| | | | | <"Essays on Social Subjects"> | | WE have read a great deal about the art of conversation, but the | conversation which does its work best ~~ which fulfils the two | requirements of

"promoting kindness"

and

| "unburdening a man's mind"

~~ is no art at all. It is an | exercise ~~ an unconscious relaxation, like a walk or a scamper. | If all the world took to cultivating their conversational powers, we | believe society would become insufferable; but yet a vast number | of persons would be the better for taking more pleasure in talking | and hearing others talk, and society would be proportionably the | gainer. It is very proper, where people make talking the work of | their lives, that they should reduce it to rules; and it is pleasant | now and then to be admitted into some crack circle, to share the |

"very superior occasion "

of the meeting of two wits, | to listen to some great gun, and to air our poor talents in grand | company. But it takes a good deal out of us. Where there has | been the feast of reason at breakfast, we are not fit for a great | deal the rest of the day. Fancy a man, with | | work of his own to do, a guest at those interminable morning | sittings at Coppet, devoted to literary and philosophic topics, | where Madaine de Stael was sublime in her filial piety,

| "committing some voluntary mistake,"

that her father | might have the victory; or even habitually assisting at those | gladiatorial contests which Dr Johnson thought alone worthy of | the title of conversation ~~ literal fights, in which he must either | conquer or die. For the real purposes of intercourse, less | pretentious utterances are far better, where thought is worked out | under the irregularities of unprofessional talkers, with all their | prolixities, digressions, inaccuracies, hesitations, habits, and | tricks. Our own mind is in a posture of greater independence. We | can give and take ~~ we can commit a blunder or make a random | shot without subsequent self-torment ~~ we can hold our own. It | must weaken the mind to give itself up out of its own keeping in | helpless pursuit of another's speculations; yet the great | converser's end is foiled if he does not carry his hearers with | him; and where in self-defence the attention mutinies and we | return to the snuggery of our own thoughts, it is not done | without a sense of wasting opportunities. If, on the other hand, | we are stimulated by so much eloquence and conspicuous success, | and should by chance be fired with the ambition to be a show | talker, talking would still further recede from its office of | relaxation, and turn into an arena for display. It was from no | exceptional vanity in the circle he described, but an inevitable | consequence of great wits being pitted against each other, that | Marmontel | | could give so unpleasing a picture of the most brilliant | conversations of his day: ~~ | he says, | | This all sounds small and vain enough, but neither smaller nor | vainer than the majority of men would be if so tried. When | talking is lifted out of its easy footing, it is subject to different laws | altogether ~~ laws which tell a tale. It is observable that, in the | very high places of wit and perfect expression, where every word is | worth hearing, the impatience of prolonged enforced attention is | keenest. The conversation that excites, naturally has this effect. | We see constantly, in circles that are not brilliant, that many | people are content to be silently attentive when they are not | interested, who will not | | allow a speaker to finish his sentence when he hits upon a topic | they care for, and treats it successfully. Their sign of sympathy | and, approval is interruption. So people do wisely to set | themselves rules like the self-denying Frenchman and Swift, who | himself never spoke more than a minute at a time, and thus laid | down his principles on the subject: ~~ | | These are excellent rules for company talk, but they would | never teach people to talk well in company. For this there must | have been habits of free-and-easy utterance, taking time very little | into the account, more intent on bringing out thought than on the | way it is brought out. And a man must have lived with intimates | no less unscrupulously eager with their views. There must have | been early felt the relief, delight, nay exultation, of giving voice | to opinion and feeling, for a person to acquire the | self-confidence and practice necessary to carry weight in general | society. But this applies to leading spirits; whereas all have the | gift of speech, and we believe ought to apply themselves to use | it rather than to repress it. Talking, with most people, is | indispensable to acquaint them with themselves, to show them the | scope of their powers, the tendency of their | | habits and thoughts. Moreover, it is a wonderfully cheering and | invigorating exercise. It is one of the secrets of longevity, from | the glow in which it keeps body and mind. Many people keep | themselves alive by talking. This may not recommend the | practice to those who feel it their own function and fate to be | listeners; but old men who talk, even with all the accidents of | old age upon them, are a great gain to society, and set off the | decline of existence in a far more cheering and comfortable light | than those do who doze away their last hours in the | chimney-corner. There was Mr Craddock, the octogenarian, who had | known all the wits from Warburton downwards, and literally | lived upon his memories. Talk was his elixir vitae. | | but nevertheless he lived | to eighty-five, always happy and always telling anecdotes. And | we all of us know brisk old gentlemen whose occupation is | repeating to the present generation what they have seen, heard, | and done in a past one. Perhaps they are prosy, and indefinitely | repeat themselves; but these aged talkers have a real work to do. | They are the keepers and handers-on of tradition. They bring us | nearer to the past, and connect remote periods with one another. | Each generation does well to make much of these Nestors ~~ to | salute them with gracious respect; ~~ | | And yet it requires courage in a man to own himself | | fond of talking. Our age is unusually supercilious towards the | instinct of expression. It is the thing to prefer our own ideas and | pursuits to conversation. Reading has, indeed, always been the | one all-powerful rival to talk, with those minds which are | especially formed to treat conversation as an art, to give it point, | and make it the expression of intellect; but modern literature | extends its range by making less and less demands on the reader, | till the most ordinary sustained conversation is the greater | intellectual effort of the two. The passion for reading in many | young people, though an excellent thing in reason, is often a | blind and paralysing instinct, a lazy indulgence, a mere bondage | to type which cuts them off from half the important influences | of their age. The eye fastens on a printed page, the mind | helplessly pursues whatever comes to it under this guise, and | eye and ear are dead and impervious to every other call. There | is such bondage to a habit, such mere material craving, in some | persons' reading, as implies a mind not so much anxious for | knowledge, or even amusement, as set against all knowledge | and amusement that does not come to it in the received method | ~~ that calls for independent effort and the employment of | unpractised faculties. Those who will only learn through books, | who would rather open any page than look into intelligent eyes, | to whom cheerful voices and animated discussion are a simple | interruption to the preoccupied attention, are leaving things | unlearnt which would serve them beyond all comparison in | | have hit upon by chance ~~ things which would unchain their | faculties at the age when habits of observation must be acquired | if they are to be possessed at all, and when the art of expression, | command of words, an easy range of subjects and light handling | of them, should all exist in the germ. Of course all clever boys | have fits of reading in which they care for nothing else; but | systematically bookish boys developing into bookish men (as | they used to be called) can never make the use they ought of | their acquirements by talking well, and so improving and | enriching the general tone of thought. Thus, in many circles, the | talk is all left in ill-informed or frivolous hands. | But our present concern is not so much with the useful as the | pleasant. We are arguing for the beneficent effects of a | reasonable love of talking on the talker; and therefore, if | pertinacious reading were shown to contribute most lastingly to a | man's pleasure, our plea would break down. This is the real | question. For, after all, who can look back without yearning, | sorrowful tenderness to the early passion for books ~~ the sweet | lover-like association with them in corners, by firelight, | everywhere, anywhere, in pleasant shady places, by night or by | day, in twilight or dawn, in any posture, at any time, by any | light? But ~~ and here is the rub ~~ suddenly, some day, when | we least think it, there is interposed a shadow, which, slight | though it be, heralds a break between us and our first love. A | dimness, faint and uncertain, passes between us and the page | we read. Is it giddiness, indigestion, weariness? The appearance | | passes off, and we forget our misgiving; but again there is a | mistiness and that odd flicker; by chance our hand drops, and | the book with it. We see better ~~ the dimness goes off ~~ but | our eyes ache. Can it really be that our focus of sight is | changing ~~ has changed? A slight shudder passes through us. | Are we, so young, so fresh in all our feelings, henceforth to hold | our paper at arm's length like the old fogies in "Punch"? And in | the mere imagination there is sown the first seed of disunion | between us and the passion of our youth. We probably keep our | suspicions to ourselves. This is but a foretaste; and what it | fore-tells is of course still in remotest distance. But as all downward | careers are rapid, so, from this first discovery of weakness to | positive difficulties with small print ~~ except under the most | friendly circumstances ~~ there seems but a step. Reluctantly, | we make our sad way to the optician's ~~ not, however, without | faint hopes that the obscuration may be only temporary and | accidental. But these are rudely dispelled. The man has a coarse | pleasure in unmasking illusion. He looks at us, sees apparently | no discrepancy between us and our case, and thinks it the most | natural thing in the world that we should want glasses. He tests | us by a printed page which we are pleased to show him presents | no difficulties, but he severely points to the numerals as the | only criterion. We are fain to confess that the threes and fives | dance into a common likeness. He

