Cowper pictures this talker in the following lines: —
“His whispered theme, dilated, and at large,
Proves after all a wind-gun’s airy charge,
An extract of his diary – no more,
A tasteless journal of the day before.
He walked abroad, o’ertaken in the rain,
Called on a friend, drank tea, stepped home again,
Resumed his purpose, had a word of talk
With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk.
I interrupt him with a sudden bow,
Adieu, dear sir! lest you should lose it now.”
X. The Envious. – This talker is one much allied to the detractor, whom we have considered at length in a former part of this volume. He cannot hear anything good of another without having something to say to the contrary. If you speak of a friend of yours possessed of more than ordinary gifts or graces, he interjects a “but” and its connections, by which he means to counterbalance what you say. Like his ancestor Cain, he seeks to kill in the estimation of others every one who stands more acceptable to society than himself.
The disposition of the envious is destructive and murderous. Anything that exceeds himself in appearance, in circumstances, in influence, he endeavours to destroy, so that he may stand first in esteem and praiseworthiness.
But he is a deceiver of himself. Others see his motive and aim, and, like Jehovah in the beginning, discover his malicious spirit, and condemn him as a vagabond and fugitive in society. He becomes a marked man, and whoever sees him avoids him as a destroyer of everything amiable and of good report.
It is bad enough to feel envy in the heart; but to bring it forth in words in conversation makes it doubly monstrous and repulsive. Such a talker is revolting to all amiable and justly disposed persons in the social circle.
XI. The Secret Talker. – “Be sure, now, you do not tell any one what I am going to say to you,” is a phrase that one talker often says to another: “Certainly not,” is the ready rejoinder. So the secret is given in charge; and no sooner have the two friends parted than the entrusted fact or rumour is divulged, perhaps, to the very first person with whom he comes in conversation, told of course as a “secret never to be repeated.” He had power to hear it, but not power to retain it. He is a leaky vessel, a sieve-receiver, not able to keep anything put within him.
There is oftentimes deception, if not absolute lying, in this talker. Why does he receive the secret with the strong promise, “I will tell no one, upon my honour,” if he cannot retain it in his own bosom?
Such persons are not to be trusted twice. As soon as you discover your facts given under covenant of secrecy are blabbed to others, you say, “I shall not trust him again:” and very properly too. Of course he tells as a secret what you tell him as a secret; but if he cannot retain it, how can he expect others? It is in this way that a matter, which in the first instance is spoken of under the most strict confidence, becomes a well-known fact, as though the public bellman had been hired to proclaim it in the streets.
XII. The Snubber. – There is a man sometimes met with in society, whose business, when he talks, seems to be the administration of rebuke, in a spirit and with a tone of voice churlish and sarcastic, by which he would stop the increase of knowledge, check the development of mind, and arrest the growth of heroic souls. He is far from amiable in his disposition, or happy in his temper. He is a knotty piece of humanity, which rubs itself against the even surface of other portions, much to its annoyance, and to his own irritability. He is like a frost, nipping the tender blossoms of intellect, and stopping the growth of a youthful branch of promise. He is shunned by the gentle and sensitive. The independent and bold repel him, and pay him back in his own coin, a specie which he does not like, although he does a large business with it himself.
The word itself is banished from polite society; but alas! the custom is by no means proscribed. The sound is, to some extent, significant of the sense. “To snub” is certainly not euphonious, and would sadly offend the ears of many who are addicted to the habit. Snubbing is of various kinds. For instance, there is the snub direct, sharp, and decisive, that knocks the tender, sensitive spirit at once; there is the covert snub, nearly allied to being talked at; the jocose snub, veiling the objectionable form of reproof under an affected pleasantry; and there is also a most unpleasant form of snubbing, frequently used by well-meaning persons to repress forwardness or personal vanity. It is very true that children and young people often exhibit forwardness, vanity, and many other qualities extremely distasteful to their wiser elders; but it is questionable if snubbing was ever found an effectual cure for such faults. It may smother the evil for the time; but in such cases it is better to encourage children to speak their thoughts freely, patiently, gently, to show them where they are wrong, and trust to a kind voice and tender indulgence to win the hearts that snubbing would most certainly, sooner or later, alienate.
