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Title: Talkers: With Illustrations

Author: John Bate

Release date: January 31, 2010 [eBook #31143]

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Stephanie Eason, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

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E-text prepared by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Stephanie Eason,
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TALKERS:

With Illustrations.

BY

JOHN BATE,

Author of “Cyclopædia of Illustrations of Moral and Religious Truths,” etc., etc.

“Sacred interpreter of human thought,
How few respect or use thee as they ought.”—Cowper.

LONDON:
ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.;
AND SOLD AT 66, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1878.

Hazell, Watson, and Viney, Printers, London and Aylesbury.

PREFACE.

The power to talk, like every other natural power of man, is designed for profit and pleasure; but in the absence of wisdom in its government, it fails to fulfil either.

The revelations of human life in the past show that the improper employment of this power has brought upon individuals, families, churches, and empires some of their most grievous evils. The revelations of human life in the present show that this power is still unwisely used, and the cause of similar lamentations and woes. Every man in his own circle, to go no farther, may learn the sad effects following the abuse of the faculty of speech. That member of the body, when “set on fire of hell” (and how often is this!) what conflagrations it brings about wherever its sparks and flames are spread! As a lucifer match in the hands of a madman, when struck, may be the occasion of blowing up castles or burning down cities, so the tongue may “set on fire the course of nature.”

Not only are talkers the cause of evils on such a large scale, but of evils which, while not so distinguished, are still evils—annoyances that mar the happiness and disturb the peace of individuals and societies—thorns in the flesh—contagion in the atmosphere, which, if they do not create disease, cause fear and alarm. Any one, therefore, who contributes to the lessening of these evils, does a beneficent work, and deserves the patronage and co-operation of all lovers of his species.

The prominence given to the use and abuse of the power of speech, in the Scriptures, at once shows the importance of the subject.

The connection between talkers and Christianity teaches that this book belongs as much to Christianity in its interests as to ethics in its interests.

If in any of the illustrations there may seem to be an excess of colouring, the reader is at liberty to modify them in his own mind as much as he may desire; only let him not forget that “fact is stranger than fiction,” and that what may not have come within the range of his experience, others may be familiar with.

It may be that the style in which some of the characters appear will not please the taste of every one. It would be a wonder of wonders if it did. Taste in respect to style in writing differs, perhaps, as much as taste in respect to style in dress. By the bye, one likes Dr. Johnson’s idea of dress, which is, that a man or a woman, in her sphere, should wear nothing which is calculated to attract more attention and observation than the person who wears it. This is the author’s idea of style in writing; whether he has embodied it in the following pages others must judge. His aim has been to show the character more than the dress in which it appears.

If in two or three instances a similarity of character should be observed, let it be remembered that it is in talkers in society as in pictures in an album, in general features they are alike, but in particular expression each one is distinctly himself and not another.

Should it be thought that the number of talkers might have been reduced, the answer is, that difficulty has been experienced in keeping them within the number given. One after another has risen in such rapidity, that a selection has only been made. Some have not been admitted which claimed sympathy and patronage among the rest.

The author has not purposely introduced any talker whose faults were unavoidable through defect of nature or providential circumstances. The faults described are such as have been acquired; such as might have been escaped; such as each is responsible for.

Let not the reader imagine that because the writer has dealt so freely with the faults of talking in others, he thinks himself perfect in this art. Far from it. Did he know the writer as well as the writer knows himself, he would perhaps have little difficulty in recognizing him as one of the number whom he describes.

It may be observed by some that three or four illustrations have been used which have already appeared in print, the authorship of which could not be ascertained.

It is hoped that this book will find its way chiefly into the hands of young talkers. The old are so fixed and established in their way of talk, that, however their faults may be shown, they will not be likely to reform. It is seldom that a tongue which has been accustomed to talk for many years in a certain way can be changed to talk in an opposite one. There may be modifications of the evil, but few real cures. But in the case of young folk it is different. They, being somewhat pliable in that member of the body, may, by seeing the fault portrayed in others, so dislike it as not to fall into it, and covet earnestly the more “excellent way” of speech.

“But might you not have effected your purpose better by presenting examples of talkers without fault? Would not old and young more readily have been corrected and improved?” This might have been done, but for two simple obstacles in the way. First, the impossibility of finding the talkers without fault; and then, the almost certain fact that no one would have imitated them, had they been found. The defects of talkers are noticed with greater quickness of perception than their excellencies, and more is often learned from the former than from the latter. Cato says that “wise men learn more from fools than fools from wise men.” Montaigne tells us that “Pausanias, an ancient player on the lyre, used to make his scholars go to hear one that lived near him, and played ill, that they might learn to hate discords.” He says again of himself, “A clownish way of speaking does more to refine mine than the most elegant. Every day the foolish countenance of another is advertising and advising me. Profiting little by good examples, I make use of them that are ill, which are everywhere to be found. I endeavour to render myself as agreeable as I see others fickle; as affable as I see others rough; and as good as I see others evil.”

Should such use be made of the faults of talkers as Montaigne would doubtless have made, much good may be expected to arise from their study.

When it is remembered that Scripture affirms the man who offends not in word is a “perfect man,” the author feels that he has aimed at a laudable object in writing this book. Should there only one perfect man arise in society through his effort, he flatters himself that a work will have been done which thousands of books have failed to accomplish. But, on the other hand, should every reader lay aside his book not a “perfect man,” he will only fulfil the words of the same Scripture, which say, “The tongue can no man tame.”

“Then if the tongue cannot be tamed, why attempt the task?” The answer to this is: a little evil is better than a big one; and a tongue partially tamed is better than a tongue altogether wild. Therefore, while the author has no expectation of taming any man’s tongue altogether, he has the hope of taming a great many a little, and, in the aggregate, of doing something towards elevating the talking civilization of the nineteenth century.

“Will you have a little tongue?” asked a lady of a gentleman one day at the dinner-table. “I will, ma’am, if it is cured,” was the answer. Alas! tongue will be at immense discount in the world if it is not received until it is “cured.” One must be content to take it as near “cured” as it can be obtained. Not only must there be mutual efforts to cure one another’s, but each must try to cure his own.

And now, reader, the author asks you to peruse his book, and to make the best use you can of it; and he suggests, when you have done this, be careful that you do not so talk about it as to illustrate some one or more of the characters within it.

J. B.

November, 1877.

CONTENTS.

|  |  | page
I. | THE MONOPOLIST |  | 1
II. | THE FALSE HUMOURIST |  | 18
III. | THE FLATTERER |  | 22
IV. | THE BRAWLER |  | 35
V. | THE MISCHIEF-MAKER |  | 38
VI. | THE PLEONAST |  | 55
VII. | THE SELF-DISPARAGER |  | 62
VIII. | THE COMMON SWEARER |  | 71
IX. | THE AFFECTED |  | 85
X. | THE STULTILOQUIST |  | 94
XI. | THE SLANDERER |  | 101
XII. | THE VALETUDINARIAN |  | 111
XIII. | THE WHISPERER |  | 119
XIV. | THE HYPERBOLIST |  | 124
XV. | THE INQUISITIVE |  | 133
XVI. | THE PEDANT |  | 142
XVII. | THE DETRACTOR |  | 154
XVIII. | THE GRUMBLER |  | 164
XIX. | THE EGOTIST |  | 174
XX. | THE TALE-BEARER |  | 189
XXI. | THE ASSENTER |  | 203
XXII. | THE LIAR |  | 208
XXIII. | THE CENSORIOUS |  | 227
XXIV. | THE DOGMATIST |  | 236
XXV. | THE ALTILOQUENT |  | 244
XXVI. | THE DOUBLE-TONGUED |  | 253
XXVII. | THE DUBIOUS |  | 262
XXVIII. | THE SUSPICIOUS |  | 266
XXIX. | THE POETIC |  | 273
XXX. | “YES” AND “NO” |  | 279
XXXI. | A GROUP OF TALKERS |  | 286
| 1. The Misanthrope, |  | p. 286.
| 2. The Story-Teller, |  | p. 287.
| 3. The Careless, |  | p. 290.
| 4. The Equivocator, |  | p. 292.
| 5. The Absent-Minded, |  | p. 294.
| 6. The Bustling, |  | p. 296.
| 7. The Contradictory, |  | p. 298.
| 8. The Technicalist, |  | p. 300.
| 9. The Liliputian, |  | p. 301.
| 10. The Envious, |  | p. 302.
| 11. The Secret-Teller, |  | p. 302.
| 12. The Snubber, |  | p. 303.
| 13. The Argumentative, |  | p. 306.
| 14. The Religious, |  | p. 310.
| 15. The Prejudiced, |  | p. 312.
| 16. The Boaster, |  | p. 314.
| 17. The Quarrelsome, |  | p. 316.
| 18. The Profound, |  | p. 317.
| 19. The Wonderer, |  | p. 320.
| 20. The Termagant, |  | p. 325.
XXXII. | A MODEL TALKER |  | 328

I.

THE MONOPOLIST.

“Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing: more than any man in Venice; his reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; you shall seek all day ere you find them; and when you have them, they are not worth the search.”—Shakespeare.

The Monopolist enters into conversation with plenitude of speech enough to make one think he has obtained a royal patent to do so. He talks without much regard to what he says, or how he says it. Give him your attention in the least degree, and he will show no lack of will or power to surfeit you. It is not because he has anything to say worth your hearing that he keeps up his talk, but only from his strange love of talking. His conversation consists mainly in the exercise of his tongue, as the faculties of his mind are generally dormant in proportion as that works. He talks so much that you need do nothing but listen. He seldom asks questions, and if he does, he cannot tarry for answers. While one is speaking he either breaks in upon his discourse, heedless of what he is saying; or he employs himself in gathering words to commence talking again. And scarcely has the speaker finished his utterance ere he begins and goes on at a rate that taxes both the ears and patience of his listener. At the festive board he is not content to do one thing at a time. He fills his mouth with food for his stomach, and with windy words for the company; which two acts done at the same time prevent necessary mastication, and produce a temporary collision of the contrary elements in his guttural organs.

Monopolist is a talker with whom I am somewhat acquainted. I have on different occasions met with him, and am, therefore, prepared to speak of him as I have found him.

Some fifteen or sixteen years ago, as my memory serves, in the middle of a severe winter, I met this gentleman as I was going to see a friend about some business of pressing importance. I told him my business required haste, and he must excuse me stopping just then. But taking me by the hand, he held on until he was fairly on the track of talking. What he talked about I cannot remember, though I am pretty sure there was very little connection or sense in what he said. He spoke in such a rapid manner that all I could say was “Yes,” “No,” “Ah,” “Eh,” “Indeed,” “Is it possible?” and some of these, too, only half uttered because of the rapid flow of his words in my ears. I did try once to make a remark in response to a question he hurriedly asked; but I had scarcely spoken three syllables (being slow of speech as I am) when he began at an express rate to tell a story of a friend of his, in which I felt no more interest than the man in the moon. I remember how I shivered with cold; shuffled to keep myself warm, and made frequent attempts to leave him, while with one hand he held the button of my coat, and with the other wiped the perspiration from his brow. I finally took advantage of a suspense while replacing his handkerchief; so abruptly wishing him “good-bye,” I went on my way, leaving him to resume his discourse to himself. How long he stood talking after I left him he never told me.

One morning, not long ago, when in a studious mood upon a subject I was anxious to complete, my wife informed me a certain gentleman had called to see me. On entering the room, I saw, to my inner sorrow, the very identical person who, above all others, I cared the least to see at that time. Had he possessed a grain of ordinary discernment, which the Monopolist does not, he would have seen from my manner I was little inclined to give him even a courteous reception, not to say a long interview. In fact I gave him several broad hints I was very busy, and could ill spare much time in his company. But what did he care for hints? He had commenced his talking journey, and must go through with it; so away he went in his usual style, talking about everything in general and nothing in particular, until he had out-talked the morning hours, and allayed my mental afflatus by the vocal effusions of his inane, twaddling loquacity. He then took a lingering departure, bid me “good-bye, hoping that he had not intruded upon my duties of the morning.” Alas!

About a year or so after the incident referred to above, I invited a few select friends to spend an evening at my house. Among the number were the Rev. Mr. Peabody and Mrs. Peabody, Professor Jones, of Merton College, and Mrs. Jones, Mr. and Mrs. Hungerford, Mr. and Mrs. Thuckton, with others. I was very pleased with the character of my company, and anticipated considerable pleasure during the evening. Mr. Peabody, Professor Jones, and Mr. Hungerford were gentlemen of more than ordinary attainments, and capable of communicating much varied and interesting intelligence in conversation.

The early part of the evening passed in a manner apparently agreeable to all present. But, alas, the happiness was destined to be short-lived! for who should be ushered into the room by the servant but an unexpected caller? I knew him well at first sight. He stepped into the room with his usual display of self-assurance and self-gratulation. After the ceremony of introduction to those who did not know him, he took his seat in the most conspicuous part of the company.

I thought to myself, “The pleasure of the evening is now at an end, excepting what he will have in hearing himself talk.” I could see in the very expression of his face that he was full-primed, and ready for a long discharge. There was a short pause after he had taken his seat (as there generally is in all company after the introduction of a stranger); but not being accustomed to this sort of thing, he began with a rapid utterance of some common-place observations, which elicited no response, excepting a gentle bend of the head from Mr. Thuckton, to whom he seemed more particularly to direct his attention. This was enough to assure him what he had said met with approval. He now commenced in good earnest, and went on so fast and so long, one wondered how the effort was sustained by the ordinary vocal powers and breathing functions of a mere mortal.

Every now and then the thought seemed to cross his mind, “Now I have something to say of great importance.” At which time he threw his head back, winked with his left eye, cast a significant glance at Mr. Hungerford, and said, “Mark, sir, what I am going to say:” then, bending forward, placed his hands on his knees, and lo the “mountain in labour brought forth a mouse.”

He had a most singular way of snapping with his thumb and finger, according to the nature of his talk; and when he reached a climax in an argument, or made a statement with emphasis, he brought down his hands with such violence on his knees as to make one fear the consequences. The gentlemen smiled at the snapping and thumping. The ladies were annoyed at his want of decorum and good breeding, and my son, a boy six years old, asked in his innocence, “Who in the room is letting off pop-guns?”

At this juncture he gave himself a respite, thinking, perhaps, common decency called for it, so that some one else might have a chance of speaking as well as himself. But the fact was he had talked all the talk out of the company, and no one cared to enter on the arena of conversation to be instantly pushed off by his egregious monopoly. He was, however, determined there should be talk, even if he did it all himself. He asked Mr. Thuckton a question, but before he had time to give an answer, Monopolist was half-way through his own views on the subject. He then appealed to Mr. Hungerford as to the correctness of a certain sentiment he had expressed a moment before, and while Mr. Hungerford was cautiously replying, he set off in a circuitous route to show he was unquestionably right in what he had affirmed. He proposed a question to Professor Jones upon a scientific difficulty. The Professor began calmly to answer, and all the time he was speaking, I observed Monopolist fidgety to go on, and ere he had finished he broke out of his restraint and found relief in hearing himself say his own thoughts on the subject.

His conduct was becoming unbearable. I had never seen him in such an objectionable light. I almost wished he had gone to Bombay rather than have called at my house that evening. I expected an intellectual “feast of fat things” from my friends, and just as I was in the act of tasting, in came this talker and substituted his fiddle-faddle of saws and stories, which he had repeated, perhaps, a hundred times. We were jaded with his superfluity of loquaciousness, and were not sorry when the time of departure arrived. He was last of the company to retire, and he did so with much self-complacency, doubtless thinking to himself, as he walked home, “How great are my powers of conversation! I have talked more than the Rev. Peabody; more than Professor Jones; more than Mr. Hungerford, or any of the company. They scarcely talked at all. I am surprised they had so little to say. I wonder what they thought of my powers.” Such probably were the reflections with which he entertained himself after he left my house that evening.

The next day I met Mr. Hungerford, and almost the first thing he said was,—

“What is the name of that individual who called upon you last night?”

“He is called Monopolist.”

“A very appropriate name indeed; for he is the greatest case of monopoly in conversation I ever met with or heard of. He is insufferable, unpardonable. He did nothing but talk, talk, talk, to the almost absolute exclusion of every one else,—

‘He was tedious
As a tir’d horse, a railing wife;
Worse than a smoky chimney.’”

“I know him of old, Mr. Hungerford. I regretted very much his call at that time; but I did hope for once he would restrain himself and keep within the bounds of propriety. But I do think he went beyond anything I have seen of him on any former occasion.”

“If you are a friend of Monopolist,” said Mr. Hungerford, “let me suggest that you give him some suitable advice upon the subject.”

“It is what he needs,” I remarked, “and when I meet with him again I will bear it in mind.”

Some time after this I met Professor Jones. He had not forgotten Monopolist. In course of conversation he said,—

“Mr. Golder, is that gentleman who called at your house the last time I had the pleasure of visiting you yet living?”

“Yes, sir, he is still living, for anything I know to the contrary.”

“Well, sir, I have thought and spoken of him many times since that evening. He certainly exceeded on that occasion anything I ever heard in talkativeness. I should not like again to endure the torment I suffered after his entrance into the company that night. I do not consider myself very slow of speech; but you know how difficult it was for me to interject even a sentence after he came. And my friend, Mr. Peabody, with all his intelligence and natural communicativeness, was placed in the same dilemma. Neither of us was quick enough to compete with him. Everybody, in fact, was crowded out by his incessant talking; and, after all, what did it amount to?

‘Talking, he knew not why, and car’d not what.’”

“I think equally as strong as you do, Professor, respecting him, and I am determined the first opportunity I have to lay before him a few counsels, which if he take will be of service to him in the correction of his great fault.”

My reader must not think the conduct of Monopolist, as above described, peculiar to the times and occasions mentioned. I have only spoken of him as he appeared to me. I do not speak for any one else. Yet if so disposed I could relate facts heard from others equal to, if not surpassing, those given above.

As I have promised to give Monopolist a little advice, I will now enter upon my task. I hope he will mortify that talking member of his body for a few moments while I am discharging this necessary duty. After I have done he may speak on to his heart’s content, that is, in my absence.

Mr. Monopolist,—It is an old maxim that a man has two ears and but one mouth, to teach him that he should hear twice as much as he should talk. This is a very wise maxim, and worthy your serious meditation. You have doubtless heard it before, but not attended to it. Would it not be much to your credit in company, and much to the comfort of those with whom you converse, if you allowed this maxim to have its due weight upon your mind? Common sense, if such you have, must certainly intimate when you exceed the bounds of propriety in the volume of your talk. How would you like another to impose his talk upon you to the extent you impose your talk upon him? When you talk I have noticed you are so pleased with yourself as to think very little of what you say, or of how people hear. If you talked about fifty or seventy-five per cent. less than you do, you would be welcomed into the circles of society with fifty or seventy-five per cent. greater pleasure than you are. Do not imagine, because people seem to listen, therefore they like to hear you talk. It is nothing of the kind. They must at least have a show of good behaviour. Were they to forget their manners in being listless, as you do in talking so much, there would be an end to all decorum. (Do not be impatient. Do be quiet for once.) Have you not sometimes seen one or more go to sleep in company while you have been talking? Did not that show they were unable to resist the soothing influence of your long-continued and thoughtless words? And have you not sometimes talked upon subjects in such a peculiar and protracted manner that when you have done, your hearers have been so absent-minded that they have not known anything you have said? Has not this taught you that you have been a drag upon their mental powers? Have they not said in the words of Job, “O that you would altogether hold your peace, and it should be your wisdom”? (Job xiii. 5.)

Conversation is a means of mutual interchange of thought and feeling upon subjects which may be introduced. And if the right subject be brought forward, each one could contribute his quota to the general stock. But to do so we must talk with people and not at them. We must be willing to hear as well as to be heard. We must give others credit to know something as well as ourselves. We must remember it is not he who talks most that talks best. One man may give a long, wordy, dry essay on a topic of conversation, and another may speak a sentence of a score words which shall contain far more sense than his long discourse.

“Words learned by rote a parrot may rehearse,
But talking is not always to converse.
Not more distinct from harmony divine,
The constant creaking of a country sign.”
····
“If in talking from morning till night,
A sign of our wisdom it be,
The swallows are wiser by right,
For they prattle much faster than we.”

“The talking lion of the evening circle,” observes an English writer, “generally plays off his part as obviously to his own satisfaction as to the nausea of the company who forbear to hear him. Were he a distinguished and illustrious talker like Johnson and Coleridge, he might be excused, though in their case they laid too much embargo upon the interchange of thought; but when the mind is an ordinary one, the offence is insufferable, if not unpardonable. Those that talk much cannot often talk well. There is generally the least of originality and interest about what they say. It is the dry, old, oft-repeated things which are nearly as well stereotyped upon the minds of the hearers as they are upon their own. And even those who have the gift of talking sensibly as well as loquaciously should remember that few people care to be eclipsed, and that a superiority of sense is as ill to be borne as superiority of fortune.”

“He that cannot refrain from much speaking,” says Sir W. Raleigh, “is like a city without walls, and less pains in the world a man cannot take, than to hold his tongue; therefore if thou observest this rule in all assemblies thou shalt seldom err; restrain thy choler, hearken much and speak little, for the tongue is the instrument of the greatest good and greatest evil that is done in the world.”

“As it is the characteristic,” says Lord Chesterfield, “of great wits to say much in few words, so it is of small wits to talk much and say nothing. Never hold any one by the button or the hand in order to be heard out; for if people are unwilling to hear you, you had better hold your tongue than them.”

“The evil of this” (much speaking), says Bishop Taylor, “is very considerable in the accounts of prudence, and the effects and plaisance of conversation: and the ancients described its evil well by a proverbial expression; for when a sudden silence arose, they said that Mercury was entered, meaning that, he being their ‘loquax numen,’ their ‘prating god,’ yet that quitted him not, but all men stood upon their guard, and called for aid and rescue, when they were seized upon by so tedious an impertinence. And indeed, there are some persons so full of nothings, that, like the strait sea of Pontus, they perpetually empty themselves by their mouth, making every company or single person they fasten on to be their Propontis, such a one as was Anaximenes, who was an ocean of words, but a drop of understanding.”

You would do well to study the lesson, When to talk, and when to be silent. Silence is preferred by the wise and the good to superfluity of talking. You may read strange stories of some of the ancients, choosing silence to talking. St. Romualdus maintained a seven years’ silence on the Syrian mountains. It is said of a religious person in a monastery in Brabant, that he did not speak a word in sixteen years. Ammona lived with three thousand brethren in such silence as though he was an anchoret. Theona was silent for thirty years together. Johannes, surnamed Silentarius, was silent for forty-seven years. I do not mention these as examples for your imitation, and would not have you become such a recluse. These are cases of an extreme kind,—cases of moroseness and sullenness which neither reason nor Scripture justify. “This was,” as Taylor observes, “to make amends for committing many sins by omitting many duties; and, instead of digging out the offending eye, to pluck out both, that they might neither see the scandal nor the duty; for fear of seeing what they should not, to shut their eyes against all light.” The wiser course for you to adopt is the practice of silence for a time, as a discipline for the correction of the fault into which you have fallen. Pray as did the Psalmist, “Put a guard, O Lord, unto my mouth, and a door unto my lips.” “He did not ask for a wall,” as St. Gregory remarks, “but for a door, a door that might open and shut.” It is said of Cicero, he never spake a word which himself would fain have recalled; he spake nothing that repented him. Silence will be a cover to your folly, and a disclosure of your wisdom.

“Keep thy lips with all diligence.”

“A man that speaketh too much, and museth but little and lightly,
Wasteth his mind in words, and is counted a fool among men:
But thou when thou hast thought, weave charily the web of meditation,
And clothe the ideal spirit in the suitable garments of speech.”

Note well the discretion of silence. What man ever involved himself in difficulties through silence? Who thinks another a fool because he does not talk? Keep quiet, and you may be looked upon as a wise man; open your mouth and all may see at once that you are a simpleton. Ben Jonson, speaking of one who was taken for a man of judgment while he was silent, says, “This man might have been a Counsellor of State, till he spoke; but having spoken, not the beadle of the ward.”

Lord Lytton tells of a groom who married a rich lady, and was in fear as to how he might be treated by the guests of his new household, on the score of his origin and knowledge: to whom a clergyman gave this advice, “Wear a black coat, and hold your tongue.” The groom acted on the advice, and was considered a gentlemanly and wise man.

The same author speaks of a man of “weighty name,” with whom he once met, but of whom he could make nothing in conversation. A few days after, a gentleman spoke to him about this “superior man,” when he received for a reply, “Well, I don’t think much of him. I spent the other day with him, and found him insufferably dull.” “Indeed,” said the gentleman, with surprise; “why, then I see how it is: Lord —— has been positively talking to you.”

This reminds one of the story told of Coleridge. He was once sitting at a dinner-table admiring a fellow guest opposite as a wise man, keeping himself in solemn and stately reserve, and resisting all inducements to join in the conversation of the occasion, until there was placed on the table a steaming dish of apple-dumplings, when the first sight of them broke the seal of the wise man’s intelligence, exclaiming with enthusiasm, “Them be the jockeys for me.”

Gay, in his fables, addressing himself to one of these talkers, says,—

“Had not thy forward, noisy tongue
Proclaim’d thee always in the wrong,
Thou might’st have mingled with the rest,
And ne’er thy foolish sense confess’d;
But fools, to talking ever prone,
Are sure to make their follies known.”

Mr. Monopolist, can you refrain a little longer while I say a few more words? I have in my possession several recipes for the cure of much talking, that I have gathered in the course of my reading, four of which I will kindly lay before you for consideration.

1. Give yourself to private writing; and thus pour out by the hand the floods which may drown the head. If the humour for much talking was partly drawn forth in this way, that which remained would be sufficient to drop out from the tongue.

2. In company with your superiors in wisdom, gravity, and circumstances, restrain your unreasonable indulgence of the talking faculty. It is thought this might promote modest and becoming silence on all other occasions. “One of the gods is within,” said Telemachus; upon occasion of which his father reproved his talking. “Be thou silent and say little; let thy soul be in thy hand, and under command; for this is the rite of the gods above.”

3. Read and ponder the words of Solomon, “He that hath knowledge spareth his words; and a man of understanding is of excellent spirit. Even a fool when he holdeth his peace is counted wise: and he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding” (Prov. xvii. 27, 28). Also the words of the Son of Sirach, “Be swift to hear, and if thou hast understanding, answer thy neighbour; if not, lay thy hand upon thy mouth. A wise man will hold his tongue till he see opportunity; but a babbler and a fool will regard no time. He that useth many words shall be abhorred; and he that taketh to himself authority therein shall be hated” (Ecclesiasticus v. 11-13). “In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin” (Prov. x. 19).

4. Attend more to business and action. It is thought that a diligent use of the muscles in physical labour may detract from the disposition, time, and power of excessive speech. Paul gives a similar suggestion, “And that ye study to be quiet, and to do your own business, and to work with your own hands as we commanded you” (1 Thes. iv. 11).

With these few words of advice I now leave you, my friend Monopolist, hoping they may have their due effect upon your talking faculty, and that when I meet you again in company I shall find you a “new edition, much amended and abridged:” “the half better than the whole.”

II.

THE FALSE HUMOURIST.

“There are more faults in the humour than in the mind.”—La Rochefoucauld.

Among the various kinds of talk there is, perhaps, none in which talkers are more liable to fail than in humour. It is that in which most persons like to excel, but which comparatively few attain. It is not the man whose imagination teems with monsters, whose head is filled with extravagant conceptions, that furnishes innocent pleasure by humour. And yet there are those who claim to be humourists, whose humour consists only in wild irregular fancies and distortions of thought. They speak nonsense, and think they are speaking humour. When they have put together a round of absurd, inconsistent ideas, and produce them, they cannot do it without laughing. I have sometimes met with a portion of this class that have endeavoured to gain themselves the reputation of wits and humourists by such monstrous conceits as almost qualified them for Bedlam, rather than refined and intelligent society. They did not consider that humour should always lie under the check of reason; and requires the direction of the nicest judgment, by so much the more it indulges in unrestrained freedoms. There is a kind of nature in this sort of conversation, as well as in other; and a certain regularity of thought which must discover the speaker to be a man of sense, at the same time he appears a man given up to caprice. For my part, when I hear the delirious mirth of an unskilful talker, I cannot be so barbarous as to divert myself with it, but am rather apt to pity the man than laugh at anything he speaks.

“It is indeed much easier,” says Addison, “to describe what is not humour than what is; and very difficult to define it otherwise than as Cowley has done wit, by negatives. Were I to give my own notions of it, I would deliver them after Plato’s manner, in a kind of allegory—and by supposing humour to be a person, deduce to him all his qualifications, according to the following genealogy. Truth was the founder of the family, and the father of Good Sense. Good Sense was the father of Wit, who married a lady of collateral line called Mirth, by whom he had issue, Humour. Humour, therefore, being the youngest of this illustrious family, and descendant from parents of such different dispositions, is very various and unequal in his temper: sometimes you see him putting on grave looks and a solemn habit, sometimes airy in his behaviour, and fantastic in his dress; inasmuch that at different times he appears as serious as a judge, and as jocular as a merry-andrew. But as he has a great deal of the mother in his constitution, whatever mood he is in, he never fails to make his company laugh.”

In carrying on the allegory farther, he says of the false humourists, “But since there is an impostor abroad, who takes upon him the name of this young gentleman, and would willingly pass for him in the world: to the end that well-meaning persons may not be imposed upon by cheats, I would desire my readers, when they meet with this pretender, to look into his parentage and examine him strictly, whether or no he be remotely allied to truth, and lineally descended from good sense; if not, they may conclude him a counterfeit. They may likewise distinguish him by a loud and excessive laughter, in which he seldom gets his company to join with him. For as true Humour generally looks serious, while everybody laughs about him; false Humour is always laughing, while everybody about him looks serious. I shall only add, if he has not in him a mixture of both parents, that is, if he would pass for the offspring of Wit without Mirth, or Mirth without Wit, you may conclude him to be altogether spurious and a cheat.

The impostor of whom I am speaking descends originally from Falsehood, who was the mother of Nonsense, who gave birth to a son called Frenzy, who married one of the daughters of Folly, commonly known by the name of Laughter, from whom came that monstrous infant of which I have been speaking. I shall set down at length the genealogical table of False Humour, and, at the same time, place by its side the genealogy of True Humour, that the reader may at one view behold their different pedigree and relations:—

Falsehood. |  | Truth.
| |  | |
Nonsense. |  | Good Sense.
| |  | |
Frenzy—Laughter. |  | Wit—Mirth.
| |  | |
False Humour. |  | Humour.

I might extend the allegory, by mentioning several of the children of False Humour, who are more in number than the sands of the sea, and might in particular enumerate the many sons and daughters of which he is the actual parent. But as this would be a very invidious task, I shall only observe in general that False Humour differs from the True, as a monkey does from a man.

First of all, he is exceedingly given to little apish tricks and buffooneries.

Secondly, he so much delights in mimicry, that it is all one to him whether he exposes by it vice and folly, luxury and avarice; or, on the contrary, virtue and wisdom, pain and poverty.

Thirdly, he is wonderfully unlucky, inasmuch that he will bite the hand that feeds him, and endeavour to ridicule both friends and foes indifferently. For, having but small talents, he must be merry where he can, not where he should.

Fourthly, being entirely devoid of reason, he pursues no point either of morality or instruction, but is ludicrous only for the sake of being so.”

III.

THE FLATTERER.

“Who flatters is of all mankind the lowest,
Save him who courts the flattery.”

Hannah More.

The Flatterer is a false friend clothed in the garb of a true one. He speaks words from a foul heart through fair lips. His eyes affect to see only beauty and perfection, and his tongue pours out streams of sparkling praises. He is enamoured of your appearance, and your general character commands his admiration. You have no fault which he may correct, or delinquency which he may rebuke. The last time he met you in company, your manners pleased him beyond measure; and though you saw it not, yet he observed how all eyes were brightened by seeing you. If you occupy a position of authority whence you can bestow a favour which he requires, you are “most gracious, powerful, and good.” His titles are all in the superlative, and his addresses full of wondering interjections. His object is more to please than to speak the truth. His art is nothing but delightful trickery by means of smoothing words and complacent looks. He would make men fools by teaching them to overrate their abilities. Those who walk in the vale of humility amid the modest flowers of virtue and favoured with the presence of the Holy One, he would lift into the Utopian heights of vanity and pride, that they might fall into the condemnation of the Devil. He gathers all good opinions and approving sentiments that he might carry them to his prey, losing nothing in weight and number during their transit. He is one of Fame’s best friends, helping to furnish her with some of her strongest and richest rumours. But conscience has not a greater adversary; for when it comes forth to do its office in accusation or reproof, he anticipates its work, and bribes her with flattering speech. Like the chamelion, he changes his appearance to suit his purpose. He sometimes affects to be nothing but what pleases the object of his admiration, whose virtues he applauds and whose imperfections he pretends it to be an advantage to imitate. When he walks with his friend, he would feign have him believe that every eye looks at him with interest, and every tongue talks of him with praise—that he to whom he deigns to give his respects is graced with peculiar honour. He tells him he knows not his own worth, lest he should be too happy or vain; and when he informs him of the good opinions of others, with a mock-modesty he interrupts himself in the relation, saying he must not say any more lest he be considered to flatter, making his concealment more insinuating than his speech. He approaches with fictitious humility to the creature of his praise, and hangs with rivetted attention upon his lips, as though he spake with the voice of an oracle. He repeats what phrase or sentence may particularly gratify him, and both hands are little enough to bless him in return. Sometimes he extols the excellencies of his friend in his absence, but it is in the presence of those who he is pretty certain will convey it to his ears. In company, he sometimes whispers his commendations to the one next him, in such a way that his friend may hear him in the other part of the room.

The Flatterer is a talker who insinuates himself into every circle; and there are few but are fond of his fair speech and gaudy praise. He conceals himself with such dexterousness that few recognise him in his true character. Those with whom he has to do too frequently view him as a friend, and confide in his communications. What door is not open to the man who brings the ceremonious compliments of praise in buttery lips and sugared words—who carries in his hand a bouquet of flowers, and in his face the complacent smile, addressing you in words which feed the craving of vanity, and yet withal seem words of sincere friendship and sound judgment?

Where is the man who has the moral courage, the self-abnegation to throw back honied encomiums which come with apparent reality, although from a flatterer? “To tell a man that he cannot be flattered is to flatter him most effectually.”

“Honey’d assent,
How pleasant art thou to the taste of man,
And woman also! flattery direct
Rarely disgusts. They little know mankind
Who doubt its operation: ’tis my key,
And opes the wicket of the human heart.”

“The firmest purpose of a human heart
To well-tim’d artful flattery may yield.”

“’Tis an old maxim in the schools
That flattery’s the food of fools;
Yet now and then your men of wit
Will condescend to take a bit.”

The Flatterer is a lurking foe, a dangerous friend, a subtle destroyer. “A flattering mouth worketh ruin.” “He that speaketh flattery to his friends, even the eyes of his children shall fail.” “A man that flattereth his neighbour spreadeth a net for his feet.” The melancholy results of flattery are patent before the world, both on the page of history and in the experience of mankind. How many thousand young men who once stood in the uprightness of virtue are now debased and ruined through the flattery of the “strange woman,” so graphically described by Solomon in Prov. vii., “With her much fair speech she caused him to yield, with the flattering of her lips she forced him. He goeth after her straightway, as an ox goeth to the slaughter, or as a fool to the correction of the stocks; till a dart strike through his liver; as a bird hasteth to the snare, and knoweth not that it is for his life” (vers. 21-23). “She hath cast down many wounded: yea, many strong men have been slain by her. Her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death” (vers. 26, 27).

And as the virtuous young man is thus led into ruin by the flattering tongue of the strange woman; so the virtuous young female is sometimes led into ruin by the flattering tongue of the lurking enemy of beauty and innocence. I cannot give a more striking and pathetic illustration of this than the one portrayed by the incomparable hand of Pollok:—

“Take one example, one of female woe.
Loved by her father, and a mother’s love,
In rural peace she lived, so fair, so light
Of heart, so good and young, that reason scarce
The eye could credit, but would doubt, as she
Did stoop to pull the lily or the rose
From morning’s dew, if it reality
Of flesh and blood, or holy vision, saw,
In imagery of perfect womanhood.
But short her bloom—her happiness was short.
One saw her loveliness, and with desire
Unhallowed, burning, to her ear addressed
Dishonest words: ‘Her favour was his life,
His heaven; her frown his woe, his night, his death.’
With turgid phrase thus wove in flattery’s loom,
He on her womanish nature won, and age
Suspicionless, and ruined and forsook:
For he a chosen villain was at heart,
And capable of deeds that durst not seek
Repentance. Soon her father saw her shame;
His heart grew stone; he drove her forth to want
And wintry winds, and with a horrid curse
Pursued her ear, forbidding her return.
Upon a hoary cliff that watched the sea,
Her babe was found—dead; on its little cheek,
The tear that nature bade it weep had turned
An ice-drop, sparkling in the morning beam;
And to the turf its helpless hands were frozen:
For she, the woeful mother, had gone mad,
And laid it down, regardless of its fate
And of her own. Yet had she many days
Of sorrow in the world, but never wept.
She lived on alms; and carried in her hand
Some withering stalks, she gathered in the spring;
When they asked the cause, she smiled, and said,
They were her sisters, and would come and watch
Her grave when she was dead. She never spoke
Of her deceiver, father, mother, home,
Or child, or heaven, or hell, or God; but still
In lonely places walked, and ever gazed
Upon the withered stalks, and talked to them;
Till wasted to the shadow of her youth,
With woe too wide to see beyond—she died;
Not unatoned for by imputed blood,
Nor by the Spirit that mysterious works,
Unsanctified. Aloud her father cursed
That day his guilty pride which would not own
A daughter whom the God of heaven and earth
Was not ashamed to call His own; and he
Who ruined her read from her holy look,
That pierced him with perdition manifold,
His sentence, burning with vindictive fire.”

The flattering talker possesses a power which turned angels into devils, and men into demons—which beguiled pristine innocence and introduced the curse—which has made half the world crazy with self-esteem and self-admiration. A power which has dethroned princes, involved kingdoms, degraded the noble, humbled the great, impoverished the rich, enslaved the free, polluted the pure, robbed the wise man of his wisdom, the strong man of his strength, the good man of his goodness. It is emphatically the power of the Destroyer, working havoc, devastation, woe, and death wherever it has sway, spreading disappointment, weeping, lamentation, and broken hearts through the habitations of the children of men. “He is,” as an old writer quaintly observes, “the moth of liberal men’s coats, the ear-wig of the mighty, the bane of courts, a friend and slave to the trencher, and good for nothing but to be a factor for the devil.”

Mr. Sharp was a young student of amiable spirit, and promising abilities. Soon after he left college he took charge of an important church in the large village of C——, in the county of M——. He had not been long among his people before he won the good-will of all; and his popularity soon extended beyond the pale of his own church. Meantime, he did not appear to think of himself more than he ought. He was unassuming in his spirit, and devoted to his work, apparently non-affected by the general favour with which he was received.

There was a member of his church whom we shall call Mr. Thoughtless; a man of good education, respectable intelligence, and in circumstances of moderate wealth. He was in the church an officer of considerable importance and weight. He was, however, given to the use of soft words, and complimentary speeches. In fact, he was a flatterer. He used little or no wisdom in his flattery, but generally poured it forth in fulsome measure upon all whom he regarded his friends. Mr. Sharp was a particular favourite with him, and he frequently invited him to his house. He did not observe the failing of his host, but considered him a very kind man, sweet-tempered, one of his best friends, the only member of his Church from whom he received any encouragement in his ministerial labours. Mr. Sharp became increasingly attached to him, and passed the greater part of his leisure hours in his company. The fact was, Mr. Thoughtless did not restrain his expressions of “great satisfaction” and “strong pleasure” in the “character and abilities” of Mr. Sharp. He was the “best minister ever among them”—“every one admired him”—“what a splendid sermon he preached last Sabbath morning”—“the congregations were doubled since he came”—he was “delighted with his general demeanour”—he “really thought his abilities were adequate to a larger Church in a city, than theirs in the country”—but he must not be “considered in speaking these things to flatter, for he should be ashamed to say anything to flatter a young minister whom he esteemed so highly,” and besides, he “thought him beyond the power of flattery.” Such were the flattering words which he poured into the undiscerning mind of Mr. Sharp at different times.

Not long after this close friendship and these frequent visits, Mr. Sharp began to manifest a change in his spirit and conduct, which gradually developed into such proportions that some of the Church could not help noticing it.

“I do not think,” said Mr. Smith—a truly godly man—to Mrs. Lane—who also was in repute for her piety—one day in conversation, “that our young pastor is so unassuming and devoted as when he first came among us.”

“Is it not all fancy on your part, Mr. Smith?” asked Mrs. Lane.

“I only hope it may be, but I fear it is true.”

“In what respects do you think he is changed?” asked Mrs. Lane.

“I do not, somehow or other, observe the same tone of spirituality in his preaching and company as were so obvious during the first part of his sojourn with us.”

“Well, do you know,” said Mrs. Lane, “although I asked whether it was not all fancy on your part, yet I have had my apprehensions and fears, similar to yours. I have never mentioned them to any one before. I have been very grieved to see the change, and have prayed much for him. How do you account for it, Mr. Smith?”

“I can only account for it by the supposition that he has been too much under the influence of Mr. Thoughtless, who, you know, is a man given to flattery, and who has by this flattery injured other young ministers who have been with us.”

“It is ten thousand pities,” said Mrs. Lane, “that Mr. Sharp was not warned of the dangers of his flattery.”

“It is just here, you know, Mrs. Lane. Mr. Thoughtless is a man of such influence in our Church, so bland in his way, so fair in his words, so wealthy in his means, that it is little use saying anything to warn against him. Besides, I fear that others have been too flattering in their addresses and compliments.”

Mrs. Lane replied with evident emotion, “I am jealous of our dear minister. He is in jeopardy. O do let us pray for him, Mr. Smith, lest the flattering lips prove his ruin?”

Mrs. Lane was right in her fears. In the course of a few months after this brief conversation, Mr. Sharp had reached a great height of self-importance. He failed in most of the amiable virtues which adorned his early career. He deteriorated in the zeal and spirituality of his preaching. He became florid, self-assured, and self-displaying. He thought his abilities too great for the Church at C——. The congregation had declined, and he assigned to himself as a reason, they could not appreciate the high quality of his preaching. He sought a change; and accepted an invitation to a Church in the city of B——. In this Church he had little acceptance after a few weeks. Surrounded as he was by so many popular ministers of other Churches, he was unable to maintain his ground. He fell into temptation, and committed sin. He was arraigned before his brethren, tried in the presence of the most satisfactory witnesses, and expelled from the Christian Ministry.

This deep degradation was afterwards traced in its origin to the flattering, fawning tongue and conduct of Mr. Thoughtless.

Flattery is too frequently indulged in by parents towards their children. How many sons and daughters have been ruined by it would be difficult to say. I will give one case as an illustration.

Mr. Horton was a tradesman in a flourishing business. He looked well after it as a man of the world, and never allowed a “good chance” to escape. He had a son as his first-born. This son was a great favourite with him, for he saw in him the powers which would make a clever man of business. When he first wore jackets, Harry proved himself an adept in small trades, bartering his worn out and damaged toys for the better ones of his playmates.

“I tell you,” said Horton one day to a friend of his in the presence of Harry, “that is the boy who is good at a bargain.”

This was the phrase he often used when he wished to pass an eulogium upon his boy as a little tradesman. Also in other ways he failed not to set up his son as a paragon in business.

Made vain by these flatteries, he went on in increasing zeal and craftiness to be “good at a bargain.”

The flattering words of his father impelled him in all possible ways to make money; so that when grown to manhood he was an adept at sharpness in trade practices. At last, however, he went too far. His cunning, which had grown out of “being good at a bargain,” was employed in a fraud, which was discovered and led to his apprehension. When his trial came on, his father was present, anxiously waiting the issue. When the sentence of his guilt was given, and his punishment stated, he covered his face with his hand in deep emotion of paternal grief. He could not look upon his condemned son, whom he had helped to ruin, whom he had started and encouraged in the way which brought him to this end.

It was a most distressing scene when the father and son met in the dreary prison cell. Each looked at the other with reproach. Each blamed the other for the shame and pain brought upon them.

“This is a ‘bad bargain,’ my boy,” said the old man, tremulously. “You have ruined us all.”

“Ruined you!” responded the son, in a tone that stung the father to the heart. “Who ruined me? I was ruined when you flattered me so in my boyhood, telling me so often how clever I was and good at a bargain, instead of checking me: when you praised my trickery instead of punishing it. Had you then kept back those words of parental flattery and trained me in principles of strict honesty, I should not now have been here, paying in prison walls by convict labour and a felon’s name the price of ‘being good at a bargain.’”

In how many other ways the flattering tongues of parents have issued in the ruin of children I have not space to illustrate.

“Take care,” says Walter Raleigh, “thou be not made fool by flatterers, for even the wisest men are abused by these. Know, therefore, that flatterers are the worst kind of traitors; for they will strengthen thy imperfections, encourage thee in all evils, correct thee in nothing, but so shadow and paint all thy vices and follies as thou shall never, by their will, discern evil from good, or vice from virtue. A flatterer is said to be a beast that biteth smiling. They are hard to distinguish from friends, they are so obsequious and full of protestations; for as a wolf resembles a dog, so doth a flatterer a friend. A flatterer is compared to an ape, who because she cannot defend the house like a dog, labour as an ox, or bear burdens as a horse, doth therefore yet play tricks and provoke laughter.”

“Beware of flattery—’tis a flowery weed
Which oft offends the very idol vice
Whose shrine it would perfume.”
····
“Of all wild beasts, preserve me from a tyrant;
And of all tame—a flatterer.”

IV.

THE BRAWLER.

“As empty vessels make the loudest sound, so they that have the least wit are the loudest babblers.”—Plato.

