Class % $ \*&\ 
 
 Book ■ g)fe 
 
 PRESENTED HY 
 
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ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 LYING, 
 
 ALL ITS BRANCHES. 
 
 AMELIA OPIE, 
 
 SECOND AMERICAN EDITION, 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY MUNROE AND FRANCIS. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 
 CHARLES S. FRANCIS, BROADWAY. 
 
 1827. 
 

 <£ S Gl& 
 
 ^ 
 
 TO 
 
 Dr. ALDERSON of NORWICH. 
 
 To thee, my beloved Father, I dedica- 
 ted my first, and to thee J also dedicate 
 my present, work ; — with the pleasing 
 conviction that thou art disposed to form 
 a favourable judgment of any production, 
 however humble, which has a tendency 
 to promote the moral and religious wel- 
 fare of mankind. 
 
 AMELIA OPIE. 
 
 • Gift 
 Miss M, O. Codmarj 
 March 1914 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 1 am aware that a preface must be short, if its au- 
 thor aspires to have it read. I shall therefore content 
 myself with making a very few preliminary observa- 
 tions, which I wish to be considered as apologies. 
 My first apology is, for having throughout my book 
 made use of the words lying and lies, instead of some 
 gentler term, or some easy paraphrase, by which I 
 might have avoided the risk of offending the delicacy 
 of any jf my readers. 
 
 Our great satirist speaks of a Dean who was a fa- 
 vourite at the church where he officiated, because 
 
 " He never mentioned hell to ears polite, — " 
 
 and T fear that to " ears polite," my coarseness, in 
 uniformly calling lying and lie by their real names, 
 may sometimes be offensive. 
 
 But, when writing a book against lying, I was oblig- 
 ed to express my meaning in the manner most conso- 
 nant to the strict truth ; nor eould \ employ any 
 words with such propriety as those hollowed and sanc- 
 tioned for use, on such an occasion, by the practice of 
 inspired, and holy men of old. 
 
 Moreover, I believe that those who accustom them- 
 selves to call lying and lie by a softening appellation, 
 are in danger of weakening their aversion to the fault 
 itself. 
 
 My second apology is, for presuming to come for- 
 ward, with such apparent boldness, as a didactic writ- 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 er, and a teacher of truths, which I ought to believe 
 that every one knows already, and better than I do. 
 
 But I beg permission to deprecate the charge of 
 presumption and self-conceit, by declaring that I pre- 
 tend not to lay before my readers any new knowl- 
 edge ; my only aim is to bring to their recollection 
 knowledge which they already possess, but do not 
 constantly recall and act upon. 
 
 I am to them, and to my subject, what the picture- 
 cleaner is to the picture ; the restorer to observation 
 of what is valuable, and not the artist who created it. 
 
 In the next place I wish to remind them that a 
 weak hand is as able as a powerful one to hold a mir- 
 ror, in which we may see any defects in our dress or 
 person. 
 
 In the last place, I venture to assert that there is not 
 in my whole book a more common-place truth, than 
 that kings are but men, and that monarchs, as well as 
 their subjects, must surely die. 
 
 Notwithstanding, Philip of Macedon was so con- 
 scious of his liability to forget this awful truth, that he 
 employed a monitor to follow him every day, repeat- 
 ing in his ear. " Remember thou art but a man." 
 And he who gave this salutary admonition neither 
 possessed superiority of wisdom, nor pretended to 
 possess it. 
 
 All, therefore, that I require of my readers is to do 
 me justice to believe that, in the following work, my 
 preteasions have been as humble and as confined, as 
 those of the remembrancer of Philip of Macedon. 
 
 AMELIA OPIE. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. I. 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 On the Active and Passive Lies of Vanity— The Stage 
 Coach — Unexpected Discoveries. ... - 8 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 On the Lies of Flattery— The Turban. - - - 49 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 Lies of Fear— The Bank Note. - - - - - 60 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 Lies falsely called Lies of Benevolence— A Tale of Pot- 
 ted Sprats — An Authoress and her Auditors. - 68 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 Lies of Convenience — Projects Defeated. - 81 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 Lies of Interest— The Skreen. - 93 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 Lies of First-Rate Malignity— The Orphans. - 105 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 Lies of Second-Rate Malignity— The Old Gentleman and 
 the Young One. ----._. jgg 
 
 CHAP. X. 
 Li«e of Benevolence. -->-*.-. 133 
 
 ■-.«#. 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. X. Continued. 
 
 Lies of Benevolence — Mistaken Kindness — Father and 
 Son. ......... 
 
 CHAP. XL 
 
 Lies of Wantonness and Practical Lies. - 
 
 CHAP. XII. 
 
 Our own Experience of the Painful Results of Lying". - 
 
 CHAP. XIII. 
 Lying the most common of all Vices. .... 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 Extracts from Lord Bacon, and others. - 
 
 CHAP. XV. 
 
 Observations on the Extracts from Hawkesworth ■ and 
 others. - 
 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 
 Religion the only Basis of Truth. .... 
 
 CHAP. XVII. 
 The same subject continued. ..... 
 
 Conclusion. - - 
 
 144 
 
 170 
 
 177 
 
 185 
 
 184 
 
 211 
 
 219 
 
 254 
 
 261 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 LYING, 
 
 IN ALL ITS BRANCHE! 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 What constitutes lying ? 
 
 I answer the intention to deceive. 
 
 If this be a correct definition, there must be 
 passive as well as active lying ; and those who 
 withhold the truth, or do not tell the whole truth, 
 with an intention to deceive, are guilty of lying, as 
 well as those who tell a direct or positive falsehood. 
 
 Lies are many, and various in their nature and 
 in their tendency, and may be arranged under their 
 different names, thus : — 
 
 Lies of Vanity. 
 
 Lies of Flattery. 
 
 Lies of Convenience. 
 
 Lies of Interest. 
 
 Lies of Fear. 
 
 Lies of first-rate Malignity. 
 
 Lies of second-rate Malignity. 
 
 Lies, falsely called Lies of Benevolence. 
 
 Lies of real Benevolence. 
 
8 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 Lies of mere Wantonness, proceeding from a 
 depraved love of lying, or contempt for truth, 
 
 There are others probably ; but I believe that 
 this list contains all those which are of the most 
 importance ; unless, indeed, we may add to it — 
 
 Practical Lies ; that is, Lies acted, not spoken. 
 
 I shall give an anecdote, or tale, in order to il- 
 lustrate each sort of lie in its turn, or nearly so, lies 
 for the sake of lying excepted ; for I should find 
 it very difficult so to illustrate this the most despi- 
 cable species of falsehood. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ON THE ACTIVE AND PASSIVE LIES OF VANITY. 
 
