In forty-nine instances out of fifty in which the grumbler has been taken as a substitute for the one against whom he has complained, there has been failure, through his want of competency for the place.
It is not, however, often that he reaches his end by his grumbling. He frustrates his own wish. Sound judgment in others pronounces against him. Wisdom knows that weakness is the main element of grumbling; that to instal in office a person who is a grumbler will not cure him; that one evil is betterthan two—his grumbling out of office than his grumbling in, with an inefficient performance of its duties.
His grumbling is sometimes so chronic and habitual, that no one takes any notice of him. He attracts far more attention when he is out of this rut than when he is in it. The majority know that things are right when he grumbles; but when he is silent they suspect them to be wrong, and when he approves they are quite sure.
10. The grumbling talkerincludes everything within his grumbling. He grumbles against God and His Providence, His Word and His ministers. The devil does not even please him. He grumbles about politics, religion, the Church, the state, books, periodicals, papers. He grumbles against trade, commerce, money; against good men and bad men; against good women and bad women; against babes and children, young ladies and old maids. He grumbles about the weather, about time, life, death, things present, and things to come. It would appear that as he is endowed with universal presence, he is endowed with universal knowledge also, which leads him to universal grumbling.
11. The grumbling talkeris afflicted with a most revolting disease. It is dangerous in its nature, and most unpleasant in its influence. It is injurious in its operation upon all who come within its reach. Persons who are not troubled with it, and are not accustomed to see it, never wish to catch a sight or ascent of it the second time. It is rather contagious. If the law regulating the case of the leper was to be enforced in the case of the grumbler, it might have a salutary effect. But as there is no probability of this, and as it is important that the disease should be arrested before it spread farther and prove more disastrous than it has, I shall,pro bono publico, as well as for the grumbler himself, presume to copy an American prescription that I have in my possession, and which never failed to cure any grumbler who scrupulously carried it out.
“1. Stop grumbling.“2. Get up two hours earlier in the morning, and begin to do something outside of yourregular profession.“3. Stop grumbling.“4. Mind your own business, and with all your might; let other people alone.“5. Stop grumbling.“6. Live within your means. Sell your horse. Give away or kill your dog.“7. Stop grumbling.“8. Smoke your cigars through anair-tight stove. Eat with moderation, and go to bed early.“9. Stop grumbling.“10. Talk less of your own peculiar gifts and virtues, and more of those of your friends and neighbours.“11. Stop grumbling.“12. Do all you can to make others happy. Becheerful. Bend your neck and back more frequently when you pass those outside of ‘select circles.’ Fulfil your promises. Pay your debts. Be yourself all you see in others. Be agoodman, atrue Christian, and then you cannot helpfinally to“13. Stop grumbling.”
“1. Stop grumbling.
“2. Get up two hours earlier in the morning, and begin to do something outside of yourregular profession.
“3. Stop grumbling.
“4. Mind your own business, and with all your might; let other people alone.
“5. Stop grumbling.
“6. Live within your means. Sell your horse. Give away or kill your dog.
“7. Stop grumbling.
“8. Smoke your cigars through anair-tight stove. Eat with moderation, and go to bed early.
“9. Stop grumbling.
“10. Talk less of your own peculiar gifts and virtues, and more of those of your friends and neighbours.
“11. Stop grumbling.
“12. Do all you can to make others happy. Becheerful. Bend your neck and back more frequently when you pass those outside of ‘select circles.’ Fulfil your promises. Pay your debts. Be yourself all you see in others. Be agoodman, atrue Christian, and then you cannot helpfinally to
“13. Stop grumbling.”
The above is an admirable receipt for the grumbling disease. It is composed of ingredients each of which is the best quality of healing medicine. Every grumbler should take the whole as prescribed, and he will soon experience a sensible change in his nature for the better; his friends also will observe him rapidly convalescent, and after a short time will rejoice over his restoration to a sound healthy condition, called by moral physicians—“CONTENTMENT.”
“Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content—The quiet mind is richer than a crown;Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent—The poor estate scorns fortune’s angry frown.Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,Beggars enjoy when princes oft do miss.The homely house that harbours quiet rest,The cottage that affords no pride nor care,The mean that ’grees with country music best,That sweet consort of Mirth’s and Music’s fare.Obscuréd life sits down a type of bliss;A mind content both crown and kingdom is.”
Thisis a talker whose chief aim is the exhibition of himself in terms and phrases too fulsome and frequent for the pleasure of his hearers.Iwas,Iam,Ishall be,Ihave, etc., are the pronouns and verbs which he chiefly employs. He is allI. I is the representative letter of his name, his person, his speech, and his actions. There is nothing greater in the universe to him than that of whichIis the type. There is not a more essential letter in the English alphabet to him than the letterI. Destroy this, and he would be disabled in his conversation; he would lose the only emblem which he has to set himself off before the eyes of people. He is nothing and can do nothing withoutI. This stands out in an embossed form, which may be felt by the blind man, as well as be seen by those who have eyesight. If you tell him of an interesting circumstance in which a friendof yours was placed, “I” is sure to be the beginning of a similar story concerning himself. Speak of some success which your friend has made in trade or commerce, and “I” will be the commencement of something similar, in which he has been more successful. You can inform him of nothing, but “I” is associated with what is equal or far superior. Were one required to give an etymology of the egotist, it would be in the words of the Rev. J. B. Owen: “One of those gluttonous parts of speech that gulp down every substantive in social grammar into its personal pronoun, condensing all the tenses and moods of other people’s verbs into a first person singular of its own.”
