Then I could not conceal from
myself that Rupert was not, in a rigid sense, a lad of truth. He
coloured, exaggerated, glossed over and embellished, if he did not
absolutely invent. I was not old enough then to understand that most
of the statements that float about the world are nothing but truths
distorted, and that nothing is more rare than unadulterated fact; that
truths and lies travel in company, as described by Pope in his Temple
of Fame, until--
"This or that unmixed, no mortal e'er shall find."
In this very narration of our voyage, Rupert had left false
impressions on the minds of his listeners, in fifty things. He had
made far more of both our little skirmishes, than the truth would
warrant, and he had neglected to do justice to Neb in his account of
each of the affairs. Then he commended Captain Robbins's conduct in
connection with the loss of the John, on points that could not be
sustained, and censured him for measures that deserved praise. I knew
Rupert was no seaman--was pretty well satisfied, by this time, he
never would make one--but I could not explain all his obliquities by
referring them to ignorance. The manner, moreover, in which he
represented himself as the principal actor, on all occasions, denoted
so much address, that, while I felt the falsity of the impressions he
left, I did not exactly see the means necessary to counteract them.
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