“_A man in trouble must either laugh or die._”
Looking Wise and Saying Nothing—Passing Encouragement Around—The Critic and the Short Skirts—The “Lion” and the Honest Deaf Man—How Reputation and the Deaf Man Overtook the Hon. Robt. Grey—The Simultaneous Blessings at the Dinner-table—Jealousy and Mrs. Brewster.
It has been said of a Cape Cod man that if he will tell where he comes from, _look wise_ and say nothing, he will pass as a person of fine intellect. Much the same is true of the deaf man. He is too apt to talk all the time, or else to say nothing—and sometimes he does both at once. Many of us betray the shoals of our mind and our shallow waters of thought by talking too much. The Yankee is naturally inquisitive. He has injured his position in history by asking too many useless questions. Unfortunately, this is also the failing of too many of the deaf. Instead of realizing that the choicest bits of conversation are reserved for them, they persist in trying to borrow the dross. Cardinal Wolsey’s outburst of bitter self-reproach would be a valuable memory gem for us:
“I charge thee, fling away ambition. By that crime fell the angels.”
Here we must part with the foolish ambition to deal in small talk. The surest way for us to become social nuisances is constantly to demand the details of current conversation, and some of our worst embarrassments come when some well-meaning, loud-voiced person diligently relays to us the trivial remarks. For be it known that the bubbles of words which work up from the feeble fermenting of shallow thoughts are usually stale and unprofitable. And many a deaf person has passed an hour of agony in company smiling and pretending to enjoy conversation which might as well be carried on in Europe, as far as his understanding goes. A student of lip-reading can find much amusing practice in such situations, but it is far better for the rest of us to say frankly that we cannot hear the talk, and then retire from the field with a book.
Every deaf person who possesses even a trace of humor can tell how he or she has passed as an important personage by looking wise and saying nothing. On several occasions I have played the part of intelligent critic with some success. I can sit on the front seat at a lecture or a concert, look intently at the speaker or singer, smile and frown at the right places in the program, and make an effort to look wise. The performer soon comes to think that he has at least one very keen and appreciative listener, and soon he aims the best points at me. Of course, we all know how the heart and spirit glow in the face of evident appreciation. I do not hear a sound, but I present the appearance of the mighty rock in the weary land of inattentive listeners. I have even had the susceptible artist hunt me out afterwards, evidently seeking some delicate compliment—for who is proof against such desires? However, I keep out of the way, for it would never do for him to find that the appreciative hearer is a deaf man. A friend of mine, working on the same principle of passing encouragement around, keeps an eye open for deaf men or those who seem discouraged, and when he meets some one who seems to be losing his grip, he gives a military salute. When his children criticise such a performance, he says: