XXVI.

THE DOUBLE-TONGUED.

"Think'st thou there are no serpents in the world But those who slide along the glassy sod, And sting the luckless foot that presses them? There are who in the path of social life Do bask their spotted skins in fortune's sun, And sting the soul." JOANNA BAILLIE.

He is so called because he carries two tongues in one—one for your presence and one for your absence; one sweet as honey, the other bitter as gall; one with which he oils you, the other with which he stings you. In talking with you he is bland and affable; but in talking about you he detracts or slanders. The other night, when at your hospitable board, he was complimentary and friendly; the night after, at the hospitable board of your neighbour, in your absence, he had no good word to say of you.

Such is the versatility of his nature, that he is called by a variety of names. Sometimes he is named "Double-faced," because he has two faces answering to his two tongues. Sometimes he is named "Backbiter," because if he ever bite any one it is behind his back, where he thinks he is not seen; and so soon is he out of sight, that you can only learn who has bitten you from some honest friend that saw him do it and instantly hide himself under a covering which he always carries about with him for such occasions. He is sometimes named a "Sneak," because he has not courage to say candidly to your face what he means, but creeps about slyly among other people to say it, that he may evade your notice, and at the same time retain your confidence in him as a personal friend. He is sometimes named a "Snake-in-the-grass," because he secretes himself in shady places, waiting his opportunity to sting without your knowing how or by whom it was done. In fine, he has been named a "Hypocrite," who comes to you in "sheep's clothing," but is in truth a "ravening wolf."

"His love is lust, his friendship all a cheat, His smiles hypocrisy, his words deceit."

He welcomes you with a shake of the hand at his door, and says in soft flattering words, "How glad I am to see you, Mr. Johnson! Pray do walk in;" and while you are laying your hat, gloves, and umbrella on the hall table, he whispers to some one in the parlour, "That Johnson has just come in, and I am sure I don't care to see him."

Mrs. Stubbs informs her husband on arriving home in the evening that she met Mrs. Nobbs in the street, and invited her to take a friendly cup of tea with them to-morrow, and then adds with emphasis, "but I do hope she will not come!"

A young gentleman complimented Miss Stokoe the other night in company upon her "exquisite touch on the piano" and the "nightingale tones of her voice in singing;" but as he was walking home from the party with Miss Nance, he said to her (of course in the absence of Miss Stokoe) that "Miss Stokoe, after all that is said in her praise, is no more than an ordinary pianist and singer."

"That was a most excellent sermon you gave us this morning," said Mr. Clarke to the Rev. T. Ross, as he was dining with him at his house. "I hope it will not be long before you visit us again."

"I am obliged for your compliment," replied Mr. Ross.

A day or two after Mr. Clarke was heard to say that he had never listened to such "a dull sermon, and he hoped it would be a long time ere the reverend gentleman appeared in their pulpit again."

"What darling little cherubs your twins are," said Mrs. Horton to Mrs. Shenstone in an afternoon gathering of ladies at her house. "I really should be proud of them if they were mine: such lovely eyes, such rosy cheeks, such beautiful hair, and withal such sweet expressions of the countenance! And then, how tastily they are dressed! Dear darlings! come and kiss me."

Mrs. Shenstone smiled complacently in return; and shortly after retired from the room, when the two "little cherubs" approached their prodigious admirer, with a view to make friends and impress upon her the solicited kiss. She instantly put them at arm's length from her, saying to Mrs. Teague, who sat next her, "What pests these little things are, treading on my dress, and obtruding their presence on me like this. I do wish Mrs. Shenstone had taken them out of the room with her."

"I am deeply grieved to learn," said Farmer Shirley one day to his neighbour, Farmer Stout, "that your circumstances are such as they are. Now, if you think I can help you in any way, do not be backward in sending to me. You shall always find a friend in me."

That very afternoon this same farmer Shirley was heard to say in a company of farmers at the "Queen's Head" that Stout had brought all his difficulties upon himself, and he was not sorry for him a bit. The next day Stout availed himself of the "great kindness" offered him by Shirley, and sent to ask the loan of a pound to pay the baker's bill, in order to keep the "staff of life" in the house for his family; when Shirley sent word back to him that he had "no pounds to lend anybody, much less one who had by his own extravagance brought himself into such difficult circumstances."

This double-tongued talker is not unfrequently met with in public meetings. Especially is he heard in "moving votes of thanks," and "drinking toasts." Fulsome praises and glowing eulogiums are poured out by him in rich abundance, which, as soon as the meetings are over, are eaten up again by the same person, but of course in the absence of his much-admired gods.

It would not be difficult to go on with instances illustrative of these double-tongued exercises. They are almost as universal as the multifarious phases of society. They are met with in the street, in the shop, in the family, in the church, in the court, in the palace and cottage, among the rich and poor.

Addison, in writing of this fault in talking in his times, gives a letter which he says was written in King Charles the Second's reign by the "ambassador of Bantam to his royal master a little after his arrival in England." The following is a copy, which will show how in those days the double-tongued talked, and how the writer, a stranger in this country, was impressed by it.

"MASTER,—The people where I now am have tongues further from their hearts than from London to Bantam, and thou knowest the inhabitants of one of these places do not know what is done in the other. They call thee and thy subjects barbarians, because we speak what we mean, and account themselves a civilized people because they speak one thing and mean another; truth they call barbarity, and falsehood politeness. Upon my first landing, one, who was sent by the king of this place to meet me, told me that he was extremely sorry for the storm I had met with just before my arrival. I was troubled to hear him grieve and afflict himself on my account; but in less than a quarter of an hour he smiled, and was as merry as if nothing had happened. Another who came with him told me, by my interpreter, he should be glad to do me any service that lay in his power; upon which I desired him to carry one of my portmanteaux for me; but, instead of serving me according to his promise, he laughed, and bid another do it. I lodged the first week at the house of one who desired me to think myself at home, and to consider his house as my own. Accordingly I the next morning began to knock down one of the walls of it, in order to let in the fresh air, and had packed up some of the household goods, of which I intended to have made thee a present; but the false varlet no sooner saw me falling to work but he sent me word to desire me to give over, for that he would have no such doings in his house. I had not been long in this nation before I was told by one for whom I had asked a certain favour from the chief of the king's servants, whom they here call the lord-treasurer, that I had eternally obliged him. I was so surprised at his gratitude that I could not forbear saying, 'What service is there which one man can do for another that can oblige him to all eternity?' However, I only asked him, for my reward, that he would lend me his eldest daughter during my stay in this country; but I quickly found that he was as treacherous as the rest of his countrymen.

"At my first going to court, one of the great men almost put me out of countenance by asking ten thousand pardons of me for only treading by accident upon my toe. They call this kind of lie a compliment; for when they are civil to a great man, they tell him untruths, for which thou wouldst order any of thy officers of state to receive a hundred blows on his foot. I do not know how I shall negotiate anything with this people, since there is so little credit to be given to them. When I go to see the king's scribe, I am generally told that he is not at home, though perhaps I saw him go into his house almost the very moment before. Thou wouldst fancy that the whole nation are physicians, for the first question they always ask me is, how I do; I have this question put to me above a hundred times a day; nay, they are not only thus inquisitive after my health, but wish it in a more solemn manner, with a full glass in their hands, every time I sit with them at the table, though at the same time they would persuade me to drink their liquors in such quantities as I have found by experience will make me sick.

"They often pretend to pray for thy health also in the same manner; but I have more reason to expect it from the goodness of thy constitution than the sincerity of their wishes. May thy slave escape in safety from this double-tongued race of men, and live to lay himself once more at thy feet in the royal city of Bantam."

This double-tonguedness of which we have spoken is anything but creditable to an age that makes claim to such a high state of civilisation, to say nothing of Christianity. It shows a gilded or superficial state of things, which cannot but end in consequences disastrous and irremediable.

The finical and fashionable may call the candid speaker a boar, and shun him. He may be an outcast from their society: but, after all, his honesty and candour will wear better and longer than their sham and shoddy. His "Nay, nay," and "Yea, yea," will outlast and outshine their double-tongued prevarication and flattery. Better a boar—if you know him to be such—than a wolf in sheep's clothing. A rough friend is more valuable than a hypocritical sycophant.

"As thistles wear the softest down To hide their prickles till they're grown, And then declare themselves, and tear Whatever ventures to come near; So a smooth knave does greater feats Than one that idly rails and threats; And all the mischief that he meant, Does, like the rattlesnake, prevent."

Archbishop Tillotson, in speaking of this subject in his day, says, "The old English plainness and sincerity, that generous integrity of nature and honesty of disposition, which always argues true greatness of mind, and is usually accompanied with undaunted courage and resolution, is in a great measure lost amongst us.

