller,
who complained to him at Mount Vernon of musquitoes so large and fierce
that they bit through his cloth coat. “Those are nothing,” said
Washington, “to musquitoes I have met with, that bite through a thick
leather boot.” Weld expressed his astonishment, (as well he might;) and,
when he “put out a book,” inserted the story of the boot-piercing
insects, which he said _must_ be true, as he had it from no less a
person than General Washington.
It is a work of supererogation to furnish falsehoods for British
travellers. They can manufacture them fast enough. Also, it is
ungenerous thus to sport with their ignorance, and betray them into
ridiculous caricatures, which they present to the English world in good
faith. We hope these tricks are not played upon any of the best class of
European travel-writers.
When in Europe, (in England particularly,) be not over sensitive as to
remarks that may be made on your own country; and do not expect every
one around you to keep perpetually in mind that you are an American; nor
require that they should guard every word, and keep a constant check on
their conversation, lest they should chance to offend your republican
feelings. The English, as they become better acquainted with America,
regard us with more favour, and are fast getting rid of their old
prejudices, and opening their eyes as to the advantages to be derived
from cultivating our friendship instead of provoking our enmity. They
have, at last, all learnt that our language is theirs, and they no
longer compliment newly-arrived Americans on speaking English “quite
well.” It is not many years since two young ladies from one of our
Western States, being at a party at a very fashionable mansion in
London, were requested by the lady of the house to talk a little
American; several of her guests being desirous of hearing a specimen of
that language. One of the young ladies mischievously giving a hint to
the other, they commenced a conversation in what school-girls call
_gibberish_; and the listeners, when they had finished, gave various
opinions on the American tongue, some pronouncing it very soft, and
rather musical; others could not help saying candidly that they found it
rather harsh. But all agreed that it resembled no language they had
heard before.
There is no doubt that by the masses, better English is spoken in
America than in England.
However an Englishman or an Englishwoman may boast of their intimacy
with “the nobility and gentry,” there is one infallible rule by which
the falsehood of these pretensions may be detected. And that is in the
misuse of the letter H, putting it where it should not be, and omitting
it where it should. This unaccountable practice prevails, more or less,
in all parts of England, but is unknown in Scotland and Ireland. It is
never found but among the middle and lower classes, and by polished and
well-educated people is as much laughed at in England as it is with us.
A relative of ours being in a stationer’s shop in St. Paul’s Church
Yard, (the street surrounding the cathedral,) heard the stationer call
his boy, and tell him to “go and take the babby out, and give him a
_hairing_—the babby having had no _hair_ for a week.” We have heard an
Englishman talk of “taking an _ouse_ that should have an _ot_ water
pipe, and a _hoven_.” The same man asked a young lady “if she had _eels_
on her boots.” We heard an Englishwoman tell a servant to “bring the
_arth_ brush, and sweep up the _hashes_.” Another assured us that “the
American ladies were quite _hignorant_ of _hetiquette_.”
We have actually seen a ridiculous bill sent seriously by a Yorkshireman
who kept a livery-stable in Philadelphia. The items were, _verbatim_—
D. C.
anosafada 2 50
takinonimome 0 37
No reader can possibly guess this—so we will explain that the first
line, in which all the words run into one, signifies “An orse af a
day,”—or “A horse half a day.” The second line means “takin on im
ome,”—or “Taking of him home.”
English travellers are justly severe on the tobacco-chewing and
spitting, that though exploded in the best society, is still too
prevalent among the million. All American ladies can speak feelingly on
this subject, for they suffer from it in various ways. First, the
sickening disgust without which they cannot witness the act of
expectoration performed before their faces. Next, the danger of
tobacco-saliva falling on their dresses in the street, or while
travelling in steamers and rail-cars. Then the necessity of walking
through the abomination when leaving those conveyances; treading in it
with their shoes; and wiping it up with the hems of their gowns. We know
an instance of the crown of a lady’s white-silk bonnet being bespattered
with tobacco-juice, by a man spitting out of a window in one of the New
York hotels. A lady on the second seat of a box at the Chestnut-street
theatre, found, when she went home, the back of her pelisse entirely
spoilt, by some man behind not having succeeded in trying to spit past
her—or perhaps he did not try. Why should ladies endure all this, that
men may indulge in a vulgar and deleterious practice, pernicious to
their own health, and which they cannot acquire without going through a
seasoning of disgust and nausea?
