Truth is stranger than fiction—to
some people, but I am measurably familiar with it.
—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s New Calendar.
Truth is stranger than fiction, but
it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities;
Truth isn’t.
—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s New Calendar.
The air was balmy and delicious, the sunshine radiant;
it was a charming excursion. In the course of
it we came to a town whose odd name was famous all
over the world a quarter of a century ago—Wagga-Wagga.
This was because the Tichborne Claimant had kept
a butcher-shop there. It was out of the midst
of his humble collection of sausages and tripe that
he soared up into the zenith of notoriety and hung
there in the wastes of space a time, with the telescopes
of all nations leveled at him in unappeasable curiosity—curiosity
as to which of the two long-missing persons he was:
Arthur Orton, the mislaid roustabout of Wapping, or
Sir Roger Tichborne, the lost heir of a name and estates
as old as English history. We all know now,
but not a dozen people knew then; and the dozen kept
the mystery to themselves and allowed the most intricate
and fascinating and marvelous real-life romance that
has ever been played upon the world’s stage
to unfold itself serenely, act by act, in a British
court by the long and laborious processes of judicial
development.
When we recall the details of that great romance we
marvel to see what daring chances truth may freely
take in constructing a tale, as compared with the
poor little conservative risks permitted to fiction.
The fiction-artist could achieve no success with
the materials of this splendid Tichborne romance.
He would have to drop out the chief characters; the
public would say such people are impossible.
He would have to drop out a number of the most picturesque
incidents; the public would say such things could never
happen. And yet the chief characters did exist,
and the incidents did happen.
It cost the Tichborne estates $400,000 to unmask the
Claimant and drive him out; and even after the exposure
multitudes of Englishmen still believed in him.
It cost the British Government another $400,000 to
convict him of perjury; and after the conviction the
same old multitudes still believed in him; and among
these believers were many educated and intelligent
men; and some of them had personally known the real
Sir Roger. The Claimant was sentenced to 14
years’ imprisonment. When he got out of
prison he went to New York and kept a whisky saloon
in the Bowery for a time, then disappeared from view.
He always claimed to be Sir Roger Tichborne until
death called for him. This was but a few months
ago—not very much short of a generation
since he left Wagga-Wagga to go and possess himself
of his estates. On his death-bed he yielded
up his secret, and confessed in writing that he was
only Arthur Orton of Wapping, able seaman and butcher—that
and nothing more. But it is scarcely to be doubted
that there are people whom even his dying confession
will not convince. The old habit of assimilating
incredibilities must have made strong food a necessity
in their case; a weaker article would probably disagree
with them.