This is a Talker whose characteristic consists in the possession of sound lungs and sonorous voice. He is particularly jealous of their failure, and hence, as a means of their preservation, he keeps them in good exercise. “Practice makes perfect;” and believing in this maxim, he uses his vocal functions without squeamish regard to the possibility of their decline. One would imagine from the volume and strength of tongue-power put forth in his conversation that he considered his hearers stone deaf. He does not in fact talk but proclaim. I doubt not that he is sometimes guilty of this outrage from vanity, because he thinks what he has to say is of such vast importance; or he has his own person in such veneration, that he believes nothing which concerns him can be insignificant to anybody else. I do not wonder that some people have had the drum of their ears seriously affected by his brawling. Nor is it surprising that old maids have been thrown into hysterics, and little children scared out of their wits by his vociferousness. Nor should it be set down as a thing extraordinary that strong-nerved men have found it expedient to insist either upon a reduction of the wind in the organ, or a stoppage of the instrument altogether, or a hasty exit of their persons from his presence.

As a preventive of these calamities in the future, and as a means of restoring this unfortunate talker into his proper position in the ranks of modern polite and intelligent society, I have been led to search in my books for a cure of his fault, and I have discovered the following in the Spectator:—

“.... Plutarch tells us that Caius Gracchus, the Roman, was frequently hurried by his passions into so loud and tumultuous a way of speaking, and so strained his voice as not to be able to proceed. To remedy this excess, he had an ingenious servant, by name Licinius, always attending him with a pitch-pipe, or instrument to regulate the voice; who, whenever he heard his master begin to be high, immediately touched a soft note, at which, ’tis said, Caius would presently abate and grow calm.

“Upon recollecting this story, I have frequently wondered that this useful instrument should have been so long discontinued, especially since we find that this good office of Licinius has preserved his memory for many hundred years, which, methinks, should have encouraged some one to revive it, if not for the public good, yet for his own credit. It may be objected that our loud talkers are so fond of their own noise that they would not take it well to be checked by their servants. But granting this to be true, surely any of their hearers have a very good title to play a soft note in their own defence. To be short, no Licinius appearing, and the noise increasing, I was resolved to give this late long vacation to the good of my country; and I have at length, by the assistance of an ingenious artist (who works for the Royal Society), almost completed my design, and shall be ready in a short time to furnish the public with what number of these instruments they please, either to lodge at coffee-houses, or carry for their own private use. In the meantime I shall pay that respect to several gentlemen, who I know will be in danger of offending against this instrument, to give them notice of it by private letters, in which I shall only write, ‘Get a Licinius.’

“I had almost forgotten to inform you that as an improvement in this instrument, there will be a particular note, which I shall call a hush-note; and that is to be made use of against a long story, swearing, obsceneness, and the like.”

V.

THE MISCHIEF-MAKER.

“Behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth.”—James.

“We should be as careful of our words as our actions; and as far from speaking as doing ill.”—Tull.

The presence of this talker is almost ubiquitous. His aim is to create ill-humour, misunderstandings, bickerings, envies, jealousies, suspicions, quarrels, and separations, where exist mutual good-will, concord, love, confidence. His nature and work are in reality beneath the society of human beings. It is even questionable whether he is not in these respects below the rank of demons. Yet he boldly enters your presence, sits by your side, looks you askant in the face, asks you questions, communicates information, and feigns himself your friend and the friend of everybody. At the same time he may be concocting a plan of mischief between you and a neighbour with whom you are living on terms of amity; and the next thing you hear after he has left your house is, that you and your neighbour are intending some evil one towards the other. This is all you know of it. The fact is, Mischief-maker is at the bottom of it, and if the friendship between you is not broken, it will not be his fault.

He is in peaceful society like a mischievous child in a well-furnished drawing-room, puts things in confusion, and destroys much that is valuable and worth preserving, and when asked, “Who has done it?” pleads ignorance, or places it upon the shoulders of others, joining you in strong utterances of condemnation of such wanton conduct.

Mr. and Mrs. Blandford had lived together in their village cottage forty years, in the greatest conjugal affection and concord. It was generally known that they had seldom or ever had a quarrel or misunderstanding during the whole of that period. They were hoping that their declining years would be spent in similar blessedness. But, alas! such was not to be their lot.

There lived not far from them a neighbour whose disposition was anything but loving, and who took pleasure in promoting ill-will between those who lived in peace. She had long had her heart set upon provoking a quarrel between this happy pair. She had tried in many secret ways to bring it about, but all failed. At last she hit upon one which accomplished her malicious end, and evinced the more than diabolical nature of her design.

On a certain day she made a neighbourly call upon Mrs. Blandford, and in course of conversation, said,—

“You and Mr. Blandford have lived a long time together.”

“We have. Forty years, I think, next December the 14th.”

“And all this time, I am told, you have never had a quarrel.”

“Not one.”

“How glad I am to hear it; truly you have been blest. How remarkable a circumstance! And do you expect that this will continue to the end?”

“I know nothing to the contrary; I really hope so.”

“Indeed, so do I; but, Mrs. Blandford, you know that everything in this world is uncertain, and the finest day may close with a tempest. Do not be surprised if this is the case with your wedded life.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this: your husband, I am told, has of late become rather peevish and sullen betimes. So his fellow-workmen say.”

“Well, now you mention it, I have noticed something of the kind myself,” said Mrs. Blandford.

“I have thought,” said the neighbour, “that I would just mention it to you, that you might be on your guard, for no one knows what turn this temper may take.”

“Thank you; I think it might be as well for me to be on my guard,” said Mrs. Blandford. “Can you tell me the best way of managing the case?”

“Have you not noticed,” said the neighbour, “that your husband has a bunch of long coarse hair growing on a mole on one side of his neck?”

“Of course I have.”

“Well, do you know, Mrs. Blandford, I am told these are the cause of his change in temper, and as long as they remain there, you may expect him to get worse and worse. Now, as a friend, I would advise you to cut them off the first time you have a chance, and thus prevent any evil occurring.”

“That is a thing I can easily manage, I think, and at your suggestion I will do it,” said Mrs. Blandford, in her simplicity.

A few more words on matters apart from this passed between them, and the neighbour left for home. On her way she met Mr. Blandford, when she talked with him much in the same way as she did with his wife about their domestic happiness.

“But, friend Blandford, I have something very particular to say to you.”

“Indeed! What is it?”

“Why, I have just heard that your wife has lately taken to peculiar ways, and has some evil design upon you; and I think it my duty as a Christian neighbour to give you a gentle warning, that you may be on your guard.”

The old man looked much astonished at this revelation. He could not believe it; yet he could not deny it. He brooded over the matter as he walked home, and considered what he should do to ascertain whether his wife had any “evil design upon him.” At last a thought occurred to his mind, which he carried out. Soon after he reached home, he went and threw himself on the bed as very much tired, and feigned sleep, brooding over the statement of his neighbour, and what it could possibly mean. His wife, thinking he was asleep, and that it would be a good opportunity for cutting off this said foreboding hair, took her husband’s razor, and crept slowly and softly to his side. The old lady was very nervous in holding a razor so close to her dear husband’s throat, and her hand was not so steady as in former years; so between the two she went about it in an awkward way, pulling the hairs rather than cutting them. Mr. Blandford opened his eyes, and there stood his wife with an open razor close to his throat! After what he had heard from his neighbour, and seeing this, he could no longer doubt that his wife intended to murder him! He sprang from the bed in great horror, and no explanation or entreaty could persuade him to the contrary.

From this time to the end of Mrs. Blandford’s life there was no more confidence between them. Jealousy, fear, quarrelling, took the place of harmony, trust, and love.

The neighbour had gratified her wish; and now she did nothing but spread the tidings about everywhere, that “old Mrs. Blandford had made an attempt upon her husband’s life; but he was just in time to save himself; and now they were living like a cat and dog together; and this was the end of their boasted forty years of conjugal peace and happiness.”

In the small town of B——, in one of the northern counties, there lived a very respectable tradesman, a grocer, of the name of Proctor. He was a married man, and had a family of four children. He and his wife were members of the Presbyterian Church. They were considered consistent, godly people by all who knew them.

One winter’s night, Mr. Bounce, well known in the town, was walking by the house of Mr. Proctor, when he happened to hear a noise, and looking at the window of the sitting-room, he saw, to his utter astonishment, Mr. Proctor chasing Mrs. Proctor with a fire-shovel in his hand, in an attitude of threatening wrath. He did not stop to see the end. He did not go in to make inquiry. He did not pause for a day or so until he obtained further light on the matter. No, he went on his way, thinking to himself, “Here is a fine thing. I could not have believed it, had I not seen it. What a scandal! What a disgrace! Mr. Proctor, a member of a Christian Church, running after his wife, a member of the same Christian Church, with a fire-shovel in his hand! What is to be done? Surely, if this gets wind it will be ruinous to his character, if not to his business! And then, what effect will it have upon the Church?”

I do not say that at this time and in this instance Mr. Bounce had any bad feeling or intention towards the Proctors. Nevertheless we shall see how without these he brought about no small mischief.

As I said, he went on his way thinking as above. He came to the house of his friend Mr. Ready. He had scarcely sat himself down and inquired after the health of Mrs. Ready, when he exclaimed in tones of wonder, “What do you think I have just seen as I passed the house of Mr. Proctor?”

“I am sure I cannot tell,” answered Mr. Ready.

“Why, I saw Mr. Proctor chasing his wife round the room with a fire-shovel in his hand, in an attitude of threats.”

“You don’t mean it!”

“Indeed I do. I saw him as plainly as I see you sitting before me on that chair.”

“Well, that is a nice thing, certainly,” said Mr. Ready. “And both members of the Church of the Rev. S. Baker!”

“Yes, they are,” replied Mr. Bounce.

The matter ended here for the present. Mr. Ready told Mrs. Ready as soon as she came home, and she told her neighbour the same night. The Ready family were not slow in spreading the news wherever they went in the town: and of course Mr. Bounce left no stone unturned to clear the way of the circulation of the fact. So that by these means it was known in most families of the town by the evening of the next day.

It created no little excitement. The minister and elders of the Church heard it with serious concern, and considered that a Church meeting should be called without delay before the thing grew worse. It would be disastrous to permit such a scandal to go unexamined and unpunished if true.

Elder Wiseman thought that before a Church meeting was called, it would be well for their pastor and Elder Judge to wait upon Mr. and Mrs. Proctor and inquire into the facts of the case. To this it was agreed.

The pastor and Elder Judge took the first opportunity and waited upon the Proctors.

The Proctors, seated in their room with their pastor and Elder Judge, seemed very much pleased to see them, and, with their usual blandness of manner, spoke about their respective families while their pastor and Elder Judge looked so grave as to make the Proctors think there was really something very depressing on their minds.

At last the pastor said in a most solemn manner, “Mr. and Mrs. Proctor, I and Elder Judge have called to see you this morning on a matter that is far from agreeable to us and may be to you—a matter that affects the interests of our Church, the interests of Christianity, and the interests of your family. It is indeed a most grave matter. It was thought that we had better call a Church meeting to look into it; but before doing so we decided that you should be seen about it.”

“Pray, Mr. Baker,” said Mr. Proctor, cutting him short, “pray, what is the matter! Do let us know without any ceremony.”

“It is a matter which I am deeply pained to name. It concerns you and your wife. The fact is simply this. It is reported throughout the town that a certain gentleman, whose name I need not state, was passing your house the night before last, when he saw you chasing your wife round the room in a most furious manner, with a fire-shovel in your hand, meaning to inflict bodily harm upon her.”

The words had barely escaped the lips of the pastor ere the Proctors, both together, burst into a loud laugh, which even shocked the gravity for a moment of the pastor and Elder Judge.

“But Mr. and Mrs. Proctor,” said Elder Judge, “I hope you will look upon this affair in a different way to that.”

“We cannot,” said Mr. Proctor; “the thing to which you refer is so perfectly ludicrous. Let me tell you the fact in a word. That night Mrs. Proctor came into the sitting-room from the shop terribly frightened with what she said was a mouse under her dress. In her fright she ran round the room thinking to shake the vermin from her clothes, and I took the fire-shovel and ran after her with a view to kill the mouse. So that is the sum of the matter.”

The pastor and Elder Judge here looked each other in the face and laughed heartily; and seemed relieved of a great burden. Instead of seeking to do his wife bodily harm, Mr. Proctor was only in pursuit of a mouse which had overreached its legitimate boundaries and found its way into a foreign territory.

Although the facts as thus discovered were ludicrous, the results might have been serious. For while the pastor and the elder were thus ascertaining the facts, the Readys, and Smiths, and a whole clique of kindred spirits with Mr. Bounce, were keeping up the circulation of the scandal; and notwithstanding the pastor and his elder instantly began to correct the mischief, it was a long time before the general impression died out that Proctor was chasing his wife with the intention of beating her. In fact, Mr. Bounce himself, and Mrs. Bounce, his wife, with several others, always believed it to the day of their death; and ever and anon tried to do a little business in it by whisperings; but they found no custom, unless with an occasional new-comer into the neighbourhood, or with some one who owed the Proctors a little spite.

Mr. Webster, of Necham, was much given to the habit of making mischief by his talk. At one time he did great damage to a Church and its minister, of which the following may be taken as an illustration:—

“You have had a new minister come among you lately, I understand,” said Mr. Webster one day to Mr. Watson.

“Yes, we have.”

“What is his name?”

“His name is Mr. Good.”

“Did not he come from Stukely to your place?”

“I believe he did,” replied Mr. Watson.

“I thought it was the same man.”

“Do you know him, Mr. Webster?”

“I cannot say that I do, but I have heard of him. I know some of the members of his former Church. In fact, I have just come from the neighbourhood in which he laboured before he came to you.”

It may be well to say here, that Mr. Watson had never heard, as yet, anything prejudicial to his Minister. He, with the whole Church, seemed to think highly of him, and to be satisfied with him in all respects.

“How is he liked?” inquired Mr. Webster.

“I, for one, like him very much,” said Mr. Watson; “and I think all that have heard him do.”

“I hope you may always like him; but if all that is said about him be true, I think you won’t like him long. In fact, I should not like him at all.”

“Mr. Webster, what have you to say against Mr. Good?”

“I have nothing to say, but others have. My information has come from other people, and people, too, on whom I can rely.”

Mr. Watson very naturally began to feel rather curious to learn the meaning of these innuendoes. He did not know but all that Mr. Webster had heard was perfectly correct; because he thought it quite possible for Mr. Good to satisfy them for a few weeks and not for years. He was a stranger among them, and when he should be more fully known it may be that he would not prove to be what he now seemed. He began to reason, and then to doubt and suspect.

“What have you heard of Mr. Good?” asked Mr. Watson.

“I will tell you. I am told that he was at Stukely only a few months, when the people resolved to dismiss him from their Church.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Watson, with astonishment.

“I have heard,” said Mr. Webster, “that he is a quarrelsome kind of man, and always dunning for money; that he didn’t preach well enough for them. In fact there is no end to the stories which they have to say about him.”

“But it may be,” said Watson, “that the fault was not in Mr. Good. There are faulty people, you know, as well as faulty ministers.”

“But from what I hear the fault was all in Mr. Good. I am pretty well acquainted with the folk at Stukely.”

“So you may be, and yet in this instance they may be more blamable than he. I have seen nothing as yet to create suspicion in respect to him. I think he is a good man and a good preacher. And if he continue as he has begun, there is the promise of great prosperity from his labours. We must take men as we find them, Mr. Webster; and whatever we might hear against them, we should believe them innocent until they are proved guilty. I have no doubt that a great proportion of your intelligence is scandal, created and set afloat by some person or persons with whom, perhaps, he had been more faithful than their sins would allow.”

“I hope it may turn out so,” said Mr. Webster; “but from all that I have heard I think you are mistaken in your view of him.”

Mr. Watson would not listen any longer to Webster, but bid him “good morning.” He could not, however, help thinking about what he had said: and although it did not affect his conduct towards his new minister, he could scarcely refrain an occasional thought that possibly there might be some truth in it. But he did not encourage it. Mr. Watson cherished the charity which “thinketh no evil.”

But while Mr. Watson was incredulous of the stories of Webster, there were others belonging to the congregation whose minds were always open to receive ill rumours derogatory to others. Mr. News-seeker and Mr. Reporter, with several of a similar class, soon had interviews with Webster, when they heard that he had been to Stukely. He spoke to them more freely than he did to Mr. Watson, because they had willing ears and believing hearts. As soon as they had heard all he had to say, they went about their business, and almost every one they met the first thing they said was, “Mr. Webster, of Necham, has been to Stukely, the scene of Mr. Good’s last labours. He has heard strange things about him. If they are true, and there seems to be little doubt of them, he will not suit us, and the sooner we get rid of him the better.” This statement excited curiosity at once, and the question was immediately put, “What does he say?”

“He says a great many things, I tell you,” said Mr. Reporter.

“Well now,” said Old Surmise, “do you know that I have had my suspicions several times as to the genuineness of our new preacher. My suspicions are now confirmed. I do not think I can hear him preach any more with pleasure.”

“If you can, I can’t, and I won’t,” said Mrs. Rash, in great excitement.

The matter now spread like the light. It got into everybody’s ears, and came forth from their mouths much magnified. A great change came over the Church and congregation in regard to Mr. Good. Some said one thing and some said another. The balance, however, went against him. What was being said reached his ears, and he was astonished at the things he heard. It deeply affected him, as we may suppose. He observed a change in the congregation and in the feeling of many of the people towards him. In conversation one day with Mr. Watson, he asked him what he thought was the cause of the changed feeling in the Church towards him. Mr. Watson told him what he had heard, but as he did not as yet believe any of the stories, he would like to hear Mr. Good’s own statement of things. Mr. Good gave him a minute and faithful account of everything that had taken place between him and the Church at Stukely. It was just as Mr. Watson expected. He was confirmed in his confidence in Mr. Good, and used all his influence to suppress the scandal which was spreading, and to restore right feeling in the Church towards their Minister; but Mr. Watson was not equal to this. The fire had burnt too far and too deep to be quenched. The suspicion and prejudice excited could not be destroyed. Mr. Good wept over the state of things. He felt that the tide was too strong for him to stem. He saw that his usefulness was at an end so far as this Church was concerned. He resolved to give in his resignation, and to live a year or two in retirement from the ministry until the storm had swept away into the ocean of air.

A short time after Mr. Good had resigned his ministry, Mr. Webster met with Mr. Watson again.

“You have had fine times,” he said, “in your Church with Mr. Good, haven’t you?”

“What do you mean by ‘fine times’?” asked Mr. Watson.

“O, why, he has been playing the same games with you as he did with the Church at Stukely, hasn’t he?”

“Mr. Good has been playing no games with us, Mr. Webster, nor did he play any with the people at Stukely,” said Mr. Watson, rather warmly.

“Well, I have been informed so, anyhow.”

“So you may have been, Mr. Webster; but your information in this, as in that you brought from Stukely, is almost altogether fabulous. It is scandal which you hear and which you repeat. There is not a word of truth as you state matters. I have heard an account of the whole affair at Stukely from an authority which is as reliable as any you could possibly adduce. I have every reason for thinking that the parties who informed you are influenced by the basest malice and ill-humour. Mr. Good stands as fair now before my eyes and the eyes of all decent people as he did the first day he came amongst us. It is only such as you, who delight in hearing and spreading scandal, that are prejudiced against him; and such, too, as are influenced by your libellous reports. It is a shame, Mr. Webster, that you, a man who pretends to membership in a Christian Church, should be guilty of believing malicious reports respecting a Christian minister, and more particularly that you should spread them abroad in the very neighbourhood where he labours. This is a conduct far beneath a man of honour, of charity, and self-respect.”

“Are you intending this lecture for me, Mr. Watson?” asked Webster, rather petulantly.

“I am, sir: and you deserve it, in much stronger language than I can use. You have been the means of blackening Mr. Good’s character in this place, when it was all clean and unimpeachable. You have been the means of weakening his influence in the pulpit, and out of the pulpit. You have injured him, injured his wife and family; and the good man, through you, has been obliged to give in his resignation as our pastor.”

“Through me, do you say, Mr. Watson?”

“Yes, sir, through you.”

“How can that be?”

“It was you who brought the scandal into the neighbourhood: who told it to Newsman and Reporter and everybody you met with, until your scandal grew as mushrooms in every family of the congregation. It became the talk of all. Many kept from church. They suspected Mr. Good: more than this, they accused him in their conversation of many things inconsistent with a minister; and how could they receive benefit from his preaching, even if they went to hear him? Yes, sir, you have been the cause of the ‘fine times,’ as you call them, in our Church, and not Mr. Good.”

“I am sorry for it.”

“Well, sir, if you are sorry for it, repent of it; forsake the evil of your doing. Give up the itching you have for scandal. Do not repeat things upon mere rumour; you have done more injury in this one case than you will do good if you live to be a hundred years old. Remember, Mr. Webster, what the Wise Man says, “He that uttereth slander is a fool.”

Mr. Webster shrunk away from Mr. Watson as one condemned in his own conscience. He evidently felt the keen remarks thus made; and I hope he became a reformed man in this regard, during his future life.

VI.

THE PLEONAST.

“This barren verbiage current among men.”—Tennyson.

The habit of this talker is to encumber his ideas with such a plethora of words as frequently prove fatal to their sense. Some of this class employ fine words because they are fine, with perfect indifference to the signification: others do it from “that fastidiousness,” as one says, “which makes some men walk on the highroad as if the whole business of their life was to keep their boots clean.”

Mr. Hill was a man very much accustomed to talk in this way. He had read little, but had studied the dictionary with considerable diligence. His ideas were few and far between, but his words were many and diversified, long and hard, sometimes connected in the most absurd and ludicrous manner. Most of the illiterate who heard him thought he was highly educated and intelligent, while men of taste and judgment considered him greatly deficient in the first rudiments of correct speaking.

Mr. Hill and his friend Mr. Pope made a call one day last spring upon Squire Foster. As they came to the front door of his house Mr. Hill said to Mr. Pope,—

“Will you do me the exuberant honour of agitating the communicator of the ingress door, that the maid may receive the information that some attendant individuals are leisurely waiting at the exterior of the mansion to propose their interrogatories after the resident proprietor.”

“Did you want me to pull the door bell for you?” asked Mr. Pope.

“If you have that extremely obliging state of mind, which will permit you to do that deed of exceeding condescension, I shall experience the deepest emotionals of unprecedented gratitude,” replied Mr. Hill.

“Why didn’t you say, If you please? and have done with it,” replied Mr. Pope, in a manner which indicated impatience at his gibberish.

The servant appeared and opened the door.

“Will you have the propitiousness, the kindness to stay and communicate unto me whether Squire Foster is in his residence?” said Mr. Hill.

The girl looked vacant, not knowing what to make of his question.

“What does the gentleman mean?” asked the servant of Mr. Pope.

“He wants to know if Squire Foster is at home.”

“Yes, sir, he is. Will you walk in?”

Mr. Hill and his friend were showed into the parlour, where they waited the coming of the Squire. After a brief interval “the resident proprietor” made his appearance.

“Ah, ah! how do you do, Mr. Hill? I am very glad to see you,” said the Squire, at the same time shaking him by the hand.

“I am in the highest state of excellent health, extremely obliged, Squire. I am sanguine to hope, sir, that you live in the felicity of enjoying, and possessing, and feeling an undistracted state of the physical constitution. Will you, Squire, give me the pleasure and allow me the happiness of introducing and bringing to your acquaintance my friend Mr. Pope? Squire Foster,—Mr. Pope.”

“How did you leave Mrs. Hill and family?” asked the Squire.

“It gives me no ordinary pain, and no usual grief, and no common sorrow, to inform and instruct you that I left Mrs. Hill, my dear wife, my choice companion, subject to, and suffering from, and enduring under, a severe and trying affectation of her respiratory organs, superinduced by an exaggerant cold, received, and taken, and caught by her the other day of last week, when we were travelling, and riding, and going to the village of Burnley. My little ones, my children, my offspring, Squire, I am excussitated to say, are in the finest, the best, the happiest state of their juvenile physique that I have ever known, remembered, and borne in mind.”

“How is your son John, the little fellow with whom I was so much pleased when I was at your house last?” enquired Squire Foster.

“He is a unique adolescent—a heavenly cherub. His excessively prodigious development of juvenile intellectual and religious numerous tendencies produce within me the largest, the greatest, the richest exquisite emotions of deep pleasurability, and profoundest sensations of unparalleled wonderment.”

“You are very eloquent this morning,” said the Squire, rather sarcastically.

Mr. Hill, considering himself a little flattered by this encomium, said, “My eloquence, sir, is the natural, the habitual, the spontaneous, the unprompted infusions of my own individuality of mental hallucinations, sparkling out in the scintillations which you do me the honour of denominating, and calling, and epithetising as eloquence.”

Mr. Hill was something of a transcendentalist in his way. The Squire was aware of his tendency in this direction, and not having a distinct idea of what his transcendentalism was, he ventured to ask him during the conversation to give him a definition of it. After a brief pause, as though Mr. Hill was meditating for a succinct and clear definition, he said,—

“I would define transcendentalism as the spiritual cognoscence of psychological irrefragability, connected with concuitant ademption of encolumnient spirituality, and etherealized contention of subsultory concretion.”

“That is transcendentalism, indeed!” exclaimed the Squire. “It goes beyond my understanding and comprehension.”

“I feel myself in the same predicament,” observed Mr. Pope, who up to this time had been silent during the desultory conversation of the Squire and Mr. Hill.

“From what stand-point (as the Germans would call it) do you gain that view of transcendentalism?” asked Mr. Pope.

“I have gained it from the esoteric stand-point of Christian exegetical analysis; and agglutinating the polsynthetical ectoblasts of homogeneous asceticism, I perceive at once the absolute individuality of this definition.”

“That is perfectly satisfactory,” said Mr. Pope, with a look and in a tone of keen irony.

I will not detain the reader any longer with specimens of the Pleonast in the person of Mr. Hill; but give a few others of a desultory character, with which I have met in reading and otherwise.

A certain gentleman was once speaking to a few friends on the subject of happiness, and in giving his experience as to where it could not be found, he is said have spoken thus,—

“I sought for happiness where it could not be found; I looked for felicity where it could not be discovered; I enquired after bliss in those places, situations, and circumstances which neither bliss, nor felicity, nor happiness ever visited. Thus it remained with little change, and continued without much alteration, all through the days of my youth, the years of my juvenility, and the period of my adolescence.”

“Is that really your experience?” said one who was listening; “and do you intend that as a caution to us against seeking happiness in the same way?”

“Most positively and assuredly I do. Profoundly impressed with the veracity of these sentiments, deeply sensible of their correctness, and heartily persuaded, and assured, and convinced of their consonance with truth, I urge and press upon your attention what I have above and before couched and expressed in such simple, and plain, and intelligible language, and language easily to be understood withal.”

A Pleonast, once speaking of a man who was found drowned in a canal in the neighbourhood where he lived, said,—

“He is supposed to have perpetrated, committed, and done, voluntary, willing, and of himself, destruction, suicide, and drowning, while in a mood of mental aberration, superinduced, brought about, and effected, by long indulgence in and continued habits of inhaling, drinking, and swallowing, to inebriation and drunkenness, intoxicating liquids.”

At one time, complaining of the effect of the air upon his lungs, which were rather delicate, the Pleonast said,—

“The ponderosity, the pressure of the ethereal elements, the regions of the atmosphere, the circumambient world, will not give me or allow me the full, the free, the unrestrained extent of liberty to exercise myself in the respiratory, functional faculties of my earthly human existence.”

The above illustrations may suffice to show how the Pleonast transgresses the propriety of speech in his conversation.

A person in talking should endeavour to use such words as will convey his meaning, and no more. Words are only the clothing of thought, and when too numerous they encumber instead of adorn. When improperly connected, as sometimes they are by the Pleonast, they amuse and entertain rather than instruct and edify. Given thoughts clear and simple, it will not be difficult to find words which will be simple and clear also. Language and thought thus harmonised will render the one that uses them an acceptable talker to be heard, rather than a Pleonast to be ridiculed.

VII.

THE SELF-DISPARAGER.

“The love of praise, howe’er concealed by art,
Reigns, more or less, and glows in every heart;
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure,
The modest shun it, but to make it sure.”

Young.

This is a talker not unfrequently met with. He speaks in disparaging terms of himself and his doings, not so much because he means you to understand him as he speaks, as that he either feigns humility or desires you to look more favourably upon him than you do, and say to him, “O dear no, you are quite wrong in your judgment. I see very differently; and think, Mr. Baker, that you injure yourself and your performances by talking as you do.”

If you speak in words of honest praise of some good feature of his character, or of something he has done or possesses, he says in effect, “I wish it was even as you say; but you are mistaken. I have no such trait as you refer to, and what I have done is far from deserving the eulogium you have passed upon it. I am a very poor creature, and have no such goodness as you attribute to me, and am not capable of doing any such good work as you say I have done.”

Miss Slater was a young lady generally acknowledged to possess good taste and refined judgment. She was also considered to be honest in spirit and candid in her expression of opinion. What she said she meant, whether in praise or in censure; and no one could say she was a flatterer or a cynic.

On a certain occasion, in conversation with Miss Button, she observed to her, “I was much pleased with that landscape painting which I saw in your parlour the last time I was at your house. Your mother said that it was one you did while at Manor House School.”

“Yes, Miss Slater,” she replied, “it was done by me; but it is a very inferior piece; not half so good as it might have been.”

“I think it is very good indeed: so true to nature. The trees, the clouds, the birds, the river, and in fact the whole of it commends itself to my approval. It does you great credit and contains very good promise for the future, if you continue in the exercise of painting.”

“You are, indeed, quite mistaken in your judgment, Miss Slater. It is really not up to most of my other paintings. I am ashamed of it, and have often said it is not worthy the beautiful frame which father had made for it.”

Now, if Miss Slater had expressed herself in censure upon any particular part, Miss Button would probably have shown signs of uneasiness, if not displeasure.

Under this class of talkers may be mentioned those professors of religion who affect failings which they know they have not, and who acknowledge sins of which they know they are not guilty, for the sake of being reckoned among those who make a merit of “voluntary humility.” They are among the “most unworthy of God’s saints.” They are the “vilest of the vile,” “not fit to have a name or a place among Christ’s people;” “their righteousness is filthy rags;” they are the “chief of sinners.”

Now, there is little doubt that these words are perfectly true; only, the question is, whether they themselves really believe them to be so. It often occurs that these “great sinners,” these “vilest of the vile,” while forward to say such things of themselves, are the last to admit them as true when said of them by others.

This reminds one of an instance in which a member of a Church was giving way to this kind of self-disparagement, when a fellow member responding to him said, “True, my brother, you are among the greatest of sinners;” when he instantly warmed up in self-defence, and replied, “I am no greater sinner than you are; look at home before you accuse other people.”

It also reminds one of the old story of the monk who heard the confession of a certain cardinal. “I am the chief of sinners,” said the cardinal. “It is true,” said the monk. “I have been guilty of every kind of sin,” sighed the cardinal. “It is a solemn fact, my son,” said the monk. “I have indulged in pride, in ambition, malice, and revenge,” continued his Eminence. The provoking confessor assented without one pitying word of doubt or protest. “Why you fool,” at last said the exasperated cardinal, “you don’t imagine I mean all this to the letter?” “Ho, ho!” said the monk, “so you have been a liar too have you?”

Now, in all such cases as the above, it is not difficult to perceive the want of sincerity; and to talk in that way is anything but wise and consistent. While, on the one hand, it is unseemly to praise ourselves, it is, on the other, equally uncalled for to disparage ourselves. There is a proper place in which a man should stand in respect to himself as in respect to others. Towards himself let there be a dignified modesty, and towards others a respectful acknowledgment of any sincere commendation which may be given of his character and of his works. In all our personal confessions, either before men or God, let us endeavour to mean what we say and not act the hypocrite, that we may obtain the eulogium from others or from ourselves, what “humble and self-renouncing Christians we are.”

Under this class of talkers there is another character which we wish to illustrate, viz., the household-wife, whose “house is never clean, and whose food is never such as is fit to place before you.”

In a certain part of England, long celebrated for being a stronghold of Methodism, there is a small village, very beautiful for situation, and well known among the lovers of rural retreats. In this said village there lived a farmer and his wife, without children, who belonged to the Methodist Church. Squire Hopkins, which we shall call him, was a man of some note in the village, for his intelligence, influence, and character. Even the parson had a good word to say of him, and was not above holding a brief conversation with him, when he met him in the lane on the left side of the church. The Squire was a man who never was ashamed of his name as a Methodist, whether in the presence of the poor, the rich, or the clergyman. He had stood for many years a member, trustee, and steward in the Methodist Church. With all these honours, and the good-will of almost the entire village, the Squire was an unassuming and quiet man. His religion to him was more than all Church honours and worldly good opinions. His house was the home of the “travelling preachers,” when, in their appointments, they came to the village to preach. And a right sort of a home it was too, clean, airy, pleasant, and possessing all things requisite to convenience and comfort. There was, however, one drawback in the happiness of this home. Excellent Sister Hopkins was afflicted with one failing, which could not be hid from those who visited her house. The weakness to which we allude was on the one side of it, the love of praise; and on the other side, the disparaging of herself and her doings. This she did that she might obtain the other. She disparaged, that you might praise. We do not say she did not deserve praise, but that her way of seeking it was neither wise nor commendable.

Sister Hopkins had so habituated herself to this way of speaking, that it was difficult for her to avoid it. As a housewife she was unexceptionable. She was careful to have everything in the most cleanly and orderly condition. She was an excellent cook, and the Squire an excellent provider, so that their table was always well spread, whenever good cheer was required. And yet you could not enter the house without being reminded that her “husband had company yesterday, and she could not keep the rooms half so decent as she would like;” and when you sat down to her table, covered with the best provisions, prepared in the best style of the cookery art, she was sorry that she “had so little, and so badly cooked.” She had been doing this or that, busy here or there, that she “really had not such things as she would have liked to have had, and you must excuse it this time.” It did not signify how bountiful or well-prepared the meal was, there was always sure to be something wanting which would be a text for a short sermon on self-disparagement.

On one occasion a minister was at breakfast when the table was well stocked with everything which could be desired—coffee of the finest flavour, tea of the richest kind, cream and butter fresh from the dairy, chickens swimming in gravy, with various kinds of preserves, and other things of a spicy and confectionery sort. No sooner had her guest begun to partake of her hospitality than Mrs. Hopkins commenced. She was afraid the coffee was not so good as it might have been, the cream and butter were not so fresh as she should have liked them, the chickens were hardly roasted enough, and as for the preserves, they had been boiled too much, through the carelessness of Mary, the servant. She meant to have had something better for breakfast, but had been disappointed; and it was too bad that there was nothing nice for him to eat.

All this was very heavy for her guest to bear. He simply remarked that “there was no need for apologies; everything was very good, and there was plenty of it.”

We will now introduce another person to the reader in connection with Mrs. Hopkins. It is Superintendent Robson, who had just come on the circuit. He was a good man, plain, homely, practical. Like Mr. Wesley, he no more dare preach a fine sermon than wear a fine coat. Such was the action of his religion upon his conscience. He was well known for his common-sense way of teaching the truths of the Bible. He would speak just as he thought and as he felt, although he might offend Miss Precision and Mr. Itchingear. He gained the name of being an eccentric preacher, as most preachers do who never prevaricate and always speak as they think. The failing of Sister Hopkins had reached the ears of Superintendent Robson. He had no patience with such a failing, and he was resolved to cure her. On his first visit to the village to preach, he stopped, according to custom, at Squire Hopkins’s. Thomas, the ostler, took the preacher’s horse, and the preacher entered the house. He was shown into the best room, and from all appearances felt quite at home. Everything was in perfect order and cleanliness, fit for the reception of a prince. The preacher had not been seated long, scarcely long enough to pass the usual interchange of first salutations and enquiries, when Mrs. Hopkins began in her old style to say she was “sorry that things were so untidy; her house was upside down; she was mortified to be found in such a plight; she really hoped before his arrival to have had all things in such order as she always liked to see them. She hoped he would excuse their being so.” Superintendent Robson looked around and about the room in all directions, to find out the terrible confusion to which his hostess alluded; but he said not a word. Shortly after the dinner was announced as ready; and as this was the first visit of the preacher, particular attention had been given to have a table spread with more than usual good things. The preacher, however, found from the Squire’s wife that there was hardly anything for dinner, and what there was she was ashamed for him to sit down to. The Superintendent heard her in mute astonishment. He lifted his dark eyes, and looking her in the face with penetration and austerity, he rose gently from the table and said,—

“Brother Hopkins, I want my horse immediately; I must leave this house.”

“Why, Brother Robson, what is the matter?”

“Enough the matter! Why, sir, your house isn’t fit to stay in, and you haven’t anything fit to eat or drink, and I won’t stay.”

The preacher mounted his horse and took his departure.

Both the Squire and his lady were confounded at such unexpected conduct. They stood in their room as though thunderstruck, not knowing what to say or what to do. But the preacher was gone, and could not be re-called.

After a few moments poor Sister Hopkins wept like a child. “Dear me,” said she to the Squire, “this is a terrible thing. It will be all over the village, and everybody will be laughing at me. How shall I meet the Superintendent again? I did not mean anything by what I said; it is only my way. I never thought it wrong. Had I known our new minister didn’t like such a way of talk I would not have talked so. Oh, how vexed I am!”

The result of this was that Mrs. Hopkins saw herself as others saw her. She ceased making these empty and meaningless apologies, and became a wiser and better woman. The next time Superintendent Robson went to the Squire’s he found a “house fit for him to stay in and things fit for him to eat.”

VIII.

THE COMMON SWEARER.

“Take not His name, who made thy tongue, in vain,
It gets thee nothing, and hath no excuse.”

Herbert.

He is a transgressor of the third commandment of the Decalogue, “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.” He transgresses without any laudable purpose, and without any necessity. He is thoughtless, foolish, and void of the fear of God. “His mouth,” as an old divine says, “is black with oaths, and the very soot of hell hangs about his lips.” He degrades the most excellent things into the meanest associations. Sometimes he indulges to such an extent in his sin, that the main substance of his speech is swearing. It is more than an adjunct or concomitant of his conversation; it is the body and soul of it. Sometimes you may hear him, with an air of self-complacency, give utterance to his profanity, as though he regarded it an ornament of rhetoric, giving spice and condiment to his thoughts. There are occasions when he considers his talk only reliable in its truthfulness as this evil accompanies it. He would not be a man in his own judgment if he did not swear. He thinks he magnifies his own importance in the estimation of other people; but, alas! he promotes his own shame and disgrace before the eyes of the wise and good.

The common swearer is confined to no rank or age in society. I have heard the youth who was barely in his teens indulge in this sin, as though it had been a part of his parental or day-school education. I have heard the young gentleman, so-called, recently returned from the walks of a University, pollute his lips and character with this shameful vice. I have heard the man who laid claim to wealth, to intelligence, to respectability, and to honour, pour forth his swearing words. I have heard the man who has stood in official relation to the state, and who considered himself a “justice of the peace,” break the holy commandment with impunity. I have even heard one, called by the misnomer, “lady,” do disgrace to her sex by this sinful fault in conversation. In the household, with a group of little ones whose minds were just unfolding to receive first impressions, I have heard the parents swear as though they were licensed to do so by reason. In company, where common civility ought to have restrained, I have heard the utterances of the swearer’s horrid voice. In the street, where public decency ought to have deterred, I have again and again heard the revolting expressions of this talker’s leprous tongue. In the shop, while transacting business, I have heard him give vent to his blasphemies, when a kind reproof has only seemed for the time to enrage his demoniacal spirit to more fiery ebullitions. How humiliating is this sin to human nature! How it severs from everything that is holy and honourable! How it insults and blasphemes the glorious Lord of earth and heaven! How closely it allies to “the prince of the power of the air”!

“It might puzzle a philosopher,” says Ogden, “to trace the love of swearing to its original principle, and assign its place in the constitution of man.

“Is it a passion, or an appetite, or an instinct? What is its just measure, its proper object, its ultimate end?

“Or shall we conclude that it is entirely the work of art? a vice which men have invented for themselves without prospect of pleasure or profit, and to which there is no imaginable temptation in nature?

“If it be an accomplishment, it is such an one as the meanest person may make himself master of; requiring neither rank nor fortune, neither genius nor learning.

“But if it be no test of wit, we must allow, perhaps, that it wears the appearance of valour. Alas! what is the appearance of anything? The little birds perch upon the image of an eagle.

“True bravery is sedate and inoffensive: if it refuse to submit to insults, it offers none; begins no disputes, enters into no needless quarrels; is above the little, troublesome ambition to be distinguished every moment; it hears in silence, and replies with modesty; fearing no enemy, and making none; and is as much ashamed of insolence as cowardice.”

The swearer may ask, “Where is the evil of an oath when it is used for the support of truth?” If your character is good, the person with whom you converse will require no oath. He will depend upon the simple and bare declaration of the matter: and if you swear, it will take a per-centage from your character in his estimation, and he will not believe the statement any the sooner for the oath connected with it. Can you think that the high and holy name of God is intended to be debased by association with every trivial and impertinent truth which may be uttered? “No oath,” says Bishop Hopkins, “is in itself simply good, and voluntarily to be used; but only as medicines are, in case of necessity. But to use it ordinarily and indifferently, without being constrained by any cogent necessity, or called to it by any lawful authority, is such a sin as wears off all reverence and dread of the Great God: and we have very great cause to suspect that where His name is so much upon the tongue, there His fear is but little in the heart.”

Again, the same author says, “Though thou swearest that which is true; yet customary swearing to truths will insensibly bring thee to swear falsehoods. For, when once thou art habituated to it, an oath will be more ready to thee than a truth; and so when thou rashly boltest out somewhat that is either doubtful or false, thou wilt seal it up and confirm it with an oath, before thou hast had time to consider what thou hast said or what thou art swearing: for those who accustom themselves to this vice lose the observation of it in the frequency; and, if you reprove them for swearing, they will be ready to swear again, that they did not swear. And therefore it is well observed of St. Austin, ‘We ought to forbear swearing that which is truth; for, by the custom of swearing, men oftentimes fall into perjury, and are always in danger of it.’”

Take a few considerations, with a view to show the evil of swearing, and to deter from the practice of it.

1. Consider that Name by which the Swearer generally commits his sin. “The name of God,” says Jeremy Taylor, “is so sacred, so mighty, that it rends mountains, it opens the bowels of the deepest rocks, it casts out devils, and makes hell to tremble, and fills all the regions of heaven with joy; the name of God is our strength and confidence, the object of our worshippings, and the security of all our hopes; and when God hath given Himself a name, and immured it with dread and reverence, like the garden of Eden with the swords of cherubim, and none durst speak it but he whose lips were hallowed, and that at holy and solemn times, in a most holy and solemn place; I mean the high priest of the Jews at the solemnities when he entered into the sanctuary,—then He taught all the world the majesty and veneration of His name; and therefore it was that God made restraints upon our conceptions and expressions of Him; and, as He was infinitely curious, that, from all appearances He made to them, they should not depict or engrave any image of Him; so He took care that even the tongue should be restrained, and not be too free in forming images and representments of His name; and therefore as God drew their eyes from vanity, by putting His name amongst them, and representing no shape; so even when He had put His name amongst them, He took it off from the tongue, and placed it before the eye; for Jehovah was so written on the priest’s mitre, that all might see and read, but none speak it but the priest. But besides all this, there is one great thing concerning the name of God, beyond all that can be spoken or imagined else; and that is, that when God the Father was pleased to pour forth all His glories, and imprint them upon His Holy Son, in His exaltation, it was by giving Him His holy name, the Tetragrammaton, or Jehovah made articulate, to signify ‘God manifested in the flesh;’ and so He wore the character of God, and became the bright image of His person.

“Now all these great things concerning the name of God are infinite reproofs of common and vain swearing by it. God’s name is left us here to pray by, to hope in, to be the instrument and conveyance of our worshippings, to be the witness of truth and the judge of secrets, the end of strife and the avenger of perjury, the discerner of right and the severe exactor of all wrongs; and shall all this be unhallowed by impudent talking of God without sense or fear, or notice, or reverence, or observation?”

2. The uselessness of swearing. “Surely,” says Dr. Barrow, “of all dealers in sin the swearer is palpably the silliest, and maketh the worst bargains for himself; for he sinneth gratis, and, like those in the prophet, selleth his soul for nothing. An epicure hath some reason to allege; an extortioner is a man of wisdom, and acteth prudently in comparison to him; for they enjoy some pleasure, or acquire some gain here, in lieu of their salvation hereafter: but this fondling offendeth heaven, and abandoneth happiness, he knoweth not why or for what. He hath not so much as the common plea of human infirmity to excuse him; he can hardly say he was tempted thereto by any bait.”

The following incident will illustrate the senselessness of swearing as frequently practised:—

Three travellers in a coach endeavoured to shorten the tedious hours by relating stories. One of them, an officer, who had seen much of the world, spoke of his past dangers, and former comrades, in so interesting a manner, that his companions would have been charmed with his recitals had he not interspersed them with continual oaths and imprecations. When he had finished his tale, an elderly gentleman, who had not yet spoken, was asked for a story. Without hesitation he thus commenced his narration:—

“Gentlemen, it is now nearly twenty years since I was travelling on this road, on a very dark night, when—a thousand trumpets, pipes, and strings!—an accident occurred,—trumpets, pipes, and strings!—of which I cannot even now think without shuddering. I truly believe—trumpets, pipes, and strings!—that it happened on the very spot which we are now passing. The coach was going on at the usual speed of—trumpets, pipes, and strings!—when we were suddenly alarmed by the noise of horses galloping after us.—Trumpets, pipes, and strings!—We distinctly heard voices crying, ‘Stop! stop!’—trumpets, pipes, and strings!—said I to my companions, ‘We are pursued by robbers!’—trumpets, pipes, and strings!—‘It is not possible,’ cried the other travellers.—Pipes and strings!—‘Oh, yes,’ said I, ‘it is but too true,’ and on looking out of the window, I saw that those—trumpets, pipes, and strings!—horsemen had overtaken us. Just as the carriage—trumpets, pipes, and——”

Here the officer’s impatience could no longer be restrained. “I hope you will excuse my interrupting you, sir,” said he, “but for the life of me I cannot see what your trumpets, pipes, and strings have to do with your story.”