It is very unmannerly when a person begins to relate a circumstance or
an anecdote, to stop them short by saying, “I have heard it before.”
Still worse, to say you do not wish to hear it at all. There are people
who set themselves against listening to any thing that can possibly
excite melancholy or painful feelings; and profess to hear nothing that
may give them a sad or unpleasant sensation. Those who have so much
tenderness for themselves, have usually but little tenderness for
others. It is impossible to go through the world with perpetual sunshine
over head, and unfading flowers under foot. Clouds will gather in the
brightest sky, and weeds choke up the fairest primroses and violets. And
we should all endeavour to prepare ourselves for these changes, by
listening with sympathy to the manner in which they have affected
others.
No person of good feelings, good manners, or true refinement, will
entertain their friends with minute descriptions of sickening horrors,
such as barbarous executions, revolting punishments, or inhuman
cruelties perpetrated on animals. We have never heard an officer dilate
on the dreadful spectacle of a battle-field; a scene of which no
description can ever present an adequate idea; and which no painter has
ever exhibited in all its shocking and disgusting details. Physicians do
not talk of the dissecting-room.
Unless you are speaking to a physician, and are interested in a patient
he is attending, refrain in conversation from entering into the
particulars of revolting diseases, such as scrofula, ulcers, cutaneous
afflictions, &c. and discuss no terrible operations—especially at table.
There are women who seem to delight in dwelling on such disagreeable
topics.
If you are attending the sick-bed of a friend, and are called down to a
visiter, speak of her illness with delicacy, and do not disclose all the
unpleasant circumstances connected with it; things which it would grieve
her to know, may, if once told, be circulated among married women, and
by them repeated to their husbands. In truth, upon most occasions, a
married woman is not a safe confidant. She will assuredly tell every
thing to her husband; and in all probability to his mother and sisters
also—that is, every thing concerning her friends—always, perhaps, under
a strict injunction of secrecy. But a secret entrusted to more than two
or three persons, is soon diffused throughout the whole community.
A man of some humour was to read aloud a deed. He commenced with the
words, “Know one woman by these presents.” He was interrupted, and asked
why he changed the words, which were in the usual form, “Know all men by
these presents.” “Oh!” said he, “’tis very certain that all men will
soon know it, if one woman does.”
Generally speaking, it is injudicious for ladies to attempt arguing with
gentlemen on political or financial topics. All the information that a
woman can possibly acquire or remember on these subjects is so small, in
comparison with the knowledge of men, that the discussion will not
elevate them in the opinion of masculine minds. Still, it is well for a
woman to desire enlightenment, that she may comprehend something of
these discussions, when she hears them from the other sex; therefore let
her listen as understandingly as she can, but refrain from controversy
and argument on such topics as the grasp of a female mind is seldom
capable of seizing or retaining. Men are very intolerant toward women
who are prone to contradiction and contention, when the talk is of
things considered out of their sphere; but very indulgent toward a
modest and attentive listener, who only asks questions for the sake of
information. Men like to dispense knowledge; but few of them believe
that in departments exclusively their own, they can profit much by the
suggestions of women. It is true there are and have been women who have
distinguished themselves greatly in the higher branches of science and
literature, and on whom the light of genius has clearly descended. But
can the annals of woman produce a female Shakspeare, a female Milton, a
Goldsmith, a Campbell, or a Scott? What woman has painted like Raphael
or Titian, or like the best artists of our own times? Mrs. Damer and
Mrs. Siddons had a talent for sculpture; so had Marie of Orleans, the
accomplished daughter of Louis Philippe. Yet what are the productions of
these talented ladies compared to those of Thorwaldsen, Canova,
Chantrey, and the master chisels of the great American statuaries. Women
have been excellent musicians, and have made fortunes by their voices.
But is there among them a Mozart, a Bellini, a Michael Kelly, an Auber,
a Boieldieu? Has a woman made an improvement on steam-engines, or on any
thing connected with the mechanic arts? And yet these things have been
done by men of no early education—by self-taught men. A good tailor
fits, cuts out, and sews better than the most celebrated female
dress-maker. A good man-cook far excels a good woman-cook. Whatever may
be their merits as assistants, women are rarely found who are very
successful at the head of any establishment that requires energy and
originality of mind. Men make fortunes, women make livings. And none
make poorer livings than those who waste their time, and bore their
friends, by writing and lecturing upon the equality of the sexes, and
what they call “Women’s Rights.” How is it that most of these ladies
live separately from their husbands; either despising them, or being
despised by them?