So far, then, from snubbing curing faults of character, it will be found to be a frightful source of evil: it renders a timid child reserved, and it may be deemed fortunate if the conscientious principle is strong enough to preserve him from direct deceit. Indecision of character, too, is a common result of snubbing; for there can be no self-reliance when the mind is wondering within itself whether such or such an action will be snubbed. Some dispositions may in time become tolerably callous to reproof; but it rarely happens that even those most seasoned by incessant rebukes ever entirely lose the uncomfortable feeling which snubbing occasions. It is, in fact, a perpetual mental blister; and it is grievous to see how blindly people exercise it on those they dearly love. It may occur to some, who can think as well as snub, that the benefit to be derived from anything calculated to wound sensitive feelings must be very questionable; but the plain fact is, that nine times out of ten it is done unthinkingly, and from the impulse of the moment. It may be but a small unkindness at the time, the words forgotten as soon as uttered; but in many instances the effects of a snubbed childhood last a lifetime.
These remarks are offered in the hope that they may be useful in pointing out the evil of this very prevalent habit. It is most certainly a violation of the holy commandment of doing to others as we would be done by, and requires to be diligently watched against. There is no one addicted to the practice of snubbing others who likes to be snubbed himself. The law of love should not only dwell in the heart, but should also baptize the lips.
XIII. The Argumentative. – This talker has so fully studied Whateley and Mill, and his mind is so naturally constructed, that he must have every thought syllogistically placed, and logically wrought out to demonstration, beyond the shadow of a shade of doubt. With countenance grave he approaches close to your person, and with the tip of one forefinger on the tip of the other forefinger, he begins, “Now mark, sir, this is the proposition which I lay down – the quality and quantity of it I will not now stop to state – ‘No one is free who is enslaved by his appetites: a sensualist is enslaved by his appetites, therefore a sensualist is not free.’ Now, sir, there is no escape from this conclusion, if you admit the premise, the major and the minor of my argument.”
“It is most conclusive and demonstrative,” observed Mr. Allgood. “What have you to say, Mr. Goose, about the propriety of enforcing the penal laws against the Papists, who, as you know, are in the heart of their religion so opposed to the Protestant laws and constitution of this country?”
Again placing the tip of his forefinger on his right hand upon the tip of his forefinger on his left hand, he said, “If penal laws against Papists were enforced, they would have cause of grievance; but penal laws against them are not enforced, therefore they have no such cause.”
“That is very clear and convincing,” observed Mr. Allgood again. “Do you think, Mr. Goose,” again asked Mr. Allgood – he could not argue, but only ask questions – “that the practice of oath-taking is in any way beneficial and to be commended?”
Once more assuming his former logical attitude, with additional signs of thought and gravity, as though the question demanded great consideration, Mr. Goose at length said, —
“Mr. Allgood, if men are not likely to be influenced in the performance of a known duty by taking an oath to perform it, the oaths commonly administered are superfluous; if they are likely to be so influenced, every one should be made to take an oath to behave rightly throughout his life; but one or the other of these must be the case; therefore, either the oaths commonly administered are superfluous, or every man should be made to take an oath to behave rightly throughout his life.”
“Thank you, Mr. Goose, thank you, for placing the thing in such a lucid and irrefutable light,” answered Mr. Allgood, who seemed to be in mist all the time Mr. Goose was laying down his argument.
Had Mr. Allgood gone on with his questions up to the thousandth, each one being distinct from the other, Mr. Goose would have answered him, as far as he could, in the same formal, argumentative manner. But Mr. Allgood was getting jaded; the stretch of attention required by the reasoning of Mr. Goose was telling upon his patience; so he slided away to talk with one who spoke in less categorical style: not so propositional, syllogistic, and demonstrative.
And, as a rule, who does not sympathise with Mr. Allgood, as against Mr. Goose, in his method of talk? Syllogisms, propositions, predicates, majors, minors, sorites, enthymeme, copula, concrete, and such-like logical terms are all very well from a professor to his students in a lecture room, but introduced into ordinary conversation in company they are altogether out of place. No one with good taste, unless he has fearfully forgotten it, will disfigure his talk with them, however pure and efficient a logician he may be in reality.