 I shall begin my observations by defining what 
 I mean by the Lie of Vanity, both in its active and 
 passive nature ; these lies being undoubtedly the 
 most common, because vanity is one of the most 
 powerful springs of human action, and is usually 
 the besetting sin of every one. Suppose, that, in 
 order to give myself consequence, I were to assert 
 that I was actually acquainted with certain great 
 and distinguished personages whom I had merely 
 met in fashionable society. Suppose also, I were 
 to say that I was at such a place, and such an as- 
 sembly on such a night, without adding, that I was 
 there, not as an invited guest, but only because a 
 benefit concert was held at these places for which 
 I had tickets. — These would both be lies of vanity j 
 
ON LIES OF VANITY. 9 
 
 but the one would be an active, the other a pas- 
 sive, lie. 
 
 In the first I should assert a direct falsehood, in 
 the other I should withhold part of the truth 5 but 
 both, would be lies, because, in both, my intention 
 was to deceive.* 
 
 But though we are frequently tempted to be guil- 
 ty of the active lies of vanity, our temptations to 
 its passive lies are more frequent still ; nor can the 
 sincere lovers of truth be too much on their guard 
 against this constantly recurring danger. The fol- 
 lowing instances will explain what I mean by this 
 observation. 
 
 If I assert that my motive for a particular action 
 was virtuous, when I know that it was worldly and 
 selfish, 1 am guilty o c an active, or direct, lie. But 
 I am equally guilty of falsehood, if, while I hear 
 my actions or forbearances praised, and imputed to 
 decidedly worthy motives, when J am conscious 
 that they sprung from unworthy or unimportant 
 ones, I listen With silent complacency, arid So not 
 positively disclaim my light to fcomnieMatioti ; 
 only, in the one case I lie directly, \x\Ahe other 
 indirectly ; the lie is active in the one, wa&pm&tot 
 in the other. And are we not all of us conscious 
 of having sometimes accepted incense to our vani- 
 ty, which we knew that we did not deserve ? 
 
 Men have been known to boast of attention, and 
 even of avowals of serious love from women, and 
 women from men, which, in point of fact, they 
 never received, and therein have been guilty of pos- 
 
 * This passive lie is a very frequent one in certain circles in Lon- 
 don ; as many ladies and gentlemen there purchase tickets for benefit 
 concerts held at great 'houses, in order that they may be able to say, 
 H I was at Lady such a one's on such a night." 
 
10 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 itive falsehood ; but they who, without any contra- 
 diction on their own part, allow their friends and 
 flatterers to insinuate that they have been, or are, 
 objects of love and admiration to those who never 
 professed either, are as much guilty of deception 
 as the utterers of the above-mentioned assertion. 
 Still, it is certain, that many, who would shrink with 
 moral disgust from committing the latter species of 
 falsehood, are apt to remain silent, when their van- 
 ity is gratified, without any overt act of deceit on 
 their part, and are contented to let the flattering 
 belief remain uncontradicted. Yet the turpitude is, 
 in my opinion, at least, nearly equal, if my defini- 
 tion of lying be correct ; namely, the intention to 
 deceive. 
 
 This disingenuous passiveness, this deceitful si- 
 lence, belongs to thai extensive and common species 
 of falsehood, withholding the truth. 
 
 Bat this tolerated sin, denominated white lying, 
 is a sin which I believe that some persons commit, 
 not only without being conscious that it is a sin, 
 but, frequently, with a belief that, to do it readily, 
 and without confusion, is often a merit, and always 
 a proof of ability. Still more frequently, they do 
 it unconsciously, perhaps, from the force of habit ; 
 and, like Monsieur Jourdain, " the Bourgeois gen- 
 til-homme," who found out that he had talked 
 prose all his life without knowing it, these persons 
 utter lie upon lie, without knowing that what they 
 utter deserves to be considered as falsehood. 
 
 I am myself convinced, that a passive lie is equal- 
 ly as irreconcileable to moral principles as an active 
 one ; but I am well aware that most persons are of 
 a different opinion. Yet, I would say to those who 
 thus differ from me, if you allow yourselves to vio- 
 late truth — that is, to deceive, for any purpose what- 
 
ON LIES OF VANITY. 11 
 
 over — who can say where this sort of self-indul- 
 gence will submit to be bounded ? Can you be 
 sure that you will not, when strongly tempted, utter 
 what is equally false, in order to benefit yourself at 
 the expense of a fellow-creature ? 
 
 All mortals are, at times, accessible to tempta- 
 tion ; but, when we are not exposed to it, we dwell 
 with complacency on our means of resisting it, on 
 our principles, and our tried and experienced self- 
 denial : but, as the life-boat, and the safety-gun, 
 which succeeded in all that they were made to do 
 while the sea was calm, and the winds still, have 
 been known to fail when the vessel was tost on a 
 tempestuous ocean ; so those who may successful- 
 ly oppose principle to temptation when the tempest 
 of the passions is not awakened within their bosoms, 
 may sometimes be overwhelmed by its power when 
 it meets them in all its awful energy and unexpect- 
 ed violence. 
 
 But in every warfare against human corruption, 
 habitual resistance to little temptations is, next to 
 prayer, the most efficacious aid. He who is to be 
 trained for public exhibitions of feats of strength, is 
 made to carry small weights at first, which are daily 
 increased in heaviness, till, at last, he is almost un- 
 consciously able to bear, with ease, the greatest 
 weight possible to be borne by man. In like man- 
 ner, those who resist the daily temptation to tell 
 what are apparently trivial and innocent lies, will 
 be better able to withstand allurements to serious 
 and important deviations from truth, and be more 
 fortified in the hour of more severe temptation 
 against every species of dereliction from integrity. 
 
 The active lies of vanity are so numerous, but 
 at the same time, are so like each other, that it 
 were useless, as well as endless, to attempt to 
 
12 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 enumerate them. I shall therefore mention one of 
 them only, before I proceed to my tale on the ac- 
 tive lie of vanity, and that is the most common 
 of all ; namely the violation of truth which persons 
 indulge in relative to their age ; an error so gener- 
 ally committed, especially by the unmarried of both 
 sexes, that few persons can expect to be believed 
 when declaring their age at an advanced period of 
 life. So common, and therefore so little disreputa- 
 ble, is this species of lie considered to be, that a 
 sensible friend of mine said to me the other day, 
 when I asked him the age of the lady whom he was 
 going to marry, " She tells me she is five-and-twen- 
 ty; I therefore conclude that she is five-and-thir- 
 ty." This was undoubtedly spoken in joke ; still 
 it was an evidence of the toleration generally grant- 
 ed on this point. 
 
 But though it is possible that my friend believed 
 the lady to be a year or two older than she owned 
 herself to be, and thought a deviation from truth on 
 this subject was of no consequence, I am very sure 
 that he would not have ventured to marry a wo- 
 man whom he suspected of lying on any other oc- 
 casion. This however is a lie which does not ex- 
 pose the utterer to severe animadversion, and for 
 this reason probably, that all mankind are so averse 
 to be thought old, that the wish to be considered 
 younger than the truth warrants meets with compla- 
 cent sympathy and indulgence, even when years 
 are notoriously annihilated at the impulse of vanity. 
 
 I give the following story in illustration of the 
 
 ACTIVE LIE OF VANITY, 
 
THE STAGE COACH. 13 
 
 THE STAGE COACH. 
 