Truth is, the female sex is really as inferior to the male in vigour of
mind as in strength of body; and all arguments to the contrary are
founded on a few anomalies, or based on theories that can never be
reduced to practice. Because there was a Joan of Arc, and an Augustina
of Saragossa, should females expose themselves to all the dangers and
terrors of “the battle-field’s dreadful array.” The women of the
American Revolution effected much good to their country’s cause, without
encroaching upon the province of its brave defenders. They were faithful
and patriotic; but they left the conduct of that tremendous struggle to
abler heads, stronger arms, and sterner hearts.
We envy not the female who can look unmoved upon physical horrors—even
the sickening horrors of the dissecting-room.
Yet women are endowed with power to meet misfortune with fortitude; to
endure pain with patience; to resign themselves calmly, piously, and
hopefully to the last awful change that awaits every created being; to
hazard their own lives for those that they love; to toil cheerfully and
industriously for the support of their orphan children, or their aged
parents; to watch with untiring tenderness the sick-bed of a friend, or
even of a stranger; to limit their own expenses and their own pleasures,
that they may have something to bestow on deserving objects of charity;
to smooth the ruggedness of man; to soften his asperities of temper; to
refine his manners; to make his home a happy one; and to improve the
minds and hearts of their children. All this women can—and do. And this
is their true mission.
In talking with a stranger, if the conversation should turn toward
sectarian religion, enquire to what church he belongs; and then mention
your own church. This, among people of good sense and good manners, and
we may add of true piety, will preclude all danger of remarks being made
on either side which may be painful to either party. Happily we live in
a land of universal toleration, where all religions are equal in the
sight of the law and the government; and where no text is more powerful
and more universally received than the wise and incontrovertible
words—“By their fruits ye shall know them.” He that acts well is a good
man, and a religious man, at whatever altar he may worship. He that acts
ill is a bad man, and has no true sense of religion; no matter how
punctual his attendance at church, if of that church he is an unworthy
member. Ostentatious sanctimony may deceive man, but it cannot deceive
God.
On this earth there are many roads to heaven; and each traveller
supposes his own to be the best. But they must all unite in one road at
the last. It is only Omniscience that can decide. And it will then be
found that no sect is excluded because of its faith; or if its members
have acted honestly and conscientiously according to the lights they
had, and molesting no one for believing in the tenets of a different
church. The religion of Jesus, as our Saviour left it to us, was one of
peace and good-will to men, and of unlimited faith in the wisdom and
goodness, and power and majesty of God. It is not for a frail human
being to place limits to his mercy, and say what church is the only true
one—and the only one that leads to salvation. Let all men keep in mind
this self-evident truth—“He can’t be wrong whose life is in the right;”
and try to act up to the Divine command of “doing unto all men as you
would they should do unto you.”
In America, no religious person of good sense or good manners ever
attempts, in company, to controvert, uncalled for, the sectarian
opinions of another. No clergyman that is a gentleman, (and they all are
so, or ought to be,) ever will make the drawing-room an arena for
religious disputation, or will offer a single deprecatory remark, on
finding the person with whom he is conversing to be a member of a church
essentially differing from his own. And if clergymen have that
forbearance, it is doubly presumptuous for a woman, (perhaps a silly
young girl,) to take such a liberty. “Fools rush in, where angels fear
to tread.”
Nothing is more apt to defeat even a good purpose than the mistaken and
ill-judged zeal of those that are not competent to understand it in all
its bearings.
Truly does the Scripture tell us—“There is a time for all things.” We
know an instance of a young lady at a ball attempting violently to make
a proselyte of a gentleman of twice her age, a man of strong sense and
high moral character, whose church (of which he was a sincere member)
differed materially from her own. After listening awhile, he told her
that a ball-room was no place for such discussions, and made his bow and
left her. At another party we saw a young girl going round among the
matrons, and trying to bring them all to a confession of faith.
Religion is too sacred a subject for discussion at balls and parties.
If you find that an intimate friend has a leaning toward the church in
which you worship, first ascertain truly if her parents have no
objection, and then, but not else, you may be justified in inducing her
to adopt your opinions. Still, in most cases, it is best not to
interfere.