Some of this class of talkers are nothing but mere shams in their art. They affect a knowledge of argumentative processes, and obtrude upon your attention by false reasoning conclusions which perhaps appear as legitimate as possible. You cannot deny, yet you cannot believe. You cannot refute by your logic, neither can you admit by your faith. Such are most of the sceptical talkers on the Bible, Christianity, etc. Milton speaks of this argumentative talker when he says, —
“But this juggler
Would think to chain my judgment, as mine eyes,
Obtruding false rules pranked in reason’s garb.”
Another species of this talker is thus described by Butler, in “Hudibras”: —
“He’d undertake to prove, by force
Of argument, a man’s a horse;
He’d prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl;
A calf an alderman, a goose a justice,
And rooks committee men and trustees.”
Another kind may be noticed: the one whose arguments are generally of a class which, when seen through and used by sound wit, rebound upon himself. Trumball, in his “M’Fingal,” thus describes him: —
“But as some muskets do contrive it,
As oft to miss the mark they drive at,
And though well aimed at duck or plover,
Bear wide, and kick their owners over, —
So fared our squire, whose reas’ning toil
Would often on himself recoil,
And so much injured more his side,
The stronger arguments he apply’d.”
One more of this class of talkers may be mentioned, viz., the man who forces his logic upon you in such a dogmatic manner as leaves you without any hope of reply. You give him all the glory of victory. For the sake of peace and safety you remain passive, and think this the best valour for the occasion. Cowper refers to him in the following lines: —
“Vociferated logic kills me quite,
A noisy man is always in the right;
I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair,
Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare;
And when I hope his blunders are all out,
Reply discreetly, To be sure – no doubt!”
XIV. The Religious. – He is one that obtrudes his views and experience upon others in ways, times, and places which are far from prudent and commendable. Between his talk and his conduct there is a wide disparity. From his words you would judge him a saint: from his conduct a sinner. Abroad he is a Christian: at home he is an infidel.
Bunyan describes this character in his own simple and forcible way: “I have been in his family, and have observed him both at home and abroad; and I know what I say of him is the truth. His house is as empty of religion as the white of an egg is of savour. There is neither prayer nor sign of repentance for sin; yea, the brute, in his kind, serves God far better than he. He is the very stain, reproach, and shame of religion to all that know him: it can hardly have a good word in that end of the town where he dwells, through him – a saint abroad, and a devil at home! His poor family find it so. He is such a churl; such a railer at and so unreasonable with his servants, that they neither know how to do for him nor speak of him. Men that have any dealings with him say it is better to deal with a Turk than with him, for fairer dealings they shall have at his hands. This Talkative, if it be possible, will go beyond them, defraud, beguile, and overreach them. Besides, he brings up his sons to follow in his steps; and if he finds in any of them a ‘foolish timorousness’ (for so he calls the first appearance of a tender conscience), he calls them fools and blockheads, and by no means will employ them in much, or speak to their commendation before others. For my part, I am of opinion that he has, by his wicked life, caused many to stumble and fall, and will be, if God prevent not, the ruin of many more.”
The Apostle James in his epistle refers to this talker: “If any man among you seem to be religious, and bridleth not his tongue, but deceiveth his own heart, this man’s religion is vain.” And how is he to bridle his tongue? Why, not only from slander and profanity, but from saying, “When he is tempted, I am tempted of God; for God cannot tempt to evil; neither tempteth He any man.” Also, from making empty and pharisaic pretensions to a high state of piety, while there are glaring contradictions in the life: “What doth it profit, if a man say that he hath faith, and have not works? Can faith save him?” As though the Apostle should say, “You talkers about religion are not always the most practical exemplifiers of it. Not he who says he is religious, but he who lives religious is the justified one before God and man. Enough of talk, talk, talk: let us have the reality in heart experience and in life deeds.”
“‘Say well’ from ‘do well’ differs in letter;
‘Say well’ is good, but ‘do well’ is better.
‘Say well’ says godly, and helps to please;
But ‘do well’ lives godly, and gives the world ease.
