THE GOOD AND EVIL OF PRAISE.

WHATEVER philosophers may say or write, it is more than probable that the tendency to praise what appears to be good, and blame what appears to be evil, will continue to exist in the human mind. We cannot even imagine a state of things in which it shall not be so. The presence of sympathies and feelings in our nature seems to necessitate it. We can no more help having a sensation of approval or disapproval, than we can produce insensibility to physical influences; and we are just as unable, of ourselves, to determine of what kind they shall be, as we are to choose to feel cold when the glaring sun draws perspiration from every pore, or to feel hot when a biting north-easter is chilling the very marrow in our bones. Likes and dislikes are altogether involuntary feelings, and the natural language of one is praise, and of the other blame. It may be wise, as things are, sometimes to suppress, at others to govern those expressions; but it is not always possible for us to do. Emotion, unlike the effects of reason, comes upon us so suddenly that it takes us by surprise; we can neither calculate upon it, nor prepare for it. We see a virtuous or a noble act, or a deed of brutality or meanness, and straightway up springs the appropriate feeling in the hearts of most of us; and though we may set a guard over our tongues, and speak no word, yet by look or gesture it will show itself. We come to the conclusion, then, that because the causes of praise and blame are involuntary, and therefore beyond our control, they will always continue to be, until some change takes place in the constitution of human nature which it is impossible to foresee.

We must treat praise, then, as a natural fact, grounded in the order of things; and, like other natural facts, we are disposed to look upon it as mainly good; but as unquestionably praise is made to do a vast deal of harm, a little quiet gossip about the why and the wherefore, may be useful. Praise exercises a certain power over the mind, and a power is a source of good or evil, according to the manner in which it is applied. If praise does any harm, then it must be, not because it is bad in itself, but because it is injudiciously used, and of injudicious praise we will speak first. Few of our readers, we presume, have lived to the years of

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discretion, or rather, we should say, to the years at which discretion is supposed to come,-without discovering that wholesale conceit is often produced by injudicious praise; and it is generally, we fear, to mothers that the prevalence of that disagreeable quality is to be attributed. A fond mother is nine times out of ten the best illustration which could be selected of loving "not wisely, but too well." In her darling she sees nothing but beauties, and she praises in season and out of season. When the poet said that "Love is blind," he only told a half truth, for Love is blind only to imperfections, but acutely sensible of beauties; and so the mother praises the babe for its beauty and for its temper, before the babe begins to be sensible of praise, and then she does neither good nor harm. She may love her friends, who do not love the little cooing creature a thousandth part so much as she does; she may form a bad habit of bestowing indiscriminate praise in her own mind; but the baby is unconscious, and, so far as it is concerned, the praise might as well be given to a block, or a stone, or anything else incapable of appreciating it.

By-and-by, the senses of the child grow, and its consciousness expands, and eulogy begins to have its effect. It hears its beauty admired, till it begins to think not only that beauty is a very fine thing, which is true, but that some merit attaches to the mere possession of beauty, which is false. Children estimate things at the value their elders set upon them, and when they see mere form exalted above all else, they often come to prize it more than things of greater importance. Many a wellorganized boy and lovely girl have had their heads turned by adulation of this sort, and been trained up into empty fops or heartless coquettes. Sometimes, however, instead of personal beauties, mental powers are exalted, and it is perhaps true that praise of this sort does more harm than the other we have just noticed. A boy is petted and indulged for his sharpness, and a girl for her sweetness of temper, till at last an egotism is produced, which destroys the very qualities upon which it assumes to be founded. The sharp lad gets so accustomed to hear himself called sharp, he grows so used to hear papa say, "What a clever boy it is!" and to hear mamma predict what a great man he will grow, that he thinks at last that sharpness necessarily belongs to him, that he

cannot be otherwise than sharp,-that he need not bore, and bother, and study, that he is sure to be able to do without all that, and so he grows lazy, and unenergetic, and vacillating, and the comparatively dull but industrious student goes by him. In the case of the girl, good temper often suffers just the same injury, for she is so habituated to consider herself good-tempered, that she takes no pains to control her feelings, and gives way more readily to pettishness and anger. Thousands of men who might have been honourable and useful members of society have thus been driven out of a reliance upon the exercise of their own natural powers, by admiration of them; and thousands of women qualified to make home happy, have been bred up untameable shrews, who could not bear to have their own paramount goodness questioned.

