What man who has been before the public at all has not heard similar wonderful anecdotes16 regarding himself and his own history? In these humble17 essaykins I have taken leave to egotize. I cry out about the shoes which pinch me, and, as I fancy, more naturally and pathetically than if my neighbor’s corns were trodden under foot. I prattle18 about the dish which I love, the wine which I like, the talk I heard yesterday — about Brown’s absurd airs — Jones’s ridiculous elation19 when he thinks he has caught me in a blunder (a part of the fun, you see, is that Jones will read this, and will perfectly20 well know that I mean him, and that we shall meet and grin at each other with entire politeness.) This is not the highest kind of speculation21, I confess, but it is a gossip which amuses some folks. A brisk and honest small-beer will refresh those who do not care for the frothy outpourings of heavier taps. A two of clubs may be a good, handy little card sometimes, and able to tackle a king of diamonds, if it is a little trump22. Some philosophers get their wisdom with deep thought and out of ponderous23 libraries; I pick up my small crumbs24 of cogitation25 at a dinner-table; or from Mrs. Mary and Miss Louisa, as they are prattling26 over their five-o’clock tea.
Well, yesterday at dinner Jucundus was good enough to tell me a story about myself, which he had heard from a lady of his acquaintance, to whom I send my best compliments. The tale is this. At nine o’clock on the evening of the 31st of November last, just before sunset, I was seen leaving No. 96, Abbey Road, St. John’s Wood, leading two little children by the hand, one of them in a nankeen pelisse, and the other having a mole27 on the third finger of his left hand (she thinks it was the third finger, but is quite sure it was the left hand). Thence I walked with them to Charles Boroughbridge’s, pork and sausage man, No. 29, Upper Theresa Road. Here, whilst I left the little girl innocently eating a polony in the front shop, I and Boroughbridge retired28 with the boy into the back parlor29, where Mrs. Boroughbridge was playing cribbage. She put up the cards and boxes, took out a chopper and a napkin, and we cut the little boy’s little throat (which he bore with great pluck and resolution), and made him into sausage-meat by the aid of Purkis’s excellent sausage-machine. The little girl at first could not understand her brother’s absence, but, under the pretence30 of taking her to see Mr. Fechter in Hamlet, I led her down to the New River at Sadler’s Wells, where a body of a child in a nankeen pelisse was subsequently found, and has never been recognized to the present day. And this Mrs. Lynx can aver31, because she saw the whole transaction with her own eyes, as she told Mr. Jucundus.
I have altered the little details of the anecdote somewhat. But this story is, I vow32 and declare, as true as Mrs Lynx’s. Gracious goodness! how do lies begin? What are the averages of lying? Is the same amount of lies told about every man, and do we pretty much all tell the same amount of lies? Is the average greater in Ireland than in Scotland, or vice33 versa — among women than among men? Is this a lie I am telling now? If I am talking about you, the odds34 are, perhaps, that it is. I look back at some which have been told about me, and speculate on them with thanks and wonder. Dear friends have told them of me, have told them to me of myself. Have they not to and of you, dear friend? A friend of mine was dining at a large dinner of clergymen, and a story, as true as the sausage story above given, was told regarding me, by one of those reverend divines, in whose frock sits some anile chatter-boxes, as any man who knows this world knows. They take the privilege of their gown. They cabal35, and tattle, and hiss36, and cackle comminations under their breath. I say the old women of the other sex are not more talkative or more mischievous37 than some of these. “Such a man ought not to be spoken to,” says Gobemouche, narrating39 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 applied40 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 fully41 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 THAT house.” 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 minced42 infant? Have you devoured43 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 inquiry44. In a late serial45 work written by this hand, I remember making some pathetic remarks about our propensity46 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 fable47 which is here set down. O mea culpa, mea maxima culpa! But though the preacher trips, shall not the doctrine48 be good? Yea, brethren! Here be the rods. Look you, here are the scourges49. Choose me a nice long, swishing, buddy50 one, light and well-poised in the handle, thick and bushy at the tail. Pick me out a whip-cord thong51 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 liar52 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 dispense53 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 modesty54 interferes55, and I decline to enter into the avoirdupois question.
