University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
THE STORIES OF THE HONEST CRITIC, THE
DUELLIST, AND THE MAN OF TRUTH.

“My friend Ticklum mistakes,” said Mr.
Slasher, a smart young gentleman, who, instead
of listening with respect to gather wisdom
as it fell from the lips of his senior, whistled
fol-de-rol-dol all the time, but now made me
a bow and began: “I owe my downfall less
to my virtues than to a display of them highly
imprudent in my situation. My idea of virtue
is, that a man likes it well enough, even
in practice, so long as it is exercised only at
the expense of his neighbours; and this
opinion I consider susceptible of proof. Thus,
being a critic, (for, you must know, I was
junior editor and sole censor of a literary

print,) I had a notion, my readers would be delighted
with the honesty that served them up
an author, handsomely roasted and well done,
every week: for I have long observed that the
world has as natural a hankering after author-baitings
as after the baitings of bulls and bears.
This idea I was confirmed in by finding, that
although I, in pursuance of the system I had
begun, puffed all and every thing brought
before me with all my might, our paper, indifferently
countenanced at the first, grew poorer
in patronage every day; so that the principal
conductor at last deserted it entirely, and I
was advanced to his vacant chair. I resolved
as my friend Ticklum says, to turn over a new
leaf, and strike a sensation, by impaling every
scribbler I could lay hands on;—and, that I
might at once get a reputation for impartiality,
which I thought would be useful, I began the
campaign by demolishing a book written
by one of my own friends who had often lamented
that books were praised too indiscriminately.
The book was an uncommonly bad
one, and, as I may say, I did no more than
tell the truth of it. But that truth killed me.
It was thought so extraordinary, first that a
critic should, in these days, treat a book according
to its merits, and, secondly, that he
should speak the truth of his own friend, that
there was no way of accounting for the phenomenon,
except by supposing I had had a
quarrel with the gentleman; or, in failure of
that, that I had suddenly lost my senses. It
was proved that the author had never offended
me. The inference was therefore inevitable;
and here I am.

“If you can suppose the impartiality that
arose from selfish considerations a virtue,
why then, it must be admitted, the world
treated me ungenerously. But my own
opinion,” added the graceless critic, “is that
it was a proper punishment for my folly.
Critics and authors have a common interest,
and should hunt in couples, bamboozling mankind
together. If you will have a proper
confirmation of Ticklum's doctrine on the
subject of virtue, apply to my friend Lawless
there, who can discourse feelingly on the
subject.”

“He says the truth,” said Mr. Lawless, a
lugubrious looking person, who now took up
the thread of his discourse. “Society flattered
me into a virtue, and drove me into a
vice, for daring to practise which I was, in
both cases, equally punished.

“My story is short and simple. My father

was a man of just temper and morals, wise,
upright, and religious, and instilled into my
mind, from the earliest days, his own lofty
principles. He taught me to be patient under
wrong, to forgive offence, to forbear revenge;
and the world itself told me, that to do so
was magnanimity and religion. What my
father had inculcated, what society insisted
on, I found sanctioned and supported by own
feelings. I, therefore, when my principles
were brought to a trial, did what I had no
doubt the world expected of me—I held fast
to them. I was a man of peace, and sought
to pass blameless through the world. But I
could not avoid the contests and bickerings
incident to all who mingle with their fellows:
I had no protection against the wrath of the
bully and the injuries of the ill-tempered.

“It was my misfortune to quarrel with a
man, who was emboldened by a knowledge
of my peaceful principles, (for I had acted on
them, though not under such urgent circumstances,
before,) to treat me with the greatest
insult, and even violence; and, not content
with having thus disgraced me, he even proceeded
to the length of challenging me to a
duel. My feelings, sir, were as keen, my
sense of the outrage as bitter, my sufferings

under the shame as great, as any man's could
have been; but I could not shed the blood of
the wronger. I thought of the instructions
of my father, I thought of the precepts of my
religion, I thought of the testimony society
had so long and so loudly borne against the
duellist, and I refused to take vengeance.
This, I had been told before, was magnanimity
and true courage: society now, to my
surprise, told me it was cowardice.

