Talkers Part 12

Another boy says, "I am so thirsty, I could drink the _sea dry_."

Another, "I learned my lessons to-day in _no time_." Another, standing in the cold, says, "I am _frozen to death_." Another, in the heat, says, "I am _as hot as fire_." "My father's horse is _the best in the kingdom_," says John. "My father's is _the best in the world_," says Alexander in reply. "Oh, how it did hail in our parts yesterday," said a boy to his schoolmate; "the hail-stones were as _big as hens' eggs_."

"That's nothing," said his rival in return; "in our parts it rained _hens and chickens_." "Well," said the other, despairing of going beyond that, "that was wonderful; I never heard of it raining like that before."

The above kind of talk may by some be regarded as only "inoffensive ebullitions" of childhood and youth. It is not said that moral guilt may be its immediate consequence; but is it a kind of talk altogether innocent? Does it sound truthful? Is it a habit to be encouraged or connived at? Should not all who have the education and training of young persons correct the evil when it appears, and in the place of it cultivate that speech which is made up of words of "truth and soberness"?

The Hyperbolist not only shows himself in talk which _magnifies_ beyond the natural, the simple, and the true; but which also _diminishes_. "He said nothing of any account--nothing worth your hearing," observed one friend to another, respecting a certain lecturer; when perhaps he uttered thoughts of weight and force worthy the attention of highest wisdom. He expressed this hyperbolism to allay some disappointment which his friend felt in not hearing him. "The affair is really of such little consequence that it is not worth your while to think about it;" at the same time it involved questions of vital importance to him. This he said to divert his mind from brooding over it to his injury. "I never saw such a small watch in all my life; it was hardly bigger than a sixpence;" and yet it was of the ordinary size of a lady's watch. "It is no distance to go, and the hill is nothing to climb; you will get there in the time you are standing hesitating;" and this a father said to induce his son to go into the country on an errand for which he showed strong disinclination. "The duties are of such a trifling nature, you may perform them with perfect ease;" so said a minister to persuade a member of his church to undertake a responsible office against which he had conscientious objections.

Thus the Hyperbolist stands on either side of truth, and takes from or adds to, according to the temper of his mind and the object he wishes to accomplish. On whichever side he stand his talk is alike blamable.

Let me, in conclusion, caution my readers, and especially my young readers, against the formation and practice of this intemperate habit in talking. It is of no service to truth. It does no good to you or others, but harm. It will grow upon you, and may end in the habit of absolute _false speaking_. You do not mean now to be recognized as telling lies: you would perhaps shudder at the thought; but what you now shudder at, you may fall into, by the inadvertent formation of habitual exaggerated talk. Therefore guard against these excessive and thoughtless hyperbolisms of speech. Speak of things, persons, and places as you _see_ them, not as you fancy; speak to convey correct views, not to excite wonder or to rival others in "large talk," and in "strange things." _Simple truth_ is always more welcome in society than swollen fiction. The frog in the fable killed itself by trying to be as big as the ox; so you are in danger of killing truth when you inflate it beyond its own natural proportions. Truth needs no extraneous aids to commend it; or, as Cowper says,--

"No meretricious graces to beguile, No cl.u.s.tering ornaments to clog the pile, From ostentation as from weakness free, Majestic in its own simplicity."

"The apocrypha," says the Rev. J. B. Owen, "into which you may elaborate your observations will ultimately be sifted from the canonical, and you will appear before society as _interpolaters_, inserting your own spurious statements among the genuine records of facts already received as simple, authentic truths. Have the modesty to suppose that others know a thing or two as well as yourselves. The sc.r.a.ps of facts which may lie scattered among the profusion of your hyperbolisms may be old acquaintances of your hearers. Let them speak for themselves in their own artless, ingenuous way, and take their own chance of success to whatever branch of the lovely family of truth they may belong.

"Hyperbole is a fault of no trivial importance in conversation. Carried, as it generally is, to such an extent, it is nothing more nor less than equivalent to lying. It frequently places the Hyperbolist in a position of distrustful scrutiny and strong doubt, on the part of those with whom he converses. His authentication of a rumour reacts as its contradiction. He himself robs it of a large amount of evidence, by welcoming the proof of anybody else as better than his own. He antic.i.p.ates the discount which will be made off his commodity, and so adds exorbitancy to his statements, which will leave a balance in hand after all. But people will not be deceived again and again. His credit becomes damaged. His moral bill returns dishonoured. His extravagance of diction, like extravagance in expenditure, involves him in difficulties, and thus the immediate fate of mendacity symbolizes that awful retribution which will finally exclude all liars from the society of the good and true."

