Of all the wares and commodities in exchange and barter, wherein so
mainly consists the civilisation of our modern world, there is not
one which is so carefully weighed--so accurately measured--so plumbed
and gauged--so doled and scraped--so poured out in _minima_ and
balanced with scruples--as that necessary of social commerce called
"an apology!" If the chemists were half so careful in vending their
poisons, there would be a notable diminution in the yearly average
of victims to arsenic and oxalic acid. But, alas, in the matter
of apology, it is not from the excess of the dose, but the timid,
niggardly, miserly manner in which it is dispensed, that poor Humanity
is hurried off to the Styx! How many times does a life depend on the
exact proportions of an apology! Is it a hairbreadth too short to
cover the scratch for which you want it? Make your will--you are a
dead man! A life do I say?--a hecatomb of lives! How many wars would
have been prevented, how many thrones would be standing, dynasties
flourishing--commonwealths brawling round a _bema_, or fitting out
galleys for corn and cotton--if an inch or two more of apology had
been added to the proffered ell! But then that plaguy, jealous,
suspicious, old vinegar-faced Honour, and her partner Pride--as
penny-wise and pound-foolish a she-skinflint as herself--have the
monopoly of the article. And what with the time they lose in adjusting
their spectacles, hunting in the precise shelf for the precise quality
demanded, then (quality found) the haggling as to quantum--considering
whether it should be Apothecary's weight or Avoirdupois, or English
measure or Flemish--and, finally, the hullabaloo they make if the
customer is not perfectly satisfied with the monstrous little he gets
for his money,--I don't wonder, for my part, how one loses temper and
patience, and sends Pride, Honour, and Apology, all to the devil.
Aristophanes, in his "Comedy of _Peace_," insinuates a beautiful
allegory by only suffering that goddess, though in fact she is his
heroine, to appear as a mute. She takes care never to open her lips.
The shrewd Greek knew very well that she would cease to be Peace, if
she once began to chatter. Wherefore, O reader, if ever you find your
pump under the iron heel of another man's boot, heaven grant that
you may hold your tongue, and not make things past all endurance and
forgiveness by bawling out for an apology!