"It is hard to say whether it should more provoke our contempt or our pity to hear what solemn expressions of respect and kindness will pass between men almost upon no occasion; how great honour and esteem they will declare for one whom, perhaps, they never saw before; and how entirely they are all on a sudden devoted to his service and interest, for no reason; how infinitely and eternally obliged to him, for no benefit; and how extremely they will be concerned for him, yea, and afflicted too, for no cause. I know it is said in justification of this hollow kind of conversation that there is no harm, no real deceit in compliment, but the matter is well enough so long as we understand one another; words are like money, and when the current value of them is generally understood, no man is cheated by them. This is something, if such words were anything; but being brought into the account they are mere cyphers. However, it is a just matter of complaint that sincerity and plainness are out of fashion, and that our language is running into a lie; that men have almost quite perverted the use of speech, and made words to signify nothing; that the greatest part of the conversation of mankind is little else but driving a trade of dissimulation.

"If the show of anything be good for anything, I am sure sincerity is better: for why does any man dissemble, or seem to be that which he is not, but because he thinks it good to have such a quality as he pretends to? Now the best way in the world to seem to be anything is really to be what he would seem to be. Besides that, it is many times as troublesome to make good the pretence of a good quality as to have it; and if a man have it not, it is ten to one but he is discovered to want it; and then all his pains and labour to seem to have it are lost."



XXVII.

THE DUBIOUS.

"Man, on the dubious waves of error tossed, His ship half-foundered, and his compass lost, Sees, far as human optics may command, A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land: Spreads all his canvas, every sinew plies; Pants for 't, aims at it, enters it, and dies!" COWPER.

This is a talker of an opposite stamp to the dogmatist. The one knows and asserts with imperial positiveness, the other with childish trepidation and hesitancy. "It is so, it can't be otherwise, and you must believe it," is the dictatorial spirit of the dogmatist. "It may be so, I am not certain, I cannot vouch for its truthfulness: in fact, I am rather inclined to doubt it, but I would not deny nor affirm, or say one word to dispose you either way," is the utterance of the spirit of Dubious. He is an oscillator, a pendulum, a wave of the sea, a weathercock. He has no certain dwelling-place within the whole domain of knowledge, in which to rest the sole of his feet with permanency. He sees, hears, smells, tastes, and feels nothing with certainty, and hence he knows nothing by his senses but what is enveloped in the clouds of doubtfulness. He tenaciously guards himself in the utterance of any sentiment, story, or rumour, lest he expose himself to apprehension. His own existence is a fact of which he speaks with caution. His consciousness may be a reality of which he can say a word. As to his soul, he does not like to speak of that with any assurance. The being of a God is a doctrine in the clouds, and he cannot affirm it with confidence. There may be such places as China, India, Africa, etc.; but as he has never seen them, he dare not venture his full belief in their existence. Whatever he has seen, and whatever he has not seen, seem to stand on the same ground as to the exercise of his faith. Things worldly and religious, simple and profound, plain and mysterious, practical and theoretical, human and divine, personal and relative, present and future, near and afar off,—all seem to crowd around him with a hazy appearance, and he has no definite or certain knowledge respecting them of which to speak. All the things he has ever read or heard he seems to have forgotten, or to hold them with a vague and uncertain tenure. There is nothing within him to rely upon but doubts, fears, and may bes. He lives, moves, and has his being in uncertainties. He will not positively affirm whether his face is black or white, his nose long or short, his own or some other person's. He "guesses" that two and two make four, and that four and three do not make eight. He "guesses" that blue is not red, and that green is neither blue nor red. He "guesses" that the earth is globular, but would not like to assert that it is not a plain. He "guesses" that the sun gives light by day and the moon by night; but as for affirming either the one or the other, he would not like to commit himself to such positiveness. His talk is full of "hopes," "presumes," "may bes," "trusts," "guesses," and such-like expressions. He is certainly a doubtful man to have anything to do with in conversation. I do not say he is dangerous. Far from this, for he has not confidence enough in your actual materiality to make an assault upon your person; and he has not certain knowledge sufficient to contend with your opinions, so that there is no need of apprehension upon either the mental or physical question. It is difficult to acquire any information from him, for who likes to add that to his stock of knowledge which is shrouded in doubts, and to which the communicator will not give the seal of his affirmation? Of course some knowledge must be held and communicated problematically. Such we are willing to take in its legitimate character. But our Dubious talker appears to destroy all distinction and difference, and to arrange all knowledge in the probable or doubtful category, and hence he has nothing but doubtful information to impart, which in reality is no information. To enter into conversation with Dubious, therefore, is no actual benefit to the intellect or the faith. It is harassing, perplexing, provoking to the man who possesses belief in the certainty of things. It is to him time lost, and words uttered in vanity. He retires from the scene with dissatisfaction and disgust. He pities the man who knows nothing, whose intellect revolves in universal haziness, and whose soul is steeped in the quagmires of unrestrained scepticism.

Cowper does admirable justice to this talker in the following lines:—

"Dubious is such a scrupulous good man— Yes—you may catch him tripping if you can: He would not with a peremptory tone Assert the nose upon his face his own; With hesitation admirably slow, He humbly hopes—presumes—it may be so. His evidence, if he were called by law To swear to some enormity he saw, For want of prominence and just relief, Would hang an honest man and save a thief. Through constant dread of giving truth offence, He ties up all his hearers in suspense; Knows what he knows as if he knew it not; What he remembers, seems to have forgot; His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall, Centring at last in having none at all. Yet, though he tease and baulk your listening ear, He makes one useful point exceeding clear; Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme A sceptic in philosophy may seem, Reduced to practice, his beloved rule Would only prove him a consummate fool; Useless in him alike both brain and speech, Fate having placed all truth above his reach, His ambiguities his total sum, He might as well be blind, and deaf, and dumb."



XXVIII.

THE SUSPICIOUS.

"Foul suspicion! thou turnest love divine To joyless dread, and mak'st the loving heart With hateful thoughts to languish and repine, And feed itself with self-consuming smart; Of all the passions of the mind thou vilest art." SPENCER.

The words of his mouth live with a spirit of doubt, incredulity, and jealousy. Actions, thoughts, motives, are questioned as to their reality and disinterestedness. Good counsel given in time of perplexity is attributed to some ulterior purpose which is kept out of view. Gifts of beneficence are said to be deeds of selfishness—patronage is expected in an affair you have on hand, or you anticipate as much or more in return in some other ways. A family visited with a severe affliction is suspected to have the cause in some secret moral delinquency in the father, or mother, or elder son or daughter. A merchant meets with reverses in his business, and he is suspected of something wrong, for which these reverses are sent as punishment. A traveller meets with an accident, by which a member of his body is fractured or life taken away: he is suspected of having been a great sinner before God, for which His vengeance now visits him.

The suspicious talker may be found in one or other phase of his character in almost every class and grade of society. How often the husband suspects the wife, and the wife the husband; the master the servant, and the servant the master; brothers suspect brothers; sisters sisters; neighbours neighbours; the rich the poor; the poor the rich.

The talk of the suspicious is bitter, stinging, exasperating. How often it ends in jealousy, strife, quarrels, separations, and other evils of a similar kind!

This talk seldom or ever effects any good. It more frequently excites to the very thing on which the suspicion has fixed its demon eye, but of which the subject of the suspicion was never guilty.

Suspicious talk, like many other kinds, has frequently no foundation to rest upon, excepting the fancy of an enfeebled mind or the ill-nature of an unregenerate heart.

* * * * *

"That was a very nice present which Mr. Muckleton sent you on Christmas-Day," said Mr. Birch to his neighbour.

"O, yes," he replied in a sort of careless way; "I know what he sent it for—that he may get my vote at the next election of town councillors. I can see through it."

"Did not Mr. Shakleton call at your house the other day? and were you not pleased to see him?"

"So far as that goes, I was pleased; but I know what he called for; not to see me or mine. It is not worth saying, but I know."

"Has not Mrs. Mount recently joined your church? She is an excellent lady, of very good means and intelligence. I should think you will value her acquisition to your number."

"Well, as for that, I cannot say. I like persons to act from pure motives in all things, especially in religious. Don't you know Mrs. Mount is a widow, and there is in our church that Squire Nance, a bachelor? I needn't say any more."

"The Rev. Mr. Wem has left our church and gone to a church in London."

"Indeed! I was not aware of that, but I guess it is to obtain more salary."

"How do you know that?"

"How do I know it? You may depend he wouldn't have gone unless he could better himself."

"My dear," said Mrs. Park to her husband one evening as they were sitting alone, "Tom has gone with young Munster to the city, and will be back about ten o'clock."