 Amongst those whom great success in trade had 
 raised to considerable opulence in their native city, 
 was a family by the name of Burford ; and the eld- 
 est brother, when he was the only surviving partner 
 of that name in the firm, was not only able to indulge 
 himself in the luxuries of a carriage, country-house, 
 garden, hot-houses, and all the privileges which 
 wealth bestows, but could also lay by money enough 
 to provide amply for his children. 
 
 His only daughter had been adopted, when very 
 young, by her paternal grandmother, whose fortune 
 was employed in her son's trade, and who could 
 well afford to take on herself all the expenses of 
 Annabel's education. But it was with painful re- 
 luctance that Annabel's excellent mother consented 
 to resign her child to another's care ; nor could she 
 be prevailed upon to do so, till Burford, who be- 
 lieved that his widowed parent, would sink under 
 the loss of her husband, unless Annabel was permit- 
 ted to reside with her, commanded her to yield her 
 maternal rights in pity to this beloved sufferer. She 
 could therefore presume to refuse no longer ; — but 
 she yielded with a mental conflict only too prophet- 
 ic of the mischief to which she exposed her child's 
 mind and character, by this enforced surrender of 
 a mother's duties. 
 
 The grandmother was a thoughtless woman of 
 
 this world — the mother, a pious, reflecting bsing, 
 
 continually preparing herself for the world to come. 
 
 With the latter, Annabel would have acquired prin- 
 
 2 
 
14 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 ciples — with the former, she could only learn ac- 
 complishments ; and that weakly judging person 
 encouraged her in habits of mind and character 
 which would have tilled both her father and mother 
 with pain and apprehension. 
 
 Vanity was her ruling passion ; and this her 
 grandmother fostered by every means in her power. 
 She gave her elegant dresses, and had her taught 
 showy accomplishments. She delighted to hear 
 her speak of herself, and boast of the compliments 
 paid her on her beauty and her talents. She was 
 even weak enough to admire the skilful falsehood 
 with which she embellished every thing which she 
 narrated : but this vicious propensity the old lady 
 considered only as a proof of a lively fancy ; and 
 sh e congratulated herself on the consciousness how 
 much more agreeable her fluent and inventive An- 
 nabel was, than the matter-of-fact girls with whom 
 she associated. Bur while Annabel and her grand- 
 mother were on a visit at Burford's country-house, 
 and while the parents were beholding with sorrow 
 the conceit and flippancy of their only daughter, 
 they were plunged at once into comparative pover- 
 ty, by the ruin of some of Burford's correspondents 
 abroad, and by the fraudulent conduct of a friend in 
 whom he had trusted. In a few short weeks, there- 
 fore, the ruined grandmother and her adopted child 
 together with the parents and their boys, were for- 
 ced to seek an asylum in the heart of Wales, and 
 live on the slender marriage settlement of Burford's 
 amiable wife. For her every one felt, as it was 
 thought that she had always discouraged that ex- 
 pensive style of living which had exposed her hus- 
 band to envy, and its concomitant detractions, 
 amongst those whose increase in wealth had not 
 kept pace with his own. He had also carried his 
 
THE STAGE COACH. 15 
 
 ambition so far, that he had even aspired to repre- 
 sent his native city in parliament ; and, as he was 
 a violent politician, some of the opposite party not 
 only rejoiced in his downfall, but were ready to be- 
 lieve and to propagate that he had made a fraudu- 
 lent bankruptcy in concert with his friend who had 
 absconded, and that he had secured or conveyed 
 away from his creditors money to a considerable 
 amount. But the tale of calumny, which has no 
 foundation in truth, cannot long retain its power to 
 injure ; and, in process of time, the feelings of the 
 creditors in general were so completely changed 
 towards Burford, that some of them who had been 
 most decided against signing his certificate, were at 
 length brought to confess that it was a matter for re- 
 consideration. Therefore, when a distinguished 
 friend of his father's, who had been strongly preju- 
 diced against him at first, repented of his unjust cre- 
 dulity, and, in order to make him amends, offered 
 him a share in his own business, all the creditors, 
 except two of the principal ones, became willing to 
 sign the certificate. Perhaps there is nothing so 
 difficult to remove from some minds as suspicions 
 of a derogatory nature ; and the creditors in ques- 
 tion were envious, worldly men, who piqued them- 
 selves on their shrewdness, could not brook the 
 idea of being overreached, and were perhaps, not 
 sorry that he whose prosperity had excited their 
 jealousy, should now be humbled before them as a 
 dependant and a suppliant. However, even they 
 began to be tired at length of holding out against the 
 opinion of so many ; and Burford had the comfort 
 of being informed, after he had been some months 
 in Wales, that matters were in train to enable him 
 to get into business again, with restored credit and 
 renewed prospects. 
 
16 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 " Then, who knows, Anna," said he to his wife, 
 " but that in a few years I shall be able, by indus- 
 try and economy, to pay all that I owe, both princi- 
 pal and interest ? for, till I have done so I shall 
 not be really happy ; and then poverty will be rob- 
 bed of its sting."-—" Not only so," she replied, — 
 " we could never have given our children a better 
 inheritance than this proof of their father's strict in- 
 tegrity ; and, surely, my dear husband, a blessing 
 will attend thy labours and intentions," — " I humbly 
 trust that it will." — " Yes," she continued ; " our 
 change of fortune has humbled our pride of heart, 
 and the cry of our contrition and humility has not 
 ascended in vain." — " Our pride of heart !" re- 
 plied Burford, tenderly embracing her ; " it was /, 
 I alone, who deserved chastisement, and I cannot 
 bear to hear thee blame thyself ; but it is like thee, 
 Anna, — thou art ever kind, ever generous ; how- 
 ever, as I like to be obliged to thee, I am contented 
 that thou shouldst talk of our pride and our chas- 
 tisement." While these hopes were uppermost in 
 the minds of this amiable couple, and were cheering 
 the weak mind of Burford's mother, which, as it 
 had been foolishly elated by prosperity, was now 
 as improperly depressed by adversity, Annabel had 
 been passing several months at the house of a 
 school-fellow some miles from her father's dwelling. 
 The vain girl had felt the deepest mortification at 
 this blight to her worldly prospects, and bitterly la- 
 mented being no longer able to talk of her grand- 
 mother's villa and carriages, and her father's hot- 
 houses and grounds ; nor could she help repining 
 at the loss of those indulgences to which she had 
 been accustomed. She was therefore delighted to 
 leave home on a visit, and very sorry when unex- 
 pected circumstances in her friend's family obliged 
 