“Sir,” replied the old man, “you astonish me. Have you not perceived that these words are quite as necessary to my tale as the oaths and imprecations with which you seasoned yours? Allow me to offer you a few words of counsel: you are yet young, you can yet correct this sad habit, which shows lightness of character and disrespect for God’s sacred name and presence.”

There was a moment’s silence, the officer then took the old gentleman’s hand, and pressing it with emotion, said,—

“Sir, I thank you for the kind lesson you have taught me; I hope it will not be in vain.”

3. The incivility of swearing. “Some vain persons,” says Dr. Barrow again, “take it for a genteel and graceful thing, a special accomplishment, a mark of fine breeding, a point of high gallantry; for who, forsooth, is the brave spark, the complete gentleman, the man of conversation and address, but he that hath the skill and confidence (O heavens! how mean a skill! how mad a confidence!) to lard every sentence with an oath or curse; making bold at every turn to salute his Maker, or to summon Him in attestation of his tattle; not to say calling and challenging the Almighty to damn and destroy him? Such a conceit, I say, too many have of swearing, because a custom thereof, together with divers other fond and base qualities, hath prevailed among some people bearing the name and garb of gentlemen.

“But in truth there is no practice more crossing the genuine nature of genteelness, or misbecoming persons well-born and well-bred; who should excel the rude vulgar in goodness, in courtesy, in nobleness of heart, in unwillingness to offend, and readiness to oblige those with whom they converse, in steady composedness of mind and manners, in disdaining to say or do any unworthy, any unhandsome thing.

“For this practice is not only a gross rudeness towards the main body of men, who justly reverence the name of God, and detest such an abuse thereof; not only, further, an insolent defiance of the common profession, the religion, the law of our country, which disalloweth and condemneth it; but it is very odious and offensive to any particular society or company, at least wherein there is any sober person, any who retaineth a sense of goodness, or is anywise concerned for God’s honour; for to any such person no language can be more disgustful. Nothing can more grate his ears, or fret his heart, than to hear the sovereign object of his love and esteem so mocked and slighted; to see the law of his Prince so disloyally infringed, so contemptuously trampled on; to find his best Friend and Benefactor so outrageously abused. To give him the lie were a compliment, to spit in his face were an obligation, in comparison to this usage.

“Wherefore it is a wonder that any person of rank, any that hath in him a spark of ingenuity, or doth at all pretend to good manners, should find in his heart, or deign to comply with so scurvy a fashion; a fashion much more befitting the scum of the people than the flower of the gentry; yea, rather much below any man endued with a scrap of reason, or a grain of goodness. Would we bethink ourselves, modest, sober, and pertinent discourse would appear far more generous and masculine than such mad hectoring the Almighty, such boisterous insulting over the received laws and general notions of mankind, such ruffianly swaggering against sobriety and goodness. If gentlemen would regard the virtues of their ancestors, the founders of their quality; that gallant courage, that solid wisdom, that noble courtesy which advanced their families, and severed them from the vulgar; this degenerate wantonness and sordidness of language would return to the dunghill, or rather, which God grant, be quite banished from the world.”

4. The positive scriptural commands against swearing. “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh His name in vain.” “Ye shall not swear by any name falsely, neither shalt thou profane the name of thy God: I am the Lord.” The Christian Lawgiver thus utters His voice, “Ye have heard that it hath been said by them of old time, Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths: but I say unto you, Swear not at all: neither by heaven, for it is God’s throne: nor by the earth, for it is His footstool: neither by Jerusalem, for it is the city of the great King. Neither shalt thou swear by thy head, because thou canst not make one hair white or black.” St. James thus utters the inspiration of the Spirit: “But above all things, my brethren, swear not, neither by heaven, neither by the earth, neither by any other oath: but let your yea be yea, and your nay, nay: lest ye fall into condemnation.”

It is the duty of all who reverence the name of God, and desire not sin upon their brother, to stand up in firm fidelity, to reprove and correct this evil as it may come before them. The following instances illustrate how this may be done.

“My lads,” said a shrewd captain, when reading his orders to the crew on the quarter-deck, to take command of the ship, “there is a favour which I ask of you, and which, as a British officer, I expect will be granted by a crew of British seamen; what say you lads, are you willing to grant your new captain, who promises to treat you well, one favour?”

“Hi, hi, sir,” cried all hands, “please to let’s know what it is, sir,” said a rough-looking, hoarse-voiced boatswain.

“Why, my lads,” said the captain, “it is this: that you must allow me to swear the first oath in this ship; this is a law which I cannot dispense with; I must insist upon it, I cannot be denied. No man on board must swear an oath before I do; I want to have the privilege of swearing the first oath on board H.M.S. C——. What say you, my lads, will you grant me this favour?”

The appeal seemed so reasonable, and the manner of the captain so kind and so prepossessing, that a general burst from the ship’s company announced, “Hi, hi, sir,” with their accustomed three cheers, when they left the quarter-deck. The effect was good, swearing was wholly abolished in the ship.

When the Rev. Rowland Hill was returning from Ireland, he found himself much annoyed by the reprobate conduct of the captain and mate, who were sadly given to the scandalous habit of swearing. First the captain swore at the mate, then the mate swore at the captain; then they both swore at the winds. Mr. Hill called to them for “fair play.”

“Stop, stop,” said he; “let us have fair play, gentlemen; it is my turn now.”

“At what is it your turn?” asked the captain.

“At swearing,” replied Mr. Hill.

Well, they waited and waited, until their patience was exhausted, and they wished Mr. Hill to make haste and take his turn. He told them, however, that he had a right to take his own time, and swear at his own convenience.

The captain replied with a laugh, “Perhaps you don’t mean to take your turn!”

“Pardon me, captain,” answered Mr. Hill, “I shall do so as soon as I can find the good of doing it.”

Mr. Hill did not hear another oath on the voyage.

John Wesley was once travelling in a stage-coach with a young officer who was exceedingly profane, and who swore curses upon himself in almost every sentence. Mr. Wesley asked him if he had read the Common Prayer Book; for if he had, he might remember the collect beginning, “O God, Who art wont to give more than we are to pray, and art wont to give more than either we desire or deserve.” The young man had the good sense to make the application, and swear no more during the journey.

On another occasion Mr. Wesley was travelling, when he had as a fellow-passenger one who was intelligent and very agreeable in conversation, with the exception of occasional swearing. When they changed coaches at a certain place, Mr. Wesley took the gentleman aside, and after expressing the general pleasure he had had in his company, said he had one favour to ask of him. He at once replied, “I will take great pleasure in obliging you, for I am sure you will not make an unreasonable request.” “Then,” said Mr. Wesley, “as we have to travel together some distance, I beg, if I should so far forget myself as to swear, you will kindly reprove me.” The gentleman immediately saw the reason and force of the request, and smiling, said, “None but Mr. Wesley could have conceived a reproof in such a manner.”

IX.

THE AFFECTED.

“All affectation is vain and ridiculous; it is the attempt of poverty to appear rich.”—Lavater.

This is a talker with whom one sometimes meets in society. He is not generally very difficult to recognise. His physiognomy often indicates the class to which he belongs. He has sometimes a peculiar formation of mouth, which you may notice as the result of his affectation in speaking. His voice, too, is frequently indicative of his fault. It is pathetic, joyous, funereal, strong, weak, squeaking, not according to its own naturalness, but according to the affectation of his mind. And these variations are generally the opposite of what they ought to be. They neither harmonise with the subject spoken of, nor the person speaking.

Affectation is a fault which attaches itself to a certain class of “young ladies and gentlemen” who have spent a few months in a village academy or a city school, and wish to give to their friends and parents unmistakeable evidence of their success in the acquisition of learning. It also belongs to a limited class of young ladies who have advanced somewhere the other side of thirty, and begin to stand in fear of a slip. Their affectation, it is hoped, will be very winning upon the affections of a peculiar sort of young gentlemen who have gone so far in life that they are almost resolved to go all the way without any companion to accompany them. It is a fault, too, which often clings to another class of society,—that which, by a sudden elevation of fortune, are raised from the walks of poverty into the ranks of the wealthy. The elevation of their circumstances has not elevated their education, their intelligence, their good manners. Nevertheless, they affect an equality in these, and at the same time sadly betray the reality of their origin and training.

This affectation in talk as well as in other ways mostly develops itself in society which is supposed to be higher than the parties affected. The ignorant talker is affected in the company of the intelligent; the uneducated in the company of the educated; the poor in the company of the rich; the young lady in the company of the one who is superior to her, and into whose heart she wishes to distil a drop or two of Cupid’s elixir.

Not only, however, among these is the affected talker to be found. He is sometimes met with in those who are supposed to have acquired such attainments in self-knowledge and education as to lift them above this objectionable habit. A clergyman of considerable popularity on a certain occasion was observed to give utterance to his thoughts thus, “The sufferings of the poo-ah increase with the approach of wint-ah; and the glaurious gos-pill is the only cu-ah of all the ills of suffering hoo-man-e-tee.” On another occasion, the same accomplished minister was heard to address himself with much eloquence to the ungodly portion of his congregation: “O sin-nah, the judgment is ne-ah; life is but a va-pah. He that hath ears to ye-ah, let him ye-ah.”

A person of respectable position and intelligence, addicted to this way of speaking, in giving account of a visit he had recently made to a man in dying circumstances, said, “When I arrove at the house of my deseased friend, he was perspiring his last. I stood by his bedside, and said, as he was too far gone to speak, ‘Brother, if you feel happy now, jist squeze my hand;’ and he squoze it.”

But wherever and in whomsoever this fault is discernible, it is a creature of ignorance and weakness. It is repulsive. It is simply detestible; in some, more than in others. There is no fault so easily discovered, and there is none so quickly denounced. The affected talker is one of the most disagreeable talkers. If there is no moral defect in him, yet there is want of good taste, want of propriety, want of respect to the taste of others, violence offered to his own natural gifts and acquired abilities. There is a degree of deception and imposture in the action, if not in the motive and the result: an effort to produce an impression contrary to the honest and natural state of the agent. But it is rarely the effort succeeds in attaining its object. Mind is too discerning, too apprehensive, too inquisitive, too susceptible, to allow of imposition from such a source. There seems to be an instinct in human nature to resist the influences coming from affectation. It almost invariably fails to accomplish its end. There is no innocent faulty talker so little welcomed into company as the affected.

In illustration of this character still further the following is quoted from the Spectator, No. 38:—

“A late conversation which I fell into, gave me an opportunity of observing a great deal of beauty in a very handsome woman, and as much wit in an ingenious man, turned into deformity in the one, and absurdity in the other, by the mere force of affectation. The fair one had something in her person (upon which her thoughts were fixed) that she attempted to show to advantage, in every look, word, and gesture. The gentleman was as diligent to do justice to his fine parts as the lady to her beauteous form. You might see his imagination on the stretch to find out something uncommon, and what they call bright, to entertain her, while she writhed herself into as many different postures to engage him. When she laughed, her lips were to sever at a greater distance than ordinary, to show her teeth; her fan was to point to something at a distance, that in the reach she may discover the roundness of her arm; then she is utterly mistaken in what she saw, falls back, smiles at her own folly, and is so wholly discomposed that her tucker is to be adjusted, her bosom exposed, and the whole woman put into new airs and graces. While she was doing all this, the gallant had time to think of something very pleasing to say next to her, or to make some unkind observation on some other lady to feed her vanity. These unhappy effects of affectation naturally led me to look into that strange state of mind which so generally discolours the behaviour of most people we meet with.”

“The learned Dr. Burnet, in his ‘Theory of the Earth,’ takes occasion to observe that every thought is attended with a consciousness and representativeness; the mind has nothing presented to it but what is immediately followed by a reflection of conscience, which tells you whether that which was so presented is graceful or unbecoming. This act of the mind discovers itself in the gesture, by a proper behaviour in those whose consciousness goes no farther than to direct them in the just progress of their present state or action; but betrays an interruption in every second thought, when the consciousness is employed in too fondly approving a man’s own conceptions; which sort of consciousness is what we call affectation.

“As the love of praise is implanted in our bosoms as a strong incentive to worthy actions, it is a very difficult task to get above a desire of it for things that should be wholly indifferent. Women, whose hearts are fixed upon the pleasure they have in the consciousness that they are the objects of love and admiration, are ever changing the air of their countenances, and altering the attitude of their bodies, to strike the hearts of their beholders with new sense of their beauty. The dressing part of our sex, whose minds are the same with the sillier part of the other, are exactly in the like uneasy condition to be regarded for a well-tied cravat, a hat cocked with an uncommon briskness, a very well-chosen coat, or other instances of merit, which they are impatient to see unobserved.

“This apparent affectation, arising from an ill-governed consciousness, is not so much to be wondered at in such loose and trivial minds as these; but when we see it reign in characters of worth and distinction, it is what you cannot but lament, not without some indignation. It creeps into the hearts of the wise man as well as that of the coxcomb. When you see a man of sense look about for applause, and discover an itching inclination to be commended; lay traps for a little incense, even from those whose opinion he values in nothing but his own favour; who is safe against this weakness? or who knows whether he is guilty of it or not? The best way to get clear of such a light fondness for applause is to take all possible care to throw off the love of it upon occasions that are not in themselves laudable, but as it appears we hope for no praise from them. Of this nature are all graces in men’s persons, dress, and bodily deportment, which will naturally be winning and attractive if we think not of them, but lose their force in proportion to our endeavour to make them such.

“When our consciousness turns upon the main design of life, and our thoughts are employed upon the chief purpose either in business or pleasure, we shall never betray an affectation, for we cannot be guilty of it; but when we give the passion for praise an unbridled liberty, our pleasure in little perfections robs us of what is due to us for great virtues and worthy qualities. How many excellent speeches and honest actions are lost for want of being indifferent when we ought! Men are oppressed with regard to their way of speaking and acting, instead of having their thoughts bent upon what they should do or say; and by that means bury a capacity for great things. This, perhaps, cannot be called affectation; but it has some tincture of it, at least, so far as that their fear of erring in a thing of no consequence argues they would be too much pleased in performing it.

“It is only from a thorough disregard to himself in such particulars that a man can act with a laudable sufficiency; his heart is fixed upon one point in view, and he commits no errors, because he thinks nothing an error but what deviates from that intention.

“The wild havoc affectation makes in that part of the world which should be most polite is visible wherever we turn our eyes: it pushes men not only into impertinencies in conversation, but also in their premeditated speeches. At the bar it torments the bench, whose business it is to cut off all superfluities in what is spoken before it by the practitioner, as well as several little pieces of injustice which arise from the law itself. I have seen it make a man run from the purpose before a judge, who was, when at the bar himself, so close and logical a pleader, that with all the pomp of eloquence in his power, he never spoke a word too much.

“It might be borne even here, but it often ascends the pulpit itself, and the declaimer in that sacred place is frequently so impertinently witty, speaks of the last day itself with so many quaint phrases, that there is no man who understands raillery but must resolve to sin no more. Nay, you may behold him sometimes in prayer, for a proper delivery of the great truths he is to utter, humble himself with so very well turned phrase, and mention his own unworthiness in a way so very becoming, that the air of the pretty gentleman is preserved under the lowliness of the preacher.

“I shall end this with a short letter I wrote the other day, to a very witty man, overrun with the fault I am speaking of.

“Dear Sir,—I spent some time with you the other day, and must take the liberty of a friend to tell you of the insufferable affectation you are guilty of in all you say and do. When I gave you a hint of it, you asked me whether a man is to be cold to what his friends think of him. No; but praise is not to be the entertainment of every moment. He that hopes for it must be able to suspend the possession of it till proper periods of life or death itself. If you would not rather be commended than be praiseworthy, contemn little merits, and allow no man to be so free with you as to praise you to your face. Your vanity by this means will want its food. At the same time your passion for esteem will be more fully gratified; men will praise you in their actions: where you now receive one compliment, you will then receive twenty civilities. Till then you will never have of either, farther than,

“Sir, your humble servant,

“T.”

X.

THE STULTILOQUIST.

“Compress the sum into its solid worth,
And if it weigh the importance of a fly,
The scales are false, or algebra a lie.”

Cowper.

This is a talker who seems to think that the best use of speech is to give currency to folly. He deals in thoughts and words which create laughter rather than convey instruction. The puns and witticisms of the shop, the street, the theatre, the newspaper, he reserves with sacredness for repetition in the social party, that he may excite the risible faculties, and give merriment to the circle. He appears to have no apprehension of anything that is serious and intelligent. The sum total of his conversation, weighed in the balance, is lighter than vanity. “The mouth of fools,” says Solomon, “poureth out foolishness.” If he is not true to the character, he is to the sign. He forgets altogether that there is a time “to weep,” and talks in strains which make one think that he believes there is only a time “to laugh.” To laugh and to create laughter is the main business of his tongue in all company.

He has no sympathy with Tennyson in the following lines:—

“Prythee weep, May Lilian!
Gaiety without eclipse
Wearieth me, May Lilian.”

Or with Barry Cornwall, in his lines:—

“Something thou dost want, O queen!
(As the gold doth ask alloy,)
Tears, amidst thy laughter seen,
Pity, mingling with the joy.”

“That which is meant by stultiloquy,” says Bishop Taylor, “or foolish talking, is the ‘lubricum verbi’, as St. Ambrose calls it, ‘the slipping with the tongue,’ which prating people often suffer, whose discourses betray the vanity of their spirit, and discover ‘the hidden man of the heart.’ For no prudence is a sufficient guard, or can always stand ‘in excubiis,’ ‘still watching,’ when a man is in perpetual floods of talk; for prudence attends after the manner of an angel’s ministry; it is despatched on messages from God, and drives away enemies, and places guards, and calls upon the man to awake, and bids him send out spies and observers, and then goes about his own ministries above: but an angel does not sit by a man, as a nurse by the baby’s cradle, watching every motion, and the lighting of a fly upon the child’s lip: and so is prudence: it gives rules, and proportions out our measures, and prescribes us cautions, and by general influences orders our particulars; but he that is given to talk cannot be secured by all this; the emissions of his tongue are beyond the general figures and lines of rule; and he can no more be wise in every period of a long and running talk than a lutanist can deliberate and make every motion of his hand by the division of his notes, to be chosen and distinctly voluntary. And hence it comes that at every corner of the mouth a folly peeps out, or a mischief creeps in.”

The stultiloquist’s talk is like the jesting of mimics and players, who in ancient times were so licentious that they would even make Socrates or Aristides the subject of their jests, in order to find something to provoke the laugh. It is immaterial to him who or what presents itself; he will endeavour to extract therefrom something ludicrous or comical for the amusement of the company. He may injure the feelings of some; he may offend the modesty of others, and break all the rules of decorum; but what does he care? Merriment is of more importance to him than the most sacred feelings of other people.

Our talker may think that because his hearers listen and laugh, they appreciate his continued flow of stultiloquy. But he is mistaken; could he read the minds of the thoughtful and intelligent, he would find they become jaded long before he does: and if each could speak, he would hear the sentiment of the lines:—

“I’m weary of this laughter’s empty din,
Methinks this fellow, with his ready jests,
Is like to tedious bells, that ring alike,
Marriage or death.”

Let not the reader infer from the preceding observations that a talker must always exclude from his conversation everything that partakes of the spirit of solid mirth and innocent cheerfulness. Certainly not. “To be a man and a Christian, one need neither be a mourning dove nor a chattering magpie; neither an ascetic nor a wanton; neither soar with the wings of an angel nor flutter with the flaps of a moth: for there is as substantial a difference between light-heartedness and levity as between the crackling pyrotechnics that disturb the darkness of the night and the natural sunlight which enlivens the day. Indecency and ribaldry bring down a man to the level of the beast, divesting him of all his rational superiority and soul-dignity. What appears equally contemptible with the man who stoops to make grimaces, to utter expressions, to tell tales, in one word, to act the fool for the amusement of others, while he is suffering actual disparagement, in proportion to their entertainment.”

According to inspired wisdom, “no corrupt communication should proceed out of our mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the hearers,” that is, favour, complaisance, cheerfulness. We must avoid sullenness on the one hand, as we would jesting on the other. Sullenness is repulsive and hateful. Jesting is unseasonable and intolerable. But cheerfulness is the light of the soul, and the sunshine of life. It is an alleviator of human sorrow, an exhauster of oppressive cares. Jesting is frequently criminal and foolish; but cheerfulness is one of the convoys of religion—the festival spirit filling the heart with harmony and happiness. “It composes music for churches and hearts; it makes and publishes glorifications to God; it produces thankfulness, and serves the end of charity: and when the oil of gladness runs over, it makes bright and tall emissions of light and holy fires, reaching up to a cloud, and making joy round about: and therefore, since it is so innocent, and may be so pious and full of holy advantage, whatsoever can innocently minister to this holy joy sets forward the work of religion and charity. And, indeed, charity itself, which is the vertical top of all religion, is nothing else but a union of joys, concentred in the heart, and reflected from all the angles of our life and intercourse. It is a rejoicing in God, a gladness in our neighbour’s good, a rejoicing with him; and without love we cannot have any joy at all. It is this that makes children to be a pleasure, and friendship to be so noble and divine a thing; and upon this account it is certain, that all that which can innocently make a man cheerful, does also make him charitable; for grief, and age, and sickness, and weariness, these are peevish and troublesome; but mirth and cheerfulness are content, and civil, and compliant, and communicative, and love to do good, and swell up to felicity only upon the wings of charity. Upon this account, here is pleasure enough for a Christian at present; and if a facete discourse, and an amicable friendly mirth can refresh the spirit, and take it off from the vile temptation of peevish, despairing, uncomplying melancholy, it must needs be innocent and commendable. And we may as well be refreshed by a clean and brisk discourse as by the air of Campanian wines; and our faces and our heads may as well be anointed and look pleasant with wit and friendly intercourse as with the fat of the balsam tree; and such a conversation no wise man ever did or ought to reprove. But when the jest hath teeth and nails, biting or scratching our brother,—when it is loose and wanton,—when it is unseasonable, and much, or many,—when it serves ill-purposes, or spends better time,—then it is the drunkenness of the soul, and makes the spirit fly away, seeking for a temple where the mirth and the music are solemn and religious.”

In a world of this kind, where reign life and death, goodness and evil, joy and sorrow, we need a wise conjunction of seriousness and cheerfulness. While, on the one hand, our harps must not always be on the willows; neither must they always be high-strung and gaily played. Smiles and tears in their season harmonise better than all of one or the other out of season. With clouded sky for weeks we sigh for sunshine; as in Italy, under its long bright sky, they sigh for clouds. The time of the “singing of birds” and the efflorescence of trees is very welcome; but who does not equally welcome the time of fruit-bearing also? The lark soars in the air and sings merrily, but she also falls to earth and sings not at all. Jesus rejoiced; but “Jesus wept.” The night of weeping and the morning of joy unite in one. So let the grave and the cheerful conjoin in speech, according to times and seasons, places and circumstances.

It is wise to have the two thus meet together. To be lifted up in hilarity is the precursor of being cast down in dejection. A sudden rise of the thermometer is generally followed by as sudden a fall. “I am not sorry,” said Sir Walter Scott, after the breaking up of a merry group of guests at Abbotsford, “being one of those whom too much mirth always inclines to sadness.”

“There is no music in the life
That sounds with idiot laughter solely;
There’s not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in melancholy.”

“To some men God hath given laughter; but tears to some men He hath given:
He bade us sow in tears, hereafter to harvest holier smiles in heaven;
And tears and smiles they are His gift; both good, to smite or to uplift:
He tempers smiles with tears; both good, to bear in time the Christian mood.”

XI.

THE SLANDERER.

“Whose edge is sharper than the sword: whose tongue
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie
All corners of the world; kings, queens, and states,
Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave
This viperous slander enters.”

Shakespeare.

He has a mischievous temper and a gossiping humour. He deals unmercifully with his neighbour, and speaks of him without regard to truth or honour. The holy command given him by his Maker, to love his neighbour as himself, is violated with impunity. Like those busy tongues spoken of by Jeremiah, that would feign find out some employment, though it was mischief, he says, “Report, and we will report.” He catches up any evil rumour, and hands it on to others, until, like the river Nile, it spreads over the whole land, and yet the head of it remains in uncertainty. He hides himself from discovery, like those fish which immerse themselves in mud of their own stirring.

He tells malicious stories of others, and ascribes odious names to them, without any just foundation for either. He defames and calumniates in company persons of whom no one present knows anything evil, or, if he does, prefers keeping it in his own mind. It seems his pleasure to cast filth into the face of purity; and bespatter innocence with foul imputations. No eminency in rank, or sacredness in office; no integrity in principle, or wisdom in administration; no circumspection in life, or benevolence in deed; no good-naturedness of temper, or benignity of disposition, escape the venom of his petulant tongue. Devoid of feeling himself, he speaks of other people as though they were devoid of it likewise. He can thrust at the tenderest heart, as though it was adamant, and deal with human excellencies as so many shuttlecocks to be played with by his slanderous words. The Christian religion does not escape his leprous speech. The Holy Scriptures and the Church of Christ come within the subjects of his viperous utterances. Even Jehovah Himself, in His names, attributes, and ways, is sometimes the topic of his unhallowed and blasphemous sayings.

The mental and moral attributes of the slanderer are of the most depraved and unhappy character. He is envious, selfish, jealous, vain, malignant, unbelieving, uncharitable, thoughtless, atheistical. St. James says that “his tongue is set on fire of hell.”

As, however, there is in every other class of character a variety of manifestations, so in that of the slanderer.

The highest manifestation of this talker in regard to men consists in bearing false witness against a neighbour; charging him with things of which he is not guilty: as in the case of those who said, “Naboth did blaspheme God and the king,” when he had not done so. Thus did the slanderer speak against David: “False witnesses are risen up against me, and such as breathe out cruelty;” “They laid things to my charge that I knew not.” A second manifestation of slander is the application to persons of epithets and phrases which they do not deserve. Thus Korah and his company denounced Moses as unjust and tyrannical. Thus the Jews spoke of Christ as an impostor, a blasphemer, a sorcerer, a wine-bibber, a glutton, possessed of the devil, an instigator of the people to anarchy and rebellion. A third manifestation is, aspersing a man’s actions with mean censures, intimating that they proceed from wrong motives and principles. Another is, the perversion of a man’s words or deeds so as to give them a contrary appearance and signification to what was intended. Another is, the insinuation of suggestions, which, although they do not directly assert falsehood, engender wrong opinions towards those of whom they are made. Another is, the utterance of oblique and covert reflections, which, while they do not expressly amount to an accusation of evil, convey the impression that something is seriously defective. Another is, the imputation to a man’s practice, judgment, profession, or words, consequences which have no connection with them, so as to deteriorate him in the estimation of others. Another is, the repetition of any rumour or story concerning a man likely to injure his character in society. Another is, being accessory to or encouraging slander in any sense or degree.

The Apostle James speaks of slander as “poison.” “The deadliest poisons,” says the Rev. F. W. Robertson, in a sermon on this passage, “are those for which no test is known; there are poisons so destructive that a single drop insinuated into the veins produces death in three seconds, and yet no chemical science can separate that virus from the contaminated blood and show the metallic particles of poison glittering palpably, and say, ‘Behold, it is here.’

“In the drop of venom which distils from the sting of the smallest insect, or the spike of the nettle leaf, there is concentrated the quintessence of a poison so subtle that the microscope cannot distinguish it, and yet so virulent that it can inflame the blood, irritate the whole constitution, and convert day and night into restless misery.

“Thus it is with some forms of slander. It drops from tongue to tongue; goes from house to house, in such ways and degrees, that it would sometimes be difficult to take it up and detect the falsehood. You could not evaporate the truth in the slow process of the crucible, and then show the residuum of falsehood glittering and visible. You could not fasten upon any word or sentence, and say that it was calumny; for in order to constitute slander, it is not necessary that the words spoken should be false—half truths are often more calumnious than whole falsehoods. It is not even necessary that a word should be distinctly uttered; a dropped lip, an arched eyebrow, a shrugged shoulder, a significant look, an incredulous expression of countenance, nay, even an emphatic silence, may do the work; and when the light and trifling thing which has done the mischief has fluttered off, the venom is left behind to work and rankle, to fever human existence, and to poison human society at the fountain springs of life.”

Glance at the evil effects of slander. Beauty is defaced, goodness is abused, innocence is corrupted, justice is dethroned, truth is denied and violated. Motives are impugned, and purposes misinterpreted. Sacred principles are treated with scorn, and honourable actions are slimed over with disgrace. The minister is falsely represented to his people, and the people to their minister. Church persecutes Church, and Christian maligns Christian. Ill feelings are created between master and servant. Friend is separated from friend. Neighbour is set against neighbour. Business men are thrown into mutual antagonism. Whole families are excited to animosities and strifes. Churches are raised into ferment and divisions. Political parties are brought into rivalry and contention. The passions are kindled into fury, and blood for blood, tooth for tooth, eye for eye, are the precepts of mutual action. Fame is arrested in its course and turned backwards. Honour is thrown into the dust. Worth is cast into the streets; usefulness is perverted into mischievousness. Noble aspiration is said to be selfishness. Whatever slander touches, it leaves upon it the slimy trail of the old serpent, and infuses its poisonous venom; and were it not for the angel of truth which destroys both, irretrievable ruin would be the consequence.

“The tongue of the slanderer,” says Massillon, “is a devouring fire, which tarnishes whatever it touches; which exercises its fury on the good grain equally as on the chaff, on the profane as on the sacred; which, wherever it passes, leaves only desolation and ruin; digs even into the bowels of the earth, and fixes itself on things the most hidden; turns into vile ashes what only a moment before had appeared to us so precious and brilliant; acts with more violence and danger than ever, in the time when it was apparently smothered up and almost extinct; which blackens what it cannot consume, and sometimes sparkles and delights before it destroys.”

“He that uttereth slander is a fool,” says the Wise Man. “He is a fool,” remarks Dr. Barrow, “because he maketh wrong judgments and valuations of things, and accordingly driveth on silly bargains for himself, in result whereof he proveth a great loser.” His “whole body is defiled” by it, says the Apostle. As a Christian he is enfeebled in his spiritual strength. As a moralist he is weakened in his influence and character. As a neighbour he loses respect and confidence. As a talker in company he is shunned by the sincere and charitable. “A fool’s mouth,” observes Solomon, “is his destruction: his lips are the snare of his soul.” “Thy tongue,” says the Psalmist, “deviseth mischiefs; like a sharp razor, working deceitfully. Thou lovest evil more than good, and lying rather than to speak righteousness. Thou lovest all-devouring words, O thou deceitful tongue. God shall likewise destroy thee for ever; He shall take thee away, and pluck thee out of thy dwelling-place, and root thee out of the land of the living” (Ps. lii. 2-5).

“You cannot stop the consequences of slander,” says the Rev. F. W. Robertson; “you may publicly prove its falsehood, you may sift every atom, explain and annihilate it, and yet, years after you had thought that all had been disposed of for ever, the mention of a name wakes up associations in the mind of some one who heard it, but never heard or never attended to the refutation, or who has only a vague and confused recollection of the whole, and he asks the question doubtfully, ‘But were there not some suspicious circumstances connected with him?’ It is like the Greek fire used in ancient warfare, which burnt unquenched beneath the water; or like the weeds, which, when you have extirpated them in one place, are sprouting forth vigorously in another spot, at the distance of many hundred yards; or, to use the metaphor of St. James himself, it is like the wheel which catches fire as it goes, and burns with a fiercer conflagration as its own speed increases; ‘it sets on fire the whole course of nature’ (literally the wheel of nature). You may tame the wild beast; the conflagration of the American forest will cease when all the timber and the dry underwood is consumed; but you cannot arrest the progress of that cruel word which you uttered carelessly yesterday or this morning,—which you will utter, perhaps, before you have passed from this church one hundred yards: that will go on slaying, poisoning, burning beyond your own control, now and for ever.”

In conclusion, a few suggestions may be given, which, if taken, may assist in the cure or prevention of this evil disease of the tongue.

1. Consider well the ninth commandment of the Decalogue, which requires you not to bear false witness against your neighbour.

2. Abstain from the company of slanderers. “Thou shalt not follow a multitude to do evil.” Slandering is contagious. Slanderers help one another. Prefer being alone, or seek that company in which the slanderer is not admitted.

3. Do not interfere in the affairs of other people, when they do not concern you. “Study to be quiet, and to mind your own business.” This will occupy all your time and attention, and leave you no opportunity of picking up and spreading abroad slanderous tales about your neighbours. The slanderer is very often an idler, and a busy-body in other men’s matters, while his own lie in confusion and tend to ruin. Look at home. Set thy own house in order. Make up thy own accounts. Pay thy own bills. Rectify the disorder of thy own affairs. In doing these things you may find enough to do, without working in the field of slander.

4. Remember that you have your own weak points and failings, as well as he of whom you may utter slanderous things. Were you to use the mirror of reflection, and look into your own life honestly, you would probably see faults which would make you think, “Well, I have plenty of failings of my own, without saying anything about those of others. I have a beam in my own eye to take out, before I attempt to take the mote out of my brother’s. I see that I live in a glass house myself, and must be careful at whom I throw stones. I must wash my own hands in innocency before I complain of others being unclean.”

5. Consider that, as you value your character, other people value their character. As you do not like to be slandered, neither do they. Do, therefore, unto them as you would have them do unto you.

6. Think of the consequences of slander, and if you have a spark of beneficence in your nature, you will avoid the practice of it.

7. It will be as well for you not to imagine yourself of so great importance in the world, and others of such insignificance. Be not high-minded, but fear. It is generally from an eminence of self-importance that the slanderer speaks of those who occupy a position of real and given eminence. If he would step down from that cloudy pedestal, and occupy his own place, he would probably think less of himself and more of others.

8. Give no countenance to the slanderer. Keep your patronage for some one of nobler worth: some one more generous and charitable, more philanthropic and Christian. Give him no entrance into your house. Prefer his room to his company. Write over the doorway of your residence, “No admission for slanderers.” And in case he should find an entrance, inscribe upon the walls of your rooms what St. Augustine inscribed upon his,—

“He that doth love on absent friends to jeer
May hence depart, no room is for him here.”

Close your ears to his slanders whenever and wherever you meet him. “Lend not your ears,” says an old writer, “to those who go about with tales and whispers; whose idle business it is to tell news of this man and the other: for if these kind of flies can but blow in your ears, the worms will certainly creep out at your mouth. For all discourse is kept up by exchange; and if he bring thee one story, thou wilt think it incivility not to repay him with another for it; and so they chat over the whole neighbourhood; accuse this man, and condemn another, and suspect a third, and speak evil of all.”

XII.

THE VALETUDINARIAN.

“Some men employ their health, an ugly trick,
In making known how oft they have been sick;
And give us, in recitals of disease,
A doctor’s trouble, but without his fees.”

Cowper.

This is a talker who may very properly occupy a place in our sketches. It may not be necessary to give a description of his person. And were it necessary, it would be difficult, on account of the frequent changes to which he is subject. It is not, however, with his bodily appearance that we have to do. He cannot perhaps be held responsible for this altogether. But the fault of his tongue is undoubtedly a habit of his own formation, and may therefore be described, with a view to its amendment and cure.

The Valetudinarian is a man subject to some affliction, imaginary or real, or it may be both. Whatever may be its nature, it loses nothing by neglect on his part, for he is its devoted nurse and friend. Night and day, alone and in company, he is most faithful in his attentions. He keeps a mental diary of his complaints in their changing symptoms, and of his general experience in connection with them. Whenever you meet him, you find him well informed in a knowledge of the numerous variations of his “complicated, long-continued, and unknown afflictions.”

Mr. Round was a man who will serve as an illustration of this talker. He was formerly a merchant in the city of London. During the period of his business career he was remarkably active and diligent in the accumulation of this world’s goods. He was successful; and upon the gains of his prosperous merchandise he retired into the country to live on his “means.” The sudden change from stirring city life into the retirement and inactivity of a rural home soon began to affect his health; and not being a man of much education and intelligence, his mind brooded over himself, until he became nervous and, as he thought, feeble and delicate. His nervousness failed not to do its duty in his imagination and fancy; so that, with the two in active working, a “combination of diseases” gradually took hold of him, and “told seriously upon his constitution.”

Mr. Round, having given up his business in the city, now had a business with his afflictions in the country. He studied them thoroughly, in their internal symptoms and external signs. He could have written a volume of experience as to how he suffered in the head, the nerves, the stomach, the liver, the lungs, the heart, etc.; how he suffered when awake and when asleep; how he suffered from taking a particular kind of food or drink; and how he did not suffer when he did not take a particular kind of food and drink; how he thought he should have died a thousand times, under certain circumstances which he would not name. These things he could have pictured in a most affecting manner to his reader. But it was not in writing that Mr. Round described his multitudinous ailments. It was in talking. This to him was great relief. A description of his case to any one who was patient enough to hear him through did him more good than all the pills and mixtures sent him by Doctor Green, his medical attendant. This habit of talking about his sickness became as chronic as the sickness itself. He seemed to know little of any other subject than the real and imaginary complaints of his body; at least, he talked about little else. If in conversation he happened to commence in the spirit, he soon entered into the flesh, and there he ended. If by an effort of his hearer his attention was diverted from himself, it would with all the quickness of an elastic bow rebound to his favourite theme. Out of the sphere of his own “poor body,” as he used to call it, he was no more at home in conversation than a fish wriggling on the sea-beach.

Mrs. Blunt invited a few friends to spend an evening at her house. The company was composed mostly of young persons, in whom the flow of life was strong and buoyant. The beginning of the evening passed off amid much innocent enjoyment from conversation, singing, music, and reading. In the midst of this social pleasure, who should make his appearance but Mr. Round, accompanied by Mrs. Blunt? She introduced him to the company, and to be polite, as he thought, he shook hands with every one in the room. This performance took up the best part of half an hour, as he gave each one a brief epitome of his imaginary disorders. As he was speaking first to one and then another, the whole party might have heard his melancholy voice giving an account of some particular item of his affliction. One could hear the responses at intervals to his statements,—“Oh”—“Ah”—“A pity you are so sick”—“Why, I never”—“Dear me”—“Is it possible?”—“Why, how can you live so?”—“I wonder how you survived that,”—coming from various parts of the room. Not only on entering, but during his stay, he talked about his symptoms, his fears, his hopes, his dangers, in respect to his “dreadful sickness.” Occasionally he would point to his eyes, observing “how sunken and bedimmed!” then to his cheeks, saying “how pale and deathly they seem!” Then again, he would call attention to the thinness of his hands and arms, saying, “He was not near the man he used to be, and he feared he never should be again. Although he was out that evening, he ought not to have been, and he expected to suffer severely through the night for it. If he had the health he once had, or the health of his friend next him, there was nothing he would enjoy more than that evening; but now he was past it. His doctor had been visiting him for years; but he didn’t seem to get any better, and he thought he should have to give him up, or lose all the money he had. O dear! the room was too warm, he could not breathe; that door must be opened; that singing distracted him; he loved the piano once—now his nerves could not stand it. He thought it became young people to be very serious and devout in the prospect of an affliction which might be as melancholy as his was. But he could not remain any longer; he was afraid of stopping out nights, and therefore he must wish them good-bye and retire.”

This was about the substance of all he said during his visit. He was like an iceberg rolled into the genial temperature of the social atmosphere. What did those young people care to know about his health, excepting the usual compliments at such times? The room was not an hospital, and the company a collection of inquiring, medical students. He was no worse that evening than he had been months before. But as he had not seen most of them until now he probably thought that would be an interesting opportunity to entertain them with a full and particular account of “his complicated and long-continued afflictions.”

As soon as Mr. Round had gone from the room a general rallying was the result.

“The bore is gone, the valetudinarian has made his exit,” exclaimed Master Thompson, rather excited.

“O how pleased I am that he has left!” said Miss Young.

“So am I,” responded Mr. Baker, “for he is one of the greatest plagues that ever came near me. He is enough to give one the horrors, in hearing so much of his sick talk.”

“He was not satisfied in simply telling us that he was not very well; but he must enter into a long and tedious detail of all his sicknesses,” observed Mr. Wales.

“Well, poor man, he is to be pitied, after all. He suffers a great deal more in his imagination from his sickness than we have in reality by hearing him tell of it,” said Miss Swaithe, a little sympathetically.

“I don’t know about that,” said young Spencer.

“Is Round gone, then?” asked Mr. Burr, a young man who had left the room soon after he came in, having been annoyed with his valetudinarian twaddle.

“He’s no more,” answered Miss Glass, in a tone somewhat ironically funereal.

“Why, he’s not dead, is he?” inquired Mr. Burr, quickly. “I should not be surprised if he were; for, judging from what he said, one would expect him to die any moment.”

“O no; he’s not the one to die yet, be sure of that; but he’s gone for the night,” said Miss Glass.

“Thank goodness for his departure: I do not mean to another world, but from this company. Yet where would be the harm in wishing him in heaven, where none shall ever say they are sick?” said Mr. Ferriday.

“I see no harm in wishing a good thing like that,” said Miss Bond—“a good thing for him and other people too.”

“Don’t be so unkind and unmerciful,” said Mrs. Grant.

“I do not think I am so,” replied Miss Bond, “for if he was in heaven, he would be cured of all his diseases; and he says he never shall be in this world. And then other people would be happily exempted from the misery of listening to his invalid tales every time they met with him.”

“How his wife does to live with him I cannot tell,” remarked Miss Bond.

“I suppose she is used to him,” said Mr. Burr.

“Come now, let us have no more talk about Mr. Round, or we shall be catching some of his diseases,” said Miss Crane.

Soon after the above talk had ceased, Mr. Burr took up a copy of Cowper’s poems which lay on the table. He opened on the subject of “Conversation,” and, in reading, came to the part which describes the Valetudinarian. Having read it over to himself, he could not refrain asking permission to read it aloud.

“Although we have dismissed the subject of Mr. Round,” said Mr. Burr, “yet, if the company have no objection, I would like to read from Cowper’s poems a short piece which I think will interest you, as being descriptive of the Valetudinarian, who has been with us this evening.”

General consent being given, Mr. Burr read as follows:—

“Some men employ their health, an ugly trick,
In making known how oft they have been sick;
And give us, in recitals of disease,
A doctor’s troubles, but without his fees;
Relate how many weeks they kept their bed,
How an emetic or cathartic sped;
Nothing is slightly touched, much less forgot,
Nose, ears, and eyes, seem present on the spot.
Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill,
Victorious seemed, and now the doctor’s skill;
And now—alas for unforeseen mishaps!—
They put on a damp nightcap and relapse;
They thought they must have died, they were so bad;
Their peevish hearers almost wish they had.”

“That’s capital,” cried out Mr. Strong.

“It is Mr. Round’s character to a tick,” said Mrs. Blunt, who was better acquainted with him than any one else in the room.

“It seems to me,” said Miss Young, “that Cowper must have had Round before him when he wrote those lines.”

“Cowper is a splendid poet,” observed young Brown, who was rather pedantic; “he is my favourite among the poets. I have been accustomed to read him from my boyhood. I always admire his description of character. Who but a Cowper could have written that admirable extract just given to us by Mr. Burr, and which was read with such elegance?”

“Come,” said Mr. Burr, “give us a tune on the piano, Miss Armstrong.”

The company again left the Valetudinarian for their social enjoyments; and not long after left Mrs. Blunt’s for their respective homes.

XIII.

THE WHISPERER.

“And when they talk of him they shake their heads,
And whisper one another in the ear;
And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer’s wrist,
Whilst he that hears makes fearful action
With wrinkled brows, with nods, and rolling eyes.”

Shakespeare.

His stock of information is always of the most original kind, and no want of it into the bargain. No one is acquainted with the facts treasured in his memory but himself. Nor does he want any one else to know, excepting a particular friend in whom he has the greatest confidence. And he will only inform him in a whisper, lest any other should hear; and this upon the sacred condition that he will never discover the secret to his nearest friend, not even to the wife of his bosom. And lo, when the grand secret is divulged into his inclining and attentive ear, it is either an old story which everybody knows, or a communication of gossip about some one in whom he has no interest whatever.

Peter Hush is a Whisperer often met with in the ranks of life. He is a descendant from an ancient family of that name, which has lived so long that the origin can scarcely be traced out. He stands related to a vast number of Hushes located in different parts of the world. It is the business of Peter, in the first place, to walk around in the neighbourhood where he resides in order to pick up what scraps of information he can find. He cares not where he finds them, nor how, nor what they are; he has a use for them. He collects stories in the private history of individuals, mixed up with a slight degree of scandal. The sickness of persons, evening parties, clandestine visits, secret courtships, elopements, marriages, difficulties of tradesmen, quarrels of husbands and wives, rumours from abroad respecting a newly located neighbour, with such-like things, constitute the commodity which he gathers. He is seldom or ever without a stock on hand; if he cannot give you of one kind, he can of another. Sometimes I have met him in a bye-road, and, before he told me what he had to say, he came close to me, and being a little shorter than myself, stood on tip-toe, and whispered in my ears; then telling me aloud, “Be sure now you say nothing about it; I wouldn’t have it repeated for all the world.” Poor Peter need not have been alarmed, for I knew the thing long before he did. I have been alone with him in a large room, and he would take me up one corner to whisper something in my ears. He has a way sometimes of ending his whispering revelations with a loud, “Do not you think so?” then whisper again, and then aloud, “But you know that person,” then whisper again. The thing would be well enough if Peter whispered to keep the folly of what he says among friends; but, alas! he does it to preserve the importance of his own thoughts. It is a wonderful thing that, although he is never heard to talk about things in nature, and never seen with a book in his hand, yet he can whisper something like knowledge of what has and of what now passes in the world, which one would think he learned from some familiar spirit that did not think him worthy to receive the whole story. But the truth is, he deals only in half accounts of what he would entertain you with. A help to his discourse is, “That the town says, and people begin to talk very freely, and he had it from persons too considerable to be named, what he will tell you when things are riper.” He informs you as a secret that he designs in a very short time to reveal you a secret; you must say nothing to any one. The next time you see him the secret is not yet ripened, he wants to learn a little more of it, and in a fortnight’s time he hopes to tell you everything about it.