‘Say well’ in danger of death is cold;
‘Do well’ is harnessed, and wondrous bold.
‘Say well’ to silence sometimes is bound;
But ‘do well’ is free for every stound.
‘Say well’ has friends, some here some there;
But ‘do well’ is welcome everywhere.
By ‘say well’ many a one to God’s Word cleaves;
But for lack of ‘do well’ it quickly leaves.
If ‘say well’ and ‘do well’ were joined in one frame,
Then all were done, all were won, and gotten were the game.”
XV. The Prejudiced. – Rumour and ignorance form the foundation of prejudice.
“That is an injurious book for your children to read,” said Mr. Rust one day to Mr. Moon, concerning a volume of the “Primrose Series,” which he was looking at in Smith’s library.
All Mr. Rust knew about the volume was something which had casually dropped in conversation the day before, in the house of a friend where he was visiting; but that was sufficient to prejudice him against the book.
“I hear you have invited the Rev. Jonas Winkle to be the pastor of your church,” said the Rev. T. Little to Deacon Bunsen.
“Yes, we have,” the deacon replied.
“I am sorry to hear it; for if all that is said about him is true, you have made a mistake.”
And what did this Reverend brother know of the other Reverend brother to justify him in speaking thus? Why, just nothing at all. True, he had heard a rumour, but personal knowledge he had none. However, what he said so influenced the mind of Deacon Bunsen, that he did all he could to have the invitation withdrawn; which being done, the Rev. Mr. Little, by certain “wire pulling” on his part, and a good word spoken for him by a layman of wealth on his part, managed to secure the pastorate of the said church for himself.
“I hear that young Bush is coming into your bank as cashier,” observed Mr. Young to Mr. Monk, the manager.
“Yes; he enters upon his duties next week.”
“But have you not heard what is afloat about him?”
“No. I have heard nothing.”
“Then the less said the soonest mended,” answered Young.
Now this Mr. Young knew nothing personally against young Bush, but had heard a rumour which prejudiced him to speak in this way of him; the result of which was that the manager evinced suspicion of the young man until he had been in the bank some time, and by his unquestionable conduct had proved that Mr. Young’s insinuation was nothing but prejudice grounded upon rumour and ignorance of him.
Thus it is that the prejudiced talker may do a great deal of mischief against persons of the most innocent character.
Prejudice has nothing to justify it, but everything to condemn it. The person subject to it evinces a mind devoid of the breadth, strength, and independence characteristic of true manhood; and the sooner he disposes of rumour and ignorance as the creator of words on his tongue, the better for his reputation. Before he speaks of persons or things he will act wisely to “come and see” by personal interview and experience.
XVI. The Boaster. – This talker is somewhat akin to the Egotist; nevertheless there is a distinction and difference. What he is, what he has done, where he has been, his acquaintances, his intentions, his prospects, his capabilities, his possessions, are the subjects of his talk in such a braggadocio spirit and style as disgusts the intelligent, and imposes upon the simple.
Has he done you a charitable deed? has he been heroic in an act of mercy? has he given a contribution to an object of beneficence? has he performed some feat of gymnastics? has he made a good bargain in business? has he said or done something which has elicited the faintest praise from an observer? – with what a flourish he brags of each in its turn! Everybody and everything must stand aside while he and his doings are exhibited in full glory before the company.
It is well when these mountebanks meet with treatment such as they deserve. A honest word or two spoken by a fearless hearer of their loud talking will soon cause their balloon to collapse, or bring their exhibition to a sudden end. And then how pitiable they do look! Where is boasting then? Alas, it is excluded; and their glory is turned into shame.
A young man who in his travels had visited the isle of Rhodes was once boasting in company of how he had out-jumped all the men there, and all the Rhodians could bear witness of it. One of the company replied, “If you speak the truth, think this place to be Rhodes, and jump here;” when it turned out that he could do nothing, and was glad to make his exit. The English proverb, “Great boast and small roast,” is applicable to such.
