ON MAKING OTHERS HAPPY.

No one accustomed to muse and moralize on the things around him, pointing out what is estimable and defective in human character with fidelity, can reasonably expect altogether to escape the charge of being personal. One friend believes that he is alluded to here, and another feels quite certain that she has been sketched off there, when, perhaps, the fault or infirmity commented on is of so general a nature that hundreds of people might, with equal propriety, suppose that they were each the subject of remark. I really do not see how this is to be avoided.

"How was it, Mr. Humphrey," said one to me the other day, "that you felt yourself at liberty to put me in print?" "Among all the people you know," remarked another, "you might have selected some other model, without holding me up to the public." Now it did appear to me that I was not only innocent of what I was accused, but absolutely armed in such panoply complete that there was no crevice between the joints of my armour; and yet my two friends seemed as cer

tain that I had been "hitting them off," as if I had been a painter, and they had sat to me for their likenesses. No little trouble had I to convince them of their mistake.

But though I speak thus jocosely, very severe should I be on myself if I could fall back on a single instance in which I had been offensively personal. To notice bad habits as they pass, to "shoot folly as it flies," and to make such observations thereon as may be useful, is not an unprofitable occupation; but to lie in wait for failings, to abuse confidence, and animadvert personally and ill-naturedly on the actions of others, is what I have never done intentionally, nor I hope inadvertently, and I shall not willingly do so in my present remarks.

One of the most delightful of all human employments is that of rendering others happy; and truly may he be called a philanthropist who makes the happiness of others the foundation of his own, Many are the occasions on which kind-hearted country people manifest the friendliness of their dispositions, but never are they more assiduous in their attentions than when they have a visitor under their care. I speak feelingly and gratefully on this point, for I have often been attended with as much care in the country as if I had been a

near relation of my host and hostess, and had an indisputable claim on their regard and affection.

But though kind-hearted country people always mean to make their visitors happy, they sometimes fail in their object by not duly considering their temper and tone of mind. I have frequently ventured on the remark, that he who would make a dog happy, must not give him a bone on a silver dish, in company, but a bone without any dish at all, with liberty to gnaw it by himself in the stable. And by this remark I have meant to set forth, that it is the same with regard to human beings. To be made happy, we must be ministered to according to our particular dispositions and character. Again and again, when surrounded with all the elements of enjoyment, has the cup of pleasure been dashed from my lips by some well-meant but inappropriate attention. Iet me try to illustrate this by describing a few scenes and circumstances still fresh in my memory; and if they have not taken place in the exact order and under the precise circumstances in which I shall relate them, they will not on that account be unfaithful transcripts of the past.

It is indispensable to my happiness, when in the country, to have a portion of the day to myself. I must, at times read alone, ramble alone,

muse alone, and visit alone the woods, coppices, brooks, old stone quarries, nooks, corners, hawthorn hedges, and ditches prodigal with weeds and wild flowers; but some of my country friends cannot understand this propensity, and they will not, therefore, let me be alone. To avoid, then, the greater evil of annoying them, I endure the lesser one of being inconvenienced myself. to my illustrations.

But

I am in a hospitable farm-house, and much enjoy the company of the friendly farmer and that of his good wife and family; but now I wish to pass an hour or two alone. I have to read through the contents of a book which has been lent to me, to call at a cottage, and to visit the remains of an old Roman camp, on which I mean to make a few remarks. The attentive farmer, understanding that I am about to walk abroad, will not hear a word of my going alone. He insists on sending to the rick-yard for his youngest son, that he may accompany me, and adds, that if I will only wait half an hour, till he returns from the turnip-field, he will go with me himself. Thus circumstanced, I sally forth with the farmer's son, who, having taken a fancy to me, clings as closely to me as my own shadow. He does certainly hinder me from reading my book, calling at the cottage, and visiting the camp; but

then he endeavours to render himself agreeable by pointing out to me the Bleaberry-hills (which I can hardly avoid seeing if I lift up my head), by showing me a fresh-painted wagon under a shed, and by taking me to the very hole in the hedge through which the pigs pushed their way, with the terrier dogs at their heels, last Tuesday.

The farmer's good wife has taken me to a teaparty, and many agreeable persons are present, whose frank demeanour, simple manners, and country peculiarities promise me much gratification. Variety is as charming in human beings as it is in natural scenery; and I am quite disposed to profit by my present favourable opportunity of enjoying country society. Alas! my expectations end in disappointment. My country friends, determined to make me happy, and diffident of their own conversational powers, have placed me between two London ladies (who happen to be visiting in the neighbourhood), from whom there is no escape. The ladies, gifted in speech, have been where I have been, and seen what I have seen, and the better part of the evening is taken up in telling each other what we already know, and in going back to scenes which so lately we willingly left behind us.

The secret of making people happy is known nly to few. It is not by the extent or number