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§ 115. Controversy seldom decently conducted.

'Tis no uncommon circumstance in con troversy, for the parties to engage in all the fury of disputation, without precisely instructing their readers, or truly knowing themselves, the particulars about which they differ. Ilence that fruitless parade of argument, and those opposite pretences to demonstration, with which most debates, on every subject have been infested. Would the contending parties first be sure of their own meaning, and then communicate their sense to others in plain terms and simplicity of heart, the face of controversy would soon be changed, and real knowledge, instead of imaginary conquest, would be the noble reward of literary toil. Browne's Essays.

116. How to please in conversation. None of the desires dictated by vanity is more general, or less blameable, than that of being distinguished for the arts of con versation. Other accomplishments may be possessed without opportunity of exerting them, or wanted without danger that the defect can often be remarked; but as no man can live otherwise than in an hermitage without hourly pleasure or vexation, from the fondness or neglect of those about him, the faculty of giving pleasure is of continual use. Few are more frequently envied than those who have the power of forcing attention wherever they come, whose entrance is considered as a promise of felicity, and whose departure is lamented, like the recess of the sun from northern climates, as a privation of all that enlivens fancy and inspires gaiety.

It is apparent that to excellence in this valuable art, some peculiar qualifications are necessary; for every man's experience will inform him, that the pleasure which men are able to give in conversation holds no stated proportion to their knowledge or their virtue. Many find their way to the tables and the parties of those, who never consider them as of the least importance in any other place; we have all, at one time or other, been content to love those whom we could not esteem, and been persuaded to try the dangerous experiment of admitting him for a companion, whom we know to be too ignorant for a counsellor, and too treacherous for a friend.

He that would please must rarely aim at such excellence as depresses his hearers

in their own opinion, or debars them from the hope of contributing reciprocally to the entertainment of the company. Merriment extorted by sallies of imagination, sprightliness of remark, or quickness of reply, is too often what the Latins call, the Sardinian laughter, a distortion of face without gladness of the heart.

For this reason no style of conversation is more extensively acceptable than the narrative. He who has stored his memory with slight anecdotes, private incidents, and personal peculiarities, seldom fails to Almost find his audience favourable. every man listens with eagerness to extemporary history; for almost every man has some real or imaginary connection with a celebrated character, some desire to advance or oppose a rising name. Vanity often co-operates with curiosity. Ile that is a hearer in one place, qualifies himself to become a speaker in another; for though he cannot comprehend a series of argument, or transport the volatile spirit of wit without evaporation, yet he thinks himself able to treasure up the various incidents of a story, and pleases his hopes with the information which he shall give to some inferior society.

Narratives are for the most part heard without envy, because they are not supposed to employ any intellectual qualities above the common rate. To be acquainted with facts not yet echoed by plebeian mouths, may happen to one man as well as to another, and to relate them when they are known, has in appearance so very little difficulty, that every one concludes Rambler, himself equal to the task.

§ 117. The various Faults in Conversation and Behaviour pointed out.

I shall not attempt to lay down any particular rules for conversation, but rather point out such faults in discourse and behaviour, as render the company of half mankind rather tedious than amusing. It is in vain, indeed, to look for conversation where we might expect to find it in the greatest perfection among persons of fashion there it is almost annihilated by universal card-playing; insomuch that I have heard it given as a reason, why it is impossible for our present writers to succecd in the dialogue of genteel comedy, that our people of quality scarce ever meet but to game. All their discourse turns upon the odd trick and the four honour and it is no less a maxim with the

of whist than with those of Bacchus, that talking spoils company,

Every one endeavours to make himself as agreeable to society as he can; but it often happens, that those who most aim at shining in conversation, overshoot their mark. Though a man succeeds, he should not (as is frequently the case) engross the whole talk to himself; for that destroys the very essence of conversation, which is talking together. We should try to keep up conversation like a ball bandied to and fro from one to the other, rather than seize it all to ourselves, and drive it before us like a foot-ball. We should likewise be cautious to adapt the matter of our discourse to our company; and not talk Greck before ladies, or of the last new furbelow to a meeting of country justices.

But nothing throws a more ridiculous air over the whole conversation, than certain peculiarities, easily acquired, but very difficultly conquered and discarded. In order to display these absurdities in a truer light, it is my present purpose to enumerate such of them, as are most commonly to be met with; and first to take notice of those buffoons in society, the Attitudinarians and Face-makers. These accompany every word with a peculiar grimace or gesture; they assent with a shrug, and contradict with a twisting of the neck are angry with a wry mouth, and pleased in a caper of a minuet-step. They may be considered as speaking harlequins; and then rules of eloquence are taken from the posture master. These should be condemned to converse only in dumb-show with their own persons in a looking-glass; as well as the Smirkers and Smilers, who so prettily set off their faces, together with their words, by a je-ne-sçai-quoi between a grin and a dimple. With these we may likewise rank the affected tribe of Mimics, who are constantly taking off the peculiar tone of voice or gesture of their acquaintance though they are such wretched imitators, that (like bad painters) they are frequently forced to write the name under the picture, before we can discover any likeness.