THE STAGE COACH. x 17 
 
 her to return sooner than she intended. She was 
 compelled also to return by herself in a public 
 coach, — a great mortification to her still existing 
 pride ; but she had now no pretensions to travel 
 otherwise, and found it necessary to submit to cir- 
 cumstances. — In the coach were one young man. 
 and two elderly ones ; and her companions seemed 
 so willing to pay her attention, and make her jour- 
 ney pleasant to her, that Annabel, who always be- 
 lieved herself an object of admiration, was soon con- 
 vinced that she had made a conquest of the youth, 
 and that the others thought her a very sweet crea- 
 ture. She therefore, gave way to all her loqua- 
 cious vivacity ; she hummed tunes in order to show 
 that she could sing ; she took out her pencil and 
 sketched wherever they stopped to change horses, 
 and talked of her own boudoir , her own maid, and 
 all the past glories of her state, as if they still exist- 
 ed. In short, she tried to impress her companions 
 with a high idea of her consequence, and as if un- 
 usual and unexpected circumstances had led her to 
 travel incog., while she put in force all her attrac- 
 tions against their poor condemned hearts. What 
 an odious thing is a coquette of sixteen ! and such 
 was Annabel Burford. Certain it is, that she be- 
 came an object of great attention to the gentlemen 
 with her, but of admiration, probably, to the young 
 man alone, who, in her youthful beauty, might pos- 
 sibly overlook her obvious defects. During the 
 journey, one of the elderly gentlemen opened a bas- 
 ket which stood near him, containing some fine hot- 
 house grapes and flowers. " There, young lady," 
 said he to her, " did you ever see such fruit as this 
 before ?" " Oh dear, yes, in my papa's grapery." 
 " Indeed ! but did you ever see such fine flowers ?'" 
 2* 
 
18 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 " Oh dear, yes, in papa's succession-houses. There 
 is nothing, 1 assure you, of that sort," she added, 
 drawing up her head with a look of ineffable con- 
 ceit, " that I am not accustomed to :" — conde- 
 scending, however, at the same time, to eat some 
 of the grapes, and accept some of the flowers. 
 
 It was natural that her companions should now 
 be very desirous of finding out what princess in dis- 
 guise was deigning to travel in a manner so un- 
 worthy of her ; and when they stopped within a few 
 miles of her home, one of the gentlemen, having 
 discovered that she was known to a passenger on 
 the top of the coach, who was about to leave it, got 
 out, and privately asked him who she was. " Bur- 
 ford ! Burford !" cried he, when he heard the an- 
 swer ; " what ! the daughter of Burford the bank- 
 rupt ?" — " Yes, the same." — With a frowning brow 
 he re-entered the coach, and, when seated, whis- 
 pered the old gentleman next him ; and both of 
 them, having exchanged glances of sarcastic and in- 
 dignant meaning, looked at Annabel with great sig- 
 nificance. Nor was it long before she observed a 
 marked change in their manner towards her. 
 They answered her with abruptness, and even with 
 reluctance ; till, at length, the one who had interro- 
 gated her acquaintance on the coach said, in a sar- 
 castic tone, " I conclude that you were speaking 
 just now, young lady, of the fine things which were 
 once yours. You have no graperies and succession- 
 houses now, I take it." — •" Dear me ! why not, 
 sir ?" replied the /conscious girl, in a trembling 
 voice.- — " Why not ? Why, excuse my freedom, 
 but are you not the daughter of Mr. Burford the 
 bankrupt ?" Never was child more tempted to 
 deny her parentage than Annabel was ; but, though 
 with great reluctance, she faltered out, " Yes ; and 
 
THE STAGE COACH, 19 
 
 to be sure, my father was once unfortunate ; but " 
 — here she looked at her young and opposite neigh- 
 bour ; and, seeing that his look of admiring respect 
 was exchanged for one of ill-suppressed laughter, 
 she felt irresistibly urged to add, " But we are 
 very well off now, I assure you ; and our present 
 residence is so pretty ! Such a sweet garden ! and 
 such a charming hot-house !" 
 
 " Indeed !" returned the old man, with a signifi- 
 cant nod to his friend ; " well, then, let your papa 
 take care he does not make his house too hot to hold 
 him, and that another house be not added to his list 
 of residences." Here he laughed heartily at his 
 own wit, and was echoed by his companion. "But, 
 pray, how long has he been thus again favoured by 
 fortune ?" — " Oh dear ! I cannot say ; but, for 
 some time ; and I assure you our style of living is 
 very complete." — " I do not doubt it ; for chil- 
 dren and fools speak truth, says the proverb ; and 
 sometimes," aided he in a low voice, " the child 
 and the fool a\\3 the same person." — " So, so," he 
 muttered asidf i to the other traveller ; " gardens ! 
 hot-house ! "tiofiiage ! swindling, specious rascal !" 
 But Annabeag'Veard only the first part of the sen- 
 tence : and t ng quite satisfied that she had recov- 
 ered all her consequence in the eyes of her young 
 beau .by two or three white lies, as she termed them 
 (flights of fancy, in which she was apt to indulge,) 
 she resumed her attack on his heart, and continued 
 to converse, in her most seducing manner, till the 
 coach stopped, according to her desire, at a cot- 
 tage by the road-side, where, as she said, her fath- 
 er's groom was to meet her, and take her portman- 
 teau. The truth was, that she did not choose to 
 be set down at her own humble home, which was 
 at the further end of the village, because it would 
 
20 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 not only tell the tale of her fallen fortunes, but 
 would prove the falsehood of what she had been 
 asserting. When the coach stopped, she exclaim- 
 ed, with well acted surprise, " Dear me ! how 
 strange that the servant is not waiting for me ! But, 
 it does not signify ; I can stop here till he comes." 
 She then left the coach, scarcely greeted by her 
 elderly companions, but followed, as she fancied, 
 by looks of love from the youth, who handed her out, 
 and expressed his great regret at parting with her. 
 The parents, meanwhile, were eagerly expecting 
 her return ; for though the obvious defects in her 
 character gave them excessive pain, and they were 
 resolved to leave no measures untried in order to 
 eradicate them, they had missed her amusing vivac- 
 ity ; and even their low and confined dwelling was 
 rendered cheerful, when, with her sweet and bril- 
 liant tones, she went carolling about the house. 
 Besides, she was coming, for the first time, alone 
 and unexpected ; and, as the coach was later than 
 usual, the anxious tenderness of theipaternal heart 
 was worked up to a high pitch of fo t'ng, and they 
 were even beginning to share the fr astic fears of 
 the impatient grandmother, when thJs, aw the coach 
 stop at a distant turn of the road, and soon after be- 
 held Annabel coming towards them ; who was 
 fondly clasped to those affectionate bosoms, for 
 which her unprincipled falsehoods, born of the most 
 contemptible vanity, had prepared fresh trials and 
 fresh injuries : for her elderly companions were 
 her father's principal and relentless creditors, who 
 had been down to Wynstaye on business, and were 
 returning thence, to London ; intending when they 
 arrived there to assure Sir James Aiberry, — 
 that friend of Burford's father, who resided in Lon- 
 don, and wished to take him into partnership, — that 
 
THE STAGE COACH. 21 
 
 they were no longer averse to sign his certificate ; 
 being at length convinced he was a calumniated 
 man. But now all their suspicions were renewed 
 and confirmed ; since it was easier for them to be- 
 lieve that Burford was still the villain which they al- 
 ways thought him, than that so young a girl should 
 have told so many falsehoods at the mere impulse 
 of vanity. They therefore became more inveter- 
 ate against her poor father than ever ; and though 
 their first visit to the metropolis was to the gentle- 
 man in question, it was now impelled by a wish to 
 injure, not to serve, him. How differently would 
 they have felt, had the vain and false Annabel al- 
 lowed the coach to set her down at her father's low- 
 ly door ! and had they beheld the interior arrange- 
 ment of his house and family ! Had they seen neat- 
 ness and order giving attraction to cheap and ordi- 
 nary furniture ; had they beheld the simple meal 
 spread out to welcome the wanderer home, and the 
 Bible and Prayerbook ready for the evening ser- 
 vice, which was deferred till it could be shared 
 again with her whose return would add fervour to 
 the devotion of that worshipping family, and would 
 call forth additional expressions of thanksgiving ! 
 
