It would be an interesting occupation for an otherwise idle man to
trace the origin of some of our best after-dinner anecdotes. How often
it happens that we hear a story told which in its main features we
recognise as an old acquaintance, but with so much alteration in its
details that we can hardly believe it to be the same.
'Ah!' we say, with a knowing look, 'I have heard that story before; but
I always thought it referred to Lord So-and-so, or the Duke of ----;'
as the case may be.
'O no,' replies the story-teller, rather injured that we should doubt
his veracity. 'I assure you I heard it from Mr So-and-so, who knew all
about it. Indeed he is first cousin to the nephew of Lord ----; and so
I can't be wrong.'
'Indeed,' we reply; and the subject drops. But all the same we hold to
our previous opinion, and always tell the story our own way.
And after all, it is not so much a want of truthfulness which is
at the bottom of these variations of the same tale, as weakness of
memory, or absence of the power of clearly arranging in our minds the
different localities and personages which belong to the anecdotes told.
There is that story of the parrot, for instance, who at a very dull
dinner-party where conversation lagged terribly, was heard to observe
in a solemn voice, during one of the 'awful pauses' which occurred so
frequently, 'Sorry I spoke!' Only a few days after that anecdote was
related to us, we heard that 'there was once a parrot who was present
at family prayers, and didn't conduct himself with that reverence
which appertains to such times, but would make remarks more or less
intelligible, to the world at large. At last the master of the house
lost all patience, and signed to one of the tittering domestics to
remove Polly from the scene. As he was being carried out of the door
the bird was heard to remark in a gruff voice, "Sorry I spoke!" to the
utter discomfiture of all present.' Of course we laughed heartily,
and apparently enjoyed the joke; but all the same we felt there was
something wrong somewhere, and that _one_ of these stories must owe
something to the invention of the narrator.
In fact, try as hard as we may, it is almost impossible to retail a
piece of information exactly as we received it. Our younger readers
(and it would not perhaps be _infra dig._ for some elder ones) may test
this for themselves by playing at the Russian game of Truth. One of the
party composes a short story, which is written for future reference.
He then communicates it in a whisper to another, who similarly imparts
it confidentially to a third, and so on. The last member of the party
then states what was confided to him as 'the truth;' and then the last
but one; till it has reached the composer of the tale, who then reads
aloud what was actually the original of all these various statements.
And no comment on the mischief and untruthfulness of gossip could be
more pungent than the utter discrepancy which always exists between the
different accounts. Sometimes the story is so altered in transmission
from one to the other, and that most unintentionally, that we can
scarcely recognise the original in the case of the two or three who
last heard and repeated it.
How often has that tale been told of an Irishman, which originally came
from America. As we first heard it, it stood thus: 'An American lawyer
defending a client who was accused of cracking a kettle which he had
borrowed, stated that in his defence there would be three distinct
points: First, that the kettle was cracked when we borrowed it; second,
that it was whole when we returned it; and third, that we never had
it at all.' Surely Paddy has 'bulls' enough of his own to answer for
without having any Yankee importations to add to the list. Who but an
Irishman, when he was told of a man who had had the smallpox _twice_,
and died of it, would have anxiously inquired: 'Did he die the first
time or the second? And yet we have heard that story claimed for an
Englishman and an American; and we have no means of correcting our
informants.
We would strongly recommend to all 'diners-out' who attempt to enliven
the company by anecdotes, to be very cautious as to the place where and
the time when they tell their stories. Otherwise they may sometimes
find themselves placed in very awkward predicaments. How uncomfortable,
for example, the lady would have felt who sat next Buckland the
geologist at a dinner-party if she had been enlarging on the appearance
of a poor stone-breaker by the road-side to whom she had given a
shilling, when he--the poor stone-breaker in his dinner dress--so
naïvely produced, with a quiet smile, the very coin she had given him!
By the way, the same story is told of Professor Sedgwick.
Then there is the warning example of the lady who had lately married
an Oxford undergraduate. Before he took his wife to see his university
town, where circumstances obliged him to live a little longer, he told
her with great difficulty, and after much hesitation, that he had
been--er--er--'what they called "plucked."[A] The hesitation which
he displayed was attributed to modesty; and to his astonishment, his
wife, in her ignorance of the meaning of the term, joyfully exclaimed:
'Yes; to be sure you were, you clever dear!' He was so completely
taken aback by this unexpected reply, that he couldn't put her right
by an explanation, which would have been painful to both parties. He
therefore left matters as they were. They went to Oxford, and were
asked to breakfast with a large party at the rooms of his college
tutor. What was his horror when, in the middle of the repast, he heard
his wife (and his tutor, who was sitting opposite, evidently heard her
too) say to her next neighbour: 'My husband gained such honours when he
was up here, you know. He was what you call "plucked," you know!' We
draw a veil of oblivion over the poor young man's feelings, and hope
the lesson will not be lost upon our readers of both sexes.
There is an unconscious plagiarism about some people which leads them
to appropriate to themselves anecdotes which they have heard of the
doings or sayings of other and greater people. This is especially the
case with the witty and wise sayings of such men as Sydney Smith and
Sheridan. How many have claimed to be the author of Sheridan's answer
to the lady who accused him of having gone out when he had told her
it rained heavily--'It cleared up enough for one, but not enough for
two!' We often wonder whether people who do this kind of thing have
invented for themselves a special code of morality, such as that which
prevails with regard to other people's umbrellas. Then, again, it must
be very unpleasant to hear your own _bon-mots_ attributed to others, or
to have some inferior saying of the speaker fathered upon you. Shade
of the immortal Shakspeare! how often has that honoured name been used
to gain a hearing for some vapid but high-sounding moral axiom; while
Solomon's Proverbs have been filched and reproduced, more or less
'watered,' by writers of all ages. Who hasn't been told of Sir _Walter_
Scott the story which belongs of right to Sir William Scott (brother
to Lord Eldon). When a celebrated physician said to him: 'You know,
after forty, a man is always either a fool or a physician;' Sir William
replied: 'Perhaps he may be both, doctor.' It has been well said that,
'in conversation a wise man may be at a loss how to begin; but a fool
never knows how to stop.' Perhaps some of our readers are thinking this
may apply to an article in a magazine as well. And indeed one story
suggests another, till we might fill pages with anecdotes we have heard
or read.
But before we stop we may perhaps be allowed to quote a most excellent
rule for the guidance of all who tell stories which involve other
people. It is this: Before you begin, ask yourself--Is it true? Is it
necessary? Is it kind? Perhaps you have the gift (and it is a most
valuable one) of being able to tell a good story well; if so, remember
what the mother of Philip, Duke of Orleans, said of her son: 'Though
good fairies have gifted my son at his birth with numerous qualities,
one envious member of the sisterhood has spitefully decreed that he
shall never know how to use any of these gifts.' There is an old
proverb (not Solomon's) which says, 'Never play with edge-tools.'