THE COMPLIMENT OF ATTENTION.

"Were we as eloquent as angels we should please some people more by listening than by talking."

"A good listener is as needful to a witty talker as steel to flint. It is the sharp contact of the two which makes the sparks fly."

There are certain amenities attending social intercourse with which we are all familiar, yet we are constantly forgetting to put them into practice. In no respect is this forgetfulness more noticeable than in conversation, and especially in connection with what may be called "the compliment of attention."

If you despair of becoming a good talker you can, at least, make yourself a good listener, and that is something not to be despised. There are apt to be more good talkers than good listeners, and, although to say so may sound paradoxical, the better you listen, the greater will be your reputation as a conversationalist.

In the opinion of the cynical Rochefoucauld, the reason why so few persons make themselves agreeable in conversation, is because they are more concerned about what they are themselves going to say, than what others are saying to them.

If you have read "Nicholas Nickleby," you remember Mrs. Nickleby tells how remarkable Smike was as a converser. She entertained poor Smike for several hours with a genealogical account of her family, including biographical sketches, while he sat looking at her and wondering what it was all about, and whether she learned it from a book or said it from her own head.

Said a writer in the Chicago Herald: "What is there, indeed, more colloquial than an intelligent countenance, eagerly intent upon one while telling a story? What language can be compared to the speaking blush or flashing eye of an earnest listener? It was Desdemona, with greedy ear devouring his discourse, who won Othello's heart. He told his wondrous story, and she listened—that only was the witchcraft he had used."

It is said of Sir Walter Scott that, although one of the best talkers in the world, he was also the best listener. With the same bland look he would watch, throughout an entire evening, the lips of his garrulous tormentor ignorantly discoursing on Greek epigrams, or crassly dilating on the intricacies of a parliamentary debate.

It was said of Madame Récamier that she listened most winningly, and this was one secret of her wonderful power to charm.

We have all heard the story of Madame de Staël, who, by a clever stratagem, was introduced to a deaf mute at a party. She talked to him the whole evening, and afterward declared that never before had she met so intelligent a listener and so fine a conversationalist.

Do you remember the story told by Sterne in "The Sentimental Journey"?

He had been represented to a French lady as a great wit and an engaging converser, and the lady was impatient for an introduction that she might hear him talk.

They met, and, writes Sterne: "I had not taken my seat before I saw she did not care a sou whether I had any wit or no. I was to be convinced that she had. I call heaven to witness I never once opened the door of my lips."

The lady afterward said she never in her life had a more improving conversation with a man.

Many other instances might be mentioned derived from both fact and fiction, to show how attentive listening may enhance the delights of conversation, and that one may sometimes gain a reputation for conversational powers by exercising one's ear instead of one's tongue.

"A frequent caller at my home," said a lady, "is a capital story-teller, always instructive and pleasing; but she is a poor listener. When my part of the conversation comes in, her manner is depressing. I feel embarrassed, my words become tangled, my memory leaves me, and I hurry to close my remarks, conscious of having made a weak argument, although I had a point when I began. My friend loses her easy manner when I speak, becomes restless, and breaks in upon me before I have fairly begun. Her unresponsive eyes tell me as plainly of her superiority as though she had written it in black and white."

Clergymen, teachers, and public speakers understand and appreciate better than others "the compliment of attention." Embarrassing, indeed, is it to anyone who is talking to observe signs of weariness and inattention on the part of one's hearers. Those not accustomed to stand before an audience seldom realize that a speaker feels and understands, without conscious endeavor, the attitude toward him of every member of his audience. The good listener inspires and encourages him, while the restless, inattentive auditor is a thorn in the flesh, irritating and distracting.

At the close of a lecture given a few years ago in a town in Maine, the lecturer—who was a state superintendent of schools—turned to the writer and asked:

"Who are those two ladies dressed in black, standing there by the window?"

After telling him their names the writer said, "Why do you ask?"

The lecturer replied: "They have been of great help to me all the evening. They are delightful listeners. They appeared to appreciate so thoroughly everything I said that I seemed to be talking especially for their benefit."

"That girl," said a teacher, pointing to an attractive young lady just leaving the school-room, "is the most restful pupil I ever had in my school. She is so gentle in her demeanor, so thoughtful and so attentive during recitations, that one cannot help loving her. No matter how restless the other members of the school become, she is always giving the closest attention. If one could have an entire school like her, teaching would be a delight; but she is one among fifty."

We gain many things besides the good will of others, by being good listeners, even though we must sometimes submit to be bored to an unlimited degree without interrupting the speaker, or responding in any other way than by "nods and becks and wreathéd smiles."

"Open your mouth and shut your eyes and see what heaven will send you," says the old maxim; but, "shut your mouth and open your eyes," has been suggested as much more sensible advice under some circumstances.

"But," you say, "we are told that Samuel Johnson, Tennyson and Macaulay, and many other great thinkers, usually monopolized the conversation when they were in company, and their friends delighted to listen to them. Surely they gave but little heed to 'the compliment of attention.'" Very true, but no doubt they would have been sometimes more agreeable to the company if they had been more considerate of the wishes of other people. Great men are great in spite of their weaknesses, not because of them. We can forgive unpleasant propensities in a genius more easily than in the average mortal, and as almost all of us are average mortals, without a trace of anything akin to genius, we cannot afford to dispense with any of those qualities which help to make us pleasing to others. We should remember that there was but one Macaulay—a man who could talk brilliantly on almost all subjects—and notwithstanding his brilliancy, his friends admitted that he was often something of a bore.

A very useful lesson may be learned from a little story which appeared some years ago in The Youth's Companion:

George Paul, a young civil engineer, while surveying a railway in the Pennsylvania hills, met a plain, lovable little country girl, and married her. After a few weeks he brought her home to his family in New York, and left her there while he returned to camp.

Marian had laid many plans to win the affections of her new kinsfolk. She had practiced diligently at her music; she was sure they would be pleased to hear her stories of her beautiful sister and her brother; she imagined their admiration of her new blue silk gown and winter bonnet. But the Pauls, one and all, were indifferent to her music, her family and her gowns. They gave "George's wife" a friendly welcome, and then each went on his or her way, and paid no more attention to her.

After the first shock of disappointment Marian summoned her courage.

"If I have nothing to give them, they have much to give me," she thought, cheerfully. She listened eagerly when Isabel sung, and her smiles and tears showed how keenly she appreciated the music. She examined Louisa's paintings every day with unflagging interest, discussed every effect, and was happy if she could help mix the colors or prepare the canvas. She questioned grandma about her neuralgia, advised new remedies, or listened unwearied to the account of old ones day after day. When Uncle John, just returned from Japan, began to describe his adventures, Marian was the only auditor who never grew tired nor interrupted him.

After a two hours' lecture, in which her part had been that of a dumb, bright-faced listener, Uncle John declared that George's wife was the most intelligent woman he had ever met.

When George came home the whole family was loud in her praises. She was a fine musician; she had unerring taste in art; she was charming, witty and lovable. But George soon saw that she had won them unconsciously—not by displaying her own merits, but by appreciating theirs.

This is a true story in fact, but the truth of its meaning is repeated wherever a woman is found who has that quality called charm. She may be plain or even deformed, but she will win friendship and love.

Many an attractive girl would save herself much anxiety and vain effort on her entrance into the world of society, if she understood that society, so called, is composed of individuals, the most of whom desire not to find the beauty, the wit, the talent of others, but to elicit the cordial recognition by others, of their own.