I am no advocate for all men being crammed with facts such as those which this individual could bring forth so readily; but it is surely no unreasonable demand that, when men are totally ignorant of any subject, they should refrain from disputing about it; that, in short, they should KNOW BEFORE THEY SPEAK. Robert Chambers.

PRAISE AND BLAME.

MUCH harm may be done to a youth by indiscreet praise, and by indiscreet blame; but remember, the chief harm is always done by blame. It stands to reason that a young man's work cannot be perfect. It must be more or less ignorant; it must be more or less feeble; it is likely that it may be more or less experimental, and if experimental, here and there mistaken... If, therefore, you allow yourself to launch out into sudden barking at the first faults you see, the probability is that you are abusing the youth for some defect naturally and inevitably belonging to that stage of his progress; and that you might just as rationally find fault with a child for not being as prudent as a privy councillor, or with a kitten for not being as grave as a cat... But there is one fault which you may be quite sure is unnecessary, and, therefore, a real and blameable fault: that is, haste, involving negligence. Whenever you see that a young man's work is either bold or slovenly, then you may attack it firmly, sure of being right. If his work is bold, it is insolent; repress his insolence: if it is slovenly, it is indolent; spur his indolence. So long as he works in that dashing or impetuous way, the best hope for him is in your contempt: and it is only by the fact of his seeming not to seek your approbation that you may conjecture he deserves it.

But if he does deserve it, be sure that you give it him, else you not only run a chance of driving him from the right road by want of encouragement, but you deprive yourself of the happiest privilege you will ever have of rewarding his labor. For it is only the young who can receive much reward from men's praise: the old, when they are great, get too far beyond and above you to care what you think of them... Then you may urge them with sympathy, and surround them then with acclamation; but they will doubt your pleasure, and despise your praise. You might have cheered them in their race through the asphodel meadows of their youth; you might have brought the proud, bright scarlet into their faces, if you had but cried once to them, "Well done," as they dashed up

to the first goal of their early ambition.... But now, their pleasure is in memory, and their ambition is in heaven. They can be kind to you, but you never more can be kind to them. You may be fed with the fruit and fulness of their old age, but you were as the nipping blight to them in their blossoming, and your praise is only as the warm winds of autumn to the dying branches.

There is one thought still, the saddest of all, bearing on this withholding of early help. It is possible, in some noble natures, that the warmth and the affection of childhood may remain unchilled, though unanswered; and that the old man's heart may still be capable of gladness, when the long-withheld sympathy is given at last... But in these noble natures it nearly always happens, that the chief motive of earthly ambition has not been to give delight to themselves, but to their parents. Every noble youth looks back, as to the chiefest joy which the world's honor ever gave him, to the moment when he first saw his father's eyes flash with pride, and his mother turn away her head, lest he should take her tears for tears of sorrow... Even the lover's joy, when some worthiness of his is acknowledged before his mistress, is not so great as that, for it is not so pure: the desire to exalt himself in her eyes mixes with that of giving her delight; but he does not need to exalt himself in his parents' eyes: it is with the pure hope of giving them pleasure that he comes to tell them what he has done, or what has been said of him; and, therefore, he has a purer pleasure of his own And this purest and best of rewards you keep from him if you can: you feed him in his tender youth with ashes and dishonor; and then you come to him, obsequious, but too late, with your sharp laurel-crown, the dew all dried from off its leaves; and you thrust it into his languid hand, and he looks at you wistfully. What shall he do with it? What can he do, but go and lay it on his mother's grave? Ruskin.

...

THE HANDSOME AND THE DEFORMED LEG.

THERE are two sorts of people in the world, who, with equal degrees of health and wealth, and the other comforts of life, become, the one happy, and the other miserable. This arises very much from the different views in which they consider things, persons, and events; and the effect of those different views upon their own minds.

In whatever situation men can be placed, they may find con

veniences and inconveniences: in whatever company, they may find persons and conversation more or less pleasing; at whatever table, they may meet with meats and drinks of better and worse taste, dishes better and worse dressed in whatever climate, they will find good and bad weather; under whatever government, they will find good and bad laws, and good and bad administration of those laws; in whatever poem, or work of genius, they may see faults and beauties; in almost every face, and every person, they may discover fine features and defects, good and bad qualities.

...

