Of all the wares and commodities in exchange and barter, wherein so
mainly consists the civilization 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 Honor, 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 hullaboloo
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, Honor, 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!