will blab: from such refrain;
Their leaky ears no secret can retain."--HORACE.

The Inquisitive is a talker whose capacity is for taking rather than
giving. To ask questions is his province, and not to give answers. He is
more anxious to know than he is to make known. Though in some instances
he may have the ability to speak good sense, yet he cannot or will not
exercise himself in so doing. He must pry into other people's stock of
knowledge, and find out all that he can for his satisfaction. If he come
to anything which is labelled "Private," he is sure to be the more
curious to ascertain what is within. He is restless and dissatisfied
until he knows. He pauses--he resumes his interrogations--he
circumlocutes--he apologizes, it may be, but make the discovery he will
if possible. His inquisitiveness is mostly in regard to matters of
comparatively minor importance in themselves, but which, at the same
time, you do not care for _him_ to know. Your pedigree--your
relations--your antecedents--your reasons for leaving your former
occupation--your prospects in life--your income--your wife's maiden name
and origin--with a hundred similar things.

His inquisitiveness often turns into impertinence and impudence, which
one does well to resent with indignancy; or, if not, to answer him
according to his folly.

The two or three following instances will illustrate this talker:--

A gentleman with a wooden leg, travelling in a stage-coach, was annoyed
by questions relative to himself and his business proposed by his
fellow-passengers. One of them inquired how he came to lose his leg. "I
will tell you," he replied, "on condition that you all ask me no other
question." To this there was no objection, and the promise was given.
"As to the loss of my leg," said he, "_it was bit off_!" There was a
pause. No more questions were to be asked; but one of the party, unable
to contain himself, exclaimed, "But I should like to know _how_ it was
bit off." This is an old story, but here is one of a similar kind, of a
more recent date. It occurred in San Francisco, where a genuine Yankee,
having bored a new comer with every conceivable question relative to his
object in visiting the gold country, his hopes, his means, and his
prospects, at length asked him if he had a family.

"Yes, sir; I have a wife and six children in New York; and I never saw
one of them."

After this reply the couple sat a few moments in silence; then the
interro