Mr. Slack, of the town of Kenton, was egregiously given to egotism. He was a man of ordinary education, but somewhat elevated above his neighbours in worldly circumstances. He carried himself with an air of imposing importance, as though he was lord of the entire county. In his conversation he assumed much more than others who knew him conceded. It was a little matter for him to ignore the abilities of other people. His own prominent self made such demands as almost absorbed the rights of everybody else. Whenever opportunity occurred, he set himself off asmostlearned,mostwealthy,mostextensively known, numbering among hisacquaintancesthemostrespectable. He rarely talked but to exhibit himself, alone, or in some aristocratic connections.
Mr. Dredge was a neighbour of Mr. Slack’s, but ofan opposite turn of mind. They were accustomed to make occasional calls upon each other. Dredge was quiet and unassuming, and often allowed Slack to go on with his egotistic gibberish unchecked, which rather encouraged him in his personal weakness.
One morning Mr. Slack called upon Mr. Dredge to spend an hour in a friendly way, as he often did, and, as usual, the conversation was principally about himself, and things relating to the same important personage.
“Have you seen the French Ambassador yet, Mr. Dredge?”
“No. Have you?”
“Indeed I should think so. I have been in his company several times, and had private interviews with him; and do you know, Mr. Dredge, he showed me more respect and attention than any one else in his company at the same time. He gave me a most pressing invitation to dine with him to-morrow afternoon, at six o’clock; but really, Mr. Dredge, my engagements, you know, are so numerous and important that I was compelled respectfully to decline the honour.”
“You must have felt yourself highly flattered,” said Mr. Dredge calmly.
“Not at all! not at all! It is nothing for me, you know, to dine with ambassadors. I think no more of that than of dining with you.”
“Indeed!” said Dredge in a sarcastic tone. “I thank you for the compliment.”
“No compliment at all, Mr. Dredge. It is the truth, I assure you; and were you to see the heaps of invitations which cover my parlour table, from persons equally as great as he, and more so, in fact, you would at once see the thing to be true. I feel it no particular honour to have an invitation from such a quarter, because so common. The Ambassador took to me as soon as he saw me. He saw me, you know, to be one of his own stamp. I put on my best grace, and talked in my highest style, and I saw at once that he was prejudiced in my favour. It was my ability, you know, my ability, Mr. Dredge, which made an impression on his mind.”
“I see, my friend,” said Mr. Dredge, “you have not lost all the egotism of your former years.”
“Egotism, egotism, Mr. Dredge!Iam no egotist—and never was. It is seldom I speak of myself. No man can help speaking of himself sometimes, you know. If you are acquainted with Squire Clark, he’s the man, if you please, for egotism. Talk of egotism, sir, he surpasses me a hundred per cent. I am no egotist.”
“I hope no offence, Mr. Slack,” said Mr. Dredge.
“None at all, sir; I am not so easily offended. I am a man too good-tempered for that. I and you understand each other, you know.”
“Have you been to the City lately?” inquired Mr. Dredge.
“I was there only last week; and whom do you think I travelled with in the train? His Grace theDuke of Borderland. He was delighted to see me, you know, and gave me a pressing invitation to call on him at his London residence. Did you not know that I and the Duke were old cronies? We went to school together; and he was never half so clever as I was in the sciences and classics. He was a dull scholar compared with me.”
“You must have felt yourself somewhat honoured with his presence and attention.”
“Well, you know, Mr. Dredge, it is just here. I am so much accustomed to high life, that the presence of dukes, lords, etc., is little more to me than ordinary society. Had my friend Mr. Clarke been thus honoured, he would have blazed it all about the country.Iwould not have mentioned it now, only your question called it up.”
The fact is, Mr. Dredge had heard of it before from a number of people to whom Mr. Slack had already told it.
At this stage of the talk between Messrs. Dredge and Slack a rap was heard at the front door. It was Mr. Sweet, a friend of Mr. Dredge, who had called on his way to an adjacent town.
Mr. Dredge introduced his friend to Mr. Slack, who gave him one of his egotistic shakes of the hand, and said, “How are you this morning?”
“Mr. Sweet,” observed Mr. Dredge to Mr. Slack, “is an intimate friend of mine, and a professor in Hailsworth College.”
“Indeed! I am very happy, extremely happy, tomake his acquaintance,” said Mr. Slack, with an air and voice which made the Professor open his eyes as to who he was. And without any more ceremony, Mr. Slack observed, “I know all the professors in that seat of learning. Drs. Jones, Leigh, Waller, I am intimately acquainted with—special friends of mine.”
To be candid, he had met with them on one occasion, and had received a formal introduction to them; but since then had not seen them.
“Are you at all acquainted with music, Professor Sweet?” asked Mr. Slack.
“I know a little of it, but am no adept.”