You may sometimes see Peter seat himself in a company of eight or ten persons whom he never saw before in his life; and after having looked about to see that no one overheard, he has communicated unto them in a low voice, and under the seal of secrecy, the death of a great man in the country, who was perhaps at that very moment travelling in Europe for his pleasure. If upon entering a room you see a circle of heads bending over a table, and lying close to one another, it is almost certain that Peter Hush is among them. Peter has been known to publish the whisper of the day by eight o’clock in the morning at one house, by twelve at a second, and before two at a third. When Peter has thus effectually launched a secret, it is amusing to hear people whispering it to one another at second hand, and spreading it about as their own; for it must be known that the great incentive to whispering is the ambition which every one has of being thought in the secret and being looked upon as a man who has access to greater people than one would imagine.

Besides the character of Peter Hush, as a whisperer, there is Lady Blast, about whom a word or two must be said. She deals in the private transactions of the sewing circle, the quilting party, with all the arcana of the fair sex. She has such a particular malignity in her whisper that it blights like an easterly wind, and withers every reputation it breathes upon. She has a most dexterous plan at making private weddings. Last winter she married about five women of honour to their footmen. Her whisper can rob the innocent young lady of her virtue; and fill the healthful young man with diseases. She can make quarrels between the dearest friends, and effect a divorce between the husband and wife who never lived on any terms but the most peaceful and happy. She can stain the character of the clergymen with corruption, against which no one could ever utter the faintest moral delinquency. She can beggar the wealthy, and degrade the noble. In short, she can whisper men base or foolish, jealous or ill-natured; or, if occasion requires, can tell you the failings of their great-grandmothers, and traduce the memory of virtuous citizens who have been in their graves these hundred years.

A few words more respecting the Whisperer taken from the Bible. The Psalmist regarded those who whispered against him as those who hated him. “All that hate me whisper together against me: against me do they devise my hurt” (Ps. xli. 7). “A whisperer separateth chief friends,” is the declaration of the wise man (Prov. xvi. 28). And again, he says, “Where there is no whisperer (marginal reading) the strife ceaseth” (Prov. xxvi. 20). “Whisperers” is one of the names given by St. Paul to the heathen characters which he describes in the first chapter of Romans. Let my reader, then, beware of the Whisperer. Give no ear to his secrets. Guard against an imitation of his example. Favour the candid and honest man who has nothing to say but what is truthful, charitable, and wise. Cultivate the same disposition in your own bosom, and so avoid in yourself the disreputable character of a Whisperer, and prevent the mischievous consequences in others.

XIV.

THE HYPERBOLIST.

“He was owner of a piece of ground not larger
Than a Lacedemonian letter.”—Longinus.

“He was so gaunt, the case of a flagelet was a mansion for him.”—Shakespeare.

The habit of this talker is to exaggerate. He abides not by simple truth in the statement of a fact or the relation of a story. What he sees with his naked eye he describes to others in enlarged outlines, filled up with colours of the deepest hues. What he hears with his naked ears he repeats to others in words which destroy its simplicity, and almost absorb its truthfulness. A straw is a beam, a mole-hill a mountain. His ducks are geese, his minnows are perch, and his babes cherubs. The fading light of the evening he merges into darkness, and the mellow rays of the morning into the dazzling sunshine of noonday. He turns the pyramid on its apex, and the mountain on its peak. If he has a slight ache in the head, he is distracted in his senses, and a brief indisposition of his friend is a sickness likely to be of long duration and serious consequence.

Simple truth is not sufficient for the Hyberbolist to set forth his views and feelings in conversation. He wishes to convey the idea that he has seen and experienced things in number, quality, and circumstances exceeding anything within the range of your knowledge and experience. He is wishful that you should “wonder” and utter words of exclamation at his statements. If you do not, he may perchance repeat himself with enlarged hyperbolisms; and should you then hear in a matter-of-course manner, he may give you up as one stoical or phlegmatic in your temperament.

The following lines, written by Dr. Byrom in the last century, will serve to show the nature and growth of hyperbolism in many instances; especially in the repetition of facts:—

“Two honest tradesmen, meeting in the Strand,
One took the other briskly by the hand;
‘Hark ye,’ said he, ‘’tis an odd story this,
About the crows!’ ‘I don’t know what it is,’
Replied his friend.—‘No! I’m surprised at that;
Where I come from, it is the common chat.
But you shall hear: an odd affair indeed!
And, that it happen’d, they are all agreed;
Not to detain you from a thing so strange,
A gentleman that lives not far from ’Change,
This week, in short, as all the Alley knows,
Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows.’

‘Impossible!’ ‘Nay, but it’s really true;
I have it from good hands, and so may you.’
‘From whose, I pray?’ So having nam’d the man,
Straight to enquire his curious comrade ran.
‘Sir, did you tell?’—relating the affair.
‘Yes, sir, I did; and if it’s worth your care,
Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me,—
But, by-the-bye, ’twas two black crows, not three.’

Resolv’d to trace so wondrous an event,
Whip, to the third, the virtuoso went.
‘Sir,’—and so forth. ‘Why, yes; the thing is fact,
Though in regard to number not exact;
It was not two black crows, but only one;
The truth of that you may depend upon.
The gentleman himself told me the case.’—
‘Where may I find him?’—‘Why, in such a place.’

Away goes he, and having found him out,
‘Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt;’
Then to his last informant he referr’d,
And begg’d to know, if true what he had heard,
‘Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?’—‘Not I.’
‘Bless me! how people propagate a lie!
Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one:
And here, I find, all comes, at last, to none!
Did you say nothing of a crow at all?’
‘Crow—Crow—perhaps I might, now I recall
The matter over.’—‘And, pray, sir, what was’t?’
‘Why I was horrid sick, and, at the last,
I did throw up, and told my neighbour so,
Something that was—as black, sir, as a crow.’”

An Englishman and a Yankee were once talking about the speed at which the trains travelled in their respective countries. The Englishman spoke of the “Flying Dutchman” travelling sixty miles an hour.

“We beat that hollow,” said the Yankee. “Our trains on some lines travel so fast that they outgo the sound of the whistle which warns of their coming, and reach the station first.”

Of course the “Britisher” gave the palm to his American cousin, and said no more about English locomotive travelling.

Hyberbolism is a fault too much cultivated and practised among the “young ladies” of our schools and homes. They think it an elegant mode of speaking, and seem to rival each other as to which shall best succeed. An ordinary painting of one of their friends is “an exquisitely fine piece of workmanship, and really Reynolds himself could scarcely exceed it.” And that bouquet of wax flowers on the side-board “are not surpassed by the products of nature herself.” That young man lately seen in company at the house of Mrs. Hood “is one of the handsomest young gentlemen that I ever beheld; indeed, Miss Spencer, I never saw any one to equal him in reality or in picture.” To tell the truth, courteous reader, this said “young gentleman” was scarcely up to an ordinary exhibition of that sex and age of humanity; but this young lady, for some reason or other, could not help speaking of him as the “highest style of man.”

Our children are even found indulging in this exaggerated mode of speech, as the following may illustrate:—

“Oh, mother,” said Annie, as she threw herself into a chair, on her return from a walk, “I cannot stir another step.”

“Why, Annie,” answered her mother, “I thought your walk was pleasant, and not tiring at all.”

“It was such a long one,” said Annie; “I thought we should never have got home again. I would not walk it again for all the world.”

“But did you not enjoy the walk in the fields, Annie?”

“Oh, no; there were so many cows that I was frightened to death.”

“What a little angel our baby is,” said Nancy, one day to her sister, “I feel as though I could eat it up.”

“O what a monstrous brute our governess is!” said Marian to a school-fellow one afternoon, because she had corrected her rather sharply for some misdemeanour.

“I say, Fred, we have strawberries in our garden as big as my fist,” said David one day to him.

Fred opened his eyes in wonder, and said, “I should like to see them.”

Fred went to see them, and David’s garden strawberries were found to be no larger than one of his ordinary-sized marbles.

“Come,” says James to Harry, “let us go and get some blackberries; there are oceans of them on yonder hedge.”

“Oceans!” said James in wonder.

“Yes, oceans; only you must mind in getting them that you don’t fall into the ditch, or you will be over your head in mud.”

James went with Harry, and found that the blackberries were as sparse on the hedge as plums in his school pudding, and as for mud to cover him, he saw scarcely enough to come over his boots.

Another boy says, “I am so thirsty, I could drink the sea dry.” Another, “I learned my lessons to-day in no time.” Another, standing in the cold, says, “I am frozen to death.” Another, in the heat, says, “I am as hot as fire.” “My father’s horse is the best in the kingdom,” says John. “My father’s is the best in the world,” says Alexander in reply. “Oh, how it did hail in our parts yesterday,” said a boy to his schoolmate; “the hail-stones were as big as hens’ eggs.” “That’s nothing,” said his rival in return; “in our parts it rained hens and chickens.” “Well,” said the other, despairing of going beyond that, “that was wonderful; I never heard of it raining like that before.”

The above kind of talk may by some be regarded as only “inoffensive ebullitions” of childhood and youth. It is not said that moral guilt may be its immediate consequence; but is it a kind of talk altogether innocent? Does it sound truthful? Is it a habit to be encouraged or connived at? Should not all who have the education and training of young persons correct the evil when it appears, and in the place of it cultivate that speech which is made up of words of “truth and soberness”?

The Hyperbolist not only shows himself in talk which magnifies beyond the natural, the simple, and the true; but which also diminishes. “He said nothing of any account—nothing worth your hearing,” observed one friend to another, respecting a certain lecturer; when perhaps he uttered thoughts of weight and force worthy the attention of highest wisdom. He expressed this hyperbolism to allay some disappointment which his friend felt in not hearing him. “The affair is really of such little consequence that it is not worth your while to think about it;” at the same time it involved questions of vital importance to him. This he said to divert his mind from brooding over it to his injury. “I never saw such a small watch in all my life; it was hardly bigger than a sixpence;” and yet it was of the ordinary size of a lady’s watch. “It is no distance to go, and the hill is nothing to climb; you will get there in the time you are standing hesitating;” and this a father said to induce his son to go into the country on an errand for which he showed strong disinclination. “The duties are of such a trifling nature, you may perform them with perfect ease;” so said a minister to persuade a member of his church to undertake a responsible office against which he had conscientious objections.

Thus the Hyperbolist stands on either side of truth, and takes from or adds to, according to the temper of his mind and the object he wishes to accomplish. On whichever side he stand his talk is alike blamable.

Let me, in conclusion, caution my readers, and especially my young readers, against the formation and practice of this intemperate habit in talking. It is of no service to truth. It does no good to you or others, but harm. It will grow upon you, and may end in the habit of absolute false speaking. You do not mean now to be recognized as telling lies: you would perhaps shudder at the thought; but what you now shudder at, you may fall into, by the inadvertent formation of habitual exaggerated talk. Therefore guard against these excessive and thoughtless hyperbolisms of speech. Speak of things, persons, and places as you see them, not as you fancy; speak to convey correct views, not to excite wonder or to rival others in “large talk,” and in “strange things.” Simple truth is always more welcome in society than swollen fiction. The frog in the fable killed itself by trying to be as big as the ox; so you are in danger of killing truth when you inflate it beyond its own natural proportions. Truth needs no extraneous aids to commend it; or, as Cowper says,—

“No meretricious graces to beguile,
No clustering ornaments to clog the pile,
From ostentation as from weakness free,
Majestic in its own simplicity.”

“The apocrypha,” says the Rev. J. B. Owen, “into which you may elaborate your observations will ultimately be sifted from the canonical, and you will appear before society as interpolaters, inserting your own spurious statements among the genuine records of facts already received as simple, authentic truths. Have the modesty to suppose that others know a thing or two as well as yourselves. The scraps of facts which may lie scattered among the profusion of your hyperbolisms may be old acquaintances of your hearers. Let them speak for themselves in their own artless, ingenuous way, and take their own chance of success to whatever branch of the lovely family of truth they may belong.

“Hyperbole is a fault of no trivial importance in conversation. Carried, as it generally is, to such an extent, it is nothing more nor less than equivalent to lying. It frequently places the Hyperbolist in a position of distrustful scrutiny and strong doubt, on the part of those with whom he converses. His authentication of a rumour reacts as its contradiction. He himself robs it of a large amount of evidence, by welcoming the proof of anybody else as better than his own. He anticipates the discount which will be made off his commodity, and so adds exorbitancy to his statements, which will leave a balance in hand after all. But people will not be deceived again and again. His credit becomes damaged. His moral bill returns dishonoured. His extravagance of diction, like extravagance in expenditure, involves him in difficulties, and thus the immediate fate of mendacity symbolizes that awful retribution which will finally exclude all liars from the society of the good and true.”

“Old Humphrey,” in speaking of a painter who over-coloured his pictures, was wont to express the defect by saying, “Too much red in the brush.” It would be well for the Hyperbolist to have some friend at his elbow, when he over-colours things, to say, “Too much red in the brush.”

XV.

THE INQUISITIVE.

“The Inquisitive will blab: from such refrain;
Their leaky ears no secret can retain.”—Horace.

The Inquisitive is a talker whose capacity is for taking rather than giving. To ask questions is his province, and not to give answers. He is more anxious to know than he is to make known. Though in some instances he may have the ability to speak good sense, yet he cannot or will not exercise himself in so doing. He must pry into other people’s stock of knowledge, and find out all that he can for his satisfaction. If he come to anything which is labelled “Private,” he is sure to be the more curious to ascertain what is within. He is restless and dissatisfied until he knows. He pauses—he resumes his interrogations—he circumlocutes—he apologizes, it may be, but make the discovery he will if possible. His inquisitiveness is mostly in regard to matters of comparatively minor importance in themselves, but which, at the same time, you do not care for him to know. Your pedigree—your relations—your antecedents—your reasons for leaving your former occupation—your prospects in life—your income—your wife’s maiden name and origin—with a hundred similar things.

His inquisitiveness often turns into impertinence and impudence, which one does well to resent with indignancy; or, if not, to answer him according to his folly.

The two or three following instances will illustrate this talker:—

A gentleman with a wooden leg, travelling in a stage-coach, was annoyed by questions relative to himself and his business proposed by his fellow-passengers. One of them inquired how he came to lose his leg. “I will tell you,” he replied, “on condition that you all ask me no other question.” To this there was no objection, and the promise was given. “As to the loss of my leg,” said he, “it was bit off!” There was a pause. No more questions were to be asked; but one of the party, unable to contain himself, exclaimed, “But I should like to know how it was bit off.” This is an old story, but here is one of a similar kind, of a more recent date. It occurred in San Francisco, where a genuine Yankee, having bored a new comer with every conceivable question relative to his object in visiting the gold country, his hopes, his means, and his prospects, at length asked him if he had a family.

“Yes, sir; I have a wife and six children in New York; and I never saw one of them.”

After this reply the couple sat a few moments in silence; then the interrogator again commenced,—

“Was you ever blind, sir?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you marry a widow, sir?”

“No, sir.”

Another lapse of silence.

“Did I understand you to say, sir, that you had a wife and six children living in New York, and had never seen one of them?”

“Yes, sir; I so stated it.”

Another and a longer pause of silence. Then the interrogator again inquired,—

“How can it be, sir, that you never saw one of them?”

“Why,” was the response, “one of them was born after I left.”

A gentleman in America, riding in an eastern railroad car, which was rather sparsely supplied with passengers, observed, in a seat before him, a lean, slab-sided Yankee; every feature of his face seemed to ask a question, and a little circumstance soon proved that he possessed a more “inquiring mind.” Before him, occupying an entire seat, sat a lady dressed in deep black, and after shifting his position several times, and manœuvring to get an opportunity to look into her face, he at length caught her eye.

“In affliction?”

“Yes, sir,” responded the lady.

“Parent?—father or mother?”

“No, sir.”

“Child, perhaps?—a boy or a girl?”

“No, sir, not a child; I have no children.”

“Husband, then, I expect?”

“Yes,” was the curt answer.

“Hum! cholery? A tradin’ man may be?”

“My husband was a seafaring man, the captain of a vessel; he didn’t die of cholera; he was drowned.”

“O, drowned, eh?” pursued the inquisitor, hesitating for a brief instant. “Save his chist?”

“Yes; the vessel was saved, and my husband’s effects,” said the widow.

“Was they?” asked the Yankee, his eyes brightening up. “Pious man?”

“He was a member of the Methodist Church.”

The next question was a little delayed, but it came.

“Don’t you think that you have great cause to be thankful that he was a pious man, and saved his chist?”

“I do,” said the widow abruptly, and turned her head to look out of the window.

The indefatigable “pump” changed his position, held the widow by his glittering eye once more, and propounded one more query, in a lower tone, with his head slightly inclined forward, over the back of the seat,—

“Was you calculating to get married again?”

“Sir,” said the widow, indignantly, “you are impertinent!” And she left her seat and took another on the other side of the car.

“’Pears to be a little huffy?” said the ineffable bore. Turning to our narrator behind him, “What did they make you pay for that umbrella you’ve got in your hand?”

A person more remarkable for inquisitiveness than good-breeding—one of those who, devoid of delicacy and reckless of rebuff, pry into everything—took the liberty to question Alexander Dumas rather closely concerning his genealogical tree.

“You are a quadroon, Mr. Dumas?” he began.

“I am, sir,” replied M. Dumas, who had seen enough not to be ashamed of a descent he could not conceal.

“And your father?”

“Was a mulatto.”

“And your grandfather?”

“A negro,” hastily answered the dramatist, whose patience was waning.

“And may I inquire what your great-grandfather was?”

“An ape, sir,” thundered Dumas, with a fierceness that made his impertinent interrogator shrink into the smallest possible compass. “An ape, sir; my pedigree commences where yours terminates.”

“Where have you been, Helen?” asked Caroline Swift of her sister, as Helen, with a package in one hand and some letters in the other, entered the parlour one severe winter’s day.

Caroline had been seated near the fire, sewing; but as her sister came in with the package, up the little girl sprang; and, allowing cotton, thimble, and work to find whatever resting-place they could, she hurried across the room; and, without so much as “By your leave, sister,” she caught hold of the letters and commenced asking questions as fast as her nimble tongue could move.

“Which question shall I answer first?” asked Helen, good-humouredly, trying, as she spoke, to slip a letter out of sight.

“Tell me whose letter you are trying to hide there,” cried Caroline, making an effort to thrust her hand into her sister’s pocket.

Helen held the pocket close, saying gravely, “Suppose I should tell you that this letter concerns no one but myself, and that I prefer not to name the writer?”

“Oh dear! some mighty mystery, no doubt. I didn’t suppose there was any harm in asking you a question.”

Caroline’s look and tone plainly indicated displeasure.

“There is harm, Caroline, in trying to pry into anything that you see that another person wishes to keep to herself; for it shows a meddling disposition, and is a breach of the command to do as you would be done by.”

“You’re breaking that command yourself,” retorted Caroline, “for you won’t let me see what I want to see.”

“God’s commands do not require us to forget our own rights. I am not bound to do to you what you have no right to require of me. We have all a perfect right to request of each other whatever is perfectly conducive to our welfare and happiness, provided it does not improperly infringe upon that of the person of whom the request is made. You trespass upon my rights when you attempt to pry into my private affairs.”

“Mercy, Helen! don’t preach any more. I guess I’m not the only meddlesome person in the world. One half the people I know need nothing more to make them take all possible pains to learn about a thing than to know the person whom it concerns wishes it kept secret. But where have you been, pray? and what have you in that bundle?” and Caroline tore off the paper cover from the package which Helen had laid upon the table.

“Caroline,” said the mother of the two young girls, “why do you not wait to see whether your sister is willing for you to open her package? From your tone, my dear, one would judge that you were appointed to cross-question Helen, and had a right to be angry if she declined explaining all her motives and intentions to you.”

“For pity’s sake! mother, haven’t I a right to ask my sister all the questions I please? I tell her everything I do, and I think she might show the same confidence in me.”

“You have a right, my daughter, to ask any proper question of any one; but it is unmannerly to ask too particularly about things that do not concern you; or to speak at all respecting a thing which you see that another desires should pass unobserved. It shows a small and vulgar mind to seek to pry into the affairs of another, unless there be some great necessity for doing so. Never press a matter where there is a disposition to be reserved upon the subject. Be refined, my child; remember that courtesy is as much a command of the Bible as is honesty. I have often heard you, my thoughtless Carrie, mention impatiently the annoying habits of one who is often here. You have said in great anger that no one of the family could have a new shoe, or a neck ribbon, or could go across the street twice, without being questioned and cross-questioned by that young lady, until she became possessed of all the particulars concerning the purchase or the walk. It is not well to be violent in condemning one’s neighbour, my children; but it is not wrong to take notice enough of their faults to determine to shun them in our own conduct, and also to try, if a proper season offers, to help them to amend. I never wish to hear you speak again so harshly of the person to whom I refer; but I very earnestly desire that you should begin in season to check habits which, if suffered to go on, will render you just as far from a favourite with your friends as she, poor orphan girl, is with hers. She had no one to point out to her her faults and her dangers; therefore the condemnation will be nothing to compare with yours, if you forget that the spirit of the golden rule, which is the true spirit of Christianity, requires attention just as close and constant to all the little hardly noticed habits of heart and life as to those of the more marked and noticeable:—

‘’Tis in these little things we all can do and say,
Love showeth best its gentle charity.’”

Boldness and impudence are the twin features in the inquisitive talker. Were these counterbalanced by education in the ordinary civilities of life, he would be more worthy a place in the company of those whom now he annoys with his rude and impertinent interrogatories. Few men care to have the secrets of their minds discovered by the probing questions of an intruder. The prudent man has many things, it may be, in his mind, in his family, in his business, which are sacred to him, and to attempt an acquaintance with them by stealth is what no one will do but he who is devoid of good manners, or, if he ever had any, has shamefully forgotten them. There are proper times and places in conversation for questions; but even then they should be put with discretion and frankness. A man should have common sense and civility enough to teach him when and what questions to ask, and how far to go in his questions, so that he may not seem to meddle with matters which do not concern him.

XVI.

THE PEDANT.

“Pedantry, in the common acceptation of the word, means an absurd ostentation of learning, and stiffness of phraseology, proceeding from a misguided knowledge of books, and a total ignorance of men.”—Mackenzie.

The Pedant is a talker who makes an ostentatious display of his knowledge. His endeavour is to show those within his hearing that he is a man of study and wisdom. He generally aims higher than he can reach, and makes louder pretensions than his acquirements will justify. He may have gone as far as the articles in English Grammar, and attempts to observe in his speech every rule of syntax, of which he is utterly ignorant; or he may have learned as far as “hoc—hac—hoc” in Latin, and affect an acquaintance with Horace, by shameful quotations. He may have reached as far as the multiplication table in arithmetic, and try to solve the problems of Euclid as though he had them at his finger-ends. If he has read the “Child’s Astronomy,” he will walk with you through the starry heavens and the university of worlds, with as much confidence as though he was a Ross or a Herschel. He labours at the sublime and brings forth the ridiculous. He is a giant according to his own rule of measurement, but a pigmy according to that of other people. He thinks that he makes a deep impression upon the company as to his literary attainments; but the fact is, the impression is made that he knows nothing as he ought to know. He may, perchance, with the lowest of the illiterate, be heard as an oracle, and looked up to as a Solon; but the moment he rises into higher circles he loses caste, and falls down into a rank below that with which he would have stood associated had he not elevated himself on the pedestal of his own folly. He is viewed with disgust in his fall; and becomes the object of ridicule for the display of his contemptible weakness. His silence would have saved him, or an attempt commensurate with his abilities; but his preposterous allusions to subjects of which he proved himself utterly ignorant effected his ruin.

The Spectator, in No. 105, gives an illustration of a pedant in Will Honeycomb. “Will ingenuously confesses that for half his life his head ached every morning with reading of men over-night; and at present comforts himself under certain pains which he endures from time to time, that without them he could not have been acquainted with the gallantries of the age. This Will looks upon as the learning of a gentleman, and regards all other kinds of science as the accomplishments of one whom he calls a scholar, a bookish man, or a philosopher.

“He was last week producing two or three letters which he wrote in his youth to a lady. The raillery of them was natural and well enough for a mere man of the town; but, very unluckily, several of the words were wrongly spelt. Will laughed this off at first as well as he could; but finding himself pushed on all sides, and especially by the Templar, he told us, with a little passion, that he never liked pedantry in spelling, and that he spelt like a gentleman, and not like a scholar. Upon this Will had recourse to his old topic of showing the narrow-spiritedness, the pride, and arrogance of pedants; which he carried so far, that upon my retiring to my lodgings, I could not forbear throwing together such reflections as occurred to me upon the subject.

“A man who has been brought up among books, and is able to talk of nothing else, is a very indifferent companion, and what we call a pedant. But methinks we should enlarge the title, and give it to every one that does not know how to think out of his profession and particular way of life.

“What is a greater pedant than a mere man of the town? How many a pretty gentleman’s knowledge lies all within the verge of the court? He will tell you the names of the principal favourites; repeat the shrewd sayings of a man of quality; whisper an intrigue that is not yet blown upon by common fame; or, if the sphere of his observations is a little larger than ordinary, will perhaps enter into all the incidents, turns, and resolutions, in a game of ombre. When he has gone thus far, he has shown you the whole circle of his accomplishments; his parts are drained, and he is disabled from any further conversation. What are these but rank pedants? and yet these are the men who value themselves most on their exemption from the pedantry of the colleges.

“I might here mention the military pedant, who always talks in a camp, and is storming towns, making lodgments, and fighting battles from one end of the year to the other. Everything he speaks smells of gunpowder; if you take away his artillery from him, he has not a word to say for himself. I might likewise mention the law pedant, that is perpetually putting cases, repeating the transactions of Westminster Hall, wrangling with you upon the most indifferent circumstances of life, and not to be convinced of the distance of a place, or of the most trivial point in conversation, but by dint of argument. The state pedant is wrapped up in news, and lost in politics. If you mention either of the kings of Spain or Poland, he talks very notably; but if you go out of the Gazette, you drop him. In short, a mere courtier, a mere soldier, a mere scholar, a mere anything, is an insipid pedantic character, and equally ridiculous.

“Of all the species of pedants which I have mentioned, the book pedant is much the most supportable; he has at least an exercised understanding, a head which is full, though confused—so that a man who converses with him may often receive from him hints of things that are worth knowing, and what he may possibly turn to his own advantage, though they are of little use to the owner. The worst kind of pedants among learned men are such as are naturally endued with a very small share of common sense, and have read a great number of books without taste or distinction.

“The truth of it is, learning, like travelling, and all other methods of improvement, as it finishes good sense, so it makes a silly man ten thousand times more insufferable, by supplying variety of matter to his impertinence, and giving him an opportunity of abounding in absurdities.

“Shallow pedants cry up one another much more than men of solid and useful learning. To read the titles they give an editor or a collator of a manuscript, you would take him for the glory of the commonwealth of letters, and the wonder of his age; when perhaps upon examination you find that he has only rectified a Greek particle, or laid out a whole sentence in proper commas.

“They are obliged to be thus lavish of their praises that they may keep one another in countenance; and it is no wonder if a great deal of knowledge, which is not capable of making a man wise, has a natural tendency to make him vain and arrogant.”

Arthur Bell was a young man of excellent qualities; and generally respected by all who knew him. He had received his education, which was of a superior order, at one of the Oxford colleges. Nevertheless, he was modest and unassuming; shunning any display of his learning, excepting under circumstances which justified him from vanity and self-importance. Sidney Rose was a young man of the same village as Arthur, but of different origin and training. In early boyhood they were often playmates together; and the acquaintance thus formed continued more or less up to manhood. Sidney was of another spirit to Arthur, naturally high-minded, blustering, and self-conceited. His education was only such as he had received in a country classical academy, and in this he had not succeeded to the extent his pretensions led one to suppose.

Arthur and Sidney once met in an evening party at the house of Mr. Grindell. The company consisted mostly of young ladies and young gentlemen. During the conversation of the evening, in which Sidney took a prominent part, he made an attempt to quote the following line from Ovid, with no other intention than to exhibit his learning:—

“Dulcia non ferimus; succo renovamur amaro,”

in which he made the most glaring blunders.

“Dulcam non farimas, succor amarum reno,”

he said, with the most ostentatious air and bombastic confidence. Two or three of the company could not refrain from laughing at his airs, not to say his blunders.

“What are you laughing at?” inquired Sidney, in his independent tone, and as though he was highly insulted.

“I beg your pardon, Sidney, but I think they were smiling at a mistake or two which you have made in that Latin quotation,” said Arthur, quietly.

“Mistake, indeed! I have made no mistake,” said Sidney, in an angry tone.

“I think you have,” observed Arthur, modestly.

“Show me, then, if you can. I guess that is out of your power,” said Sidney, more excited.

“Don’t be excited, my friend,” said Arthur; “I think I can give the line correctly.”

Arthur quoted the line as it occurs in the book. The difference appeared to Sidney; but he would make no acknowledgment. Nor would he give up the exhibition of his academic learning. He thought he would be a match for Arthur and the young gentlemen who seemed to ridicule what he knew they could not mend, so he made another attempt.

“Which of you,” he inquired, “can tell me in what part of Horace the following line occurs:—

‘Amor improbe non quid pectora mortalia cogis’?”

A faint smile passed over the countenance of Arthur, while Bonner, an educated young collegian, could not restrain his risible powers, and broke out in a loud laugh, at the expense of his good manners.

“What’s that Bonner laughing at?” asked Sidney, in a manner which betrayed his indignation and chagrin.

“It strikes me,” said Skinner, “that that line is very much corrupted in its quotation. It does not seem to be such Latin as is found in the classics, even from what I know of them.”

“And with all my study of Horace,” observed Judson, “I never met with the line in him, even if it was given correctly. And then I think, with Skinner, that it is not correctly quoted. What do you think, Arthur?”

“Of course it is not in Horace,” replied Arthur; “nor is it correctly quoted. If Sidney has no objection, I will give the correct words from the right author.”

Sidney was sullenly silent.

“In Virgil’s ‘Æneid,’ Book iv., line 412,” said Arthur, “the words of which Sidney intends his to be a quotation may be found. They are as follows:—

‘Improbe amor, quid non mortalia pectora cogis.’”

“You are quite right, Arthur,” said Bonner.

Here the subject ended. A short time after, during the evening, Sidney was observed holding conversation with Miss Boast, a young lady of some pretensions, but of no more than ordinary education. Sidney seemed to be much at home with her in conversation. She gave a willing ear to all his pedantic talk; and he used the opportunity much to his own gratification. He was repeating to Miss Boast a list of his studies in the classics, mathematics, history, geology, astronomy, etc., when Arthur walked into that part of the room where they were sitting. He saw that Sidney was recovered from his temper shown in the former conversation, and had subsided into his own natural element, and was pouring into the credulous ear of the young lady his pedantic effusions.

“Are you at all acquainted with Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’?” inquired Sidney of Miss Boast.

“I have read a little of it, but it is not my favourite book,” she replied.

“But it is an admirable book,” said Sidney; “I have read it again and again. Why, I know it almost line by line. It is a grand poem, of course of the tragic style, full of strong sentiment and bold figure. Milton, you know, wrote that poem in German. The translation into English is a good one—incomparably good. I forget who the translator was. Do you not remember those exquisitely fine lines which run thus,—

‘Ah, mighty Love——’

Why, now, it is strange I should forget them. Let me see (with his hand to his forehead). Now I have them,

‘Ah, mighty Love, that it were inward heat
Which made this precious limbeck sweet!
But what, alas! ah, what does it avail!’

I need not repeat any more. This will give you an idea of the style and sentiment of that wonderful poem.”

“It is certainly very fine,” said the young lady, innocently. “Did you not hear those beautiful lines, Arthur, which Sidney has just quoted from Milton?” asked Miss Boast.

“Yes, I heard them.”

“Are they not fine?” said Sidney to Arthur.

He evaded an answer.

“Are you sure that the quotation is from Milton?” inquired Mr. Smith, who was listening to the conversation.

“Certainly,” said Sidney.

“Are they, Arthur?” asked Smith, who had his suspicions, and apprehended another display of Sidney’s pedantry, and was determined if possible to put a check on his folly.

“If you require me to be candid in my answer,” said Arthur, quietly, “I do not think that they do belong to Milton at all.”

“Whose are they, then?” asked Sidney, rather petulantly.

“They are Cowley’s, to be found in vol. i., p. 132, of his works.”

“I never knew that Milton’s poem was tragedy, and that he wrote it in German until now,” observed Mr. Smith, ironically.

“Who said he did?” asked Arthur.

“Sidney.”

“That is new historical fact, if fact it be,” said Arthur. “I always thought he wrote it in English, and that the poem was of the epic order.”

“I always thought so too,” said Smith.

Sidney sat confounded, but not conquered in his fault. He would not admit his error, nor would he cease his pedantic exhibitions. He gave two or three more displays before the party separated, and with similar results. Enough, however, has been given here to show the excessive folly of this habit, and the just ridicule to which it is exposed.

“What a pity that Sidney makes such preposterous pretensions to learning in his conversation,” said Smith the next day to Arthur.

“It certainly is,” answered Arthur; “but he is generally so when in the company of any he thinks educated. He aims at equality with them, and even to rise above them, with his comparatively limited acquirements. He rarely, or ever, attains his end. His folly almost invariably meets with an exposure in one way or another. I have met with him on several occasions previous to last night, and he was the same on every one.”

“It is to be hoped he will grow wiser as he grows older,” said Smith.

“I hope so,” said Arthur. “If he do not, he will always be contemptible in the eyes of the wise and learned; and they will do their utmost to shun his society and keep him out of their reach. Were his professions of learning to accord with his real abilities there would be no objection—nothing unseemly; but he aims at that which he has little competency to reach, and so makes himself ludicrous in his attempts. And then he does it withal in such self-confidence and ostentation as is perfectly revolting to good taste. As his friend, I feel very much for him, and wish he may get a knowledge of his real acquirements, and make no display of his learning beyond what he can honourably sustain, and in which he will be justified by wisdom and propriety. In this way he might obtain a position in which he would receive the respect of society according to the real merits of which he gave obvious proof.”

“Those are exactly my views,” said Smith, “and I wish they were the views of Sidney too.”

XVII.

THE DETRACTOR.

“The ignoble mind
Loves ever to assail with secret blow
The loftier, purer beings of their kind.”

W. G. Simms.

“Detraction’s a bold monster, and fears not
To wound the fame of princes, if it find
But any blemish in their lives to work on.”

Massinger.

A detractor is one whose aim is to lessen, or withdraw from, that which constitutes a good name or contributes to it.

The love of a good name is natural to man. He who has lost this love is considered most desperately fallen below himself.

To acquire a good name and to maintain it, what have not men done, given, and suffered in the world of Literature, Labour, Science, Politics, and Religion?

And who has blamed them for it? It is declared by the highest wisdom, that “A good name is better than great riches,” and “better than precious ointment.” “The memory of the just shall be blessed, but the name of the wicked shall rot.” “Whatsoever things are of good report, if there be any virtue and if there be any praise, think on these things.”

“It is,” as one says, “that which gives us an inferior immortality, and makes us, even in this world, survive ourselves. This part of us alone continues verdant in the grave, and yields a perfume.”

Considering, then, the worth of a good name, we cannot wonder that a man should wish to preserve and guard it with all carefulness.

“The honours of a name ’tis just to guard;
They are a trust but lent us, which we take,
And should, in reverence to the donor’s fame,
With care transmit them to other hands.”

As the work of the detractor is the tarnishing, or, it may be, the destruction of a man’s good name, the evil nature of it may be seen at one view. Can he commit a greater offence against his brother? Can he be guilty of a more heinous motive and aim?

“No wound which warlike hand of enemy
Inflicts with dint of sword, so sore doth light
As doth the poisonous sting which infamy
Infixeth in the name of noble wight;
For by no art, nor any leeches’ might,
It ever can re-curéd be again.”

“Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing;
’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands:
But he who filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.”

Let us notice some of the ways in which this talker seeks to accomplish his work.

1. He represents persons and actions under the most disadvantageous circumstances he can, speaking of those which may appear objectionable, and passing by those which may be commendable. There is no person so excellent who is not by his circumstances forced to omit some things which would become him to do if he were able; to perform some things weakly and otherwise than he would if he had the power. There is no action so worthy, but may have some defect in matter, or manner, incapable of redress; and he that represents such persons or actions, leaving out those excusing circumstances, tends to create an unjust opinion of them, taking from them their due value and commendation. Thus, to charge a man with not having done a good work, when he had not the power or opportunity, or is by unexpected means hindered from doing it according to his desire; to suggest the action was not done exactly in the best season, in the wisest mode, in the most proper place, with expressions, looks, or gestures most convenient—these are tricks of the detractor, who, when he cannot deny the metal to be good, and the stamp true, clips it, and so would prevent it from being current.

2. He misconstrues ambiguous words or misinterprets doubtful appearances of things. A man may speak never so well, or act never so nobly, yet a detractor will make his words bear some ill sense, and his actions tend to some bad purpose; so that we may suspect his meaning, and not yield him our full approbation.

3. He misnames the qualities of persons or things, and gives bad appellations or epithets to good or indifferent qualities. The names of virtue and vice do so nearly border in signification that it is easy to transfer them from one to another, and to give the best quality a bad name. Thus, by calling a sober man sour, a cheerful man vain, a conscientious man morose, a devout man superstitious, a free man prodigal, a frugal man sordid, an open man simple, a reserved man crafty, one that stands upon his honour and honesty proud, a kind man ambitiously popular, a modest man sullen, timorous, or stupid, is a way in which the detractor may frequently be known.

4. He imperfectly characterises persons, so as purposely to veil, or faintly to disclose, their excellencies, but carefully to expose and to aggravate their defects or failings.

Like an envious painter, he hides, or in shady colours depicts, the graceful parts and goodly features, but brings out the blemishes in clearest light, and most prominent view. There is no man who has not some blemish in his nature or temper; some fault contracted by education or custom; something amiss proceeding from ignorance or misapprehension of things. These (although in themselves small and inconsiderable) the detractor seizes, and thence forms a judgment calculated to excite contempt of him in an unwary spectator; whereas, were charity to judge of him, he would be represented as lovely and excellent.

5. He does not commend or allow anything as good without interposing some exception to it. “The man, indeed,” he says, “does seem to have a laudable quality; his action has a fair appearance;” but, if he can, he raises some spiteful objection. If he can find nothing plausible to say against him, he will seem to know and to suppress something. He will say, “I know what I know; I know more than I’ll say;” adding, perhaps, a significant nod or strong expression, a sarcastic sneer or smile, of what he cannot say in words.

“Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And, without seeming, teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike.”

6. He suggests that good practices and noble dispositions are probably the effects of sinister motives and selfish purposes. As, for instance, a liberal man, in his gifts is influenced by an ambitious spirit or a vain-glorious design; a religious man, in his exercises of devotion, is influenced by hypocrisy, and a desire to gain the good opinion of men, and to promote his worldly interests. “He seems to be a good man,” says the detractor, “I must admit; but what are his reasons? Is it not his interest to be so? Does he not seek applause or preferment thereby? Doth Job serve God for nought?” So said the father of detractors more than two thousand years ago.

7. He detracts from good actions by attempting to show their defects, or to point out how they might have been much better. “In some respects they are excellent and praiseworthy; but they might have been better with no more labour and pains. Pity that a thing, when done, is not done to the best of his ability.” Thus Judas blamed the good woman who anointed the Saviour’s feet. “Why,” said he, “was not this ointment sold, and given to the poor?” His covetous heart prompted him to detract from that action which Jesus, in His love, pronounced as a good work, which should be spoken of as such, wherever the gospel was preached.

8. A detractor regards not the general good character of a man’s conversation or discourse which is obvious, but attacks the part which is defective, though less discernible to other eyes than his own; like a man who, looking upon a body admirably beautiful, sees only a wart on the back of one hand to attract his particular attention; or like the man who overlooks the glories of the sun because of its spots.

Such are the chief particulars composing the character of the detractor.

We may now briefly notice some of the causes which influence the detractor in his talk.

1. Ill nature and bad humour.—As good nature and ingenuous disposition incline men to observe and commend what appears best in our neighbour; so malignity of temper and heart prompt to seek and to find the worst. One, like a bee, gathers honey out of any herb; the other, like a spider, sucks poison out of the sweetest flower.

2. Pride and inordinate self-importance.—The detractor would draw all praise and glory to himself; he would be the only excellent person; therefore he would jostle the worth of another out of the way, that it may not endanger his; or lessen it by being a rival, that it may not outshine his reputation, or in any degree eclipse it.

3. Envy.—A detractor likes not to see a brother stand in the good esteem of others, therefore he aims at the deterioration of his character; his eye is evil and sore, hence he would quench or becloud the light that dazzles it.

4. Ungodly revenge.—His neighbour’s good practice condemns his bad life; his neighbour’s worth disparages his unworthiness; this he conceives highly prejudicial to him; hence in revenge he labours to vilify the worth and good works of his neighbour.

5. Sense of weakness, want of courage, or despondency of his own ability.—He who is conscious of his own strength and industry will allow to others the commendation becoming their ability. As he would not lose the fruits of his own deserts, so he takes it for granted that others should enjoy theirs also. To deprive them were to prejudice his own claims. But he that feels himself destitute of worth, and despairs of reaching the good favour of society, is thence tempted to disparage and defame such as do. This course he takes as the best soother of his disappointed feelings and the chief solace for his conscious defects. Seeing he cannot rise to the standard of others, he would bring down that of others to his. He cannot directly get any praise, therefore he would indirectly find excuse by shrouding his unworthiness under the blame of others. Hence detraction is a sign of a weak, ignoble spirit; it is an impotent and grovelling serpent, that lurks in the hedge, waiting opportunity to bite the heel of any nobler creature that passes by.

Notice the consequences of detraction.

1. It discourages and hinders the practice of goodness. Seeing the best men disparaged, and the best actions spoken against, many are deterred from doing or being good in a conspicuous and eminent degree. Especially may this be so with such as are not independent and superior to what detractors may say about them.

2. Detraction is injurious to society in general. Society is maintained in peace and progress by encouragement of mutual and personal virtues and gifts; but when disparagement is cast upon them, they are in danger of languishment and decay; so that a detractor is one of the worst members of society; he is a moth, a canker therein.

3. Detraction does injury to our neighbour. It robs him of that reputation which is the just reward of goodness, and chief support in the practice of it; it often hinders him in undertaking a laudable deed; and keeps those from him or sets those against him who would be his friends.

4. Detraction injures those into whose ears it instils its poisonous suggestions, requiring them to connive at the mischief it does to worth and virtue, and desiring them to entertain the same unjust and uncharitable thoughts as itself.

5. The detractor is an enemy to himself. He raises against himself animosity and disfavour. Men of self-respect, conscious of their own honest motives and upright actions, will not submit to his unrighteous detraction. They will stand on their own consciousness of rectitude, and, with Right on their side, will cause him to fall into the pit which he has digged for others.

6. The detractor is likely to have given him the same that he gives to others. If he has in him that which appears laudable, how can he expect commendation for it, when he refuses it to others with similar claims? How can any one admit him to have real worth who will not admit another to have any?

The preceding observations are sufficient to exhibit the nature, causes, and effects of the fault of the detractor. This fault is wide-spread in its existence. It affects nearly all classes of society. Does it not too widely prevail in circles of Christian professors? Is there not too much of this kind of talk in the companies of ministers of religion? Among men of all ranks, occupations, and ages of life this spirit is too frequently and too powerfully operating. In the courts of princes, in the halls of science, in the schools of literature, the detractor may be found with his deteriorating and damaging tongue. The evening social circle, the festive board, the railway carriage, the two or three walking or sitting in the garden’s shades, are not exempt from the presence of this detracting demon.

My reader, be you among the honourable exceptions, with whom detraction shall find no life. And as you would not possess it in yourself, do not patronize it in others, although mixed in a sweet liquor, and offered in a golden cup.

Covet to be among those charitable spirits which put the best interpretation upon everything rather than the worst; which approve and praise rather than censure and condemn; which offer the fragrance of the rose rather than wound with the thorn; which present the jewel rather than point out the flaw in it; which take the fly out of the pot of ointment rather than put one in.

This is the spirit of nobleness, because the spirit of charity and of God.

XVIII.

THE GRUMBLER.

“Still falling out with this and this,
And finding something still amiss;
More peevish, cross, and splenetic,
Than dog distract, or monkey sick.”

Butler.

The Grumbler is a talker who may frequently be known by his countenance as well as by his tongue. The temper of his mind gives form and expression to the features of his face. His contracted brow bespeaks his contracted brain. His nose inclines to an elevation of disgust at the things which lie beneath. His mouth is awry with its peculiar exercise, and those deeply indented wrinkles on either side are the sad effects of its long-continued use in its chosen service. His aspect is one of chagrin, trouble, and disappointment.

There are a few more traits of the grumbling talker which may be specified for the benefit of those concerned.

1. The grumbling talker is generally indolent. He loiters or strolls about without any specific or profitable occupation. He can see nothing worth his attention, and if he does, he defers it until the future, meanwhile busy in grumbling with himself and with others. He gossips among his neighbours, or lounges about places of publicity, engaging those like himself, or, it may be, some of the better sort, with his grumbling conversation. Listen a moment: “His son John was not up at the right time this morning; his wife spoiled his breakfast; those orders were not made up yet, and ten o’clock; his business was very poor—can’t make both ends meet, hope times will get better—he doesn’t know how in the world he will pay his way unless he can get in his debts; his neighbour’s chimney smokes so badly that if he doesn’t mend it he must complain; he wishes his friend Wilkes would keep his cats away from his house, for they catch all the mice, and leave none for his cat; he would make things very different in their day-school if he was the master; he thinks Mr. Stock over the way doesn’t conduct his business right, or he would prosper more than he does.”

