ON VANITY AND VANITIES.
All is vanity, and everybody's vain. Women are terribly vain. So are men—more so, if possible. So are children, particularly children. One of them, at this very moment, is hammering upon my legs. She wants to know what I think of her new shoes. Candidly I don't think much of them. They lack symmetry and curve, and possess an indescribable appearance of lumpiness (I believe, too, they've put them on the wrong feet). But I don't say this. It is not criticism, but flattery that she wants; and I gush over them with what I feel to myself to be degrading effusiveness. Nothing else would satisfy this self-opinionated cherub. I tried the conscientious friend dodge with her on one occasion, but it was not a success. She had requested my judgment upon her general conduct and behaviour, the exact case submitted being, "Wot oo tink of me? Oo peased wi' me?" and I had thought it a good opportunity to make a few salutary remarks upon her late moral career, and said, "No, I am not pleased with you." I recalled to her mind the events of that very morning, and I put it to her how she, as a Christian
