Talkers: With Illustrations

‘’Tis in these little things we all can do and say,Love showeth best its gentle charity.’”

Boldness and impudence are the twin features in the inquisitive talker. Were these counterbalanced by education in the ordinary civilities of life, he would be more worthy a place in the company of those whom now he annoys with his rude and impertinent interrogatories. Few men care to have the secrets of their minds discovered by the probing questions of an intruder. The prudent man has many things, it may be, in his mind, in his family, in his business, which are sacred to him, and to attempt an acquaintance with them by stealth is what no one will do but he who is devoid of good manners, or, if he ever had any, has shamefully forgotten them. There are proper times and places in conversation for questions; but even then they should be put with discretion and frankness. A man should have common sense and civility enough to teach him when and what questions to ask, and how far to go in his questions, so that he may not seem to meddle with matters which do not concern him.

XVI.

THE PEDANT

“Pedantry, in the common acceptation of the word, means an absurd ostentation of learning, and stiffness of phraseology, proceeding from a misguided knowledge of books, and a total ignorance of men.”

– Mackenzie.

The Pedant is a talker who makes an ostentatious display of his knowledge. His endeavour is to show those within his hearing that he is a man of study and wisdom. He generally aims higher than he can reach, and makes louder pretensions than his acquirements will justify. He may have gone as far as the articles in English Grammar, and attempts to observe in his speech every rule of syntax, of which he is utterly ignorant; or he may have learned as far as “hoc – hac – hoc” in Latin, and affect an acquaintance with Horace, by shameful quotations. He may have reached as far as the multiplication table in arithmetic, and try to solve the problems of Euclid as though he had them at his finger-ends. If he has read the “Child’s Astronomy,” he will walk with you through the starry heavens and the university of worlds, with as much confidence as though he was a Ross or a Herschel. He labours at the sublime and brings forth the ridiculous. He is a giant according to his own rule of measurement, but a pigmy according to that of other people. He thinks that he makes a deep impression upon the company as to his literary attainments; but the fact is, the impression is made that he knows nothing as he ought to know. He may, perchance, with the lowest of the illiterate, be heard as an oracle, and looked up to as a Solon; but the moment he rises into higher circles he loses caste, and falls down into a rank below that with which he would have stood associated had he not elevated himself on the pedestal of his own folly. He is viewed with disgust in his fall; and becomes the object of ridicule for the display of his contemptible weakness. His silence would have saved him, or an attempt commensurate with his abilities; but his preposterous allusions to subjects of which he proved himself utterly ignorant effected his ruin.

The Spectator, in No. 105, gives an illustration of a pedant in Will Honeycomb. “Will ingenuously confesses that for half his life his head ached every morning with reading of men over-night; and at present comforts himself under certain pains which he endures from time to time, that without them he could not have been acquainted with the gallantries of the age. This Will looks upon as the learning of a gentleman, and regards all other kinds of science as the accomplishments of one whom he calls a scholar, a bookish man, or a philosopher.

“He was last week producing two or three letters which he wrote in his youth to a lady. The raillery of them was natural and well enough for a mere man of the town; but, very unluckily, several of the words were wrongly spelt. Will laughed this off at first as well as he could; but finding himself pushed on all sides, and especially by the Templar, he told us, with a little passion, that he never liked pedantry in spelling, and that he spelt like a gentleman, and not like a scholar. Upon this Will had recourse to his old topic of showing the narrow-spiritedness, the pride, and arrogance of pedants; which he carried so far, that upon my retiring to my lodgings, I could not forbear throwing together such reflections as occurred to me upon the subject.

“A man who has been brought up among books, and is able to talk of nothing else, is a very indifferent companion, and what we call a pedant. But methinks we should enlarge the title, and give it to every one that does not know how to think out of his profession and particular way of life.

