XVIII. THE PROFOUND.—He leaves you at the edge, but himself plunges like an expert diver into the vasty deeps; and there in twilight visible, if not in darkness felt, he converses with you about the mysterious, the metaphysical, the mystical, the profound. As you gaze with wondering vision, you hear a voice, but see no man. He invites you down into his caves of ocean thought; but, as you see not where he is, and know not the way to follow, nor think it worth while to go at a venture, you prefer remaining on the shore.

Nor is it always the depth into which this talker delights to go. Were it this, with transparency, there would not be so much objection. He too frequently plunges into muddled waters, or makes them so by his movements therein. He persuades himself that he has acquired profound knowledge of philosophy from the dark and mystical writings of the Germans translated into English. With this persuasion he courts your attention, while he discourses to you in terms and phrases of marvellous vagueness about the Ego within us—the Infinite and the Immense, the Absolute, the Entity and Nonentity, and such-like subjects, of which you can make neither "top nor tail," and of which he knows nothing save the terms and phrases that he strings together with such adept expertness and palpable absurdity.

"What do you think," asked Mr. Stanley of Professor Rigg, "of Hegel's paradox, that nothing is equal to being, and that if being and nothing be conjoined you have existence?"

The Professor answered with his usual gravity and profundity: "Nothing could be more profound, and as lucid as profound, if Hegel's theory of the 'evolution of the concrete' was remembered. According to that theory the concrete is the idea which, as a unity, is variously determined, having the principle of its activity within itself, while the origin of the activity, the act itself, and the result, are one, and constitute the concrete. The innate contradiction of the concrete is the basis of its development, and though differences arise, they at last vanish into unity. To use the words of Hegel, there is 'both the movement and repose in the movement. The difference hardly appears before it disappears, whereupon there issues from it a full and complete unity.'"

"That is very clear and satisfactory," observed Mr. Stanley, ironically; not seeing anything but confusion confounded in the whole of it. "What is your view," he asked again, "of the Hegelian 'Absolute'?"

"This," said the Professor, "is nothing but a continual process of thinking, without beginning and without end. Now that the evolution of ideas in the human mind is the process of all existence—the essence of the Absolute—of a Deity, so that Deity is nothing more than the Absolute ever striving to realize itself in human consciousness."

Without questioning the truthfulness of such a doctrine, so plainly expressed, Mr. Stanley proceeded to ask, in a way rather beyond himself, "Whether there was not a little to be said for Schelling's notion that the rhythmical law of all existence is cognisable at the same time by the internal consciousness of the subjective self, in the objective operation of Nature?"

To this question, somewhat mystical it must be confessed, the Professor replied in his usual style of profundity:—

"I see clearly enough Schelling's great ingenuity; but think his three movements or potencies—that of 'Reflexion,' whereby the Infinite strives to realize itself in the Finite—that of 'Subsumption,' which is the striving of the Absolute to return from the Finite to the Infinite—and that of the 'Indifference-point,' or point of junction of the two first—were not to be admitted; for is it not clear as the day that the poles ever persist in remaining apart, the indifference-point having never been fixed by Schelling?"

In these ways Mr. Stanley and the Professor kept up the conversation until I and the rest of the company were perfectly involved in dense mists and fogs, wishing that the sun of simple truth would shine, to bring us into clear seeing and firm foot-standing. We longed for the day without a cloud. At last they ceased, and after a brief interval we found ourselves where we were before they began, with no more knowledge of the mystical, and no less love to the simplicity of truth spoken in words of plain meaning and thoughts of undisguised transparency.

XIX. THE WONDERER.—This is a talker with whom one very often meets in the walks of life. His peculiarity in conversation is the use of the word wonder in almost every statement he makes and question he asks. It is a strange peculiarity, and I wonder that he should so frequently indulge in its use; I wonder that he does not discover some other mode of expression.

I once met with him at a railway station, and after wishing him the compliments of the day, almost his first word was, "I wonder how long my train will be before it starts?" Scarcely had he time to get his breath, when he said, "I wonder what o'clock it is." I looked at my watch and told him. Instantly he said, "I wonder whether it rains; I hope not." I assured him that it did not when I came on the platform; then he quickly said, "I wonder whether it will rain to-morrow; I hope not, for I have a long journey to take by coach."