Is this praise, then, which works so much harm, which stunts down powers, which transforms sweetness of character into a vinegar-like acerbity, really a bad thing? Is it true that we must judge of it as of a tree, by its fruits? Should we give over praising altogether? Not all. Praise is really not necessarily either good or bad,-it may be either or both. It is, as we said before, an expression of those same feelings which have produced so much of joy and happiness, have worked so much of woe and misery. If we cannot control it, we may regulate it. If we ought not to stifle it, we ought to give it a right direction. How is that to be done? Without at the time intending it, we think the observations we have made furnish a clue to the answer. We must praise qualities rather than persons, the exercise of qualities rather than the qualities themselves. This may appear, to the generality of readers, as rather abstruse. Perhaps it is, and we had better try to illustrate it by a reference to actual circumstances. We praise a boy for having courage,-that breeds conceit. If we were to praise courage itself as a quality, though the possessor might be conscious that he was courageous, the same result would not follow. Still less likely would it be to ensue, if instead of lauding the quality we were to admire any great and noble action which proceeded from it, that would be teaching practical virtue, and making praise an incentive to effort. Men should praise that which does good to men, not the man who may possess the qualities which it is possible to apply to good, without exercising them. It is action the world wants, of a high and noble character,-action which may be held up as example,-action which may teach more distinctly, and with a louder voice, than mere precept; but to assume in a person qualities which it is possible may exist in him, and to praise him for the mere possession, is to breed in his mind a feeling likely to prevent their being effectually used.

When praise does that, it is not only diverted from its proper object, but applied to defeat it. Its only use, after it has gratified the nature of the praiser by expressing his involuntary feelings, is to stimulate the person praised to be yet more deserving, and to incite others to follow his example; but when it is misapplied, so as to make a man feel that the admiration is due to him, and not to the deed, and to make the lookers-on believe that it is rendered not for good done, but to the capability for doing good left undone, it becomes a positive nuisance to the rightminded, and a barrier to further progress. understand, then, that we are not called upon to smother and stifle praise; the cause of truth and goodness is the cause of Nature, and never requires that any natural feeling should be obliterated from the human mind, or its expression concealed.

Let us

The proper application of praise will form a test,a sort of barometer,-of the mental and moral im

provement of the world. The higher men advance toward true civilization, the more impersonal will their praise become. The more really cultivated they are, the more truthful and useful will be its expression. It would be an evil day for the world, when admiration -upon which praise is founded-faded from men's hearts. It would indicate either the want of power to appreciate goodness, or the absence of goodness to appreciate. Such a world, inhabited by such beings, would be a moral and mental desert. But fortunately that can never happen. Enough of nobility of nature will always be left to cause thousands of hearts to beat high at some act of heroism or generosity. Enough of sympathy will always remain to call the tear-drop to the eye for human suffering, and to foster admiration for the charity which relieves it; all we want is that those emotions should be directed aright, that praise. should not descend into sycophancy or adulation, that the practice of virtue should be reverenced more than the reputation of virtue, and the reputation of virtue more than the person on whom it rests. Our great error is, that we make our likes and dislikes, our approbation or our depreciation, far too personal. The contemplation of abstract qualities is beyond the range of the mass of minds. They must adore a fact, not a theory; an embodiment, not an essence. They will have something tangible to rest upon,-something visible and substantial to bow down to. For this reason, they do not estimate impalpable qualities. We cannot, therefore, practically make them the bases of either praise or blame. We must choose between the individual doing and the thing done,-between a great work and the man who has accomplished it; and though we would not wish to hold back honour from those to whom honour is due, yet we are convinced that both for the sake of the man who has benefited his kind, and all the rest of the world, the best application of praise is to deeds and things, rather than to persons.