"What has he gone there for?" asked Mr. Park, rather sternly. "No good, I venture to say. You know the temptations that are in the city, and he is not so steady as we would like him to be."

When Tom came home at ten o'clock, he had to endure a good deal of suspicious tongue-flagellation, which rather excited him to speak rashly in return.

"I do really think," said Mrs. Lance, snappishly, to her servant one day, "you are guilty of picking and biting the things of the larder, besides other little tricks. Now, I do not allow such conduct. It is paltry and mean."

Mrs. Lance had no ground for this utterance but her own suspicions. The servant, conscious of her integrity, became righteously angry, and gave notice to leave at once. So Mary left her suspicious mistress. She was not the first nor the sixth servant she had driven away by her suspicious talk in regard to the "larder," the "cupboards," the "drawers," and the "wardrobe."

Squire Nutt one day went a drive of twelve miles in the country to attend "a hunt dinner," promising his wife that he would be home by eleven o'clock at night. This hour came, but no Squire. Twelve struck, and he had not returned. One struck, yea, even two, and no husband. Mrs. Nutt all this time was alone, watching for the Squire, and suspecting with a vivid imagination where he had gone, and what he was doing. At half-past two a sound of wheels was heard coming to the door, and in a few minutes the suspected husband entered the hall, and greeted his little wife with signs of affection. Instead of receiving him kindly in return, and waiting till the effects of the dinner had escaped before she called him to account, she began in a most furiously suspicious way to question him. "Where have you been all this time? Have you been round by Netley Hall? I know all about what you have been up to. This is a fine thing, this is, keeping me watching and waiting these hours, while you have been galavanting—ah! I know where."

Thus, not within curtains, but within the hall, Mrs. Nutt gave her husband a "caudle" lecture, but with little effect upon him. She had nothing but groundless suspicion; he had the inward satisfaction of a good conscience on the points respecting which she suspected him.

As an illustration of another aspect of this talker we may take the friends who came to talk with Job in his troubles. His wife was bad enough in her utterances, but his "friends" were worse. Coleridge, in speaking of Satan taking away everything he had, but left his wife, says,—

"He took his honours, took his wealth, He took his children, took his health, His camels, horses, asses, cows, And the sly devil did not take his spouse."

But his wife was kind and considerate to what his friends were. She spake as one of the "foolish women;" but his friends came as philosophers, the wise ones, to converse with him; and yet, when they spoke to him, they had nothing but suspicions and doubts to utter as to his sincerity, motives, and purity; told him not to plead innocence in his circumstances, but confess all with candour, and show that he had been a profound hypocrite, and that God had visited him with His sore judgments as a punishment for his sins; for they knew that all these things could not have come upon him if there had not been some "secret thing" with him.

Although Job sometimes spoke "unadvisedly with his lips" in reply to the unjustifiable suspicions of his "friends," God stands on his side, and defends him in his rectitude and integrity. He rebukes with severity Bildad the Shuhite and his two companions, because of their uncharitable suspicions uttered against His servant. He was "angry" that they had not spoken truthfully "as His servant Job;" "and they were to go," as one says, "to this servant Job to be prayed for, and eat humble pie, and a good large slice of it too (I should like to have seen their faces while they were munching it), else their leisurely and inhuman philosophy would have got them into a scrape."

* * * * *

Suspicion in talking is a disposition which renders its subject unacceptable to others and unhappy in himself. Persons will have as little as possible to say to him or do with him, lest they fall under his ruling power; and this is what no one with self-respect cares to do. Who likes to have himself, in his motives and deeds, put through the crucible of his narrow, prickly, stingy soul? He cannot see an inch from himself to judge you by. He "measures your cloth by his yard," and weighs your goods in his scales, and judges your colours through his spectacles; and of the justice and trueness of these nothing need be said.

"Suspicion overturns what confidence builds; And he that dares but doubt when there's no ground, Is neither to himself nor others sound."

The true remedy for suspicion in talking is more knowledge in the head and more love in the heart. As bats fly before the light, so suspicions before knowledge and love. Throw open the windows of the soul, and admit the truth. Be generous and noble in thoughts of others. Give credit for purity of intention and disinterestedness of motives. Build no fabric of fancies and surmises in the imagination without a solid basis. Be pure in yourself in all things. "The more virtuous any man is in himself," says Cicero, "the less easily does he suspect others to be vicious."



XXIX.

THE POETIC.

"I begin shrewdly to suspect the young man of a terrible taint—poetry; with which idle disease, if he be infected, there is no hope of him in a state course."—BEN JONSON.

Scraps of poetry picked up from Burns, or Thomson, or Shakespeare, or Tennyson, are ready to hand for every occasion, so that you may calculate upon a piece, in or out of place, in course of conversation. If you will do the prose, rely upon it he will do the poetic, much to his own satisfaction, if not to your entertainment. In walking he will gently lay his finger on your shoulder, saying, as he gathers up his recollection, and raising his head, "Hear what my favourite poet says upon the subject."

Sometimes the poetic afflatus falls upon him as he converses, and he will impromptu favour you with an original effusion of rhyme or blank verse, much to the strengthening of his self-complacency, and to the gratification of your sense of the ludicrous.

Talking with Mr. Smythe, a young student, some time ago, I found he was so full of poetic quotations that I began to think whether all his lessons at college had not consisted in the learning of odds and ends from "Gems" and "Caskets" and "Gleanings."

Speaking about the man who is not enslaved to sects and parties, but free in his religious habits, he paused and said, "You remind me, Mr. Bond, of what Pope says,—

'Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through nature up to nature's God.'"

The subject of music was introduced, when, after a few words of prose he broke out in evident emotion,—

"Music! oh, how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell! Why should feeling ever speak When thou canst breathe her soul so well? Friendship's balmy words may pain, Love's are e'en more false than they— Oh! 'tis only music's strain Can sweetly soothe and not betray."

"Those are very beautiful lines, Mr. Smythe," I observed; "can you tell me whose they are?"

Placing his hand to his head, he answered, "Really, Mr. Bond, I do not now remember."

"They are Moore's," I replied.

"Oh yes, yes, so they are. I could give you numberless other pieces, Mr. Bond, equally fine and touching."

"Thank you, that will do for the present, Mr. Smythe."

We began to talk about travelling in Scotland, Switzerland, and other parts, when I gave a little of my experience in plain words, as to the effect of the scenery upon my mind and health, when he suddenly interrupted me and said, "Let me see, what is it the poet says upon that? If I can call it up, I will give it you, Mr. Bond,—

'Go abroad, Upon the paths of Nature, and, when all Its voices whisper, and its silent things Are breathing the deep beauty of the world, Kneel at its simple altar.'"

I spoke of neglected genius both in Church and State, when he exclaimed with much emphasis, as though the lines had fallen on my ears for the first time,—

"Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

A voyage to America, with a few incidents about the sea, were spoken of.

"Ah, ah, Mr. Bond," he said, "I have seen some fine lines by J. G. Percival on that subject,—

'I, too, have been upon thy rolling breast, Wildest of waters! I have seen thee lie Calm as an infant pillowed in its rest On a fond mother's bosom, when the sky, Not smoother, gave the deep its azure dye, Till a new heaven was arched and glassed below.'

"And then, Mr. Bond, you are familiar with—

'The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide region round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies.'"

I spoke of progress in the age in which we live, when he instantly said, "Ah, that reminds me now of what Tennyson says,—

'Not in vain the distant beacons. Forward, forward, let us range, Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day; Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.'"

The worth of a good name was spoken of, and the words of Solomon quoted in support of what was said. But Solomon was not enough. The poetic spirit of our student was astir instantly within him, and broke forth in the well-known lines of Shakespeare, already quoted in this volume,—

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

Marriage and love were incidentally brought up, when, lo and behold, I found he was so brimful on these, that I was obliged to ask him to forbear, after a few specimens. Having had so long an experience in those happy climes, I found he could not say anything that half came up to the reality. Nevertheless, I am free to say, he did quote some sentiments which on him and the young ladies present seemed to have a most charming effect, especially one from Tupper, who used in those times to be a pet poet with the fair sex and such as our student,—

"Love! what a volume in a word! an ocean in a tear! A seventh heaven in a glance! a whirlwind in a sigh! The lightning in a touch—a millennium in a moment! What concentrated joy, or woe, is blessed or blighted love!"

"Blighted love! Ah," said Mr. Smythe, "that reminds me of Tennyson's words," which he appeared to render with deep feeling,—

"I hold it true, whate'er befall— I feel it when I sorrow most— 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all."