“I do not believe I am, or ever was, a
coward—but that is no matter. But grant
that it was cowardice—what was there in it
to require, or authorize, punishment? Does
cowardice commit murder? does it steal? does
it burn? does it defraud? It is, certainly,
not a crime; yet what crime is punished with
greater severity? Contempt is to man's spirit
what the scourge is to his body; and contempt
is the lash with which the world arms
itself against the man convicted of the felony
of fear. We are brave or timid as God
makes us. If courage be a virtue, why not
fear? It is an agent, and a powerful one, in
repressing evil, and, therefore, given to man
for his good. How absurd to punish that to
which both religion and law address themselves,
to win the human race from crime!

At all events, it is only negatively evil, as implying
the absence of a quality that man
boasts in common with beasts of prey.

“But it is not my object to refine on this
subject. I leave it to philosophers to determine
in what degree, and in what way, turpitude
is involved in timidity. Granting that
I was a craven, (for it is now indifferent to
me what imputation may rest on my name,)
what right had society to punish me for
doing a thing it had so long inculcated as a
duty and virtue? I was called a coward, and
was deemed so; my friends looked upon me
with disdain, my late associates repelled me
with scorn. Men sneered openly in my face,
and even woman—the very maid who had at
first swooned with terror at the thought of
my danger in combat—now turned from me
as a creature too dishonourable for notice.
I was posted, blazoned upon the corners, as
a dastard; I was assaulted, too, in the street;
and, my adversary being a man of strength
greater than my own, I was — But why
should I speak it? As far as a man could be
disgraced by the villany of another, I was
disgraced; and the world, which should have
sympathized and pitied, accepted the last
outrage only as a signal for harsher persecution.

I could not defend myself; I sought
protection of the law. The very counsellor
received me with contempt, told me that, in
a case like mine, `no gentleman need be advised
what to do,' and recommended me, `if
I designed carrying my complaint before a
legal tribunal, to seek the assistance of some
pettifogger, whose ideas of honour and duty
corresponded with my own.'—I perceived
that I could obtain no redress, that I could
not even protect myself from future violence,
without incurring additional disgrace.

“Conceive my feelings, conceive what was
my situation. The respect of my fellows
was to me as the breath of life; and I had
lost it. I was a ruined man—rejected, despised,
derided, trampled on—and all because
I had not imbrued my hands in blood—because
I had not committed a crime which the
finger of Heaven and the hearts of man had
pronounced the greatest a mortal could commit.
If my forbearance was a virtue, let
society take the blame of blasting it. Deficient
in spirit or not, I certainly had not
courage to endure universal scorn, to be
pointed at as a branded felon. I sought my
adversary;—I fought him—I killed him.

“I was no longer a coward; but I was a

murderer! The dastard was forgotten, but
the sin of the homicide was inexpiable. The
moment my enemy fell, society became wise
and moral, and I was exiled from its presence
for ever. The latter verdict was just, yet
what produced the crime? Ask yourselves
what encouragement the world gives to the
virtues it so constantly eulogizes? I am the
victim of worldly inconsistency. Society
drove me from my principles, and then punished
me for the dereliction.”

With these words, the unfortunate narrator
made an end of his story, and immediately
after walked away to conceal his agitation,
which appeared to be getting the
mastery of him. His story touched the
tender feelings of Mr. Ticklum, who again
applied to his handkerchief, and declared
with a sob, “the world was mad, and he was
sorry he had ever taken the trouble to edit a
paper for it.” With that, he called upon a
fifth gentleman, a very agreeable, honest-looking
personage, whom he called Frankman,
to relate his experience of the real encouragement
given by mankind to the practice
of virtue.

“In me,” said Mr. Frankman, making me
a polite bow, and laying his hand pathetically

on his heart—“in me you behold a lover of
truth. Truth being a virtue which men universally
pretend to love, as the foundation of
all that is excellent in morals and useful in
science, you may suppose that I, who made
it the rule and pole-star of my existence, was
a special favourite of the world. I assure
you, however, on the contrary, that nobody
who ever lived in the world endured more
constant ill-treatment than I.

“My misfortunes commenced in the earliest
childhood, and were all attributable to a
love of truth instilled into me by my father;
who, while drumming it into my head with
one hand, laboured hard to beat it out with
the other. Thus, I remember, that for every
infantile fib I told, I got a liberal correction,
which served to make fibbing hateful to me;
and for every truth, the same being commonly
a confession of a cat killed, a hen-roost
robbed, or some of the neighbours' children
hit with a pebble in the eye, I had an abundant
birching, which would have made truth-telling
just as abhorrent, had not my father
been at the pains to assure me he castigated,
not my confessions, but my faults, which
would have met with punishment twice as

emphatic, had I made any attempt to conceal
them.

