I. The Misanthrope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mother, have you brought the present you promised?”

“What present, my boy?” the mother asks.

“Noah’s ark, mother.”

“Did I promise to buy you Noah’s ark? Are you not mistaken?”

“You said may be you would do it; and I expected you would.”“But may be, my dear, is not a promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I never had a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die.”But, instead of repeating them correctly, his mind became absent, and thought of a parody on the lines, which ran as follows:—

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

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

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

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

“Pay for what?” asked the man.

“For my horse.”

“What horse? You have no horse, sir!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This quibbling or contradictory talk may sometimes be met with in the family as existing between brothers or sisters. They are continually opposing and contradicting each other in things trifling and indifferent, differing in opinion for no other reason, apparently, than that they have got in the habit of doing so.“It is not so, Fanny; you know it is not, and why do you say so?” said Fred, warmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cowper pictures this talker in the following lines:—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XV. The Prejudiced.—Rumour and ignorance form the foundation of prejudice.

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

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

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

“Yes, we have,” the deacon replied.

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

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

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

“Yes; he enters upon his duties next week.”

“But have you not heard what is afloat about him?”

“No. I have heard nothing.”

“Then the less said the soonest mended,” answered Young.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVIII. The Profound.—He leaves you at the edge, but himself plunges like an expert diver into the vasty deeps; and there in twilight visible, if not in darkness felt, he converses with you about the mysterious, the metaphysical, the mystical, the profound. As you gaze with wondering vision, you hear a voice, but see no man. He invites you down into his caves of ocean thought; but, as you see not where he is, and know not the way to follow, nor think it worth while to go at a venture, you prefer remaining on the shore.

Nor is it always the depth into which this talker delights to go. Were it this, with transparency, there would not be so much objection. He too frequently plunges into muddled waters, or makes them so by his movements therein. He persuades himself that he has acquired profound knowledge of philosophy from the dark and mystical writings of the Germans translated into English. With this persuasion he courts your attention, while he discourses to you in terms and phrases of marvellous vagueness about the Ego within us—the Infinite and the Immense, the Absolute, the Entity and Nonentity, and such-like subjects, of which you can make neither “top nor tail,” and of which he knows nothing save the terms and phrases that he strings together with such adept expertness and palpable absurdity.

“What do you think,” asked Mr. Stanley of Professor Rigg, “of Hegel’s paradox, that nothing is equal to being, and that if being and nothing be conjoined you have existence?”

The Professor answered with his usual gravity and profundity: “Nothing could be more profound, and as lucid as profound, if Hegel’s theory of the ‘evolution of the concrete’ was remembered. According to that theory the concrete is the idea which, as a unity, is variously determined, having the principle of its activity within itself, while the origin of the activity, the act itself, and the result, are one, and constitute the concrete. The innate contradiction of the concrete is the basis of its development, and though differences arise, they at last vanish into unity. To use the words of Hegel, there is ‘both the movement and repose in the movement. The difference hardly appears before it disappears, whereupon there issues from it a full and complete unity.’”

“That is very clear and satisfactory,” observed Mr. Stanley, ironically; not seeing anything but confusion confounded in the whole of it. “What is your view,” he asked again, “of the Hegelian ‘Absolute’?”

“This,” said the Professor, “is nothing but a continual process of thinking, without beginning and without end. Now that the evolution of ideas in the human mind is the process of all existence—the essence of the Absolute—of a Deity, so that Deity is nothing more than the Absolute ever striving to realize itself in human consciousness.”

Without questioning the truthfulness of such a doctrine, so plainly expressed, Mr. Stanley proceeded to ask, in a way rather beyond himself, “Whether there was not a little to be said for Schelling’s notion that the rhythmical law of all existence is cognisable at the same time by the internal consciousness of the subjective self, in the objective operation of Nature?”

To this question, somewhat mystical it must be confessed, the Professor replied in his usual style of profundity:—

“I see clearly enough Schelling’s great ingenuity; but think his three movements or potencies—that of ‘Reflexion,’ whereby the Infinite strives to realize itself in the Finite—that of ‘Subsumption,’ which is the striving of the Absolute to return from the Finite to the Infinite—and that of the ‘Indifference-point,’ or point of junction of the two first—were not to be admitted; for is it not clear as the day that the poles ever persist in remaining apart, the indifference-point having never been fixed by Schelling?”