I remember once travelling with a gentleman in a railway carriage between London and Bristol. Besides him and me there were three or four more passengers in the compartment, ladies and gentlemen.

Scarcely had we left the Paddington station ere he began wondering.

"I wonder," said he, "how fast this train goes."

Oh, about forty miles an hour, I replied.

"I wonder, does this train stop at Reading?"

I think it does, I answered.

Then whispering in my ear, he said, "I wonder who that old gentleman is in yon corner of the carriage."

I really do not know; he is a stranger to me, I observed.

After a few minutes' pause, in which he seemed to have indulged a profound meditation, he again whispered in my ears, saying, "I wonder who that lady is sitting next to you."

I cannot say, I replied.

The train travelled on at a great speed, passing station after station in rapid succession.

Again he said, "I wonder how fast we are travelling now."

Oh, perhaps sixty miles an hour.

Quickly, he said, "I wonder what station that is we have just passed."

I think it is Swindon.

After a brief pause:—

"I wonder what time this train gets into Bristol."

It is due at ten o'clock.

"I wonder will it be punctual."

Thus he was wondering ever and anon until we reached the Bristol station, where we parted, he going one way and I another; perhaps he wondering who I was, and I wondering who he was.

I remember meeting another Wonderer in the house of a friend of mine with whom I had intended to spend part of the evening.

Scarcely had we been introduced to each other when he said,—

"I wonder whether the Republican or Democrat candidate is elected to the American Presidency."

That is a matter in which I do not profess to be posted up, I replied.

Then he said, "I wonder how Lord Salisbury is getting on in the Conference."

From all the newspaper reports he seems to be getting on very well, I observed.

After a very brief pause, he said, "I wonder whether there will be war. I wonder whether Russia really means war or peace."

It is exceedingly difficult to say, I observed. Diplomacy is so involved, so intricate, so uncertain, that no one can say until all things are really settled.

"I wonder," he immediately said, "whether England will go to war."

I cannot say, I answered; I sincerely hope not.

"If there be war, I wonder," he said, "which way it would go. I wonder whether Russia would take Constantinople. I wonder whether she would crush Turkey. I wonder what the effect would be upon our way to India. I wonder how Germany and Austria would act in the matter."

After he had done, I said, I wonder what time it is.

He said, "It is eight o'clock."

I must go, I have another engagement at half-past eight. So leaving my friend's friend in his wonders, I retired.

Another Wonderer I met with shortly after the one just named, when the conversation turned upon the new Bishopric of Cornwall.

"I wonder what effect it will have upon the Methodists."

It will stir them up to duty and diligence, I hope.

"I wonder who will be the Bishop."

I don't know.

"I wonder, will he be High Church or Low."

That I cannot say.

"I wonder what he will do when he finds the county so filled with Methodists and Methodist chapels."

He will find something to do, I said, if he means to put them down.

"I wonder whether he will put them down," he said.

You need not wonder about that, I rejoined.

"I wonder why?"

Wonder why! He may as well try to put down the Cornish hills into plains or valleys.

The fact is, one can scarcely speak with any one, or enter any company, but the first utterance he hears is "I wonder."

Persons wonder what the weather will be; they wonder what time it is; they wonder who is going to preach on Sunday; they wonder what the preacher's text will be; they wonder what will be for dinner; they wonder who will be in the company; they wonder who is going to be married; they wonder who is dead in the next newspaper. In fine, this wonder is a wonderful word in almost everybody's lips.

I wonder whether some other mode of expression could not be adopted, which would either be a substitute for it, or somewhat of variation: so that the wonderer may not be so common a talker in the circles of society.

But it is one thing to be always wondering, and quite another thing to wonder occasionally, when the statement made, or question asked, is of such a nature as to require or to demand a wonder. It is possible to get into the way of wondering so that you will not know when you do wonder. It is supposed that persons only wonder when things of great surprise and astonishment are heard, such as the fall of stars, the overthrow of cities by earthquakes, etc. At the reading or hearing of such things, it seems natural that persons should wonder. But why they should wonder at almost every trivial thing they ask in ordinary conversation is to me an inexplicable mystery.