“O, sir, music is a noble science. It is the charm of my heart; it is enchantment to my inmost soul. Ah, sir, I have been nearly ruined by it many times! I carried it too far, you know. Not content with one instrument, I procured almost all kinds; and, sir, there is scarcely an instrument but I am perfectly at home with. And, sir, there is not a hymn or song but I can play or sing. Would you believe it, sir, that I stood first in the last grand oratorio which took place in the great metropolis? I sang the grand solo of the occasion. Allow me, sir, to give you a specimen of it.” And here he struck off with the solo, much to the amusement of the Professor. “Ah, sir, that is a noble piece. Does not go so well in this room, you know, as it did in Exeter Hall. The audience was so enraptured, sir, with my performance, that they encored me again and again.”
“Indeed, sir!” observed the Professor in a tone of keen sarcasm and strong unbelief.
“Of course, Professor, you are familiar with the classics,” said Mr. Slack.
“Somewhat,” replied the Professor, in a manner which indicated his disgust at the impertinence of the man.
“The classics, sir, are a fine study—hard, but interesting to those who have the taste—so refining—give such a polish to the mind, sir. I once had a great taste for the classics—studied them fully; and even now, sir, I know as much about them as many who profess to teach them. Would you believe me, sir, that I have the entire list of the classics in my library?”
The Professor smiled at the man’s preposterous egotism.
“The sciences,” continued Mr. Slack, “are grand studies for the mind. Geology, astronomy, astrology, phrenology, psychology, and so on, and so on—you know the whole list of them, Professor. Why, sir, I do not know the first science that I did not study at college; and even now, sir, after the lapse of years spent in the stir of a political life, there are few with whom I would be willing to stand second in my knowledge of them.”
In this style of impertinent egotism he continued to waste the precious moments and to torment the company, until the Professor could bear it no longer, and suggested to his friend Mr. Dredge thathe had some business of importance upon which he would like to see him, if he could spare a short time alone. Mr. Slack took the hint, and made his departure, much gratified at the impression he thought he had made of himself upon the mind of his new acquaintance, Professor Sweet.
“What a prodigious egotist your friend is, Mr. Dredge,” observed the Professor, as soon as he had gone out of hearing. “He exceeds anything I ever heard. It is perfectly nauseous to hear him. He appears more like a fool to me than a wise man. I have not felt so repulsed and disgusted in the presence of a man for a long time. From the first moment of my entrance into your house until the last second of his departure he has talked about nothing except himself in the most bombastic way. I would rather dwell in mountain solitude than be compelled to live in his society.”
“I am accustomed to him,” replied Mr. Dredge, “and do not think so much of it as you, being a stranger; but he is without doubt an exceedingly vain man and brimful of egotism. I am sorry you were obliged to hear so much of him.”
“I am very pleased he is gone, and hope never to meet him in company again, excepting as a reformed character. He may be a good neighbour; he may be wealthy; he may be a little wise and educated; but none of these things justify the excessive vanity and self-setting-off which are so prominent in his conversation.”
The views of the Professor were such as others entertained who knew Mr. Slack. Few cared for his company; and those who did,enduredmore thanenjoyedit. Himself occupied so much space in conversation, that other persons and things were crowded out. He thought so much of himself, that it was unnecessary for other people to think anything of him. He filled up so much room in society, that others could scarcely move their tongues. In fact, the ego within him was so enormous that those around him were Liliputians in his estimation. TheUof other people was absorbed in his greatI. He was known generally by the name of “Great I;” and when one repeated anything that Mr. Slack of K—— had said, the answer was, “O, Mr. Great I said it, did he?” and so it passed away as vapour. Some called him a “fool.” Others said, “Pity he knew no better.” The universal sentiment was that he spoke a hundred per cent. too much of himself, when of all men he should be last to say anything.
Mr. Snodgrass is a man who, without any injustice to him, may be referred to as an egotist.
I once waited upon him to consult him in his professional capacity respecting a matter in which I had a deep interest. But ere I could possibly reach the question, he occupied the greater part of the time I was in his company in making known to me the multiplicity of his labours in the past; his engagements for the time to come; what invitations he was obligedto decline; how for years he had kept up his popularity in one particular town; how he was busy studying the mathematics; how he had succeeded in a critical case, in which the most eminent men in the city had failed; how he had been written to concerning questions of the most vital importance. In fine, his greatIstood out so full and prominent that my littleiwas scarcely allowed to make its appearance, and when it did it was despatched with an off-handedness which amounted to, “Who are you to presume to stand in the way of Me, so much your superior?” Of course my littleihad to be silent until his greatIwas pleased to give permission for him to speak.
I have been with him in company when he has spoken in such tones of egotism as have made me feel pity for him. He had acquirements which no one else could lay claim to. He had attained professional honours which put every one of his class in the shade. He could give information which no one present had heard before from any of their ministers or teachers. He criticised every one, but no one could criticisehim. He put every one right in politics, divinity, medicine, exegesis of Scripture. What had he not read? Where had he not been? Was not he a philosopher? an historian? a theologian? a physician? In fact, was not hethewise man from the East? and when he died, would not wisdom die with him?
