In the preface to his Handy-Book of Literary Curiosities (J.B. Lippincott, 1892), William S. Walsh states that the purpose of his book is to entertain: "If it succeeds in instructing as well, there is no harm done. But a sugar coating of grateful gust has been quite as much an object with the compiler as the tonic which it may envelop."
One of the most entertaining sections of Walsh's book is his discussion of hyperbole, with some wonderfully outsized examples drawn from literature, history, and journalism.
Hyperbole, by William Shepard Walsh
Hyperbole (Gr. "excess," "overstrained praise," etc.), a recognized figure of rhetoric, meaning an extravagant statement or assertion, which, when used for conscious effect, is not to be taken too seriously or too literally. Yet the hyperbole is often used unconsciously by the men of vivid yet unbalanced imagination whom the world sometimes calls liars and sometimes fools.
Aristotle says that hyperbole is a figure suited only to a person enraged or to children who exaggerate everything. Whereupon Chevreau pertinently notes, "I suppose, according to this maxim, that the man who said that his estate was no larger than a laconic epistle must be set down either as a child or a very irascible person. I remember an acquaintance of M. de Calprenede remarking to M. de Sercy, the bookseller who showed him that romance, 'This author boasts of having a large mansion and an extensive forest; I assure you, on my honor, that he has not wood enough to make a toothpick, and that a tortoise might make the tour of his house in a quarter of an hour.'" This is the hyperbole of minimizing. The hyperbole of magnifying is the more usual form. Excellent instances of the latter style Chevreau might have found in his own country in the sayings of the Gascons . . .. What could be better than the description given by one Gascon soldier of another?--"Hit him anywhere, and the wound is mortal, for he is all heart." Yet even the Gascon is sometimes compelled to yield to the superior prowess of his neighbor the Marseillais, if the following story be a characteristic one:
Three young soldiers, a Parisian, a Gascon, and a Marseillais, were walking one starry summer night on the shore of the Mediterranean, and seeing who could frame the most colossal wish for a fortune.
"I," said the Parisian, "wish this sea were all ink; then I'd dip my pen in it, make a big 9 on a sheet of paper, and after the 9 I'd set down 0's until the ocean were dry, and the sum thus written would represent my fortune."
"And I," said the Gascon, "wish that every star above us represented a bushel-bag of louis-d'or that belonged to me."
"And I," said the Marseillais, "wish that both your wishes were true, and that you might both die of heart-disease the moment after you had made your wills in my favor."
The Irishman through his kinship with the Gaul--for there is more than mere sound-affinity between Gael and Gaul--resembles him in his love of high-flown phrases and verbal pyrotechnics.
Here is a bit of gorgeous rhetoric which appeared in an Irish paper for May 30, 1784, a propos of the first appearance of Mrs. Sarah Siddons in Dublin:
On Saturday, Mrs. Siddons, about whom all the world had been talking, exposed her beautiful, adamantine, soft, and lovely person, for the first time, at Smock-Alley Theatre, in the bewitching, melting, and all-tearful character of "Isabella."
From the repeated panegyrics in the impartial London newspapers, we were taught to expect the sight of a heavenly angel: but how were we supernaturally surprised into the most awful joy at beholding a mortal goddess! The house was crowded with hundreds more than it could hold,--with thousands of admiring spectators that went away without a sight. This extraordinary phenomenon of tragic excellence! this star of Melpomene! this comet of the stage! this sun of the firmament of the Muses! this moon of blank verse! this queen and princess of tears! this Donnellan of the poisoned bowl! this empress of the pistol and dagger! this chaos of Shakespeare! this world of weeping clouds! this Juno of commanding aspects! this Terpsichore of the curtains and scenes! this Proserpine of fire and earthquake! this Katterfelto of wonders! exceeded expectation, went beyond belief, and soared above all the natural powers of description! She was nature itself! She was the most exquisite work of art! She was the very daisy, primrose, tuberose, sweet-brier, furze-blossom, gilliflower, wallflower, cauliflower, auricula, and rosemary! In short, she was the bouquet of Parnassus. Where expectation was raised so high, it was thought she would be injured by her appearance; but it was the audience who were injured: several fainted before the curtain drew up! When she came to the scene of parting with her wedding-ring, ah! what a sight was there! the very fiddlers in the orchestra, albeit unused to the melting mood, blubbered like hungry children crying for their bread and butter; and when the bell rang for music between the acts, the tears ran from the bassoon-player's eyes in such plentiful showers that they choked the finger-stops, and, making a spout of the instrument, poured in such torrents on the first fiddler's book, that, not seeing the overture was in two sharps, the leader of the band actually played in one flat. But the sobs and sighs of the groaning audience, and the noise of corks drawn from the smelling-bottles, prevented the mistake between flats and sharps being discovered. One hundred and nine ladies fainted, forty-six went into fits, and ninety-five had strong hysterics! The world will scarcely credit the truth when they are told that fourteen children, five old women, one hundred tailors, and six common-councilmen were actually drowned in the inundation of tears that flowed from the galleries, the slips, and the boxes to increase the briny pond in the pit; the water was three feet deep; and the people were obliged to stand upon the benches, and were in that position up to their ankles in tears! An act of Parliament against her playing any more will certainly pass.
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