2. The grumbling talker generally attributes his want of success in his calling to other causes rather than to himself. “No one gives him encouragement. He has to do the best he can by his own means. He is always at it, and yet he does not succeed. Dr. Squibbs, Squire Bumble, Parson Sturge, and Lawyer Issard, all send their custom to his rival in Castle Street. Everybody else is favoured, while he is held back by unfriendly and adverse influences.”

William Goodwin was an industrious, economical, and obliging tradesman. With these qualities he succeeded in his business, and attained to a position of respectability which nearly everybody thought he deserved. Robert Careless was in the same line of business, and had the same opportunities of success, but he did not attain to it. He grumbled dreadfully against Goodwin and his own slow prosperity. “Goodwin,” he said, “was patronized more than he was. The people owed him a grudge, and they wouldn’t trade with him. If he had the same chance as Goodwin, he should prosper as he does. Goodwin is no more acquainted with his business, and has no more wisdom, economy, and affability than he; his clerk was very dull and disobliging; his own wife didn’t seem to take any interest in his business; the situation of his shop wasn’t good,” etc.

3. The grumbling talker is usually independent. He cares for nothing and for nobody. Although he cannot have everything he wants, yet he will not mind. He is determined to do as he likes. He will have his own way after all. He has a will, a knowledge, a purse, friends of his own. He will let the world see that he can get along with his own resources. Barnabas Know-nothing may talk as he please, Job Do-nothing may do all he can, and Richard Bombast may swagger because he thinks matters are done as he planned; but Mr. Grumbler is independent of them all, and will, by-and-by, demonstrate it beyond dispute.

4. The grumbling talker is easily frightened. He may seem very large, and appear very strong in his independence; he may bluster about his determination to carry out his plans despite Mr. This and Mr. That; but he is soon reduced to his just proportions. His fever heat falls suddenly down to zero, if not twenty degrees below. You may soon raise a lion in his way—soon make him believe that fate is against him—soon open his eyes to see breakers ahead; and then he would have done it but for the consequences which he foresaw. It is well to look before you leap. He looked and saw the gulf, and he prefers not to leap. It is better to suffer a little injury than bring a greater one. You may be sure nothing would have kept him from doing as he positively said he would, excepting those insuperable difficulties which he did not anticipate at the time, and which he defies any one to remove out of the way. The fact is, things are just the same as they ever were, only he has got into another element which has changed his temperament and resolutions.

5. The grumbling talker is generally endowed with a most capacious appetite for personal favours. If you can by any means administer to his necessities in this respect you will very much allay his craving, and, in a measure, stop his grumbling. It is the intensity of the appetite which often gives rise to the grumbling. Grumbling is the way in which he expresses his want. Every beast has a way of its own in making known its wants, and grumbling is the way some men have in expressing the deep hunger of their minds for special or ordinary favours. The grumbler is always on hand to receive the gift of a friend. The motto which he carries in the foreground of his grumblings is, “Small favours thankfully received, and larger ones in proportion.”

6. The grumbling talker is generally very jealous. He does not approve of the promotion of his friend to any honour above himself. He is afraid lest it should exalt him beyond measure. Besides, he does not see that he is any more qualified or deserving than he. He is surprised at the judgment of the “powers that be” when they placed Mr. So-and-So in such a responsible office. They could not certainly have known that he was not the man for the office, nor the office for the man. He must have been a favourite. He had helped them into their position, and, “One good turn deserves another, you know.” He knows how these sort of things are managed, “Kissing goes by favour, you know.” He happened to be out of their “good books,” and they were determined to punish him. Had his esteemed friend, Squire Impartial, been in authority, he didn’t doubt for a moment but he would have been promoted to the place where So-and-So now stands. Well, he congratulates himself that his time will come, and when it does he will make everybody wonder and regret that he wasn’t advanced before.

“Do you know,” said he one day to Mr. Content, “how it is that people talk so much about the superior abilities of our town councillor, Mr. Workman? For my part, I see nothing in him which is above mediocrity.”

“Mr. Workman is, indeed, generally reputed as being a clever man, and I certainly think he is,” said Mr. Content.

“He may be clever, but I do not think that he is any cleverer than most ordinary men.”

“I have every opportunity of judging, and I do most candidly think that we could not have found his equal in the entire town,” said Mr. Content again.

“That may be your opinion, and the opinion of others; but still my opinion is the same, and I am amazed at his reputation,” replied Mr. Grumbler.

7. The grumbling talker is often long-lived. The philosophy of the fact, if fact it be, I will not attempt to explain. It is a pity it should be so, but it does sometimes occur that the least desirable men are continued, while the most lovable are taken away. Were Providence to suspend or change the law which protracts the grumbler’s existence beyond the length of better men, I am sure no one would complain of it except the grumbler himself.

8. The grumbling talker is found everywhere in some one or all of his developments. He seems to be endowed with a spirit of ubiquity. You find him in all ages of time, in all ages of persons, in all places of resort, in all circumstances of life, in all nations of humanity, and in all varieties of mind. On the throne of the prince, in the chair of the president, in the gathering of Parliament or Congress, in the counting-house and in the store, in the tradesman’s shop and the lawyer’s office, in the school, the college, the lecture-room, and even in the precincts of the house of God, you may find the spirit of the grumbling talker. Heaven, perhaps, is the only place in the universe where he cannot be found.

9. The grumbling talker can rarely improve or make things better, even if he tries. Place him to fill the office which he says is so ineffectively filled by some one else, and its functions will be neglected or far more ineffectively performed. He “can preach a better sermon than the minister preached the other Sunday morning.” Let him try, and others judge. He “can superintend the Sunday-school with more authority and keep better order than he who now is in that position.” Place him there, and see what are the results.

In forty-nine instances out of fifty in which the grumbler has been taken as a substitute for the one against whom he has complained, there has been failure, through his want of competency for the place.

It is not, however, often that he reaches his end by his grumbling. He frustrates his own wish. Sound judgment in others pronounces against him. Wisdom knows that weakness is the main element of grumbling; that to instal in office a person who is a grumbler will not cure him; that one evil is better than two—his grumbling out of office than his grumbling in, with an inefficient performance of its duties.

His grumbling is sometimes so chronic and habitual, that no one takes any notice of him. He attracts far more attention when he is out of this rut than when he is in it. The majority know that things are right when he grumbles; but when he is silent they suspect them to be wrong, and when he approves they are quite sure.

10. The grumbling talker includes everything within his grumbling. He grumbles against God and His Providence, His Word and His ministers. The devil does not even please him. He grumbles about politics, religion, the Church, the state, books, periodicals, papers. He grumbles against trade, commerce, money; against good men and bad men; against good women and bad women; against babes and children, young ladies and old maids. He grumbles about the weather, about time, life, death, things present, and things to come. It would appear that as he is endowed with universal presence, he is endowed with universal knowledge also, which leads him to universal grumbling.

11. The grumbling talker is afflicted with a most revolting disease. It is dangerous in its nature, and most unpleasant in its influence. It is injurious in its operation upon all who come within its reach. Persons who are not troubled with it, and are not accustomed to see it, never wish to catch a sight or a scent of it the second time. It is rather contagious. If the law regulating the case of the leper was to be enforced in the case of the grumbler, it might have a salutary effect. But as there is no probability of this, and as it is important that the disease should be arrested before it spread farther and prove more disastrous than it has, I shall, pro bono publico, as well as for the grumbler himself, presume to copy an American prescription that I have in my possession, and which never failed to cure any grumbler who scrupulously carried it out.

“1. Stop grumbling.

“2. Get up two hours earlier in the morning, and begin to do something outside of your regular profession.

“3. Stop grumbling.

“4. Mind your own business, and with all your might; let other people alone.

“5. Stop grumbling.

“6. Live within your means. Sell your horse. Give away or kill your dog.

“7. Stop grumbling.

“8. Smoke your cigars through an air-tight stove. Eat with moderation, and go to bed early.

“9. Stop grumbling.

“10. Talk less of your own peculiar gifts and virtues, and more of those of your friends and neighbours.

“11. Stop grumbling.

“12. Do all you can to make others happy. Be cheerful. Bend your neck and back more frequently when you pass those outside of ‘select circles.’ Fulfil your promises. Pay your debts. Be yourself all you see in others. Be a good man, a true Christian, and then you cannot help finally to

“13. Stop grumbling.”

The above is an admirable receipt for the grumbling disease. It is composed of ingredients each of which is the best quality of healing medicine. Every grumbler should take the whole as prescribed, and he will soon experience a sensible change in his nature for the better; his friends also will observe him rapidly convalescent, and after a short time will rejoice over his restoration to a sound healthy condition, called by moral physicians—“CONTENTMENT.”

“Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content—
The quiet mind is richer than a crown;
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent—
The poor estate scorns fortune’s angry frown.
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy when princes oft do miss.

The homely house that harbours quiet rest,
The cottage that affords no pride nor care,
The mean that ’grees with country music best,
That sweet consort of Mirth’s and Music’s fare.
Obscuréd life sits down a type of bliss;
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.”

XIX.

THE EGOTIST.

“What cracker is this same, that deafs our ears
With this abundance of superfluous breath?”

Shakespeare.

“For none more likes to hear himself converse.”

Byron.

This is a talker whose chief aim is the exhibition of himself in terms and phrases too fulsome and frequent for the pleasure of his hearers. I was, I am, I shall be, I have, etc., are the pronouns and verbs which he chiefly employs. He is all I. I is the representative letter of his name, his person, his speech, and his actions. There is nothing greater in the universe to him than that of which I is the type. There is not a more essential letter in the English alphabet to him than the letter I. Destroy this, and he would be disabled in his conversation; he would lose the only emblem which he has to set himself off before the eyes of people. He is nothing and can do nothing without I. This stands out in an embossed form, which may be felt by the blind man, as well as be seen by those who have eyesight. If you tell him of an interesting circumstance in which a friend of yours was placed, “I” is sure to be the beginning of a similar story concerning himself. Speak of some success which your friend has made in trade or commerce, and “I” will be the commencement of something similar, in which he has been more successful. You can inform him of nothing, but “I” is associated with what is equal or far superior. Were one required to give an etymology of the egotist, it would be in the words of the Rev. J. B. Owen: “One of those gluttonous parts of speech that gulp down every substantive in social grammar into its personal pronoun, condensing all the tenses and moods of other people’s verbs into a first person singular of its own.”

Mr. Slack, of the town of Kenton, was egregiously given to egotism. He was a man of ordinary education, but somewhat elevated above his neighbours in worldly circumstances. He carried himself with an air of imposing importance, as though he was lord of the entire county. In his conversation he assumed much more than others who knew him conceded. It was a little matter for him to ignore the abilities of other people. His own prominent self made such demands as almost absorbed the rights of everybody else. Whenever opportunity occurred, he set himself off as most learned, most wealthy, most extensively known, numbering among his acquaintances the most respectable. He rarely talked but to exhibit himself, alone, or in some aristocratic connections.

Mr. Dredge was a neighbour of Mr. Slack’s, but of an opposite turn of mind. They were accustomed to make occasional calls upon each other. Dredge was quiet and unassuming, and often allowed Slack to go on with his egotistic gibberish unchecked, which rather encouraged him in his personal weakness.

One morning Mr. Slack called upon Mr. Dredge to spend an hour in a friendly way, as he often did, and, as usual, the conversation was principally about himself, and things relating to the same important personage.

“Have you seen the French Ambassador yet, Mr. Dredge?”

“No. Have you?”

“Indeed I should think so. I have been in his company several times, and had private interviews with him; and do you know, Mr. Dredge, he showed me more respect and attention than any one else in his company at the same time. He gave me a most pressing invitation to dine with him to-morrow afternoon, at six o’clock; but really, Mr. Dredge, my engagements, you know, are so numerous and important that I was compelled respectfully to decline the honour.”

“You must have felt yourself highly flattered,” said Mr. Dredge calmly.

“Not at all! not at all! It is nothing for me, you know, to dine with ambassadors. I think no more of that than of dining with you.”

“Indeed!” said Dredge in a sarcastic tone. “I thank you for the compliment.”

“No compliment at all, Mr. Dredge. It is the truth, I assure you; and were you to see the heaps of invitations which cover my parlour table, from persons equally as great as he, and more so, in fact, you would at once see the thing to be true. I feel it no particular honour to have an invitation from such a quarter, because so common. The Ambassador took to me as soon as he saw me. He saw me, you know, to be one of his own stamp. I put on my best grace, and talked in my highest style, and I saw at once that he was prejudiced in my favour. It was my ability, you know, my ability, Mr. Dredge, which made an impression on his mind.”

“I see, my friend,” said Mr. Dredge, “you have not lost all the egotism of your former years.”

“Egotism, egotism, Mr. Dredge! I am no egotist—and never was. It is seldom I speak of myself. No man can help speaking of himself sometimes, you know. If you are acquainted with Squire Clark, he’s the man, if you please, for egotism. Talk of egotism, sir, he surpasses me a hundred per cent. I am no egotist.”

“I hope no offence, Mr. Slack,” said Mr. Dredge.

“None at all, sir; I am not so easily offended. I am a man too good-tempered for that. I and you understand each other, you know.”

“Have you been to the City lately?” inquired Mr. Dredge.

“I was there only last week; and whom do you think I travelled with in the train? His Grace the Duke of Borderland. He was delighted to see me, you know, and gave me a pressing invitation to call on him at his London residence. Did you not know that I and the Duke were old cronies? We went to school together; and he was never half so clever as I was in the sciences and classics. He was a dull scholar compared with me.”

“You must have felt yourself somewhat honoured with his presence and attention.”

“Well, you know, Mr. Dredge, it is just here. I am so much accustomed to high life, that the presence of dukes, lords, etc., is little more to me than ordinary society. Had my friend Mr. Clarke been thus honoured, he would have blazed it all about the country. I would not have mentioned it now, only your question called it up.”

The fact is, Mr. Dredge had heard of it before from a number of people to whom Mr. Slack had already told it.

At this stage of the talk between Messrs. Dredge and Slack a rap was heard at the front door. It was Mr. Sweet, a friend of Mr. Dredge, who had called on his way to an adjacent town.

Mr. Dredge introduced his friend to Mr. Slack, who gave him one of his egotistic shakes of the hand, and said, “How are you this morning?”

“Mr. Sweet,” observed Mr. Dredge to Mr. Slack, “is an intimate friend of mine, and a professor in Hailsworth College.”

“Indeed! I am very happy, extremely happy, to make his acquaintance,” said Mr. Slack, with an air and voice which made the Professor open his eyes as to who he was. And without any more ceremony, Mr. Slack observed, “I know all the professors in that seat of learning. Drs. Jones, Leigh, Waller, I am intimately acquainted with—special friends of mine.”

To be candid, he had met with them on one occasion, and had received a formal introduction to them; but since then had not seen them.

“Are you at all acquainted with music, Professor Sweet?” asked Mr. Slack.

“I know a little of it, but am no adept.”

“O, sir, music is a noble science. It is the charm of my heart; it is enchantment to my inmost soul. Ah, sir, I have been nearly ruined by it many times! I carried it too far, you know. Not content with one instrument, I procured almost all kinds; and, sir, there is scarcely an instrument but I am perfectly at home with. And, sir, there is not a hymn or song but I can play or sing. Would you believe it, sir, that I stood first in the last grand oratorio which took place in the great metropolis? I sang the grand solo of the occasion. Allow me, sir, to give you a specimen of it.” And here he struck off with the solo, much to the amusement of the Professor. “Ah, sir, that is a noble piece. Does not go so well in this room, you know, as it did in Exeter Hall. The audience was so enraptured, sir, with my performance, that they encored me again and again.”

“Indeed, sir!” observed the Professor in a tone of keen sarcasm and strong unbelief.

“Of course, Professor, you are familiar with the classics,” said Mr. Slack.

“Somewhat,” replied the Professor, in a manner which indicated his disgust at the impertinence of the man.

“The classics, sir, are a fine study—hard, but interesting to those who have the taste—so refining—give such a polish to the mind, sir. I once had a great taste for the classics—studied them fully; and even now, sir, I know as much about them as many who profess to teach them. Would you believe me, sir, that I have the entire list of the classics in my library?”

The Professor smiled at the man’s preposterous egotism.

“The sciences,” continued Mr. Slack, “are grand studies for the mind. Geology, astronomy, astrology, phrenology, psychology, and so on, and so on—you know the whole list of them, Professor. Why, sir, I do not know the first science that I did not study at college; and even now, sir, after the lapse of years spent in the stir of a political life, there are few with whom I would be willing to stand second in my knowledge of them.”

In this style of impertinent egotism he continued to waste the precious moments and to torment the company, until the Professor could bear it no longer, and suggested to his friend Mr. Dredge that he had some business of importance upon which he would like to see him, if he could spare a short time alone. Mr. Slack took the hint, and made his departure, much gratified at the impression he thought he had made of himself upon the mind of his new acquaintance, Professor Sweet.

“What a prodigious egotist your friend is, Mr. Dredge,” observed the Professor, as soon as he had gone out of hearing. “He exceeds anything I ever heard. It is perfectly nauseous to hear him. He appears more like a fool to me than a wise man. I have not felt so repulsed and disgusted in the presence of a man for a long time. From the first moment of my entrance into your house until the last second of his departure he has talked about nothing except himself in the most bombastic way. I would rather dwell in mountain solitude than be compelled to live in his society.”

“I am accustomed to him,” replied Mr. Dredge, “and do not think so much of it as you, being a stranger; but he is without doubt an exceedingly vain man and brimful of egotism. I am sorry you were obliged to hear so much of him.”

“I am very pleased he is gone, and hope never to meet him in company again, excepting as a reformed character. He may be a good neighbour; he may be wealthy; he may be a little wise and educated; but none of these things justify the excessive vanity and self-setting-off which are so prominent in his conversation.”

The views of the Professor were such as others entertained who knew Mr. Slack. Few cared for his company; and those who did, endured more than enjoyed it. Himself occupied so much space in conversation, that other persons and things were crowded out. He thought so much of himself, that it was unnecessary for other people to think anything of him. He filled up so much room in society, that others could scarcely move their tongues. In fact, the ego within him was so enormous that those around him were Liliputians in his estimation. The U of other people was absorbed in his great I. He was known generally by the name of “Great I;” and when one repeated anything that Mr. Slack of K—— had said, the answer was, “O, Mr. Great I said it, did he?” and so it passed away as vapour. Some called him a “fool.” Others said, “Pity he knew no better.” The universal sentiment was that he spoke a hundred per cent. too much of himself, when of all men he should be last to say anything.

Mr. Snodgrass is a man who, without any injustice to him, may be referred to as an egotist.

I once waited upon him to consult him in his professional capacity respecting a matter in which I had a deep interest. But ere I could possibly reach the question, he occupied the greater part of the time I was in his company in making known to me the multiplicity of his labours in the past; his engagements for the time to come; what invitations he was obliged to decline; how for years he had kept up his popularity in one particular town; how he was busy studying the mathematics; how he had succeeded in a critical case, in which the most eminent men in the city had failed; how he had been written to concerning questions of the most vital importance. In fine, his great I stood out so full and prominent that my little i was scarcely allowed to make its appearance, and when it did it was despatched with an off-handedness which amounted to, “Who are you to presume to stand in the way of Me, so much your superior?” Of course my little i had to be silent until his great I was pleased to give permission for him to speak.

I have been with him in company when he has spoken in such tones of egotism as have made me feel pity for him. He had acquirements which no one else could lay claim to. He had attained professional honours which put every one of his class in the shade. He could give information which no one present had heard before from any of their ministers or teachers. He criticised every one, but no one could criticise him. He put every one right in politics, divinity, medicine, exegesis of Scripture. What had he not read? Where had he not been? Was not he a philosopher? an historian? a theologian? a physician? In fact, was not he the wise man from the East? and when he died, would not wisdom die with him?

Mr. Fidler is a young man given to egotism in his own peculiar way. He is fond of putting himself forward in company by telling tales and repeating jests as original and of his own creation, when they had an existence before he was born, and are perhaps as well or better known by some to whom he repeats them than they are to himself. It would not be so objectionable did he not exhibit himself in such airs of self-conceit, and speak in a manner which indicated that he was in his own estimation the chief personage of the company. On one occasion he was apparently gulling his hearers with a tale as new to them, with all the egotism he could command, when, as soon as he had done, one present, disgusted with his vanity, quietly observed, “That is an old thing which I remember hearing in my childhood.” But, nothing daunted by this, he still went on with his egotistic talk and manner, until another gentleman well read in books recommended him when he reached home to procure a certain book of jests and read it, and he would find every one of his pleasantries which he had told on that occasion there inserted. This advice being taken, he found that all his jokes and puns which he thought were new, or wished to pass as new, had been published and gone through several editions before he or his friends were ever heard of.

When a man’s conversation is principally about himself, he displays either ignorance of men and things, or is inflated with vanity and self-laudation. He must imagine himself and his doings to be of such consequence that if not known it will be an irreparable loss to the world. He shows himself in the social circle in an air which indicates that he would, were he able, either compel others to retire, or eclipse them with his own moonshine glare.

Such a talker must necessarily be a person at great discount in all well-informed and respectable society. They resent his disgusting trespasses upon their general rights; and they are just in so doing. What authority has he for his intrusions? He has none, either in himself or in his associations. His inventions, of which he speaks, will not sustain the test of examination. His great and numerous acquaintances of which he boasts are not all of the genuine stamp. The cards which lie on his table, thick as autumnal leaves, and to which he points for your particular observation, are not of the kind he would lead you to believe.

“I was to dine with the Admiral to-night,” said a naval lieutenant once; “but I have so many invitations elsewhere that I can’t go.”

“I am going, and I’ll apologise,” said a brother officer.

“O, don’t trouble yourself.”

“But I must,” said the officer, “for the Admiral’s invitation, like that of the Queen, is a command.”

“Never mind; pray don’t mention my name,” rejoined the lieutenant.

“For your own sake I certainly will,” was the reply.

At length the hero of a hundred cards stammered out, “Don’t say a word about it; I had a hint to stay away.”

“A hint to stay away! Why so?”

“The fact is, I—wasn’t invited.”

The man who prides himself in his aristocratic acquaintances betrays little respect for himself. A wise man knows that if he have true distinction, he must be indebted to himself for it. The shadow of his own body is more valuable to him than the substance of another man’s. In the mirror of self-examination he beholds the imperfections of his own doings and virtues, which will not for conscience’ sake allow him to parade his small apparent excellencies or acquisitions before society.

Lord Erskine was a great egotist; and one day in conversation with Curran he casually asked what Grattan said of himself.

“Said of himself!” was Curran’s astonished reply. “Nothing. Grattan speak of himself! Why, sir, Grattan is a great man. Sir, the torture could not wring a syllable of self-praise from Grattan; a team of six horses could not drag an opinion of himself out of him. Like all great men, he knows the strength of his reputation, and will never condescend to proclaim its march like the trumpeter of a puppet-show. Sir, he stands on a national altar, and it is the business of us inferior men to keep up the fire and incense. You will never see Grattan stooping to do either the one or the other.” Curran objected to Byron’s talking of himself as a great drawback on his poetry. “Any subject,” he said, “but that eternal one of self. I am weary of knowing once a month the state of any man’s hopes or fears, rights or wrongs. I would as soon read a register of the weather, the barometer up to so many inches to-day and down so many inches to-morrow. I feel scepticism all over me at the sight of agonies on paper—things that come as regular and notorious as the full of the moon.”

“In company,” says Charron, “it is a very great fault to be more forward in setting one’s-self off and talking to show one’s parts than to learn the worth and to be truly acquainted with the abilities of other men. He that makes it his business not to know, but to be known, is like a tradesman who makes all the haste he can to sell off his old stock, but takes no thought of laying in any new.”

“A man,” says Dr. Johnson, “should be careful never to tell tales of himself to his own disadvantage; people may be amused and laugh at the time, but they will be remembered and brought up against him upon subsequent occasions.”

“Speech of a man’s self,” says Bacon, “ought to be seldom and well chosen. I knew one who was wont to say in scorn, ‘He must needs be a wise man, he speaks so much of himself;’ and there is but one case wherein a man may commend himself with good grace, and that is in commending virtue in another especially if it be such a virtue whereunto himself pretendeth.”

Solomon says of the egotist, “Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? There is more hope of a fool than of him” (Prov. xxvi. 12). That is, he thinks he knows so much that you can teach a fool more easily than him. He be taught indeed! Who is so wise as he? If he want knowledge, has he not funds yet untouched, or powers equal to any discovery? Nevertheless, it is an old saying, “He that is his own pupil shall have a fool for his tutor.”

How suitable are the words of Divine Wisdom spoken to such: “Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others” (Phil. ii. 4). That is, whatever you have of your own, be not vain and proud of, to boast of and trust in; but rather look upon what others have to learn from, wisely to commend, and never to covet. Study the well-being of others rather than the exhibition of yourself. Again, it is said, “Be not wise in your own conceits.” “Be not high-minded, but fear.” “He that humbleth himself shall be exalted, but he that exalteth himself shall be abased.”

XX.

THE TALE-BEARER.

“He that rails against his absent friends,
Or hears them scandalized and not defends,
Sports with their fame, and speaks whate’er he can,
And only to be thought a witty man,
Tells tales and brings his friends in disesteem,
That man’s a knave; be sure beware of him.”

Horace.

There are two things which the tale-bearer does: he first collects his tales, and then carries them abroad for distribution. Although always distributing, his stock on hand remains unexhausted. One feature of his business is bartering. He exchanges his own ware for that of other people, of which he can dispose when occasion serves. He is an adept at his trade, and is seldom cheated in his bargains. It is immaterial to him what articles he takes in exchange, so that they can be disposed of in private market. Fragments of glass, old rusty nails, rotten rags, cast-away boots and shoes, and such-like things are received by him, either for immediate disposal or for manufacture into new commodities to meet special demands. He is agreeable in his manners, and careful lest he give offence. He enters with delicate feet into his neighbour’s house. His tongue is smooth as oil, and his words as sweet as honey, by which he wins the ear of his listener. On his countenance is the smile of good humour, by which he ingratiates himself into the favour of his customer. And now you may see him Satan-like, when squatted at the ear of Eve, pouring in the tales which he has either received from abroad or manufactured in his own establishment. Whichever they are, he has labelled them with his own signature under the words, “Not transferable, but at the risk of a violation of the most sacred confidence.” Having found a willing receiver of his goods in this neighbour, he asks remuneration, not in pounds, shillings, and pence, but in an equivalent—some fact or fiction, lie or rumour (he is not particular), which he can turn to account in another market. Having received payment, he bids adieu to his friend, and passes on to the next house and does his business there in a similar way.

The tongue of the tale-bearer is like the tail of Samson’s foxes, it carries fire-brands wherever it goes, and is enough to set the whole field of the world in a blaze. What Bishop Hall says of the busy-body may be said of the tale-bearer. “He begins table-talk of his neighbour at another man’s board, to whom he tells the first news and advises him to conceal the reporter; whose angry or envious answer he returns to his first host, enlarged with a second edition; and as is often done with unwilling mastiffs to excite them to fight, he claps each on the side apart, and provokes them to an eager conflict. He labours without thanks, talks without credit, lives without love, dies without tears and pity, save that some say it was a pity he died no sooner.”

The stories of the tale-bearer never lose in their transmission from person to person. Their tendency is to accumulate like the boys’ snow-ball rolled about in a field of thawing snow, so that by the time it has gone its round none of the primary features shall be recognised. This may be illustrated by the following:—

“A friend advised me, if ever I took a house in a terrace a little way out of town, to be very careful that it was the centre one, at least if I had any regard for my reputation. For I must be well aware that a story never loses by telling; and consequently, if I lived in the middle of a row of houses it was very clear that the tales which might be circulated to my prejudice would only have half the distance to travel on either side of me, and therefore could only be half as bad by the time they got down to the bottom of the terrace as the tales that might be circulated by the wretched individuals who had the misfortune to live at the two ends of it, so that I should be certain to have twice as good a character in the neighbourhood as they had. For instance, I was informed of a lamentable case that actually occurred a short time since. The servant of No. 1 told the servant of No. 2 that her master expected his old friends, the Bayleys, to pay him a visit shortly; and No. 2 told No. 3 that No. 1 expected to have the Bayleys in the house every day; and No. 3 told No. 4 that it was all up with No. 1, for they couldn’t keep the bailiffs out; whereupon No. 4 told No. 5 that the officers were after No. 1, and that it was as much as he could do to prevent himself being taken in execution, and that it was nearly killing his poor dear wife; and so it went on increasing and increasing until it got to No. 32, who confidently assured the last, No. 33, that the Bow-street officers had taken up the gentleman who lived at No. 1 for killing his poor dear wife with arsenic, and that it was confidently hoped and expected that he would be executed.”

Mr. Eadie, of the village of Handley, was a man very much addicted to the practice of collecting tales and then disposing of them wherever he could. It was his habit whenever he had a spare hour (and this was rather often, for it must be understood he was not any too industrious), to go at one time into the house of neighbour A., and at another time into the house of neighbour B. Sometimes he would sit gossiping in these houses for hours together. He managed to keep on good terms with both of them, although between B. and A. there existed anything but a good feeling. And, by-the-by, Eadie was the agent of producing it, through carrying tales to each respecting the other. If A. ever happened to show temper at a tale which he repeated as originating with B. about him, he would be sure to have a gentle corrective in telling a tale which he had heard on “most reliable authority” respecting B., which tale would be sure to be worse than the one he had told A. as spoken by B. Thus he did from time to time with either party, so as to keep on good terms with both.

He was known in the whole village and neighbourhood as a person given to the gathering of tales and the telling of them. Some of the people were too wise and peaceable to give him any patronage and encouragement. Others, however, were of different temperament. With curious mind and itching ears they always gave Eadie a welcome into their house. He was sure to bring news about neighbour Baxter and neighbour Mobbs, and somebody else of whom they were anxious to know a little matter or two. Miss Curious was always glad to see him, because he could answer her inquiries about Miss Inkpen’s engagement with young Bumstead—about the young gentleman who was at church the last Sabbath evening, and sat opposite to her in the gallery, ever and anon casting a glance at her as though he had some “serious intentions.” Mrs. Allchin was another who always greeted Eadie with a smile into her house. They were, in fact, on very intimate and friendly terms. Whenever they met, mutual tale-bearing occupied their chief time and attention. Now and then Mrs. Allchin would ask Eadie to have a friendly cup of tea, which when accepted was always a high time for both. On such occasions they exchanged goods to the last articles manufactured in Fancy’s shop or received from Scandal’s warehouse.

The next day Mrs. Allchin might be seen busy in making her calls upon her friends, doing business with the new goods received from Eadie over her tea-table; and Eadie might be seen moving about among his friends, disposing of the new goods he had received from Mrs. Allchin at the same time. But it must be understood that the quality of them in each case was generally adulterated.

Mr. Steeraway was another who gave a hearty reception to Eadie whenever he called upon him. He would give close attention to the recital of Eadie’s tales, much closer than he was in the habit of giving to the sermon at church or to the godly advice of the minister when he called on pastoral duties. One day Eadie told a tale about B. and S., two persons living as neighbours in the village, and who were living on the best terms of friendship. The day after Steeraway went to B. and told him what S. had been saying about him. He then went to S. and told him what B. had been saying about him. They were hard to believe the things which they heard; but Steeraway substantiated everything with such evidence as could not be denied. They met for explanation in the presence of Steeraway, who feigned to be the friend of both. Instead of clearing up matters, they made things darker, and parted, each thinking that there was some truth in what one had been saying of the other. Reserve sprang up between them; mutual confidence was lost; a separation of friendship took place; and it became a notorious fact in the village that B. and S. were now as much at variance as they were aforetime friendly and united. But Eadie was the main cause of it by telling his scandal to Steeraway, who he knew would repeat it the first opportunity, and could no more keep it secret than a child can keep from the candy-shop a penny given it by its Uncle Moses.

Mr. Musgrove was a tradesman in the village. He was generally believed to be an honest man, making full measure and just weight to little children as well as to adults. He was a tradesman who had a high sense of honour, and withal a mind sensitive to any attack upon his moral principles. Nothing affected him more than to have his integrity as a man of business called in question. One day Eadie, the tale-bearer, called at his shop (Musgrove was not at this time acquainted with Eadie’s character and business), and after buying a small article, he said to him in a most grave manner,—

“Mr. Musgrove, I am a comparative stranger to you, and you are to me; but I am always concerned for the welfare of honest and good citizens. Now, I would like you to succeed in trade as well as anybody else, and I hope you will; but you know it is difficult for a man in your business to get along if it is ever rumoured that he makes short weight and measure, and takes advantage of children and ignorant persons.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Eadie?” inquired Mr. Musgrove, as though he understood the remark to apply to himself.

“I will tell you, Mr. Musgrove. Now, I hope you will not think that I am the inventor of what I am about to tell you, or that I even believe it, for I have no reason for doing so.”

“What is it, Mr. Eadie? What is it?”

“I would not dream of telling you, if I did not desire that you might stand well before the public and your customers in particular.”

“That is what I am anxious to do; and what I am always studying to do; and I never yet had any fears about the matter.”

“Nor have I, Mr. Musgrove; but it is said that you make short weight and measure.”

“This is the first time that ever anything of the kind came to my ears since I have been in business,” said Mr. Musgrove, with considerable feeling.

“The thing has been told me by several individuals; and I fear the report is going the round of the village, much to your injury.”

“I am exceedingly sorry for it. But, Mr. Eadie, I must know the name of the party who has thus suffered from my dishonesty. I must trace this matter out, for my honour and happiness are dependent upon it. I scorn such a thing in the very thought.”

“Yes, and it is said to have been in connection with a little child, too, and that makes the thing so much the worse.”

“Well, now, Mr. Eadie, I must know the name of the party,” said Mr. Musgrove, very warmly.

“I feel considerable reluctance to give names,” replied Eadie.

“You need not fear of being involved in any unpleasantness,” answered Musgrove.

“So far as that goes, you know, I have no fear. But if you must know, I will tell you. It is in connection with the family of Bakers.”

“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Musgrove. “Do you know, Mr. Eadie, that I and that family are on the most friendly terms. We visit each other often; and they are most regular and frequent customers of mine. I can hardly believe, Mr. Eadie, that there is any truth in the report.”

“I hope it may not be true, but it is strange so many should talk about it, if it were not. But I have no interest in telling you of this, I do it for your good.”

“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Eadie.”

Eadie had now done his business, so off he started, and left Mr. Musgrove reflecting. “Strange,” thought he to himself, “that the Bakers have never said anything to me; that they should continue so friendly; that they should still send to my shop for everything they need. I cannot account for it.” He continued the subject of considerable emotion and anxiety. He informed his wife of the matter; but she did not credit the first word. She was of different temper to him. He was very anxious during the night, and slept little. How could he, when his character for probity was implicated, and his business was likely to suffer? The first opportunity he had he went to see Mrs. Baker, to inquire into the facts of the case. She was glad to see him. Upon the statement of the story, as told by Eadie, she was amazed, and exceedingly grieved. After a brief pause, she said to Mr. Musgrove, “I think I can tell you how the matter originated. My little girl went to your shop the other day for two pounds of butter, and when she brought it home, Miss Nancy, who is rather given to suspicion, thought the butter didn’t weigh two pounds, so she at once weighed it, and found that the weight was perfectly right. Mrs. Allchin called in the day after, and in conversation I happened to mention the circumstance to her. I ought to have known better; for I seldom tell her anything of the kind, because I know her gossiping humour. Mrs. Allchin and Eadie, who you say told you about it, are very intimate friends; I have no doubt she informed him in her way of exaggeration and wonder; and then he would tell you in his own peculiar way, which is far from being a way of truthfulness. If you knew him as well as I do, you would not have heard his tale at all; and I am sure you would not have been disturbed in your mind by it, because you would not have believed him. And as to the tale being circulated through the village, that may be partly true; for when anything gets into Mrs. Allchin’s or Eadie’s hands, it spreads like wildfire; but you may rest assured that no one will believe it, when it is known to come from either the one or the other. Do not be alarmed, Mr Musgrove, neither your character nor business will suffer. You stand as high as ever you did with us, and with everybody else, for aught I know. I am exceedingly sorry that the thing should have occurred.” Musgrove left Baker’s fully satisfied as to the fabrication of the tale, and still conscious of his own integrity; but he could not help feeling about it, nor could he help observing a slight decline in business from those parties who gave credence to the tale of Mrs. Allchin or Mr. Eadie.

These miserable habits of tale-bearing and meddling, of backbiting and whispering, are the source of the greater part of the quarrellings, alienations, jealousies, and divisions in families. The smallest, plainest bit of wire may become by such malicious working a sword that pierces, to the destruction of peace and happiness. The least possible authority is enough to give them warrant to set a-going an evil report, which, as it rolls, gathers from every point it touches.

As in the case of Jeremiah, “Report, say they, and we will report it. All my familiars watched for my halting, saying, Peradventure he will be enticed, and we shall prevail against him, and we shall take revenge on him” (Jer. xx. 10). As in the case also of Nehemiah, “It is reported among the heathen, and Gashmu saith it, that thou and the Jews think to rebel; and now shall it be reported to the king according to these words” (Neh. vi. 6, 7).

Gashmu saith it, anybody says it, is authority enough. What did Nehemiah know about Gashmu? What did any one know? But there are always plenty of Gashmus for the tale-bearer’s purpose. But although Gashmus be as plenty as blackberries, God’s law is absolute and explicit; it hedges this wickedness around with many provisions, and walls it in, so that a man who commits it is as if he had broken through flaming gates for the purpose. “Thou shalt not raise nor receive a false report. Put not thine hand with the wicked to be an unrighteous witness. Thou shalt not follow a multitude to do evil; neither shalt thou speak in a cause to decline after many to wrest judgment (Exod. xxii. 1, 2). Lord, who shall abide in Thy tabernacle? He that backbiteth not with his tongue, nor doeth evil to his neighbour, nor taketh up a reproach against his neighbour” (Ps. xv.).

Then observe the vagueness and indefiniteness of the accusation, founded on what in the nature of things was absolutely impossible to be known, except by overt action; founded on suspicion or conjecture of men’s thoughts. “That thou and the Jews think to rebel!” There was no pretence that they had rebelled. There is no need to begin the lie in so gross and bungling a manner; it was bad enough to set the conjecture of an intention in motion. Whoever took that report to the king would be sure to present it thus:—

“It is said that there is rebellion in Jerusalem.”

“Rebellion! Who is at the head of it?”

“Nehemiah, the Governor.”

“And where is the proof of this thing?”

“O, Gashmu saith it.”

“And who is Gashmu?”

“O, nobody knows anything about him; but doubtless he is some responsible person!”

“A whisper broke the air,—
A soft light tone, and low,
Yet barbed with shame and woe;
Now, might it only perish there,
Nor further go!
Ah me! a quick and eager ear
Caught up the little meaning sound!
Another voice has breathed it clear,
And so it wandered round
From ear to lip, from lip to ear,
Until it reached a gentle heart,
And that—it broke!”

In reflecting upon these and similar results following the work of the tale-bearer, one cannot but recommend to his attention these words of Scripture: “Thou shalt not go up and down as a tale-bearer among thy people.” “A tale-bearer revealeth secrets; but he that is a faithful spirit concealeth the matter.” “The words of a tale-bearer are as wounds, and they go down into the innermost parts of the belly.” “He that goeth about as a tale-bearer revealeth secrets, therefore meddle not with him that flattereth with his lips.” “Where there is no tale-bearer, the strife ceaseth.” “They learn to be idle, wandering about from house to house; and not only idlers, but tattlers also, and busy-bodies, speaking things which they ought not.”

The following recipe is said to be an effectual cure of the mouth-disease of the tale-bearer. It is given in the hope that all who are so affected will give it a fair trial:—

“Take of good nature, one ounce; mix this with a little ‘charity-for-others’ and two or three sprigs of ‘keep-your-tongue-between-your-teeth;’ simmer them together in a vessel called ‘circumspection’ for a short time, and it will be fit for application. The symptom is a violent itching in the tongue and roof of the mouth, which invariably takes place when you are in company with a species of animals called ‘Gossips.’ When you feel a fit of the disorder coming on, take a teaspoonful of the mixture, hold it in your mouth, which you will keep closely shut till you get home, and you will find a complete cure. Should you apprehend a relapse, keep a small bottleful about you, and on the slightest symptom repeat the dose.”

XXI.

THE ASSENTER.

“And there’s one rare, strange virtue in his speeches,
The secret of their mastery—they are short.”

Halleck.

This is a talker of a very accommodating kind. He is pliable as an elastic bow. He takes any shape in sentiment or opinion you please to give him, with most obliging disposition. As you think, so he thinks; as you say, so he says. If you deny, he denies; if you affirm, he affirms. He is no wrangler or disputant, no dogmatist or snubber. You may always rely upon having a hearing from him, whatever you say. And observe this, what he is to you, so he is to others, however averse they may be in sentiment to yourself. He is very much of a weathercock-make in his intellect. It seems to be fixed on a pivot, and from whichever point of the compass the wind blows in the talking world he veers round to that quarter. His pet expressions are, “Yes, truly;” “Just so;” “I believe that;” “Nothing is truer;” “That is what I have said many a time,” etc. I am not, however, disposed to think that this vacillation is owing to moral weakness so much as to want of mental calibre in independent and manly exercise.

In some it is a habit formed as the result of a desire to stand on friendly terms with everybody they hold conversation.

“It is a very fine morning, Mr. Long,” said Mr. Oakes, as he met him one day in Bond Street.

“Very fine, indeed,” said Mr. Long.

“I think we are going to have settled weather now after such a succession of storms.”

“O, yes, I think so, Mr. Oakes.”

“Did you mind that picture of Wellington as you came by Brown’s shop. Is it not fine? Did you ever see a better likeness of the glorious hero of Waterloo than that? Is it not grand?”

“It is indeed grand. I never saw anything like it. I think with you, Mr. Oakes.”

“That is a magnificent building, Mr. Long, which is in course of erection in Adelaide Street. It will be an honour to the architect, the proprietor, and the city.”

“It is indeed a magnificent building, and it will do honour to the architect, the proprietor, and the city,” replied Mr. Long.

“Did you hear Mr. Bowles lecture the other night? Was it not a grand piece of eloquence, of originality, and of literary power? I think that it was super-excellent.”

“Just so, Mr. Oakes. It was, as you say, super-excellent; that is the exact idea. It was everything you describe. I fully concur in your remarks.”

“But I did not think much of the man that supplied our pulpit on Sunday morning. He was too long, too loose, and too loud; a very poor substitute for our beloved pastor.”

“Those are exactly my views upon that subject,” responded Long.

“My opinion is that the probability of the restoration of Popery in this country was never so strong as now, and unless something be done to interpose, it will become more probable still.”

“Just so, Mr. Oates. My opinion is precisely the same as yours upon that point. We agree exactly.”

“I think Mr. Gladstone’s pamphlet on the Vatican Decrees is likely to produce a reactionary effect upon the patronage of the Romanists in his future support as the Liberal leader.”

“That is what I think too, Mr. Oakes. It is very likely, as you say, to be so. Your mind and mine agree upon that particular also.”

“I have a strong impression that the Public Worship Act will have little effect in arresting the progress of Ritualism, because of the apathy of the Bishops.”

“That is just my impression, Mr. Oakes.”

“Do you not think, Mr. Long, that the scepticism of the age is very subtle, powerful, and dangerous?”

“Yes, truly, Mr. Oakes, I do indeed think that the scepticism of the age is all you say it is.”

“I did not say it was so; you mistook my question for a statement, Mr. Long.”

With some little tremor, as though he had given offence, Mr. Long said, “Oh dear no; you did not say so: I have made a mistake; do pardon me, Mr. Oakes.”

“That notion of George Eliot, taught in the following lines, is full of atheistic teaching, and likely to be mischievous in its influence. Speaking of his wish to have an immortality, his notion of it is only that of living in the minds of others in subsequent ages:—

‘O may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead, who live again
In minds made better by their presence:
So to live is heaven.’

His notion of a heaven, you see, is limited to a life of immortality among the dead, who live in others made better by them—a posthumous influence for good is his only heaven.”

“Yes, I see, Mr. Oakes,” answered Long. “Just so: I believe all you say. You have expressed what I think about the atheistic theory of George Eliot.”

It was in this way that Mr. Long assented to Mr. Oakes in everything he said. They separated, and each went on his way. As Mr. Long walked down the street, who should meet him but Mr. Stearns? and he began his conversation somewhat in the same order as Mr. Oakes, only he happened to take in almost every particular an opposite view. But this was of no consequence to Mr. Long. Both Mr. Oakes and Mr. Stearns were his intimate friends, though not friends of each other, and he did not wish to disagree with either, so he assented to everything Stearns said with as much readiness and affability as he did to what Oakes said.

The above is a brief specimen of the assenter in conversation. His fault shows itself to every observer; and if it is not a moral fault, it certainly is an intellectual one. Every man in conversation ought to have a mind of his own for free and independent thought; and while he does not dogmatically and doggedly bring it into contact with others, he should avoid making it the tool of another man’s. He should not throw it, as clay, into everybody’s mental mould which comes in his way, to receive any shape which may be given to it. This is softness which a healthful state of any mind does not justify—which the natural intellectual rights of man condemn. It is a pliability of mind which no honourable man requires in conversation, and which he does not approve. It is mental stultification. It confines the action of mind to one party, and limits the circle of conversation to the compass which that mind pleases to give it. The proper contact of mind in conversation is mutual stimulus to action. Friction produces fire, and when there are wise hands to supply suitable material on both sides, a genial glowing heat is the result, which thaws out the frigidness that otherwise might exist. Each one warms himself at the other’s fire; all who listen feel the influence, and lasting are the benefits which flow from such conversation.