“What is a greater pedant than a mere man of the town? How many a pretty gentleman’s knowledge lies all within the verge of the court? He will tell you the names of the principal favourites; repeat the shrewd sayings of a man of quality; whisper an intrigue that is not yet blown upon by common fame; or, if the sphere of his observations is a little larger than ordinary, will perhaps enter into all the incidents, turns, and resolutions, in a game of ombre. When he has gone thus far, he has shown you the whole circle of his accomplishments; his parts are drained, and he is disabled from any further conversation. What are these but rank pedants? and yet these are the men who value themselves most on their exemption from the pedantry of the colleges.

“I might here mention the military pedant, who always talks in a camp, and is storming towns, making lodgments, and fighting battles from one end of the year to the other. Everything he speaks smells of gunpowder; if you take away his artillery from him, he has not a word to say for himself. I might likewise mention the law pedant, that is perpetually putting cases, repeating the transactions of Westminster Hall, wrangling with you upon the most indifferent circumstances of life, and not to be convinced of the distance of a place, or of the most trivial point in conversation, but by dint of argument. The state pedant is wrapped up in news, and lost in politics. If you mention either of the kings of Spain or Poland, he talks very notably; but if you go out of the Gazette, you drop him. In short, a mere courtier, a mere soldier, a mere scholar, a mere anything, is an insipid pedantic character, and equally ridiculous.

“Of all the species of pedants which I have mentioned, the book pedant is much the most supportable; he has at least an exercised understanding, a head which is full, though confused – so that a man who converses with him may often receive from him hints of things that are worth knowing, and what he may possibly turn to his own advantage, though they are of little use to the owner. The worst kind of pedants among learned men are such as are naturally endued with a very small share of common sense, and have read a great number of books without taste or distinction.

“The truth of it is, learning, like travelling, and all other methods of improvement, as it finishes good sense, so it makes a silly man ten thousand times more insufferable, by supplying variety of matter to his impertinence, and giving him an opportunity of abounding in absurdities.

“Shallow pedants cry up one another much more than men of solid and useful learning. To read the titles they give an editor or a collator of a manuscript, you would take him for the glory of the commonwealth of letters, and the wonder of his age; when perhaps upon examination you find that he has only rectified a Greek particle, or laid out a whole sentence in proper commas.

“They are obliged to be thus lavish of their praises that they may keep one another in countenance; and it is no wonder if a great deal of knowledge, which is not capable of making a man wise, has a natural tendency to make him vain and arrogant.”

Arthur Bell was a young man of excellent qualities; and generally respected by all who knew him. He had received his education, which was of a superior order, at one of the Oxford colleges. Nevertheless, he was modest and unassuming; shunning any display of his learning, excepting under circumstances which justified him from vanity and self-importance. Sidney Rose was a young man of the same village as Arthur, but of different origin and training. In early boyhood they were often playmates together; and the acquaintance thus formed continued more or less up to manhood. Sidney was of another spirit to Arthur, naturally high-minded, blustering, and self-conceited. His education was only such as he had received in a country classical academy, and in this he had not succeeded to the extent his pretensions led one to suppose.

Arthur and Sidney once met in an evening party at the house of Mr. Grindell. The company consisted mostly of young ladies and young gentlemen. During the conversation of the evening, in which Sidney took a prominent part, he made an attempt to quote the following line from Ovid, with no other intention than to exhibit his learning: —

“Dulcia non ferimus; succo renovamur amaro,”

in which he made the most glaring blunders.

“Dulcam non farimas, succor amarum reno,”

he said, with the most ostentatious air and bombastic confidence. Two or three of the company could not refrain from laughing at his airs, not to say his blunders.

“What are you laughing at?” inquired Sidney, in his independent tone, and as though he was highly insulted.

“I beg your pardon, Sidney, but I think they were smiling at a mistake or two which you have made in that Latin quotation,” said Arthur, quietly.

“Mistake, indeed! I have made no mistake,” said Sidney, in an angry tone.

“I think you have,” observed Arthur, modestly.

“Show me, then, if you can. I guess that is out of your power,” said Sidney, more excited.

“Don’t be excited, my friend,” said Arthur; “I think I can give the line correctly.”