If that could be made a rule,-if a feeling capable of good could be subjected to that legitimate control, if it could be made amenable to that kind of intellectual cultivation, we should banish one of the main sources of personal arrogance and individual conceit, and stimulate each to rely not upon the reputation or the fact of possessing great faculties, but upon their exercise for the general good. Then a great past would be necessarily followed by a greater future. Then beauty might be loved, good temper praised, courage admired, intellect respected, and virtue reverenced, without detriment to the individuals possessing them, and with advantage to all. Then effort would be the fruit of power. That time, however, demands for its realization a higher range of thought than the world at large has yet attained, and in the mean time, we shall go on, sometimes praising judiciously, sometimes injudiciously, and oftener, perhaps, doing harm than good. The period will arrive, however, when men will not let their delight at qualities upon which effort might successfully be founded, prevent the development of those qualities to their highest power, and then praise will become as impersonal as fame, and men will be esteemed in their life, as well as after their death,—not so much for what they are, as for what they have done; not so much for the capabilities they possess for serving humanity, as for the real improvements they have bestowed upon the world. And when praise takes its true place, then blame will also assume its proper dominion, that, too, will cease to apply to the individual. We shall not hate sinners, but sin, and shall detest the crime instead of the criminal. Perhaps upon nothing so much as the just application of rewards and punishments,-the legitimate conse

THE Cottage of the poacher stood on the outskirts of the little village at which our story opened. A common lay behind it, out of which the old poacher had cut a temporary garden, but he was liable to be dislodged from the place any day by the lord of the manor, who was a non-resident. The hut itself was of the rudest description-its walls were of mud and turf, mixed with furze gathered from the common. The roof was thatched with bulrushes and sedges drawn from a neighbouring slimy pool. Through the walls, and through the roof, the wind blew in gusts when the weather was stormy, and in wet days and nights the rain trickled down through the roof and gathered into little pools on the clay floor. The place was scarcely big enough to swing a cat in. In the dryest bit, raised on stones, over which some old boards were laid, a kind of rude couch had been erected, where lay a straw bed covered with what might once have been blankets, but now looked very like old rags. Two logs of wood served as seatstable there was none; an old kettle, and a few bits of dishes completed the furniture. Some wood burned in the rude fireplace, the smoke of which half filled the hut, the remainder struggling up the mud chimney, or through the numerous crevices in the roof. Such was the wretched house to which the poacher returned on his liberation from goal. No wonder the old man should hold so loosely to a society which had brought him to a home like this. The homeless are rarely good subjects-generally they belong to the "dangerous classes," but it is too often society's own fault that they are so.

This wretched dwelling had another occupant besides the poacher himself-a woman!

She was

his wife had shared his early prosperity, and now shared the wetchedness of his old age. Kingsley has painted that poor woman's life in these graphic lines in his "Yeast: "

I am long past wailing and whining

I have wept too much in my life;

I've had twenty years of pining

As an English labourer's wife.

A labourer in Christian England,

Where they cant of a Saviour's name,

And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's
For a few more brace of game.

There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire
There's blood on your pointers' feet;
There's blood on the game you sell, squire.
And there's blood on the game you eat!

You have sold the labouring man, squire,
Body and soul to shame

To pay for your seat in the House, squire,
And to pay for the feed of your game.

How she had lived through it all, heaven knows! Her two daughters had gone into service somewhere in London, but she heard from them rarely. What could they do for her? They had little to spare for

her wants, and their own hardships were almost enough for them. Her one son-ah! what a dark history attached to him, and how his mother's heart had been wrung by his fate! Her son had been sent beyond the seas -a convict in the company of convicts. He, like his father, had been a poacher. A strong, athletic youth, he formed one of a band of poachers associated for mutual defence. In one of their midnight maraudings, they were assailed by a body of gamekeepers; a fight took place, in which young Crouch was a prominent actor. The keepers were beaten off, and one of their number was left on the field for dead. Young Crouch was apprehended after a severe contest with the police; he was tried, and sentenced to transportation for seven years. But Crouch, always bold and daring, had not remained long at Sydney. Somehow or other, he managed to escape into the bush, and afterwards got on board an American ship off the coast of Gippsland, in which he worked his passage before the mast to the United States. He had written home to his old and solitary parents, and they had just read his letter when we venture in upon them.

"It might ha' been worse," said old Joe. "The lad will do well yet. He's got the right stuff in him, has Bill."

"God bless him!" said the woman! "How I pine to see him again before I die. He was aye a good and dutiful boy, though a venturesome one. But what was the poor lad to do, but seek for a bit of bread in the way his neighbours did?"

