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TALKERS:

With Illustrations.

by

JOHN BATE,

Author of "Cyclopædia of Illustrations of Moral and Religious
Truths," etc., etc.

"Sacred interpreter of human thought,
How few respect or use thee as they ought."--COWPER.

London:
Elliot Stock, 62, Paternoster Row, E.C.;
and Sold at 66, Paternoster Row.
1878.

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

PREFACE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then if the tongue _cannot_ be tamed, why attempt the task?" The answer
to this is: a little evil is better than a big one; and a tongue
partially tamed is better than a tongue altogether wild. Therefore,
while the author has no expectation of taming any man's tongue
_altogether_, he has the hope of taming a great many a _little_, and, in
the aggregate, of doing something towards elevating the talking
civilization of the nineteenth century.

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

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

J. B.

_November_, 1877.

CONTENTS.

                                      PAGE

       I. THE MONOPOLIST                 1
      II. THE FALSE HUMOURIST           18
     III. THE FLATTERER                 22
      IV. THE BRAWLER                   35
       V. THE MISCHIEF-MAKER            38
      VI. THE PLEONAST                  55
     VII. THE SELF-DISPARAGER           62
    VIII. THE COMMON SWEARER            71
      IX. THE AFFECTED                  85
       X. THE STULTILOQUIST             94
      XI. THE SLANDERER                101
     XII. THE VALETUDINARIAN           111
    XIII. THE WHISPERER                119
     XIV. THE HYPERBOLIST              124
      XV. THE INQUISITIVE              133
     XVI. THE PEDANT                   142
    XVII. THE DETRACTOR                154
   XVIII. THE GRUMBLER                 164
     XIX. THE EGOTIST                  174
      XX. THE TALE-BEARER              189
     XXI. THE ASSENTER                 203
    XXII. THE LIAR                     208
   XXIII. THE CENSORIOUS               227
    XXIV. THE DOGMATIST                236
     XXV. THE ALTILOQUENT              244
    XXVI. THE DOUBLE-TONGUED           253
   XXVII. THE DUBIOUS                  262
  XXVIII. THE SUSPICIOUS               266
    XXIX. THE POETIC                   273
     XXX. "YES" AND "NO"               279
    XXXI. A GROUP OF TALKERS           286

          1. The Misanthrope, p. 286.--2. The Story-Teller, p. 287.--3. The
          Careless, p. 290.--4. The Equivocator, p. 292.--5. The
          Absent-Minded, p. 294.--6. The Bustling, p. 296.--7. The
          Contradictory, p. 298.--8. The Technicalist, p. 300.--9. The
          Liliputian, p. 301.--10. The Envious, p. 302.--11. The
          Secret-Teller, p. 302.--12. The Snubber, p. 303.--13. The
          Argumentative, p. 306.--14. The Religious, p. 310.--15. The
          Prejudiced, p. 312.--16. The Boaster, p. 314.--17. The
          Quarrelsome, p. 316.--18. The Profound, p. 317.--19. The
          Wonderer, p. 320.--20. The Termagant, p. 325.

   XXXII. A MODEL TALKER               328

I.

_THE MONOPOLIST._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He is called Monopolist."

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

                 'He was tedious
  As a tir'd horse, a railing wife;
  Worse than a smoky chimney.'"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'Talking, he knew not why, and car'd not what.'"

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

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

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

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

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

  "Words learned by rote a parrot may rehearse,
  But talking is not always to converse.
  Not more distinct from harmony divine,
  The constant creaking of a country sign."

  "If in talking from morning till night,
      A sign of our wisdom it be,
    The swallows are wiser by right,
      For they prattle much faster than we."

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

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

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

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

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

"Keep thy lips with all diligence."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II.

_THE FALSE HUMOURIST._

     "There are more faults in the humour than in the mind."--LA
     ROCHEFOUCAULD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

III.

_THE FLATTERER._

     "Who flatters is of all mankind the lowest,
     Save him who courts the flattery."
                                                 HANNAH MORE.

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

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

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

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

  "The firmest purpose of a human heart
  To well-tim'd artful flattery may yield."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This is a 'bad bargain,' my boy," said the old man, tremulously. "You
have ruined us all."

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

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

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

  "Beware of flattery--'tis a flowery weed
  Which oft offends the very idol vice
  Whose shrine it would perfume."

  "Of all wild beasts, preserve me from a tyrant;
  And of all tame--a flatterer."

IV.

_THE BRAWLER._

     "As empty vessels make the loudest sound, so they that have the
     least wit are the loudest babblers."--PLATO.

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

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

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

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

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

V.

_THE MISCHIEF-MAKER._

     "Behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth."--JAMES.

     "We should be as careful of our words as our actions; and as far
     from speaking as doing ill."--TULL.

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

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

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

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

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

"You and Mr. Blandford have lived a long time together."

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

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

"Not one."

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

"I know nothing to the contrary; I really hope so."

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course I have."

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

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

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

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

"Indeed! What is it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am sure I cannot tell," answered Mr. Ready.

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

"You don't mean it!"

