* * * * *

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."