Arthur quoted the line as it occurs in the book. The difference appeared to Sidney; but he would make no acknowledgment. Nor would he give up the exhibition of his academic learning. He thought he would be a match for Arthur and the young gentlemen who seemed to ridicule what he knew they could not mend, so he made another attempt.

“Which of you,” he inquired, “can tell me in what part of Horace the following line occurs: —

‘Amor improbe non quid pectora mortalia cogis’?”

A faint smile passed over the countenance of Arthur, while Bonner, an educated young collegian, could not restrain his risible powers, and broke out in a loud laugh, at the expense of his good manners.

“What’s that Bonner laughing at?” asked Sidney, in a manner which betrayed his indignation and chagrin.

“It strikes me,” said Skinner, “that that line is very much corrupted in its quotation. It does not seem to be such Latin as is found in the classics, even from what I know of them.”

“And with all my study of Horace,” observed Judson, “I never met with the line in him, even if it was given correctly. And then I think, with Skinner, that it is not correctly quoted. What do you think, Arthur?”

“Of course it is not in Horace,” replied Arthur; “nor is it correctly quoted. If Sidney has no objection, I will give the correct words from the right author.”

Sidney was sullenly silent.

“In Virgil’s ‘Æneid,’ Book iv., line 412,” said Arthur, “the words of which Sidney intends his to be a quotation may be found. They are as follows: —

‘Improbe amor, quid non mortalia pectora cogis.’”

“You are quite right, Arthur,” said Bonner.

Here the subject ended. A short time after, during the evening, Sidney was observed holding conversation with Miss Boast, a young lady of some pretensions, but of no more than ordinary education. Sidney seemed to be much at home with her in conversation. She gave a willing ear to all his pedantic talk; and he used the opportunity much to his own gratification. He was repeating to Miss Boast a list of his studies in the classics, mathematics, history, geology, astronomy, etc., when Arthur walked into that part of the room where they were sitting. He saw that Sidney was recovered from his temper shown in the former conversation, and had subsided into his own natural element, and was pouring into the credulous ear of the young lady his pedantic effusions.

“Are you at all acquainted with Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’?” inquired Sidney of Miss Boast.

“I have read a little of it, but it is not my favourite book,” she replied.

“But it is an admirable book,” said Sidney; “I have read it again and again. Why, I know it almost line by line. It is a grand poem, of course of the tragic style, full of strong sentiment and bold figure. Milton, you know, wrote that poem in German. The translation into English is a good one – incomparably good. I forget who the translator was. Do you not remember those exquisitely fine lines which run thus, —

‘Ah, mighty Love – ’

Why, now, it is strange I should forget them. Let me see (with his hand to his forehead). Now I have them,

‘Ah, mighty Love, that it were inward heatWhich made this precious limbeck sweet!But what, alas! ah, what does it avail!’

I need not repeat any more. This will give you an idea of the style and sentiment of that wonderful poem.”

“It is certainly very fine,” said the young lady, innocently. “Did you not hear those beautiful lines, Arthur, which Sidney has just quoted from Milton?” asked Miss Boast.

“Yes, I heard them.”

“Are they not fine?” said Sidney to Arthur.

He evaded an answer.

“Are you sure that the quotation is from Milton?” inquired Mr. Smith, who was listening to the conversation.

“Certainly,” said Sidney.

“Are they, Arthur?” asked Smith, who had his suspicions, and apprehended another display of Sidney’s pedantry, and was determined if possible to put a check on his folly.

“If you require me to be candid in my answer,” said Arthur, quietly, “I do not think that they do belong to Milton at all.”

“Whose are they, then?” asked Sidney, rather petulantly.

“They are Cowley’s, to be found in vol. i., p. 132, of his works.”

“I never knew that Milton’s poem was tragedy, and that he wrote it in German until now,” observed Mr. Smith, ironically.

“Who said he did?” asked Arthur.

“Sidney.”

“That is new historical fact, if fact it be,” said Arthur. “I always thought he wrote it in English, and that the poem was of the epic order.”

“I always thought so too,” said Smith.