Mr. Fidler is a young man given to egotism inhis own peculiar way. He is fond of putting himself forward in company by telling tales and repeating jests as original and of his own creation, when they had an existence before he was born, and are perhaps as well or better known by some to whom he repeats them than they are to himself. It would not be so objectionable did he not exhibit himself in such airs of self-conceit, and speak in a manner which indicated that he was in his own estimation the chief personage of the company. On one occasion he was apparently gulling his hearers with a tale as new to them, with all the egotism he could command, when, as soon as he had done, one present, disgusted with his vanity, quietly observed, “That is an old thing which I remember hearing in my childhood.” But, nothing daunted by this, he still went on with his egotistic talk and manner, until another gentleman well read in books recommended him when he reached home to procure a certain book of jests and read it, and he would find every one of his pleasantries which he had told on that occasion there inserted. This advice being taken, he found that all his jokes and puns which he thought were new, or wished to pass as new, had been published and gone through several editions before he or his friends were ever heard of.
When a man’s conversation is principally about himself, he displays either ignorance of men and things, or is inflated with vanity and self-laudation.He must imagine himself and his doings to be of such consequence that if not known it will be an irreparable loss to the world. He shows himself in the social circle in an air which indicates that he would, were he able, either compel others to retire, or eclipse them with his own moonshine glare.
Such a talker must necessarily be a person at great discount in all well-informed and respectable society. They resent his disgusting trespasses upon their general rights; and they are just in so doing. What authority has he for his intrusions? He has none, either in himself or in his associations. His inventions, of which he speaks, will not sustain the test of examination. His great and numerous acquaintances of which he boasts are not all of the genuine stamp. The cards which lie on his table, thick as autumnal leaves, and to which he points for your particular observation, are not of the kind he would lead you to believe.
“I was to dine with the Admiral to-night,” said a naval lieutenant once; “but I have so many invitations elsewhere that I can’t go.”
“I am going, and I’ll apologise,” said a brother officer.
“O, don’t trouble yourself.”
“But I must,” said the officer, “for the Admiral’s invitation, like that of the Queen, is a command.”
“Never mind; pray don’t mention my name,” rejoined the lieutenant.
“For your own sake I certainly will,” was the reply.
At length the hero of a hundred cards stammered out, “Don’t say a word about it; I had a hint to stay away.”
“A hint to stay away! Why so?”
“The fact is, I—wasn’t invited.”
The man who prides himself in his aristocratic acquaintances betrays little respect for himself. A wise man knows that if he have true distinction, he must be indebted to himself for it. The shadow of his own body is more valuable to him than thesubstanceof another man’s. In the mirror of self-examination he beholds the imperfections of his own doings and virtues, which will not for conscience’ sake allow him to parade his small apparent excellencies or acquisitions before society.
Lord Erskine was a great egotist; and one day in conversation with Curran he casually asked what Grattan said of himself.
“Said of himself!” was Curran’s astonished reply. “Nothing. Grattan speak of himself! Why, sir, Grattan is a great man. Sir, the torture could not wring a syllable of self-praise from Grattan; a team of six horses could not drag an opinion of himself out of him. Like all great men, he knows the strength of his reputation, and will never condescend to proclaim its march like the trumpeter of a puppet-show. Sir, he stands on a national altar, and it is the business of us inferior men to keep up the fire and incense. You will never see Grattan stoopingto do either the one or the other.” Curran objected to Byron’s talking of himself as a great drawback on his poetry. “Any subject,” he said, “but that eternal one of self. I am weary of knowing once a month the state of any man’s hopes or fears, rights or wrongs. I would as soon read a register of the weather, the barometer up to so many inches to-day and down so many inches to-morrow. I feel scepticism all over me at the sight of agonies on paper—things that come as regular and notorious as the full of the moon.”
“In company,” says Charron, “it is a very great fault to be more forward in setting one’s-self off and talking to show one’s parts than to learn the worth and to be truly acquainted with the abilities of other men. He that makes it his business not to know, but to be known, is like a tradesman who makes all the haste he can to sell off his old stock, but takes no thought of laying in any new.”
“A man,” says Dr. Johnson, “should be careful never to tell tales of himself to his own disadvantage; people may be amused and laugh at the time, but they will be remembered and brought up against him upon subsequent occasions.”
“Speech of a man’s self,” says Bacon, “ought to be seldom and well chosen. I knew one who was wont to say in scorn, ‘He must needs be a wise man, he speaks so much of himself;’ and there is but one case wherein a man may commend himself with good grace, and that is in commending virtue in anotherespecially if it be such a virtue whereunto himself pretendeth.”
Solomon says of the egotist, “Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? There is more hope of a fool than of him” (Prov. xxvi. 12). That is, he thinks he knows so much that you can teach a fool more easily than him. He be taught indeed! Who is so wise as he? If he want knowledge, has he not funds yet untouched, or powers equal to any discovery? Nevertheless, it is an old saying, “He that is his own pupil shall have a fool for his tutor.”
How suitable are the words of Divine Wisdom spoken to such: “Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others” (Phil. ii. 4). That is, whatever you have of your own, be not vain and proud of, to boast of and trust in; but rather look upon what others have to learn from, wisely to commend, and never to covet. Study the well-being of others rather than the exhibition of yourself. Again, it is said, “Be not wise in your own conceits.” “Be not high-minded, but fear.” “He that humbleth himself shall be exalted, but he that exalteth himself shall be abased.”