"These lines remind me," he observed, "and it is astonishing the poetic associations of my mind, Mr. Bond. These kind of pieces seem so linked together in my mind, that when I begin I can scarcely stop myself. Well, I was going to give Shakespeare's words,—

'Ah me! for aught that ever I could read, Could ever hear of tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth.'"

"But have you not a few lines, Mr. Smythe, on marriage, although you have not as yet entered into that happy state?" said Mr. Bond.

"O dear yes! I have pieces without number. For instance, here is one from Middleton,—

'What a delicious breath marriage sends forth— The violet's bed not sweeter! Honest wedlock Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden, On which the spring flowers take delight To cast their modest odours.'

"Here are some more," he remarked, "from Cotton,—

'Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, We who improve his golden hours, By sweet experience know That marriage rightly understood Gives to the tender and the good A Paradise below.'"

Still going on, he said, "Here are some charming lines, Mr. Bond, from Moore,—

'There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, When two that are linked in one heavenly tie, With heart never changing and brow never cold, Love on through all ills, and love on till they die. One hour of a passion so sacred is worth Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss; And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this—it is this.'"

At the close of these lines something occurred to stop Mr. Smythe going any further.

Poetic quotations in conversation are all very well, when given aptly and wisely; but coming, as they often do, as the fruits of affectation and pedantry, they are repulsive. One wishes in these circumstances that the talker had a few thoughts of his own in prose besides those of the poets which he so lavishly pours into one's jaded ears.



XXX.

"YES" AND "NO."

"Let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay: for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil."—JESUS CHRIST.

Although in length "yes" and "no" are among the smallest and shortest words of the English language, yet they often involve an importance far beyond "the most centipedal polysyllables that crawl over the pages of Johnson's dictionary." Did persons stop to reflect upon the full import of these monosyllables, so easily uttered, they would undoubtedly use them with less frequency and more caution.

I shall make no apology for quoting on this subject from a letter out of the "Correspondence of R. E. H. Greyson, Esq.," written by him to Miss Mary Greyson.

"You remember the last pleasant evening in my last visit to Shirley, when I accompanied you to the party at Mrs. Austin's. Something occurred there which I had no opportunity of improving for your benefit. So as you invite reproof—an invitation which who that is mortal and senior can refuse?—I will enlarge a little.

"The good lady, our hostess, expressed, if you recollect, a fear that the light of the unshaded camphine was too bright, in the position in which you sat, for your eyes. Though I saw you blinking with positive pain, yet, out of a foolish timidity, you protested, 'No; oh no; not at all!' Now that was a very unneighbourly act of the tongue, thus to set at nought the eye; the selfish thing must have forgotten that 'if one member suffer, all the others must suffer with it.' My dear, never sacrifice your eyes to any organ whatever; at all events, not to the tongue,—least of all when it does not tell the truth. Of the two, you had better be dumb than blind.

"Now, if I had not interposed, and said that you were suffering, whether you knew it or not, you would have played the martyr all the evening to a sort of a—a—what shall I call it?—it must out—a sort of fashionable fib. You may answer, perhaps, that you did not like to make a fuss, or seem squeamish, or discompose the company; and so, from timidity, you said 'the thing that was not.' Very true; but this is the very thing I want you to guard against; I want you to have such presence of mind that the thought of absolute truth shall so preoccupy you as to defy surprise and anticipate even the most hurried utterances.

"The incident is very trifling in itself; I have noticed it because I think I have observed on other occasions that, from a certain timidity of character, and an amiable desire not to give trouble, or make a fuss, as you call it (there, now, Mary, I am sure the medicine is nicely mixed—that spoonful of syrup ought to make it go down), you have evinced a disposition to say, from pure want of thinking, what is not precise truth. Weigh well, my dear girl, and ever act on, that precept of the Great Master, which, like all His precepts, is of deepest import, and, in spirit, of the utmost generality of application, 'Let your yea be yea, and your nay, nay.'

"Let truth—absolute truth—take precedence of everything; let it be more precious to you than anything else. Sacrifice not a particle of it at the bidding of indolence, vanity, interest, cowardice, or shame; least of all, to those tawdry idols of stuffed straw and feathers—the idols of fashion and false honour.

"It is often said that the great lesson for a young man or a young woman to learn is how to say 'no.' It would be better to say that they should learn aright how to use both 'yes' and 'no,'—for both are equally liable to abuse.

"The modes in which they are employed often give an infallible criterion of character.

"Some say both doubtfully and hesitatingly, drawling out each letter—'y-e-s,' 'n-o,'—that one might swear to their indecision of character at once. Others repeat them with such facility of assent or dissent, taking their tone from the previous question, that one is equally assured of the same conclusion, or, what is as bad, that they never reflect at all. They are a sort of parrots.

"One very important observation is this—be pleased to remember, my dear, that 'yes,' in itself, always means 'yes,' and 'no' always means 'no.'

"I fancy you will smile at such a profound remark; nevertheless, many act as if they never knew it, both in uttering these monosyllables themselves and in interpreting them as uttered by others. Young ladies, for example, when the question, as it is called, par excellence (as if it were more important than the whole catechism together) is put to them, often say 'no' when they really mean 'yes.' It is a singular happiness for them that the young gentlemen to whom they reply in this contradictory sort of way have a similar incapacity of understanding 'yes' and 'no;' nay, a greater; for these last often persist in thinking 'no' means 'yes,' even when it really means what it says.

"'Pray, my dear,' said a mamma to her daughter of eighteen, 'what was your cousin saying to you when I met you blushing so in the garden?'

"'He told me that he loved me, mamma, and asked if I could love him.'

"'Upon my word! And what did you say to him, my dear?'

"'I said yes, mamma.'

"'My dear, how could you be so——'

"'Why, mamma, what else could I say? it was the—truth.'

"Now I consider this a model for all love-passages: and when it comes to your turn, my dear, pray follow this truth-loving young lady's example, and do not trust to your lover's powers of interpretation to translate a seeming 'no' into a genuine 'yes.' He might be one of those simple, worthy folk who are so foolish as to think that a negative is really a negative!

"I grant that there are a thousand conventional cases in which 'yes' means 'no,' and 'no' means 'yes;' and they are so ridiculously common that every one is supposed, in politeness, not to mean what he says, or, rather, is not doubted to mean the contrary of what he says. In fact, quite apart from positive lying—that is, any intention to deceive—the honest words are so often interchanged, that if 'no' were to prosecute 'yes,' and 'yes' 'no,' for trespass, I know not which would have most causes in court. Have nothing to do with these absurd conventionalisms, my dear. 'Let your yea be yea, and your nay, nay.' If you are asked whether you are cold, hungry, tired, never, for fear of giving trouble, say the contrary of what you feel. Decline giving the trouble if you like, by all means; but do not assign any false reason for so doing. These are trifles, you will say; and so they are. But it is only by austere regard to truth, even in trifles, that we shall keep the love of it spotless and pure. 'Take care of the pence' of truth, 'and the pounds will take care of themselves.'

"Not only let your utterance be simple truth, as you apprehend it, but let it be decisive and unambiguous, according to those apprehensions. Some persons speak as falteringly as if they thought the text I have cited ran, 'Let your yea be nay, and your nay, yea.' And so they are apt to assent or dissent, according to the tenor of the last argument: 'Yes—no—yes—no.' It is just like listening to the pendulum of a clock.

"It is a great aggravation of the misuse of 'yes' and 'no,' that the young are apt to lose all true apprehension of their meaning, and think, in certain cases, that 'yes' cannot mean 'yes,' nor 'no' 'no.'

"I have known a lad, whose mother's 'no' had generally ended in 'yes,' completely ruined, because when his father said 'no' in reply to a request for unreasonable aid, and threatened to leave him to his own devices if he persisted in extravagance, could not believe that his father meant what he said, or could prevail on justice to turn nature out of doors. But his father meant 'no,' and stuck to it, and the lad was ruined, simply because, you see, he had not noticed that father and mother differed in their dialects—that his father's 'no' always meant 'no,' and nothing else. You have read 'Rob Roy,' and may recollect that that amiable young gentleman, Mr. F. Osbaldistone, with less reason, very nearly made an equally fatal mistake; for every word his father had ever uttered, and every muscle in his face, every gesture, every step, ought to have convinced him that his father always meant what he said.

"In fine, learn to apply these little words aright and honestly, and, little though they be, you will keep the love of truth pure and unsullied.

"Ah me! what worlds of joy and sorrow, what maddening griefs and ecstacies have these poor monosyllables conveyed! More than any other words in the whole dictionary have they enraptured or saddened the human heart; rung out the peal of joy, or sounded the knell of hope. And yet not so often as at first sight might appear, for these blunt and honest words are, both, kindly coy in scenes of agony.