 The dwelling of Burford was that of a man im- 
 proved by trials past ; — of one who looked forward 
 with thankfulness and hope to the renewed posses- 
 sion of a competence, in the belief that he should 
 now be able to make a wiser and holier use of it 
 than he had done before. His wife had needed 
 no such lesson ; though, in the humility of her 
 heart, she thought otherwise ; and she had helped 
 her husband to impress on the yielding minds of 
 her boys, who (happier than their sister) had never 
 left her, that a season of worldly humiliation is more 
 safe and blessed than one of worldly prosperity— 
 
22 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 while their Welch cottage and wild mountain gar- 
 den had been converted, by her resources and her 
 example, into a scene of such rural industry and 
 innocent amusement, that they could no longer re- 
 gret the splendid house and grounds which they 
 had been obliged to resign. The grandmother, in- 
 deed, had never ceased to mourn and to murmur ; 
 and, to her, the hope of seeing a return of brighter 
 days, by means of a new partnership, was beyond 
 measure delightful. But she was doomed to be 
 disappointed, through those errors in the child of 
 her adoption which she had at least encouraged, if 
 she had not occasioned. 
 
 It was with even clamorous delight, that Anna- 
 bel, after this absence of a few months, was wel- 
 comed by her brothers : the parents' welcome was 
 of a quieter, deeper nature ; while the grandmo- 
 ther's first solicitude was to ascertain how she look- 
 ed ; and having convinced herself that she was re- 
 turned handsomer than ever, her joy was as loud 
 as that of the boys.—" Do come hither, Bell," said 
 one of her brothers — " we have so much to show 
 you ! The old cat has such nice kittens !" — 
 " Yes ; and my rabbits have all young ones !" cried 
 another. — " And I and mamma," cried the third 
 boy, " have put large stones into the bed of the 
 mountain rill ; so now it makes such a nice noise 
 as it flows over them ! Do come, Bell ; do, pray, 
 come with us !" — But the evening duties were first 
 to be performed ; and performed they were, with 
 more than usual solemnity : but after them Anna- 
 bel had to eat her supper ; and she was so engross- 
 ed in relating her adventures in the coach, and with 
 describing the attentions of her companions, that 
 her poor brothers were not attended to. In vain 
 did her mother say, " Do, Annabel go with your 
 
THE STAGE COACH. 2$ 
 
 brothers !" and add, " Go now ; for it is near their 
 bedtime !" She was too fond of hearing herself 
 talk, and of her grandmother's flatteries, to be will- 
 ing to leave the room ; and though her mother was 
 disappointed at her selfishness, she could not bear 
 to chide her on the first night of her return. 
 
 When Annabel was alone with her grandmother, 
 she ventured to communicate to her what a fearful 
 consciousness of not having done right had led her 
 to conceal from her parents ; and, after relating all 
 that had passed relative to the fruit and flowers, 
 she repeated the cruel question of the old man, 
 " Are you not the daughter of Mr. Burford the 
 bankrupt ?" and owned what her reply was : on 
 which her grandmother exclaimed, with great emo- 
 tion, " Unthinking girl ! you know not what in- 
 jury you may have done your father !" She then 
 asked for a particular description of the persons of 
 the old men, saying, " Well, well, it cannot be 
 helped now— I may be mistaken ; but be sure not 
 to tell your mother what you have told me." 
 
 For some days after Annabel's return, all went 
 on well ; and their domestic felicity would have 
 been so complete, that Burford and his wife would 
 have much disliked any idea of change, had their 
 income been sufficient to give their boys good edu- 
 cation ; but, as it was only just sufficient for their 
 maintenance, they looked forward with anxious ex- 
 pectation to the arrival of a summons to London, 
 and to their expected residence there. Still the 
 idea of leaving their present abode was really pain- 
 ful to all, save Annabel and her grandmother. 
 They thought the rest of the family devoid of pro- 
 per spirit, and declared that living in Wales was not 
 living at all. 
 
 But a stop was now put to eager anticipations 
 
24 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 on the one hand, or of tender regrets on the other ; 
 for, while Burford was expecting daily to receive 
 remittances from Sir James Alberry, to enable him 
 to transport himself and his family to the metropo- 
 lis, that gentleman wrote to him as follows : — 
 
 " Sir, 
 " All connection between us is for ever at end ; 
 and I have given the share in my business, which 
 was intended for you. to the worthy man who has 
 so long solicited it. I thought that I had done you 
 injustice, sir ; I wished therefore to make you 
 amends. But I find you are what you are repre- 
 sented to be, a fraudulent bankrupt ; and your cer- 
 tificate now will never be signed. Should you won- 
 der what has occasioned this change in my feelings 
 and proceedings, I am at liberty to inform you that 
 your daughter travelled in a stage coach, a few 
 days ago, with your two principal creditors ; and 1 
 am desired to add, that children and fools speak 
 truth. 
 
 " James Alberry." 
 
 When Burford had finished reading this letter, 
 it fell from his grasp, and clasping his hands con- 
 vulsively together, he exclaimed, " Ruined and dis- 
 graced for ever !" then rushed into his own cham- 
 ber. His terrified wife followed him with the un- 
 read letter in her hand, looking the enquiries which 
 she could not utter.—" Read that," he replied* 
 " and see that Sir James Alberry deems me a vil- 
 lain !" She did read, and with a shaking frame ; 
 but it was not the false accusation of her husband, 
 nor the loss of the expected partnership, that thus 
 agitated her firm nerves, and firmer mind ; it was 
 the painful conviction, that Annabel, by some means 
 unknown to her, had been the cause of this mis- 
 