There is another use of the word which I had nearly forgotten. In American society I remember this word is used in the opposite sense to what it is in this country.

"I have just come from New York by steamboat, and I saw Mr. Bouser on board."

"Well; I wonder!" is the reply.

"I saw the moon in the sky as I came here this evening."

"I wonder!" is the answer.

"Do you know I met a little girl of the Sunday-school in the street?"

"I wonder!" said a grave-looking lady.

"Mr. and Miss Lane are going to be married next week by Mr. Sparks."

"I really wonder!" was the general exclamation of the company, although they had heard it before at different times.

This wonderer in America is, if possible, more ludicrous than in England. In both he is ludicrous; and the sooner he changes into some other form of talker, more sensible, the better.

XX. THE TERMAGANT.—This is a talker chiefly of the female sex; and it is in this gender we shall give our sketch.

Jemima, the wife of Job Sykes, was a woman of turbulent and fiery temper; but he was a man calm and self-possessed. Her tongue was as the pen of a ready-writer, in the rapidity with which it talked, and as the point of a needle and the edge of a razor in the keenness of its words. Sometimes she was loud and boisterous, violent and raging, attacking her prey as a tigress, rather than as a human being. Sometimes she was snappish, snarling, waspish. Her husband, her children, her servants, her neighbours, all came in for their share, in their turn, of her bites, stings, and poisons.

It was, however, poor Job who fell in for the lion's share. Alas for him! He often found the words of Solomon to be true: "It is better to dwell in the wilderness than with a contentious and angry woman" (Prov. xxi. 19). As there was no wilderness into which he could fly to escape the tongue of his dear Jemima, he would fly away into a solitary room, or into the adjoining garden, or into a neighbour's house, or take a walk in the lonely road,—anywhere to shelter himself from the fiery droppings of his termagant spouse.

The least imaginable thing that crossed her will or temper would set Jemima's tongue-machine a-going; and when once started, it rattled away like a medley of tin, glass, and stones turned in a churn. It threw out words like razors, darts, fire-brands, scorpions, wasps, mosquitos, flying helter-skelter in all directions about the head of poor Job, and he seldom escaped without wounds which lasted for days together. He has been known to receive cuts and bruises that have prevented his speaking to his "darling" for weeks in succession.

Mrs. Caudle's lectures to her husband were mild, entertaining, and instructive to what Job Sykes received from Mrs. Sykes. Mrs. Caudle, I think, always addressed her beloved in the evening within curtains, when he was in such a condition of mind and body as rendered him impervious to the entrance of her loving words; so that he would even go to sleep under them, as a babe under the soothing lullaby of its mother. But Job's dear wife fired away at him anywhere, at any time: night or day, at home or from home, in company or out of company. Given the least cause, the attack would begin and be carried on until the ammunition was exhausted.

As we have said, Job was of a quiet disposition, although firm and never yielding his place to his "weaker vessel;" and he generally found that silence or "soft answers" were his best weapons.

And so they are in every such case: and if any one of my readers is afflicted with a wife like Job Sykes' wife, he will find that his policy is the wisest to follow.

Sometimes a cure is effected in this talker, and the husband rejoices in the salvation wrought out for him. Sometimes there is no cure excepting in the paralysis of death. This, too, is salvation to many hen-pecked husbands, in which they also rejoice. Such has been the mighty deliverance accomplished for some, that they have even celebrated it by appropriate epitaphs on the tombstones of their buried partners. The following is one said to be at Burlington, Massachusetts:—

"Sacred to the memory of Anthony Drake, Who died for peace and quietness' sake, His wife was constantly scolding and scoffing, So he sought repose in a twelve dollar coffin."

There is another in Ellon churchyard:—

"Here lies my wife in earthly mould, Who, when she lived, did nought but scold. Peace! wake her not, for now she's still; She had, but now I have my will."



XXXII.

A MODEL TALKER.