Next to these, whose elocution is absorbed in action, and who converse chiefly with their arms and legs, we may consider the professed Speakers. And first, the emphatical; who squeeze, and press, and ram down every syllable with excessive vehemence and energy. These orators are remarkable for their distinct elocution and

force of expression: they dwell on the im portant particles of and the, and the signi ficant conjunctive and; which they seem to hawk up, with much difficulty, out of their own throats, and to cram them, with no less pain, into the ears of their auditors. These should be suffered only to syringe (as it were) the ears of a deaf man, through an hearing trumpet: though I must confess, that I am equally offended with the Whisperers or Low Speakers, who seem to fancy all their acquaintance deaf, and come up so close to you, that they may be said to measure noses with you, and frequently overcome you with the full exhalations of a stinking breath. I would have these oracular gentry obliged to talk at a distance through a speaking-trumpet, or apply their lips to the walls of a whispering gallery. The Wits, who will not condescend to utter any thing but a bon mot; and the Whistlers or Tune-hummers, who never articulate at all, may be joined very agreeably together in concert; and to those tinkling cymbals I would also add the sounding brass, the Bawler, who enquires after your health with the bel lowing of a town-crier.

The Tatlers, whose pliable pipes are admirably adapted to the "soft parts of conversation," and sweetly "prattling out of fashion," make very pretty music from a beautiful face and a female tongue; but from a rough manly voice and coarse fea tures, mere nonsense is as harsh and disso nant as a jig from a hurdy-gurdy. The Swearers I have spoken of in a former pa per; but the Half-swearers, who split, and mince, and fritter their oaths into gad's bud, ad's fish, and demme; the Gothic humbuggers, and those who "nick-name God's creatures," and call a man a cabbage, a crab, a queer cub, an odd fish, and an unaccountable muskin, should ne ver come into company without an interpreter. But I will not tire my reader's pa tience by pointing out all the pests of conversation: nor dwell particularly on the sensibles who pronounce dogmatically on the most trivial points, and speak in sentences; the Wonderers, who are always wondering what o'clock it is, or wonder. ing whether it will rain or no, or wondering when the moon changes; the Phrase ologists, who explain a thing by all that, or enter into particulars with this and that and t'other; and lastly, the Silent men, who seem afraid of opening their mouths, lest they should catch cold, and literally

observe

observe the precept of the gospel, by letting their conversation be only yea yea, and nay nay.

The rational intercourse kept up by conversation, is one of our principal distinctions from brutes. We should therefore endeavour to turn this peculiar talent to our advantage, and consider the organs of speech as the instruments of understanding: we should be very careful not to use them as the weapons of vice, or tools of folly; and do our utmost to unlearn any trivial or ridiculous habits, which tend to lessen the value of such an inestimable prerogative. It is, indeed, imagined by some philosophers, that even birds and beasts (though without the power of articulation) perfectly understand one another by the sounds they utter; and that dogs, cats, &c. have each a particular language to themselves, like different nations. Thus it may be supposed, that the nightingales of Italy have as fine an ear to their own native woodnotes, as any signor or signora for an Italian air; that the boars of Westphalia gruntle as expressively through the nose as the inhabitants in High-German; and that the frogs in the dykes of Holland croak as intelligibly as the natives jabber their Low-Dutch. However this may be, we may consider those whose tongues hardly seem to be under the influence of reason, and do not keep up the proper conversation of human creatures, as imitating the language of different animals. Thus, for instance, the affinity between chatterers and monkeys, and praters and parrots, is too obvious not to occur at once: Grunters and Growlers may justly be compared to hogs: Snarlers are curs, that continually shew their teeth, but never bite; and the spitfire passionate are a sort of wild cats, that will not bear stroaking, but will pur when they are pleased. Complainers are screech-owls; and story-tellers, always repeating the same dull note, are cuckoos. Poets that prick up their ears at their own hideous braying, are no better than asses: Critics in general are venomous serpents, that delight in hissing; and some of them who have got by heart a few technical terms without knowing their meaning, are no other than magpies. Connoisseur.