“In this way, my mind got a bias in favour
of truth, which will last me through life.
I carried it to school with me, where, had it
not already become a part and parcel of my
nature, it must have been whipped out of me,
the whole school conspiring against me for
that purpose. Besides confessing all my own
peccadilloes, when called upon to do so by
the master, who invariably flogged me for
them, I felt a similar impulse to confess those
of my schoolmates, who rewarded me in the
same way; and, what with the masters and
boys together, I think there was scarce a
day, for five years together, Sundays and
holydays excepted, that I could not boast at
least one sound buffeting; and that, too, not
for my sins, but the sins of other people.
Sir, it is inexpressible how much my schoolmates
thumped me! They all declared they
hated liars; but, it was evident, their affection
for truth, if that followed as a corollary, was
extremely theoretical. I know, they heartily
hated me in practice.

“The love of truth cost me a fortune, as
it did the fair Cordelia before me. I had an
old aunt, who was somewhat of Lear's complexion;

and being about to make her will,
she assembled her two dozen nephews, to select
a Benjamin, and note him down for the
lion's portion. I was the old lady's favourite;
she loved my love of truth, as she continually
assured me; and a lie would have sealed me
in her heart for ever. `Johnny, my dear,' said
she, giving me a kiss, `if I should leave you
all I am worth in the world, you would be
glad when I died, would'nt you?' `I would,
aunt Sally,' said I: and I told her the truth;
for she was rich as a Jew, and I knew the
value of money. But the truth did not please
the admirer of truth. She turned me out of
the house, and left her money to my cousin
Tommy Whapper, who was the greatest
bouncer I ever knew.'

“The love of truth cost me also a mistress,
and, as my fate would have it, a rich
one; for, having asked me one day, `if I did
not think her nose was crooked,' (that having
been hinted to her by an ill natured friend;)
I told her it was; which was nothing more
than truth; but the consequence was, that she
utterly discarded, and would never more speak
to me.

“In short, sir, the love of truth has caused
me more misfortunes than you can well imagine;

and were I to relate one tithe of the
varied grief it has entailed upon me, I should
occupy your attention for a week. It interfered
with all my plans of life; for my father
being too honest a man to have any thing to
leave me, I was early driven into the world
to shift for myself. I made sundry attempts
while yet a lad, to procure employment in a
counting-house, considering myself well fitted
for the life of a merchant, but was uniformly
rejected for giving too honest an account
of my qualifications. I was kicked out of
the house of a worthy mechanic who had received
me as an apprentice, for telling him a
disagreeable fact in relation to my mistress;
and another, who was a member of a church
and an enemy of my wronger, having received
me into his employ, turned me out neck
and heels, of a winter's day, for confessing
that he cheated his customers.

“How I got along in life, carrying such a
dead weight as veracity on my shoulders, you
may well wonder; as I now do myself. Yet
I have contrived, being of an ingenious turn,
and full of speculations, to mount from my
original humble station on a tailor's board to
avocations of a much more dignified character;
and, as I may say, I have tried my hand

at all the trades and professions, though with
no great success in any. I once set up a
shop, but ruined myself by telling my customers
my goods were not of the best quality;
and I lost an opportunity of making a great
fortune, by admitting to a gentleman, who, in
a great speculation I proposed, was to provide
the means, that his money might, perhaps,
go to Jerusalem.

“I picked up a knowledge of engineering,
and lost my first rail-road by estimating the
cost at the full amount; which caused my
President and Directors to turn me off as an
extravagant dog; while a rival, who reduced
the estimate one half, got the appointment
and ruined the company.

“I began business as a lawyer, and destroyed
all my prospects, by admitting, in my
first cause, that my client was a knave, and
his claim good for nothing; all of which was
exceedingly true; but I never had an opportunity
to admit the same thing of a second.

“I clapped an M. D. to my name, but offended
the few patients who at first encouraged
me, by assuring them their complaints
were trifling, and could be cured without
physic.

“Nay, sir, I even tried my hand at divinity,

and might have been comfortably settled
for life, had I not shocked my congregation
by declaring that creeds, dogmas, and doctrines
had nothing to do with religion, that
good works were better than strong faith, and
that the only duty of the just man was to revere
Heaven and love his neighbours. For this
frank admission, I was discarded by my flock,
and excommunicated by the society.

