Now this good quality of talkability is to be distinguished, very
strictly and inflexibly, from the bad quality which imitates it and
often brings it into discredit. I mean the vice of talkativeness.
That is a selfish, one-sided, inharmonious affair, full of
discomfort, and productive of most unchristian feelings.
You may observe the operations of this vice not only in human
beings, but also in birds. All the birds in the bush can make some
kind of a noise; and most of them like to do it; and some of them
like it a great deal and do it very much. But it is not always for
edification, nor are the most vociferous and garrulous birds
commonly the most pleasing. A parrot, for instance, in your
neighbour's back yard, in the summer time, when the windows are
open, is not an aid to the development of Christian character. I
knew a man who had to stay in the city all summer, and in the autumn
was asked to describe the character and social standing of a new
family that had moved into his neighbourhood. Were they "nice
people," well-bred, intelligent, respectable? "Well," said he, "I
don't know what your standards are, and would prefer not to say
anything libellous; but I'll tell you in a word,--they are the kind
of people that keep a parrot."
Then there is the English Sparrow! What an insufferable chatterbox,
what an incurable scold, what a voluble and tiresome blackguard is
this little feathered cockney. There is not a sweet or pleasant
word in all his vocabulary.
I am convinced that he talks altogether of scandals and fights and
street-sweepings.
The kingdom of ornithology is divided into two departments,--real
birds and English sparrows. English sparrows are not real birds;
they are little beasts.
There was a church in Brooklyn which was once covered with a great
and spreading vine, in which the sparrows built innumerable nests.
These ungodly little birds kept up such a din that it was impossible
to hear the service of the sanctuary. The faithful clergy strained
their voices to the verge of ministerial sore throat, but the people
had no peace in their devotions until the vine was cut down, and the
Anglican intruders were evicted.
A talkative person is like an English sparrow,--a bird that cannot
sing, and will sing, and ought to be persuaded not to try to sing.
But a talkable person has the gift that belongs to the wood thrush
and the veery and the wren, the oriole and the white-throat and the
rose-breasted grosbeak, the mockingbird and the robin (sometimes);
and the brown thrush; yes, the brown thrush has it to perfection, if
you can catch him alone,--the gift of being interesting, charming,
delightful, in the most off-hand and various modes of utterance.
Talkability is not at all the same thing as eloquence. The eloquent
man surprises, overwhelms, and sometimes paralyzes us by the display
of his power. Great orators are seldom good talkers. Oratory in
exercise is masterful and jealous, and intolerant of all
interruptions. Oratory in preparation is silent, self-centred,
uncommunicative. The painful truth of this remark may he seen in
the row of countenances along the president's table at a public
banquet about nine o'clock in the evening. The bicycle-face seems
unconstrained and merry by comparison with the after-dinner-speech-
face. The flow of table-talk is corked by the anxious conception of
post-prandial oratory.
Thackeray, in one of his ROUNDABOUT PAPERS, speaks of "the sin of
tall-talking," which, he says, "is the sin of schoolmasters,
governesses, critics, sermoners, and instructors of young or old
people." But this is not in accord with my observation. I should
say it was rather the sin of dilettanti who are ambitious of that
high-stepping accomplishment which is called "conversational
ability."
This has usually, to my mind, something set and artificial about it,
although in its most perfect form the art almost succeeds in
concealing itself. But, at all events, ''conversation'' is talk in
evening dress, with perhaps a little powder and a touch of rouge.
'T is like one of those wise virgins who are said to look their best
by lamplight. And doubtless this is an excellent thing, and not
without its advantages. But for my part, commend me to one who
loses nothing by the early morning illumination,--one who brings all
her attractions with her when she comes down to breakfast,--she is a
very pleasant maid.
Talk is that form of human speech which is exempt from all duties,
foreign and domestic. It is the nearest thing in the world to
thinking and feeling aloud. It is necessarily not for publication,--
solely an evidence of good faith and mutual kindness. You tell me
what you have seen and what you are thinking about, because you take
it for granted that it will interest and entertain me; and you
listen to my replies and the recital of my adventures and opinions,
because you know I like to tell them, and because you find something
in them, of one kind or another, that you care to hear. It is a
nice game, with easy, simple rules, and endless possibilities of
variation. And if we go into it with the right spirit, and play it
for love, without heavy stakes, the chances are that if we happen to
be fairly talkable people we shall have one of the best things in
the world,--a mighty good talk.