THE STAGE COACH. 25 
 
 chief to her father ; — a conviction which consider- 
 ably increased Burford's agony, when she pointed 
 out the passage in Sir James's letter alluding to 
 Annabel, who was immediately summoned, and de- 
 sired to explain Sir James's mysterious meaning. 
 * Dear me ! papa," cried she, changing colour, 
 a I am sure, if I had thought, — 1 am sure I could 
 not think, — nasty, ill-natured old man ! I am sure 
 I only said — ." " But what did you say V cried 
 her agitated father. — " I can explain all," said his 
 mother, who had entered uncalled for, and read the 
 letter. She then repeated what Annabel had told, 
 but softening it as much as she could ;— however, 
 she told enough to show the agonizing parents that 
 their child was not only the cause of disappointment 
 and disgrace to them, but a mean, vain-glorious, 
 and despicable liar ! " The only amends which you 
 can now make us," said Burford, " is to tell the 
 whole truth, unhappy child ! and then we must see 
 whatcan be done ; for my reputation must be clear- 
 ed, even at the painful expense of exposing you." 
 Nor was it long before the mortified Annabel, with 
 a heart awakened to contrition by her mother's 
 gentle reproofs, and the tender teachings of a mo- 
 ther's love, made an ample confession of all that 
 had passed in the stage coach ; on hearing which, 
 Burford instantly resolved to set off for London, 
 But how was he to get thither ? He had no mo- 
 ney ; as he had recently been obliged to pay some 
 debts of his still thoughtless and extravagant mo- 
 ther ; nor could he bear to borrow of his neigh- 
 bour what he was afraid he might be for some 
 time unable to return. " Cruel, unprincipled girl!" 
 cried he, as he paced their little room in agony ; 
 " see to what misery thou hast reduced thy fath- 
 er ! However, I must go to London immediately, 
 though it be on foot." — " Well, really, I don't see 
 3 
 
26 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 any very great harm in what the poor child did," 
 cried his mother, distressed at seeing Annabel's 
 tears. " It was very trying to her to be reproach- 
 ed with her father's bankruptcy and her fallen 
 fortunes ; and it was very natural for her to say 
 what she did.'' — " Natural !" exclaimed the indig- 
 nant mother ; " natural for my child to utter false- 
 hood on falsehood, and at the instigation of a mean 
 vanity ! Natural for my child to shrink from the 
 avowal of poverty, which was unattended with dis- 
 grace ! Oh ! make us not more wretched than 
 we were before, by trying to lessen Annabel's 
 faults in her own eyes ! Our only comfort is the 
 hope that she is ashamed of herself."—" But neith- 
 er her shame nor penitence," cried Burford, 
 " will give me the quickest means of repairing the 
 effects of her error. However, as I cannot ride, 
 I must walk, to London ;" while his wife, alarmed 
 at observing the dew of weakness which stood up- 
 on his brow, and the faint flush which overspread 
 his cheek, exclaimed, " But will not writing to Sir 
 James be sufficient ?"-" No. My appearance 
 will corroborate my assurances too well. The only 
 writing necessary will be a detail from Annabel of 
 all that passed in the coach, and a confession of 
 her fault."— u What ! exact from your child such 
 a disgraceful avowal, William !" cried the angry 
 grandmother.—" Yes ; for it is a punishment due 
 to her transgression ; and she may think herself 
 happy if its consequences end here." " Here's a 
 fuss, indeed, about a little harmless puffing and 
 white lying 1"—" Harmless !" replied Burford, in 
 a tone of indignation, while his wife exclaimed, in 
 the agony of a wounded spirit, " Oh ! mother, mo- 
 ther ! do not make us deplore, more than we al- 
 ready do. that fatal, hour when we consented to 
 surrender our dearest duties at the call of compas* 
 
THE STAGE COACH. 27 
 
 sion for your sorrows, and entrusted the care of 
 our child's precious soul to your erroneous tender- 
 ness ! But, I trust that Annabel deeply feels her 
 sinfulness, and that the effects of a mistaken edu- 
 cation may have been counteracted in time." 
 
 The next day, having procured the necessary 
 document from Annabel, Burford set off on his 
 journey, intending to travel occasionally on the 
 tops of coaches, being well aware that he was not 
 in a state of health to walk the whole way. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Sir James Alberry, the Lon- 
 don merchant, to whom poor Burford was then 
 pursuing his long and difficult journey, was begin- 
 ning to suspect that he had acted hastily ; and, 
 perhaps, unjustly. He had written his distressing 
 letter in the moments of his first indignation, on 
 hearing the statement of the two creditors ; and 
 he had moreover written it under their dictation ; 
 — and, as the person who had long wished to be 
 admitted into partnership with him happened to 
 call at the same time, and had taken advantage of 
 Burford's supposed delinquency, he had, without 
 further hesitation, granted his request. But as 
 Sir James, though a rash, was a kind-hearted, man, 
 when his angry feelings had subsided, the rebound 
 of them was in favour of the poor accused ; and he 
 reproached himself for having condemned and 
 punished a supposed culprit, before he was even 
 heard in his defence. Therefore, having invited 
 Burford's accusers to return to dinner, he dismiss- 
 ed them as soon as he could, and went in search of 
 his wife, wishing, but not expecting, his hasty 
 proceeding to receive the approbation of her can- 
 did spirit and discriminating judgment. "What 
 is all this ?" cried Lady Alberry, when he had 
 done speaking. " Is it possible that, on the evi- 
 dence of these two men, who have shown them- 
 
,28 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 selves inveterate enemies of the poor bankrupt, 
 you have broken your promise to him, and pledg- 
 ed it to another ?" — " Yes ; and my letter to Bur- 
 ford is gone. I wish I had shown it to you before 
 it went ; but, surely Burford's child could not 
 have told them falsehoods."-—" That depends on 
 her education." — " True, Jane ; and she was 
 brought up, you know, by that paragon, her mo- 
 ther, who cannot do wrong." — " No ; she was 
 brought up by that weak woman, her grandmoth- 
 er, who is not likely, i fear, ever to do right. Had 
 her pious mother educated her, I should have been 
 sure that Annabel Burford could not have told a 
 lie. However, I shall see, and interrogate the ac- 
 cusers. In the meanwhile 1 must regret your ex- 
 cessive precipitancy " 
 
 As Lady Al berry was a woman who scrupu- 
 lously performed all her religious and moral du- 
 des, she was, consequently, always observant of 
 that holy command. " not to take up a reproach 
 against her neighbour." She was, therefore, very 
 unwilling to believe the truth of this charge against 
 Burford ; and thought that it was more likely an 
 ill educated girl should tell a fatsehood, which had 
 also, perhaps, been magnified by involuntary ex- 
 aggeration, than that the husband of such a wo- 
 man as Anna Burford should be the delinquent 
 which his old creditors described him to be.' For 
 she had in former days, been thrown into society 
 with Burford's wife, and had felt attracted towards 
 her by the strongest of all sympathies, that of en- 
 tire unity on those subjects most connected with 
 our welfare here, and hereafter; those sympathies 
 which can convert strangers into friends, and draw 
 them together in the enduring ties of pure, Chris- 
 tian love. " No, no," said she to herself; "the 
 beloved husband of such a woman cannot be a 
 
THE STAGE COACH. 29 
 
 villain :" and she awaited, with benevolent impa- 
 tience, the arrival of her expected guest. 
 