Under these circumstances, the two sorts of people abovementioned fix their attention; those who are disposed to be happy, on the conveniences of things, the pleasant parts of conversation, the well-dressed dishes, the goodness of the wines, the fine weather, &c., and enjoy all with cheerfulness. Those who are to be unhappy, think and speak only of the contraries. Hence they are continually discontented themselves, and by their remarks, sour the pleasures of society, offend many people, and make themselves everywhere disagreeable If this turn of mind was founded in nature, such unhappy persons would be the more to be pitied. But as the disposition to criticise, and to be disgusted, is, perhaps, taken up originally by imitation, and is, unawares, grown into a habit, which, though at present strong, may nevertheless be cured, when those who have it are convinced of its bad effect on their happiness, I hope this little admonition may be of service to them, and induce them to change a habit, which, though in the exercise it is chiefly an act of imagination, yet it has serious consequences, as it brings on real griefs and misfortunes... For, as many are offended by, and nobody loves, this sort of people, no one shows them more than the most common civility and respect; and this frequently puts them out of humor, and draws them into disputes and contentions... If they aim at obtaining some advantage in rank or fortune, nobody wishes them success, or will stir a step or speak a word to favor their pretensions. If they incur public censure or disgrace, no one will defend or excuse, and many join to aggravate their misconduct, and render them completely odious... If these people will not change this bad habit, and condescend to be pleased with what is pleasing, without fretting themselves or others about the contraries, it is good for others to avoid an acquaintance with them, which is always disagreeable, and sometimes very inconvenient, especially when one finds one's self entangled in their quarrels. grown, from expe

An old philosophical friend of mine had

rience, very cautious in this particular, and carefully avoided any intimacy with such people... He had, like other philosophers, a thermometer to show him the heat of weather, and a barometer to mark when it was likely to prove good or bad; but there being no instrument invented to discover, at first sight, this unpleasing disposition in a person, he, for that purpose, made use of his legs; one of which was remarkably handsome; the other, by some accident, crooked and deformed... If a stranger, at first interview, regarded his ugly leg more than his handsome one, he doubted him. If he spoke of it, and took no notice of the handsome leg, that was sufficient to determine my philosopher to have no farther acquaintance with him.

...

Everybody has not this two-legged instrument; but every one, with a little attention, may observe signs of that carping, fault-finding disposition, and make the same resolution of avoiding the acquaintance of those infected with it. I therefore advise those critical, querulous, discontented, unhappy people, if they wish to be respected and beloved by others, and happy in themselves, they should leave off looking at the ugly leg. Franklin.

THE BIRDCATCHER AND HIS CANARY.

IN the town of Cleves, an English gentleman was residing with a Prussian family, during the time of the fair, which we shall pass over, having nothing remarkable to distinguish it from other annual meetings where people assemble to stare at, cheat each other, and divert themselves, and to spend the year's savings in buying those bargains which would have been probably better bought at home.

One day, after dinner, as the dessert was just brought on the table, the travelling German musicians, who commonly ply the houses at these times, presented themselves, and were suffered to play; and just as they were making their bows for the money they had received for their harmony, a bird-catcher, who had rendered himself famous for educating and calling forth the talents of the feathered race, made his appearance, and was well received by the party, which was numerous and benevolent.

The musicians, who had heard of this birdcatcher's fame, asked permission to stay; and the master of the house, who had a great share of good-nature, indulged their curiosity; a curiosity, indeed in which every one participated; for all

that we have heard or seen of learned pigs, goats, dogs, and horses, was said to be extinguished in the wonderful wisdom which blazed in the genius of this birdcatcher's canary.

The canary was produced, and the owner harangued him in the following manner, placing him upon his forefinger: "My jewel, you are now in the presence of persons of great sagacity and honor; take care you do not deceive the expectations they have conceived of you from the world's report. You have won laurels; beware, then, of erring. In a word, deport yourself like the jewel of the canary birds, as you certainly are.

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At this time the bird seemed to listen, and indeed placed himself in the true attitude of attention, by sloping his head to the ear of the man, and then distinctly nodding twice when his master left off speaking; and, if ever nods were intelligible and promissory, these certainly were.

"That's good," said the master, pulling off his hat to the bird. 66 "Now, then, let us see if you are a canary of honor. Give us a tune." The canary sang.

"Pshaw! that's too harsh; 'tis the note of a raven, with a hoarseness upon him; something pathetic."

The canary whistled as if his little throat were changed to a lute.

"Faster," says the man, "slower, very well! what is this foot about, and this little head ? No wonder you are out, when you forget your time. That's a jewel, bravo! bravo! my little man!"

All that he was ordered or reminded of, did he do to admiration. His head and foot beat time, humored the variations both of tone and movement: and "the sound was a just echo of the sense," according to the strictest law of poetical, and of musical composition.

"Bravo!""bravo!" re-echoed from all parts of the diningroom. The musicians declared the canary was a greater master of music than any of their band.

"And do you not show your sense of this civility, sir ? " cried the birdcatcher, with an angry air. The canary bowed most respectfully, to the great delight of the company.

His next achievement was going through the martial exercise with a straw gun; after which, "My poor jewel," says the owner, "thou hast had hard work, and must be a little weary; a few performances more and thou shalt repose. Show the ladies how to make a courtesy." The bird here crossed his taper legs, and sank and rose with an ease and grace that would have put half our young ladies to the blush.

"That will do, my bird! and now a bow, head and foot cor