"'We live by admiration, hope, and love,' Wordsworth tells us,--not, therefore, by contempt, despondency, and hatred. These contract and narrow the soul, as the others enlarge it. The more a man heartily admires, the more he takes into his nature the goodness and beauty which excite his admiration. His being grows up toward what thus evokes his enthusiasm. And the habit of admiration is the outcome of a moral discipline which represses peevish and fault-finding dispositions, and seeks the admirable in every situation and every person that life brings to us. 'Be ye enlarged' implies 'learn to admire and to praise.'" "Learn to admire rightly; the great pleasure of life is that. Note what the great men admired; they admired great things: narrow spirits admire basely, and worship meanly." THACKERAY. Character of Henry Drummond JANUARY 22 _Of Henry Drummond._--"He seemed to be invariably in good spirits, and invariably disengaged. He was always ready for any and every office of friendship. It should be said that though few men were more criticised or misconceived, he himself never wrote an unkind word about any one, never retaliated, never bore malice, and could do full justice to the abilities and character of his opponents. I have just heard that he exerted himself privately to secure an important appointment for one of his most trenchant critics, and was successful.... The spectacle of his long struggle with a mortal disease was something more than impressive. Those who saw him in his illness saw that, as the physical life flickered low, the spiritual energy grew. Always gentle and considerate, he became even more careful, more tender, more thoughtful, more unselfish. He never in any way complained. His doctors found it very difficult to get him to talk of his illness. It was strange and painful, but inspiring, to see his keenness, his mental elasticity, his universal interest. Dr. Barbour says: 'I have never seen pain or weariness, or the being obliged to do nothing, more entirely overcome, treated, in fact, as if they were not. The end came suddenly from failure of the heart. Those with him received only a few hours' warning of his critical condition.' It was not like death. He lay on his couch in the drawing-room, and passed away in his sleep, with the sun shining in, and the birds singing at the open window. There was no sadness nor farewell. It recalled what he himself said of a friend's death--'putting by the well-worn tools without a sigh, and expecting elsewhere better work to do.'" _Character Sketch by_ W. ROBERTSON NICOLL _in "The Ideal Life."_ Character of R. L. Stevenson JANUARY 23