 They came, accompanied by Charles Danvers, 
 Annabel's young fellow-traveller, who was nephew 
 to one of them ; and Lady Alberry lost no time in 
 drawing from them an exact detail of all that had 
 passed. u And this girl, you say, was a forward, 
 conceited, set-up being, full of herself and her ac- 
 complishments ; in short, the creature of vanity." 
 — " Yes," replied one of the old men, 8 it was 
 quite a comedy to look at her and hear her !" — - 
 M But what says my j^oung friend ?" — " The same. 
 She is very pretty ; but a model of affectation, 
 boasting, and vanity. Now she was hanging her 
 head on one side — then looking languishingly with 
 her eyes ; — and when my uncle, coarsely, as I 
 thought, talked of her father as a bankrupt, her 
 expression of angrv mortification was so ludicrous, 
 that I could scarcely help laughing. Nay, I do 
 assure you," he continued, " that had we been 
 left alone a few minutes, I should have been made 
 the confidant of her love-affairs ; for she sighed 
 deeply once, and asked me, with an affected lisp, 
 if I did not think it a dangerous thing to have a too 
 susceptible heart ?*' As he said this, after the 
 manner of Annabel, both the old men exclaimed, 
 " Admirable ! that is she to the life ! I think that I 
 see her and hear her !" — " But, I dare say," said 
 Lady Alberry gravely, " that you paid her com- 
 pliments, and pretended to admire her notwith- 
 standing." — "1 own it; for how could I refuse the 
 incense which every look and gesture demanded ?" 
 — " A principle of truth, young man ! would have 
 enabled you to do it. What a fine lesson it would 
 be, for poor flattered women, if we could know 
 how meanly men think of us, even when they flat- 
 ter us the most." — " But, dear Lady Alberry, this 
 
30 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 
 
 girl seemed to me a mere child ; a coquette of the 
 nursery : still, had she been older, her evident 
 vanity would have secured me against her beau- 
 ty." — kt You are mistaken, Charles ; this child is 
 almost seventeen. But now, gentlemen, as just 
 men, I appeal to you all, whether it is not more 
 likely that this vain-glorious girl told lies, than that 
 her father, the husband of one of the best of wo- 
 men, should be guilty of the grossest dishonesty ?" 
 — tv I must confess, Jane, that you have convinced 
 me," said Sir James ; but the two creditors only 
 frowned, and spoke not. " But consider," said 
 this amiable advocate ; " if the girl's habitation 
 was so beautiful, was it not inconsistent with her 
 boasting propensities that she should not choose to 
 be set down at it ? And if her father still had 
 carriages and servants, would they not have been 
 sent to meet her ? And if he were really rich, 
 would she have been allowed to travel alone in a 
 stage coach ? — Impossible ; and I conjure you to 
 suspend your severe judgment of an unfortunate 
 man, till you have sent some one to see how he 
 really lives." 
 
 " J am forced to return to Wynstaye to-mor- 
 row 5 " growled out Charles's uncle ; " therefore, 
 suppose I go myself." — "We had fixed to go into 
 Wales ourselves next week," replied Lady Alber- 
 ry, " on a visit to a dear friend who lives not far 
 from Wynstaye. Therefore, what say you, Sir 
 James ? Had we not better go with our friend ? 
 For if you have done poor Burford injustice, the 
 sooner *you make him reparation, and in person, 
 the better." To this proposal Sir James gladly 
 assented ; and they set off for Wales the next day, 
 accompanied by the uncle and the nephew. 
 
 As Lady Alberry was going to her chamber, on 
 the second night of their journey, she was startled 
 
THE STAGE COACH* 31 
 
 by the sound of deep groans, and a sort of deliri- 
 ous raving, from a half-open door. '* Surely," said 
 she to the landlady, who was conducting her, 
 {i there is some one very ill in that room." — " Oh 
 dear ! yes, my lady; a poor man who was picked 
 up on the road yesterday. He had walked all the 
 way from the heart of Wales, till he was so tired, 
 he got on a coach ; and he supposes that, from 
 weakness he fell off in the night ; and not being 
 missed, he lay till he was found and brought hith- 
 er." — '■' Has any medical man seen him ?" — 
 K Not yet ; for our surgeon lives a good way off; 
 and, as he had his senses when he first came, we 
 hoped he was not much hurt. He was able to tell 
 us that he only wanted a garret, as he was very 
 poor; and yet, my lady, he looks and speaks so 
 like a gentleman 1" — tw Poor creature ! he must be 
 attended to, and a medical man sent for directly, 
 as he is certainly not sensible now." — " Hark ! 
 he is raving again, and all about his wife, and I 
 cannot tell what." — " I should like to see him," 
 said Lady Alberry, whose heart always yearned 
 towards the afflicted ; "and I think that 1 am my- 
 self no bad doctor." Accordingly, she entered the 
 room just as the sick man exclaimed, in his deliri- 
 um, " Cruel Sir James ! I a fraudulent .... 
 Oh ! my dearest Anna !" .... and Lady Al- 
 berry recognized, in the poor raving being before 
 her, the calumniated Burford ! " J know him !" 
 she cried, bursting into tears ; " we will be an- 
 swerable for all expenses." She then went in 
 search of Sir James ; and having prepared him 
 as tenderly as she could for the painful scene 
 which awaited him, she led him to the bedside of 
 the unconscious invalid ; — then, while Sir James 
 shocked and distressed beyond measure, interro- 
 gated the landlady, Lady Alberry examined the 
 
32 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 nearly threadbare coat of the supposed rich man. 
 which lay on the bed, and searched for the slen- 
 derly filled purse, of which he had himself spoken. 
 She found there Sir James's letter, which had, she 
 doubted not, occasioned his journey and his ill- 
 ness ; and which, therefore, in an agony of re- 
 pentant feeling, her husband tore into atoms. In 
 the same pocket he found Annabel's confession ; 
 and when they left the chamber, having vainly 
 waited in hopes of being recognized by the poor 
 invalid, they returned to their fellow-travellers, 
 carrying with them the evidences of Burford's 
 scanty means, in corroboration of the tale of suf- 
 fering and fatigue which they had to relate. 
 " See I" said Lady Alberry, holding up the coat, 
 and emptying the purse on the table, w are these 
 signs of opulence ? and is travelling on foot, in a 
 hot June day, a proof of splendid living ?" While 
 the harsh creditor, as he listened to the tale of 
 delirium, and read the confession of Annabel, re- 
 gretted the hasty credence which he had given to 
 her falsehoods. 
 
 Bui what was best to be done ? To send for 
 Burford's wife ; — and, till she arrived to nurse 
 him, Sir James and Lady Alberry declared that 
 they would not leave the inn. It was therefore 
 agreed that the nephew should go to Burford's 
 house in the barouche, and escort his wife back. 
 He did so ; and while Annabel, lost in painful 
 thought, was walking on the road, she saw the 
 barouche driving up, with her young fellow-travel- 
 ler in it. As it requires great suffering to subdue 
 such overweening vanity as Annabel's, her first 
 thought, on seeing him, was, that her youthful 
 beau was a young heir, who had travelled in dis- 
 guise, and was now come in state to make her an 
 offer ! She, therefore, blushed with pleasure as 
 
THE STAGE COACH. 33 
 
 he approached, and received his bow with a coun- 
 tenance of joy. But his face expressed no an- 
 swering pleasure ; and, coldly passing her, he said 
 his business was with her mother, who, alarmed, 
 she scarcely knew why, stood trembling at the 
 door; nor was she less alarmed when the feeling 
 youth told his errand, in broken and faltering ac- 
 cents, and delivered Lady Alberry's letter. " An- 
 nabel must go with me !" said her mother, in a 
 deep and solemn tone. Then lowering her voice, 
 because unwilling to reprove her before a stran- 
 ger, she added, " Yes, my child ! thou must go, 
 to see the effects of thy errors, and take sad, but 
 salutary, warning for the rest of thy life. We shall 
 not detain you long, sir," she continund, turning to 
 Charles Danvers; " our slender wardrobe can be 
 soon prepared." 
 
