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Language: English
CONVERSATION;
ITS FAULTS
AND
ITS GRACES.
COMPILED BY
ANDREW P. PEABODY.
—————
M DCCC LV.
CAMBRIDGE:
THURSTON AND TORRY, PRINTERS.
DEDICATED
TO
AMERICAN TEACHERS.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The Compiler has attempted to bring together in this little volume
the principles which should govern conversation among persons of
true refinement of mind and character, and to point out some of the
most common and easily besetting vulgarisms occurring in the
colloquial English of our country and day. Part I. is an Address
delivered before a Young Ladies' School, in Newburyport. Part II. is a
Lecture addressed to the Literary, Scientific and Mechanics'
Institution at Reading, England. Part III. is a reprint from the fourth
English edition of "A Word to the Wise, or Hints on the Current
Improprieties of Expression in Writing and Speaking," by Parry
Gwynne, a few passages not applicable to the habits of American
society being omitted. Part IV. is composed of selections from two
little English books, entitled, "Never too late to Learn: Mistakes of
daily occurrence in Speaking, Writing and Pronunciation corrected;"
and "Common Blunders in Speaking and Writing."
PART I.
AN ADDRESS
DELIVERED BEFORE THE
NEWBURYPORT FEMALE HIGH SCHOOL,
DECEMBER 19, 1846,
BY ANDREW P. PEABODY.
Young Ladies,
You have made me happy by your kind invitation to meet you,
and to address you on this anniversary. A day spent in this room at
your annual examination, nearly two years ago, was a season of
privilege and enjoyment not readily to be forgotten. I had previously
entertained a high regard for your instructor. I then learned to know
him by his work; and, were he not here, I should be glad to extend
beyond a single sentence my congratulations with you that you are
his pupils.
I have said that I accepted your invitation with gladness. Yet, in
preparing myself to meet you, I find a degree of embarrassment.
This is for you a season of recreation,—a high festival; and I am
accustomed to use my pen and voice only on grave occasions, and
for solemn services. I know not how to add to your amusement.
Should I undertake to make sport for you, my awkwardness would
give you more mirth than my wit. The best that I can do is to select
some subject that is or ought to be interesting to you, and to
endeavor to blend a little instruction with the gayer and more lively
notes of the occasion. The lesson shall be neither tediously long nor
needlessly grave.
I propose to offer you a few hints on conversation. How large a
portion of life does it fill up! How innumerable are its ministries and
its uses! It is the most refined species of recreation,—the most
sparkling source of merriment. It interweaves with a never-resting
shuttle the bonds of domestic sympathy. It fastens the ties of
friendship, and runs along the golden links of the chain of love. It
enriches charity, and makes the gift twice blessed. There is, perhaps,
a peculiar appropriateness in the selection of this topic for an
address to young ladies; for they do more than any other class in
the community towards establishing the general tone and standard
of social intercourse. The voices of many of you already, I doubt not,
strike the key-note of home conversation; and you are fast
approaching an age when you will take prominent places in general
society; will be the objects of peculiar regard; and will, in a great
measure, determine whether the social converse in your respective
circles shall be vulgar or refined, censorious or kindly, frivolous or
dignified. It was said by a wise man of antiquity,—"Only give me the
making of songs for the people, and I care not who makes the
laws." In our unmusical age and land, talking occupies the place
which songs did among the melody-loving Greeks; and he who could
tune the many-voiced harp of the social party, need crave no higher
office or more potent sway.
Permit me now to enumerate some of the characteristics of
graceful, elegant, and profitable conversation, commencing with the
lower graces, and passing on to the higher.
Let me first beg you, if you would be good talkers, to form and fix
now, (for you can do this only now,) habits of correct and easy
pronunciation. The words which you now miscall, it will cost you
great pains in after life to pronounce aright, and you will always be
in danger of returning inadvertently to your old pronunciation. There
are two extremes which you ought equally to shun. One is that of
carelessness; the other, that of extreme precision, as if the sound of
the words uttered were constantly uppermost in the mind. This last
fault always suggests the idea of vanity and pedantry, and is of itself
enough to add a deep indigo hue to a young lady's reputation.
One great fault of New England pronunciation is, that the work is
performed too much by the outer organs of speech. The tones of the
voice have but little depth. Instead of a generous play of the throat
and lungs, the throat almost closes, and the voice seems to be
formed in the mouth. It is this that gives what is called a nasal tone
to the voice, which, when denied free range through its lawful
avenues, rushes in part through the nose. We notice the nasal
pronunciation in excess here and there in an individual, while
Englishmen and Southerners observe it as a prevailing characteristic
of all classes of people in the Northern States. Southerners in
general are much less careful and accurate in pronunciation than we
are; but they more than compensate for this deficiency by the full,
round tones in which they utter themselves. In our superficial use of
the organs of speech, there are some consonants which we are
prone to omit altogether. This is especially the case with g in words
that end with ing. Nine persons out of ten say singin instead of
singing. I know some public speakers, and many private ones, who
never pronounce the t in such words as object and prospect. Very
few persons give the right sound to r final. Far is generally
pronounced as if it were written fah. Now, I would not have the full
Hibernian roll of the r; but I would have the presence of the letter
more distinctly recognized, than it often is, even by persons of
refined and fastidious taste.
Let me next beg you to shun all the ungrammatical vulgarisms
which are often heard, but which never fail to grate harshly on a
well-tuned ear. If you permit yourselves to use them now, you will
never get rid of them. I know a venerable and accomplished lawyer,
who has stood at the head of his profession in this State, and has
moved in the most refined society for half a century, who to this day
says haint for has not, having acquired the habit when a schoolboy. I
have known persons who have for years tried unsuccessfully to
break themselves of saying done for did, and you and I for you and
me. Many well-educated persons, through the power of long habit,
persist in saying shew for showed, while they know perfectly well
that they might, with equal propriety, substitute snew for snowed;
and there is not far hence a clergyman, marvellously precise and
fastidious in his choice of words, who is very apt to commence his
sermon by saying, "I shew you in a recent discourse." A false
delicacy has very generally introduced drank as the perfect participle
of drink, instead of drunk, which alone has any respectable authority
in its favor; and the imperfect tense and perfect participle have been
similarly confounded in many other cases. I know not what grammar
you use in this school. I trust that it is an old one; for some of the
new grammars sanction these vulgarisms, and in looking over their
tables of irregular verbs, I have sometimes half expected to have the
book dashed from my hand by the indignant ghost of Lindley Murray.
Great care and discretion should be employed in the use of the
common abbreviations of the negative forms of the substantive and
auxiliary verbs. Can't, don't, and haven't, are admissible in rapid
conversation on trivial subjects. Isn't and hasn't are more harsh, yet
tolerated by respectable usage. Didn't, couldn't, wouldn't, and
shouldn't, make as unpleasant combinations of consonants as can
well be uttered, and fall short but by one remove of those
unutterable names of Polish gentlemen which sometimes excite our
wonder in the columns of a newspaper. Won't for will not, and aint
for is not or are not, are absolutely vulgar; and aint, for has not or
have not, is utterly intolerable.
Nearly akin to these offences against good grammar is another
untasteful practice, into which you are probably more in danger of
falling, and which is a crying sin among young ladies,—I mean the
use of exaggerated, extravagant forms of speech,—saying splendid
for pretty, magnificent for handsome, horrid for very, horrible for
unpleasant, immense for large, thousands or myriads for any
number greater than two. Were I to write down, for one day, the
conversation of some young ladies of my acquaintance, and then to
interpret it literally, it would imply that, within the compass of twelve
or fourteen hours, they had met with more marvellous adventures
and hair-breadth escapes, had passed through more distressing
experiences, had seen more imposing spectacles, had endured more
fright, and enjoyed more rapture, than would suffice for half a dozen
common lives. This habit is attended with many inconveniences. It
deprives you of the intelligible use of strong expressions when you
need them. If you use them all the time, nobody understands or
believes you when you use them in earnest. You are in the same
predicament with the boy who cried wolf so often, when there was
no wolf, that nobody would go to his relief when the wolf came. This
habit has also a very bad moral bearing. Our words have a reflex
influence upon our characters. Exaggerated speech makes one
careless of the truth. The habit of using words without regard to
their rightful meaning, often leads one to distort facts, to misreport
conversations, and to magnify statements, in matters in which the
literal truth is important to be told. You can never trust the
testimony of one who in common conversation is indifferent to the
import, and regardless of the power, of words. I am acquainted with
persons whose representations of facts always need translation and
correction, and who have utterly lost their reputation for veracity,
solely through this habit of overstrained and extravagant speech.
