tyrannies not seldom.  They scheme, conspire, fawn, and are hypocrites.  “Little boys should not loll on chairs.”  “Little girls should be seen, and not heard;” and so forth.  Have we not almost all learnt these expressions of old foozles:  and uttered them ourselves when in the square-toed state?  The Eton master, who was breaking a lance with our Paterfamilias of late, turned on Paterfamilias, saying, He knows not the nature and exquisite candor of well-bred English boys.  Exquisite fiddlestick’s end, Mr. Master!  Do you mean for to go for to tell us that the relations between young gentlemen and their schoolmasters are entirely frank and cordial; that the lad is familiar with the man who can have him flogged; never shirks his exercise; never gets other boys to do his verses; never does other boys’ verses; never breaks bounds; never tells fibs—­I mean the fibs permitted by scholastic honor?  Did I know of a boy who pretended to such a character, I would forbid my scapegraces to keep company with him.  Did I know a schoolmaster who pretended to believe in the existence of many hundred such boys in one school at one time, I would set that man down as a baby in knowledge of the world.  “Who was making that noise?” “I don’t know, sir.”—­And he knows it was the boy next him in school.  “Who was climbing over that wall?” “I don’t know, sir.”—­And it is in the speaker’s own trousers, very likely, the glass bottle-tops have left their cruel scars.  And so with servants.  “Who ate up the three pigeons which went down in the pigeon-pie at breakfast this morning?” “O dear me! sir, it was John, who went away last month!”—­or, “I think it was Miss Mary’s canary-bird, which got out of the cage, and is so fond of pigeons, it never can have enough of them.”  Yes, it was the canary-bird; and Eliza saw it; and Eliza is ready to vow she did.  These statements are not true; but please don’t call them lies.  This is not lying; this is voting with your party.  You must back your own side.  The servants’-hall stands by the servants’-hall against the dining-room.  The schoolboys don’t tell tales of each other.  They agree not to choose to know who has made the noise, who has broken the window, who has eaten up the pigeons, who has picked all the plovers’-eggs out of the aspic, how it is that liqueur brandy of Gledstane’s is in such porous glass bottles—–­and so forth.  Suppose Brutus had a footman, who came and told him that the butler drank the Curacoa, which of these servants would you dismiss?—­the butler, perhaps, but the footman certainly.

No.  If your plate and glass are beautifully bright, your bell quickly answered, and Thomas ready, neat, and good-humored, you are not to expect absolute truth from him.  The very obsequiousness and perfection of his service prevents truth.  He may be ever so unwell in mind or body, and he must go through his service—­hand the shining plate, replenish the spotless glass, lay the glittering fork—­never laugh when you yourself or your guests joke—­be