It is said in history that a friend of Cæsar’s had preserved a certain man from the tyranny of the triumvirate proscription; but he so frequently talked about it in a boasting manner, that the poor man ultimately exclaimed, “Pray thee, restore me to Cæsar again! I had rather undergo a thousand deaths than to be thus continually upbraided by thee with what thou hast done for me.”
And who does not sympathise with this feeling when any one who has in a way been a friend is ever and anon boasting of it in conversation?
“We must not,” as one says, “make ourselves the trumpet of our benevolence in liberalities and good deeds, but let them, like John the Baptist, be the speaking son of a dumb parent – speak to the necessity of our brother, but dumb in the relation of it to others. It is for worthless empirics to stage themselves in the market and recount their cures, and for all good Christians to be silent in their charitable transactions.”
“The highest looks have not the highest mind,
Nor haughty words most full of highest thought;
But are like bladders blown up with the wind,
That being pricked, evanish into nought.”
“Who knows himself a braggart,
Let him fear this; for it will come to pass
That every braggart shall be found an ass.”
XVII. The Quarrelsome. – What is said of the Irishman may be said of this talker, “He is only in peace when he is in a quarrel.” His flowers are thistles, and his sweets bitters. The more you study to be quiet, the more he aims to make a noise. The least imaginable thing in word, look, or act he takes as a cause for bickering and contention. As a neighbour, as a fellow member in a family, as a fellow workman, as a fellow traveller, he is disagreeable and annoying. He quarrels with you alike for things you do to please him or things you do to displease him. When two such persons meet, peace takes to her wings and flies away, leaving war of words, if not of weapons, in her room.
Benvolio in Romeo and Juliet was one of this steel. Mercutio addressing him says, “Thou! why thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but such eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a man for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with another, for tying his new shoes with old ribbons? and yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling!”
XVIII. The Profound. – He leaves you at the edge, but himself plunges like an expert diver into the vasty deeps; and there in twilight visible, if not in darkness felt, he converses with you about the mysterious, the metaphysical, the mystical, the profound. As you gaze with wondering vision, you hear a voice, but see no man. He invites you down into his caves of ocean thought; but, as you see not where he is, and know not the way to follow, nor think it worth while to go at a venture, you prefer remaining on the shore.
Nor is it always the depth into which this talker delights to go. Were it this, with transparency, there would not be so much objection. He too frequently plunges into muddled waters, or makes them so by his movements therein. He persuades himself that he has acquired profound knowledge of philosophy from the dark and mystical writings of the Germans translated into English. With this persuasion he courts your attention, while he discourses to you in terms and phrases of marvellous vagueness about the Ego within us – the Infinite and the Immense, the Absolute, the Entity and Nonentity, and such-like subjects, of which you can make neither “top nor tail,” and of which he knows nothing save the terms and phrases that he strings together with such adept expertness and palpable absurdity.
“What do you think,” asked Mr. Stanley of Professor Rigg, “of Hegel’s paradox, that nothing is equal to being, and that if being and nothing be conjoined you have existence?”
The Professor answered with his usual gravity and profundity: “Nothing could be more profound, and as lucid as profound, if Hegel’s theory of the ‘evolution of the concrete’ was remembered. According to that theory the concrete is the idea which, as a unity, is variously determined, having the principle of its activity within itself, while the origin of the activity, the act itself, and the result, are one, and constitute the concrete. The innate contradiction of the concrete is the basis of its development, and though differences arise, they at last vanish into unity. To use the words of Hegel, there is ‘both the movement and repose in the movement. The difference hardly appears before it disappears, whereupon there issues from it a full and complete unity.’”
“That is very clear and satisfactory,” observed Mr. Stanley, ironically; not seeing anything but confusion confounded in the whole of it. “What is your view,” he asked again, “of the Hegelian ‘Absolute’?”
“This,” said the Professor, “is nothing but a continual process of thinking, without beginning and without end. Now that the evolution of ideas in the human mind is the process of all existence – the essence of the Absolute – of a Deity, so that Deity is nothing more than the Absolute ever striving to realize itself in human consciousness.”
Without questioning the truthfulness of such a doctrine, so plainly expressed, Mr. Stanley proceeded to ask, in a way rather beyond himself, “Whether there was not a little to be said for Schelling’s notion that the rhythmical law of all existence is cognisable at the same time by the internal consciousness of the subjective self, in the objective operation of Nature?”