XXII.

THE LIAR.

“A false witness shall not be unpunished; and he that speaketh lies shall not escape.”—Solomon.

This is a talker who voluntarily speaks untruth with an intention to deceive. He is a painter, giving to subjects colours and views that he knows are false to the original, but which he means to be understood as true by the spectators. He is a dramatist, making representations which do not belong to the characters in the drama, and thereby imposing upon the credulity of the beholders. He is a legerdemain, showing black to be white, and white to be black, and red to be no colour—a factor, producing works which he vends as real, when he knows them to be shams—a witness, bearing testimony to things which have no existence—a tradesman, carrying on business in a fictitious name and with an imaginary capital.

This talker may be met with in a variety of aspects and relations: in the shop, telling his customer that his goods are the best in town, and cheapest in price, when he knows that they are far from being either one or the other; in the market, declaring that the fruit is fresh gathered and fish just arrived, when he knows that both are on the eve of decay and rottenness from long keeping; in the manufactory, stating that the article is pure and unadulterated, when he knows that one half or three parts are impure and corrupt. “You shall have it at cost price,” when perhaps the price is ten or twenty per cent. above it. “Selling at twenty-five below cost,” when the proprietor knows he will make a large profit. “They are salvage goods,” or they are “damaged goods from a great fire in Manchester or Edinburgh,” when they are old things which have been damaged in the owner’s own warehouse or cellar. “William, if Mr. Cash calls to inquire if I am at home, tell him I am gone out for the day,” said Mr. Brush to his servant, while he was the whole day engaged in some pet diversion in the bagatelle-room. “You shall most certainly have your new coat by Thursday evening,” says the tailor to Mr. Shaw, upon which promise he makes a special engagement to meet company. Thursday evening comes, and Mr. Shaw finds the promise unfulfilled by the tailor, who knew at the time he should not do as he said. “O, yes, I will meet you at four o’clock on Monday at Mr. Nuncio’s,” when he knew that he was purposing to go in quite an opposite direction at that very hour. “I certainly cannot pay your bill to-day: call on Friday, and I will pay you,” when he knows he has the money on hand, and that when you call on Friday he will not pay you.

There are yet three more aspects in which this talker appears before society—as jocular, as officious, as pernicious. As Jocular, he talks with a view to amuse and create merriment by telling stories of his own invention, or what he has heard others repeat, and which he knows not to be true. As Officious, he talks with a view, as he says, to benefit others. He may do it as a parent to benefit his children; or as a husband to benefit his wife; or as an officer in Church or State to benefit those who are subject to him. He thinks the end justifies the means, and he can do evil that good may come. But this is an egregious mistake; for the Divine injunction is that we must not do evil that good may come. “And therefore,” says Bishop Hopkins, “although thine own life or thy neighbour’s depends upon it; yea, put the case it were not only to save his life, but to save his soul, couldest thou by this means most eminently advance the glory of God, or the general good and welfare of the Church, yet thou oughtest not to tell the least lie to promote these great and blessed ends.” As Pernicious, he talks things that are false with a view to injure his neighbour, or any one towards whom he has an evil feeling. It is immaterial to him what the invention is, so that it will answer his malicious design. He can create rumours by wholesale, and dispense them to all who will degrade themselves by accepting them. Aspersions, detractions, slanders, defamations, and calumnies he can conjure in his mind and pour out of his lips without the shadow of a justification. And as there are always persons with ready minds to receive whatever is said to the injury of others, and to circulate it as truth, the liar often succeeds in the accomplishment of his evil purpose. I will give briefly the traits of his character.

1. He is a child of the devil.—“Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he speaketh a lie, he speaketh of his own: for he is a liar, and the father of it” (John viii. 44). The liar, then, is a legitimate son of this lying father. He speaks as he is inspired by that black spirit of perdition. “Thou never liest,” says Bishop Hopkins, “but thou speakest aloud what the devil whispered softly to thee; the Old Serpent lies folded round in thy heart, and we may hear him hissing in thy voice. And therefore, when God summoned all His heavenly attendants about Him, and demanded who would persuade Ahab to go up and fall at Ramoth-Gilead, an evil spirit that had crowded in amongst them steps forth and undertakes the office as his most natural employment, and that wherein he most of all delighted. ‘I will go forth and be a lying spirit in the mouth of all his prophets’ (I Kings xxii. 22). Every lie thou tellest, consider that the devil sits upon thy tongue, breathes falsehood into thy heart, and forms thy words and accents into deceit.”

2. He acts contrary to the Divine mind and nature.—God is truth and in Him is no falsehood at all. What He hath said He will do; what He hath promised He will fulfil. All His thoughts are according to the perfect reality of things; and all His words are in exact accord with His thoughts. Hence the sin of lying is contrary to His very nature, and an abomination in His sight. “These six things doth the Lord hate: yea, seven are an abomination unto Him: A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, an heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief, a false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among his brethren” (Prov. vi. 16-19). “Lying lips are abomination to the Lord: but they that deal truly are His delight” (Prov. xii. 22).

3. He gives indubitable evidence of a depraved nature.—He is the opposite in nature to a child of “our Father which is in heaven.” “Surely,” says the Lord of His children, “they are My people; children that will not lie: so He became their Saviour” (Isa. lxiii. 8). On the contrary, it is affirmed of the wicked that they “are estranged from the womb; they go astray as soon as they are born, speaking lies” (Ps. lviii. 3). Again it is said, “Thy tongue deviseth mischiefs; like a sharp razor, working deceitfully. Thou lovest evil more than good, and lying rather than to speak righteousness” (Ps. lii. 2, 3). The wicked “delight in lies; they bless with their mouth, but they curse inwardly” (Ps. lxii. 4). Again it is said, “Behold, he travaileth with iniquity, and hath conceived mischief, and brought forth falsehood” (Ps. vii. 14). Jeremiah’s description of his people answers to the character of the liar in our day. “They bend their tongues like their bow for lies; but they are not valiant for the truth upon the earth, for they proceed from evil to evil, and they know not Me, saith the Lord.” “They will deceive every one his neighbour, and will not speak the truth; they have taught their tongue to speak lies, and weary themselves to commit iniquity” (Jer. ix. 3, 5).

4. He is generally a coward in respect to men, and a contemner of God.—“To say a man lieth,” says Montaigne, “is to say that he is audacious towards God, and a coward towards men.” “Whosoever lies,” observes Hopkins, “doth it out of a base and sordid fear lest some evil and inconvenience should come unto him by declaring the truth.” “A liar,” remarks Bacon, “is brave towards God and a coward towards man. For a lie faces God, and shrinks from man.” “The meanness of lying,” says Gilpin, “arises from the cowardice which it implies. We dare not boldly and nobly speak the truth, but have recourse to low subterfuges, which always show a sordid and disingenuous mind. Hence it is that in the fashionable world the word liar is always considered as a term of peculiar reproach.”

“Lie not, but let thy heart be true to God,
Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both.

Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod;
The stormy working soul spits lies and froth.”

Again, says the poet:—

“Dishonour waits on perfidy. The villain
Should blush to think a falsehood; ’tis the crime Of cowards.”

5. As a rule he is the most condemned and shunned of all the talkers in society.—Those who have any self-respect avoid him. The noble and virtuous stand aloof from his company. He is regarded as a dangerous person, possessed of deadly weapons, subject to a deadly malady. He is not depended upon at any time, or in anything. Even his veracity is suspected, if not discredited altogether; so that when he does speak the truth there is little or no confidence reposed in what he says as the truth. Aristotle, being asked what a man would gain by telling a lie, answered, “Not to be credited when he shall tell the truth.”

The poet, in a dialogue with Vice, thus represents the liar or falsehood as the greatest fiend on earth. Vice inquires of Falsehood:—

“And, secret one! what hast thou done
To compare, in thy tumid pride, with me?
I, whose career, through the blasted year,
Has been tracked by despair and agony.”

To which Falsehood replies:—

“What have I done? I have torn the robe
From Baby Truth’s unsheltered form,
And round the desolated globe
Borne safely the bewildering charm:
My tyrant-slaves to a dungeon floor
Have bound the fearless innocent,
And streams of fertilizing gore
Flow from her bosom’s hideous rent,
Which this unfailing dagger gave....
I dread that blood!—no more—this day
Is ours, though her eternal ray
Must shine upon our grave.
Yet know, proud Vice, had I not given
To thee the robe I stole from heaven,
Thy shape of ugliness and fear
Had never gained admission here.”

In view of the enormity of this sin, the language and feeling of the good is, “I hate and abhor lying;” “A righteous man hateth lying;” “The remnant of Israel shall not do iniquity nor speak lies, neither shall a deceitful tongue be found in their mouth.” They pray against the sin, “Remove from me the way of lying;” “Remove far from me vanity and lies.” They do not respect those who are guilty of the sin. “Blessed is the man that maketh the Lord his trust, and respecteth not the proud, nor such as turn aside to lies;” “He that worketh deceit shall not dwell within my house; he that telleth lies shall not tarry in my sight.” It would be well if all professing Christians would act upon this resolution of the Psalmist, and exclude all liars from their presence.

6. He is generally characterized for other evils as associated and produced by his lying.—The degeneracy of moral principle which can impose upon the credulity of mankind by the invention and statement of what is known to be untrue is capable of other acts of vice and immorality. Hence the prophet Hosea, in speaking to the Israelites of the judgments that should come upon them, declares that “the Lord hath a controversy with the inhabitants of the land, because there is no truth, nor mercy, nor knowledge of God in the land. By swearing, and lying, and killing, and stealing, and committing adultery they break out, and blood toucheth blood.” Here we see the brood of evils associated with lying. “A lying tongue,” says Solomon, “hateth those that are afflicted by it.” It not only afflicts, but hates them whom it does afflict—hates them under the calamity of which itself has been the cause. “A liar,” he again says, “giveth ear to a naughty tongue.” He listens to lies, to slander, to cursing, to profanity, and the various evils constituting a “naughty tongue.”

7. He often tries to conceal his previous sins by lying, and to conceal his lying by subsequent sins.—Ananias and Sapphira sinned in keeping back part of the price, and then they lied in endeavouring to cover that (Acts v.). Cain sinned in murdering his brother, and then lied in the attempt to hide it (Gen. iv. 9). Jacob did wrong in appearing before his father as Esau, and sustained his wrong by a lie. The brethren of Joseph transgressed in dealing unkindly with him and selling him into the hands of the Ishmaelites, and then to conceal the matter they deceived their father by lying (Gen. xxxvii. 31, 32). Samson committed sin by throwing himself into the power of Delilah, and sought his deliverance from her hands by telling lies (Judges xvi. 10).

And so the liar has to resort to additional sin in defending himself against his lying. One lie begets another lie to sustain it. Sometimes it calls forth an oath, a blasphemy, a curse, perjury, and other kinds of sin. Gehazi lied to Naaman concerning his master, and then to clear himself before his master he lied a second time (2 Kings v. 22, 25). Peter also lied in saying that he knew not Jesus, and to sustain himself in it, when discovered, he cursed and swore, and thus doubled his crime (Matt. xxvi. 72).

“One lie,” says Owen, “must be thatched with another, or it will soon rain through.” “He who tells a lie,” remarks Pope, “is not sensible how great a task he undertakes, for he must be forced to invent twenty more to maintain that one.” “When one lie becomes due,” says Thackeray, “you must forge another to take up the old acceptance; and so the stock of your lies in circulation inevitably multiplies, and the danger of detection increases every day.”

It is astounding to a serious mind to observe how some persons can run on in the repetition of falsehoods; and who, upon an apprehension of discovery, will yet go on paying the price of what they have told by continuing to lie on. It is also humiliating to one’s humanity to notice oftentimes the cunning, subtlety, paltry tricks resorted to in order to cover over the lies which are exposed to detection.

“This is the curse of every evil deed,—
That, propagating still, it brings forth evil.”

8. He is almost invariably discovered in his sin.—“The lip of truth,” says the wise man, “shall be established for ever; but a lying tongue is but for a moment” (Prov. xii. 19). The moral government of God is maintained by truth. It is engaged in the promulgation and defence of truth. He who lies is a violator of its sacred laws, and exposes himself to the searching and grasping power of justice. The agents of the justice of God are numerous, and by one or the other the rebel is sure to be discovered and brought to public exposure in his criminality. There is a general love to truth and hatred to lies among mankind, and the belief or suspicion of a lie leads at once to the use of means to find it out, in order to know the truth and expose the falsehood. Truth known as truth is never questioned. It remains inviolable and eternal. It stands as the admiration of the intelligent universe. But falsehood is transient in its power and reign, and exists while it does exist as the object of execration to all the rational beings of heaven and earth.

9. He cannot go unpunished.—He is punished in the remorse and condemnation of his conscience; in the abhorrence of him in the judgment of every respectable member of society; in the continual fear he has of shameful discovery. None can trust him. It is against the moral instinct of human nature to confide in a liar. Children cannot trust their parents when they know they lie. Even the ties of kindred, however close, cannot create mutual assurance in the face of habitual falsehood.

Fidelity in every authority visits lying with punishment. Children are punished by parents; servants by their masters. A liar is such a mischievous member of the community that the almost unanimous feeling towards him is one of condemnation.

The Scriptures contain most fearful words expressive of the retribution which shall come upon the liar:—

“I will be a swift witness against false-swearers, and them that fear not Me, saith the Lord of hosts.” “Thou shalt destroy them that speak leasing: the Lord will abhor the bloody and deceitful man.” “What shall be given unto, or what shall be done unto thee, thou false tongue? Sharp arrows of the mighty, with coals of juniper.” “A false witness shall not be unpunished, and he that speaketh lies shall not escape.” “But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second death.” “And there shall in no wise enter into it anything that defileth, neither whatsoever worketh abomination or maketh a lie.” “For without are dogs, and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and murderers, and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie.”

In illustration of some of the preceding sentiments, I give the following:—

An American lawyer says: “On entering college, I promised my mother, whom I loved as I have never loved another mortal, that while there I would not taste of intoxicating liquor, nor play at cards, or other games of hazard, nor borrow money. And I never did, and never have since. I have lived well-nigh sixty years, yet have never learned to tell a king from a knave among cards, nor Hock from Burgundy among wines, nor have I ever asked for the loan of a single dollar. Thanks to my mother!—loving, careful, anxious for me, but not over-careful nor over-anxious. How could she be, when I was so weak and ignorant of my weakness, feeling myself strong because my strength was untried, and such a life as human life is, such temptations as beset the young, before me.

“She did not ask me to promise not to swear. She would not wrong me by the thought that I could swear; and she was right. I could not. How can any one so insult the Holy, the All-Excellent, our Father, and best friend? Nor did she ask me not to lie. She thought I could not lie. Had she thought otherwise, my promise would have been of little value to her. And I also thought I could not. I despised lying as a weakness, cowardice, meanness, the concentration of baseness. I felt strong enough, manly enough, to accomplish my end without it. I had no fear of facing my own acts. Why should I shrink before my fellows for anything I had done? Lie to them to conceal myself or my acts? Nay, I would not have faults to be concealed. My own character, my own life, was more to me than the esteem of others. I would do nothing fit to have hidden, or which I might wish to hide. I thought I could not lie, and I could not for myself.

“During my second college year there was a great deal of card-playing among the students. The Faculty tried to prevent it, but found it difficult. Though I never played, my chum did, and sometimes others played with him in our room when I was present. I not unfrequently saw the students at cards. One of the professors questioned me upon the subject.

“‘Have you ever seen any card-playing among the students?’

“‘No, sir,’ I answered firmly, determined not to expose my fellows. ‘A lie of honour!’ I said to myself. What coupling of contradictions! As well talk of ‘honest theft!’ ‘innocent sin!’

“‘You are ignorant of any card-playing in the college building, Brown?’

“‘Yes, sir,’

“‘We can believe you, Brown.’

“I was ready to sink. Nothing else could have smitten, stung me, like that. Such confidence, and I so unworthy of it. Still I held back the truth.

“But I left the professor’s room another person than I entered it—guilty, humbled, wretched. That one false word had spoiled everything for me. All my past manliness was shadowed by it. My ease of mind had left me, my self-respect was gone. I felt uncertain, unsafe. I stood upon a lie, trembling, tottering. How soon might I not fail? I was right in feeling unsafe. It is always unsafe to lie. My feet were sliding beneath me. One of the students had lost a quarter’s allowance in play, and applied to his father for a fresh remittance, stating his loss. His father had made complaint to the college Faculty, and there was an investigation of the facts. The money had been staked and lost in my room. I was present.

“‘Was Brown there?’ asked the professor.

“‘He was.’

“The professor’s eyes rested on me. Where was my honour then—my manliness? and where the trust reposed in me? Did any say, ‘We can believe you, Brown,’ after that? Did any excuse my lie—any talk of my honour then? Not one. They said, ‘We didn’t think it of you, Brown!’ ‘I didn’t suppose Brown would lie for his right hand!’

“It was enough to kill me. But there was no help. I had to bear my sin and shame as best I might, and try to outlive it. No one trusted me as before. No one could, for who knew whether my integrity might not again fail? I could not trust myself until I had obtained strength as well as pardon from God, nor even then, until I had many times been tried and tempted, and found His strength sufficient for me.”

Bessie was a little girl, not very old. One morning, as she stood before the glass pinning a large rose upon her bosom, her mother called her to take care of the baby a few minutes. Now Bessie wanted just then to go out into the garden to play, so she went very unwillingly.

Her mother bade her sit down in her little chair, placed the baby carefully in her lap, and left the room. The red rose instantly attracted the little one’s attention, and quick as thought the chubby little fingers grasped it, and before Bessie could say, “What are you about?” the rose was crushed and scattered. Bessie was so angry that she struck the baby a hard blow. The baby, like all other babies, screamed right lustily. The mother, hearing the uproar, ran to see what was the matter. Bessie, to save herself from punishment, told her mother that her little brother Ben, who was playing in the room, had struck the baby as hard as he could.

Ben, although he declared his innocence, received the punishment which Bessie so richly deserved. Bessie went to school soon after, but she did not feel happy.

That night, as she lay in her bed, she could not go to sleep for thinking of the dreadful wrong she had committed against her brother and against God; and she resolved that night to tell her mother the next morning. When morning came, however, she felt as if there was something kept her back; she could not make up her mind to confess the sin; it did not seem so great as the night before. It was not much, after all, her silly heart said. As day after day passed, Bessie felt the burden less and less, and she might have fallen into the same sin again had a temptation presented itself, but for a sad event. One morning, when she came home from school, she found Ben ill with a frightful throat distemper. He had been so all the forenoon. He continued to grow worse, and the next evening he died.

Poor Bessie! it seemed as if her heart would break. Kind friends tried to comfort her. They told her that he was happy; that he had gone to live with the Saviour who loved little children; and if she was good, she would go to see him, though he could not come again to her.

“O!” said the child, “I am not crying because he has gone to heaven, but because I told that lie about him; because he got the punishment which belonged to me.”

For a long time she refused to be comforted.

Several years have passed. Bessie is now of woman’s size; but the remembrance of that lie yet stings her soul to the quick. It took less than one minute to utter, but many years have not effaced the sorrow and shame which followed it.

A mother sat with her youngest daughter, a sprightly child, five years of age, enjoying an afternoon chit-chat with a few friends, when a little girl, a playmate of the daughter of Mrs. P., came running into the sitting-room, and cried,—

“Where is Jane? I’ve got something for her.”

“She is out,” said the mother.

“What have you got? Show it to me,” eagerly exclaimed Hannah, the mother’s favourite. “I’ll give it to her.”

The little girl handed Hannah a bouquet of flowers, which she had gathered for Jane, and returned home with the faith that her kindness had not been misapplied. She had scarcely left the room, when Hannah, standing by her mother’s chair, talking to herself, said, loud enough to be heard across the room,—

“I like flowers—she often calls me Jane—she thinks I am Jane—I’m going to keep this bouquet.”

The mother made no objection to the soliloquy, and Hannah immediately began to pick the leaves from the handsome rose, for the purpose of making rose water. She had not completed her task when Jane bounded into the room, and seeing Hannah with flowers, exclaimed,—

“I’m going to have a bouquet pretty soon. Sally Johnson said she would bring me one this afternoon.”

“But she won’t,” said Hannah.

“I’ll go and see,” returned Jane, tripping as she spoke towards the front door.

“Here, Jane,” said the mother, “Sally brought this bouquet for you, but you were not in, and she gave it to Hannah.”

The tears started in Jane’s eyes. She felt that she had been robbed, and she knew that Hannah had been preferred to her. Hannah had been encouraged in a deliberate falsehood and in deception towards her sister. Many a time since has that mother felt herself obliged to punish her daughter for prevarications, and often has she been heard to say that she wondered where so small a child learned so much deceit.

This is a small affair at best, some may say; but do not

“Large streams from little fountains flow—
Tall oaks from little acorns grow?”

And do not the “small beginnings” of instruction lay the foundation of man’s or woman’s character?

The following lines are a solemn admonition against this sin, spoken by one who had committed it and fallen under its terrible punishment:—

“My sin, Ismenus, has wrought all this ill;
And I beseech thee to be warned by me,
And do not lie, if any man should ask thee
But how thou dost, or what o’clock ’tis now;
Be sure thou do not lie, make no excuse
For him that is most near thee; never let
The most officious falsehood ’scape thy tongue;
For they above (that are entirely Truth)
Will make the seed which thou hast sown of lies
Yield miseries a thousandfold
Upon thine head, as they have done on mine.”

XXIII.

THE CENSORIOUS.

“Judging with rigour every small offence.”—Hayward.

He is a judge passing sentence upon persons and things without justice or charity. Benevolent works in Church or State are failures unless he has been a prominent party in their execution. Personal motives are weighed in the balance and found wanting. Thoughts, ere they are expressed, are even seen and censured. Actions are pronounced false and defective. Appearances are judged as realities, and realities as nonentities. Things straight are seen as crooked, and things beautiful as deformed. Where wiser men perceive order, strength, utility, he perceives confusion, weakness, and uselessness. An enterprise of which the community approve and co-operate in he stands aloof from, and satisfies his unhappy disposition with carping criticisms and ungenerous censures. A neighbour who does not reach his standard of moral excellence in character and action he pronounces lax in principles and delinquent in life. One who does not agree with him in his peculiar views of some disputed doctrine of Christian faith or principle of Church discipline he judges to be little better than a heretic or a heathen.

It seems the instinct of his nature to find fault. He hears no preacher, reads no book, looks upon no work of art, without some expression of disapproval. God, Providence, the Bible, Religion, do not escape his sharp and keen criticisms. His perception is so fine and his taste so exquisite that points of failure which a generous mind would overlook he discerns and speaks of with unfailing fidelity. He would at any time rather rub his nose against a thistle than smell at a flower.

“Mr. Smith is a very excellent man,” said a friend of mine one day in conversation to Mr. Pepper.

“Yes, he may be,” said Pepper in an indifferent way; “but perhaps you don’t know him as well as I do.”

“What a noble gift of Lord Hill to the town of Shenton, that park of one thousand acres!”

“True, it was; but what were his motives in its bestowment? Did he not expect to gain more than its value in certain ways that I need not mention?”

“How sad that the family of Hobson have come into such circumstances.”

“It is only a judgment upon them for the old man’s sins.”

“Have you heard that young Dumas has entered the ministry?”

“Yes, and what for? Only for the loaves and fishes.”

“What a kind Providence it was that provided so suitably for widow Bonsor and her family.”

“Providence, indeed! Was it not rather the benevolence of Mr. Lord and his friend Squance?”

“What an admirable picture that is in Mr. Robinson’s window in Bond Street. It is a splendid piece of workmanship. Don’t you think so?”

“A bad sky—very bad! Cold as winter. That trunk of a tree on the right is as stiff and formal as a sign-post. It spoils the whole picture.”

“Then you don’t like it?”

“There are a few good points in it; but it is full of faults.”

“The Rev. Mr. Benson, of Queen’s-road Church, is, in my judgment, an eloquent and powerful preacher. Don’t you think so, Mr. Pepper?”

“Well, as you ask me so pointedly, I am free to say that I think him a very good preacher on the whole. But, you know, he is far from perfect. I have again and again perceived his false logic, his weak metaphors, and his unsound expositions. Still, he is passable, and you may go a long way before you hear a better.”

Thus the censor meets you in every topic which you introduce in conversation.

“All seems infected that the infected spy,
And all seems yellow to the jaundiced eye.”

If you ask reasons for his censures, he cannot give you any, excepting one similar in kind to the following:—

“I do not like you, Doctor Fell,
The reason why I cannot tell;
But I do not like you, Doctor Fell.”

“Canting bigotry and carping criticism,” says Magoon, “are usually the product of obtuse sensibilities and a pusillanimous will. Plutarch tells us of an idle and effeminate Etrurian, who found fault with the manner in which Themistocles had conducted a recent campaign. ‘What,’ said the hero, in reply, ‘have you, too, something to say about war, who are like the fish that has a sword, but no heart?’ He is always the severest censor on the merits of others who has the least worth of his own.”

Again he says, “The Sandwich Islanders murdered Captain Cook, but adored his bones. It is after the same manner that the censorious treat deserving men. They first immolate them in the most savage mode of sacrifice, and then declare the relics of their victims to be sacred. Crabbed members of churches and other societies will quarrel a pastor or leading member away, and with snappish tone will complain of his absence, invidiously comparing him with his successor, and making the change they have caused the occasion of a still keener fight, simply to indulge the unslumbering malice of their unfeeling heart. The rancour with which they would silence one, the envy with which they hurry another into seclusion, and the inexorable bitterness under the corrosion of which a third is brought prematurely to the grave, proves how indiscriminate are their carping comments, and how identical towards all degrees of merit is their infernal hate.”

Pollok speaks of the censor in the following lines:—

“The critics—some, but few,
Were worthy men; and earned renown which had
Immortal roots; but most were weak and vile;
And as a cloudy swarm of summer flies,
With angry hum and slender lance, beset
The sides of some huge animal; so did
They buzz about the illustrious man, and fain
With his immortal honour, down the stream
Of fame would have descended; but alas!
The hand of time drove them away: they were
Indeed a simple race of men, who had
One only art, which taught them still to say,
Whate’er was done might have been better done;
And with this art, not ill to learn, they made
A shift to live; but sometimes, too, beneath
The dust they raised, was worth awhile obscured:
And then did envy prophesy and laugh.
O envy! hide thy bosom! hide it deep:
A thousand snakes, with black, envenomed mouths,
Nest there, and hiss, and feed through all thy heart!”

“The manner in which cynical censors of artistic and moral worth proceed is the same in every place and age. In Pope’s time ‘coxcombs’ attempted to ‘vanquish Berkely with a grin,’ and they would fain do the same to-day. ‘Is not this common,’ exclaimed a renowned musician, ‘the least little critic, in reviewing some work of art, will say, pity this and pity that—this should have been attired, that omitted? Yea, with his wiry fiddle-string will he creak out his accursed variations. But let him sit down and compose himself. He sees no improvements in variations then.’”

The fault of which the censorious talker is guilty has been defined as a “compound of many of the worst passions; latent pride, which discovers the mote in a brother’s eye, but hides the beam in our own; malignant envy, which, wounded at the noble talents and superior prosperity of others, transforms them into the objects and food of its malice, if possible obscuring the splendour it is too base to emulate; disguised hatred, which diffuses in its perpetual mutterings the irritable venom of the heart; servile duplicity, which fulsomely praises to the face, and blackens behind the back; shameless levity, which sacrifices the peace and reputation of the absent, merely to give barbarous stings to a jocular conversation: all together forming an aggregate the most desolating on earth, and nearest in character to the malice of hell.”

The censorious talker, with all his criticisms and censures, never does any good, as none heed him but those who do not know him. His criticisms have no influence with the wise and judicious. Though he may swim against the stream of general opinion, he can never turn the stream of general opinion to run with him. Though he may talk contrary to others, he cannot persuade or constrain others to talk as he does. He may dissent in judgment from them, but he cannot bring them over to coincide with him; and it is a good thing for society that it is so. As he talks without wisdom and charity, so he talks to no purpose, excepting to prejudice weak and unwary minds, and degrade himself in the sober judgment of the intelligent and thoughtful.

“Voltaire said that the ‘character of the Frenchman is made up of the tiger and the ape;’ but even such a composition may be turned to some useful account, while the inveterate fault-finder neutralizes, as far as possible, every attempt made by others to do good. To perform any task perfectly to his liking, would be as impossible as to ‘make a portrait of Proteus, or fix the figure of the fleeting air.’ To speak favourably of anybody or anything is a trait of generosity entirely foreign to his nature; from temperament and confirmed habit, he ‘must be cruel only to be kind.’ The only benefit he occasions is achieved contrary to his intent; in his efforts to impede rising merit, he fortifies the energies he would destroy. Said Haydon, ‘Look down upon genius, and he will rise to a giant—attempt to crush him, and he will soar to a god.’”

While the censorious man is most severe in judging others, he is invariably the most ready to repel any animadversions made upon himself; upon the principle well understood in medical circles, that the feeblest bodies are always the most sensitive. No man will so speedily and violently resent a supposed wrong as he who is most accustomed to inflict injuries upon his associates. Not unfrequently is a fool as dangerous to deal with as a knave, and for ever is he more incorrigible.

What an unhappy state of mind is that of the censorious talker! He is always looking with the eyes of jealousy, envy, or malice, to discern something for censure; and something he will discern; true or false, it is of no consequence to him. He proceeds in direct opposition to the Divine injunction, “Judge not, lest ye be judged.” “Judge not according to appearance, but judge righteous judgment.” He is like the Pharisees of old, with two bags, one before and the other behind him. In the one before he deposits the faults of other people, and in the one behind he now and then, it may be, deposits the faults of himself. He is devoid of the charity which covereth a multitude of sins, which is the bond of perfectness, which “suffereth long, and is kind, which envieth not, vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, which doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; which beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.” This charity has not so much as cast her passing shadow upon the soul of the censor; and did the shadow or body of charity come within the range of his vision, he would not discern either the one or the other, because of the blindness of his heart.

One of the finest expressions in the world is in the seventeenth chapter of Proverbs, “He that covereth a transgression seeketh love; but he that repeateth a matter separateth very friends.” In what a delightful communion with God does that man live who habitually seeketh love! With the same mantle thrown over him from the cross, with the same act of amnesty, by which he hopes to be saved, injuries the most unprovoked, and transgressions the most aggravated are covered in eternal forgetfulness.

On the contrary, the censorious man often separates intimate friends by repeating a matter and digging up forgotten quarrels. The charity which is most divine is that which hides a multitude of faults. It is pure in itself, and labours to promote the peace and happiness of all. If one would be noble, he must be habitual in the cultivation of lofty principle and generous love.

What advantage comes of the uncharitable criticisms and judgments which are passed one upon the other? Is any one the better? Do they not rather result in mutual ill-humour and enmity? Who likes to have his motives called in question? Who can endure with meekness to have himself and his works put through the crucible of a mere mortal, as though that mortal were the Judge of eternal destinies? Let us remember that we are all frail, and as such should exercise towards each other that charity which we hope the Supreme One will exercise towards us.

“Oh what are we,
Frail creatures as we are, that we should sit
In judgment man on man? and what were we,
If the All Merciful should mete to us
With the same rigorous measure wherewithal
Sinner to sinner metes.”

XXIV.

THE DOGMATIST.

“I am Sir Oracle:
And when I ope my lips let no dog bark.”

Shakespeare.

This talker is one who sits in company as a king whose words are law; or as a god whose communications are divine; or as a judge whose decisions are unalterable. There is, however, this drawback to his supremacy—it is only in his own imagination. He is to himself an infallible oracle—infallible in all points of theory and practice on which he converses. He has surrounded himself with such fortifications of strength, that to attack him with a view to gain a surrender on any questions of dispute is like trying to break a rock with a bird’s feather, or taking Gibraltar with a merchant ship’s gun. He is invulnerable in everything. His words, like Jupiter’s bolts, come down upon you in such fury that your escape is as likely as that of a gnat thrown into a caldron of flaming oil. Hercules crushing an infant in his grasp is a difficult task compared to the ease with which this giant talker grasps and crushes his opponent. In every mode of hostility he meets you as Goliath met David—with lips of scorn and words of contempt—to presume to stand before him in contradiction. Your logic is weak; or you beg the question; or you see only one side; or you want order of thought, breadth of view, clearness of perception; or you have not studied philosophy, or psychology, or history, sufficiently to judge of the question; or you are wrong altogether: you must be so.

Thus his denunciations come down without mercy upon your poor soul; and alas for you if you have not enough of mental stamina, independence, and fortitude to stand up against them. If you are a lamb, you are torn to pieces as in the jaws of a lion; if you are trembling and diffident, you are overwhelmed as a dove in the claws of an eagle. He scathes with his lightning and awes with his thunder. He sweeps everything before him, and stands in the field as sole possessor. He is “Sir Ruler” of all opinion. He is “Lord Guide” of all thought; and to have a thought or an opinion of your own, contrary to his, is a presumption frowned upon with sternest ire.

Another trait in this talker is, he has nothing good to say of any one, or of anything that is of any one. He deals with others in the third person as he deals with you in the second person. “What do you think of so and so?” you ask: it may be of the highest personage in State or Church, in literature or politics.

“O, he is narrow, or he is selfish; or he is mean; or he is vain; or he is jealous; or he is little; or he is limited in his reading; or he is something else, which unfits him to be where he is or what he is.”

No one pleases him; nothing pleases him. Everybody is wrong; everything is wrong. If there is a dark spot in the bright sky, he is sure to see it; if a thorn on the rose, he is bound to run his hand in it; if a hole in the garment, his finger will instinctively find its way there, and make it larger.

I have met this talker in company more than once or twice; and I must say that my conversation with him has been anything but pleasant or satisfactory. I have thought every time that he has increased in his idiosyncracy, that he has become more and more dogged, self-willed, and obstinate. I have wished that he might see himself as others see him. But to this he has been as blind as an owl in mid-day. Where is the salve that would give him this power of vision? He see himself as others see him! Can the blind be made to see, or the deaf to hear? Then may this miracle be wrought. He sees no one in his mirror but himself, and himself in full perfection. Should he, perchance, at any time see another, it is in a manner that only enlarges the perception of his own personal excellences, and strengthens his consciousness of self-importance and self-satisfaction.

“Do you think, Mr. Jones, that Dr. Sharpe’s views of the natural immortality of the soul and the future condition of the wicked are tenable by reason and Scripture?” asked Mr. Manly.

“There is neither reason nor Scripture in them,” replied Mr. Jones, with dogmatic emphasis. “He is hemmed in by your ‘orthodoxy.’ He is narrow in his conceptions. He lacks breadth of thought. His logic is feeble. He is deficient in true exegesis of Scripture. He has not looked into nature to catch its unfettered inspirations. His arguments are as weak as an infant’s.”

“But are you not forgetting the scholarship of the Doctor, underrating his powers, and losing sight of the general favour with which his work is received?” asked Mr. Manly.

“Forgetting his scholarship!” replied Jones, with a dogmatic sneer; “how can I forget what he never had, and underrate powers which he never possessed? And as for the favour with which his book has been received, that is nothing to me. I think for myself: I speak for myself. I care nothing for the opinion of others. I say, and when I say I mean what I say, that there is no force in the Doctor’s arguments.”

“Yes, but, Mr. Jones, all that is mere dogmatism on your part, and no argument,” said Mr. Manly, calmly and firmly.

“You accuse me of dogmatism, do you?” roared Mr. Jones, “dogmatism indeed! Who are you, to be so bold? No argument, either! If I do not argue, who does? It is impudence on your part to say such a thing in my presence.”

Mr. Manly thought it wise to say no more about Dr. Sharpe’s book. After a brief pause Mr. Jones told a most marvellous account of two men in South Africa, to which Mr. Manly observed,—

“That is a strange story, and hard to believe, Mr. Jones.”

“It is so, whether you believe it or no: I know it is true, and it is so,” replied Mr. Jones, positively.

“But your ipse dixit does not make it true.”

“My ipse dixit, indeed! Have not I read it? Do not I know it? Be it true or false, I believe it; and I wonder at your impudence to call in question anything that I say,” said Jones, somewhat furiously.

“Do not excite yourself, Mr. Jones.”

“Excite myself! isn’t there enough to excite me? I said so, and that ought to have been enough without your contradiction.”

Mr. Manly said no more on that point, but after a while observed,—

“The principle you advanced, Mr. Jones, a short time since, on geology seems to be altogether gratuitous, and can only be received for what it is worth.”

“Gratuitous, indeed! Gratuitous! You affirm it to be gratuitous, do you? I should like to know what right you have to say it is gratuitous? Haven’t I said it is so? and do you mean to insult me by saying it is only gratuitous?” roared out Jones.

“I do not mean to insult at all; but I was not prepared to receive it, as it is antagonistic to the views of the most eminent geologists of the present day,” replied Mr. Manly, rather coolly.

“What is that to me? My views are my own. I have found them myself. I hold them sacred. I care not who they contradict. I believe they are right. I affirm them so to you, and you should not dispute them.”

It is thus the dogmatist stands upon his self-confidence and presumption, his fancied superiority of knowledge and learning. He virtually ignores everybody else’s right to think and to know. He flings denunciation at the man who dares contradict him. He is his own standard of wisdom, and erects himself as the standard for other people. “To the law and the testimony,” as they are embodied in him; and if there is not conformity to these, it is because there is no light in you.

Sometimes the dogmatist seems to rule supreme in the company of which he forms a part. But his rule is not acquired by the force of logic or the convincing power of truth. It is assumed or usurped. It may be that some are too modest to contradict him, or others may not have sufficient intelligence, or others may not think it worth their while, or others may have wisdom to perceive his folly, and answer him accordingly. Hence he may imagine himself triumphant when no one disputes the field with him. He may think he reigns supreme in the circle, when, in fact, he reigns only over his own opinions, or rather is a slave to their despotic power.

The dogmatist is far from having influence with the wise and intelligent. Among the timid and ignorant he may rule in undisputed power; but to men of reason and thought he is repulsive. He is kept at arm’s length as a piece of humanity whose “room is better than his person.” In these days of free thought and free speech, who will submit to be hectored out of his right to think, and to speak as he thinks, by one who has nothing but his own dictatorial self-conceit to show as his authority, perhaps backed with a pretentious influence coming from a subordinate official position that he holds in Church or State?

Even when the dogmatist possesses that amount of intelligence and position which legitimately place him above most of the company into which he may go, he is seldom or ever welcomed as an acceptable conversationalist. But when he is a man below mediocre—a pedant—he is insupportable.

Were it required to state what are the causes of the fault of this talker, they might be summed up in two words—ignorance and pride. The man who assumes to himself authority over other people’s thought and speech must indeed possess a large measure of these qualities. He must estimate his powers at the highest value, and set down those of others at the lowest. He is wise in his own conceit, and in others foolish. He occupies a position which has been usurped by the stretch of his self-importance, and from which he should be summarily deposed by the unanimous vote of pure wisdom and sound intelligence.

Cowper, in speaking of this talker, thus describes him:—

“Where men of judgment creep and feel their way,
The positive pronounce without dismay;
Their want of light and intellect supplied
By sparks absurdity strikes out of pride.
Without the means of knowing right from wrong,
They always are decisive, clear, and strong;
Where others toil with philosophic force,
Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course;
Flings at your head conviction in the lump,
And gains remote conclusions at a jump;
Their own defect invisible to them,
Seen in another, they at once condemn;
And, though self-idolised in every case,
Hate their own likeness in a brother’s face.
The cause is plain, and not to be denied,
The proud are always most provoked by pride;
Few competitions but engender spite,
And those the most where neither has a right.”

XXV.

THE ALTILOQUENT.

“With words of learned length and thundering sound.”

Goldsmith.

This is a talker not content to speak in words plain and simple, such as common sense teaches and requires. He talks as though learning and greatness in conversation consisted in fine words run together as beads on a string. You would infer on hearing him that he had ransacked Johnson to find out the finest and loftiest words in which to express his ideas, so far as he has any. The regions in which ordinary mortals move are too mundane for him; so he rises aloft in flights of winged verbiage, causing those who listen below to wonder whither he is going, until he has passed away into the clouds, beyond their peering ken. At other times he speaks in such grandiloquence of terms as make his hearers open their eyes and mouths in vacant and manifold interjections! “How sublime! How grand! How surpassingly eloquent! Was it not magnificent?”

I will give the reader a few illustrations of this talker, as gathered from a variety of sources.

“That was a masterly performance,” said Mr. Balloon to his friend Mr. Gimblett, as they came out of church one Sunday morning, when the Rev. Mr. German had been preaching on the Relation of the Infinite to the Impossible.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Gimblett, “I suppose it was very fine; but much beyond my depth. I confess to being one of the sheep who looked up and were not fed.”

“That’s because you haven’t a metaphysical mind,” said Mr. Balloon, regarding his friend with pity; “you have got a certain faculty of mind, but I suspect you have not got the logical grasp requisite for the comprehension of such a sermon as that.”

“I am afraid I have not,” said Mr. Gimblett.

“I tell you what it is,” continued Mr. Balloon, “Mr. German has a head. He’s an intellectual giant, I hardly know whether he is greater as a subjective preacher, or in the luminous objectivity of his argumentum ad hominem. As an instructive reasoner, too, he is perfectly great. With what synthetical power he refuted the Homoiousian theory. I tell you Homoiousianism will be nowhere after that.”

“To tell the truth,” said Mr. Gimblett, “I went to sleep at that long word, and did not awake until he was on Theodicy.”

“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Balloon, “that was a splendid manifestation of ratiocinative word-painting. I was completely carried away when, in his magnificent, sublime, and marrowy style he took an analogical view of the anthropological.” But at this point Mr. Balloon soared away into the air, and left Mr. Gimblett standing with wondering vision as to whither he had gone.

At the time the Atlantic telegraph was first laid a certain preacher thought proper to use it as an illustration of the connection between heaven and earth, thus: “When the sulphuric acid of genuine attrition corrodes the contaminating zinc of innate degeneracy and actual sinfulness, and the fervent electrical force of prayerful eternity ascends up to the residence of the Eternal Supreme One, you may calculate on unfailing and immediate despatch with all magnetical rapidity.”

A certain American altiloquent was once talking of liberty, when he said, “White-robed liberty sits upon her rosy clouds above us; the Genius of our country, standing on her throne of mountains, bids her eagle standard-bearer wind his spiral course full in the sun’s proud eye; while the Genius of Christianity, surrounded by ten thousand cherubim and seraphim, moves the panorama of the milky clouds above us, and floats in immortal fragrance—the very aroma of Eden through all the atmosphere.”

An altiloquent was one day about taking a journey into the country. He was rather of a nervous tendency, having met with two or three accidents in travelling. Before getting into the hired conveyance he asked the driver, “Can you, my friend, conduct this quadruped along the highway without destroying the equilibrium of the vehicle?” The journey having been made without the “equilibrium of the vehicle” being destroyed, when he reached the inn where the horse was to lodge for the night, he said to the ostler, “Boy, extricate this quadruped from the vehicle, stabulate him, devote him an adequate supply of nutritious aliment, and when the aurora of morn shall again illumine the oriental horizon I will reward you with pecuniary compensation for your amiable hospitality.”

On a certain occasion one of this class of talkers was dining in a country farm-house, when, among other vegetables on the table, cabbage was one. After despatching the first supply, he was asked by the hostess if he would take a little more, when he said, “By no means, madam. Gastronomical satiety admonishes me that I have arrived at the ultimate of culinary deglutition consistent with the code of Esculapius.”

A photographer once, describing his mode of taking pictures, said, “Then we replace the slide in the shield, draw this out of the camera, and carry it back into the shadowy realm where Cocytus flows in black nitrate of silver, and Acheron stagnates in the pool of hyposulphite, and invisible ghosts, trooping down from the world of day, cross a Styx of dissolved sulphate of iron, and appear before Rhadamanthus of that lurid Hades.”

A certain doctor once, conversing about the romantic scenery of Westmoreland, said, “In that magnificent county you see an apotheosis of nature, and an apodeikneusis of the theopratic Omnipotence.”

Mr. Paxton Hood tells of a minister who described a tear “as that small particle of aqueous fluid, trickling from the visual organ over the lineaments of the countenance, betokening grief.” Of another, who spoke of “the deep intuitive glance of the soul, penetrating beyond the surface of the superficial phenomenal to the remote recesses of absolute entity or being; thus adumbrating its immortality on its precognitive perceptions.” Of another, an eminent man, head of a college for ministers, when repeating a well-known passage of Scripture, “‘He that believeth on Me, as the Scripture hath said, out of his’”—here he paused, and at last said, “Well, out of his ventriculum shall flow ‘living water!’”

One altiloquent rendered “Give us this day our daily bread” as follows: “Confer upon us during this mundane sphere’s axillary revolution our diurnal subsistence.” And another, instead of saying, “Jesus wept,” said, “And Jesus the Saviour of the world burst into a flood of tears;” upon hearing which Dr. Johnson is said to have exclaimed in disgust, “Puppy, puppy!”

A minister once, speaking in the presence of a few friends met for the purpose of promoting the interests of a certain Young Men’s Christian Association, relieved himself in the following: “When I think of this organization, with its complex powers, it reminds me of some stupendous mechanism which shall spin electric bands of stupendous thought and feeling, illuminating the vista of eternity with corruscations of brilliancy, and blending the mystic brow of eternal ages with a tiara of never-dying beauty, whilst for those who have trampled on the truth of Christ, it shall spin from its terrible form toils of eternal funeral bands, darker and darker, till sunk to the lowest abyss of destiny.”

A physician, while in his patient’s room, in speaking to the surgeon about him, said, “You must phlebotomize the old gentleman to-morrow.”

The old gentleman, who overheard, immediately exclaimed in a fright, “I will never suffer that.”

“Sir, don’t be alarmed,” replied the surgeon; “he is only giving orders for me to bleed you.”