Thereare two things which the tale-bearer does: he first collects his tales, and then carries them abroad for distribution. Although always distributing, his stock on hand remains unexhausted. One feature of his business isbartering. He exchanges his own ware for that of other people, of which he can dispose when occasion serves. He is an adept at his trade, and is seldom cheated in his bargains. It is immaterial to him what articles he takes in exchange, so that they can be disposed of in private market. Fragments of glass, old rusty nails, rotten rags, cast-away boots and shoes, and such-like things are received by him, either for immediate disposal or for manufacture into new commodities to meet special demands. He is agreeable in his manners, and careful lest he give offence. Heenters with delicate feet into his neighbour’s house. His tongue is smooth as oil, and his words as sweet as honey, by which he wins the ear of his listener. On his countenance is the smile of good humour, by which he ingratiates himself into the favour of his customer. And now you may see him Satan-like, when squatted at the ear of Eve, pouring in the tales which he has either received from abroad or manufactured in his own establishment. Whichever they are, he has labelled them with his own signature under the words, “Not transferable, but at the risk of a violation of the most sacred confidence.” Having found a willing receiver of his goods in this neighbour, he asks remuneration, not in pounds, shillings, and pence, but in an equivalent—some fact or fiction, lie or rumour (he is not particular), which he can turn to account in another market. Having received payment, he bids adieu to his friend, and passes on to the next house and does his business there in a similar way.
The tongue of the tale-bearer is like the tail of Samson’s foxes, it carries fire-brands wherever it goes, and is enough to set the whole field of the world in a blaze. What Bishop Hall says of the busy-body may be said of the tale-bearer. “He begins table-talk of his neighbour at another man’s board, to whom he tells the first news and advises him to conceal the reporter; whose angry or envious answer he returns to his first host, enlarged with a second edition; and as is often done with unwillingmastiffs to excite them to fight, he claps each on the side apart, and provokes them to an eager conflict. He labours without thanks, talks without credit, lives without love, dies without tears and pity, save that some say it was a pity he died no sooner.”
The stories of the tale-bearer never lose in their transmission from person to person. Their tendency is to accumulate like the boys’ snow-ball rolled about in a field of thawing snow, so that by the time it has gone its round none of the primary features shall be recognised. This may be illustrated by the following:—
“A friend advised me, if ever I took a house in a terrace a little way out of town, to be very careful that it was the centre one, at least if I had any regard for my reputation. For I must be well aware that a story never loses by telling; and consequently, if I lived in the middle of a row of houses it was very clear that the tales which might be circulated to my prejudice would only have half the distance to travel on either side of me, and therefore could only be half as bad by the time they got down to the bottom of the terrace as the tales that might be circulated by the wretched individuals who had the misfortune to live at the two ends of it, so that I should be certain to have twice as good a character in the neighbourhood as they had. For instance, I was informed of a lamentable case that actually occurred a short time since. The servant of No. 1 told the servant ofNo. 2 that her master expected his old friends, the Bayleys, to pay him a visit shortly; and No. 2 told No. 3 that No. 1 expected to have the Bayleys in the house every day; and No. 3 told No. 4 that it was all up with No. 1, for they couldn’t keep the bailiffs out; whereupon No. 4 told No. 5 that the officers were after No. 1, and that it was as much as he could do to prevent himself being taken in execution, and that it was nearly killing his poor dear wife; and so it went on increasing and increasing until it got to No. 32, who confidently assured the last, No. 33, that the Bow-street officers had taken up the gentleman who lived at No. 1 for killing his poor dear wife with arsenic, and that it was confidently hoped and expected that he would be executed.”
Mr. Eadie, of the village of Handley, was a man very much addicted to the practice of collecting tales and then disposing of them wherever he could. It was his habit whenever he had a spare hour (and this was rather often, for it must be understood he was not any too industrious), to go at one time into the house of neighbour A., and at another time into the house of neighbour B. Sometimes he would sit gossiping in these houses for hours together. He managed to keep on good terms with both of them, although between B. and A. there existed anything but a good feeling. And, by-the-by, Eadie was the agent of producing it, through carrying tales to each respecting the other. If A. ever happened to showtemper at a tale which he repeated as originating with B. about him, he would be sure to have a gentle corrective in telling a tale which he had heard on “most reliable authority” respecting B., which tale would be sure to be worse than the one he had told A. as spoken by B. Thus he did from time to time with either party, so as to keep on good terms with both.
He was known in the whole village and neighbourhood as a person given to the gathering of tales and the telling of them. Some of the people were too wise and peaceable to give him any patronage and encouragement. Others, however, were of different temperament. With curious mind and itching ears they always gave Eadie a welcome into their house. He was sure to bring news about neighbour Baxter and neighbour Mobbs, and somebody else of whom they were anxious to know a little matter or two. Miss Curious was always glad to see him, because he could answer her inquiries about Miss Inkpen’s engagement with young Bumstead—about the young gentleman who was at church the last Sabbath evening, and sat opposite to her in the gallery, ever and anon casting a glance at her as though he had some “serious intentions.” Mrs. Allchin was another who always greeted Eadie with a smile into her house. They were, in fact, on very intimate and friendly terms. Whenever they met, mutual tale-bearing occupied their chief time and attention. Now and then Mrs. Allchin would ask Eadie to have a friendlycup of tea, which when accepted was always a high time for both. On such occasions they exchanged goods to the last articles manufactured in Fancy’s shop or received from Scandal’s warehouse.