They do not mean to lie; but they have a dialect of their own, in
which words bear an entirely different sense from that given to them
in the daily intercourse of discreet and sober people.
In this connection, it may not be amiss to notice a certain class of
phrases, often employed to fill out and dilute sentences, such as, I'm
sure,—I declare,—That's a fact,—You know,—I want to know,—Did
you ever?—Well! I never,—and the like. All these forms of speech
disfigure conversation, weaken the force of the assertions or
statements with which they are connected, and give unfavorable
impressions as to the good breeding of the person that uses them.
You will be surprised, young ladies, to hear me add to these
counsels,—"Above all things, swear not at all." Yet there is a great
deal of swearing among those who would shudder at the very
thought of being profane. The Jews, who were afraid to use the
most sacred names in common speech, were accustomed to swear
by the temple, by the altar, and by their own heads; and these oaths
were rebuked and forbidden by divine authority. I know not why the
rebuke and prohibition apply not with full force to the numerous
oaths by goodness, faith, patience, and mercy, which we hear from
lips that mean to be neither coarse nor irreverent, in the
schoolroom, street, and parlor; and a moment's reflection will
convince any well-disposed person, that, in the exclamation Lor, the
cutting off of a single letter from a consecrated word can hardly save
one from the censure and the penalty written in the third
commandment. I do not regard these expressions as harmless. I
believe them inconsistent with Christian laws of speech. Nor do they
accord with the simple, quiet habit of mind and tone of feeling which
are the most favorable to happiness and usefulness, and which sit as
gracefully on gay and buoyant youth as on the sedateness of
maturer years. The frame of mind in which a young lady says, in
reply to a question, Mercy! no, is very different from that which
prompts the simple, modest no. Were there any room for doubt, I
should have some doubt of the truth of the former answer; for the
unnatural, excited, fluttered state of mind implied in the use of the
oath, might indicate either an unfitness to weigh the truth, or an
unwillingness to acknowledge it.
In fine, transparency is an essential attribute of all graceful and
becoming speech. Language ought to represent the speaker's ideas,
and neither more nor less. Exclamations, needless expletives,
unmeaning extravagances, are as untasteful as the streamers of
tattered finery which you sometimes see fluttering about the person
of a dilapidated belle. Let your thoughts be as strong, as witty, as
brilliant, as you can make them; but never seek to atone for feeble
thought by large words, or to rig out foolish conceits in the spangled
robe of genuine wit. Speak as you think and feel; and let the tongue
always be an honest interpreter to the heart.
But it is time that we passed to higher considerations. There are
great laws of duty and religion which should govern our
conversation; and the divine Teacher assures us that even for our
idle words we are accountable to Him who has given us the power
of speech. Now, I by no means believe that there is any principle of
our religion which frowns upon wit or merriment, or forbids playful
speech at fit seasons and within due limits. The very fact that the
Almighty has created the muscles which produce the smile and the
laugh, is a perpetual rebuke to those who would call all laughter
madness, and all mirth folly. Amusement, in its time and place, is a
great good; and I know of no amusement so refined, so worthy an
intellectual being, as that conversation which is witty and still kind,
playful, yet always reverent, which recreates from toil and care, but
leaves no sting, and violates no principle of brotherly love or
religious duty.
Evil speaking, slander, detraction, gossip, scandal, are different
names for one of the chief dangers to be guarded against in
conversation; and you are doing much towards defending yourselves
against it by the generous mental culture which you enjoy in this
seminary. The demon of slander loves an empty house. A taste for
scandal betrays a vacant mind. Furnish your minds, then, by useful
reading and study, and by habits of reflection and mental industry,
that you may be able to talk about subjects as well as about people,
—about events too long past or too remote to be interwoven with
slander. But, if you must talk about people, why not about their good
traits and deeds? The truest ingenuity is that which brings hidden
excellences to light; for virtue is in her very nature modest and
retiring, while faults lie on the surface and are detected with half an
eye.