In these ways Mr. Stanley and the Professor kept up the conversation until I and the rest of the company were perfectly involved in dense mists and fogs, wishing that the sun of simple truth would shine, to bring us into clear seeing and firm foot-standing. We longed for the day without a cloud. At last they ceased, and after a brief interval we found ourselves where we were before they began, with no more knowledge of the mystical, and no less love to the simplicity of truth spoken in words of plain meaning and thoughts of undisguised transparency.

XIX. The Wonderer.—This is a talker with whom one very often meets in the walks of life. His peculiarity in conversation is the use of the word wonder in almost every statement he makes and question he asks. It is a strange peculiarity, and I wonder that he should so frequently indulge in its use; I wonder that he does not discover some other mode of expression.

I once met with him at a railway station, and after wishing him the compliments of the day, almost his first word was, “I wonder how long my train will be before it starts?” Scarcely had he time to get his breath, when he said, “I wonder what o’clock it is.” I looked at my watch and told him. Instantly he said, “I wonder whether it rains; I hope not.” I assured him that it did not when I came on the platform; then he quickly said, “I wonder whether it will rain to-morrow; I hope not, for I have a long journey to take by coach.”

I remember once travelling with a gentleman in a railway carriage between London and Bristol. Besides him and me there were three or four more passengers in the compartment, ladies and gentlemen.

Scarcely had we left the Paddington station ere he began wondering.

“I wonder,” said he, “how fast this train goes.”

Oh, about forty miles an hour, I replied.

“I wonder, does this train stop at Reading?”

I think it does, I answered.Then whispering in my ear, he said, “I wonder who that old gentleman is in yon corner of the carriage.”

I really do not know; he is a stranger to me, I observed.

After a few minutes’ pause, in which he seemed to have indulged a profound meditation, he again whispered in my ears, saying, “I wonder who that lady is sitting next to you.”

I cannot say, I replied.

The train travelled on at a great speed, passing station after station in rapid succession.

Again he said, “I wonder how fast we are travelling now.”

Oh, perhaps sixty miles an hour.

Quickly, he said, “I wonder what station that is we have just passed.”

I think it is Swindon.

After a brief pause:—

“I wonder what time this train gets into Bristol.”

It is due at ten o’clock.

“I wonder will it be punctual.”

Thus he was wondering ever and anon until we reached the Bristol station, where we parted, he going one way and I another; perhaps he wondering who I was, and I wondering who he was.

I remember meeting another Wonderer in the house of a friend of mine with whom I had intended to spend part of the evening.

Scarcely had we been introduced to each other when he said,—“I wonder whether the Republican or Democrat candidate is elected to the American Presidency.”

That is a matter in which I do not profess to be posted up, I replied.

Then he said, “I wonder how Lord Salisbury is getting on in the Conference.”

From all the newspaper reports he seems to be getting on very well, I observed.

After a very brief pause, he said, “I wonder whether there will be war. I wonder whether Russia really means war or peace.”

It is exceedingly difficult to say, I observed. Diplomacy is so involved, so intricate, so uncertain, that no one can say until all things are really settled.

“I wonder,” he immediately said, “whether England will go to war.”

I cannot say, I answered; I sincerely hope not.

“If there be war, I wonder,” he said, “which way it would go. I wonder whether Russia would take Constantinople. I wonder whether she would crush Turkey. I wonder what the effect would be upon our way to India. I wonder how Germany and Austria would act in the matter.”

After he had done, I said, I wonder what time it is.

He said, “It is eight o’clock.”

I must go, I have another engagement at half-past eight. So leaving my friend’s friend in his wonders, I retired.

Another Wonderer I met with shortly after the one just named, when the conversation turned upon the new Bishopric of Cornwall.

“I wonder what effect it will have upon the Methodists.”

It will stir them up to duty and diligence, I hope.

“I wonder who will be the Bishop.”

I don’t know.

“I wonder, will he be High Church or Low.”

That I cannot say.

“I wonder what he will do when he finds the county so filled with Methodists and Methodist chapels.”

He will find something to do, I said, if he means to put them down.

“I wonder whether he will put them down,” he said.

You need not wonder about that, I rejoined.

“I wonder why?”

Wonder why! He may as well try to put down the Cornish hills into plains or valleys.

The fact is, one can scarcely speak with any one, or enter any company, but the first utterance he hears is “I wonder.”

Persons wonder what the weather will be; they wonder what time it is; they wonder who is going to preach on Sunday; they wonder what the preacher’s text will be; they wonder what will be for dinner; they wonder who will be in the company; they wonder who is going to be married; they wonder who is dead in the next newspaper. In fine, this wonder is a wonderful word in almost everybody’s lips.

