_THE DOUBLE-TONGUED._
"Think'st thou there are no serpents in the world
But those who slide along the glassy sod,
And sting the luckless foot that presses them?
There are who in the path of social life
Do bask their spotted skins in fortune's sun,
And sting the soul."
JOANNA BAILLIE.
He is so called because he carries two tongues in one--one for your
presence and one for your absence; one sweet as honey, the other bitter
as gall; one with which he oils you, the other with which he stings you.
In talking _with_ you he is bland and affable; but in talking _about_
you he detracts or slanders. The other night, when at your hospitable
board, he was complimentary and friendly; the night after, at the
hospitable board of your neighbour, in your absence, he had no good word
to say of you.
Such is the versatility of his nature, that he is called by a variety of
names. Sometimes he is named "_Double-faced_," because he has two faces
answering to his two tongues. Sometimes he is named "_Backbiter_,"
because if he ever bite any one it is behind his back, where he thinks
he is not seen; and so soon is he out of sight, that you can only learn
who has bitten you from some honest friend that saw him do it and
instantly hide himself under a covering which he always carries about
with him for such occasions. He is sometimes named a "_Sneak_," because
he has not courage to say candidly to your face what he means, but
creeps about slyly among other people to say it, that he may evade your
notice, and at the same time retain your confidence in him as a personal
friend. He is sometimes named a "_Snake-in-the-grass_," because he
secretes himself in shady places, waiting his opportunity to sting
without your knowing how or by whom it was done. In fine, he has been
named a "_Hypocrite_," who comes to you in "sheep's clothing," but is in
truth a "ravening wolf."
"His love is lust, his friendship all a cheat,
His smiles hypocrisy, his words deceit."
He welcomes you with a shake of the hand at his door, and says in soft
flattering words, "How glad I am to see you, Mr. Johnson! Pray do walk
in;" and while you are laying your hat, gloves, and umbrella on the hall
table, he whispers to some one in the parlour, "_That Johnson has just
come in, and I am sure I don't care to see him_."
Mrs. Stubbs informs her husband on arriving home in the evening that she
met Mrs. Nobbs in the street, and invited her to take a friendly cup of
tea with them to-morrow, and then adds with emphasis, "_but I do hope
she will not come!_"
A young gentleman complimented Miss Stokoe the other night in company
upon her "exquisite touch on the piano" and the "nightingale tones of
her voice in singing;" but as he was walking home from the party with
Miss Nance, he said to her (of course in the absence of Miss Stokoe)
that "_Miss Stokoe, after all that is said in her praise, is no more
than an ordinary pianist and singer_."
"That was a most excellent sermon you gave us this morning," said Mr.
Clarke to the Rev. T. Ross, as he was dining with him at his house. "I
hope it will not be long before you visit us again."
"I am obliged for your compliment," replied Mr. Ross.
A day or two after Mr. Clarke was heard to say that he had never
listened to such "_a dull sermon, and he hoped it would be a long time
ere the reverend gentleman appeared in their pulpit again_."
"What darling little cherubs your twins are," said Mrs. Horton to Mrs.
Shenstone in an afternoon gathering of ladies at her house. "I really
should be proud of them if they were mine: such lovely eyes, such rosy
cheeks, such beautiful hair, and withal such sweet expressions of the
countenance! And then, how tastily they are dressed! Dear darlings! come
and kiss me."
Mrs. Shenstone smiled complacently in return; and shortly after retired
from the room, when the two "little cherubs" approached their prodigious
admirer, with a view to make friends and impress upon her the solicited
kiss. She instantly put them at arm's length from her, saying to Mrs.
Teague, who sat next her, "_What pests these little things are, treading
on my dress, and obtruding their presence on me like this. I do wish
Mrs. Shenstone had taken them out of the room with her_."
"I am deeply grieved to learn," said Farmer Shirley one day to his
neighbour, Farmer Stout, "that your circumstances are such as they are.
Now, if you think I can help you in any way, do not be backward in
sending to me. You shall always find a friend in me."
That very afternoon this same farmer Shirley was heard to say in a
company of farmers at the "Queen's Head" that Stout had brought all his
difficulties upon himself, and _he was not sorry for him a bit_. The
next day Stout availed himself of the "great kindness" offered him by
Shirley, and sent to ask the loan of a pound to pay the baker's bill, in
order to keep the "staff of life" in the house for his family; when
Shirley sent word back to him that he had "no pounds to lend anybody,
much less one _who had by his own extravagance brought himself into such
difficult circumstances_."
This double-tongued talker is not unfrequently met with in public
meetings. Especially is he heard in "moving votes of thanks," and
"drinking toasts." Fulsome praises and glowing eulogiums are poured out
by him in rich abundance, which, as soon as the meetings are over, are
eaten up again by the same person, but of course in the absence of his
much-admired gods.
It would not be difficult to go on with instances illustrative of these
double-tongued exercises. They are almost as universal as the
multifarious phases of society. They are met with in the street, in the
shop, in the family, in the church, in the court, in the palace and
cottage, among the rich and poor.
Addison, in writing of this fault in talking in his times, gives a
letter which he says was written in King Charles the Second's reign by
the "ambassador of Bantam to his royal master a little after his arrival
in England." The following is a copy, which will show how in those days
the double-tongued talked, and how the writer, a stranger in this
country, was impressed by it.
