They have a new term nowadays (I am speaking to you, the Reader) for people that do a good deal of talking; they call them "conversationists," or "conversationalists "; talkists, I suppose, would do just as well.It is rather dangerous to get the name of being one of these phenomenal manifestations, as one is expected to say something remarkable every time one opens one's mouth in company.
It seems hard not to be able to ask for a piece of bread or a tumbler of water, without a sensation running round the table, as if one were an electric eel or a torpedo, and couldn't be touched without giving a shock.A fellow is n't all battery, is he? The idea that a Gymnotus can't swallow his worm without a coruscation of animal lightning is hard on that brilliant but sensational being.Good talk is not a matter of will at all; it depends--you know we are all half-materialists nowadays--on a certain amount of active congestion of the brain, and that comes when it is ready, and not before.I saw a man get up the other day in a pleasant company, and talk away for about five minutes, evidently by a pure effort of will.His person was good, his voice was pleasant, but anybody could see that it was all mechanical labor; he was sparring for wind, as the Hon.John Morrissey, M.C., would express himself.Presently,--Do you,--Beloved, I am afraid you are not old enough,--but do you remember the days of the tin tinder-box, the flint, and steel?
Click! click! click!--Al-h-h! knuckles that time! click! click!
CLICK! a spark has taken, and is eating into the black tinder, as a six-year-old eats into a sheet of gingerbread.
Presently, after hammering away for his five minutes with mere words, the spark of a happy expression took somewhere among the mental combustibles, and then for ten minutes we had a pretty, wandering, scintillating play of eloquent thought, that enlivened, if it did not kindle, all around it.If you want the real philosophy of it, I will give it to you.The chance thought or expression struck the nervous centre of consciousness, as the rowel of a spur stings the flank of a racer.Away through all the telegraphic radiations of the nervous cords flashed the intelligence that the brain was kindling, and must be fed with something or other, or it would burn itself to ashes.
And all the great hydraulic engines poured in their scarlet blood, and the fire kindled, and the flame rose; for the blood is a stream that, like burning rock-oil, at once kindles, and is itself the fuel.
You can't order these organic processes, any more than a milliner can make a rose.She can make something that looks like a rose, more or less, but it takes all the forces of the universe to finish and sweeten that blossom in your button-hole; and you may be sure that when the orator's brain is in a flame, when the poet's heart is in a tumult, it is something mightier than he and his will that is dealing with him! As I have looked from one of the northern windows of the street which commands our noble estuary,--the view through which is a picture on an illimitable canvas and a poem in innumerable cantos,--Ihave sometimes seen a pleasure-boat drifting along, her sail flapping, and she seeming as if she had neither will nor aim.At her stern a man was laboring to bring her head round with an oar, to little purpose, as it seemed to those who watched him pulling and tugging.But all at once the wind of heaven, which had wandered all the way from Florida or from Labrador, it may be, struck full upon the sail, and it swelled and rounded itself, like a white bosom that had burst its bodice, and----You are right; it is too true! but how I love these pretty phrases! I am afraid I am becoming an epicure in words, which is a bad thing to be, unless it is dominated by something infinitely better than itself.But there is a fascination in the mere sound of articulated breath; of consonants that resist with the firmness of a maid of honor, or half or wholly yield to the wooing lips; of vowels that flow and murmur, each after its kind; the peremptory b and p, the brittle k, the vibrating r, the insinuating s, the feathery f, the velvety v, the bell-voiced m, the tranquil broad a, the penetrating e, the cooing u, the emotional o, and the beautiful combinations of alternate rock and stream, as it were, that they give to the rippling flow of speech,--there is a fascination in the skilful handling of these, which the great poets and even prose-writers have not disdained to acknowledge and use to recommend their thought.What do you say to this line of Homer as a piece of poetical full-band music? I know you read the Greek characters with perfect ease, but permit me, just for my own satisfaction, to put it into English letters:--Aigle pamphanoosa di' aitheros ouranon ike!
as if he should have spoken in our poorer phrase ofSplendor far shining through ether to heaven ascending.
That Greek line, which I do not remember having heard mention of as remarkable, has nearly every consonantal and vowel sound in the language.Try it by the Greek and by the English alphabet; it is a curiosity.Tell me that old Homer did not roll his sightless eyeballs about with delight, as he thundered out these ringing syllables! It seems hard to think of his going round like a hand-organ man, with such music and such thought as his to earn his bread with.One can't help wishing that Mr.Pugh could have got at him for a single lecture, at least, of the "Star Course," or that he could have appeared in the Music Hall, "for this night only."--I know I have rambled, but I hope you see that this is a delicate way of letting you into the nature of the individual who is, officially, the principal personage at our table.It would hardly do to describe him directly, you know.But you must not think, because the lightning zigzags, it does not know where to strike.