"There are occasions—and those the most terrible in life—when the lips are fairly absolved from using them, and when, if the eye cannot express what the muffled tongue refuses to tell, the tongue seeks any stammering compassionate circumlocution rather than utter the dreaded syllable. 'Is there no hope?' says the mother, hanging over her dying child, to the physician, in whose looks are life and death. He dare not say 'yes;' but to such a question silence and dejection can alone say 'no.'"



XXXI.

A GROUP OF TALKERS.

I. THE MISANTHROPE.

He is sour and morose in disposition. He is a hater of his species. Whether he was born thus, or whether he has gradually acquired it through contact with mankind, will best be ascertained from himself. I think, however, that he too frequently and too readily inclines in his nature to run against the angles and rough edges of men's ways and tempers, by which he is made sore and irritable, until he loses patience with everybody, and thinks everybody is gone to the bad. He is happy with no one, and no one is happy with him.

His talk agrees with his temper. He says nothing good of anybody or anything. Society is rotten in every part. He cares for no one's thanks. He bows to no one's person. He courts no one's smiles. There is neither happiness nor worth anywhere or in any one. He says,—

"Only this is sure: In this world nought save misery can endure."

If you try to throw a more cheerful aspect upon things and breathe a more genial soul into his nature, he says to you,—

"Have I not suffered things to be forgiven? Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven, Hopes sapped, name blighted, life's life lied away? And only not to desperation driven, Because not altogether of such clay As rots into the souls of those whom I survey."

He is hard to cure, but worse to endure. Sunshine has no brightness for him. Love has no charms. Beauty has no smiles. Flowers have no fragrance. All is desert to him; and alas! he is desert to all.

II. THE STORY-TELLER.—He is ever and anon telling his anecdotes and stories, until they become as dull as an old newspaper handled for days together. He seldom enters your house or forms one of a company but you hear from him the same oft-repeated tales. He may sometimes begin on a new track, but he soon merges into the old. You are inclined to say, "You have told me that before;" but respect to the person who speaks, or a sense of good manners, restrains, so you are under the necessity of enduring the unwelcome repetition.

I have known this talker, again and again, rise from his seat with an intention of going because of a "pressing engagement," and yet he has stood, with hat in hand, for a further half-hour, telling the same stories which on similar occasions he had told before. I knew what was coming, and wished that he had left when he rose at first to do so, rather than afflict me with the same worn-out threadbare tales of three-times-three repetition in my ears.

I have thought, Whence this failing? Whether from loss of memory or from the fact that these things have been so often repeated that, when once begun, they instinctively and in the very order in which they are laid in the mind find an irresistible outlet from the mouth: like a musical-box, when wound up and set a-going, goes on and on, playing the same old tunes which one has heard a hundred times, and which it has played ever since a musical-box it has been.

I am inclined to think, however uncharitable my thinking may seem, that this is the chief cause of his fault. I think so because I have frequently noticed him saying as soon as he has begun, "Have not I told you this before?" and I have answered, "Yes, you have;" still he has gone on with the old yarn, telling it precisely in the same way as before; as the aforesaid instrument plays its old tunes without variation right through to the end.

The affliction would not be so bad to bear if he cut his stories short; but, unfortunately, he does not, and I verily believe cannot, any more than the parson who has repeated his sermons a hundred times can curtail, or leave out some of the old to substitute new. Not only so; another addition to the burden one has to endure is, that he always repeats his stories with such apparent self-satisfaction—a smile here, a laugh there, a "ha-ha-ha" in another place; at the same time you feel he is a bore, and wish his old saws were a hundred miles away.

One has been reminded, in hearing him talk, of what Menander says about the Dodonian brass, that if a man touched it only once it would continue ringing the whole day in the same monotonous tone. Thus this talker, touch him on the story-key, and he plays away until you are jaded in listening.

"His copious stories, oftentimes begun, End without audience, and are never done."

Is there a remedy for this talker? I fear not. He has practised so long—for he generally is sixty or seventy years old—that little hope can be entertained of his cure. He will have to wear out. This, however, you can do for yourself; only go into his company once, and you will not be afflicted with his repetition; and if he would go into the same company only once, it would secure to him a more enduring reputation.

Cowper, in his day, it would seem, met with such a talker as I have been describing. He thus refers to him:—

"Sedentary weavers of long tales Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails. 'Tis the most asinine employ on earth, To hear them tell of parentage and birth, And echo conversation dull and dry, Embellished, with, He said and so said I. At every interview their route the same, The repetition makes attention lame; We bustle up with unsuccessful speed, And in the saddest part cry, Droll indeed!"

After thus expressing his own experience under the rod of this talker, he suggests the way in which he should exercise himself in his vocation:—

"A tale should be judicious, clear, succinct; The language plain, and incidents well linked; Tell not as new what everybody knows, And new or old still hasten to a close; There centring in a focus round and neat, Let all your rays of information meet. What neither yields us profit nor delight Is like a nurse's lullaby at night; Guy Earl of Warwick and fair Elenore, Or giant-killing Jack would please me more."

III. THE CARELESS.—This talker is heedless of what, and how, and to whom he talks. He consults no propriety of speech; he has no respect of persons. He never asks, "Will it be wise to speak thus at this time? Is this the proper person to whom I should say it? Shall I give offence or deceive by speaking in this way? What will be the consequence to the absent of my making this statement concerning them? Is Tittle-Tattle, or Rumour, or Mischief Maker, or Slanderer, or Blabber in this company, who will make capital out of what I say?"

I do not mean that one should be always so precise in speaking, that what he says should be as nicely measured and formed as a new-made pin. This, however, is one thing, and to speak without thought or consideration is another.

The careless talker would save others as well as himself from frequent difficulties if he would get into the way of pondering, at least somewhat, the things which he has to say, so as to be sure that what he says will not injure another more than he would like to be injured himself.

I will give one illustration of this careless and thoughtless way of talking.

In a gathering of friends belonging to a certain church in N—— the minister's name came up as the subject of conversation. Many eulogiums were passed upon his character, among others one expressive of his high temperance principles, and the service he was rendering to the temperance cause in the town.

There happened to be present in the company a young gentleman of rather convivial habits, who assented to their compliments of the minister. He thought he was a very excellent man and a pleasant companion. "In fact," he said, "it was only the other day when he and I drank brandy and water together."

What a compliment this to give to a minister and a teetotaller! Of course the particulars were not inquired into there and then; but Miss Rumour, who was present, made a note of it in her mind, and as soon as she left the company she spread it abroad until the statement of the thoughtless young gentleman came to the ears of the deacons of the church, who solemnly arraigned the minister before them, and summoned the accuser into their presence.

He declared that what he had said was positively true, but had evidently been misunderstood. "Your excellent minister," he said, "and I have drunk brandy and water together; but then I drank the brandy, and he drank the water."

IV. THE EQUIVOCATOR.—He speaks in such a way as to convey the impression that he means what he says and at the same time leaves himself in his own mind at liberty to go contrary to what he says, without considering himself guilty of breach of truth should he do so. He speaks so as to give you reason for believing him; and then, if he fail to verify your faith, he tells you he did not say so positively. Hence his chief phrases of speech are, "May be so;" "It is more than likely I shall;" "There is little doubt upon the question;" "It is more than probable it will be so." He means these phrases to have the same effect upon you as the positive or imperative mood; and yet if you take them in this sense, and he does not act up to them, he says, "O, I did not say I would."

Much evil has been done by this way of talking in business, in families, in the social circle. How many a tradesman has lost valuable hours in waiting and expecting some one who has promised him by, "It is more than probable," that he would meet him at such an hour. And when reminded of his failure, he said, "I did not promise."

With a similar understanding based on a promise of the same kind, how frequently has the housewife made ready her person, her children, her rooms, and her larder, to receive guests on a day's visit! Disappointment has been the result; perhaps hard thoughts, if not harder feelings, have been felt, and it has been a long time ere any preparation has been made for the same guests again.

A mother in a family says to her little son, "Now, John, you be a very good boy, and give your sister Betsy no trouble while I am gone to see your Aunt Charlotte, and may be I will bring you back a Noah's ark."

The mother goes to see Aunt Charlotte; meanwhile John is trying in all his strength to be a "good boy, and to give his sister Betsy no trouble."

Little Johnny is wishing his mother would return. The hour is getting late. He is becoming heavy with sleep. He says to his sister,—

"I am so tired. I do want mother to come home and bring me the nice present she promised. O how glad I shall be to have a Noah's ark!"

At last mother enters the house, and her little boy rushes to meet her, asking as the first thing,—

"Mother, have you brought the present you promised?"

"What present, my boy?" the mother asks.

"Noah's ark, mother."

"Did I promise to buy you Noah's ark? Are you not mistaken?"