Ay, it's a hard life we have led, Kitty, and thou hast suffered more than either he or I ha' done. It's but a black, raw hole, this I've put you in," casting his eyes about the hut; "but it's all that was left, and even from this we are bound to go. The squire's just come home, and I bin told the old place is to be torn down over our heads unless we decamp. Where to go next? Into the workhouse? "we've

Nay, Heaven forbid," said the woman, lived together all through; and it isn't the overseer that'll part us now."

"So be it," said Joe; "but we're gettin' old. My blood is growing thin, and my back stiff. Even poaching won't keep us alive now. What say you to Bill's offer - -to pay our passage out. Would you go?"

Ay, indeed! To look on him again I'd go on my knees, if strength were left me, over half the earth. I'll go, indeed I will. What is there to keep us here? Do you know how I lived, Joe, while you were in the place? Why, I clemmed-I scarcely lived--I starved! What is there to keep either you or me here, Joe?"

"For me," answered Joe, "I'm an old wreckbattered to a hulk,-but I'll go! And it'll be the happiest day I've seen for a long time, the day that sees me out of this cursed land, where honest men have no chance against lords, and where we're badgered and baited by them police and keepers, bailiffs, overseers, and attorneys, on whichever hand we turn. Hear again what Bill says in this letter of his:

Even the poor There is room

"A man has a fair chance here. man may be rich if he will work. for all wide plains and rich valleys, but they are yet solitudes for want of men. It needs not wealth to secure a footing here, but willing hands and a stout back. There are no huge landlords, half-a-dozen of them owning a country, and keeping the labourers serfs, as at home; but the tillers of the soil are its owners too, and the land is open to tens of thousands more, would they but come. The earth seems to call out, Till me, put the seed into me, and the harvest will be great.' There are no

poor, no starving, no poachers, no gamekeepers; the wild animals are free to all men, and man himself is free. It is a glorious land, fresh as it came from the hand of God, yet uncursed by man's selfish laws; still young, hopeful, vigorous, and thriving. Come here, then, and under your son's roof spend your old age in peace, and in such comfort as I can provide for you.'

"Well, now, Kitty, it's a settled point-who could stand that? He knew we must go-that we couldn't stay here and he wishing us to join him. But we'll be of little use in that great new land of his. Our hair is grey, and our hands grown feeble. Yet our failing years may be made smooth and easy, compared with the miserable times we have seen."

"He was aye a good-hearted lad, was Bill. And this bit of brass he has sent will keep the wolf from the door for a bit, till he comes for us as he speaks of."

"I'd rather he didn't come," said Joe; "he's in danger here, and might be nabbed. I wonder he didn't think of that."

"What do you mean?" asked the wife, with a face of anxiety.

"He's an escaped convict, and if the police laid hold on him, he'd be sent to Norfolk Island; and his home in America would never see him more. I'd rather we set out now, and run all risks, winter though it be."

But it was not to be so. The funds which had been sent to the old couple would not suffice to pay their passage to America, so they were under the necessity of awaiting their son's promised visit with what patience they could.

Months passed; and long they seemed to those who waited. Long days and long nights. The weary hours were weighted with misery, through which hope but faintly gleamed. The very minutes had each one of them their separate sorrow and privation-privation of clothing, privation of warinth, privation of food. That pallid, wrinkled, worn-out couple, why should they live, if only to endure? Indeed they desired not life; only the hope of seeing their son buoyed them up. "When will he come," they asked of each other, until they became weary of devising an answer. "Oh! would that he were here," said the mother, "would that I saw his face again-my own son !"

The poor couple managed, however, to live. Though the old man had lost his gun, which had been seized and carried off in his last midnight struggle, he could still springe a bird or a hare as deftly as any poacher about the village. Nor were friendly neighbours wanting, though these were of the very poorestmost of them of old Joe's own outlawed class, as familiar with the inside of the county gaol as with that of their own wretched huts. But the poor have a sympathy with each other which the rich know little of; they help each other across many gaps, are always ready with a handful of meal, or a hunch of bread, or a spare blanket, when all other means fail. So old Joe and his wife managed to live, though they avoided exposing their privations to their equally poor neighbours. Knowing what these other poor people suffered, the old pair would rather suffer on patiently than increase the privations of others less able to bear them.

One evening towards the end of winter, or rather at the beginning of spring,-for the buds were already bursting into green leaves-a third person was seated in the hut, on the edge of the miserable bed in the corner-the choice place in the chamber.