You will undoubtedly be careful to have your words always just
and kind, if you will only take a sufficiently thorough view of the
influence of your habits of conversation, both in the formation of
your own characters and in determining the happiness of others. But
how low an estimate do many of us make of the power of the
tongue! How little account we are apt to take of our words! Have we
not all at times said to ourselves, "Oh! it is only a word!" when it
may have been sharp as a drawn sword, have given more pain than
a score of blows, and done more harm than our hands could have
wrought in a month? Why is it that the slanderer and the tale-bearer
regard themselves as honest and worthy people, instead of feeling
that they are accursed of God and man? It is because they deal in
evil words only, and they consider words as mere nought. Why is it
that the carping tongue, which filches a little from everybody's good
name, can hardly utter itself without a sneer, and makes every fair
character its prey, thinks better of itself than a petty pilferer would?
It is because by long, though baseless prescription, the tongue has
claimed for itself a license denied to every other member and
faculty.
But, in point of fact, your words not only express, but help create,
your characters. Speech gives definiteness and permanence to your
thoughts and feelings. The unuttered thought may fade from the
memory,—may be chased away by better thoughts,—may, indeed,
hardly be a part of your own mind; for, if suggested from without,
and met without a welcome, and with disapproval and resistance, it
is not yours. But by speech you adopt thoughts, and the voice that
utters them is as a pen that engraves them indelibly on the soul. If
you can suppress unkind thoughts, so that, when they rise in your
breast, and mount to your very lips, you leave them unuttered, you
are not on the whole unkind,—your better nature has the
supremacy. But if these wrong feelings often find utterance, though
you call it hasty utterance, there is reason to fear that they flow
from a bitter fountain within.
Consider, also, how large a portion speech makes up of the lives
of all. It occupies the greater part of the waking hours of many of
us; while express acts of a moral bearing, compared with our words,
are rare and few. Indeed, in many departments of duty, words are
our only possible deeds,—it is by words alone that we can perform
or violate our duty. Many of the most important forms of charity are
those of speech. Alms-giving is almost the only expression of charity
of which the voice is not the chief minister; and alms, conferred in
silent coldness, or with chiding or disdainful speech, freeze the spirit,
though they may warm the body. Speech, too, is the sole medium of
a countless host of domestic duties and observances. There are,
indeed, in every community many whose only activity seems to be in
words. There are many young ladies, released from the restraints of
school, and many older ladies, with few or no domestic burdens,
with no worldly avocation and no taste for reading, whose whole
waking life, either at their own homes or from house to house, is
given to the exercise, for good or evil, of the tongue,—that unruly
member. And how blessed might they make that exercise,—for how
many holy ministries of love, sympathy, and charity might it suffice,
—how many wounds might it prevent or heal,—did they only believe
and feel that they were writing out their own characters in their daily
speech! But too many of them forget this. So long as they do not
knowingly and absolutely lie, they feel no responsibility for their
words. They deem themselves virtuous, because they refrain from
vices to which they have not the shadow of a temptation; but carp,
backbite, and carry ill reports from house to house, with an apostle's
zeal and a martyr's devotedness. To say nothing of the social effect
of such a life, is not the tongue thus employed working out spiritual
death for the soul in whose service it is busy? I know of no images
too vile to portray such a character. The dissection of a slanderer's or
talebearer's heart would present the most loathsome specimen of
morbid anatomy conceivable. It is full of the most malignant poison.
Its life is all mean, low, serpent-like,—a life that cannot bear the
light, but finds all its nourishment and growth in darkness. Were
these foul and odious forms of speech incapable of harming others,
—did human reptiles of this class creep about in some outward
guise, in which they could be recognized by all, and their words be
taken for what they are worth, and no more,—still I would beg
them, for their own sakes, not to degrade God's image, in which
they were created, into the likeness of a creeping thing; I would
entreat them not to be guilty of the meanest and most miserable of
all forms of spiritual suicide; I would beseech them, if they are
determined to sell their souls, to get some better price for them than
the scorn and dread of all whose esteem is worth having.