In giving your opinion of a new book, a picture, or a piece of music,
when conversing with a distinguished author, an artist or a musician,
say modestly, that “so it appears to _you_,”—that “it has given _you_
pleasure,” or the contrary. But do not positively and dogmatically
assert that it _is_ good, or that it _is_ bad. The person with whom you
are talking is, in all probability, a far more competent judge than
yourself; therefore, listen attentively, and he may correct your
opinion, and set you right. If he fail to convince you, remain silent,
or change the subject. Vulgar ladies have often a way of saying, when
disputing on the merits of a thing they are incapable of understanding,
“Any how, _I_ like it,” or, “It is quite good enough for _me_.”—Which is
no proof of its being good enough for any body else.
In being asked your candid opinion of a person, be very cautious to whom
you confide that opinion; for if repeated as yours, it may lead to
unpleasant consequences. It is only to an intimate and long-tried friend
that you may safely entrust certain things, which if known, might
produce mischief. Even very intimate friends are not always to be
trusted, and when they have actually told something that they heard
under the injunction of secrecy, they will consider it a sufficient
atonement to say, “Indeed I did not mean to tell it, but somehow it
slipped out;” or, “I really intended to guard the secret faithfully, but
I was so questioned and cross-examined, and bewildered, that I knew not
how to answer without disclosing enough to make them guess the whole. I
am very sorry, and will try to be more cautious in future. But these
slips of the tongue will happen.”
The lady whose confidence has been thus betrayed, should be “more
cautious in future,” and put no farther trust in she of the slippery
tongue—giving her up, entirely, as unworthy of farther friendship.
No circumstances will induce an honourable and right-minded woman to
reveal a secret after promising secrecy. But she should refuse being
made the depository of any extraordinary fact which it may be wrong to
conceal, and wrong to disclose.
We can scarcely find words sufficiently strong to contemn the heinous
practice, so prevalent with low-minded people, of repeating to their
friends whatever they hear to their disadvantage. By low-minded people,
we do not exclusively mean persons of low station. The low-minded are
not always “born in a garret, in a kitchen bred.” Unhappily, there are
(so-called) ladies—ladies of fortune and fashion—who will descend to
meannesses of which the higher ranks ought to be considered incapable,
and who, without compunction, will wantonly lacerate the feelings and
mortify the self-love of those whom they call their friends, telling
them what has been said about them by other friends.
It is sometimes said of a notorious tatler and mischief-maker, that “she
has, notwithstanding, a good heart.” How is this possible, when it is
her pastime to scatter dissension, ill-feeling, and unhappiness among
all whom she calls her friends? She may, perhaps, give alms to beggars,
or belong to sewing circles, or to Bible societies, or be officious in
visiting the sick. All this is meritorious, and it is well if there is
some good in her. But if she violates the charities of social life, and
takes a malignant pleasure in giving pain, and causing trouble—depend on
it, her show of benevolence is mere ostentation, and her acts of
kindness spring not from the heart. She will convert the sewing circle
into a scandal circle. If she is assiduous in visiting her sick friends,
she will turn to the worst account, particulars she may thus acquire of
the sanctities of private life and the humiliating mysteries of the
sick-chamber.
If indeed it can be possible that tatling and mischief-making may be
only (as is sometimes alleged) a bad habit, proceeding from an inability
to govern the tongue—shame on those who have allowed themselves to
acquire such a habit, and who make no effort to subdue it, or who have
encouraged it in their children, and perhaps set them the example.
If you are so unfortunate as to know one of these pests of society, get
rid of her acquaintance as soon as you can. If allowed to go on, she
will infallibly bring you into some difficulty, if not into disgrace. If
she begins by telling you—“I had a hard battle to fight in your behalf
last evening at Mrs. Morley’s. Miss Jewson, whom you believe to be one
of your best friends, said some very severe things about you, which, to
my surprise, were echoed by Miss Warden, who said she knew them to be
true. But I contradicted them warmly. Still they would not be convinced,
and said I must be blind and deaf not to know better. How very hard it
is to distinguish those who love from those who hate us!”
Instead of encouraging the mischief-maker to relate the particulars, and
explain exactly what these severe things really were, the true and
dignified course should be to say as calmly as you can—“I consider no
person my friend, who comes to tell such things as must give me pain and
mortification, and lessen my regard for those I have hitherto esteemed,
and in whose society I have found pleasure. I have always liked Miss
Jewson and Miss Warden, and am sorry to hear that they do not like _me_.