The next day Mrs. Allchin might be seen busy in making her calls upon her friends, doing business with the new goods received from Eadie over her tea-table; and Eadie might be seen moving about among his friends, disposing of the new goods he had received from Mrs. Allchin at the same time. But it must be understood that the quality of them in each case was generally adulterated.
Mr. Steeraway was another who gave a hearty reception to Eadie whenever he called upon him. He would give close attention to the recital of Eadie’s tales, much closer than he was in the habit of giving to the sermon at church or to the godly advice of the minister when he called on pastoral duties. One day Eadie told a tale about B. and S., two persons living as neighbours in the village, and who were living on the best terms of friendship. The day after Steeraway went to B. and told him what S. had been saying about him. He then went to S. and told him what B. had been saying about him. They were hard to believe the things which they heard; but Steeraway substantiated everything with such evidence as could not be denied. They met for explanation in the presence of Steeraway, who feigned to be the friend of both. Instead of clearing up matters, they made things darker, and parted, each thinking that therewas some truth in what one had been saying of the other. Reserve sprang up between them; mutual confidence was lost; a separation of friendship took place; and it became a notorious fact in the village that B. and S. were now as much at variance as they were aforetime friendly and united. But Eadie was the main cause of it by telling his scandal to Steeraway, who he knew would repeat it the first opportunity, and could no more keep it secret than a child can keep from the candy-shop a penny given it by its Uncle Moses.
Mr. Musgrove was a tradesman in the village. He was generally believed to be an honest man, making full measure and just weight to little children as well as to adults. He was a tradesman who had a high sense of honour, and withal a mind sensitive to any attack upon his moral principles. Nothing affected him more than to have his integrity as a man of business called in question. One day Eadie, the tale-bearer, called at his shop (Musgrove was not at this time acquainted with Eadie’s character and business), and after buying a small article, he said to him in a most grave manner,—
“Mr. Musgrove, I am a comparative stranger to you, and you are to me; but I am always concerned for the welfare of honest and good citizens. Now, I would like you to succeed in trade as well as anybody else, and I hope you will; but you know it is difficult for a man in your business to get along if it is ever rumoured that he makesshort weight and measure, and takes advantage of children and ignorant persons.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Eadie?” inquired Mr. Musgrove, as though he understood the remark to apply to himself.
“I will tell you, Mr. Musgrove. Now, I hope you will not think that I am the inventor of what I am about to tell you, or that I evenbelieveit, for I have no reason for doing so.”
“What is it, Mr. Eadie? What is it?”
“I would not dream of telling you, if I did not desire that you might stand well before the public and your customers in particular.”
“That is what I am anxious to do; and what I am always studying to do; and I never yet had any fears about the matter.”
“Nor have I, Mr. Musgrove; but it is said that you make short weight and measure.”
“This is the first time that ever anything of the kind came to my ears since I have been in business,” said Mr. Musgrove, with considerable feeling.
“The thing has been told me by several individuals; and I fear the report is going the round of the village, much to your injury.”
“I am exceedingly sorry for it. But, Mr. Eadie, I must know the name of the party who has thus suffered from my dishonesty. I must trace this matter out, for my honour and happiness are dependent upon it. I scorn such a thing in the very thought.”
“Yes, and it is said to have been in connectionwith a little child, too, and that makes the thing so much the worse.”
“Well, now, Mr. Eadie, I must know the name of the party,” said Mr. Musgrove, very warmly.
“I feel considerable reluctance to give names,” replied Eadie.
“You need not fear of being involved in any unpleasantness,” answered Musgrove.
“So far as that goes, you know, I have no fear. But if you must know, I will tell you. It is in connection with the family of Bakers.”
“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Musgrove. “Do you know, Mr. Eadie, that I and that family are on the most friendly terms. We visit each other often; and they are most regular and frequent customers of mine. I can hardly believe, Mr. Eadie, that there is any truth in the report.”
“I hope it may not be true, but it is strange so many should talk about it, if it were not. But I have no interest in telling you of this, I do it for your good.”
“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Eadie.”
Eadie had now done his business, so off he started, and left Mr. Musgrove reflecting. “Strange,” thought he to himself, “that the Bakers have never said anything to me; that they should continue so friendly; that they should still send to my shop for everything they need. I cannot account for it.” He continued the subject of considerable emotion and anxiety. He informed his wife of the matter; but she did notcredit the first word. She was of different temper to him. He was very anxious during the night, and slept little. How could he, when his character for probity was implicated, and his business was likely to suffer? The first opportunity he had he went to see Mrs. Baker, to inquire into the facts of the case. She was glad to see him. Upon the statement of the story, as told by Eadie, she was amazed, and exceedingly grieved. After a brief pause, she said to Mr. Musgrove, “I think I can tell you how the matter originated. My little girl went to your shop the other day for two pounds of butter, and when she brought it home, Miss Nancy, who is rather given to suspicion, thought the butter didn’t weigh two pounds, so she at once weighed it, and found that the weight was perfectly right. Mrs. Allchin called in the day after, and in conversation I happened to mention the circumstance to her. I ought to have known better; for I seldom tell her anything of the kind, because I know her gossiping humour. Mrs. Allchin and Eadie, who you say told you about it, are very intimate friends; I have no doubt she informed him in her way of exaggeration and wonder; and then he would tell you in his own peculiar way, which is far from being a way of truthfulness. If you knew him as well as I do, you would not have heard his tale at all; and I am sure you would not have been disturbed in your mind by it, because you would not have believed him. And as to the tale being circulated through the village, thatmay be partly true; for when anything gets into Mrs. Allchin’s or Eadie’s hands, it spreads like wildfire; but you may rest assured that no one will believe it, when it is known to come from either the one or the other. Do not be alarmed, Mr Musgrove, neither your character nor business will suffer. You stand as high as ever you did with us, and with everybody else, for aught I know. I am exceedingly sorry that the thing should have occurred.” Musgrove left Baker’s fully satisfied as to the fabrication of the tale, and still conscious of his own integrity; but he could not help feeling about it, nor could he help observing a slight decline in business from those parties who gave credence to the tale of Mrs. Allchin or Mr. Eadie.
