e chatter-boxes, as any
man who knows this world knows. They take the privilege of their gown.
They cabal, and tattle, and hiss, and cackle comminations under their
breath. I say the old women of the other sex are not more talkative or
more mischievous than some of these. "Such a man ought not to be spoken
to," says Gobemouche, narrating the story--and such a story! "And I am
surprised he is admitted into society at all." Yes, dear Gobemouche,
but the story wasn't true; and I had no more done the wicked deed in
question than I had run away with the Queen of Sheba.

I have always longed to know what that story was (or what collection
of histories), which a lady had in her mind to whom a servant of mine
applied for a place, when I was breaking up my establishment once and
going abroad. Brown went with a very good character from us, which,
indeed, she fully deserved after several years' faithful service. But
when Mrs. Jones read the name of the person out of whose employment
Brown came, "That is quite sufficient," says Mrs. Jones. "You may go.
I will never take a servant out of THAT house." Ah, Mrs. Jones, how
I should like to know what that crime was, or what that series of
villanies, which made you determine never to take a servant out of my
house. Do you believe in the story of the little boy and the sausages?
Have you swallowed that little minced infant? Have you devoured that
young Polonius? Upon my word you have maw enough. We somehow greedily
gobble down all stories in which the characters of our friends are
chopped up, and believe wrong of them without inquiry. In a late serial
work written by this hand, I remember making some pathetic remarks
about our propensity to believe ill of our neighbors--and I remember
the remarks, not because they were valuable, or novel, or ingenious,
but because, within three days after they had appeared in print, the
moralist who wrote them, walking home with a friend, heard a story about
another friend, which story he straightway believed, and which story was
scarcely more true than that sausage fable which is here set down. O mea
culpa, mea maxima culpa! But though the preacher trips, shall not the
doctrine be good? Yea, brethren! Here be the rods. Look you, here are
the scourges. Choose me a nice long, swishing, buddy one, light and
well-poised in the handle, thick and bushy at the tail. Pick me out a
whip-cord thong with some dainty knots in it--and now--we all deserve
it--whish, w