Now, what was Tomkins’s motive56 for the utterance57 and dissemination58 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 fables59. It was but suicidal slander60 on the part of Tomkins — must come to a discovery — must end in a punishment. The poor wretch61 had got his place under, as it turned out, a fictitious62 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 rogues63 die. Good-by, Tomkins. And so the nightcap is put on, and the bolt is drawn64 for poor T.
Suppose we were to invite volunteers amongst our respected readers to send in little statements of the lies which they know have been told about themselves; what a heap of correspondence, what an exaggeration of malignities, what a crackling bonfire of incendiary falsehoods, might we not gather together! And a lie once set going, having the breath of life breathed into it by the father of lying, and ordered to run its diabolical65 little course, lives with a prodigious66 vitality67. You say, “Magna est veritas et praevalebit.” Psha! Great lies are as great as great truths, and prevail constantly, and day after day. Take an instance or two out of my own little budget. I sit near a gentleman at dinner, and the conversation turns upon a certain anonymous68 literary performance which at the time is amusing the town. “Oh,” says the gentleman, “everybody knows who wrote that paper: it is Momus’s.” I was a young author at the time, perhaps proud of my bantling: “I beg your pardon,” I say, “it was written by your humble servant.” “Indeed!” was all that the man replied, and he shrugged69 his shoulders, turned his back, and talked to his other neighbor. I never heard sarcastic70 incredulity more finely conveyed than by that “indeed.” “Impudent liar,” the gentleman’s face said, as clear as face could speak. Where was Magna Veritas, and how did she prevail then? She lifted up her voice, she made her appeal, and she was kicked out of court. In New York I read a newspaper criticism one day (by an exile from our shores who has taken up his abode71 in the Western Republic), commenting upon a letter of mine which had appeared in a contemporary volume, and wherein it was stated that the writer was a lad in such and such a year, and, in point of fact, I was, at the period spoken of, nineteen years of age. “Falsehood, Mr. Roundabout,” says the noble critic: “You were then not a lad; you were then six-and-twenty years of age.” You see he knew better than papa and mamma and parish register. It was easier for him to think and say I lied, on a twopenny matter connected with my own affairs, than to imagine he was mistaken. Years ago, in a time when we were very mad wags, Arcturus and myself met a gentleman from China who knew the language. We began to speak Chinese against him. We said we were born in China. We were two to one. We spoke38 the mandarin72 dialect with perfect fluency73. We had the company with us; as in the old, old days, the squeak74 of the real pig was voted not to be so natural as the squeak of the sham75 pig. O Arcturus, the sham pig squeaks76 in our streets now to the applause of multitudes, and the real porker grunts77 unheeded in his sty!
I once talked for some little time with an amiable78 lady: it was for the first time; and I saw an expression of surprise on her kind face, which said as plainly as face could say, “Sir, do you know that up to this moment I have had a certain opinion of you, and that I begin to think I have been mistaken or misled?” I not only know that she had heard evil reports of me, but I know who told her — one of those acute fellows, my dear brethren, of whom we spoke in a previous sermon, who has found me out — found out actions which I never did, found out thoughts and sayings which I never spoke, and judged me accordingly. Ah, my lad! have I found YOU out? O risum teneatis. Perhaps the person I am accusing is no more guilty than I.
How comes it that the evil which men say spreads so widely and lasts so long, whilst our good, kind words don’t seem somehow to take root and bear blossom? Is it that in the stony79 hearts of mankind these pretty flowers can’t find a place to grow? Certain it is that scandal is good, brisk talk, whereas praise of one’s neighbor is by no means lively hearing. An acquaintance grilled80, scored, devilled, and served with mustard and cayenne pepper, excites the appetite; whereas a slice of cold friend with currant jelly is but a sickly, unrelishing meat.
