“THE foolish thing!” said my Aunt Rachel, speaking warmly, “to get hurt
at a mere word. It's a little hard that people can't open their lips but
somebody is offended.”
“Words are things!” said I, smiling.
“Very light things! A person must be tender indeed, that is hurt by a
word.”
“The very lightest thing may hurt, if it falls on a tender place.”
“I don't like people who have these tender places,” said Aunt Rachel. “I
never get hurt at what is said to me. No--never! To be ever picking
and mincing, and chopping off your words--to be afraid to say this or
that--for fear somebody will be offended! I can't abide it.”
“People who have these tender places can't help it, I suppose. This
being so, ought we not to regard their weakness?” said I. “Pain,
either of body or mind, is hard to bear, and we should not inflict it
causelessly.”
“People who are so wonderfully sensitive,” replied Aunt Rachel, growing
warmer, “ought to shut themselves up at home, and not come among
sensible, good-tempered persons. As far as I am concerned, I can tell
them, one and all, that I am not going to pick out every hard word from
a sentence as carefully as I would seeds from a raisin. Let them crack
them with their teeth, if they are afraid to swallow them whole.”
Now, for all that Aunt Rachel went on after this strain, she was a kind,
good soul, in the main, and, I could see, was sorry for having hurt the
feelings of Mary Lane. But she didn't like to acknowledge that she was
in the wrong; that would detract too much from the self-complacency with
which she regarded herself. Knowing her character very well, I thought
it best not to continue the little argument about the importance of
words, and so changed the subject. But, every now and then, Aunt Rachel
would return to it, each time softening a little towards Mary. At last
she said,
“I'm sure it was a little thing. A very little thing. She might have
known that nothing unkind was intended on my part.”
“There are some subjects, aunt,” I replied, “to which we cannot bear the
slightest allusion. And a sudden reference to them is very apt to throw
us off of our guard. What you said to Mary has, in all probability
touched some weakness of character, or probed some wound that time
has not been able to heal. I have always thought her a sensible,
good-natured girl.”
“And so have I. But I really cannot think that she has showed her good
sense or good nature in the present case. It is a very bad failing this,
of being over sensitive; and exceedingly annoying to one's friends.”
“It is, I know; but still, all of, us have a weak point, and to her that
is assailed, we are very apt to betray our feelings.”
“Well, I say now, as I have always said--I don't like to have anything
to do with people who have these weak points. This being hurt by a word,
as if words were blows, is something that does not come within the range
of my sympathies.”
“And yet, aunt,” said I, “all have weak points. Even you are not
entirely free from them.”
“Me!” Aunt Rachel bridled.
“Yes; and if even as light a thing as a word were to fall upon them, you
would suffer pain.”
“Pray, sir,” said Aunt Rachel, with much dignity of manner; she
was chafed by my words, light as they were, “inform me where these
weaknesses, of which you are pleased to speak, lie.”
“Oh, no; you must excuse me. That would be very much out of place. But I
only stated a general fact that appertains to all of us.”
Aunt Rachel looked very grave. I had laid the weight of words upon a
weakness of her character, and it had given her pain. That weakness was
a peculiarly good opinion of herself. I had made no allegation against
her; and there was none in my mind. My words simply expressed the
general truth that we all have weaknesses, and included her in their
application. But she imagined that I referred to some particular defect
or fault, and mail-proof as she was against words, they had wounded her.
For a day or two Aunt Rachel remained more sober than was her wont.
I knew the cause, but did not attempt to remove from her mind any
impression my words had made. One day, about a week after, I said to
her,
“Aunt Rachel, I saw Mary Lane's mother this morning.”
“Ah?” The old lady looked up at me inquiringly.
“I don't wonder your words hurt the poor girl,” I added.
“Why? What did I say?” quickly asked Aunt Rachel.
“You said that she was a jilt.”
“But I was only jest, and she knew it. I did not really mean anything.
I'm surprised that Mary should be so foolish.”
“You will not be surprised when you know all,” was my answer.
“All? What all? I'm sure I wasn't in earnest. I didn't mean to hurt the
poor girl's feelings.” My aunt looked very much troubled.
“No one blames you, Aunt Rachel,” said I. “Mary knows you didn't intend
wounding her.”
“But why should she take a little word go much to heart? It must have
had more truth in it than I supposed.”
“Did you know that Mary refused an offer of marriage from Walter Green
last week?”
“Why no! It can't be possible! Refused Walter Green?”
“They've been intimate for a long time.”
“I know.”
“She certainly encouraged him.”
“I think it more than probable.”
“Is it possible, then, that she did really jilt the young man?”
exclaimed Aunt Rachel.
“This has been said of her,” I replied. “But so far as I can learn, she
was really attached to him, and suffered great pain in rejecting his
offer. Wisely she regarded marriage as the most important event of
her life, and refused to make so solemn a contract with one in whose
principles she had not the fullest confidence.”
“But she ought not to have encouraged Walter, if she did not intend
marrying him,” said Aunt Rachel, with some warmth.
“She encouraged him so long as she thought well of him. A closer view
revealed points of character hidden by distance. When she saw these
her feelings were already deeply involved. But, like a true woman, she
turned from the proffered hand, even though while in doing so her heart
palpitated with pain. There is nothing false about Mary Lane. She could
no more trifle with a lover than she could commit a crime. Think, then,
how almost impossible it would be for her to hear herself called, under
existing circumstances, even in sport, a jilt, without being hurt. Words
sometimes have power to hurt more than blows. Do you not see this, now,
Aunt Rachel?”
“Oh, yes, yes. I see it; and I saw it before,” said the old lady. “And
in future I will be more careful of my words. It is pretty late in life
to learn this lesson--but we are never too late to learn. Poor Mary! It
grieves me to think that I should have hurt her so much.”
Yes, words often have in them a smarting force, and we cannot be too
guarded how we use them. “Think twice before you speak once,” is a trite
but wise saying. We teach it to our children very carefully, but are too
apt to forget that it has not lost its application to ourselves.