118. A Citizen's Country House described.

Sir,

I remember to have seen a little French novel, giving an account of a citizen of Paris making anexcursion into the coun

try. He imagines himself about to undertake a long voyage to some strange region, where the natives were as different from the inhabitants of his own city as the most distant nations. He accordingly takes boat, and is landed at a village about a league from the capital. When he is set on shore, he is amazed to see the people speak the same language, wear the same dress, and use the same customs with himself. He, who had spent all his life within the sight of Pont Neuf, looked upon every one that lived out of Paris as a foreigner; and though the utmost extent of his travels was not three miles, he was as much sur. prized, as he would have been to meet with a colony of Frenchmen on the Terra Incognita.

In your late paper on the amusements of Sunday, you have set forth in what manner our citizens pass that day, which most of them devote to the country; but I wish you had been more particular in your descriptions of those elegant rural mansions, which at once shew the opulence and the taste of our principal merchants, mechanics, and artificers.

I went last Sunday, in compliance with a most pressing invitation from a friend, to spend the whole day with him at one of these little seats, which he had fitted out for his retirement once a week from business. It is pleasantly situated about three miles from London, on the side of a public road, from which it is separated by a dry ditch, over which is a little bridge, consisting of two narrow planks, leading to the house. From the lower part of the house there is no prospect; but from the garrets, indeed, one may see two men hanging in chains on Kennington common, with a distant view of St. Paul's cupola enveloped in a cloud of smoke. I set out in the morning with my friend's bookkeeper, who was my guide. When I came to the house, I found my friend in a black velvet cap sitting at the door smoaking; he welcomed me into the country, and after having made me observe the turnpike on my left, and the Golden Sheaf on my right, he conducted me into his house, where I was received by his lady, who made a thousand apologies for being catched in such a dishabille.

The hall (for so I was taught to call it) had its white walls almost hid by a curious collection of prints and paintings. On one side was a large map of London, a plan and elevation of the Mansion House, with several lesser views of the public buildings

and

cane.

and halls on the other was the Death of the Stag, finely coloured by Mr. Overton: close by the parlour-door there hung a pair of stag's horns; over which there was laid across a red roquelo, and an amberheaded Over the chimney piece was my friend's picture, who was drawn bolt up right in a full-bottomed perriwig, a laced cravat with the fringed ends appearing through a button-hole, a snuff-coloured velvet coat with gold buttons, a red velvet waistcoat trimmed with gold, one hand stuck in the bosom of his shirt, and the other holding out a letter with this superscription: "To Mr.

common

council-man of Farringdon-ward without." My eyes were then directed to another figure in a scarlet gown, who I was informed was my friend's wife's great great uncle, and had been sheriff and knighted in the reign of king James the First. Madam herself filled up a pannel on the opposite side, in the habit of a shepherdess, smelling to a nosegay, and stroking a ram with gilt horns.

I was then invited by my friend to see what he was pleased to call his garden, which was nothing more than a yard about thirty feet in length, and contained about a dozen little pots ranged on each side with lilies and coxcombs, supported by some old laths painted green, with bowls of tobacco-pipes on their tops. At the end of this garden he bade me take notice of a little square building surrounded with filleroy, which he told me an alderman of great taste had turned into a temple, by erecting some battlements and spires of painted wood on the front of it: but concluded with a hint, that I might retire to it upon occasion.

As the riches of the country are visible in the number of its inhabitants, and the elegance of their dwellings, we may venture to say that the present state of England is very flourishing and prosperous: and if our taste for building increases with our opulence for the next century, we shall be able to boast of finer country-seats belonging to our shop-keepers, artificers, and other plebeians, than the most pompous descriptions of Italy or Greece have ever recorded. We read, it is true, of Country-seats belonging to Pliny, Hortensius, Lucullus, and other Romans. They were patricians of great rank and fortune: there can therefore be no doubt of the excellence of their villas. But who has ever read of a Chinese bridge belonging to an

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DENNIS, DOCTOR, NURSE, LINTOT the Bookseller, and another Author.

DENNIS. [Looking wise, and bringing out his words slowly and formally.]

Beware, Doctor, that it fare not with you, as it did with your predecessor, the famous Hippocrates, whom the mistaken citizens of Abdera sent for, in this very manner, to cure the philosopher Democri tus. He returned full of admiration at the wisdom of the person whom he had supposed a lunatic. Behold, Doctor, it was thus that Aristotle himself, and all the great ancients, spent their days and nights wrapt up in criticism, and beset all round with their own writings. As for me, be assured, I have no disease besides a swelling in my legs, of which I say nothing, your art may farther certify you. Doctor. Pray, Sir, how did you con tract this swelling?

since

Dennis. By criticism.