What is there in this anxious, hide-bound, tiresome existence of
ours, more restful and remunerative? Montaigne says, "The use of it
is more sweet than of any other action of life; and for that reason
it is that, if I were compelled to choose, I should sooner, I think,
consent to lose my sight than my hearing and speech." The very
aimlessness with which it proceeds, the serene disregard of all
considerations of profit and propriety with which it follows its
wandering course, and brings up anywhere or nowhere, to camp for the
night, is one of its attractions. It is like a day's fishing, not
valuable chiefly for the fish you bring home, but for the pleasant
country through which it leads you, and the state of personal well-
being and health in which it leaves you, warmed, and cheered, and
content with life and friendship.
The order in which you set out upon a talk, the path which you
pursue, the rules which you observe or disregard, make but little
difference in the end. You may follow the advice of Immanuel Kant
if you like, and begin with the weather and the roads, and go on to
current events, and wind up with history, art, and philosophy. Or
you may reverse the order if you prefer, like that admirable talker
Clarence King, who usually set sail on some highly abstract paradox,
such as "Civilization is a nervous disease," and landed in a tale of
adventure in Mexico or the Rocky Mountains. Or you may follow the
example of Edward Eggleston, who started in at the middle and worked
out at either end, and sometimes at both. It makes no difference.
If the thing is in you at all, you will find good matter for talk
anywhere along the route. Hear what Montaigne says again: "In our
discourse all subjects are alike to me; let there be neither weight
nor depth, 't is all one; there is yet grace and pertinence; all
there is tented with a mature and constant judgment, and mixed with
goodness, freedom, gayety, and friendship."
How close to the mark the old essayist sends his arrow! He is right
about the essential qualities of good talk. They are not merely
intellectual. They are moral. Goodness of heart, freedom of
spirit, gayety of temper, and friendliness of disposition,--these
are four fine things, and doubtless as acceptable to God as they are
agreeable to men. The talkability which springs out of these
qualities has its roots in a good soil. On such a plant one need
not look for the poison berries of malign discourse, nor for the
Dead Sea apples of frivolous mockery. But fair fruit will be there,
pleasant to the sight and good for food, brought forth abundantly
according to the season.
III
VARIATIONS--ON A PLEASANT PHRASE FROM MONTAIGNE
Montaigne has given as our text, "Goodness, freedom, gayety, and
friendship,"--these are the conditions which produce talkability.
And on this fourfold theme we may embroider a few variations, by way
of exposition and enlargement.
GOODNESS is the first thing and the most needful. An ugly, envious,
irritable disposition is not fitted for talk. The occasions for
offence are too numerous, and the way into strife is too short and
easy. A touch of good-natured combativeness, a fondness for brisk
argument, a readiness to try a friendly bout with any comer, on any
ground, is a decided advantage in a talker. It breaks up the
offensive monotony of polite concurrence, and makes things lively.
But quarrelsomeness is quite another affair, and very fatal.
I am always a little uneasy in a discourse with the Reverend
Bellicosus Macduff. It is like playing golf on links liable to
earthquakes. One never knows when the landscape will be thrown into
convulsions. Macduff has a tendency to regard a difference of
opinion as a personal insult. If he makes a bad stroke he seems to
think that the way to retrieve it is to deliver the next one on the
head of the other player. He does not tarry for the invitation to
lay on; and before you know what has happened you find yourself in a
position where you are obliged to cry, "Hold, enough!" and to be
liberally damned without any bargain to that effect. This is
discouraging, and calculated to make one wish that human intercourse
might be put, as far as Macduff is concerned, upon the gold basis of
silence.
On the other hand, what a delight it was to talk with that old
worthy, Chancellor Howard Crosby. He was a fighting man for four or
five generations hack, Dutch on one side, English on the other. But
there was not one little drop of gall in his blood. His opinions
were fixed to a degree; he loved to do battle for them; he never
changed them--at least never in the course of the same discussion.
He admired and respected a gallant adversary, and urged him on, with
quips and puns and daring assaults and unqualified statements, to do
his best. Easy victories were not to his taste. Even if he joined
with you in laying out some common falsehood for burial, you might
be sure that before the affair was concluded there would be every
prospect of what an Irishman would call "an elegant wake." If you
stood up against him on one of his favorite subjects of discussion
you must be prepared for hot work. You would have to take off your
coat. But when the combat was over he would be the man to help you
on with it again; and you would walk home together arm in arm,
through the twilight, smoking the pipe of peace. Talk like that
does good. It quickens the beating of the heart, and leaves no
scars upon it.
But this manly spirit, which loves
"To drink delight of battle with its peers,"
is a very different thing from that mean, bad, hostile temper which
loves to inflict wounds and injuries just for the sake of showing
power, and which is never so happy as when it is making some one
wince. There are such people in the world, and sometimes their
brilliancy tempts us to forget their malignancy. But to have much
converse with them is as if we should make playmates of rattlesnakes
for their grace of movement and swiftness of stroke.
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