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

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

"Yes, they are," replied Mr. Bounce.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, we have."

"What is his name?"

"His name is Mr. Good."

"Did not he come from Stukely to your place?"

"I believe he did," replied Mr. Watson.

"I thought it was the same man."

"Do you know him, Mr. Webster?"

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

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

"How is he liked?" inquired Mr. Webster.

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

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

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

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

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

"What have you heard of Mr. Good?" asked Mr. Watson.

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

"Indeed!" said Mr. Watson, with astonishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If you can, I can't, and I won't," said Mrs. Rash, in great excitement.

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

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

"You have had fine times," he said, "in your Church with Mr. Good,
haven't you?"

"What do you mean by 'fine times'?" asked Mr. Watson.

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

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

"Well, I have been informed so, anyhow."

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

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

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

"Through me, do you say, Mr. Watson?"

"Yes, sir, through you."

"How can that be?"

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

"I am sorry for it."

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

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

VI.

_THE PLEONAST._

     "This barren verbiage current among men."--TENNYSON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The servant appeared and opened the door.

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

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

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

"He wants to know if Squire Foster is at home."

"Yes, sir, he is. Will you walk in?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That _is_ transcendentalism, indeed!" exclaimed the Squire. "It goes
beyond my understanding and comprehension."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VII.

_THE SELF-DISPARAGER._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We will now introduce another person to the reader in connection with
Mrs. Hopkins. It is Superintendent Robson, who had just come on the
circuit. He was a good man, plain, homely, practical. Like Mr. Wesley,
he no more dare preach a _fine_ sermon than wear a fine coat. Such was
the action of his religion upon his conscience. He was well known for
his common-sense way of teaching the truths of the Bible. He _would_
speak just as he thought and as he felt, although he might offend Miss
Precision and Mr. Itchingear. He gained the name of being an eccentric
preacher, as most preachers do who _never_ prevaricate and always speak
as they think. The failing of Sister Hopkins had reached the ears of
Superintendent Robson. He had no patience with such a failing, and he
was resolved to cure her. On his first visit to the village to preach,
he stopped, according to custom, at Squire Hopkins's. Thomas, the
ostler, took the preacher's horse, and the preacher entered the house.
He was shown into the best room, and from all appearances felt quite at
home. Everything was in perfect order and cleanliness, fit for the
reception of a prince. The preacher had not been seated long, scarcely
long enough to pass the usual interchange of first salutations and
enquiries, when Mrs. Hopkins began in her old style to say she was
"sorry that things were so untidy; her house was upside down; she was
mortified to be found in such a plight; she really hoped before his
arrival to have had all things in such order as she always liked to see
them. She hoped he would excuse their being so." Superintendent Robson
looked around and about the room in all directions, to find out the
terrible confusion to which his hostess alluded; but he said not a word.
Shortly after the dinner was announced as ready; and as this was the
first visit of the preacher, particular attention had been given to have
a table spread with more than usual good things. The preacher, however,
found from the Squire's wife that there was hardly anything for dinner,
and what there was she was ashamed for him to sit down to. The
Superintendent heard her in mute astonishment. He lifted his dark eyes,
and looking her in the face with penetration and austerity, he rose
gently from the table and said,--

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

"Why, Brother Robson, what is the matter?"

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

The preacher mounted his horse and took his departure.

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

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

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

VIII.

_THE COMMON SWEARER._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. _The uselessness of swearing._ "Surely," says Dr. Barrow, "of all
dealers in sin the swearer is palpably the silliest, and maketh the
worst bargains for himself; for he sinneth gratis, and, like those in
the prophet, _selleth his soul for nothing_. An epicure hath some reason
to allege; an extortioner is a man of wisdom, and acteth prudently in
comparison to him; for they enjoy some pleasure, or acquire some gain
here, in lieu of their salvation hereafter: but this fondling offendeth
heaven, and abandoneth happiness, he knoweth not why or for what. He
hath not so much as the common plea of human infirmity to excuse him; he
can hardly say he was tempted thereto by any bait."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why, my lads," said the captain, "it is this: that _you must allow_ ME
_to swear the first oath in this ship_; this is a law which I cannot
dispense with; I must insist upon it, I cannot be denied. No man on
board must swear an oath before _I_ do; I want to have the privilege of
swearing _the first oath_ on board H.M.S. C----. What say you, my lads,
will you grant me this favour?"

The appeal seemed so reasonable, and the manner of the captain so kind
and so prepossessing, that a general burst from the ship's company
announced, "Hi, hi, sir," with their accustomed _three cheers_, when
they left the quarter-deck. The effect was good, _swearing was wholly
abolished in the ship_.

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

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

"At what is it your turn?" asked the captain.

"At swearing," replied Mr. Hill.

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

The captain replied with a laugh, "Perhaps you don't mean to take your
turn!"

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

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

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

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

IX.

THE AFFECTED.

     "All affectation is vain and ridiculous; it is the attempt of
     poverty to appear rich."--LAVATER.

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

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

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

Not only, however, among these is the affected talker to be found. He is