"God help you," said Bill, for it was he,-"what you must have suffered through these long years! And that you should have come to this! Oh mother! it's a sad coming home!"

"Ah lad!" said she, "the worst's over; for you are with us, and we go with you now to that great new land of yours, where we shall henceforth live together, till we lay down our heads in peace-your poor old father and me.'

"I'm good for naught," said Joe; "but I'd like to do an honest stroke of work on your own farm, Bill, before I die."

"And that you shall, father!" said Bill, dashing a tear off his cheek; "you shall have of the best, and if my log-house is not a palace, it is at least an honest man's home. You shall be a farmer once more, and your own master-with no screwing landlord, nor tyrannical agent to oppress you, and eat up your crops with the vermin which they make poor farmers keep here for their pleasure and sport.'

"And is it really all as you said in that letter of yours, about the new land? Are there no landlords, nor gamekeepers, nor rural police there?" "None," said Bill, his eye brightening. "What I said was all true, every word of it. The land there is the people's who till it. The working men of America are the owners of its soil. They reap its fruits, and enjoy them too. As for game, pshaw! there's better means of living than that-no need for poaching for a livelihood, I assure you. But you shall see! You shall share my home and my land. Not another day shall you stay here- to-morrow morning we all set out together for the Free Land!"

A rush at the frail door of the hut here startled the party, and Bill sprang from the bed on which he was seated. He remembered on the instant that in England he was not free!

Two men burst into the hut-they were police! "You are my prisoner," said one of them, advancing towards the young man. "Yield yourself up peaceably, and go with me.'

"Hold off!" said Bill; "stand back! I am no prisoner of yours; nor shall I be, while life 's in me.'

The policeman drew from his pocket a pistol, which he cocked, and advanced presenting it at the prisoner. The mother, feeble though she might be, was quick to perceive this movement, and sprang upon the policeman with a suddenness that took him off his guard; she dashed the pistol up, and it harmlessly exploded, sending the bullet through the shingle roof. The youth at the same instant rushed at him, and dashed him prostrate to the earth.

Meanwhile the old man, who felt all the fierce vigour of his youth renewed at this sudden invasion of his household, had seized a cudgel and rushed upon the second policeman, who vainly endeavoured to ward off with his baton the blows aimed at him by the old poacher. He thus defended himself, retreating, but an inequality in the floor caught his heel, and pushed vigorously at the same time by Joe, he lost his balance, on which the old man's hand was in an instant at his throat.

"Hold him fast," cried Bill, "but don't hurt him ; they are our prisoners, and must be so for the night. You must submit, men, to a little overhauling now; but no resistance, no noise,-else—”

Proceeding to explore the men's pockets, Bill took from each a pair of stout handcuffs, intended for his own and his father's wrists, in event of the latter making resistance, and in a trice had the policemen securely fastened, so far as their hands were concerned.

"Now for ropes," said Bill. "Out with them,

mother."

"There's no such thing about the house, lad ; nothing of the sort."

"There's the old nets," said Joe, "I'll warrant they'll do; and I guess we have no more use for them now.'

"The very thing!" said Bill; "let's harness them with the old poacher's nets, by all means; they may wear them for trophies, and carry them back to the enemy's camp, as warriors do the colours they have taken!"

The old nets were at once brought from underneath the truss of straw on the rude bed, were twisted into the form of ropes, and bound tightly round the prisoners' legs. They were then lashed back to back; a bit of the rag which formed the bed-coverlet was wrapped round each of their mouths, and the job was finished-the prisoners were secure.

"Now," said Bill, "you're safe for the night. You thought to take me, did you? But no! I'm free still, and will be so-though not in this cursed land. No! In another! with a wide sea between; God be thanked! Farewell, men; I bear no ill-will to you. You but tried to do the work you are paid for doing; though the work's dirty-faugh! But we'll take care you're seen to; you'll be sought up in time to-morrow. You'll have only one night of the fare which this old couple have had for years. Now, father and mother, let's off!"

The old beggared pair had nothing to carry with them-no money, no clothes, save what they wore, no furniture-not even any of those kindly memories which usually cling even about a poor man's home. They carried with them nothing but the memory of hardship and sorrow!