"You said may be you would do it; and I expected you would."

"But may be, my dear, is not a promise."

With these words the little boy set on crying at his great disappointment, and could not be comforted.

Now this way of talking to children is calculated to give them wrong views of truthfulness, and to cherish within them a similar way of equivocation. It creates hopes and blights them. It gives ground for expectation, and then destroys it. "Let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay; for whatsoever is more than this cometh of evil." "The promises of God are all YEA."

V. THE ABSENT-MINDED.—It is far from being pleasant to meet in conversation a talker of this class. To ask a question of importance or to give a reply to one whose mind is wandering in an opposite direction is anything but complimentary and assuring. How mortifying to be speaking to a person who you think is sweetly taking in all you say, and when finished you find you have been talking to one whose mind was as absent from what you said as a man living in America or New Zealand! He wakes up, perhaps, to consciousness, some time after you have done speaking, with the provoking interrogatory, "I beg pardon, sir; but pray what were you speaking about just now?"

He has been known at the dinner-table to ask a blessing at least three times.

He has been seen in company to make one of his best bows in reply to what he supposed was a compliment paid him, when it was intended for some other person.

He has been heard try to give a narrative of great interest; but before he had got half-way through he lost his mind in the story, and ran two or three into one.

He has been known almost to rave with self-indignation while calling back some one to whom he had forgotten to state the object of meeting, although they had been together some time in promiscuous talk.

He has been seen at the tea-table in a heated discussion, thinking of his brightest idea just as he was in the act of swallowing his tea, and by the time the tea was gone his idea was gone, and of course he lost the day.

One has heard of an eminent minister so absent-minded in talk at the tea-table that he has taken about twenty cups of tea, and has not only exhausted the supply of tea, but after using the teaspoon in each cup has thrown it behind him on the sofa, until all the spoons have been gone as well as all the tea; and only when he has been told that there was no more of either has he woke up to know how much tea he had drunk, and what had become of the spoons.

One of these talkers, in the midst of conversation in a large circle of friends, tried to quote the lines following:—

"I never had a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die."

But, instead of repeating them correctly, his mind became absent, and thought of a parody on the lines, which ran as follows:—

"I never had a piece of bread, Particularly long and wide, But fell upon the sanded floor, And always on the buttered side."

So in his attempt to render the first correctly he mingled the beauties of both as follows:—

"I never had a dear gazelle, Particularly long and wide, But when it came to know me well, And always on the buttered side."

A story is told of a clergyman who went a walk into the country. Coming to a toll-bar, he stopped, and shouted to the man, "Here! what's to pay?"

"Pay for what?" asked the man.

"For my horse."

"What horse? You have no horse, sir!"

"Bless me!" exclaimed the clergyman, looking between his legs. "I thought I was on horseback."

He had fallen into a thoughtful mood in his walk, and being more accustomed to riding than walking, in his absence of mind he made the blunder.

VI. THE BUSTLING.—This talker you will generally find to be a man rather small in stature, with quick eye, sharp nose, nervous expression of face, and limbs ever ready for prompt action. He has little patience with other people's slowness, and wastes more time and temper in repeating his own love of despatch than would be required to do a great deal of work.

His tongue is as restless as his hands and feet, both of which are in unceasing motion. He asks questions in such rapidity that it is difficult for the ear to catch them. He is always in a hurly-burly. He has more business to attend to than he knows how. His engagements are so numerous that many of them must be broken. If he call to see you, he is always in a hurry; he cannot sit down; he must be off in a minute. He often rushes into your room so suddenly that you wonder what is the matter, throws down his hat and gloves as though he had no time to place them anywhere, and, taking out his watch, he regrets that he can only spare you two minutes; and you would not have been sorry if it had been only one. He leaves you much in the same manner as he came, with a slam of the door which goes through you, and steps back two or three times to say something which he had forgotten.

"If you go to see him," says one, "on business, he places you a chair with ostentatious haste; begs you will excuse him while he despatches two or three messengers on most urgent business; calls each of them back once or twice to give fresh instalments of his defective instructions; and having at last dismissed them, regrets as usual that he has only five minutes to spare, whereof he spends half in telling you the distracting number and importance of his engagements. If he have to consult a ledger, the book is thrown on the desk with a thump as if he wished to break its back, and the leaves rustle to and fro like a wood in a storm. Meanwhile he overlooks, while he gabbles on, the very entries he wants to find, and spends twice the time he would if he had proceeded more leisurely. In a word, everything is done with a bounce, and a thump, and an air, and a flourish, and sharp and eager motions, and perpetual volubility of tongue. His image is that of a blind beetle in the twilight, which, with incessant hum and drone and buzz, flies blundering into the face of every one it chances to meet."

VII. THE CONTRADICTORY.—The contradictory talker is one who steps into the arena of conversation with an attitude which says in effect, "It matters not what you say, good or bad, wise or foolish, of my opinion or against my opinion, I am here to contradict. It is my mind, my habit, my nature to do it, and do it I will."

And so he does. His tongue, like the point of a weathercock, veers round to face the sentiment or fact from whatever quarter it may come. You express your views upon some eminent minister of the Gospel. He says, "I do not think with you." Your friend gives his views upon some theory in science. He says, "I am altogether of another opinion." Some one else gives his views of a political scheme in contemplation. He says, "I think the very opposite." A fourth states his views on some doctrine of theology. He says, "They are far from orthodox." A fifth ventures to give his opinion on a late experiment in natural philosophy. He says, "I think it was entirely a blunder."

Thus he stands in hostile, pugilistic attitude to every one, as though he had made up his mind to it long ago. He acts upon the principle, "Whatever you say now, I will contradict it, and if you agree with me, I will contradict myself. You shall not say anything that I will not contradict." Except you should tell him he was a wise man, which of course would be a questionable truth, there is indeed no opinion or proposition in which he would agree with you.

He reminds one of the Irishman who, despairing of a shindy at a fair, everything being so quiet and peaceful, took off his coat, and, trailing it in the mud, said, "And, by St. Patrick, wouldn't I like to see the boy that would tread on that same!"

You are thus challenged to combat; and you must either be mute or stand the chance of being cudgelled at every position you take. The best way is to be mute rather than be in a constant (for the time being) ferment of strife and conflict.

This quibbling or contradictory talk may sometimes be met with in the family as existing between brothers or sisters. They are continually opposing and contradicting each other in things trifling and indifferent, differing in opinion for no other reason, apparently, than that they have got in the habit of doing so.

"It is not so, Fanny; you know it is not, and why do you say so?" said Fred, warmly.

"I say it is," replied Fanny; "and I am surprised that you should contradict me."

"It is just like you, Fanny, to be always opposed to me, and I wonder you should be so."

This habit of contradiction in a family is anything but pleasant and happy, and should be checked by parents, as well as guarded against by the children themselves.

VIII. THE TECHNICALIST.—He is a talker who indulges much in the slang of his calling. The naval cadet, for instance, poetically describes his home as "the mooring where he casts anchor," or "makes sail down the street," hails his friend to "heave to," and makes things as plain as a "pikestaff," and "as taut as a hawser." The articled law clerk "shifts the venue" of the passing topic to the other end of the room, and "begs to differ from his learned friend." The new bachelor from college snuffs the candle at an "angle of forty-five." The student of surgery descants upon the comparative anatomy of the joint he is carving, and asks whether "a slice of adipose tissue will be acceptable." The trade apprentice "takes stock" of a dinner party, and endorses the observation of "ditto." The young chemist gives a "prescription" for the way you should go to town. The student of logic "syllogizes" his statement, and before he draws a conclusion he always lays down his "premise." The architect gives you a "plan" of his meaning, and "builds" you an argument of thought.

Thus, you may generally infer the profession or occupation of this talker from the technical terms he employs in conversation.

IX. THE LILIPUTIAN.—I give this designation to him, not because of his physical stature, for he may be of more than ordinary proportions in flesh and blood; and in fact he often is. His talk is small; what some would call "chit-chat." He deals in pins and needles, buttons and tapes, nutmegs and spices: things of course, in their places, necessary, but out of place when you have plenty of them, and they are being ever and anon pressed on your notice. He has no power of conception or utterance beyond the commonplace currency of the time of day, state of the weather, changes of the moon, who was last married, who is going to be, when dog days begin, what he had for dinner, when he bought his new hat, when he last went to see his mother, when he was last sick, and how he recovered, etc.

Cowper pictures this talker in the following lines:—

"His whispered theme, dilated, and at large, Proves after all a wind-gun's airy charge, An extract of his diary—no more, A tasteless journal of the day before. He walked abroad, o'ertaken in the rain, Called on a friend, drank tea, stepped home again, Resumed his purpose, had a word of talk With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk. I interrupt him with a sudden bow, Adieu, dear sir! lest you should lose it now."