Doctor. By criticism! that's a distemper.I have never heard nor read of.

Dennis. Death, Sir, a distemper! it is fourteen hours a day at it and are you a no distemper; but a noble art. Ì have sat

communication between the brain and the legs?

doctor and don't know that there's a

Doctor. What made you sit so many

hours, Sir?

Dennis. Cato, Sir.

Doctor. Sir, I speak of your distemper. What

gave you this tumor? Dennis. Cato, Cato, Cato*.

Nurse. For God's sake, Doctor, name not this evil spirit; it is the whole cause of

*He published Remarks on Cato, in the year 1712.

his madness. Alas! poor master will have his fits again. [almost crying.

Lintot. Fits! with a pox! a man may well have fits and swelled legs, that sits writing fourteen hours in a day. The Remarks, the Remarks, have brought all his complaints upon him.

Doctor. The Remarks! what are they? Dennis. Death! have you never read my Remarks? I'll be hang'd if this niggardly bookseller has advertised the book as it should have been.

Lintot. Not advertise it, quoth'a ! pox! I have laid out pounds after pounds in advertising. There has been as much done for the book as could be done for any book in Christendom..

Doctor. We had better not talk of books, Sir, I am afraid they are the fuel that feed his delirium. Mention books no more.I desire a word in private with this gentleman.-I suppose, Sir, you are his apothecary.

Gent. Sir, I am his friend.

Doctor. I doubt it not. What regimen have you observed since he has been under your care? You remember I suppose, the passage in Celsus, which says, "If the pa"tient on the third day have an interval, "suspend the medicines at night." Let fumigations be used to corrobrate the brain. I hope you have upon no account promoted sternutation by hellebore.

Gent. Sir, you mistake the matter quite.

Doctor. What! an apothecary tell a physician he mistakes! you pretend to dispute my prescription! Pharmacopola componant. Medicus solus præscribat. Fumigate him, I say, this very evening, while he is relieved by an interval.

Dennis. Death, Sir, do you take my friend for an apothecary! a man of genius and learning for an apothecary! Know, Sir, that this gentleman professes, like myself, the two noblest sciences in the universe, criticism and poetry. By the immortals, he himself is author of three whole paragraphs in my Remarks, had a hand in my public Spirit, and assisted me in my description of the furies and infernal regions in my Appius.

Lintot. He is an author. You mistake the gentleman, Doctor. He has been an author these twenty years, to his bookseller's knowledge, if to no one's else.

Dennis. Is all the town in a combination? shall poetry fall to the ground? must our reputation in foreign countries be quite

lost? O destruction! perdition! cursed opera! confounded opera!* as poetry once raised critics, so, when poetry fails, critics are overturned, and the world is no more.

Doctor. He raves, he raves. He must be pinioned, he must be straight-waistcoated, that he may do no mischief.

Dennis. O I am sick! I am sick to death!

Doctor. That is a good symptom, a very good symptom. To be sick to deatli (says the modern theory) is Symptoma præclarum. When a patient is sensible of his pain he is half-cured. Pray, Sir, of what are you sick?

Dennis. Of every thing. Of every thing. I am sick of the sentiments, of the diction, of the protasis, of the epitasis, and the catastrophe. - Alas! for the lost drama! the drama is no more!

Nurse. If you want a dram, Sir, I will bring you a couple of penn'orths of gin in a minute. Mr. Lintot has drank the last of the noggin.

Dennis. O scandalous want! O shameful omission! By all the immortals, here is not the shadow of a pæripatia! no change of fortune in the tragedy!

Nurse. Pray, Sir, 'don't be uneasy about change. Give me the sixpence, and I'll get you change immediately at the gin shop next door.

Doctor. Hold your peace, good woman. His fit increases. We must call for help. Mr. Lintot, a- -hold him, pray. [Doctor gets behind Lintot.]

Lintot. Plague on the man! I am afraid he is really mad. And if he be, who the devil will buy the remarks? I wish [scratching his head] he had been besh-t, rather than I had meddled with his Remarks.

Doctor. He must use the cold bath, and be cupped on the head. The symptoms seem desperate. Avicen says, "It learn"ing be mixed with a brain that is not of

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a contexture fit to receive it, the brain "ferments till it be totally exhausted." We must endeavour to eradicate these indigested ideas out of the pericranium, and to restore the patient to a competent knowledge of himself.

Dennis. Caitiffs, stand off! unhand me, miscreants! [The Doctor, the Nurse, and Lintot, run out of the room in a hurry, and tumble down the garret stairs all together.] Is the man, whose labours are calculated

He wrote a treatise to prove, that the decay of public spirit proceeds from the Italian opera.

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