hiss, and cackle comminations under
their breath. I say the old women of the other sex are not more
talkative or more mischievous than some of these. "Such a man ought not
to be spoken to", says Gobemouche, narrating the story--and such a
story! "And I am surprised he is admitted into society at all." Yes,
dear Gobemouche, but the story wasn't true: and I had no more done the
wicked deed in question than I had run away with the Queen of Sheba.

I have always longed to know what that story was (or what collection of
histories), which a lady had in her mind to whom a servant of mine
applied for a place, when I was breaking up my establishment once, and
going abroad. Brown went with a very good character from us, which,
indeed, she fully deserved after several years' faithful service. But
when Mrs. Jones read the name of the person out of whose employment
Brown came, "That is quite sufficient", says Mrs. Jones. "You may go. I
will never take a servant out of _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