X. THE ENVIOUS.—This talker is one much allied to the detractor, whom we have considered at length in a former part of this volume. He cannot hear anything good of another without having something to say to the contrary. If you speak of a friend of yours possessed of more than ordinary gifts or graces, he interjects a "but" and its connections, by which he means to counterbalance what you say. Like his ancestor Cain, he seeks to kill in the estimation of others every one who stands more acceptable to society than himself.

The disposition of the envious is destructive and murderous. Anything that exceeds himself in appearance, in circumstances, in influence, he endeavours to destroy, so that he may stand first in esteem and praiseworthiness.

But he is a deceiver of himself. Others see his motive and aim, and, like Jehovah in the beginning, discover his malicious spirit, and condemn him as a vagabond and fugitive in society. He becomes a marked man, and whoever sees him avoids him as a destroyer of everything amiable and of good report.

It is bad enough to feel envy in the heart; but to bring it forth in words in conversation makes it doubly monstrous and repulsive. Such a talker is revolting to all amiable and justly disposed persons in the social circle.

XI. THE SECRET TALKER.—"Be sure, now, you do not tell any one what I am going to say to you," is a phrase that one talker often says to another: "Certainly not," is the ready rejoinder. So the secret is given in charge; and no sooner have the two friends parted than the entrusted fact or rumour is divulged, perhaps, to the very first person with whom he comes in conversation, told of course as a "secret never to be repeated." He had power to hear it, but not power to retain it. He is a leaky vessel, a sieve-receiver, not able to keep anything put within him.

There is oftentimes deception, if not absolute lying, in this talker. Why does he receive the secret with the strong promise, "I will tell no one, upon my honour," if he cannot retain it in his own bosom?

Such persons are not to be trusted twice. As soon as you discover your facts given under covenant of secrecy are blabbed to others, you say, "I shall not trust him again:" and very properly too. Of course he tells as a secret what you tell him as a secret; but if he cannot retain it, how can he expect others? It is in this way that a matter, which in the first instance is spoken of under the most strict confidence, becomes a well-known fact, as though the public bellman had been hired to proclaim it in the streets.

XII. THE SNUBBER.—There is a man sometimes met with in society, whose business, when he talks, seems to be the administration of rebuke, in a spirit and with a tone of voice churlish and sarcastic, by which he would stop the increase of knowledge, check the development of mind, and arrest the growth of heroic souls. He is far from amiable in his disposition, or happy in his temper. He is a knotty piece of humanity, which rubs itself against the even surface of other portions, much to its annoyance, and to his own irritability. He is like a frost, nipping the tender blossoms of intellect, and stopping the growth of a youthful branch of promise. He is shunned by the gentle and sensitive. The independent and bold repel him, and pay him back in his own coin, a specie which he does not like, although he does a large business with it himself.

The word itself is banished from polite society; but alas! the custom is by no means proscribed. The sound is, to some extent, significant of the sense. "To snub" is certainly not euphonious, and would sadly offend the ears of many who are addicted to the habit. Snubbing is of various kinds. For instance, there is the snub direct, sharp, and decisive, that knocks the tender, sensitive spirit at once; there is the covert snub, nearly allied to being talked at; the jocose snub, veiling the objectionable form of reproof under an affected pleasantry; and there is also a most unpleasant form of snubbing, frequently used by well-meaning persons to repress forwardness or personal vanity. It is very true that children and young people often exhibit forwardness, vanity, and many other qualities extremely distasteful to their wiser elders; but it is questionable if snubbing was ever found an effectual cure for such faults. It may smother the evil for the time; but in such cases it is better to encourage children to speak their thoughts freely, patiently, gently, to show them where they are wrong, and trust to a kind voice and tender indulgence to win the hearts that snubbing would most certainly, sooner or later, alienate.

So far, then, from snubbing curing faults of character, it will be found to be a frightful source of evil: it renders a timid child reserved, and it may be deemed fortunate if the conscientious principle is strong enough to preserve him from direct deceit. Indecision of character, too, is a common result of snubbing; for there can be no self-reliance when the mind is wondering within itself whether such or such an action will be snubbed. Some dispositions may in time become tolerably callous to reproof; but it rarely happens that even those most seasoned by incessant rebukes ever entirely lose the uncomfortable feeling which snubbing occasions. It is, in fact, a perpetual mental blister; and it is grievous to see how blindly people exercise it on those they dearly love. It may occur to some, who can think as well as snub, that the benefit to be derived from anything calculated to wound sensitive feelings must be very questionable; but the plain fact is, that nine times out of ten it is done unthinkingly, and from the impulse of the moment. It may be but a small unkindness at the time, the words forgotten as soon as uttered; but in many instances the effects of a snubbed childhood last a lifetime.

These remarks are offered in the hope that they may be useful in pointing out the evil of this very prevalent habit. It is most certainly a violation of the holy commandment of doing to others as we would be done by, and requires to be diligently watched against. There is no one addicted to the practice of snubbing others who likes to be snubbed himself. The law of love should not only dwell in the heart, but should also baptize the lips.

XIII. THE ARGUMENTATIVE.—This talker has so fully studied Whateley and Mill, and his mind is so naturally constructed, that he must have every thought syllogistically placed, and logically wrought out to demonstration, beyond the shadow of a shade of doubt. With countenance grave he approaches close to your person, and with the tip of one forefinger on the tip of the other forefinger, he begins, "Now mark, sir, this is the proposition which I lay down—the quality and quantity of it I will not now stop to state—'No one is free who is enslaved by his appetites: a sensualist is enslaved by his appetites, therefore a sensualist is not free.' Now, sir, there is no escape from this conclusion, if you admit the premise, the major and the minor of my argument."

"It is most conclusive and demonstrative," observed Mr. Allgood. "What have you to say, Mr. Goose, about the propriety of enforcing the penal laws against the Papists, who, as you know, are in the heart of their religion so opposed to the Protestant laws and constitution of this country?"

Again placing the tip of his forefinger on his right hand upon the tip of his forefinger on his left hand, he said, "If penal laws against Papists were enforced, they would have cause of grievance; but penal laws against them are not enforced, therefore they have no such cause."

"That is very clear and convincing," observed Mr. Allgood again. "Do you think, Mr. Goose," again asked Mr. Allgood—he could not argue, but only ask questions—"that the practice of oath-taking is in any way beneficial and to be commended?"

Once more assuming his former logical attitude, with additional signs of thought and gravity, as though the question demanded great consideration, Mr. Goose at length said,—

"Mr. Allgood, if men are not likely to be influenced in the performance of a known duty by taking an oath to perform it, the oaths commonly administered are superfluous; if they are likely to be so influenced, every one should be made to take an oath to behave rightly throughout his life; but one or the other of these must be the case; therefore, either the oaths commonly administered are superfluous, or every man should be made to take an oath to behave rightly throughout his life."

"Thank you, Mr. Goose, thank you, for placing the thing in such a lucid and irrefutable light," answered Mr. Allgood, who seemed to be in mist all the time Mr. Goose was laying down his argument.

Had Mr. Allgood gone on with his questions up to the thousandth, each one being distinct from the other, Mr. Goose would have answered him, as far as he could, in the same formal, argumentative manner. But Mr. Allgood was getting jaded; the stretch of attention required by the reasoning of Mr. Goose was telling upon his patience; so he slided away to talk with one who spoke in less categorical style: not so propositional, syllogistic, and demonstrative.

And, as a rule, who does not sympathise with Mr. Allgood, as against Mr. Goose, in his method of talk? Syllogisms, propositions, predicates, majors, minors, sorites, enthymeme, copula, concrete, and such-like logical terms are all very well from a professor to his students in a lecture room, but introduced into ordinary conversation in company they are altogether out of place. No one with good taste, unless he has fearfully forgotten it, will disfigure his talk with them, however pure and efficient a logician he may be in reality.

Some of this class of talkers are nothing but mere shams in their art. They affect a knowledge of argumentative processes, and obtrude upon your attention by false reasoning conclusions which perhaps appear as legitimate as possible. You cannot deny, yet you cannot believe. You cannot refute by your logic, neither can you admit by your faith. Such are most of the sceptical talkers on the Bible, Christianity, etc. Milton speaks of this argumentative talker when he says,—

"But this juggler Would think to chain my judgment, as mine eyes, Obtruding false rules pranked in reason's garb."

Another species of this talker is thus described by Butler, in "Hudibras":—

"He'd undertake to prove, by force Of argument, a man's a horse; He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, And that a lord may be an owl; A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, And rooks committee men and trustees."

