should feel it deeply, and thus learn humility and caution, we do not like to be reminded of it by anybody else.  Some people have a wonderful memory for the Vealy sayings and doings of their friends.  They may be very bad hands at remembering anything else; but they never forget the silly speeches and actions on which one would like to shut down the leaf.  You may find people a great part of whose conversation consists of repeating and exaggerating their neighbors’ Veal; and though that Veal may be immature enough and silly enough, it will go hard but your friend Mr. Snarling will represent it as a good deal worse than the fact.  You will find men, who while at college were students of large ambition, but slender abilities, revenging themselves in this fashion upon the clever men who beat them.  It is easy, very easy, to remember foolish things that were said and done even by the senior wrangler or the man who took a double first-class; and candid folk will think that such foolish things were not fair samples of the men,—­and will remember, too, that the men have grown out of these, have grown mature and wise, and for many a year past would not have said or done such things.  But if you were to judge from the conversation of Mr. Limejuice, (who wrote many prize essays, but, through the malice and stupidity of the judges, never got any prizes,) you would conclude that every word uttered by his successful rivals was one that stamped them as essential fools, and calves which would never grow into oxen.  I do not think it is a pleasing or magnanimous feature in any man’s character, that he is ever eager to rake up these early follies.  I would not be ready to throw in the teeth of a pretty butterfly that it was an ugly caterpillar once, unless I understood that the butterfly liked to remember the fact.  I would not suggest to this fair sheet of paper on which I am writing, that not long ago it was dusty rags and afterwards dirty pulp.  You cannot be an ox without previously having been a calf; you acquire taste and sense gradually, and in acquiring them you pass through stages in which you have very little of either.  It is a poor burden for the memory, to collect and shovel into it the silly sayings and doings in youth of people who have become great and eminent.  I read with much disgust a biography of Mr. Disraeli which recorded, no doubt accurately, all the sore points in that statesman’s history.  I remember with great approval what Lord John Manners said in Parliament in reply to Mr. Bright, who had quoted a well-known and very silly passage from Lord John’s early poetry.  “I would rather,” said Lord John, “have been the man who in his youth wrote those silly verses than the man who in mature years would rake them up.”  And with even greater indignation I regard the individual who, when a man is doing creditably and Christianly the work of life, is ever ready to relate and aggravate the moral delinquencies of his school-boy and student days, long since repented of and corrected.  “Remember