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.'

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