They cabal, and tattle, and hiss, and cackle comminations under their breath.I say the old women of the other sex are not more talkative or more mischievous than some of these."Such a man ought not to be spoken to," says Gobemouche, narrating the story--and such a story! "And I am surprised he is admitted into society at all."Yes, dear Gobemouche, but the story wasn't true; and I had no more done the wicked deed in question than I had run away with the Queen of Sheba.
I have always longed to know what that story was (or what collection of histories), which a lady had in her mind to whom a servant of mine applied for a place, when I was breaking up my establishment once and going abroad.Brown went with a very good character from us, which, indeed, she fully deserved after several years' faithful service.But when Mrs.Jones read the name of the person out of whose employment Brown came, "That is quite sufficient," says Mrs.
Jones."You may go.I will never take a servant out of THAThouse." Ah, Mrs.Jones, how I should like to know what that crime was, or what that series of villanies, which made you determine never to take a servant out of my house.Do you believe in the story of the little boy and the sausages? Have you swallowed that little minced infant? Have you devoured that young Polonius? Upon my word you have maw enough.We somehow greedily gobble down all stories in which the characters of our friends are chopped up, and believe wrong of them without inquiry.In a late serial work written by this hand, I remember making some pathetic remarks about our propensity to believe ill of our neighbors--and I remember the remarks, not because they were valuable, or novel, or ingenious, but because, within three days after they had appeared in print, the moralist who wrote them, walking home with a friend, heard a story about another friend, which story he straightway believed, and which story was scarcely more true than that sausage fable which is here set down.O mea culpa, mea maxima culpa! But though the preacher trips, shall not the doctrine be good? Yea, brethren! Here be the rods.Look you, here are the scourges.Choose me a nice long, swishing, buddy one, light and well-poised in the handle, thick and bushy at the tail.Pick me out a whip-cord thong with some dainty knots in it--and now--we all deserve it--whish, whish, whish! Let us cut into each other all round.
A favorite liar and servant of mine was a man I once had to drive a brougham.He never came to my house, except for orders, and once when he helped to wait at dinner so clumsily that it was agreed we would dispense with his further efforts.The (job) brougham horse used to look dreadfully lean and tired, and the livery-stable keeper complained that we worked him too hard.Now, it turned out that there was a neighboring butcher's lady who liked to ride in a brougham; and Tomkins lent her ours, drove her cheerfully to Richmond and Putney, and, I suppose, took out a payment in mutton-chops.We gave this good Tomkins wine and medicine for his family when sick--we supplied him with little comforts and extras which need not now be remembered--and the grateful creature rewarded us by informing some of our tradesmen whom he honored with his custom, "Mr.Roundabout? Lor' bless you! I carry him up to bed drunk every night in the week." He, Tomkins, being a man of seven stone weight and five feet high; whereas his employer was--but here modesty interferes, and I decline to enter into the avoirdupois question.
Now, what was Tomkins's motive for the utterance and dissemination of these lies? They could further no conceivable end or interest of his own.Had they been true stories, Tomkins's master would still, and reasonably, have been more angry than at the fables.It was but suicidal slander on the part of Tomkins--must come to a discovery--must end in a punishment.The poor wretch had got his place under, as it turned out, a fictitious character.He might have stayed in it, for of course Tomkins had a wife and poor innocent children.He might have had bread, beer, bed, character, coats, coals.He might have nestled in our little island, comfortably sheltered from the storms of life; but we were compelled to cast him out, and send him driving, lonely, perishing, tossing, starving, to sea--to drown.To drown? There be other modes of death whereby rogues die.Good-by, Tomkins.And so the nightcap is put on, and the bolt is drawn for poor T.