I wonder whether some other mode of expression could not be adopted, which would either be a substitute for it, or somewhat of variation: so that the wonderer may not be so common a talker in the circles of society.

But it is one thing to be always wondering, and quite another thing to wonder occasionally, when the statement made, or question asked, is of such a nature as to require or to demand a wonder. It is possible to get into the way of wondering so that you will not know when you do wonder. It is supposed that persons only wonder when things of great surprise and astonishment are heard, such as the fall of stars, the overthrow of cities by earthquakes, etc. At the reading or hearing of such things, it seems natural that persons should wonder. But why they should wonder at almost every trivial thing they ask in ordinary conversation is to me an inexplicable mystery.

There is another use of the word which I had nearly forgotten. In American society I remember this word is used in the opposite sense to what it is in this country.

“I have just come from New York by steamboat, and I saw Mr. Bouser on board.”

“Well; I wonder!” is the reply.

“I saw the moon in the sky as I came here this evening.”

“I wonder!” is the answer.“Do you know I met a little girl of the Sunday-school in the street?”

“I wonder!” said a grave-looking lady.

“Mr. and Miss Lane are going to be married next week by Mr. Sparks.”

“I really wonder!” was the general exclamation of the company, although they had heard it before at different times.

This wonderer in America is, if possible, more ludicrous than in England. In both he is ludicrous; and the sooner he changes into some other form of talker, more sensible, the better.

XX. The Termagant.—This is a talker chiefly of the female sex; and it is in this gender we shall give our sketch.

Jemima, the wife of Job Sykes, was a woman of turbulent and fiery temper; but he was a man calm and self-possessed. Her tongue was as the pen of a ready-writer, in the rapidity with which it talked, and as the point of a needle and the edge of a razor in the keenness of its words. Sometimes she was loud and boisterous, violent and raging, attacking her prey as a tigress, rather than as a human being. Sometimes she was snappish, snarling, waspish. Her husband, her children, her servants, her neighbours, all came in for their share, in their turn, of her bites, stings, and poisons.

It was, however, poor Job who fell in for the lion’s share. Alas for him! He often found the words of Solomon to be true: “It is better to dwell in the wilderness than with a contentious and angry woman” (Prov. xxi. 19). As there was no wilderness into which he could fly to escape the tongue of his dear Jemima, he would fly away into a solitary room, or into the adjoining garden, or into a neighbour’s house, or take a walk in the lonely road,—anywhere to shelter himself from the fiery droppings of his termagant spouse.

The least imaginable thing that crossed her will or temper would set Jemima’s tongue-machine a-going; and when once started, it rattled away like a medley of tin, glass, and stones turned in a churn. It threw out words like razors, darts, fire-brands, scorpions, wasps, mosquitos, flying helter-skelter in all directions about the head of poor Job, and he seldom escaped without wounds which lasted for days together. He has been known to receive cuts and bruises that have prevented his speaking to his “darling” for weeks in succession.

Mrs. Caudle’s lectures to her husband were mild, entertaining, and instructive to what Job Sykes received from Mrs. Sykes. Mrs. Caudle, I think, always addressed her beloved in the evening within curtains, when he was in such a condition of mind and body as rendered him impervious to the entrance of her loving words; so that he would even go to sleep under them, as a babe under the soothing lullaby of its mother. But Job’s dear wife fired away at him anywhere, at any time: night or day, at home or from home, in company or out of company. Given the least cause, the attack would begin and be carried on until the ammunition was exhausted.

As we have said, Job was of a quiet disposition, although firm and never yielding his place to his “weaker vessel;” and he generally found that silence or “soft answers” were his best weapons.

And so they are in every such case: and if any one of my readers is afflicted with a wife like Job Sykes’ wife, he will find that his policy is the wisest to follow.

Sometimes a cure is effected in this talker, and the husband rejoices in the salvation wrought out for him. Sometimes there is no cure excepting in the paralysis of death. This, too, is salvation to many hen-pecked husbands, in which they also rejoice. Such has been the mighty deliverance accomplished for some, that they have even celebrated it by appropriate epitaphs on the tombstones of their buried partners. The following is one said to be at Burlington, Massachusetts:—

“Sacred to the memory of Anthony Drake,
Who died for peace and quietness’ sake,
His wife was constantly scolding and scoffing,
So he sought repose in a twelve dollar coffin.”

There is another in Ellon churchyard:—

“Here lies my wife in earthly mould,
Who, when she lived, did nought but scold.
Peace! wake her not, for now she’s still;
She had, but now I have my will.”