This rule is conformable to a maxim which I have laid down in a late paper,[275] and must always inculcate into those of my readers who find in themselves an inclination to be very talkative and impertinent, that they should not speak to please themselves, but those that hear them.
It has been often observed by witty essay writers, that the deepest waters are always the most silent; that empty vessels make the greatest sound, and tinkling cymbals the worst music. The Marquis of Halifax, in his admirable "Advice to a Daughter,"[276] tells her, that good sense has always something sullen in it: but as sullenness does not only imply silence, but an ill-natured silence, I wish his lordship had given a softer name to it. Since I am engaged unawares in quotations, I must not omit the satire which Horace has written against this impertinent talkative companion, and which, I think, is fuller of humour than any other satire he has written. This great author, who had the nicest taste of conversation, and was himself a most agreeable companion, had so strong an antipathy to a great talker, that he was afraid some time or other it would be mortal to him, as he has very humorously described it in his conversation with an impertinent fellow who had liked to have been the death of him:
Interpellandi locus hic erat: "Est tibi mater;
Cognati, quis te salvo est opus?" "Haud mihi quisquam.
Omnes composui." "Felices, nunc ego resto.
Confice, namque instat fatum mihi triste, Sabella
Quod puero cecinit divinâ mota anus urnâ:
'Hunc neque dira venena, nec hosticus auseret ensis,
Nec laterum dolor, aut tussis, nec tarda podagra.
Garrulus hunc quando consumet cunque: loquaces,
Si sapiat, vitet, simul atque adoleverit ætas.'"[277]
Thus translated by Mr. Oldham:
Here I got room to interrupt: "Have you
A mother, sir, or kindred living now?"
"Not one, they all are dead." "Troth, so I guessed;
The happier they," said I, "who are at rest.
Poor I am only left unmurdered yet:
Haste, I beseech you, and despatch me quite,
For I am well convinced my time is come;
When I was young, a gipsy told my doom.
'This lad,' said she, and looked upon my hand,
'Shall not by sword or poison come to's end,
Nor by the fever, dropsy, gout, or stone;
But he shall die by an eternal tongue:
Therefore, when he's grown up, if he be wise,
Let him avoid great talkers, I advise.'"
FOOTNOTES:
[271] Edward Lloyd's Coffee-house in Tower Street is first heard of in 1688; in 1692 Lloyd moved to Lombard Street, at the corner of Abchurch Lane. Periodical sales were held at his house, which was the resort of merchants and shipowners. The Society of Lloyd's was established in 1770.
[272] The waiter (See No. 1).
[273] See No. 264.
[274] An image of a bull or cow was often stamped on a coin, which was thence called "bos."