“Sir, there is no end to the persecutions I
have endured for truth's sake. I have been
slandered and vilified, ridiculed and beaten—
twice caned, four times horse-whipped, and
my nose pulled times without number—and
all because I practised a virtue commended
by every living soul, instilled into children at
the fire-side and in the school-house, inculcated
from the pulpit, and recommended by the
reprobation so universally adjudged to its antagonist
vice. You may ask what cause
brought me to this place, since it must be a
very extraordinary truth that can deserve the
imputation of madness. I know not how that
may be. It is possible, my truths were all
moderate in their character, but it was their
number my friends pleaded against me. They
did not call me a madman, but they were
certain I was—a fool. That, I suppose, was

the reason they sent me hither, to reflect on
my past life, to marvel at the folly, injustice,
and inconsistency of man, and to wonder why
he should dignify with the name of virtues
the qualities to which he awards the penalties
of vices.—But this inconsistency is exemplified
more or less strongly in the story
of every unlucky person here present—perhaps
of every inmate of this Asylum. I
would venture a wager in any sum you please
—provided I had it—that we might single
out any person we pleased from among the
multitude, with the certain assurance that his
story, truly told, would be one more illustration
added to the many you have heard, of
the inconsistency of mankind on this particular
subject.”

“No doubt of it,” said Mr. Ticklum; “and
here, as it chances, comes a new companion
in misery, upon whom we may try the experiment.—There,
you see, Simpkins, the raseally
keeper, is turning the poor gentleman into
the yard among us.”

It was as Mr. Ticklum said. At that moment,
the gate was opened by one
of the
keepers, who thrust into the enclosure a very
sad and solemn-looking stranger, who, approaching,
dropt us a profound congee, and

then made as if he would have passed on to
bury his woes in the remotest nook of the
garden.

“Sir,” said Mr. Ticklum, arresting him,
“you are welcome to this place of captivity,
where all are martyrs together. Sir,” he
added, putting on again the state of an editor,
“we are an enemy of ceremony—Pray, sir,
allow us to ask who you are?”

“I am,” said the stranger, laying his hand
on his heart very mournfully, “the most
miserable man in the world.”

“Sir,” said Mr. Ticklum, making the new
comer a bow, and looking as pathetic as he,
“we are not in the habit of contradicting a
gentleman by word of mouth: but allow us to
say, you are mistaken. We, sir, are the most
miserable man in the world!”

And as he spoke, he laid his hand on his
breast.

“Upon my word, Mr. Ticklum,” said the
ex-member of Congress, interfering, with dignity,
“you entirely forget yourself—It is I
who am the most miserable man in the
world.”

“Except me,” cried Mr. Frankman, looking
very much offended: “I beg leave to
say—”

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” exclaimed
the duellist, whom the controversy roused
from his silent bench, and brought again
among us; “I thought I had long since satisfied
you on that score. It is I, and I alone,
who am the most miserable of men.”

“It is I, sir,” cried another; and the exclamation
was echoed by half a dozen others,
who came crowding up in confusion, preferring
their claims to the distinction of misery.
It seemed, indeed, as if the stranger's confession
of sorrows, with which, I fancy, he
hoped to propitiate favour, possessed a virtue
of another kind, and, like the pebble cast
by Jason among the sons of the dragon's
teeth, was only destined to set my new
friends by the ears.

It is not an uncommon thing for a man
to boast, and even pride himself on, his
woes; but I had no idea that absolute rivalry
in affliction, the competition for its honours
and advantages, ever extended beyond mendicants
and poetasters, to whom sorrow and
anguish are as the breath of their nostrils.
My friends of the madhouse taught
me the contrary, by insisting, each with increasing
vehemence, that the glory of being
the most miserable man in the world belonged

to him: the consequence of which was,
first, a controversy extremely hot and vociferous,
and then, notwithstanding my friendly
endeavours to keep the peace, a furious
contest, in which the editor knocked the
congressman down, the critic pulled the duellist's
nose, and honest John, my introducer,
who had taken advantage of the story-telling
to snatch a comfortable nap, started up, and
called Mr. Frankman by a name highly insulting
to a lover of the truth. In fact, I believe,
they would soon have torn one another
to pieces, and perhaps me too, had not the
uproar brought the keepers into the yard to
compose the quarrel:—a turn of affairs of
which I took advantage by making my escape,
the moment the gate was opened, from
the enclosure and my friends.