ON BEING SHY.
All great literary men are shy. I am myself though I am told it is hardly noticeable.
I am glad it is not. It used to be extremely prominent at one time, and was the cause of much misery to myself, and discomfort to every one about me—my lady friends, especially, complained most bitterly about it.
A shy man's lot is not a happy one. The men dislike him, the women despise him, and he dislikes and despises himself. Use brings him no relief, and there is no cure for him except time; though I once came across a delicious receipt for overcoming the misfortune. It appeared among the "answers to correspondents" in a small, weekly journal, and ran as follows—I have never forgotten it:—"Adopt an easy and pleasing manner, especially towards ladies."
Poor wretch! I can imagine the grin with which he must have read that advice. Adopt an easy and pleasing manner, especially towards ladies," forsooth! Don't you adopt anything of the kind, my dear young shy friend. Your attempt to put on any other disposi-