"thought so,"

and | we leave his shop a sadder and a wiser man, with a pair of | spectacles in our pocket and | | a double eye-glass suspended from our neck, thankful that | there are such helps to failing vision, but regarding our new | acquisitions as the fetters they undoubtedly are. This is an epoch. | Our independence, our freedom, our youth is gone. This is | travelling farther from the east with a vengeance. What is that | about the three warnings? But we have positively nothing in | common with old Dobson. It must be premature. A twinge of | conscience supervenes. Who knows but we may have lost the | freshness of our eyesight in reviewing? | Henceforth, reading is not what it was. We read what we have | to read, as before, but there is no more sweet unrestraint. It is | astonishing how many books don't seem worth reading if you | have to put on glasses and change your seat to read them. Our | habits alter. Once we

"read like a Turk,"

voraciously, | indiscriminately; now a third party, in the shape of an intrusive | but indispensable bit of glass, breaks in upon the old | tete-a-tete. We own that books can never again be what they | have been. | | But in the meanwhile, away from our books, things look | precisely as they always did. No change has come over man or | landscape; the near and the distant are as sunny clear as ever; | every general effect, every detail, is what it was before. If there | were no such thing as print, we should know nothing about a | change. Our friend's smile tells as much as it ever did. The | | glance is as keen, every nicety of expression as fully caught, as | it ever was. We suspect that this is a period that turns a good | many into more conversible beings than they have yet thought | it worth while to be. We are, in fact, at the age when good | talkers are at their best. But to talk fairly well is matter of | practice and habit, not to be taken up because there is nothing better | to do with our leisure time. The man is fortunate, and the good | fortune extends to his friends, who has not to teach himself to | talk when it is hard to learn anything new. Yet many a diffuse | and dry elderly gentleman seems very much in this predicament. | Age is charged with making men prosy. It may be because they | have so much more time on their hands, and no stores of general | observation to use it upon; stores acquired before we drift into | the helpless period of simple use and acquiescence. Conversation | is designed to be the one long-lasting never-failing amusement | of mankind. It is the pleasure that sets in earliest, outlives all | vicissitudes, and continues ours when we can enjoy nothing else. | If, then, talking is the great resource, it is well to train ourselves, | while self-education is still possible, to talk agreeably, so that the | relaxation of the speaker may not be a selfish one, nor | purchased, as it too often is, at the expense of his hearers.