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"Would you both please, and be instructed too,
Watch well the rage of shining to subdue;
Hear every man upon his favourite theme,
And ever be more knowing than you seem.
The lowest genius will afford some light,
Or give a hint that had escaped your sight."

-Stilling fleet.

"It appears to me, that since I have been sitting here, I have heard a great deal of vain and unprofitable conversation."-Commencement of Cobbett's first speech in Parliament.

T is frequently remarked that the art of conversation is lost; that everything is printed nowadays and nothing said; that such good

talkers and good listeners as Dr. Johnson and his friends are extinct creatures. We do not

think that these laments are justified. It is of course true that the printing-press has in a measure superseded the

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tongue, but not altogether; for the living voice of man has a power of charming and influencing that can never be exercised by dead letters. It is true we do not now make a business of conversation and stake our reputation on a mot, as did Dr. Johnson's contemporaries; but perhaps this fact increases rather than diminishes the charm of modern talk. It is more simple and natural, less dogmatic and egotistical. In our pleasant chats at afternoon teas and tennis-parties we can well dispense with stilted lectures of the "Sir, said Dr. Johnson" type. But though we are by no means destitute of conversational powers, there are certain rules as regards talking which should be better observed in our social intercourse. First, we must distinguish between conversation and talkativeness, which last is, according to Bishop Butler, a "disposition to be talking, abstracted from the consideration of what is said, with very little or no regard to, or thought of doing, either good or harm." The good man's patience almost forsakes him when he thinks of what he has often had to endure from vain, empty, tiresome talkers, who took advantage of his silence in order to indulge their own loquacity. He thus speaks in his famous sermon on the government of the tongue :

"The Wise Man observes that there is a time to speak and a time to keep silence. One meets with people in the world who seem never to have made the last of these observations. And yet these great talkers do not at all speak from their having anything to say, as every sentence shows, but only from their inclination to be talking. Their conversation is merely an exercise of the tongue; no other

human faculty has any share in it. It is strange these persons can help reflecting that unless they have in truth a superior capacity, and are in an extraordinary manner furnished for conversation, if they are entertaining, it is at their own expense. Is it possible that it should never come into people's thoughts to suspect whether or no it be to their advantage to show so very much of themselves? 'O that you would altogether hold your peace, and it should be your wisdom."

It is said that Swift, at an evening party, on one occasion retired to a corner of the room and commenced noting down the talk of the company. Being asked what he was doing, he produced the verbatim report of the conversation which had just taken place. Each speaker felt lamentably chagrined at the superficial and trifling character of his utterances. But the conversation of great talkers is seldom only superficial and trifling. A Frenchman, speaking of a person known to his comrades, said, "His mouth costs him nothing, for he always opens it at the expense of others." This is the natural consequence of talkativeness. As people cannot go on for ever talking of nothing, when impersonal matters are wanting, or are thought less piquant, they begin to speak of persons, which means defamation, scandal, divulging of secrets. Even when they speak well of any one, these babblers do harm, for their exaggerated and fanciful speech "destroys and perverts a certain equity of the utmost importance to society to be observed—namely, that praise and dispraise, a good or bad character, should always be bestowed according to desert."

Nor are great talkers long before they swerve from truth, or at least from strict accuracy of statement. When they have exhausted their stock of facts they invent in order to keep up the interest of their talk; and, when they have heard the least imperfect hint, they add the circumstances of time and place and other matters to make out their story, and give the appearance of probability to it. In a row of twelve houses, the lady at No. I mentioned at table one day that her old friends, the Baileys, were coming in a few days to see her. The servant at No. I told it in the afternoon to the servant at No. 2; and the servant at No. 2 told it to the servant at No. 3, only changing the word Baileys to bailiffs: "No. I are expecting the bailiffs soon." It is always easy to find reasons for anything; so Nos. 4 and 5 gave the explanation: it was because the master of No. I was so dreadfully extravagant. But extravagance is not generally a solitary sin, so the servants at Nos. 6 and 7 had no difficulty in making the slight addition that he treated his wife so badly. No. 8 reported that the wife was very ill, and when the report got to No. 12 the bailiffs were said to have arrived and taken full possession. And the remains of so tragic a story every imaginative reader can finish for himself.

It is far safer, then, to avoid personalities in our conversation. But this is by no means an easy thing to do; for the love of personalities is almost universal-a love seen in the child who asks you to tell him a story, meaning thereby somebody's adventure; a love testified by the interest adults take in reading biographies; a love gratified by police reports

court news, divorce cases, accounts of accidents, and lists of births, marriages, and deaths; a love displayed even by conversations in the street, where fragments of dialogue heard in passing show that mostly between men, and always between women, the personal pronouns recur every instant. Having this lively interest in our neighbours' affairs, we can with difficulty avoid gossiping about them. But the habit is nevertheless dangerous. It creates enemies, and separates friends. We meet an acquaintance in the street from whom we parted but yesterday on the most friendly terms. We wonder why we are passed by with an infinitesimally small nod of acknowledgment, or perhaps with no recognition at all. If we deem it worth while to investigate the cause of this coldness, we shall generally discover that some one has been biassing the mind of our friend against us. A few rash words will set a family, a neighbourhood, a nation by the ears; they have often done so. Half the lawsuits and half the wars have been brought about by talking about people instead of about things. "Where no wood is, there the fire goeth out: so where there is no tale-bearer, the strife ceaseth,"

This sort of personal talk is not only wrong but stupid. It is generally indulged in by persons devoid of brains, education, and culture. People who read and think, prefer to talk of ideas and things. They live in a high intellectual atmosphere, where chit-chat about their neighbours' incomes, quarrels, dress, and servants-the little wearisome jealousies of Mr. or Mrs. A- in reference to Mr. or Mrs. Bdoes not enter.

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