Still, as I am not certain of the exact truth, (being in no place where
I could myself overhear the discussion,) it will make no difference in
my behaviour to those young ladies. And now then we will change the
subject, never to resume it. My true friends do not bring me such
tales.”
By-the-bye, tatlers are always listeners, and are frequently the
atrocious writers of anonymous letters, for which they should be
expelled from society.
Let it be remembered that all who are capable of detailing unpleasant
truths, (such as can answer no purpose but to produce bad feeling, and
undying enmity,) are likewise capable of exaggerating and
misrepresenting facts, that do not seem quite strong enough to excite
much indignation. Tale-bearing always leads to lying. She who begins
with the first of these vices, soon arrives at the second.
Some prelude these atrocious communications with—“I think it my duty to
tell how Miss Jackson and Mrs. Wilson talk about you, for it is right
that you should know your friends from your enemies.” You listen,
believe, and from that time become the enemy of Miss Jackson and Mrs.
Wilson—having too much pride to investigate the truth, and learn what
they really said.
Others will commence with—“I’m a plain-spoken woman, and consider it
right, for your own sake, to inform you that since your return from
Europe, you talk quite too much of your travels.”
You endeavour to defend yourself from this accusation, by replying that
“having seen much when abroad, it is perfectly natural that you should
allude to what you have seen.”
“Oh! but there should be moderation in all things. To be candid—your
friend Mrs. Willet says she is tired of hearing of France and Italy.”
“Why then does she always try to get a seat next to me, and ask me to
tell her something more of those countries?”
“Well, I don’t know. People are so deceitful! There is Mr. Liddard, who
says you bore him to death with talking about England.”
“And yet whenever I do talk about England, I always find him at the back
of my chair. And when I pause, he draws me on to say more.”
“Men are such flatterers! Well, I always tell the plain truth. So it is
best you should know Colonel Greenfield declares that since your return
from Europe you are absolutely intolerable. Excuse my telling you these
things. It is only to show that every body else thinks just as I do.
Mrs. Gray says it is a pity you ever crossed the Atlantic.”
Do not excuse her—but drop her acquaintance as soon as you can, without
coming to a quarrel, in which case you will most probably get the worst.
A plain-spoken woman is always to be dreaded. Her cold-blooded
affectation of frankness is only a pretext to introduce something that
will wound your feelings; and then she will tell you “that Mrs. A. B. C.
and D., and Mr. E. and Mr. F. also, have said a hundred times that you
are a woman of violent temper, and cannot listen to advice without
flying into a passion.”
And she will quietly take her leave, informing you that she is your best
friend, and that all she has said was entirely for your own good, and
that she shall continue to admonish you whenever she sees occasion.
A plain-spoken woman will tell you that you were thought to look very
ill at Mrs. Thomson’s party, your dress being rather in bad taste; that
you ought to give up singing in company, your best friends saying that
your style is now a little old-fashioned; that you should not attempt
talking French to French ladies, as Mr. Leroux and Mr. Dufond say that
your French is not quite Parisian, &c. &c. She will say these things
upon no authority but her own.
When any one prefaces an enquiry by the vulgarism, “If it is a fair
question?” you may be very certain that the question is a most _un_fair
one—that is, a question which it is impertinent to ask, and of no
consequence whatever to the asker.
If a person begins by telling you, “Do not be offended at what I am
going to say,” prepare yourself for something that she knows will
certainly offend you. But as she has given you notice, try to listen,
and answer with calmness.
It is a delicate and thankless business to tell a friend of her faults,
unless you are certain that, in return, you can bear without anger to
hear her point out your own. She will undoubtedly recriminate.
It is not true that an irritable temper cannot be controlled. It can,
and is, whenever the worldly interest of the _enragée_ depends on its
suppression.
Frederick the Great severely reprimanded a Prussian officer for striking
a soldier at a review. “I could not refrain,” said the officer. “I have
a high temper, your majesty, and I cannot avoid showing it, when I see a
man looking sternly at me.” “Yes, you can,” replied the king. “I am
looking sternly at you, and I am giving you ten times as much cause of
offence as that poor soldier—yet you do not strike _me_.”
A naturally irritable disposition can always be tamed down, by a strong
and persevering effort to subdue it, and by determining always to check
it on its first approaches to passion. The indulgence of temper renders
a man (and still more a woman) the dread and shame of the whole house.