These miserable habits of tale-bearing and meddling, of backbiting and whispering, are the source of the greater part of the quarrellings, alienations, jealousies, and divisions in families. The smallest, plainest bit of wire may become by such malicious working a sword that pierces, to the destruction of peace and happiness. The least possible authority is enough to give them warrant to set a-going an evil report, which, as it rolls, gathers from every point it touches.
As in the case of Jeremiah, “Report, say they, and we will report it. All my familiars watched for my halting, saying, Peradventure he will be enticed, and we shall prevail against him, and we shall take revenge on him” (Jer. xx. 10). As in the case alsoof Nehemiah, “It is reported among the heathen,and Gashmu saith it, that thou and the Jews think to rebel; and now shall it be reported to the king according to these words” (Neh. vi. 6, 7).
Gashmu saith it,anybodysays it, is authority enough. What did Nehemiah know about Gashmu? What did any one know? But there are always plenty of Gashmus for the tale-bearer’s purpose. But although Gashmus be as plenty as blackberries, God’s law is absolute and explicit; it hedges this wickedness around with many provisions, and walls it in, so that a man who commits it is as if he had broken through flaming gates for the purpose. “Thou shalt not raise nor receive a false report. Put not thine hand with the wicked to be an unrighteous witness. Thou shalt not follow a multitude to do evil; neither shalt thou speak in a cause to decline after many to wrest judgment (Exod. xxii. 1, 2). Lord, who shall abide in Thy tabernacle? He that backbiteth not with his tongue, nor doeth evil to his neighbour, nor taketh up a reproach against his neighbour” (Ps. xv.).
Then observe the vagueness and indefiniteness of the accusation, founded on what in the nature of things was absolutely impossible to be known, except by overt action; founded on suspicion or conjecture of men’s thoughts. “That thou and the Jews think to rebel!” There was no pretence that theyhadrebelled. There is no need to begin the lie in so gross and bungling a manner; it was bad enoughto setthe conjecture of an intention in motion. Whoever took that report to the king would be sure to present it thus:—
“It is said that there is rebellion in Jerusalem.”
“Rebellion! Who is at the head of it?”
“Nehemiah, the Governor.”
“And where is the proof of this thing?”
“O, Gashmu saith it.”
“And who is Gashmu?”
“O, nobody knows anything about him; but doubtless he is some responsible person!”
“A whisper broke the air,—A soft light tone, and low,Yet barbed with shame and woe;Now, might it only perish there,Nor further go!Ah me! a quick and eager earCaught up the little meaning sound!Another voice has breathed it clear,And so it wandered roundFrom ear to lip, from lip to ear,Until it reached a gentle heart,And that—it broke!”
In reflecting upon these and similar results following the work of the tale-bearer, one cannot but recommend to his attention these words of Scripture: “Thou shalt not go up and down as a tale-bearer among thy people.” “A tale-bearer revealeth secrets; but he that is a faithful spirit concealeth the matter.” “The words of a tale-bearer are as wounds, and they go down into the innermost parts of the belly.” “He that goeth about as a tale-bearer revealethsecrets, therefore meddle not with him that flattereth with his lips.” “Where there is no tale-bearer, the strife ceaseth.” “They learn to be idle, wandering about from house to house; and not only idlers, but tattlers also, and busy-bodies, speaking things which they ought not.”
The following recipe is said to be an effectual cure of the mouth-disease of the tale-bearer. It is given in the hope that all who are so affected will give it a fair trial:—
“Take of good nature, one ounce; mix this with a little ‘charity-for-others’ and two or three sprigs of ‘keep-your-tongue-between-your-teeth;’ simmer them together in a vessel called ‘circumspection’ for a short time, and it will be fit for application. The symptom is a violent itching in the tongue and roof of the mouth, which invariably takes place when you are in company with a species of animals called ‘Gossips.’ When you feel a fit of the disorder coming on, take a teaspoonful of the mixture, hold it in your mouth, which you will keep closely shut till you get home, and you will find a complete cure. Should you apprehend a relapse, keep a small bottleful about you, and on the slightest symptom repeat the dose.”
