expression both in words and gestures. Love, anger, and
indignation shone through him and broke forth in imagery, like what

we read of Southern races. For all these emotional extremes, and
in spite of the melancholy ground of his character, he had upon the

whole a happy life; nor was he less fortunate in his death, which
at the last came to him unaware.

CHAPTER X. TALK AND TALKERS
Sir, we had a good talk. - JOHNSON.

As we must account for every idle word, so we must for every idle
silence. - FRANKLIN.

THERE can be no fairer ambition than to excel in talk; to be
affable, gay, ready, clear and welcome; to have a fact, a thought,

or an illustration, pat to every subject; and not only to cheer the
flight of time among our intimates, but bear our part in that great

international congress, always sitting, where public wrongs are
first declared, public errors first corrected, and the course of

public opinion shaped, day by day, a little nearer to the right.
No measure comes before Parliament but it has been long ago

prepared by the grand jury of the talkers; no book is written that
has not been largely composed by their assistance. Literature in

many of its branches is no other than the shadow of good talk; but
the imitation falls far short of the original in life, freedom and

effect. There are always two to a talk, giving and taking,
comparing experience and according conclusions. Talk is fluid,

tentative, continually" target="_blank" title="ad.不断地，频繁地">continually "in further search and progress"; while
written words remain fixed, become idols even to the writer, found

wooden dogmatisms, and preserve flies of obvious error in the amber
of the truth. Last and chief, while literature, gagged with

linsey-woolsey, can only deal with a fraction of the life of man,
talk goes fancy free and may call a spade a spade. Talk has none

of the freezing immunities of the pulpit. It cannot, even if it
would, become merely aesthetic or merely classical like literature.

A jest intervenes, the solemn humbug is dissolved in laughter, and
speech runs forth out of the contemporarygroove into the open

fields of nature, cheery and cheering, like schoolboys out of
school. And it is in talk alone that we can learn our period and

ourselves. In short, the first duty of a man is to speak; that is
his chief business in this world; and talk, which is the harmonious

speech of two or more, is by far the most accessible of pleasures.
It costs nothing in money; it is all profit; it completes our

education, founds and fosters our friendships, and can be enjoyed
at any age and in almost any state of health.

The spice of life is battle; the friendliest relations are still a
kind of contest; and if we would not forego all that is valuable in

our lot, we must continually" target="_blank" title="ad.不断地，频繁地">continually face some other person, eye to eye,
and wrestle a fall whether in love or enmity. It is still by force

of body, or power of character or intellect, that we attain to
worthy pleasures. Men and women contend for each other in the

lists of love, like rival mesmerists; the active and adroit decide
their challenges in the sports of the body; and the sedentary sit

down to chess or conversation. All sluggish and pacific pleasures
are, to the same degree, solitary and selfish; and every durable

band between human beings is founded in or heightened by some
element of competition. Now, the relation that has the least root

in matter is undoubtedly that airy one of friendship; and hence, I
suppose, it is that good talk most commonly arises among friends.

Talk is, indeed, both the scene and instrument of friendship. It
is in talk alone that the friends can measure strength, and enjoy

that amicable counter-assertion of personality which is the gauge
of relations and the sport of life.

A good talk is not to be had for the asking. Humours must first be
accorded in a kind of overture or prologue; hour, company and

circumstance be suited; and then, at a fit juncture, the subject,
the quarry of two heated minds, spring up like a deer out of the

wood. Not that the talker has any of the hunter's pride, though he
has all and more than all his ardour. The genuine artist follows

the stream of conversation as an angler follows the windings of a
brook, not dallying where he fails to "kill." He trusts implicitly

to hazard; and he is rewarded by continualvariety, continual
pleasure, and those changing prospects of the truth that are the

best of education. There is nothing in a subject, so called, that
we should regard it as an idol, or follow it beyond the promptings

of desire. Indeed, there are few subjects; and so far as they are
truly talkable, more than the half of them may be reduced to three:

that I am I, that you are you, and that there are other people
dimly understood to be not quite the same as either. Wherever talk

may range, it still runs half the time on these eternal lines. The
theme being set, each plays on himself as on an instrument; asserts

and justifies himself; ransacks his brain for instances and
opinions, and brings them forth new-minted, to his own surprise and

the admiration of his adversary. All natural talk is a festival of
ostentation; and by the laws of the game each accepts and fans the

vanity of the other. It is from that reason that we venture to lay
ourselves so open, that we dare to be so warmly eloquent, and that

we swell in each other's eyes to such a vast proportion. For
talkers, once launched, begin to overflow the limits of their

ordinary selves, tower up to the height of their secret
pretensions, and give themselves out for the heroes, brave, pious,

musical and wise, that in their most shining moments they aspire to
be. So they weave for themselves with words and for a while

inhabit a palace of delights, temple at once and theatre, where
they fill the round of the world's dignities, and feast with the

gods, exulting in Kudos. And when the talk is over, each goes his
way, still flushed with vanity and admiration, still trailing

clouds of glory; each declines from the height of his ideal orgie,
not in a moment, but by slow declension. I remember, in the

ENTR'ACTE of an afternoon performance, coming forth into the
sunshine, in a beautiful green, gardened corner of a romantic city;

and as I sat and smoked, the music moving in my blood, I seemed to
sit there and evaporate THE FLYING DUTCHMAN (for it was that I had

been hearing) with a wonderful sense of life, warmth, well-being
and pride; and the noises of the city, voices, bells and marching

feet, fell together in my ears like a symphonious orchestra. In
the same way, the excitement of a good talk lives for a long while

after in the blood, the heart still hot within you, the brain still
simmering, and the physical earth swimming around you with the

colours of the sunset.
Natural talk, like ploughing, should turn up a large surface of

life, rather than dig mines into geological strata. Masses of
experience, anecdote, incident, cross-lights, quotation, historical

instances, the whole flotsam and jetsam of two minds forced in and
in upon the matter in hand from every point of the compass, and

from every degree of mentalelevation and abasement - these are the
material with which talk is fortified, the food on which the

talkers thrive. Such argument as is proper to the exercise should
still be brief and seizing. Talk should proceed by instances; by

the apposite, not the expository. It should keep close along the
lines of humanity, near the bosoms and businesses of men, at the

level where history, fiction and experience intersect and
illuminate each other. I am I, and You are You, with all my heart;

but conceive how these lean propositions change and brighten when,
instead of words, the actual you and I sit cheek by jowl, the

spirit housed in the live body, and the very clothes uttering
voices to corroborate the story in the face. Not less surprising

is the change when we leave off to speak of generalities - the bad,
the good, the miser, and all the characters of Theophrastus - and

call up other men, by anecdote or instance, in their very trick and
feature; or trading on a common knowledge, toss each other famous

names, still glowing with the hues of life. Communication is no
longer by words, but by the instancing of whole biographies, epics,

systems of philosophy, and epochs of history, in bulk. That which
is understood excels that which is spoken in quantity and quality

alike; ideas thus figured and personified, change hands, as we may
say, like coin; and the speakers imply without effort the most

obscure and intricate thoughts. Strangers who have a large common
ground of reading will, for this reason, come the sooner to the

grapple of genuineconverse. If they know Othello and Napoleon,
Consuelo and Clarissa Harlowe, Vautrin and Steenie Steenson, they

can leave generalities and begin at once to speak by figures.
Conduct and art are the two subjects that arise most frequently and

that embrace the widest range of facts. A few pleasures bear
discussion for their own sake, but only those which are most social

or most radically human; and even these can only be discussed among
their devotees. A technicality is always welcome to the expert,

whether in athletics, art or law; I have heard the best kind of