It wears out the affection of husbands, wives, and children—of brothers
and sisters; destroys friendship; disturbs the enjoyment of social
intercourse; causes incessant changing of servants; and is a constant
source of misery to that most unhappy of all classes, poor relations.
That a violent temper is generally accompanied by a good heart, is a
popular fallacy. On the contrary, the indulgence of it hardens the
heart. And even if its ebullitions are always succeeded by “compunctious
visitings,” and followed by apologies and expressions of regret, still
it leaves wounds that time cannot always efface, and which we may
forgive, but cannot forget.
Ill-tempered women are very apt to call themselves nervous, and to
attribute their violent fits of passion to a weakness of the nerves.
This is not true. A real nervous affection shows itself “more in sorrow
than in anger,” producing tears, tremor, and head-ache, fears without
adequate cause, and general depression of spirits—the feelings becoming
tender to a fault.
When a woman abandons herself to terrible fits of anger with little or
no cause, and makes herself a frightful spectacle, by turning white with
rage, rolling up her eyes, drawing in her lips, gritting her teeth,
clenching her hands, and stamping her feet, depend on it, she is not of
a nervous, but of a furious temperament. A looking-glass held before
her, to let her see what a shocking object she has made herself, would,
we think, have an excellent effect. We have seen but a few females in
this revolting state, and only three of them were ladies—but we have
heard of many.
When the paroxysm is over, all the atonement she can make is to
apologize humbly, and to pray contritely. If she has really any goodness
of heart, and any true sense of religion, she will do this promptly, and
prove her sincerity by being very kind to those whom she has outraged
and insulted—and whose best course during these fits of fury is to make
no answer, or to leave the room.
As out of nothing, nothing can come, to be a good conversationist, you
must have a well-stored mind, originality of ideas, and a retentive
memory. Without making a lumber-room of your head, and stuffing it with
all manner of useless and unnecessary things not worth retaining, you
should select only such as are useful or ornamental, interesting or
amusing. Your talk must flow as if spontaneously; one subject suggesting
another, none being dwelt upon too long. Anecdotes may be introduced
with much effect. They should be short, and related in such words as
will give them the most point. We have heard the same anecdote told by
two persons. With one it became prosy and tiresome, and the point was
not perceptible from its being smothered in ill-chosen words. With the
other narrator, the anecdote was “all light and spirit; soon told, and
not soon forgotten.” Brevity is the soul of wit, and wit is the soul of
anecdote. And where wit is wanting, humour is an excellent substitute.
Every body likes to laugh, or ought to. Yet there is a time for all
things; and after listening to a serious or interesting incident well
related, it is exceedingly annoying to hear some silly and heartless
girl follow it with a ridiculous remark, intended to be funny—such as
“Quite solemncolly!”—or, “We are all getting into the doldrums.”
You may chance to find yourself in a company where no one is capable of
appreciating the best sort of conversation, and where to be understood,
or indeed to keep them awake, you must talk down to the capacities of
your hearers. You must manage this adroitly, or they may find you out,
and be offended. So, after all, it is, perhaps, safest to go on and
scatter pearls where wax beads would be equally valued. Only in such
society, do not introduce quotations from the poets, especially from
Shakspeare, or your hearers may wonder what queer words you are saying.
Another time, and with congenial companions, you can indulge in “the
feast of reason, and the flow of soul.”
If placed beside a lady so taciturn that no effort on your part can draw
her out, or elicit more than a monosyllable, and that only at long
intervals, you may safely conclude that there is nothing in her, and
leave her to her own dullness, or to be enlivened by the approach of one
of the other sex. That will make her talk.
Few persons are good talkers who are not extensive and miscellaneous
readers. You cannot attentively read the best authors without obtaining
a great command of words, so that you can always, with ease and fluency,
clothe your ideas in appropriate language.
Knowledge is of course the basis of conversation—the root whose deepened
strength and vigour gives life to the tree, multiplicity to its
branches, and beauty to its foliage.
Much that is bad and foolish in women would have no existence if their
minds were less barren. In a waste field, worthless and bitter weeds
will spring up which it is hard to eradicate; while a soil that is
judiciously cultivated produces abundant grain, luxuriant grass, and
beautiful flowers.