"Old Humphrey," in speaking of a painter who over-coloured his pictures, was wont to express the defect by saying, "Too much red in the brush."

It would be well for the Hyperbolist to have some friend at his elbow, when he over-colours things, to say, "Too much red in the brush."

XV.

_THE INQUISITIVE._

"The Inquisitive will blab: from such refrain; Their leaky ears no secret can retain."--HORACE.

The Inquisitive is a talker whose capacity is for taking rather than giving. To ask questions is his province, and not to give answers. He is more anxious to know than he is to make known. Though in some instances he may have the ability to speak good sense, yet he cannot or will not exercise himself in so doing. He must pry into other people's stock of knowledge, and find out all that he can for his satisfaction. If he come to anything which is labelled "Private," he is sure to be the more curious to ascertain what is within. He is restless and dissatisfied until he knows. He pauses--he resumes his interrogations--he circ.u.mlocutes--he apologizes, it may be, but make the discovery he will if possible. His inquisitiveness is mostly in regard to matters of comparatively minor importance in themselves, but which, at the same time, you do not care for _him_ to know. Your pedigree--your relations--your antecedents--your reasons for leaving your former occupation--your prospects in life--your income--your wife's maiden name and origin--with a hundred similar things.

His inquisitiveness often turns into impertinence and impudence, which one does well to resent with indignancy; or, if not, to answer him according to his folly.

The two or three following instances will ill.u.s.trate this talker:--

A gentleman with a wooden leg, travelling in a stage-coach, was annoyed by questions relative to himself and his business proposed by his fellow-pa.s.sengers. One of them inquired how he came to lose his leg. "I will tell you," he replied, "on condition that you all ask me no other question." To this there was no objection, and the promise was given.

"As to the loss of my leg," said he, "_it was bit off_!" There was a pause. No more questions were to be asked; but one of the party, unable to contain himself, exclaimed, "But I should like to know _how_ it was bit off." This is an old story, but here is one of a similar kind, of a more recent date. It occurred in San Francisco, where a genuine Yankee, having bored a new comer with every conceivable question relative to his object in visiting the gold country, his hopes, his means, and his prospects, at length asked him if he had a family.

"Yes, sir; I have a wife and six children in New York; and I never saw one of them."

After this reply the couple sat a few moments in silence; then the interrogator again commenced,--

"Was you ever blind, sir?"

"No, sir."

"Did you marry a widow, sir?"

"No, sir."

Another lapse of silence.

"Did I understand you to say, sir, that you had a wife and six children living in New York, and had never seen one of them?"

"Yes, sir; I so stated it."

Another and a longer pause of silence. Then the interrogator again inquired,--

"How can it be, sir, that you never saw one of them?"

"Why," was the response, "_one of them_ was born after I left."

A gentleman in America, riding in an eastern railroad car, which was rather spa.r.s.ely supplied with pa.s.sengers, observed, in a seat before him, a lean, slab-sided Yankee; every feature of his face seemed to ask a question, and a little circ.u.mstance soon proved that he possessed a more "inquiring mind." Before him, occupying an entire seat, sat a lady dressed in deep black, and after s.h.i.+fting his position several times, and manoeuvring to get an opportunity to look into her face, he at length caught her eye.

"In affliction?"

"Yes, sir," responded the lady.

"Parent?--father or mother?"

"No, sir."

"Child, perhaps?--a boy or a girl?"

"No, sir, not a child; I have no children."

"Husband, then, I expect?"

"Yes," was the curt answer.

"Hum! cholery? A tradin' man may be?"

"My husband was a seafaring man, the captain of a vessel; he didn't die of cholera; he was drowned."

"O, drowned, eh?" pursued the inquisitor, hesitating for a brief instant. "Save his _chist_?"

"Yes; the vessel was saved, and my husband's effects," said the widow.

"_Was_ they?" asked the Yankee, his eyes brightening up. "_Pious_ man?"

"He was a member of the Methodist Church."

The next question was a little delayed, but it came.

"Don't you think that you have great cause to be thankful that he was a pious man, and saved his _chist_?"

"I do," said the widow abruptly, and turned her head to look out of the window.