Now, such being the case, my dear worthy81 Mrs. Candor82, in whom I know there are a hundred good and generous qualities: it being perfectly clear that the good things which we say of our neighbors don’t fructify83, but somehow perish in the ground where they are dropped, whilst the evil words are wafted84 by all the winds of scandal, take root in all sods, and flourish amazingly — seeing, I say, that this conversation does not give us a fair chance, suppose we give up censoriousness altogether, and decline uttering our opinions about Brown, Jones, and Robinson (and Mesdames B., J., and R.) at all. We may be mistaken about every one of them, as, please goodness, those anecdote-mongers against whom I have uttered my meek85 protest have been mistaken about me. We need not go to the extent of saying that Mrs. Manning was an amiable creature, much misunderstood; and Jack86 Thurtell a gallant87, unfortunate fellow, not near so black as he was painted; but we will try and avoid personalities88 altogether in talk, won’t we? We will range the fields of science, dear madam, and communicate to each other the pleasing results of our studies. We will, if you please, examine the infinitesimal wonders of nature through the microscope. We will cultivate entomology. We will sit with our arms round each other’s waists on the pons asinorum, and see the stream of mathematics flow beneath. We will take refuge in cards, and play at “beggar my neighbor,” not abuse my neighbor. We will go to the Zoological Gardens and talk freely about the gorilla89 and his kindred, but not talk about people who can talk in their turn. Suppose we praise the High Church? we offend the Low Church. The Broad Church? High and Low are both offended. What do you think of Lord Derby as a politician? And what is your opinion of Lord Palmerston? If you please, will you play me those lovely variations of “In my cottage near a wood?” It is a charming air (you know it in French, I suppose? Ah! te dirai-je, maman!) and was a favorite with poor Marie Antoinette. I say “poor,” because I have a right to speak with pity of a sovereign who was renowned90 for so much beauty and so much misfortune. But as for giving any opinion on her conduct, saying that she was good or bad, or indifferent, goodness forbid! We have agreed we will not be censorious. Let us have a game at cards — at ecarte, if you please. You deal. I ask for cards. I lead the deuce of clubs . . . .
What? there is no deuce! Deuce take it! What? People WILL go on talking about their neighbors, and won’t have their mouths stopped by cards, or ever so much microscopes and aquariums91? Ah, my poor dear Mrs. Candor, I agree with you. By the way, did you ever see anything like Lady Godiva Trotter’s dress last night? People WILL go on chattering92, although we hold our tongues; and, after all, my good soul, what will their scandal matter a hundred years hence?
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1
narrates
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| v.故事( narrate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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cogitation
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| n.仔细思考，计划，设计 | |
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prattling
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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aver
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| v.极力声明；断言；确证 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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odds
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cabal
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| n.政治阴谋小集团 | |
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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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minced
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| v.切碎( mince的过去式和过去分词 )；剁碎；绞碎；用绞肉机绞（食物，尤指肉） | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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scourges
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| 带来灾难的人或东西，祸害( scourge的名词复数 )； 鞭子 | |
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buddy
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| n.（美口）密友，伙伴 | |
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thong
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| n.皮带；皮鞭；v.装皮带 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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interferes
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| vi. 妨碍，冲突，干涉 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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dissemination
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| 传播,宣传,传染(病毒) | |
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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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Mandarin
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| n.中国官话，国语，满清官吏；adj.华丽辞藻的 | |
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fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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74
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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76
squeaks
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| n.短促的尖叫声，吱吱声( squeak的名词复数 )v.短促地尖叫( squeak的第三人称单数 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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77
grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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grilled
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| adj. 烤的, 炙过的, 有格子的 动词grill的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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fructify
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| v.结果实；使土地肥沃 | |
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84
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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86
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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gorilla
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| n.大猩猩，暴徒，打手 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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aquariums
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| n.养鱼缸，水族馆( aquarium的名词复数 ) | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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