There are ladies so exceedingly satisfied with themselves, and so
desirous of being thought the special favourites of Providence, that
they are always desiring to hold out an idea “that pain and sorrow can
come not near them,” and that they enjoy a happy exemption from “all the
ills that flesh is heir to.” They complain of nothing, for they profess
to have nothing to complain of. They feel not the cold of winter, nor
the heat of summer. The temperature is always exactly what _they_ like.
To them the street is never muddy with rain, nor slippery with ice.
Unwholesome food agrees perfectly with _them_. They sleep soundly in bad
beds, or rather no beds are bad. Travelling never fatigues them. Nobody
imposes on them, nobody offends them. Other people may be ill—they are
always in good health and spirits. To them all books are delightful—all
pictures beautiful—all music charming. Other people may have trouble
with their children—_they_ have none. Other people may have bad
servants—_theirs_ are always excellent.
Now if all this were true, the lot of such persons would indeed be
enviable, and we should endeavour to learn by what process such complete
felicity has been attained—and why they see every thing through such a
roseate medium. But it is not true. This is all overweening vanity, and
a desire “to set themselves up above the rest of the world.” We have
always noticed that these over-fortunate, over-happy women have, in
reality, a discontented, care-worn look, resulting from the incessant
painful effort to seem what they are not. And if any body will take the
trouble, it is very easy to catch them in discrepancies and
contradictions. But it is not polite to do so. Therefore let them pass.
As mothers are always on the _qui vive_, (and very naturally,) be
careful what you say of their children. Unless he is a decidedly
handsome man, you may give offence by remarking, “The boy is the very
image of his father.” If the mother is a vain woman, she would much
rather hear that all the children are the very image of herself. Refrain
from praising too much the children of another family, particularly if
the two sets of children are cousins. It is often dangerous to tell a
mother that “little Willy is growing quite handsome.” She will probably
answer, “I had hoped my child was handsome always.” With some mothers it
is especially imprudent to remark that “little Mary looks like her aunt,
or her grandmother.” Again, if you prudently say nothing about the looks
of the little dears, you may be suspected and perhaps accused of taking
no interest in children. Young ladies, when in presence of gentlemen,
are too apt to go on the other extreme, and over-act their parts, in the
excessive fondling and kissing and hugging of children not in the least
engaging, or even good-looking. We cannot believe that any female, not
the mother, can really fall into raptures with a cross, ugly child. But
how pleasant it is to play with and amuse, an intelligent, affectionate,
and good-tempered little thing, to hear its innocent sayings, and to see
the first buddings of its infant mind.
When you are visiting another city, and receiving civilities from some
of its inhabitants, it is an ill requital for their attentions to
disparage their place, and glorify your own. In every town there is
something to praise; and in large cities there is a great deal to amuse,
to interest, and to give pleasure. Yet there are travellers who (like
Smelfungus) are never satisfied with the place they are in—who exclaim
all the time against the east winds of Boston, the sea-air of New York,
the summer heats of Philadelphia, the hilly streets of Baltimore, and
the dusty avenues of Washington. We have heard people from New Orleans
call Philadelphia the hottest city in the Union, and people from Quebec
call it the coldest. If there are two successive days of rain, then poor
Philadelphia is the rainiest of all places. If it snows twice in two
weeks, then it is the snowiest. If a fire breaks out, it is the city of
fires. If there is an Irish fight in Moyamensing, it is the city of
perpetual riots. By-the-bye, after that summer when we really had
several successive riots up-town, and down-town, we saw an English
caricature of the City of Brotherly Love, where the spirit of William
Penn, in hat and wig, was looking down sadly from the clouds at the
rioters, who were all represented as Quakers, in strait, plain clothes,
and broad brims, knocking each other about with sticks and stones,
firing pistols, and slashing with bowie-knives. Alas, poor Quakers! how
guiltless ye were of all this! It is a common belief in England, that of
this sect are _all_ the people of Pennsylvania.
In talking to an elderly lady, it is justly considered very rude to make
any allusion to her age; even if she is unmistakably an old woman, and
acknowledges it herself. For instance, do not say— “This silk of yours
is very suitable for an elderly person”—or—“Will you take this chair?—an
old lady like you will find it very comfortable”—or—“Look, baby—is not
that grandma?”—or—“I told the servant to attend first to you, on account
of your age”—or—“Children, don’t make such a noise—have you no respect
for old people?”
All this we have heard.