To this question, somewhat mystical it must be confessed, the Professor replied in his usual style of profundity: —
“I see clearly enough Schelling’s great ingenuity; but think his three movements or potencies – that of ‘Reflexion,’ whereby the Infinite strives to realize itself in the Finite – that of ‘Subsumption,’ which is the striving of the Absolute to return from the Finite to the Infinite – and that of the ‘Indifference-point,’ or point of junction of the two first – were not to be admitted; for is it not clear as the day that the poles ever persist in remaining apart, the indifference-point having never been fixed by Schelling?”
In these ways Mr. Stanley and the Professor kept up the conversation until I and the rest of the company were perfectly involved in dense mists and fogs, wishing that the sun of simple truth would shine, to bring us into clear seeing and firm foot-standing. We longed for the day without a cloud. At last they ceased, and after a brief interval we found ourselves where we were before they began, with no more knowledge of the mystical, and no less love to the simplicity of truth spoken in words of plain meaning and thoughts of undisguised transparency.
XIX. The Wonderer. – This is a talker with whom one very often meets in the walks of life. His peculiarity in conversation is the use of the word wonder in almost every statement he makes and question he asks. It is a strange peculiarity, and I wonder that he should so frequently indulge in its use; I wonder that he does not discover some other mode of expression.
I once met with him at a railway station, and after wishing him the compliments of the day, almost his first word was, “I wonder how long my train will be before it starts?” Scarcely had he time to get his breath, when he said, “I wonder what o’clock it is.” I looked at my watch and told him. Instantly he said, “I wonder whether it rains; I hope not.” I assured him that it did not when I came on the platform; then he quickly said, “I wonder whether it will rain to-morrow; I hope not, for I have a long journey to take by coach.”
I remember once travelling with a gentleman in a railway carriage between London and Bristol. Besides him and me there were three or four more passengers in the compartment, ladies and gentlemen.
Scarcely had we left the Paddington station ere he began wondering.
“I wonder,” said he, “how fast this train goes.”
Oh, about forty miles an hour, I replied.
“I wonder, does this train stop at Reading?”
I think it does, I answered.
Then whispering in my ear, he said, “I wonder who that old gentleman is in yon corner of the carriage.”
I really do not know; he is a stranger to me, I observed.
After a few minutes’ pause, in which he seemed to have indulged a profound meditation, he again whispered in my ears, saying, “I wonder who that lady is sitting next to you.”
I cannot say, I replied.
The train travelled on at a great speed, passing station after station in rapid succession.
Again he said, “I wonder how fast we are travelling now.”
Oh, perhaps sixty miles an hour.
Quickly, he said, “I wonder what station that is we have just passed.”
I think it is Swindon.
After a brief pause: —
“I wonder what time this train gets into Bristol.”
It is due at ten o’clock.
“I wonder will it be punctual.”
Thus he was wondering ever and anon until we reached the Bristol station, where we parted, he going one way and I another; perhaps he wondering who I was, and I wondering who he was.
I remember meeting another Wonderer in the house of a friend of mine with whom I had intended to spend part of the evening.
Scarcely had we been introduced to each other when he said, —
“I wonder whether the Republican or Democrat candidate is elected to the American Presidency.”
That is a matter in which I do not profess to be posted up, I replied.
Then he said, “I wonder how Lord Salisbury is getting on in the Conference.”
From all the newspaper reports he seems to be getting on very well, I observed.
After a very brief pause, he said, “I wonder whether there will be war. I wonder whether Russia really means war or peace.”
It is exceedingly difficult to say, I observed. Diplomacy is so involved, so intricate, so uncertain, that no one can say until all things are really settled.
“I wonder,” he immediately said, “whether England will go to war.”
I cannot say, I answered; I sincerely hope not.
“If there be war, I wonder,” he said, “which way it would go. I wonder whether Russia would take Constantinople. I wonder whether she would crush Turkey. I wonder what the effect would be upon our way to India. I wonder how Germany and Austria would act in the matter.”