“O, as for the bleeding,” answered the patient, “it matters little; but as for the other, I will sooner die than endure it.”

I have read of an Irishman who, speaking of a house which he had to let, said, “It is free from opacity, tenebrosity, fumidity, and injucundity, or translucency. In short, its diaphaneity, even in the crepuscle, makes it a pharos, and without laud, for its agglutination and amenity, it is a most delectable commorance; and whoever lives in it will find that the neighbours have none of the truculence and immanity, the torvity, the spinosity, the putidness, the pugnacity, nor the fugacity observable in other parts of the town. Their propinquity and consanguinity occasions jucundity and pudicity, from which and the redolence of the place they are remarkable for longevity.”

Altiloquents are not unfrequently found among a class of young persons who think they must talk in a manner corresponding with their dress and appearance—fine and prim. A barber is a “tonsorial artist,” and the place in which he works a “hair-dressing studio;” a teacher of swimming is a “professor of natation,” and he who swims “natates in a natatorium;” a common clam-seller is a “vender of magnificent bivalves;” a schoolmaster is a “preceptor,” or “principal of an educational institute;” a cobbler is a “son of Crispin;” printers are “practitioners of the typographical art;” a chapel is a “sanctuary,” a church a “temple,” a house a “palace” or an “establishment,” stables and pig-styes are “quadrupedal edifices and swinish tenements.”

One of this class, a young lady at school, considering that the word “eat” was too vulgar for refined ears, is said to have substituted the following: “To insert nutritious pabulum into the denticulated orifice below the nasal protuberance, which, being masticated, peregrinates through the cartilaginous cavities of the larynx, and is finally domiciliated in the receptacle for digestible particles.”

“It is impossible,” says a recent writer, “not to deplore so pernicious a tendency to high-flown language, because all classes of society indulge in it more or less; and because, as we have already said, it proceeds in every instance from mental deficiencies and moral defects, from insincerity and dissimulation, and from an effeminate proneness to use up in speaking the energy we should turn to doing and apply to life and conduct. Without a substratum of sincerity, no man can speak right on, but runs astray into a kind of phraseology which bears the same relation to elegant language that the hollyhock does to the rose.”

The altiloquent talker may be called a word-fancier, searching for all the fine words discoverable, and then putting them together in a sort of mosaic-pavement style or artificial-flower order, making something to be considered pretty, or fascinating, or profound.

“Was it not beautiful?” asked Miss Bunting of Mr. Crump, after hearing one of these talkers. “Did you ever hear anything like it?”

“No, I did not,” answered Mr. Crump, “and I do not wish to hear anything like it again. Too much like a flourishing penman, Miss Bunting, who makes more of his flourishes than of his sense, and which attract the reader more than his communication.”

“But was he not very deep, Mr. Crump?”

“No, Miss Bunting, he was not deep. You remind me of an occasion some time past when reading a book of an altiloquent style. A friend of mine asked, ‘Is it not deep?’ I answered, ‘Not deep, but drumlie.’ The drumlie often looks deep, and is liable to deceive; but it is shallow, as shallow as a babbling brook, as shallow as the beauty of the rose or the human countenance. Sometimes you may think you have a pearl; but it is only a dewdrop into which a ray of light has happened to fall. Such kind of talk, wherever it may be, is only like the aurora-borealis, or like dissolving views which for the moment please. But you know, Miss Bunting, it is the light of the sun that makes the day, and it is substantial food that feeds and strengthens.

“Balloons are very good things for rising in the air and floating over people’s heads; but they are worthless for practical use in the stirring and necessary activities of life. Gew-gaws are pretty things to call forth the wonder of children and ignorant gazers; but the judicious pass them with an askant look and careless demeanour. A table well spread with fine-looking artificial flowers and viands may be nice for the eye, but who can satisfy his hunger and thirst with them? Thus it is with your altiloquent talkers, Miss Bunting. They give you, as a rule, only the tinsel, the varnish, the superficial, which vanishes into thin nothing under your analysis of thought or your reflection of intelligent light.≵

XXVI.

THE DOUBLE-TONGUED.

“Think’st thou there are no serpents in the world
But those who slide along the glassy sod,
And sting the luckless foot that presses them?
There are who in the path of social life
Do bask their spotted skins in fortune’s sun,
And sting the soul.”

Joanna Baillie.

He is so called because he carries two tongues in one—one for your presence and one for your absence; one sweet as honey, the other bitter as gall; one with which he oils you, the other with which he stings you. In talking with you he is bland and affable; but in talking about you he detracts or slanders. The other night, when at your hospitable board, he was complimentary and friendly; the night after, at the hospitable board of your neighbour, in your absence, he had no good word to say of you.

Such is the versatility of his nature, that he is called by a variety of names. Sometimes he is named “Double-faced,” because he has two faces answering to his two tongues. Sometimes he is named “Backbiter,” because if he ever bite any one it is behind his back, where he thinks he is not seen; and so soon is he out of sight, that you can only learn who has bitten you from some honest friend that saw him do it and instantly hide himself under a covering which he always carries about with him for such occasions. He is sometimes named a “Sneak,” because he has not courage to say candidly to your face what he means, but creeps about slyly among other people to say it, that he may evade your notice, and at the same time retain your confidence in him as a personal friend. He is sometimes named a “Snake-in-the-grass,” because he secretes himself in shady places, waiting his opportunity to sting without your knowing how or by whom it was done. In fine, he has been named a “Hypocrite,” who comes to you in “sheep’s clothing,” but is in truth a “ravening wolf.”

“His love is lust, his friendship all a cheat,
His smiles hypocrisy, his words deceit.”

He welcomes you with a shake of the hand at his door, and says in soft flattering words, “How glad I am to see you, Mr. Johnson! Pray do walk in;” and while you are laying your hat, gloves, and umbrella on the hall table, he whispers to some one in the parlour, “That Johnson has just come in, and I am sure I don’t care to see him.”

Mrs. Stubbs informs her husband on arriving home in the evening that she met Mrs. Nobbs in the street, and invited her to take a friendly cup of tea with them to-morrow, and then adds with emphasis, “but I do hope she will not come!”

A young gentleman complimented Miss Stokoe the other night in company upon her “exquisite touch on the piano” and the “nightingale tones of her voice in singing;” but as he was walking home from the party with Miss Nance, he said to her (of course in the absence of Miss Stokoe) that “Miss Stokoe, after all that is said in her praise, is no more than an ordinary pianist and singer.”

“That was a most excellent sermon you gave us this morning,” said Mr. Clarke to the Rev. T. Ross, as he was dining with him at his house. “I hope it will not be long before you visit us again.”

“I am obliged for your compliment,” replied Mr. Ross.

A day or two after Mr. Clarke was heard to say that he had never listened to such “a dull sermon, and he hoped it would be a long time ere the reverend gentleman appeared in their pulpit again.”

“What darling little cherubs your twins are,” said Mrs. Horton to Mrs. Shenstone in an afternoon gathering of ladies at her house. “I really should be proud of them if they were mine: such lovely eyes, such rosy cheeks, such beautiful hair, and withal such sweet expressions of the countenance! And then, how tastily they are dressed! Dear darlings! come and kiss me.”

Mrs. Shenstone smiled complacently in return; and shortly after retired from the room, when the two “little cherubs” approached their prodigious admirer, with a view to make friends and impress upon her the solicited kiss. She instantly put them at arm’s length from her, saying to Mrs. Teague, who sat next her, “What pests these little things are, treading on my dress, and obtruding their presence on me like this. I do wish Mrs. Shenstone had taken them out of the room with her.”

“I am deeply grieved to learn,” said Farmer Shirley one day to his neighbour, Farmer Stout, “that your circumstances are such as they are. Now, if you think I can help you in any way, do not be backward in sending to me. You shall always find a friend in me.”

That very afternoon this same farmer Shirley was heard to say in a company of farmers at the “Queen’s Head” that Stout had brought all his difficulties upon himself, and he was not sorry for him a bit. The next day Stout availed himself of the “great kindness” offered him by Shirley, and sent to ask the loan of a pound to pay the baker’s bill, in order to keep the “staff of life” in the house for his family; when Shirley sent word back to him that he had “no pounds to lend anybody, much less one who had by his own extravagance brought himself into such difficult circumstances.”

This double-tongued talker is not unfrequently met with in public meetings. Especially is he heard in “moving votes of thanks,” and “drinking toasts.” Fulsome praises and glowing eulogiums are poured out by him in rich abundance, which, as soon as the meetings are over, are eaten up again by the same person, but of course in the absence of his much-admired gods.

It would not be difficult to go on with instances illustrative of these double-tongued exercises. They are almost as universal as the multifarious phases of society. They are met with in the street, in the shop, in the family, in the church, in the court, in the palace and cottage, among the rich and poor.

Addison, in writing of this fault in talking in his times, gives a letter which he says was written in King Charles the Second’s reign by the “ambassador of Bantam to his royal master a little after his arrival in England.” The following is a copy, which will show how in those days the double-tongued talked, and how the writer, a stranger in this country, was impressed by it.

“Master,—The people where I now am have tongues further from their hearts than from London to Bantam, and thou knowest the inhabitants of one of these places do not know what is done in the other. They call thee and thy subjects barbarians, because we speak what we mean, and account themselves a civilized people because they speak one thing and mean another; truth they call barbarity, and falsehood politeness. Upon my first landing, one, who was sent by the king of this place to meet me, told me that he was extremely sorry for the storm I had met with just before my arrival. I was troubled to hear him grieve and afflict himself on my account; but in less than a quarter of an hour he smiled, and was as merry as if nothing had happened. Another who came with him told me, by my interpreter, he should be glad to do me any service that lay in his power; upon which I desired him to carry one of my portmanteaux for me; but, instead of serving me according to his promise, he laughed, and bid another do it. I lodged the first week at the house of one who desired me to think myself at home, and to consider his house as my own. Accordingly I the next morning began to knock down one of the walls of it, in order to let in the fresh air, and had packed up some of the household goods, of which I intended to have made thee a present; but the false varlet no sooner saw me falling to work but he sent me word to desire me to give over, for that he would have no such doings in his house. I had not been long in this nation before I was told by one for whom I had asked a certain favour from the chief of the king’s servants, whom they here call the lord-treasurer, that I had eternally obliged him. I was so surprised at his gratitude that I could not forbear saying, ‘What service is there which one man can do for another that can oblige him to all eternity?’ However, I only asked him, for my reward, that he would lend me his eldest daughter during my stay in this country; but I quickly found that he was as treacherous as the rest of his countrymen.

“At my first going to court, one of the great men almost put me out of countenance by asking ten thousand pardons of me for only treading by accident upon my toe. They call this kind of lie a compliment; for when they are civil to a great man, they tell him untruths, for which thou wouldst order any of thy officers of state to receive a hundred blows on his foot. I do not know how I shall negotiate anything with this people, since there is so little credit to be given to them. When I go to see the king’s scribe, I am generally told that he is not at home, though perhaps I saw him go into his house almost the very moment before. Thou wouldst fancy that the whole nation are physicians, for the first question they always ask me is, how I do; I have this question put to me above a hundred times a day; nay, they are not only thus inquisitive after my health, but wish it in a more solemn manner, with a full glass in their hands, every time I sit with them at the table, though at the same time they would persuade me to drink their liquors in such quantities as I have found by experience will make me sick.

“They often pretend to pray for thy health also in the same manner; but I have more reason to expect it from the goodness of thy constitution than the sincerity of their wishes. May thy slave escape in safety from this double-tongued race of men, and live to lay himself once more at thy feet in the royal city of Bantam.”

This double-tonguedness of which we have spoken is anything but creditable to an age that makes claim to such a high state of civilisation, to say nothing of Christianity. It shows a gilded or superficial state of things, which cannot but end in consequences disastrous and irremediable.

The finical and fashionable may call the candid speaker a boar, and shun him. He may be an outcast from their society: but, after all, his honesty and candour will wear better and longer than their sham and shoddy. His “Nay, nay,” and “Yea, yea,” will outlast and outshine their double-tongued prevarication and flattery. Better a boar—if you know him to be such—than a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A rough friend is more valuable than a hypocritical sycophant.

“As thistles wear the softest down
To hide their prickles till they’re grown,
And then declare themselves, and tear
Whatever ventures to come near;
So a smooth knave does greater feats
Than one that idly rails and threats;
And all the mischief that he meant,
Does, like the rattlesnake, prevent.”

Archbishop Tillotson, in speaking of this subject in his day, says, “The old English plainness and sincerity, that generous integrity of nature and honesty of disposition, which always argues true greatness of mind, and is usually accompanied with undaunted courage and resolution, is in a great measure lost amongst us.

“It is hard to say whether it should more provoke our contempt or our pity to hear what solemn expressions of respect and kindness will pass between men almost upon no occasion; how great honour and esteem they will declare for one whom, perhaps, they never saw before; and how entirely they are all on a sudden devoted to his service and interest, for no reason; how infinitely and eternally obliged to him, for no benefit; and how extremely they will be concerned for him, yea, and afflicted too, for no cause. I know it is said in justification of this hollow kind of conversation that there is no harm, no real deceit in compliment, but the matter is well enough so long as we understand one another; words are like money, and when the current value of them is generally understood, no man is cheated by them. This is something, if such words were anything; but being brought into the account they are mere cyphers. However, it is a just matter of complaint that sincerity and plainness are out of fashion, and that our language is running into a lie; that men have almost quite perverted the use of speech, and made words to signify nothing; that the greatest part of the conversation of mankind is little else but driving a trade of dissimulation.

“If the show of anything be good for anything, I am sure sincerity is better: for why does any man dissemble, or seem to be that which he is not, but because he thinks it good to have such a quality as he pretends to? Now the best way in the world to seem to be anything is really to be what he would seem to be. Besides that, it is many times as troublesome to make good the pretence of a good quality as to have it; and if a man have it not, it is ten to one but he is discovered to want it; and then all his pains and labour to seem to have it are lost.”

XXVII.

THE DUBIOUS.

“Man, on the dubious waves of error tossed,
His ship half-foundered, and his compass lost,
Sees, far as human optics may command,
A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land:
Spreads all his canvas, every sinew plies;
Pants for ’t, aims at it, enters it, and dies!”

Cowper.

This is a talker of an opposite stamp to the dogmatist. The one knows and asserts with imperial positiveness, the other with childish trepidation and hesitancy. “It is so, it can’t be otherwise, and you must believe it,” is the dictatorial spirit of the dogmatist. “It may be so, I am not certain, I cannot vouch for its truthfulness: in fact, I am rather inclined to doubt it, but I would not deny nor affirm, or say one word to dispose you either way,” is the utterance of the spirit of Dubious. He is an oscillator, a pendulum, a wave of the sea, a weathercock. He has no certain dwelling-place within the whole domain of knowledge, in which to rest the sole of his feet with permanency. He sees, hears, smells, tastes, and feels nothing with certainty, and hence he knows nothing by his senses but what is enveloped in the clouds of doubtfulness. He tenaciously guards himself in the utterance of any sentiment, story, or rumour, lest he expose himself to apprehension. His own existence is a fact of which he speaks with caution. His consciousness may be a reality of which he can say a word. As to his soul, he does not like to speak of that with any assurance. The being of a God is a doctrine in the clouds, and he cannot affirm it with confidence. There may be such places as China, India, Africa, etc.; but as he has never seen them, he dare not venture his full belief in their existence. Whatever he has seen, and whatever he has not seen, seem to stand on the same ground as to the exercise of his faith. Things worldly and religious, simple and profound, plain and mysterious, practical and theoretical, human and divine, personal and relative, present and future, near and afar off,—all seem to crowd around him with a hazy appearance, and he has no definite or certain knowledge respecting them of which to speak. All the things he has ever read or heard he seems to have forgotten, or to hold them with a vague and uncertain tenure. There is nothing within him to rely upon but doubts, fears, and may bes. He lives, moves, and has his being in uncertainties. He will not positively affirm whether his face is black or white, his nose long or short, his own or some other person’s. He “guesses” that two and two make four, and that four and three do not make eight. He “guesses” that blue is not red, and that green is neither blue nor red. He “guesses” that the earth is globular, but would not like to assert that it is not a plain. He “guesses” that the sun gives light by day and the moon by night; but as for affirming either the one or the other, he would not like to commit himself to such positiveness. His talk is full of “hopes,” “presumes,” “may bes,” “trusts,” “guesses,” and such-like expressions. He is certainly a doubtful man to have anything to do with in conversation. I do not say he is dangerous. Far from this, for he has not confidence enough in your actual materiality to make an assault upon your person; and he has not certain knowledge sufficient to contend with your opinions, so that there is no need of apprehension upon either the mental or physical question. It is difficult to acquire any information from him, for who likes to add that to his stock of knowledge which is shrouded in doubts, and to which the communicator will not give the seal of his affirmation? Of course some knowledge must be held and communicated problematically. Such we are willing to take in its legitimate character. But our Dubious talker appears to destroy all distinction and difference, and to arrange all knowledge in the probable or doubtful category, and hence he has nothing but doubtful information to impart, which in reality is no information. To enter into conversation with Dubious, therefore, is no actual benefit to the intellect or the faith. It is harassing, perplexing, provoking to the man who possesses belief in the certainty of things. It is to him time lost, and words uttered in vanity. He retires from the scene with dissatisfaction and disgust. He pities the man who knows nothing, whose intellect revolves in universal haziness, and whose soul is steeped in the quagmires of unrestrained scepticism.

Cowper does admirable justice to this talker in the following lines:—

“Dubious is such a scrupulous good man—
Yes—you may catch him tripping if you can:
He would not with a peremptory tone
Assert the nose upon his face his own;
With hesitation admirably slow,
He humbly hopes—presumes—it may be so.
His evidence, if he were called by law
To swear to some enormity he saw,
For want of prominence and just relief,
Would hang an honest man and save a thief.
Through constant dread of giving truth offence,
He ties up all his hearers in suspense;
Knows what he knows as if he knew it not;
What he remembers, seems to have forgot;
His sole opinion, whatsoe’er befall,
Centring at last in having none at all.
Yet, though he tease and baulk your listening ear,
He makes one useful point exceeding clear;
Howe’er ingenious on his darling theme
A sceptic in philosophy may seem,
Reduced to practice, his beloved rule
Would only prove him a consummate fool;
Useless in him alike both brain and speech,
Fate having placed all truth above his reach,
His ambiguities his total sum,
He might as well be blind, and deaf, and dumb.”

XXVIII.

THE SUSPICIOUS.

“Foul suspicion! thou turnest love divine
To joyless dread, and mak’st the loving heart
With hateful thoughts to languish and repine,
And feed itself with self-consuming smart;
Of all the passions of the mind thou vilest art.”

Spencer.

The words of his mouth live with a spirit of doubt, incredulity, and jealousy. Actions, thoughts, motives, are questioned as to their reality and disinterestedness. Good counsel given in time of perplexity is attributed to some ulterior purpose which is kept out of view. Gifts of beneficence are said to be deeds of selfishness—patronage is expected in an affair you have on hand, or you anticipate as much or more in return in some other ways. A family visited with a severe affliction is suspected to have the cause in some secret moral delinquency in the father, or mother, or elder son or daughter. A merchant meets with reverses in his business, and he is suspected of something wrong, for which these reverses are sent as punishment. A traveller meets with an accident, by which a member of his body is fractured or life taken away: he is suspected of having been a great sinner before God, for which His vengeance now visits him.

The suspicious talker may be found in one or other phase of his character in almost every class and grade of society. How often the husband suspects the wife, and the wife the husband; the master the servant, and the servant the master; brothers suspect brothers; sisters sisters; neighbours neighbours; the rich the poor; the poor the rich.

The talk of the suspicious is bitter, stinging, exasperating. How often it ends in jealousy, strife, quarrels, separations, and other evils of a similar kind!

This talk seldom or ever effects any good. It more frequently excites to the very thing on which the suspicion has fixed its demon eye, but of which the subject of the suspicion was never guilty.

Suspicious talk, like many other kinds, has frequently no foundation to rest upon, excepting the fancy of an enfeebled mind or the ill-nature of an unregenerate heart.

“That was a very nice present which Mr. Muckleton sent you on Christmas-Day,” said Mr. Birch to his neighbour.

“O, yes,” he replied in a sort of careless way; “I know what he sent it for—that he may get my vote at the next election of town councillors. I can see through it.”

“Did not Mr. Shakleton call at your house the other day? and were you not pleased to see him?”

“So far as that goes, I was pleased; but I know what he called for; not to see me or mine. It is not worth saying, but I know.”

“Has not Mrs. Mount recently joined your church? She is an excellent lady, of very good means and intelligence. I should think you will value her acquisition to your number.”

“Well, as for that, I cannot say. I like persons to act from pure motives in all things, especially in religious. Don’t you know Mrs. Mount is a widow, and there is in our church that Squire Nance, a bachelor? I needn’t say any more.”

“The Rev. Mr. Wem has left our church and gone to a church in London.”

“Indeed! I was not aware of that, but I guess it is to obtain more salary.”

“How do you know that?”

“How do I know it? You may depend he wouldn’t have gone unless he could better himself.”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Park to her husband one evening as they were sitting alone, “Tom has gone with young Munster to the city, and will be back about ten o’clock.”

“What has he gone there for?” asked Mr. Park, rather sternly. “No good, I venture to say. You know the temptations that are in the city, and he is not so steady as we would like him to be.”

When Tom came home at ten o’clock, he had to endure a good deal of suspicious tongue-flagellation, which rather excited him to speak rashly in return.

“I do really think,” said Mrs. Lance, snappishly, to her servant one day, “you are guilty of picking and biting the things of the larder, besides other little tricks. Now, I do not allow such conduct. It is paltry and mean.”

Mrs. Lance had no ground for this utterance but her own suspicions. The servant, conscious of her integrity, became righteously angry, and gave notice to leave at once. So Mary left her suspicious mistress. She was not the first nor the sixth servant she had driven away by her suspicious talk in regard to the “larder,” the “cupboards,” the “drawers,” and the “wardrobe.”

Squire Nutt one day went a drive of twelve miles in the country to attend “a hunt dinner,” promising his wife that he would be home by eleven o’clock at night. This hour came, but no Squire. Twelve struck, and he had not returned. One struck, yea, even two, and no husband. Mrs. Nutt all this time was alone, watching for the Squire, and suspecting with a vivid imagination where he had gone, and what he was doing. At half-past two a sound of wheels was heard coming to the door, and in a few minutes the suspected husband entered the hall, and greeted his little wife with signs of affection. Instead of receiving him kindly in return, and waiting till the effects of the dinner had escaped before she called him to account, she began in a most furiously suspicious way to question him. “Where have you been all this time? Have you been round by Netley Hall? I know all about what you have been up to. This is a fine thing, this is, keeping me watching and waiting these hours, while you have been galavanting—ah! I know where.”

Thus, not within curtains, but within the hall, Mrs. Nutt gave her husband a “caudle” lecture, but with little effect upon him. She had nothing but groundless suspicion; he had the inward satisfaction of a good conscience on the points respecting which she suspected him.

As an illustration of another aspect of this talker we may take the friends who came to talk with Job in his troubles. His wife was bad enough in her utterances, but his “friends” were worse. Coleridge, in speaking of Satan taking away everything he had, but left his wife, says,—

“He took his honours, took his wealth,
He took his children, took his health,
His camels, horses, asses, cows,
And the sly devil did not take his spouse.”

But his wife was kind and considerate to what his friends were. She spake as one of the “foolish women;” but his friends came as philosophers, the wise ones, to converse with him; and yet, when they spoke to him, they had nothing but suspicions and doubts to utter as to his sincerity, motives, and purity; told him not to plead innocence in his circumstances, but confess all with candour, and show that he had been a profound hypocrite, and that God had visited him with His sore judgments as a punishment for his sins; for they knew that all these things could not have come upon him if there had not been some “secret thing” with him.

Although Job sometimes spoke “unadvisedly with his lips” in reply to the unjustifiable suspicions of his “friends,” God stands on his side, and defends him in his rectitude and integrity. He rebukes with severity Bildad the Shuhite and his two companions, because of their uncharitable suspicions uttered against His servant. He was “angry” that they had not spoken truthfully “as His servant Job;” “and they were to go,” as one says, “to this servant Job to be prayed for, and eat humble pie, and a good large slice of it too (I should like to have seen their faces while they were munching it), else their leisurely and inhuman philosophy would have got them into a scrape.”

Suspicion in talking is a disposition which renders its subject unacceptable to others and unhappy in himself. Persons will have as little as possible to say to him or do with him, lest they fall under his ruling power; and this is what no one with self-respect cares to do. Who likes to have himself, in his motives and deeds, put through the crucible of his narrow, prickly, stingy soul? He cannot see an inch from himself to judge you by. He “measures your cloth by his yard,” and weighs your goods in his scales, and judges your colours through his spectacles; and of the justice and trueness of these nothing need be said.

“Suspicion overturns what confidence builds;
And he that dares but doubt when there’s no ground,
Is neither to himself nor others sound.”

The true remedy for suspicion in talking is more knowledge in the head and more love in the heart. As bats fly before the light, so suspicions before knowledge and love. Throw open the windows of the soul, and admit the truth. Be generous and noble in thoughts of others. Give credit for purity of intention and disinterestedness of motives. Build no fabric of fancies and surmises in the imagination without a solid basis. Be pure in yourself in all things. “The more virtuous any man is in himself,” says Cicero, “the less easily does he suspect others to be vicious.”

XXIX.

THE POETIC.

“I begin shrewdly to suspect the young man of a terrible taint—poetry; with which idle disease, if he be infected, there is no hope of him in a state course.”—Ben Jonson.

Scraps of poetry picked up from Burns, or Thomson, or Shakespeare, or Tennyson, are ready to hand for every occasion, so that you may calculate upon a piece, in or out of place, in course of conversation. If you will do the prose, rely upon it he will do the poetic, much to his own satisfaction, if not to your entertainment. In walking he will gently lay his finger on your shoulder, saying, as he gathers up his recollection, and raising his head, “Hear what my favourite poet says upon the subject.”

Sometimes the poetic afflatus falls upon him as he converses, and he will impromptu favour you with an original effusion of rhyme or blank verse, much to the strengthening of his self-complacency, and to the gratification of your sense of the ludicrous.

Talking with Mr. Smythe, a young student, some time ago, I found he was so full of poetic quotations that I began to think whether all his lessons at college had not consisted in the learning of odds and ends from “Gems” and “Caskets” and “Gleanings.”

Speaking about the man who is not enslaved to sects and parties, but free in his religious habits, he paused and said, “You remind me, Mr. Bond, of what Pope says,—

‘Slave to no sect, who takes no private road,
But looks through nature up to nature’s God.’”

The subject of music was introduced, when, after a few words of prose he broke out in evident emotion,—

“Music! oh, how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy spell!
Why should feeling ever speak
When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship’s balmy words may pain,
Love’s are e’en more false than they—
Oh! ’tis only music’s strain
Can sweetly soothe and not betray.”

“Those are very beautiful lines, Mr. Smythe,” I observed; “can you tell me whose they are?”

Placing his hand to his head, he answered, “Really, Mr. Bond, I do not now remember.”

“They are Moore’s,” I replied.

“Oh yes, yes, so they are. I could give you numberless other pieces, Mr. Bond, equally fine and touching.”

“Thank you, that will do for the present, Mr. Smythe.”

We began to talk about travelling in Scotland, Switzerland, and other parts, when I gave a little of my experience in plain words, as to the effect of the scenery upon my mind and health, when he suddenly interrupted me and said, “Let me see, what is it the poet says upon that? If I can call it up, I will give it you, Mr. Bond,—

‘Go abroad,
Upon the paths of Nature, and, when all
Its voices whisper, and its silent things
Are breathing the deep beauty of the world,
Kneel at its simple altar.’”

I spoke of neglected genius both in Church and State, when he exclaimed with much emphasis, as though the lines had fallen on my ears for the first time,—

“Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”

A voyage to America, with a few incidents about the sea, were spoken of.

“Ah, ah, Mr. Bond,” he said, “I have seen some fine lines by J. G. Percival on that subject,—

‘I, too, have been upon thy rolling breast,
Wildest of waters! I have seen thee lie
Calm as an infant pillowed in its rest
On a fond mother’s bosom, when the sky,
Not smoother, gave the deep its azure dye,
Till a new heaven was arched and glassed below.’

“And then, Mr. Bond, you are familiar with—

‘The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth’s wide region round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.’”

I spoke of progress in the age in which we live, when he instantly said, “Ah, that reminds me now of what Tennyson says,—

‘Not in vain the distant beacons. Forward, forward, let us range,
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.
Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day;
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.’”

The worth of a good name was spoken of, and the words of Solomon quoted in support of what was said. But Solomon was not enough. The poetic spirit of our student was astir instantly within him, and broke forth in the well-known lines of Shakespeare, already quoted in this volume,—

“Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing,
’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he who filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.”

Marriage and love were incidentally brought up, when, lo and behold, I found he was so brimful on these, that I was obliged to ask him to forbear, after a few specimens. Having had so long an experience in those happy climes, I found he could not say anything that half came up to the reality. Nevertheless, I am free to say, he did quote some sentiments which on him and the young ladies present seemed to have a most charming effect, especially one from Tupper, who used in those times to be a pet poet with the fair sex and such as our student,—

“Love! what a volume in a word! an ocean in a tear!
A seventh heaven in a glance! a whirlwind in a sigh!
The lightning in a touch—a millennium in a moment!
What concentrated joy, or woe, is blessed or blighted love!”

“Blighted love! Ah,” said Mr. Smythe, “that reminds me of Tennyson’s words,” which he appeared to render with deep feeling,—

“I hold it true, whate’er befall—
I feel it when I sorrow most—
’Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.”

“These lines remind me,” he observed, “and it is astonishing the poetic associations of my mind, Mr. Bond. These kind of pieces seem so linked together in my mind, that when I begin I can scarcely stop myself. Well, I was going to give Shakespeare’s words,—

‘Ah me! for aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear of tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth.’”

“But have you not a few lines, Mr. Smythe, on marriage, although you have not as yet entered into that happy state?” said Mr. Bond.

“O dear yes! I have pieces without number. For instance, here is one from Middleton,—

‘What a delicious breath marriage sends forth—
The violet’s bed not sweeter! Honest wedlock
Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden,
On which the spring flowers take delight
To cast their modest odours.’

“Here are some more,” he remarked, “from Cotton,—

‘Though fools spurn Hymen’s gentle powers,
We who improve his golden hours,
By sweet experience know
That marriage rightly understood
Gives to the tender and the good
A Paradise below.’”

Still going on, he said, “Here are some charming lines, Mr. Bond, from Moore,—

‘There’s a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,
When two that are linked in one heavenly tie,
With heart never changing and brow never cold,
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die.
One hour of a passion so sacred is worth
Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss;
And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this—it is this.’”

At the close of these lines something occurred to stop Mr. Smythe going any further.

Poetic quotations in conversation are all very well, when given aptly and wisely; but coming, as they often do, as the fruits of affectation and pedantry, they are repulsive. One wishes in these circumstances that the talker had a few thoughts of his own in prose besides those of the poets which he so lavishly pours into one’s jaded ears.

XXX.

“YES” AND “NO.”

“Let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay: for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil.”—Jesus Christ.

Although in length “yes” and “no” are among the smallest and shortest words of the English language, yet they often involve an importance far beyond “the most centipedal polysyllables that crawl over the pages of Johnson’s dictionary.” Did persons stop to reflect upon the full import of these monosyllables, so easily uttered, they would undoubtedly use them with less frequency and more caution.

I shall make no apology for quoting on this subject from a letter out of the “Correspondence of R. E. H. Greyson, Esq.,” written by him to Miss Mary Greyson.

“You remember the last pleasant evening in my last visit to Shirley, when I accompanied you to the party at Mrs. Austin’s. Something occurred there which I had no opportunity of improving for your benefit. So as you invite reproof—an invitation which who that is mortal and senior can refuse?—I will enlarge a little.

“The good lady, our hostess, expressed, if you recollect, a fear that the light of the unshaded camphine was too bright, in the position in which you sat, for your eyes. Though I saw you blinking with positive pain, yet, out of a foolish timidity, you protested, ‘No; oh no; not at all!’ Now that was a very unneighbourly act of the tongue, thus to set at nought the eye; the selfish thing must have forgotten that ‘if one member suffer, all the others must suffer with it.’ My dear, never sacrifice your eyes to any organ whatever; at all events, not to the tongue,—least of all when it does not tell the truth. Of the two, you had better be dumb than blind.

“Now, if I had not interposed, and said that you were suffering, whether you knew it or not, you would have played the martyr all the evening to a sort of a—a—what shall I call it?—it must out—a sort of fashionable fib. You may answer, perhaps, that you did not like to make a fuss, or seem squeamish, or discompose the company; and so, from timidity, you said ‘the thing that was not.’ Very true; but this is the very thing I want you to guard against; I want you to have such presence of mind that the thought of absolute truth shall so preoccupy you as to defy surprise and anticipate even the most hurried utterances.

“The incident is very trifling in itself; I have noticed it because I think I have observed on other occasions that, from a certain timidity of character, and an amiable desire not to give trouble, or make a fuss, as you call it (there, now, Mary, I am sure the medicine is nicely mixed—that spoonful of syrup ought to make it go down), you have evinced a disposition to say, from pure want of thinking, what is not precise truth. Weigh well, my dear girl, and ever act on, that precept of the Great Master, which, like all His precepts, is of deepest import, and, in spirit, of the utmost generality of application, ‘Let your yea be yea, and your nay, nay.’

“Let truth—absolute truth—take precedence of everything; let it be more precious to you than anything else. Sacrifice not a particle of it at the bidding of indolence, vanity, interest, cowardice, or shame; least of all, to those tawdry idols of stuffed straw and feathers—the idols of fashion and false honour.

“It is often said that the great lesson for a young man or a young woman to learn is how to say ‘no.’ It would be better to say that they should learn aright how to use both ‘yes’ and ‘no,’—for both are equally liable to abuse.

“The modes in which they are employed often give an infallible criterion of character.

“Some say both doubtfully and hesitatingly, drawling out each letter—‘y-e-s,’ ‘n-o,’—that one might swear to their indecision of character at once. Others repeat them with such facility of assent or dissent, taking their tone from the previous question, that one is equally assured of the same conclusion, or, what is as bad, that they never reflect at all. They are a sort of parrots.

“One very important observation is this—be pleased to remember, my dear, that ‘yes,’ in itself, always means ‘yes,’ and ‘no’ always means ‘no.’

“I fancy you will smile at such a profound remark; nevertheless, many act as if they never knew it, both in uttering these monosyllables themselves and in interpreting them as uttered by others. Young ladies, for example, when the question, as it is called, par excellence (as if it were more important than the whole catechism together) is put to them, often say ‘no’ when they really mean ‘yes.’ It is a singular happiness for them that the young gentlemen to whom they reply in this contradictory sort of way have a similar incapacity of understanding ‘yes’ and ‘no;’ nay, a greater; for these last often persist in thinking ‘no’ means ‘yes,’ even when it really means what it says.

“‘Pray, my dear,’ said a mamma to her daughter of eighteen, ‘what was your cousin saying to you when I met you blushing so in the garden?’

“‘He told me that he loved me, mamma, and asked if I could love him.’

“‘Upon my word! And what did you say to him, my dear?’

“‘I said yes, mamma.’

“‘My dear, how could you be so——’

“‘Why, mamma, what else could I say? it was the—truth.’

“Now I consider this a model for all love-passages: and when it comes to your turn, my dear, pray follow this truth-loving young lady’s example, and do not trust to your lover’s powers of interpretation to translate a seeming ‘no’ into a genuine ‘yes.’ He might be one of those simple, worthy folk who are so foolish as to think that a negative is really a negative!

“I grant that there are a thousand conventional cases in which ‘yes’ means ‘no,’ and ‘no’ means ‘yes;’ and they are so ridiculously common that every one is supposed, in politeness, not to mean what he says, or, rather, is not doubted to mean the contrary of what he says. In fact, quite apart from positive lying—that is, any intention to deceive—the honest words are so often interchanged, that if ‘no’ were to prosecute ‘yes,’ and ‘yes’ ‘no,’ for trespass, I know not which would have most causes in court. Have nothing to do with these absurd conventionalisms, my dear. ‘Let your yea be yea, and your nay, nay.’ If you are asked whether you are cold, hungry, tired, never, for fear of giving trouble, say the contrary of what you feel. Decline giving the trouble if you like, by all means; but do not assign any false reason for so doing. These are trifles, you will say; and so they are. But it is only by austere regard to truth, even in trifles, that we shall keep the love of it spotless and pure. ‘Take care of the pence’ of truth, ‘and the pounds will take care of themselves.’

“Not only let your utterance be simple truth, as you apprehend it, but let it be decisive and unambiguous, according to those apprehensions. Some persons speak as falteringly as if they thought the text I have cited ran, ‘Let your yea be nay, and your nay, yea.’ And so they are apt to assent or dissent, according to the tenor of the last argument: ‘Yes—no—yes—no.’ It is just like listening to the pendulum of a clock.

“It is a great aggravation of the misuse of ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ that the young are apt to lose all true apprehension of their meaning, and think, in certain cases, that ‘yes’ cannot mean ‘yes,’ nor ‘no’ ‘no.’

“I have known a lad, whose mother’s ‘no’ had generally ended in ‘yes,’ completely ruined, because when his father said ‘no’ in reply to a request for unreasonable aid, and threatened to leave him to his own devices if he persisted in extravagance, could not believe that his father meant what he said, or could prevail on justice to turn nature out of doors. But his father meant ‘no,’ and stuck to it, and the lad was ruined, simply because, you see, he had not noticed that father and mother differed in their dialects—that his father’s ‘no’ always meant ‘no,’ and nothing else. You have read ‘Rob Roy,’ and may recollect that that amiable young gentleman, Mr. F. Osbaldistone, with less reason, very nearly made an equally fatal mistake; for every word his father had ever uttered, and every muscle in his face, every gesture, every step, ought to have convinced him that his father always meant what he said.

“In fine, learn to apply these little words aright and honestly, and, little though they be, you will keep the love of truth pure and unsullied.

“Ah me! what worlds of joy and sorrow, what maddening griefs and ecstacies have these poor monosyllables conveyed! More than any other words in the whole dictionary have they enraptured or saddened the human heart; rung out the peal of joy, or sounded the knell of hope. And yet not so often as at first sight might appear, for these blunt and honest words are, both, kindly coy in scenes of agony.

“There are occasions—and those the most terrible in life—when the lips are fairly absolved from using them, and when, if the eye cannot express what the muffled tongue refuses to tell, the tongue seeks any stammering compassionate circumlocution rather than utter the dreaded syllable. ‘Is there no hope?’ says the mother, hanging over her dying child, to the physician, in whose looks are life and death. He dare not say ‘yes;’ but to such a question silence and dejection can alone say ‘no.’”

XXXI.

A GROUP OF TALKERS.

I. The Misanthrope.

He is sour and morose in disposition. He is a hater of his species. Whether he was born thus, or whether he has gradually acquired it through contact with mankind, will best be ascertained from himself. I think, however, that he too frequently and too readily inclines in his nature to run against the angles and rough edges of men’s ways and tempers, by which he is made sore and irritable, until he loses patience with everybody, and thinks everybody is gone to the bad. He is happy with no one, and no one is happy with him.

His talk agrees with his temper. He says nothing good of anybody or anything. Society is rotten in every part. He cares for no one’s thanks. He bows to no one’s person. He courts no one’s smiles. There is neither happiness nor worth anywhere or in any one. He says,—

“Only this is sure:
In this world nought save misery can endure.”

If you try to throw a more cheerful aspect upon things and breathe a more genial soul into his nature, he says to you,—

“Have I not suffered things to be forgiven?
Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven,
Hopes sapped, name blighted, life’s life lied away?
And only not to desperation driven,
Because not altogether of such clay
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey.”

He is hard to cure, but worse to endure. Sunshine has no brightness for him. Love has no charms. Beauty has no smiles. Flowers have no fragrance. All is desert to him; and alas! he is desert to all.

II. The Story-Teller.—He is ever and anon telling his anecdotes and stories, until they become as dull as an old newspaper handled for days together. He seldom enters your house or forms one of a company but you hear from him the same oft-repeated tales. He may sometimes begin on a new track, but he soon merges into the old. You are inclined to say, “You have told me that before;” but respect to the person who speaks, or a sense of good manners, restrains, so you are under the necessity of enduring the unwelcome repetition.

I have known this talker, again and again, rise from his seat with an intention of going because of a “pressing engagement,” and yet he has stood, with hat in hand, for a further half-hour, telling the same stories which on similar occasions he had told before. I knew what was coming, and wished that he had left when he rose at first to do so, rather than afflict me with the same worn-out threadbare tales of three-times-three repetition in my ears.

I have thought, Whence this failing? Whether from loss of memory or from the fact that these things have been so often repeated that, when once begun, they instinctively and in the very order in which they are laid in the mind find an irresistible outlet from the mouth: like a musical-box, when wound up and set a-going, goes on and on, playing the same old tunes which one has heard a hundred times, and which it has played ever since a musical-box it has been.

I am inclined to think, however uncharitable my thinking may seem, that this is the chief cause of his fault. I think so because I have frequently noticed him saying as soon as he has begun, “Have not I told you this before?” and I have answered, “Yes, you have;” still he has gone on with the old yarn, telling it precisely in the same way as before; as the aforesaid instrument plays its old tunes without variation right through to the end.

The affliction would not be so bad to bear if he cut his stories short; but, unfortunately, he does not, and I verily believe cannot, any more than the parson who has repeated his sermons a hundred times can curtail, or leave out some of the old to substitute new. Not only so; another addition to the burden one has to endure is, that he always repeats his stories with such apparent self-satisfaction—a smile here, a laugh there, a “ha-ha-ha” in another place; at the same time you feel he is a bore, and wish his old saws were a hundred miles away.

One has been reminded, in hearing him talk, of what Menander says about the Dodonian brass, that if a man touched it only once it would continue ringing the whole day in the same monotonous tone. Thus this talker, touch him on the story-key, and he plays away until you are jaded in listening.

“His copious stories, oftentimes begun,
End without audience, and are never done.”

Is there a remedy for this talker? I fear not. He has practised so long—for he generally is sixty or seventy years old—that little hope can be entertained of his cure. He will have to wear out. This, however, you can do for yourself; only go into his company once, and you will not be afflicted with his repetition; and if he would go into the same company only once, it would secure to him a more enduring reputation.

Cowper, in his day, it would seem, met with such a talker as I have been describing. He thus refers to him:—

“Sedentary weavers of long tales
Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails.
’Tis the most asinine employ on earth,
To hear them tell of parentage and birth,
And echo conversation dull and dry,
Embellished, with, He said and so said I.
At every interview their route the same,
The repetition makes attention lame;
We bustle up with unsuccessful speed,
And in the saddest part cry, Droll indeed!”

After thus expressing his own experience under the rod of this talker, he suggests the way in which he should exercise himself in his vocation:—

“A tale should be judicious, clear, succinct;
The language plain, and incidents well linked;
Tell not as new what everybody knows,
And new or old still hasten to a close;
There centring in a focus round and neat,
Let all your rays of information meet.
What neither yields us profit nor delight
Is like a nurse’s lullaby at night;
Guy Earl of Warwick and fair Elenore,
Or giant-killing Jack would please me more.”

III. The Careless.—This talker is heedless of what, and how, and to whom he talks. He consults no propriety of speech; he has no respect of persons. He never asks, “Will it be wise to speak thus at this time? Is this the proper person to whom I should say it? Shall I give offence or deceive by speaking in this way? What will be the consequence to the absent of my making this statement concerning them? Is Tittle-Tattle, or Rumour, or Mischief Maker, or Slanderer, or Blabber in this company, who will make capital out of what I say?”

I do not mean that one should be always so precise in speaking, that what he says should be as nicely measured and formed as a new-made pin. This, however, is one thing, and to speak without thought or consideration is another.

The careless talker would save others as well as himself from frequent difficulties if he would get into the way of pondering, at least somewhat, the things which he has to say, so as to be sure that what he says will not injure another more than he would like to be injured himself.

I will give one illustration of this careless and thoughtless way of talking.

In a gathering of friends belonging to a certain church in N—— the minister’s name came up as the subject of conversation. Many eulogiums were passed upon his character, among others one expressive of his high temperance principles, and the service he was rendering to the temperance cause in the town.

There happened to be present in the company a young gentleman of rather convivial habits, who assented to their compliments of the minister. He thought he was a very excellent man and a pleasant companion. “In fact,” he said, “it was only the other day when he and I drank brandy and water together.”

What a compliment this to give to a minister and a teetotaller! Of course the particulars were not inquired into there and then; but Miss Rumour, who was present, made a note of it in her mind, and as soon as she left the company she spread it abroad until the statement of the thoughtless young gentleman came to the ears of the deacons of the church, who solemnly arraigned the minister before them, and summoned the accuser into their presence.

He declared that what he had said was positively true, but had evidently been misunderstood. “Your excellent minister,” he said, “and I have drunk brandy and water together; but then I drank the brandy, and he drank the water.”

IV. The Equivocator.—He speaks in such a way as to convey the impression that he means what he says and at the same time leaves himself in his own mind at liberty to go contrary to what he says, without considering himself guilty of breach of truth should he do so. He speaks so as to give you reason for believing him; and then, if he fail to verify your faith, he tells you he did not say so positively. Hence his chief phrases of speech are, “May be so;” “It is more than likely I shall;” “There is little doubt upon the question;” “It is more than probable it will be so.” He means these phrases to have the same effect upon you as the positive or imperative mood; and yet if you take them in this sense, and he does not act up to them, he says, “O, I did not say I would.”

Much evil has been done by this way of talking in business, in families, in the social circle. How many a tradesman has lost valuable hours in waiting and expecting some one who has promised him by, “It is more than probable,” that he would meet him at such an hour. And when reminded of his failure, he said, “I did not promise.”