Sidney sat confounded, but not conquered in his fault. He would not admit his error, nor would he cease his pedantic exhibitions. He gave two or three more displays before the party separated, and with similar results. Enough, however, has been given here to show the excessive folly of this habit, and the just ridicule to which it is exposed.

“What a pity that Sidney makes such preposterous pretensions to learning in his conversation,” said Smith the next day to Arthur.

“It certainly is,” answered Arthur; “but he is generally so when in the company of any he thinks educated. He aims at equality with them, and even to rise above them, with his comparatively limited acquirements. He rarely, or ever, attains his end. His folly almost invariably meets with an exposure in one way or another. I have met with him on several occasions previous to last night, and he was the same on every one.”

“It is to be hoped he will grow wiser as he grows older,” said Smith.

“I hope so,” said Arthur. “If he do not, he will always be contemptible in the eyes of the wise and learned; and they will do their utmost to shun his society and keep him out of their reach. Were his professions of learning to accord with his real abilities there would be no objection – nothing unseemly; but he aims at that which he has little competency to reach, and so makes himself ludicrous in his attempts. And then he does it withal in such self-confidence and ostentation as is perfectly revolting to good taste. As his friend, I feel very much for him, and wish he may get a knowledge of his real acquirements, and make no display of his learning beyond what he can honourably sustain, and in which he will be justified by wisdom and propriety. In this way he might obtain a position in which he would receive the respect of society according to the real merits of which he gave obvious proof.”

“Those are exactly my views,” said Smith, “and I wish they were the views of Sidney too.”

XVII.

THE DETRACTOR

“The ignoble mindLoves ever to assail with secret blowThe loftier, purer beings of their kind.”W. G. Simms.“Detraction’s a bold monster, and fears notTo wound the fame of princes, if it findBut any blemish in their lives to work on.”Massinger.

A detractor is one whose aim is to lessen, or withdraw from, that which constitutes a good name or contributes to it.

The love of a good name is natural to man. He who has lost this love is considered most desperately fallen below himself.

To acquire a good name and to maintain it, what have not men done, given, and suffered in the world of Literature, Labour, Science, Politics, and Religion?

And who has blamed them for it? It is declared by the highest wisdom, that “A good name is better than great riches,” and “better than precious ointment.” “The memory of the just shall be blessed, but the name of the wicked shall rot.” “Whatsoever things are of good report, if there be any virtue and if there be any praise, think on these things.”

“It is,” as one says, “that which gives us an inferior immortality, and makes us, even in this world, survive ourselves. This part of us alone continues verdant in the grave, and yields a perfume.”

Considering, then, the worth of a good name, we cannot wonder that a man should wish to preserve and guard it with all carefulness.

“The honours of a name ’tis just to guard;They are a trust but lent us, which we take,And should, in reverence to the donor’s fame,With care transmit them to other hands.”

As the work of the detractor is the tarnishing, or, it may be, the destruction of a man’s good name, the evil nature of it may be seen at one view. Can he commit a greater offence against his brother? Can he be guilty of a more heinous motive and aim?

“No wound which warlike hand of enemyInflicts with dint of sword, so sore doth lightAs doth the poisonous sting which infamyInfixeth in the name of noble wight;For by no art, nor any leeches’ might,It ever can re-curéd be again.”“Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing;’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands:But he who filches from me my good nameRobs me of that which not enriches him,And makes me poor indeed.”

Let us notice some of the ways in which this talker seeks to accomplish his work.

1. He represents persons and actions under the most disadvantageous circumstances he can, speaking of those which may appear objectionable, and passing by those which may be commendable. There is no person so excellent who is not by his circumstances forced to omit some things which would become him to do if he were able; to perform some things weakly and otherwise than he would if he had the power. There is no action so worthy, but may have some defect in matter, or manner, incapable of redress; and he that represents such persons or actions, leaving out those excusing circumstances, tends to create an unjust opinion of them, taking from them their due value and commendation. Thus, to charge a man with not having done a good work, when he had not the power or opportunity, or is by unexpected means hindered from doing it according to his desire; to suggest the action was not done exactly in the best season, in the wisest mode, in the most proper place, with expressions, looks, or gestures most convenient – these are tricks of the detractor, who, when he cannot deny the metal to be good, and the stamp true, clips it, and so would prevent it from being current.