So they went, not venturing one single look back. They turned their faces across the bleak moor, towards a star which shone bright in the west, the herald, it might be, of a brighter day. The world was again before this old pair, but Hope strode by their side, and better days, aged and bankrupt though they were, might yet dawn upon them.

As they crossed the covert, to reach the lane which skirted its further side, the partridge flew from his nest and the hare skipped from his seat; but the old poacher turned not his head to notice them. He had done with all that. His face was towards the wind, which blew from the west.

"An hour will bring us to Tipton," said the old man, "where I know a friend, who, like me, has seen better days, and he will give us a lift on with his cart to the nearest station.'

So they plodded on through the dark night-dark, but brighter far than the nights of many past years had been to them.

We return for a moment to the two men left pinned together on the floor of the hut. By dint of wriggling, they succeeded in working their mouths above the cloths which had been bound, not very tightly, about their faces; but all attempts to free their hands and feet proved unavailing. The poacher and his son had so effectually wrapped and tied them about with the nets, that they lay fixed there as in a vice. They could only moan and long eagerly for the return of the daylight. The grey dawn at length struggled through the window-hole and under the door of the hut, revealing to them its bare clay walls, through whose crannies the light also here and there peeped. The fire had now burnt down to the embers, and cold gusts of wind blew the ashes about the floor.

"A horrid dog-hole this," said one of the men, speaking in a muffled tone. "A horrid dog-hole to spend a night in."

"Ay, it is," said the other, "but those beggars who have left it, have lived here for years!"

"Served 'em right, they deserved no better. That old scoundrel was the most desperate poacher in the county. I wish we had taken that son of his-it would have been a feather in our cap."

"Better as it is, perhaps !"

"What do you say?"

"Why, I mean, it's better he's gone, and taken that old poacher with him. Depend upon't, the country will see no more of the lot. They're clean off!

"But we'll raise the hue and cry agen 'em; they've not escaped as yet, by."

"For my part, I don't see the good of keeping such a lot amongst us. They only breed poachers and paupers. Besides, what can they turn to but poaching?"

We've naught to do wi' that. They must be taken, and punished-"

"If they can be caught, that's to say. Hallo!" A step was heard passing the hut. The men shouted again; and a labourer, with a mattock on his shoulder, approached the door, pushed it open, and looked in.

"What, Joe, what's wrong? What's the matter?" "Joe, indeed! There's no Joe here. Come and undo these abominable nets."

"What! Is this thee, Muffles? Police! Why, what art thou doing in the poacher's nets? Has old Joe springed thee? A clever fellow is old Joe!"

"Off with them! Quick! No parleying !-there! now! I feel a little more easy, but my arms and legs are like lead, and as cold as ice! This confounded poacher's dog-hole!

The men were now on their feet, but could scarcely stand through the numbness of their limbs. They rubbed and stretched themselves, the labourer standing looking on them open-mouthed, with pretended obtuse gravity, and asking questions to which the policemen however deigned no reply. They moved to the door.

"What! no thanks?" said the man. "Not sulky, I hope I done my best, ye know, to let you out of limbo."

"Well, thank you then, if that's what you want. But I'm mistaken if you don't know as well about this business as we do; it's nothing but a conspiracy -you are all alike in league against law and justice; and see if you haven't to answer yet before the justices for your share in this night's work."

66

Humph!" said the labourer, turning away, "I almost wish I had left them to dinner and supper in the hut. They richly deserved another twenty-four hours in the poacher's dog-hole."

RECOLLECTIONS OF SOME FAMILIAR ACQUAINTANCES.

IT has been pointed out that amongst the indications of knowledge to be discerned in European literature, may be fairly reckoned the comparative accuracy in the draughts of Eastern manners furnished in our Oriental tales and fictions. Fifty years ago these vehicles of romance were anything but what they professed to be. An Eastern tale was scarcely Eastern, even in the mere names of the actors; its machinery was at best a preposterous caricature of Oriental manners and modes of thought, but in most cases an absurd jumble of those of all nations; whatever was not European could be readily passed off as Asiatic. The portraiture of Eastern society was disfigured not only in fugitive productions, but in so-called classical works, which are still read as manuals of social ethics and models of English composition. Strange, too, as it may appear, the later of these productions are the least correct; there is far more truth in the Oriental tales of Addison, who seems to have had access to genuine materials, than in those of Johnson or Hawkesworth, where