Another kind may be noticed: the one whose arguments are generally of a class which, when seen through and used by sound wit, rebound upon himself. Trumball, in his "M'Fingal," thus describes him:—

"But as some muskets do contrive it, As oft to miss the mark they drive at, And though well aimed at duck or plover, Bear wide, and kick their owners over,— So fared our squire, whose reas'ning toil Would often on himself recoil, And so much injured more his side, The stronger arguments he apply'd."

One more of this class of talkers may be mentioned, viz., the man who forces his logic upon you in such a dogmatic manner as leaves you without any hope of reply. You give him all the glory of victory. For the sake of peace and safety you remain passive, and think this the best valour for the occasion. Cowper refers to him in the following lines:—

"Vociferated logic kills me quite, A noisy man is always in the right; I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair, Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare; And when I hope his blunders are all out, Reply discreetly, To be sure—no doubt!"

XIV. THE RELIGIOUS.—He is one that obtrudes his views and experience upon others in ways, times, and places which are far from prudent and commendable. Between his talk and his conduct there is a wide disparity. From his words you would judge him a saint: from his conduct a sinner. Abroad he is a Christian: at home he is an infidel.

Bunyan describes this character in his own simple and forcible way: "I have been in his family, and have observed him both at home and abroad; and I know what I say of him is the truth. His house is as empty of religion as the white of an egg is of savour. There is neither prayer nor sign of repentance for sin; yea, the brute, in his kind, serves God far better than he. He is the very stain, reproach, and shame of religion to all that know him: it can hardly have a good word in that end of the town where he dwells, through him—a saint abroad, and a devil at home! His poor family find it so. He is such a churl; such a railer at and so unreasonable with his servants, that they neither know how to do for him nor speak of him. Men that have any dealings with him say it is better to deal with a Turk than with him, for fairer dealings they shall have at his hands. This Talkative, if it be possible, will go beyond them, defraud, beguile, and overreach them. Besides, he brings up his sons to follow in his steps; and if he finds in any of them a 'foolish timorousness' (for so he calls the first appearance of a tender conscience), he calls them fools and blockheads, and by no means will employ them in much, or speak to their commendation before others. For my part, I am of opinion that he has, by his wicked life, caused many to stumble and fall, and will be, if God prevent not, the ruin of many more."

The Apostle James in his epistle refers to this talker: "If any man among you seem to be religious, and bridleth not his tongue, but deceiveth his own heart, this man's religion is vain." And how is he to bridle his tongue? Why, not only from slander and profanity, but from saying, "When he is tempted, I am tempted of God; for God cannot tempt to evil; neither tempteth He any man." Also, from making empty and pharisaic pretensions to a high state of piety, while there are glaring contradictions in the life: "What doth it profit, if a man say that he hath faith, and have not works? Can faith save him?" As though the Apostle should say, "You talkers about religion are not always the most practical exemplifiers of it. Not he who says he is religious, but he who lives religious is the justified one before God and man. Enough of talk, talk, talk: let us have the reality in heart experience and in life deeds."

"'Say well' from 'do well' differs in letter; 'Say well' is good, but 'do well' is better. 'Say well' says godly, and helps to please; But 'do well' lives godly, and gives the world ease. 'Say well' in danger of death is cold; 'Do well' is harnessed, and wondrous bold. 'Say well' to silence sometimes is bound; But 'do well' is free for every stound. 'Say well' has friends, some here some there; But 'do well' is welcome everywhere. By 'say well' many a one to God's Word cleaves; But for lack of 'do well' it quickly leaves. If 'say well' and 'do well' were joined in one frame, Then all were done, all were won, and gotten were the game."

XV. THE PREJUDICED.—Rumour and ignorance form the foundation of prejudice.

"That is an injurious book for your children to read," said Mr. Rust one day to Mr. Moon, concerning a volume of the "Primrose Series," which he was looking at in Smith's library.

All Mr. Rust knew about the volume was something which had casually dropped in conversation the day before, in the house of a friend where he was visiting; but that was sufficient to prejudice him against the book.

"I hear you have invited the Rev. Jonas Winkle to be the pastor of your church," said the Rev. T. Little to Deacon Bunsen.

"Yes, we have," the deacon replied.

"I am sorry to hear it; for if all that is said about him is true, you have made a mistake."

And what did this Reverend brother know of the other Reverend brother to justify him in speaking thus? Why, just nothing at all. True, he had heard a rumour, but personal knowledge he had none. However, what he said so influenced the mind of Deacon Bunsen, that he did all he could to have the invitation withdrawn; which being done, the Rev. Mr. Little, by certain "wire pulling" on his part, and a good word spoken for him by a layman of wealth on his part, managed to secure the pastorate of the said church for himself.

"I hear that young Bush is coming into your bank as cashier," observed Mr. Young to Mr. Monk, the manager.

"Yes; he enters upon his duties next week."

"But have you not heard what is afloat about him?"

"No. I have heard nothing."

"Then the less said the soonest mended," answered Young.

Now this Mr. Young knew nothing personally against young Bush, but had heard a rumour which prejudiced him to speak in this way of him; the result of which was that the manager evinced suspicion of the young man until he had been in the bank some time, and by his unquestionable conduct had proved that Mr. Young's insinuation was nothing but prejudice grounded upon rumour and ignorance of him.

Thus it is that the prejudiced talker may do a great deal of mischief against persons of the most innocent character.

Prejudice has nothing to justify it, but everything to condemn it. The person subject to it evinces a mind devoid of the breadth, strength, and independence characteristic of true manhood; and the sooner he disposes of rumour and ignorance as the creator of words on his tongue, the better for his reputation. Before he speaks of persons or things he will act wisely to "come and see" by personal interview and experience.

XVI. THE BOASTER.—This talker is somewhat akin to the Egotist; nevertheless there is a distinction and difference. What he is, what he has done, where he has been, his acquaintances, his intentions, his prospects, his capabilities, his possessions, are the subjects of his talk in such a braggadocio spirit and style as disgusts the intelligent, and imposes upon the simple.

Has he done you a charitable deed? has he been heroic in an act of mercy? has he given a contribution to an object of beneficence? has he performed some feat of gymnastics? has he made a good bargain in business? has he said or done something which has elicited the faintest praise from an observer?—with what a flourish he brags of each in its turn! Everybody and everything must stand aside while he and his doings are exhibited in full glory before the company.

It is well when these mountebanks meet with treatment such as they deserve. A honest word or two spoken by a fearless hearer of their loud talking will soon cause their balloon to collapse, or bring their exhibition to a sudden end. And then how pitiable they do look! Where is boasting then? Alas, it is excluded; and their glory is turned into shame.

A young man who in his travels had visited the isle of Rhodes was once boasting in company of how he had out-jumped all the men there, and all the Rhodians could bear witness of it. One of the company replied, "If you speak the truth, think this place to be Rhodes, and jump here;" when it turned out that he could do nothing, and was glad to make his exit. The English proverb, "Great boast and small roast," is applicable to such.

It is said in history that a friend of Caesar's had preserved a certain man from the tyranny of the triumvirate proscription; but he so frequently talked about it in a boasting manner, that the poor man ultimately exclaimed, "Pray thee, restore me to Caesar again! I had rather undergo a thousand deaths than to be thus continually upbraided by thee with what thou hast done for me."

And who does not sympathise with this feeling when any one who has in a way been a friend is ever and anon boasting of it in conversation?

"We must not," as one says, "make ourselves the trumpet of our benevolence in liberalities and good deeds, but let them, like John the Baptist, be the speaking son of a dumb parent—speak to the necessity of our brother, but dumb in the relation of it to others. It is for worthless empirics to stage themselves in the market and recount their cures, and for all good Christians to be silent in their charitable transactions."

"The highest looks have not the highest mind, Nor haughty words most full of highest thought; But are like bladders blown up with the wind, That being pricked, evanish into nought."

"Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this; for it will come to pass That every braggart shall be found an ass."

XVII. THE QUARRELSOME.—What is said of the Irishman may be said of this talker, "He is only in peace when he is in a quarrel." His flowers are thistles, and his sweets bitters. The more you study to be quiet, the more he aims to make a noise. The least imaginable thing in word, look, or act he takes as a cause for bickering and contention. As a neighbour, as a fellow member in a family, as a fellow workman, as a fellow traveller, he is disagreeable and annoying. He quarrels with you alike for things you do to please him or things you do to displease him. When two such persons meet, peace takes to her wings and flies away, leaving war of words, if not of weapons, in her room.

Benvolio in Romeo and Juliet was one of this steel. Mercutio addressing him says, "Thou! why thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but such eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a man for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with another, for tying his new shoes with old ribbons? and yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling!"