2. He misconstrues ambiguous words or misinterprets doubtful appearances of things. A man may speak never so well, or act never so nobly, yet a detractor will make his words bear some ill sense, and his actions tend to some bad purpose; so that we may suspect his meaning, and not yield him our full approbation.

3. He misnames the qualities of persons or things, and gives bad appellations or epithets to good or indifferent qualities. The names of virtue and vice do so nearly border in signification that it is easy to transfer them from one to another, and to give the best quality a bad name. Thus, by calling a sober man sour, a cheerful man vain, a conscientious man morose, a devout man superstitious, a free man prodigal, a frugal man sordid, an open man simple, a reserved man crafty, one that stands upon his honour and honesty proud, a kind man ambitiously popular, a modest man sullen, timorous, or stupid, is a way in which the detractor may frequently be known.

4. He imperfectly characterises persons, so as purposely to veil, or faintly to disclose, their excellencies, but carefully to expose and to aggravate their defects or failings.

Like an envious painter, he hides, or in shady colours depicts, the graceful parts and goodly features, but brings out the blemishes in clearest light, and most prominent view. There is no man who has not some blemish in his nature or temper; some fault contracted by education or custom; something amiss proceeding from ignorance or misapprehension of things. These (although in themselves small and inconsiderable) the detractor seizes, and thence forms a judgment calculated to excite contempt of him in an unwary spectator; whereas, were charity to judge of him, he would be represented as lovely and excellent.

5. He does not commend or allow anything as good without interposing some exception to it. “The man, indeed,” he says, “does seem to have a laudable quality; his action has a fair appearance;” but, if he can, he raises some spiteful objection. If he can find nothing plausible to say against him, he will seem to know and to suppress something. He will say, “I know what I know; I know more than I’ll say;” adding, perhaps, a significant nod or strong expression, a sarcastic sneer or smile, of what he cannot say in words.

“Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,And, without seeming, teach the rest to sneer;Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike.”

6. He suggests that good practices and noble dispositions are probably the effects of sinister motives and selfish purposes. As, for instance, a liberal man, in his gifts is influenced by an ambitious spirit or a vain-glorious design; a religious man, in his exercises of devotion, is influenced by hypocrisy, and a desire to gain the good opinion of men, and to promote his worldly interests. “He seems to be a good man,” says the detractor, “I must admit; but what are his reasons? Is it not his interest to be so? Does he not seek applause or preferment thereby? Doth Job serve God for nought?” So said the father of detractors more than two thousand years ago.

7. He detracts from good actions by attempting to show their defects, or to point out how they might have been much better. “In some respects they are excellent and praiseworthy; but they might have been better with no more labour and pains. Pity that a thing, when done, is not done to the best of his ability.” Thus Judas blamed the good woman who anointed the Saviour’s feet. “Why,” said he, “was not this ointment sold, and given to the poor?” His covetous heart prompted him to detract from that action which Jesus, in His love, pronounced as a good work, which should be spoken of as such, wherever the gospel was preached.

8. A detractor regards not the general good character of a man’s conversation or discourse which is obvious, but attacks the part which is defective, though less discernible to other eyes than his own; like a man who, looking upon a body admirably beautiful, sees only a wart on the back of one hand to attract his particular attention; or like the man who overlooks the glories of the sun because of its spots.

Such are the chief particulars composing the character of the detractor.

We may now briefly notice some of the causes which influence the detractor in his talk.

1. Ill nature and bad humour.– As good nature and ingenuous disposition incline men to observe and commend what appears best in our neighbour; so malignity of temper and heart prompt to seek and to find the worst. One, like a bee, gathers honey out of any herb; the other, like a spider, sucks poison out of the sweetest flower.