"Let your speech be alway with grace, seasoned with salt, that ye may know how ye ought to answer every man."—PAUL.

Having devoted the previous pages to sketches of faulty talkers, I propose in this concluding chapter to give a description of a talker who may be exhibited as a model for imitation.

As there is but One Model Man in the world, so there is only One Model Talker. The Apostle James tells us who he is: "If any man offend not in word, the same is a perfect man, and able also to bridle the whole body."

But who is the man that offends not in word? Where is he to be found? Is he not rather an ideal being than a real one? Be he ideal or real, it may answer some good end to set him forth as far as his ideality or reality can be apprehended.

It may be well to premise just here that when it is said "he offends not in word," it does not imply that no one ever takes offence at his word, but that he offends not through any defect in his intention, that he is not held blamable or responsible for any offence taken at his word. Not until every hearer is perfect as well as every talker will offence cease on both sides. Did offence taken by the hearer necessarily involve offence given by the talker, He of whom it was said, "Never man spake like this man," would fail to be perfect; yea, even God Himself would come short of perfection: for how many took offence at the words of Jesus! and how many are continually offended at the words of the Almighty!

The following may be given as the outline features of a model talker. There is only space for an outline.

He endeavours, as far as possible, to ascertain the temper and disposition of those with whom he talks.

He is cautious how he receives and repeats anything that he hears from one in whose veracity he has not implicit confidence.

If any one with whom he is talking says anything that is detrimental to the character and interests of an absent person, he hopes charitably that it is not true, and avoids circulating it in his conversation or in other ways.

He does not impose his talk upon others against prudence and propriety. "He spareth his words in wisdom and understanding" (Prov. xvii. 27). "Whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles" (Prov. xxi. 23). "He that keepeth his mouth keepeth his life" (Prov. xiii. 3).

No corrupt communication proceeds out of his mouth; no bitterness, wrath, anger, clamour, evil-speaking, malice; no filthiness nor jesting, nor blasphemy, nor reviling, nor slander. (See Eph. iv. 29, v. 4; Col. iii. 8.)

In the presence of fiery temper and enraged passion he says nothing to add fuel to the flame, but keeps calm and self-possessed.

He never retaliates, or gives reviling for reviling, but contrariwise—good for evil, blessing for cursing.

He flatters not any one in any way, but speaks the words of truth and soberness. He is not as the fox in the fable, who commended the singing of the crow when he wanted something that was in his mouth.

He finds out as far as he can what is the particular forte of knowledge held by those with whom he talks, and prudently converses upon it so as to promote mutual edification.

He chooses such words as shall, in the clearest, truest, and most effective way, embody his thoughts and sentiments.

He speaks the truth in everything, everywhere, and to every one, without equivocation, prevarication, or unjust hyperbolism.

He avoids all affectation as a thing of the mountebank or pantomime, and appears himself without a Jezebel's paint or a Jacob's clothing, so that you may know at once who he is, what he says, and what he means.

He reverences God and Truth, avoiding as demoniacal all profane swearing, cursing, blasphemy, scoffing, and jeering.

He modulates his voice to suit the company, the subject, and the place where he talks.

He does not interrupt another in his talk, unless it is immoral, but hears him through, that he may the better understand him.

He accustoms himself to think before he speaks. As Zeno advises, he dips his tongue in his mind before he allows it to talk. It is said that a fool thinks after he has spoken, and a wise man before.

He does not pry with a curious and inquisitive spirit into the affairs of others. If they are wise not to reveal, he is wise not to inquire.

He is no blabber, to divulge secrets committed to his bosom for security by confiding friendship.

He speaks not evil of the absent, unless in case of self-defence, or as a witness, or in vindication of righteousness and truth; and when he does, he adheres closely to fact, and evinces the absence of envy, malice, or vindictiveness in his motives.

He guards against the exhibition of his own wisdom, knowledge, goodness, as a boaster or egotist. He is no more a self-flatterer than a flatterer of others.

He does not mark the failings of those who talk with him or around him in company, and take them up in carping criticism or biting ridicule.