In this connection, we ought to take into account the very large
class of literally idle words. How many talk on unthinkingly and
heedlessly, as if the swift exercise of the organs of speech were the
great end of life! The most trivial news of the day, the concerns of
the neighborhood, the floating gossip, whether good-natured or
malignant, dress, food, frivolous surmises, paltry plans, vanities too
light to remain an hour upon the memory,—these are the sole staple
of what too many call conversation; and many are the young people
who are training themselves in the use of speech for no higher or
better purpose. But such persons have the threatened judgment
visibly following their idle speech. Their minds grow superficial and
shallow. They constantly lose ground, if they ever had any, as
intellectual and moral beings. Such speech makes a person, of
however genteel training, coarse and vulgar, and that not only in
character, but even in voice and manners, and with sad frequency it
obliterates traits of rich loveliness and promise. The merely idle
tongue is also very readily betrayed into overt guilt. One cannot
indulge in idle, reckless talk, without being implicated in all the
current slander and calumny, and acquiring gradually the envious
and malignant traits of a hackneyed tale-bearer. And the person
who, in youth, can attract the attention and win the favor of those of
little reflection by flippant and voluble discourse, will encounter in
the very same circles neglect, disesteem, and dislike, before the
meridian of life is passed; for it takes all the charms that youth,
sprightliness, and high animal spirits can furnish, to make an idle
tongue fascinating or even endurable.
Let me ask you now to consider for a moment the influence which
we exert in conversation upon the happiness or misery of others. It
is not too much to say, that most of us do more good or harm in this
way than in all other forms beside. Look around you,—take a survey
of whatever there is of social or domestic unhappiness in the families
to which you belong, or among your kindred and acquaintance. Nine
tenths of it can be traced to no other cause than untrue, unkind, or
ungoverned speech. A mere harsh word, repented of the next
moment,—how great a fire can it kindle! The carrying back and forth
of an idle tale, not worth an hour's thought, will often break up the
closest intimacies. From every slanderous tongue you may trace
numerous rills of bitterness, winding round from house to house,
and separating those who ought to be united in the closest
friendship. Could persons, who, with kind hearts, are yet hasty in
speech, number up, at the close of a day, the feelings that they had
wounded, and the uncomfortable sensations that they had caused,
they would need no other motive to study suavity of manner, and to
seek for their words the rich unction of a truly charitable spirit. Then,
too, how many are the traits of suspicion, jealousy, and heart-
burning, which go forth from every day's merely idle words, vain and
vague surmises, uncharitable inferences and conjectures!
These thoughts point to the necessity of religion as the guiding,
controlling element in conversation. All conversation ought to be
religious. Not that I would have persons always talking on what are
commonly called religious subjects. Let these be talked of at fitting
times and places, but never obtrusively brought forward or thrust in.
But cannot common subjects be talked of religiously? Cannot we
converse about our plans, our amusements, our reading, nay, and
our neighbors too, and no sacred name be introduced, and yet the
conversation be strictly religious? Yes,—if throughout the
conversation we own the laws of honesty, frankness, kind
construction, and sincere benevolence,—if our speech be pure, true,
gentle, dignified,—if it seek or impart information that either party
needs,—if it cherish friendly feeling,—if it give us kinder affections
towards others,—if it bring our minds into vigorous exercise,—nay, if
it barely amuse us, but not too long, and if the wit be free from
coarseness and at no one's expense. But we should ever bear it in
mind, that our words are all uttered in the hearing of an unseen
Listener and Judge. Could we keep this in remembrance, there
would be little in our speech that need give us shame or pain. But
that half hour spent in holding up to ridicule one who has done you
no harm,—that breathless haste to tell the last piece of slander,—you
would not want to remember in your evening prayer. From the
flippant, irresponsible, wasteful gossip, in which so much time is
daily lost, you could not with a safe conscience look up and own an
Almighty presence.