"MASTER,--The people where I now am have tongues further from their
hearts than from London to Bantam, and thou knowest the inhabitants
of one of these places do not know what is done in the other. They
call thee and thy subjects barbarians, because we speak what we
mean, and account themselves a civilized people because they speak
one thing and mean another; truth they call barbarity, and
falsehood politeness. Upon my first landing, one, who was sent by
the king of this place to meet me, told me that he was extremely
sorry for the storm I had met with just before my arrival. I was
troubled to hear him grieve and afflict himself on my account; but
in less than a quarter of an hour he smiled, and was as merry as if
nothing had happened. Another who came with him told me, by my
interpreter, he should be glad to do me any service that lay in his
power; upon which I desired him to carry one of my portmanteaux for
me; but, instead of serving me according to his promise, he
laughed, and bid another do it. I lodged the first week at the
house of one who desired me to think myself at home, and to
consider his house as my own. Accordingly I the next morning began
to knock down one of the walls of it, in order to let in the fresh
air, and had packed up some of the household goods, of which I
intended to have made thee a present; but the false varlet no
sooner saw me falling to work but he sent me word to desire me to
give over, for that he would have no such doings in his house. I
had not been long in this nation before I was told by one for whom
I had asked a certain favour from the chief of the king's servants,
whom they here call the lord-treasurer, that I had eternally
obliged him. I was so surprised at his gratitude that I could not
forbear saying, 'What service is there which one man can do for
another that can oblige him to all eternity?' However, I only asked
him, for my reward, that he would lend me his eldest daughter
during my stay in this country; but I quickly found that he was as
treacherous as the rest of his countrymen.
"At my first going to court, one of the great men almost put me out
of countenance by asking ten thousand pardons of me for only
treading by accident upon my toe. They call this kind of lie a
compliment; for when they are civil to a great man, they tell him
untruths, for which thou wouldst order any of thy officers of
state to receive a hundred blows on his foot. I do not know how I
shall negotiate anything with this people, since there is so little
credit to be given to them. When I go to see the king's scribe, I
am generally told that he is not at home, though perhaps I saw him
go into his house almost the very moment before. Thou wouldst fancy
that the whole nation are physicians, for the first question they
always ask me is, how I do; I have this question put to me above a
hundred times a day; nay, they are not only thus inquisitive after
my health, but wish it in a more solemn manner, with a full glass
in their hands, every time I sit with them at the table, though at
the same time they would persuade me to drink their liquors in such
quantities as I have found by experience will make me sick.
"They often pretend to pray for thy health also in the same manner;
but I have more reason to expect it from the goodness of thy
constitution than the sincerity of their wishes. May thy slave
escape in safety from this double-tongued race of men, and live to
lay himself once more at thy feet in the royal city of Bantam."
This double-tonguedness of which we have spoken is anything but
creditable to an age that makes claim to such a high state of
civilisation, to say nothing of Christianity. It shows a gilded or
superficial state of things, which cannot but end in consequences
disastrous and irremediable.
The finical and fashionable may call the candid speaker a boar, and shun
him. He may be an outcast from their society: but, after all, his
honesty and candour will wear better and longer than their sham and
shoddy. His "Nay, nay," and "Yea, yea," will outlast and outshine their
double-tongued prevarication and flattery. Better a boar--if you know
him to be such--than a wolf in sheep's clothing. A rough friend is more
valuable than a hypocritical sycophant.
"As thistles wear the softest down
To hide their prickles till they're grown,
And then declare themselves, and tear
Whatever ventures to come near;
So a smooth knave does greater feats
Than one that idly rails and threats;
And all the mischief that he meant,
Does, like the rattlesnake, prevent."
Archbishop Tillotson, in speaking of this subject in his day, says, "The
old English plainness and sincerity, that generous integrity of nature
and honesty of disposition, which always argues true greatness of mind,
and is usually accompanied with undaunted courage and resolution, is in
a great measure lost amongst us.
"It is hard to say whether it should more provoke our contempt or our
pity to hear what solemn expressions of respect and kindness will pass
between men almost upon no occasion; how great honour and esteem they
will declare for one whom, perhaps, they never saw before; and how
entirely they are all on a sudden devoted to his service and interest,
for no reason; how infinitely and eternally obliged to him, for no
benefit; and how extremely they will be concerned for him, yea, and
afflicted too, for no cause. I know it is said in justification of this
hollow kind of conversation that there is no harm, no real deceit in
compliment, but the matter is well enough so long as we understand one
another; words are like money, and when the current value of them is
generally understood, no man is cheated by them. This is something, if
such words were anything; but being brought into the account they are
mere cyphers. However, it is a just matter of complaint that sincerity
and plainness are out of fashion, and that our language is running into
a lie; that men have almost quite perverted the use of speech, and made
words to signify nothing; that the greatest part of the conversation of
mankind is little else but driving a trade of dissimulation.
"If the show of anything be good for anything, I am sure sincerity is
better: for why does any man dissemble, or seem to be that which he is
not, but because he thinks it good to have such a quality as he pretends
to? Now the best way in the world to seem to be anything is really to be
what he would seem to be. Besides that, it is many times as troublesome
to make good the pretence of a good quality as to have it; and if a man
have it not, it is ten to one but he is discovered to want it; and then
all his pains and labour to seem to have it are lost."