With a similar understanding based on a promise of the same kind, how frequently has the housewife made ready her person, her children, her rooms, and her larder, to receive guests on a day’s visit! Disappointment has been the result; perhaps hard thoughts, if not harder feelings, have been felt, and it has been a long time ere any preparation has been made for the same guests again.

A mother in a family says to her little son, “Now, John, you be a very good boy, and give your sister Betsy no trouble while I am gone to see your Aunt Charlotte, and may be I will bring you back a Noah’s ark.”

The mother goes to see Aunt Charlotte; meanwhile John is trying in all his strength to be a “good boy, and to give his sister Betsy no trouble.”

Little Johnny is wishing his mother would return. The hour is getting late. He is becoming heavy with sleep. He says to his sister,—

“I am so tired. I do want mother to come home and bring me the nice present she promised. O how glad I shall be to have a Noah’s ark!”

At last mother enters the house, and her little boy rushes to meet her, asking as the first thing,—

“Mother, have you brought the present you promised?”

“What present, my boy?” the mother asks.

“Noah’s ark, mother.”

“Did I promise to buy you Noah’s ark? Are you not mistaken?”

“You said may be you would do it; and I expected you would.”

“But may be, my dear, is not a promise.”

With these words the little boy set on crying at his great disappointment, and could not be comforted.

Now this way of talking to children is calculated to give them wrong views of truthfulness, and to cherish within them a similar way of equivocation. It creates hopes and blights them. It gives ground for expectation, and then destroys it. “Let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay; for whatsoever is more than this cometh of evil.” “The promises of God are all Yea.”

V. The Absent-Minded.—It is far from being pleasant to meet in conversation a talker of this class. To ask a question of importance or to give a reply to one whose mind is wandering in an opposite direction is anything but complimentary and assuring. How mortifying to be speaking to a person who you think is sweetly taking in all you say, and when finished you find you have been talking to one whose mind was as absent from what you said as a man living in America or New Zealand! He wakes up, perhaps, to consciousness, some time after you have done speaking, with the provoking interrogatory, “I beg pardon, sir; but pray what were you speaking about just now?”

He has been known at the dinner-table to ask a blessing at least three times.

He has been seen in company to make one of his best bows in reply to what he supposed was a compliment paid him, when it was intended for some other person.

He has been heard try to give a narrative of great interest; but before he had got half-way through he lost his mind in the story, and ran two or three into one.

He has been known almost to rave with self-indignation while calling back some one to whom he had forgotten to state the object of meeting, although they had been together some time in promiscuous talk.

He has been seen at the tea-table in a heated discussion, thinking of his brightest idea just as he was in the act of swallowing his tea, and by the time the tea was gone his idea was gone, and of course he lost the day.

One has heard of an eminent minister so absent-minded in talk at the tea-table that he has taken about twenty cups of tea, and has not only exhausted the supply of tea, but after using the teaspoon in each cup has thrown it behind him on the sofa, until all the spoons have been gone as well as all the tea; and only when he has been told that there was no more of either has he woke up to know how much tea he had drunk, and what had become of the spoons.

One of these talkers, in the midst of conversation in a large circle of friends, tried to quote the lines following:—

“I never had a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die.”

But, instead of repeating them correctly, his mind became absent, and thought of a parody on the lines, which ran as follows:—

“I never had a piece of bread,
Particularly long and wide,
But fell upon the sanded floor,
And always on the buttered side.”

So in his attempt to render the first correctly he mingled the beauties of both as follows:—

“I never had a dear gazelle,
Particularly long and wide,
But when it came to know me well,
And always on the buttered side.”

A story is told of a clergyman who went a walk into the country. Coming to a toll-bar, he stopped, and shouted to the man, “Here! what’s to pay?”

“Pay for what?” asked the man.

“For my horse.”

“What horse? You have no horse, sir!”

“Bless me!” exclaimed the clergyman, looking between his legs. “I thought I was on horseback.”

He had fallen into a thoughtful mood in his walk, and being more accustomed to riding than walking, in his absence of mind he made the blunder.

VI. The Bustling.—This talker you will generally find to be a man rather small in stature, with quick eye, sharp nose, nervous expression of face, and limbs ever ready for prompt action. He has little patience with other people’s slowness, and wastes more time and temper in repeating his own love of despatch than would be required to do a great deal of work.

His tongue is as restless as his hands and feet, both of which are in unceasing motion. He asks questions in such rapidity that it is difficult for the ear to catch them. He is always in a hurly-burly. He has more business to attend to than he knows how. His engagements are so numerous that many of them must be broken. If he call to see you, he is always in a hurry; he cannot sit down; he must be off in a minute. He often rushes into your room so suddenly that you wonder what is the matter, throws down his hat and gloves as though he had no time to place them anywhere, and, taking out his watch, he regrets that he can only spare you two minutes; and you would not have been sorry if it had been only one. He leaves you much in the same manner as he came, with a slam of the door which goes through you, and steps back two or three times to say something which he had forgotten.

“If you go to see him,” says one, “on business, he places you a chair with ostentatious haste; begs you will excuse him while he despatches two or three messengers on most urgent business; calls each of them back once or twice to give fresh instalments of his defective instructions; and having at last dismissed them, regrets as usual that he has only five minutes to spare, whereof he spends half in telling you the distracting number and importance of his engagements. If he have to consult a ledger, the book is thrown on the desk with a thump as if he wished to break its back, and the leaves rustle to and fro like a wood in a storm. Meanwhile he overlooks, while he gabbles on, the very entries he wants to find, and spends twice the time he would if he had proceeded more leisurely. In a word, everything is done with a bounce, and a thump, and an air, and a flourish, and sharp and eager motions, and perpetual volubility of tongue. His image is that of a blind beetle in the twilight, which, with incessant hum and drone and buzz, flies blundering into the face of every one it chances to meet.”

VII. The Contradictory.—The contradictory talker is one who steps into the arena of conversation with an attitude which says in effect, “It matters not what you say, good or bad, wise or foolish, of my opinion or against my opinion, I am here to contradict. It is my mind, my habit, my nature to do it, and do it I will.”

And so he does. His tongue, like the point of a weathercock, veers round to face the sentiment or fact from whatever quarter it may come. You express your views upon some eminent minister of the Gospel. He says, “I do not think with you.” Your friend gives his views upon some theory in science. He says, “I am altogether of another opinion.” Some one else gives his views of a political scheme in contemplation. He says, “I think the very opposite.” A fourth states his views on some doctrine of theology. He says, “They are far from orthodox.” A fifth ventures to give his opinion on a late experiment in natural philosophy. He says, “I think it was entirely a blunder.”

Thus he stands in hostile, pugilistic attitude to every one, as though he had made up his mind to it long ago. He acts upon the principle, “Whatever you say now, I will contradict it, and if you agree with me, I will contradict myself. You shall not say anything that I will not contradict.” Except you should tell him he was a wise man, which of course would be a questionable truth, there is indeed no opinion or proposition in which he would agree with you.

He reminds one of the Irishman who, despairing of a shindy at a fair, everything being so quiet and peaceful, took off his coat, and, trailing it in the mud, said, “And, by St. Patrick, wouldn’t I like to see the boy that would tread on that same!”

You are thus challenged to combat; and you must either be mute or stand the chance of being cudgelled at every position you take. The best way is to be mute rather than be in a constant (for the time being) ferment of strife and conflict.

This quibbling or contradictory talk may sometimes be met with in the family as existing between brothers or sisters. They are continually opposing and contradicting each other in things trifling and indifferent, differing in opinion for no other reason, apparently, than that they have got in the habit of doing so.

“It is not so, Fanny; you know it is not, and why do you say so?” said Fred, warmly.

“I say it is,” replied Fanny; “and I am surprised that you should contradict me.”

“It is just like you, Fanny, to be always opposed to me, and I wonder you should be so.”

This habit of contradiction in a family is anything but pleasant and happy, and should be checked by parents, as well as guarded against by the children themselves.

VIII. The Technicalist.—He is a talker who indulges much in the slang of his calling. The naval cadet, for instance, poetically describes his home as “the mooring where he casts anchor,” or “makes sail down the street,” hails his friend to “heave to,” and makes things as plain as a “pikestaff,” and “as taut as a hawser.” The articled law clerk “shifts the venue” of the passing topic to the other end of the room, and “begs to differ from his learned friend.” The new bachelor from college snuffs the candle at an “angle of forty-five.” The student of surgery descants upon the comparative anatomy of the joint he is carving, and asks whether “a slice of adipose tissue will be acceptable.” The trade apprentice “takes stock” of a dinner party, and endorses the observation of “ditto.” The young chemist gives a “prescription” for the way you should go to town. The student of logic “syllogizes” his statement, and before he draws a conclusion he always lays down his “premise.” The architect gives you a “plan” of his meaning, and “builds” you an argument of thought.

Thus, you may generally infer the profession or occupation of this talker from the technical terms he employs in conversation.

IX. The Liliputian.—I give this designation to him, not because of his physical stature, for he may be of more than ordinary proportions in flesh and blood; and in fact he often is. His talk is small; what some would call “chit-chat.” He deals in pins and needles, buttons and tapes, nutmegs and spices: things of course, in their places, necessary, but out of place when you have plenty of them, and they are being ever and anon pressed on your notice. He has no power of conception or utterance beyond the commonplace currency of the time of day, state of the weather, changes of the moon, who was last married, who is going to be, when dog days begin, what he had for dinner, when he bought his new hat, when he last went to see his mother, when he was last sick, and how he recovered, etc.

Cowper pictures this talker in the following lines:—

“His whispered theme, dilated, and at large,
Proves after all a wind-gun’s airy charge,
An extract of his diary—no more,
A tasteless journal of the day before.
He walked abroad, o’ertaken in the rain,
Called on a friend, drank tea, stepped home again,
Resumed his purpose, had a word of talk
With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk.
I interrupt him with a sudden bow,
Adieu, dear sir! lest you should lose it now.”

X. The Envious.—This talker is one much allied to the detractor, whom we have considered at length in a former part of this volume. He cannot hear anything good of another without having something to say to the contrary. If you speak of a friend of yours possessed of more than ordinary gifts or graces, he interjects a “but” and its connections, by which he means to counterbalance what you say. Like his ancestor Cain, he seeks to kill in the estimation of others every one who stands more acceptable to society than himself.

The disposition of the envious is destructive and murderous. Anything that exceeds himself in appearance, in circumstances, in influence, he endeavours to destroy, so that he may stand first in esteem and praiseworthiness.

But he is a deceiver of himself. Others see his motive and aim, and, like Jehovah in the beginning, discover his malicious spirit, and condemn him as a vagabond and fugitive in society. He becomes a marked man, and whoever sees him avoids him as a destroyer of everything amiable and of good report.

It is bad enough to feel envy in the heart; but to bring it forth in words in conversation makes it doubly monstrous and repulsive. Such a talker is revolting to all amiable and justly disposed persons in the social circle.

XI. The Secret Talker.—“Be sure, now, you do not tell any one what I am going to say to you,” is a phrase that one talker often says to another: “Certainly not,” is the ready rejoinder. So the secret is given in charge; and no sooner have the two friends parted than the entrusted fact or rumour is divulged, perhaps, to the very first person with whom he comes in conversation, told of course as a “secret never to be repeated.” He had power to hear it, but not power to retain it. He is a leaky vessel, a sieve-receiver, not able to keep anything put within him.

There is oftentimes deception, if not absolute lying, in this talker. Why does he receive the secret with the strong promise, “I will tell no one, upon my honour,” if he cannot retain it in his own bosom?

Such persons are not to be trusted twice. As soon as you discover your facts given under covenant of secrecy are blabbed to others, you say, “I shall not trust him again:” and very properly too. Of course he tells as a secret what you tell him as a secret; but if he cannot retain it, how can he expect others? It is in this way that a matter, which in the first instance is spoken of under the most strict confidence, becomes a well-known fact, as though the public bellman had been hired to proclaim it in the streets.

XII. The Snubber.—There is a man sometimes met with in society, whose business, when he talks, seems to be the administration of rebuke, in a spirit and with a tone of voice churlish and sarcastic, by which he would stop the increase of knowledge, check the development of mind, and arrest the growth of heroic souls. He is far from amiable in his disposition, or happy in his temper. He is a knotty piece of humanity, which rubs itself against the even surface of other portions, much to its annoyance, and to his own irritability. He is like a frost, nipping the tender blossoms of intellect, and stopping the growth of a youthful branch of promise. He is shunned by the gentle and sensitive. The independent and bold repel him, and pay him back in his own coin, a specie which he does not like, although he does a large business with it himself.

The word itself is banished from polite society; but alas! the custom is by no means proscribed. The sound is, to some extent, significant of the sense. “To snub” is certainly not euphonious, and would sadly offend the ears of many who are addicted to the habit. Snubbing is of various kinds. For instance, there is the snub direct, sharp, and decisive, that knocks the tender, sensitive spirit at once; there is the covert snub, nearly allied to being talked at; the jocose snub, veiling the objectionable form of reproof under an affected pleasantry; and there is also a most unpleasant form of snubbing, frequently used by well-meaning persons to repress forwardness or personal vanity. It is very true that children and young people often exhibit forwardness, vanity, and many other qualities extremely distasteful to their wiser elders; but it is questionable if snubbing was ever found an effectual cure for such faults. It may smother the evil for the time; but in such cases it is better to encourage children to speak their thoughts freely, patiently, gently, to show them where they are wrong, and trust to a kind voice and tender indulgence to win the hearts that snubbing would most certainly, sooner or later, alienate.

So far, then, from snubbing curing faults of character, it will be found to be a frightful source of evil: it renders a timid child reserved, and it may be deemed fortunate if the conscientious principle is strong enough to preserve him from direct deceit. Indecision of character, too, is a common result of snubbing; for there can be no self-reliance when the mind is wondering within itself whether such or such an action will be snubbed. Some dispositions may in time become tolerably callous to reproof; but it rarely happens that even those most seasoned by incessant rebukes ever entirely lose the uncomfortable feeling which snubbing occasions. It is, in fact, a perpetual mental blister; and it is grievous to see how blindly people exercise it on those they dearly love. It may occur to some, who can think as well as snub, that the benefit to be derived from anything calculated to wound sensitive feelings must be very questionable; but the plain fact is, that nine times out of ten it is done unthinkingly, and from the impulse of the moment. It may be but a small unkindness at the time, the words forgotten as soon as uttered; but in many instances the effects of a snubbed childhood last a lifetime.

These remarks are offered in the hope that they may be useful in pointing out the evil of this very prevalent habit. It is most certainly a violation of the holy commandment of doing to others as we would be done by, and requires to be diligently watched against. There is no one addicted to the practice of snubbing others who likes to be snubbed himself. The law of love should not only dwell in the heart, but should also baptize the lips.

XIII. The Argumentative.—This talker has so fully studied Whateley and Mill, and his mind is so naturally constructed, that he must have every thought syllogistically placed, and logically wrought out to demonstration, beyond the shadow of a shade of doubt. With countenance grave he approaches close to your person, and with the tip of one forefinger on the tip of the other forefinger, he begins, “Now mark, sir, this is the proposition which I lay down—the quality and quantity of it I will not now stop to state—‘No one is free who is enslaved by his appetites: a sensualist is enslaved by his appetites, therefore a sensualist is not free.’ Now, sir, there is no escape from this conclusion, if you admit the premise, the major and the minor of my argument.”

“It is most conclusive and demonstrative,” observed Mr. Allgood. “What have you to say, Mr. Goose, about the propriety of enforcing the penal laws against the Papists, who, as you know, are in the heart of their religion so opposed to the Protestant laws and constitution of this country?”

Again placing the tip of his forefinger on his right hand upon the tip of his forefinger on his left hand, he said, “If penal laws against Papists were enforced, they would have cause of grievance; but penal laws against them are not enforced, therefore they have no such cause.”

“That is very clear and convincing,” observed Mr. Allgood again. “Do you think, Mr. Goose,” again asked Mr. Allgood—he could not argue, but only ask questions—“that the practice of oath-taking is in any way beneficial and to be commended?”

Once more assuming his former logical attitude, with additional signs of thought and gravity, as though the question demanded great consideration, Mr. Goose at length said,—

“Mr. Allgood, if men are not likely to be influenced in the performance of a known duty by taking an oath to perform it, the oaths commonly administered are superfluous; if they are likely to be so influenced, every one should be made to take an oath to behave rightly throughout his life; but one or the other of these must be the case; therefore, either the oaths commonly administered are superfluous, or every man should be made to take an oath to behave rightly throughout his life.”

“Thank you, Mr. Goose, thank you, for placing the thing in such a lucid and irrefutable light,” answered Mr. Allgood, who seemed to be in mist all the time Mr. Goose was laying down his argument.

Had Mr. Allgood gone on with his questions up to the thousandth, each one being distinct from the other, Mr. Goose would have answered him, as far as he could, in the same formal, argumentative manner. But Mr. Allgood was getting jaded; the stretch of attention required by the reasoning of Mr. Goose was telling upon his patience; so he slided away to talk with one who spoke in less categorical style: not so propositional, syllogistic, and demonstrative.

And, as a rule, who does not sympathise with Mr. Allgood, as against Mr. Goose, in his method of talk? Syllogisms, propositions, predicates, majors, minors, sorites, enthymeme, copula, concrete, and such-like logical terms are all very well from a professor to his students in a lecture room, but introduced into ordinary conversation in company they are altogether out of place. No one with good taste, unless he has fearfully forgotten it, will disfigure his talk with them, however pure and efficient a logician he may be in reality.

Some of this class of talkers are nothing but mere shams in their art. They affect a knowledge of argumentative processes, and obtrude upon your attention by false reasoning conclusions which perhaps appear as legitimate as possible. You cannot deny, yet you cannot believe. You cannot refute by your logic, neither can you admit by your faith. Such are most of the sceptical talkers on the Bible, Christianity, etc. Milton speaks of this argumentative talker when he says,—

“But this juggler
Would think to chain my judgment, as mine eyes,
Obtruding false rules pranked in reason’s garb.”

Another species of this talker is thus described by Butler, in “Hudibras”:—

“He’d undertake to prove, by force
Of argument, a man’s a horse;
He’d prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl;
A calf an alderman, a goose a justice,
And rooks committee men and trustees.”

Another kind may be noticed: the one whose arguments are generally of a class which, when seen through and used by sound wit, rebound upon himself. Trumball, in his “M’Fingal,” thus describes him:—

“But as some muskets do contrive it,
As oft to miss the mark they drive at,
And though well aimed at duck or plover,
Bear wide, and kick their owners over,—
So fared our squire, whose reas’ning toil
Would often on himself recoil,
And so much injured more his side,
The stronger arguments he apply’d.”

One more of this class of talkers may be mentioned, viz., the man who forces his logic upon you in such a dogmatic manner as leaves you without any hope of reply. You give him all the glory of victory. For the sake of peace and safety you remain passive, and think this the best valour for the occasion. Cowper refers to him in the following lines:—

“Vociferated logic kills me quite,
A noisy man is always in the right;
I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair,
Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare;
And when I hope his blunders are all out,
Reply discreetly, To be sure—no doubt!”

XIV. The Religious.—He is one that obtrudes his views and experience upon others in ways, times, and places which are far from prudent and commendable. Between his talk and his conduct there is a wide disparity. From his words you would judge him a saint: from his conduct a sinner. Abroad he is a Christian: at home he is an infidel.

Bunyan describes this character in his own simple and forcible way: “I have been in his family, and have observed him both at home and abroad; and I know what I say of him is the truth. His house is as empty of religion as the white of an egg is of savour. There is neither prayer nor sign of repentance for sin; yea, the brute, in his kind, serves God far better than he. He is the very stain, reproach, and shame of religion to all that know him: it can hardly have a good word in that end of the town where he dwells, through him—a saint abroad, and a devil at home! His poor family find it so. He is such a churl; such a railer at and so unreasonable with his servants, that they neither know how to do for him nor speak of him. Men that have any dealings with him say it is better to deal with a Turk than with him, for fairer dealings they shall have at his hands. This Talkative, if it be possible, will go beyond them, defraud, beguile, and overreach them. Besides, he brings up his sons to follow in his steps; and if he finds in any of them a ‘foolish timorousness’ (for so he calls the first appearance of a tender conscience), he calls them fools and blockheads, and by no means will employ them in much, or speak to their commendation before others. For my part, I am of opinion that he has, by his wicked life, caused many to stumble and fall, and will be, if God prevent not, the ruin of many more.”

The Apostle James in his epistle refers to this talker: “If any man among you seem to be religious, and bridleth not his tongue, but deceiveth his own heart, this man’s religion is vain.” And how is he to bridle his tongue? Why, not only from slander and profanity, but from saying, “When he is tempted, I am tempted of God; for God cannot tempt to evil; neither tempteth He any man.” Also, from making empty and pharisaic pretensions to a high state of piety, while there are glaring contradictions in the life: “What doth it profit, if a man say that he hath faith, and have not works? Can faith save him?” As though the Apostle should say, “You talkers about religion are not always the most practical exemplifiers of it. Not he who says he is religious, but he who lives religious is the justified one before God and man. Enough of talk, talk, talk: let us have the reality in heart experience and in life deeds.”

“‘Say well’ from ‘do well’ differs in letter;
‘Say well’ is good, but ‘do well’ is better.
‘Say well’ says godly, and helps to please;
But ‘do well’ lives godly, and gives the world ease.
‘Say well’ in danger of death is cold;
‘Do well’ is harnessed, and wondrous bold.
‘Say well’ to silence sometimes is bound;
But ‘do well’ is free for every stound.
‘Say well’ has friends, some here some there;
But ‘do well’ is welcome everywhere.
By ‘say well’ many a one to God’s Word cleaves;
But for lack of ‘do well’ it quickly leaves.
If ‘say well’ and ‘do well’ were joined in one frame,
Then all were done, all were won, and gotten were the game.”

XV. The Prejudiced.—Rumour and ignorance form the foundation of prejudice.

“That is an injurious book for your children to read,” said Mr. Rust one day to Mr. Moon, concerning a volume of the “Primrose Series,” which he was looking at in Smith’s library.

All Mr. Rust knew about the volume was something which had casually dropped in conversation the day before, in the house of a friend where he was visiting; but that was sufficient to prejudice him against the book.

“I hear you have invited the Rev. Jonas Winkle to be the pastor of your church,” said the Rev. T. Little to Deacon Bunsen.

“Yes, we have,” the deacon replied.

“I am sorry to hear it; for if all that is said about him is true, you have made a mistake.”

And what did this Reverend brother know of the other Reverend brother to justify him in speaking thus? Why, just nothing at all. True, he had heard a rumour, but personal knowledge he had none. However, what he said so influenced the mind of Deacon Bunsen, that he did all he could to have the invitation withdrawn; which being done, the Rev. Mr. Little, by certain “wire pulling” on his part, and a good word spoken for him by a layman of wealth on his part, managed to secure the pastorate of the said church for himself.

“I hear that young Bush is coming into your bank as cashier,” observed Mr. Young to Mr. Monk, the manager.

“Yes; he enters upon his duties next week.”

“But have you not heard what is afloat about him?”

“No. I have heard nothing.”

“Then the less said the soonest mended,” answered Young.

Now this Mr. Young knew nothing personally against young Bush, but had heard a rumour which prejudiced him to speak in this way of him; the result of which was that the manager evinced suspicion of the young man until he had been in the bank some time, and by his unquestionable conduct had proved that Mr. Young’s insinuation was nothing but prejudice grounded upon rumour and ignorance of him.

Thus it is that the prejudiced talker may do a great deal of mischief against persons of the most innocent character.

Prejudice has nothing to justify it, but everything to condemn it. The person subject to it evinces a mind devoid of the breadth, strength, and independence characteristic of true manhood; and the sooner he disposes of rumour and ignorance as the creator of words on his tongue, the better for his reputation. Before he speaks of persons or things he will act wisely to “come and see” by personal interview and experience.

XVI. The Boaster.—This talker is somewhat akin to the Egotist; nevertheless there is a distinction and difference. What he is, what he has done, where he has been, his acquaintances, his intentions, his prospects, his capabilities, his possessions, are the subjects of his talk in such a braggadocio spirit and style as disgusts the intelligent, and imposes upon the simple.

Has he done you a charitable deed? has he been heroic in an act of mercy? has he given a contribution to an object of beneficence? has he performed some feat of gymnastics? has he made a good bargain in business? has he said or done something which has elicited the faintest praise from an observer?—with what a flourish he brags of each in its turn! Everybody and everything must stand aside while he and his doings are exhibited in full glory before the company.

It is well when these mountebanks meet with treatment such as they deserve. A honest word or two spoken by a fearless hearer of their loud talking will soon cause their balloon to collapse, or bring their exhibition to a sudden end. And then how pitiable they do look! Where is boasting then? Alas, it is excluded; and their glory is turned into shame.

A young man who in his travels had visited the isle of Rhodes was once boasting in company of how he had out-jumped all the men there, and all the Rhodians could bear witness of it. One of the company replied, “If you speak the truth, think this place to be Rhodes, and jump here;” when it turned out that he could do nothing, and was glad to make his exit. The English proverb, “Great boast and small roast,” is applicable to such.

It is said in history that a friend of Cæsar’s had preserved a certain man from the tyranny of the triumvirate proscription; but he so frequently talked about it in a boasting manner, that the poor man ultimately exclaimed, “Pray thee, restore me to Cæsar again! I had rather undergo a thousand deaths than to be thus continually upbraided by thee with what thou hast done for me.”

And who does not sympathise with this feeling when any one who has in a way been a friend is ever and anon boasting of it in conversation?

“We must not,” as one says, “make ourselves the trumpet of our benevolence in liberalities and good deeds, but let them, like John the Baptist, be the speaking son of a dumb parent—speak to the necessity of our brother, but dumb in the relation of it to others. It is for worthless empirics to stage themselves in the market and recount their cures, and for all good Christians to be silent in their charitable transactions.”

“The highest looks have not the highest mind,
Nor haughty words most full of highest thought;
But are like bladders blown up with the wind,
That being pricked, evanish into nought.”

“Who knows himself a braggart,
Let him fear this; for it will come to pass
That every braggart shall be found an ass.”

XVII. The Quarrelsome.—What is said of the Irishman may be said of this talker, “He is only in peace when he is in a quarrel.” His flowers are thistles, and his sweets bitters. The more you study to be quiet, the more he aims to make a noise. The least imaginable thing in word, look, or act he takes as a cause for bickering and contention. As a neighbour, as a fellow member in a family, as a fellow workman, as a fellow traveller, he is disagreeable and annoying. He quarrels with you alike for things you do to please him or things you do to displease him. When two such persons meet, peace takes to her wings and flies away, leaving war of words, if not of weapons, in her room.

Benvolio in Romeo and Juliet was one of this steel. Mercutio addressing him says, “Thou! why thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but such eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a man for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with another, for tying his new shoes with old ribbons? and yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling!”

XVIII. The Profound.—He leaves you at the edge, but himself plunges like an expert diver into the vasty deeps; and there in twilight visible, if not in darkness felt, he converses with you about the mysterious, the metaphysical, the mystical, the profound. As you gaze with wondering vision, you hear a voice, but see no man. He invites you down into his caves of ocean thought; but, as you see not where he is, and know not the way to follow, nor think it worth while to go at a venture, you prefer remaining on the shore.

Nor is it always the depth into which this talker delights to go. Were it this, with transparency, there would not be so much objection. He too frequently plunges into muddled waters, or makes them so by his movements therein. He persuades himself that he has acquired profound knowledge of philosophy from the dark and mystical writings of the Germans translated into English. With this persuasion he courts your attention, while he discourses to you in terms and phrases of marvellous vagueness about the Ego within us—the Infinite and the Immense, the Absolute, the Entity and Nonentity, and such-like subjects, of which you can make neither “top nor tail,” and of which he knows nothing save the terms and phrases that he strings together with such adept expertness and palpable absurdity.

“What do you think,” asked Mr. Stanley of Professor Rigg, “of Hegel’s paradox, that nothing is equal to being, and that if being and nothing be conjoined you have existence?”

The Professor answered with his usual gravity and profundity: “Nothing could be more profound, and as lucid as profound, if Hegel’s theory of the ‘evolution of the concrete’ was remembered. According to that theory the concrete is the idea which, as a unity, is variously determined, having the principle of its activity within itself, while the origin of the activity, the act itself, and the result, are one, and constitute the concrete. The innate contradiction of the concrete is the basis of its development, and though differences arise, they at last vanish into unity. To use the words of Hegel, there is ‘both the movement and repose in the movement. The difference hardly appears before it disappears, whereupon there issues from it a full and complete unity.’”

“That is very clear and satisfactory,” observed Mr. Stanley, ironically; not seeing anything but confusion confounded in the whole of it. “What is your view,” he asked again, “of the Hegelian ‘Absolute’?”

“This,” said the Professor, “is nothing but a continual process of thinking, without beginning and without end. Now that the evolution of ideas in the human mind is the process of all existence—the essence of the Absolute—of a Deity, so that Deity is nothing more than the Absolute ever striving to realize itself in human consciousness.”

Without questioning the truthfulness of such a doctrine, so plainly expressed, Mr. Stanley proceeded to ask, in a way rather beyond himself, “Whether there was not a little to be said for Schelling’s notion that the rhythmical law of all existence is cognisable at the same time by the internal consciousness of the subjective self, in the objective operation of Nature?”

To this question, somewhat mystical it must be confessed, the Professor replied in his usual style of profundity:—

“I see clearly enough Schelling’s great ingenuity; but think his three movements or potencies—that of ‘Reflexion,’ whereby the Infinite strives to realize itself in the Finite—that of ‘Subsumption,’ which is the striving of the Absolute to return from the Finite to the Infinite—and that of the ‘Indifference-point,’ or point of junction of the two first—were not to be admitted; for is it not clear as the day that the poles ever persist in remaining apart, the indifference-point having never been fixed by Schelling?”

In these ways Mr. Stanley and the Professor kept up the conversation until I and the rest of the company were perfectly involved in dense mists and fogs, wishing that the sun of simple truth would shine, to bring us into clear seeing and firm foot-standing. We longed for the day without a cloud. At last they ceased, and after a brief interval we found ourselves where we were before they began, with no more knowledge of the mystical, and no less love to the simplicity of truth spoken in words of plain meaning and thoughts of undisguised transparency.

XIX. The Wonderer.—This is a talker with whom one very often meets in the walks of life. His peculiarity in conversation is the use of the word wonder in almost every statement he makes and question he asks. It is a strange peculiarity, and I wonder that he should so frequently indulge in its use; I wonder that he does not discover some other mode of expression.

I once met with him at a railway station, and after wishing him the compliments of the day, almost his first word was, “I wonder how long my train will be before it starts?” Scarcely had he time to get his breath, when he said, “I wonder what o’clock it is.” I looked at my watch and told him. Instantly he said, “I wonder whether it rains; I hope not.” I assured him that it did not when I came on the platform; then he quickly said, “I wonder whether it will rain to-morrow; I hope not, for I have a long journey to take by coach.”

I remember once travelling with a gentleman in a railway carriage between London and Bristol. Besides him and me there were three or four more passengers in the compartment, ladies and gentlemen.

Scarcely had we left the Paddington station ere he began wondering.

“I wonder,” said he, “how fast this train goes.”

Oh, about forty miles an hour, I replied.

“I wonder, does this train stop at Reading?”

I think it does, I answered.

Then whispering in my ear, he said, “I wonder who that old gentleman is in yon corner of the carriage.”

I really do not know; he is a stranger to me, I observed.

After a few minutes’ pause, in which he seemed to have indulged a profound meditation, he again whispered in my ears, saying, “I wonder who that lady is sitting next to you.”

I cannot say, I replied.

The train travelled on at a great speed, passing station after station in rapid succession.

Again he said, “I wonder how fast we are travelling now.”

Oh, perhaps sixty miles an hour.

Quickly, he said, “I wonder what station that is we have just passed.”

I think it is Swindon.

After a brief pause:—

“I wonder what time this train gets into Bristol.”

It is due at ten o’clock.

“I wonder will it be punctual.”

Thus he was wondering ever and anon until we reached the Bristol station, where we parted, he going one way and I another; perhaps he wondering who I was, and I wondering who he was.

I remember meeting another Wonderer in the house of a friend of mine with whom I had intended to spend part of the evening.

Scarcely had we been introduced to each other when he said,—

“I wonder whether the Republican or Democrat candidate is elected to the American Presidency.”

That is a matter in which I do not profess to be posted up, I replied.

Then he said, “I wonder how Lord Salisbury is getting on in the Conference.”

From all the newspaper reports he seems to be getting on very well, I observed.

After a very brief pause, he said, “I wonder whether there will be war. I wonder whether Russia really means war or peace.”

It is exceedingly difficult to say, I observed. Diplomacy is so involved, so intricate, so uncertain, that no one can say until all things are really settled.

“I wonder,” he immediately said, “whether England will go to war.”

I cannot say, I answered; I sincerely hope not.

“If there be war, I wonder,” he said, “which way it would go. I wonder whether Russia would take Constantinople. I wonder whether she would crush Turkey. I wonder what the effect would be upon our way to India. I wonder how Germany and Austria would act in the matter.”

After he had done, I said, I wonder what time it is.

He said, “It is eight o’clock.”

I must go, I have another engagement at half-past eight. So leaving my friend’s friend in his wonders, I retired.

Another Wonderer I met with shortly after the one just named, when the conversation turned upon the new Bishopric of Cornwall.

“I wonder what effect it will have upon the Methodists.”

It will stir them up to duty and diligence, I hope.

“I wonder who will be the Bishop.”

I don’t know.

“I wonder, will he be High Church or Low.”

That I cannot say.

“I wonder what he will do when he finds the county so filled with Methodists and Methodist chapels.”

He will find something to do, I said, if he means to put them down.

“I wonder whether he will put them down,” he said.

You need not wonder about that, I rejoined.

“I wonder why?”

Wonder why! He may as well try to put down the Cornish hills into plains or valleys.

The fact is, one can scarcely speak with any one, or enter any company, but the first utterance he hears is “I wonder.”

Persons wonder what the weather will be; they wonder what time it is; they wonder who is going to preach on Sunday; they wonder what the preacher’s text will be; they wonder what will be for dinner; they wonder who will be in the company; they wonder who is going to be married; they wonder who is dead in the next newspaper. In fine, this wonder is a wonderful word in almost everybody’s lips.

I wonder whether some other mode of expression could not be adopted, which would either be a substitute for it, or somewhat of variation: so that the wonderer may not be so common a talker in the circles of society.

But it is one thing to be always wondering, and quite another thing to wonder occasionally, when the statement made, or question asked, is of such a nature as to require or to demand a wonder. It is possible to get into the way of wondering so that you will not know when you do wonder. It is supposed that persons only wonder when things of great surprise and astonishment are heard, such as the fall of stars, the overthrow of cities by earthquakes, etc. At the reading or hearing of such things, it seems natural that persons should wonder. But why they should wonder at almost every trivial thing they ask in ordinary conversation is to me an inexplicable mystery.

There is another use of the word which I had nearly forgotten. In American society I remember this word is used in the opposite sense to what it is in this country.

“I have just come from New York by steamboat, and I saw Mr. Bouser on board.”

“Well; I wonder!” is the reply.

“I saw the moon in the sky as I came here this evening.”

“I wonder!” is the answer.

“Do you know I met a little girl of the Sunday-school in the street?”

“I wonder!” said a grave-looking lady.

“Mr. and Miss Lane are going to be married next week by Mr. Sparks.”

“I really wonder!” was the general exclamation of the company, although they had heard it before at different times.

This wonderer in America is, if possible, more ludicrous than in England. In both he is ludicrous; and the sooner he changes into some other form of talker, more sensible, the better.

XX. The Termagant.—This is a talker chiefly of the female sex; and it is in this gender we shall give our sketch.

Jemima, the wife of Job Sykes, was a woman of turbulent and fiery temper; but he was a man calm and self-possessed. Her tongue was as the pen of a ready-writer, in the rapidity with which it talked, and as the point of a needle and the edge of a razor in the keenness of its words. Sometimes she was loud and boisterous, violent and raging, attacking her prey as a tigress, rather than as a human being. Sometimes she was snappish, snarling, waspish. Her husband, her children, her servants, her neighbours, all came in for their share, in their turn, of her bites, stings, and poisons.

It was, however, poor Job who fell in for the lion’s share. Alas for him! He often found the words of Solomon to be true: “It is better to dwell in the wilderness than with a contentious and angry woman” (Prov. xxi. 19). As there was no wilderness into which he could fly to escape the tongue of his dear Jemima, he would fly away into a solitary room, or into the adjoining garden, or into a neighbour’s house, or take a walk in the lonely road,—anywhere to shelter himself from the fiery droppings of his termagant spouse.

The least imaginable thing that crossed her will or temper would set Jemima’s tongue-machine a-going; and when once started, it rattled away like a medley of tin, glass, and stones turned in a churn. It threw out words like razors, darts, fire-brands, scorpions, wasps, mosquitos, flying helter-skelter in all directions about the head of poor Job, and he seldom escaped without wounds which lasted for days together. He has been known to receive cuts and bruises that have prevented his speaking to his “darling” for weeks in succession.

Mrs. Caudle’s lectures to her husband were mild, entertaining, and instructive to what Job Sykes received from Mrs. Sykes. Mrs. Caudle, I think, always addressed her beloved in the evening within curtains, when he was in such a condition of mind and body as rendered him impervious to the entrance of her loving words; so that he would even go to sleep under them, as a babe under the soothing lullaby of its mother. But Job’s dear wife fired away at him anywhere, at any time: night or day, at home or from home, in company or out of company. Given the least cause, the attack would begin and be carried on until the ammunition was exhausted.

As we have said, Job was of a quiet disposition, although firm and never yielding his place to his “weaker vessel;” and he generally found that silence or “soft answers” were his best weapons.

And so they are in every such case: and if any one of my readers is afflicted with a wife like Job Sykes’ wife, he will find that his policy is the wisest to follow.

Sometimes a cure is effected in this talker, and the husband rejoices in the salvation wrought out for him. Sometimes there is no cure excepting in the paralysis of death. This, too, is salvation to many hen-pecked husbands, in which they also rejoice. Such has been the mighty deliverance accomplished for some, that they have even celebrated it by appropriate epitaphs on the tombstones of their buried partners. The following is one said to be at Burlington, Massachusetts:—

“Sacred to the memory of Anthony Drake,
Who died for peace and quietness’ sake,
His wife was constantly scolding and scoffing,
So he sought repose in a twelve dollar coffin.”

There is another in Ellon churchyard:—

“Here lies my wife in earthly mould,
Who, when she lived, did nought but scold.
Peace! wake her not, for now she’s still;
She had, but now I have my will.”

XXXII.

A MODEL TALKER.

“Let your speech be alway with grace, seasoned with salt, that ye may know how ye ought to answer every man.”—Paul.

Having devoted the previous pages to sketches of faulty talkers, I propose in this concluding chapter to give a description of a talker who may be exhibited as a model for imitation.

As there is but One Model Man in the world, so there is only One Model Talker. The Apostle James tells us who he is: “If any man offend not in word, the same is a perfect man, and able also to bridle the whole body.”

But who is the man that offends not in word? Where is he to be found? Is he not rather an ideal being than a real one? Be he ideal or real, it may answer some good end to set him forth as far as his ideality or reality can be apprehended.

It may be well to premise just here that when it is said “he offends not in word,” it does not imply that no one ever takes offence at his word, but that he offends not through any defect in his intention, that he is not held blamable or responsible for any offence taken at his word. Not until every hearer is perfect as well as every talker will offence cease on both sides. Did offence taken by the hearer necessarily involve offence given by the talker, He of whom it was said, “Never man spake like this man,” would fail to be perfect; yea, even God Himself would come short of perfection: for how many took offence at the words of Jesus! and how many are continually offended at the words of the Almighty!

The following may be given as the outline features of a model talker. There is only space for an outline.

He endeavours, as far as possible, to ascertain the temper and disposition of those with whom he talks.

He is cautious how he receives and repeats anything that he hears from one in whose veracity he has not implicit confidence.

If any one with whom he is talking says anything that is detrimental to the character and interests of an absent person, he hopes charitably that it is not true, and avoids circulating it in his conversation or in other ways.

He does not impose his talk upon others against prudence and propriety. “He spareth his words in wisdom and understanding” (Prov. xvii. 27). “Whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles” (Prov. xxi. 23). “He that keepeth his mouth keepeth his life” (Prov. xiii. 3).

No corrupt communication proceeds out of his mouth; no bitterness, wrath, anger, clamour, evil-speaking, malice; no filthiness nor jesting, nor blasphemy, nor reviling, nor slander. (See Eph. iv. 29, v. 4; Col. iii. 8.)

In the presence of fiery temper and enraged passion he says nothing to add fuel to the flame, but keeps calm and self-possessed.

He never retaliates, or gives reviling for reviling, but contrariwise—good for evil, blessing for cursing.

He flatters not any one in any way, but speaks the words of truth and soberness. He is not as the fox in the fable, who commended the singing of the crow when he wanted something that was in his mouth.

He finds out as far as he can what is the particular forte of knowledge held by those with whom he talks, and prudently converses upon it so as to promote mutual edification.

He chooses such words as shall, in the clearest, truest, and most effective way, embody his thoughts and sentiments.

He speaks the truth in everything, everywhere, and to every one, without equivocation, prevarication, or unjust hyperbolism.

He avoids all affectation as a thing of the mountebank or pantomime, and appears himself without a Jezebel’s paint or a Jacob’s clothing, so that you may know at once who he is, what he says, and what he means.

He reverences God and Truth, avoiding as demoniacal all profane swearing, cursing, blasphemy, scoffing, and jeering.

He modulates his voice to suit the company, the subject, and the place where he talks.

He does not interrupt another in his talk, unless it is immoral, but hears him through, that he may the better understand him.

He accustoms himself to think before he speaks. As Zeno advises, he dips his tongue in his mind before he allows it to talk. It is said that a fool thinks after he has spoken, and a wise man before.

He does not pry with a curious and inquisitive spirit into the affairs of others. If they are wise not to reveal, he is wise not to inquire.

He is no blabber, to divulge secrets committed to his bosom for security by confiding friendship.

He speaks not evil of the absent, unless in case of self-defence, or as a witness, or in vindication of righteousness and truth; and when he does, he adheres closely to fact, and evinces the absence of envy, malice, or vindictiveness in his motives.

He guards against the exhibition of his own wisdom, knowledge, goodness, as a boaster or egotist. He is no more a self-flatterer than a flatterer of others.

He does not mark the failings of those who talk with him or around him in company, and take them up in carping criticism or biting ridicule.

He does not dogmatize, wrangle, quibble, as though he was an autocrat or a pugilist. He thinks and lets think. He is as willing for others to talk their views in their way as he wishes them to be willing that he should do the same.

He is no censor or grumbler. He remembers that he shall be judged, and judges not others. In everything he gives thanks. If things and persons are not as he thinks they should be, he tries to make them better, rather than spend his words and time in useless complaining.

He is no willow to bend before every breeze of opinion, nor an oak to stand unmoved in every change of the intellectual atmosphere. He maintains his conscientious convictions with manly dignity and independence, but not with a dogged tenacity which snaps at every resistance, and holds on simply because he will.

He blends the grave and joyous in his conversation. He is neither a jester nor a hermit; neither a misanthrope nor a fool. “Sorrowful, yet alway rejoicing,” he “weeps with them that weep, and rejoices with them that rejoice.” He is like the heavens; he has sunshine and cloud, each in its season, seemly, appropriate, useful.

“Though life’s valley be a vale of tears,
A brighter scene beyond that vale appears,
Whose glory, with a light that never fades,
Shoots between scattered rocks and opening shades;
And while it shows the land the soul desires,
The language of the land she seeks inspires.
Thus touched, the tongue receives a sacred cure
Of all that was absurd, profane, impure;
Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech
Pursues the course that Truth and Nature teach;
No longer labours merely to produce
The pomp of sound or tinkle without use;
Where’er it winds, the salutary stream,
Sprightly and fresh, enriches every theme,
While all the happy man possessed before,
The gift of nature, or the classic store,
Is made subservient to the grand design
For which heaven formed the faculty divine.
So, should an idiot, while at large he strays,
Find the sweet lyre on which an artist plays,
With rash and awkward force the chords he shakes,
And grins with wonder at the jar he makes;
But let the wise and well-instructed hand
Once take the shell beneath his just command:
In gentle sounds it seems as it complained
Of the rude injuries it late sustained,
Till, tuned at length to some immortal song,
It sounds Jehovah’s name, and pours His praise along.”

Such is my model talker. Another hand may have drawn a different one: perhaps much better, or perhaps much worse.

Some, in looking at him, may be disposed to think that he is too antiquated, too precise, too spiritual, too scripturified; not enough broadness, strength, liberty. Before this judgment is formed, let there be a further examination of the entire character.

“But it is all very well to give an ideal picture. We want the reality, and where can he be found?” That is perfectly true. The reality is wanted in every family, society, church, and nation in the wide world. My reader, do you see and approve the ideal? Then aim at the reality, and to be the first model human talker that has ever lived in this Babel-talking world. Mark well the failings of others in the use of their tongues, and strive to avoid them in your own. A heart and head united in being right will do almost everything in making the tongue right. When the interior of a watch is in order, it will generally indicate the right time: when a man in the belfry wisely pulls the rope attached to a bell, it will give a proper sound: when a musician is perfect in his art, and his instrument in tune, the music he plays will agree thereto. So, reader, is it with the tongue, when the “man of the head and heart” are perfect in Christ Jesus. Seek, and obtain this, and you will be among those who “offend not in word.”

“What! never speak one evil word,
Or rash, or idle, or unkind?
O how shall I, most gracious Lord,
This mark of true perfection find?

Thy sinless mind in me reveal,
Thy Spirit’s plenitude of grace;
And all my spoken words shall tell
The fulness of a loving heart.”

THE END.

Printed by Hazell, Watson, and Viney, London and Aylesbury.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

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