THE TALKING AND TACITURN AGES.
Among all the enjoyments of life, there was none which our great lexicographer esteemed superior to a “good talk.” It was to him as the supper of the Gods. He would walk a long way for it; and if he attained his end, he would express his highest feelings of satisfaction by saying, “Sir, we had a good talk.” What share he took in it himself on such occasions, it might have been interesting to inquire. That it was a large one, we may rest assured; but few probably complained of the circumstance—so capital a talker was our “British Socrates.” Yet to a good talk on equal terms, it will be allowed there should be some reciprocity. To “harangue” in company is not to talk fairly. It is a practice, indeed, common enough in the world; but if the just rules which ought to prevail in the conversational commonwealth be considered, it must be allowed to be a violation of them. The formality of the speech is utterly destructive to the freedom of the republic. Reciprocity is its very life and soul; but the speech-maker lays it up at once in a state of suspended animation. Next to the speech-maker, we may rank as the greatest infringer of these laws the determined “argufier,” or disputatious person, who loves an argument so much that you can advance no proposition that he is not ready immediately to controvert. In the presence of such a person, conversation shares the fate of true love, and never can “run smooth.” There is an appearance of equitableness about this character, that may render him less manifestly engrossing than the former; but his egotism is only a little better concealed, and he invariably achieves the same disagreeable result, namely, to silence every body else, and keep the field entirely to himself. Of such a person we shall say with Jacques, “I have been all day to avoid him. He is too ‘disputable’ for my company. I think of as many matters as he: but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast.”
There are two words in the English language which really comprise all the rules, laws, and regulations necessary for the good government of conversation, and these are “brevity,” “reciprocity.” If each individual would remember when he takes part in conversation that there are others to do so as well as himself, he would necessarily be brief in his own performances. And this brevity has many advantages. Our time is short; our meetings together for conversation are commonly, like angels’ visits, “few and far between,” and in general short; tediousness is the sure destroyer, as brevity is “the soul,” of wit, and therefore he that would enliven his hearers, and dispose them to hear him again, should be above all things “short.” It is acting upon the second golden line, also, and shows a proper consideration for the rights of others. It is doing as a man would be done by. In addition to which, we may observe, that each should listen, if he desire to be listened to—should hear, if he desire to be heard in return.
Thus these two words “brevity” and “reciprocity” form a concise but plain and simple code upon the subject. Much might be said, indeed, in the way of commentary; but commentary sometimes tends rather to obscure than to elucidate, and in this case is manifestly uncalled for.
It must be remembered, however, that these laws can only conduce to the improvement and regulation of conversational intercourse, but are wholly inadequate to originate or insure that “good talking” of which the report has come down to us. This is an object not to be accomplished by rule. The proverb of the wise man says that “out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh;” and we may safely affirm that where there is plenty of matter weighing upon the mind, and where it is of a kind that interests the feelings, there will be at least no lack of utterance. Under an opposite state of things, a contrary result may be expected, and cannot, by any rule of art that we have ever heard of, be contravened. But we must proclaim a truce with this train of observation. We feel that we have been twaddling after the manner of some of our elder essayists, oblivious of the age in which we actually exist. Who has time to think now of good talking, or of talking at all?
The age of Johnsonism is departed; and in these days, instead of running after a “good talk,” there is nothing which the people would run more resolutely from. This is the age of hurry and bustle, and of doing, not talking. It is the age of machinery and iron. We do every thing by mechanical contrivance: we print by it, travel by it, count by it, and very soon, we expect, we shall talk by it. All our great discoveries and inventions are unfavourable to speech. What need to speak, indeed, when almost every thing we may wish to say or hear of is printed? No occasion to ask our neighbour questions, or to moot points of any kind with us: the press answers and discusses them all most satisfactorily. Printing is driving conversation out of the world. It is rendering it not only superfluous, but impracticable; for how is it possible to find time to read all that is given us to read in these days, and to go on talking after the old fashion? The thing is manifestly impossible; and our own conclusion is, that we are hurrying on rapidly to the age of pure taciturnity. When the sun of this solemn age shall have reached its meridian, talking will have passed into the mouths of old women and sucklings, or of merely professional people. We say professional people, because, though conversation in general will have become monosyllabic, or be carried on perhaps by signals, without the use of speech at all, we yet think it highly probable that there will be persons who will occupy themselves with it as a profession. This will be only a carrying out of the grand principle of the division of labour; and their occupation, being followed professionally, will be executed in the very best style, and on the most scientific principles. Professional talkers will then be engaged for large parties just as singers are now, and will amuse the company with studiously prepared anecdotes, beautifully executed disquisitions, flashes of merriment, repartees, rejoinders, grave remarks, useful hints, and whatever else can conduce to entertain or instruct—whilst hosts and guests will on their part sit at ease in all the luxury of silence.
As to the rules of “good talking” which we began by laying down, we are sensible that in a short time they must become quite obsolete. Conversation is even now as the “last rose of summer,” and going out very fast indeed. If what we have said can be of any use to cheer or improve its declining years, we shall be amply rewarded; but if we are already too late, then let it be kept, and in some twenty years more it may be looked upon as a decided curiosity. “See here what I have found,” may somebody “use the machine” to intimate, for as to speaking so many words together, nobody will do it. “See what I have found in an early number of the Irish Penny Journal—‘Rules for good talking!’—well, now, what could that have been? Dear me, what strange habits they must have had in those days!”
X. D.