He does not dogmatize, wrangle, quibble, as though he was an autocrat or a pugilist. He thinks and lets think. He is as willing for others to talk their views in their way as he wishes them to be willing that he should do the same.

He is no censor or grumbler. He remembers that he shall be judged, and judges not others. In everything he gives thanks. If things and persons are not as he thinks they should be, he tries to make them better, rather than spend his words and time in useless complaining.

He is no willow to bend before every breeze of opinion, nor an oak to stand unmoved in every change of the intellectual atmosphere. He maintains his conscientious convictions with manly dignity and independence, but not with a dogged tenacity which snaps at every resistance, and holds on simply because he will.

He blends the grave and joyous in his conversation. He is neither a jester nor a hermit; neither a misanthrope nor a fool. "Sorrowful, yet alway rejoicing," he "weeps with them that weep, and rejoices with them that rejoice." He is like the heavens; he has sunshine and cloud, each in its season, seemly, appropriate, useful.

"Though life's valley be a vale of tears, A brighter scene beyond that vale appears, Whose glory, with a light that never fades, Shoots between scattered rocks and opening shades; And while it shows the land the soul desires, The language of the land she seeks inspires. Thus touched, the tongue receives a sacred cure Of all that was absurd, profane, impure; Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech Pursues the course that Truth and Nature teach; No longer labours merely to produce The pomp of sound or tinkle without use; Where'er it winds, the salutary stream, Sprightly and fresh, enriches every theme, While all the happy man possessed before, The gift of nature, or the classic store, Is made subservient to the grand design For which heaven formed the faculty divine. So, should an idiot, while at large he strays, Find the sweet lyre on which an artist plays, With rash and awkward force the chords he shakes, And grins with wonder at the jar he makes; But let the wise and well-instructed hand Once take the shell beneath his just command: In gentle sounds it seems as it complained Of the rude injuries it late sustained, Till, tuned at length to some immortal song, It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours His praise along."

Such is my model talker. Another hand may have drawn a different one: perhaps much better, or perhaps much worse.

Some, in looking at him, may be disposed to think that he is too antiquated, too precise, too spiritual, too scripturified; not enough broadness, strength, liberty. Before this judgment is formed, let there be a further examination of the entire character.

"But it is all very well to give an ideal picture. We want the reality, and where can he be found?" That is perfectly true. The reality is wanted in every family, society, church, and nation in the wide world. My reader, do you see and approve the ideal? Then aim at the reality, and to be the first model human talker that has ever lived in this Babel-talking world. Mark well the failings of others in the use of their tongues, and strive to avoid them in your own. A heart and head united in being right will do almost everything in making the tongue right. When the interior of a watch is in order, it will generally indicate the right time: when a man in the belfry wisely pulls the rope attached to a bell, it will give a proper sound: when a musician is perfect in his art, and his instrument in tune, the music he plays will agree thereto. So, reader, is it with the tongue, when the "man of the head and heart" are perfect in Christ Jesus. Seek, and obtain this, and you will be among those who "OFFEND NOT IN WORD."

"What! never speak one evil word, Or rash, or idle, or unkind? O how shall I, most gracious Lord, This mark of true perfection find?

Thy sinless mind in me reveal, Thy Spirit's plenitude of grace; And all my spoken words shall tell The fulness of a loving heart."

THE END.

Printed by Hazell, Watson, and Viney, London and Aylesbury.



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Transcriber's note:

Additional spacing after some of the quotes is intentional to indicate both the end of a quotation and the beginning of a new paragraph as presented in the original text.

The following misprints have been corrected: "Misanthorpe" corrected to "Misanthrope" (page xiv) "scorcerer" corrected to "sorcerer" (page 103) "acquiantances" corrected to "acquaintances" (page 175) "anbody" corrected to "anybody" (page 200) "I I" corrected to "I" (page 209) "or" corrected to "to" (page 238) — or the deaf or hear? "a a" corrected to "a" (page 269) "suggusts" corrected to "suggests"(page 290) "meer" corrected to "mere" (page 308) "Rupublican" corrected to "Republican" (page 322) "is is" corrected to "is" (page 328)

Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, and hyphenation usage have been retained.

THE END