Thisis a talker of a very accommodating kind. He is pliable as an elastic bow. He takes any shape in sentiment or opinion you please to give him, with most obliging disposition. As you think, so he thinks; as you say, so he says. If you deny, he denies; if you affirm, he affirms. He is no wrangler or disputant, no dogmatist or snubber. You may always rely upon having a hearing from him, whatever you say. And observe this, what he is to you, so he is to others, however averse they may be in sentiment to yourself. He is very much of a weathercock-make in his intellect. It seems to be fixed on a pivot, and from whichever point of the compass the wind blows in the talking world he veers round to that quarter. His pet expressions are, “Yes, truly;” “Just so;” “I believe that;” “Nothing is truer;” “That is what I have said many a time,” etc. I am not, however, disposed to think that this vacillationis owing to moral weakness so much as to want of mental calibre in independent and manly exercise.
In some it is a habit formed as the result of a desire to stand on friendly terms with everybody they hold conversation.
“It is a very fine morning, Mr. Long,” said Mr. Oakes, as he met him one day in Bond Street.
“Very fine, indeed,” said Mr. Long.
“I think we are going to have settled weather now after such a succession of storms.”
“O, yes, I think so, Mr. Oakes.”
“Did you mind that picture of Wellington as you came by Brown’s shop. Is it not fine? Did you ever see a better likeness of the glorious hero of Waterloo than that? Is it not grand?”
“It is indeed grand. I never saw anything like it. I think with you, Mr. Oakes.”
“That is a magnificent building, Mr. Long, which is in course of erection in Adelaide Street. It will be an honour to the architect, the proprietor, and the city.”
“It is indeed a magnificent building, and it will do honour to the architect, the proprietor, and the city,” replied Mr. Long.
“Did you hear Mr. Bowles lecture the other night? Was it not a grand piece of eloquence, of originality, and of literary power? I think that it was super-excellent.”
“Just so, Mr. Oakes. It was, as you say, super-excellent; that is the exact idea. It was everything you describe. I fully concur in your remarks.”
“But I did not think much of the man that supplied our pulpit on Sunday morning. He was too long, too loose, and too loud; a very poor substitute for our beloved pastor.”
“Those are exactly my views upon that subject,” responded Long.
“My opinion is that the probability of the restoration of Popery in this country was never so strong as now, and unless something be done to interpose, it will become more probable still.”
“Just so, Mr. Oates. My opinion is precisely the same as yours upon that point. We agree exactly.”
“I think Mr. Gladstone’s pamphlet on the Vatican Decrees is likely to produce a reactionary effect upon the patronage of the Romanists in his future support as the Liberal leader.”
“That is what I think too, Mr. Oakes. It is very likely, as you say, to be so. Your mind and mine agree upon that particular also.”
“I have a strong impression that the Public Worship Act will have little effect in arresting the progress of Ritualism, because of the apathy of the Bishops.”
“That is just my impression, Mr. Oakes.”
“Do you not think, Mr. Long, that the scepticism of the age is very subtle, powerful, and dangerous?”
“Yes, truly, Mr. Oakes, I do indeed think that the scepticism of the age is all you say it is.”
“I did not say it was so; you mistook my question for a statement, Mr. Long.”
With some little tremor, as though he had givenoffence, Mr. Long said, “Oh dear no; you did not say so: I have made a mistake; do pardon me, Mr. Oakes.”
“That notion of George Eliot, taught in the following lines, is full of atheistic teaching, and likely to be mischievous in its influence. Speaking of his wish to have an immortality, his notion of it is only that of living in the minds of others in subsequent ages:—
‘O may I join the choir invisibleOf those immortal dead, who live againIn minds made better by their presence:So to live is heaven.’
His notion of a heaven, you see, is limited to a life of immortality among the dead, who live in others made better by them—a posthumous influence for good is his only heaven.”
“Yes, I see, Mr. Oakes,” answered Long. “Just so: I believe all you say. You have expressed what I think about the atheistic theory of George Eliot.”
It was in this way that Mr. Long assented to Mr. Oakes in everything he said. They separated, and each went on his way. As Mr. Long walked down the street, who should meet him but Mr. Stearns? and he began his conversation somewhat in the same order as Mr. Oakes, only he happened to take in almost every particular an opposite view. But this was of no consequence to Mr. Long. Both Mr. Oakes and Mr. Stearns were his intimate friends, though not friends of each other, and he did not wish to disagree witheither, so he assented to everything Stearns said with as much readiness and affability as he did to what Oakes said.
The above is a brief specimen of the assenter in conversation. His fault shows itself to every observer; and if it is not a moral fault, it certainly is an intellectual one. Every man in conversation ought to have a mind of his own for free and independent thought; and while he does not dogmatically and doggedly bring it into contact with others, he should avoid making it the tool of another man’s. He should not throw it, as clay, into everybody’s mental mould which comes in his way, to receive any shape which may be given to it. This issoftnesswhich a healthful state of any mind does not justify—which the natural intellectual rights of man condemn. It is apliabilityof mind which no honourable man requires in conversation, and which he does not approve. It is mental stultification. It confines the action of mind to one party, and limits the circle of conversation to the compass which that mind pleases to give it. The proper contact of mind in conversation is mutual stimulus to action. Friction produces fire, and when there are wise hands to supply suitable material on both sides, a genial glowing heat is the result, which thaws out the frigidness that otherwise might exist. Each one warms himself at the other’s fire; all who listen feel the influence, and lasting are the benefits which flow from such conversation.