And this Mrs. Lynx can aver, 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 vow 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 _vice versa_--among women than among men? Is this a lie I am telling now? If I am talking about you, the odds 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 frocks sit some anile chatterboxes, as any man who knows this world knows. They take the privilege of their gown. They cabal, and tattle, and hiss, and cackle comminations under their breath. I say the old women of the other s.e.x 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 _that_ house." Ah, Mrs. Jones, how I should like to know what that crime was, or what that series of villainies, 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 neighbours--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 favourite 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 neighbouring 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 honoured 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 Tomkin'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, Tomkin's master would, and reasonably, have been still 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 fict.i.tious 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-bye, Tomkins. And so the night-cap is put on, and the bolt is drawn 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 diabolical little course, lives with a prodigious vitality. You say, _Magna est veritas et proevalebit_. 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 anonymous 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 shrugged his shoulders, turned his back, and talked to his other neighbour. I never heard sarcastic 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 sh.o.r.es who has taken up his abode 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 n.o.ble critic: "you were then not a lad; you were 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 spoke the mandarin dialect with perfect fluency. We had the company with us; as in the old, old days, the squeak of the real pig was voted not to be so natural as the squeak of the sham pig. O Arcturus, the sham pig squeaks in our streets now to the applause of mult.i.tudes, and the real porker grunts unheeded in his sty!

I once talked for some little time with an amiable 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 stony 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 neighbour is by no means lively hearing. An acquaintance grilled, scored, devilled, and served with mustard and cayenne pepper, excites the appet.i.te; whereas a slice of cold friend with currant jelly is but a sickly, unrelishing meat.

Now, such being the case, my dear worthy Mrs. Candour, 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 neighbours don't fructify, but somehow perish in the ground where they are dropped, whilst the evil words are wafted by all the winds of scandal, take root in all soils, 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 meek 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 Jack Thurtell a gallant unfortunate fellow, not near so black as he was painted; but we will try and avoid personalities 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 neighbour", not abuse my neighbour. We will go to the Zoological Gardens and talk freely about the gorilla 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 a cottage near a wood"? It is a charming air (you know it in French, I suppose? _Ah! te dirai-je, maman?_) and was a favourite with poor Marie Antoinette. I say "poor", because I have a right to speak with pity of a sovereign who was renowned 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 neighbours, and won't have their mouths stopped by cards, or ever so much microscopes and aquariums? Ah, my poor dear Mrs.

Candour, I agree with you. By the way, did you ever see anything like Lady G.o.diva Trotter's dress last night? People _will_ go on chattering, although we hold our tongues; and, after all, my good soul, what will their scandal matter a hundred years hence?

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

(1819-1861.)

LXX. SPECTATOR AB EXTRA.

As I sat at the Cafe I said to myself, They may talk as they please about what they call pelf, They may sneer as they like about eating and drinking, But help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!

How pleasant it is to have money.

I sit at my table _en grand seigneur_, And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor, Not only the pleasure itself of good living, But also the pleasure of now and then giving: So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!

So pleasant it is to have money.

They may talk as they please about what they call pelf, And how one ought never to think of one's self, How pleasures of thought surpa.s.s eating and drinking, My pleasure of thought is the pleasure of thinking How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!

How pleasant it is to have money.

LE DINER.

Come along, 'tis the time, ten or more minutes past, And he who came first had to wait for the last; The oysters ere this had been in and been out; While I have been sitting and thinking about How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!

How pleasant it is to have money.

A clear soup with eggs; _voila tout_; of the fish The _filets de sole_ are a moderate dish _a la Orly_, but you're for red mullet, you say: By the G.o.ds of good fare, who can question to-day How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!

How pleasant it is to have money.

After oysters, Sauterne; then Sherry; Champagne, Ere one bottle goes, comes another again; Fly up, thou bold cork, to the ceiling above, And tell to our ears in the sound that we love How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!

How pleasant it is to have money.

I've the simplest of palates; absurd it may be, But I almost could dine on a _poulet-au-riz_, Fish and soup and omelette and that--but the deuce-- There were to be woodc.o.c.ks, and not _Charlotte Russe_!

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!

So pleasant it is to have money.

Your Chablis is acid, away with the hock, Give me the pure juice of the purple Medoc; St. Peray is exquisite; but, if you please, Some Burgundy just before tasting the cheese.

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!

So pleasant it is to have money.

As for that, pa.s.s the bottle, and hang the expense-- I've seen it observed by a writer of sense, That the labouring cla.s.ses could scarce live a day, If people like us didn't eat, drink, and pay.

So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho!

So useful it is to have money.

One ought to be grateful, I quite apprehend, Having dinner and supper and plenty to spend, And so suppose now, while the things go away, By way of a grace we all stand up and say How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!

How pleasant it is to have money.

PARVENANT.

I cannot but ask, in the park and the streets, When I look at the number of persons one meets, Whate'er in the world the poor devils can do Whose fathers and mothers can't give them a _sous_.

So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho!

So needful it is to have money.

I ride, and I drive, and I care not a d--n, The people look up and they ask who I am; And if I should chance to run over a cad, I can pay for the damage, if ever so bad.

So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho!

So useful it is to have money.

It was but this winter I came up to town, And already I'm gaining a sort of renown; Find my way to good houses without much ado, Am beginning to see the n.o.bility too.

So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho!

So useful it is to have money.

O dear what a pity they ever should lose it, Since they are the people who know how to use it; So easy, so stately, such manners, such dinners; And yet, after all, it is we are the winners.

So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho!

So needful it is to have money.

It is all very well to be handsome and tall, Which certainly makes you look well at a ball, It's all very well to be clever and witty.

But if you are poor, why it's only a pity.

So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho!

So needful it is to have money.

There's something undoubtedly in a fine air, To know how to smile and be able to stare, High breeding is something, but well bred or not, In the end the one question is, what have you got?

So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho!