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 manoeuvring 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 'Aeneid,' 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-cured 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. Obscured 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.