 In a short time, the calm, but deeply suffering, 
 wife, and the weeping humbled daughter, were on 
 their road to the inn. The mother scarcely spoke 
 during the whole of the journey ; but she seemed 
 to pray a great deal ; and the young man was so 
 affected, with the subdued anguish of the one, and 
 the passionate grief of the other, that, he declared 
 to Lady Alberry, he had never been awakened to 
 such serious thought before, and hoped to be the 
 better for the journey through the whole of his 
 existence ; while, in her penitent sorrow, he felt 
 inclined to forget Annabel's fault, coquetry, and 
 affectation. 
 
 When they reached the inn, the calmness of the 
 wife was entirely overcome at the sight of Lady 
 Alberry, who opened her arms to receive her 
 with the kindness of an attached friend ; whisper- 
 ing, as she did so, " He has been sensible ; and 
 he knew Sir James; knew him as an affectionate 
 friend and nurse !" — " Gracious heaven, I thank 
 
34 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 thee !" she replied, hastening to his apartment, 
 leading the reluctant Annabel along. But he did 
 not know them ; and his wife was at first speech- 
 less with sorrow : at length recovering her calm- 
 ness, she said," See ! dear unhappy girl ! to what 
 thy sinfulness has reduced thy fond father ! Hum- 
 ble thyself, my child, before the Great Being 
 whom thou hast offended ; and own his mercy in 
 the awful warning !" " I am humbled, I am 
 warned, I trust," cried Annabel, falling on her 
 knees ; u but, if he die, what will become of me?" 
 — " What will become of us all?" replied the mo- 
 ther, shuddering at the bare idea of losing him, 
 but preparing, with forced composure, for her im- 
 portant duties. Trying ones indeed they were, 
 through many days and nights, that the wife and 
 daughter had to watch beside the bed of the un- 
 conscious Burford. The one heard herself kindly 
 invoked, and tenderly desired, and her absence 
 wondered at ; while the other never heard her 
 name mentioned, during the ravings of fever, with- 
 out heart-rending upbraidings, and just reproofs. 
 But Burford's life was granted to the prayers of 
 agonizing affection ; and, when recollection re- 
 turned, he had the joy of knowing that his reputa- 
 tion was cleared, that his angry creditors were be- 
 come his kind friends, and that Sir James Alber- 
 ry lamented, with bitter regret, that be could no 
 longer prove his confidence in hirn by making him 
 his partner. But notwithstanding this blight to 
 his prospects, Burford piously blessed the event 
 which had had so salutary an influence on his offend- 
 ing child ; and had taught her a lesson which she 
 was not likely to forget. Lady Alberry, how- 
 ever, thought that the lesson was not yet sufficient- 
 ly complete ; for, though Annabel might be cured 
 of lying by the consequences of her falsehoods, 
 
THE STAGE COACH. 35 
 
 the vanity which prompted them might still re- 
 main uncorrected. Therefore, as Annabel had 
 owned that it was the wish not to lose consequence 
 in the eyes of her supposed admirer, which had 
 led her to her last fatal falsehood, Lady Alberry, 
 with the mother's approbation, contrived a plan 
 for laying the axe if possible to the root of her 
 vanity ; and she took the earliest opportunity of 
 asking Charles Dan ers, in her presence, and that 
 of her mother, some particulars concerning what 
 passed in the coach, and his opinion on the sub- 
 ject. As she expected, he gave a softened and fa- 
 vourable representation; and would not allow that 
 he did not form a favourable opinion of his fair 
 companion. "Who,' Charles," said she, " do 
 you pretend to deny that you mimicked her voice 
 and manner?" She then repeated all that he had 
 said, and his declaration that her evident vanity 
 and coquetry steeled his heart against her, copy- 
 ing, at the same time, his accurate mimickry of 
 Annabel's manner ; nor did she rest till she had 
 drawn from him a full avowal that what he had 
 asserted was true ; for, Lady Alberry was not a 
 woman to be resisted ; while the mortified, hum- 
 bled, but corrected Annabel, could only hide her 
 face in her mother's bosom ; who, while she felt 
 for the salutary pangs inflicted on her, mingled 
 caresses with her tears, and whispered in her ear, 
 that the mortification which she endured was but 
 for a moment ; and the benefit would be, she 
 trusted, of eternal duration. The lesson was now- 
 complete indeed. Annabel found that she had 
 not only, by her lies of vanity, deprived her fa- 
 ther of a lucrative business, but that she had ex- 
 posed herself to the ridicule and contempt of that 
 very being who had been the cause of her error j 
 and, in the depth of her humbled and contrite 
 
36 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 heart, she resolved from that moment to struggle 
 with her besetting sins, and subdue them. Nor 
 was the resolve ot that trying moment ever brok- 
 en. But when her father, whose original destina- 
 tion had been the church, was led, by his own 
 wishes, to take orders, and was, in process of time, 
 inducted into a considerable living, in the gift of 
 Sir James Alberry, Annabel rivalled her mother 
 in performing the duties of her new station : and, 
 when she became a wife and mother herself, she 
 had a mournful satisfaction in relating the above 
 story to her children ; bidding them beware of all 
 lying; but more especially of that common lie, 
 the lie of vanity, whether it be active or passive. 
 " Not." said she, " that retributive justice in this 
 world, like that which attended mine, may always 
 follow ycur falsehoods, or those of others ; but 
 because all lying is contrary to the moral law of 
 God ; and that the liar, as scripture tells us, is 
 not only liable to punishment nnd disgrace here, 
 but will be the object of certain and more awful 
 punishment in the world to come." 
 
 The following tale illustrates the passive lie of 
 
 VANITY. 
 
 UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 
 
 There are two sayings — the one derived from 
 divine, the other from human, authority — the truth 
 of which is continually forced upon us by experi- 
 ence. They are these : — " A prophet is not with- 
 out honour, except in his own country ;" and "No 
 man is a hero to his valet de-chambre." — " Fa- 
 miliarity breeds contempt," is also a proverb to 
 the same effect ; and they all three bear upon the 
 
UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. Si 
 
 tendency in our natures to undervalue the talents, 
 and the claims to distinction, of those with whom 
 we are closely connected and associated ; and on 
 our incapability to believe that they, whom we have 
 always considered as our equals only, or perhaps 
 as our inferiors, can be to the rest of the world 
 objects of admiration and respect. 
 
 No one was more convinced of the truth of these 
 sayings than Darcy Pennington, the only child of 
 a pious and virtuous couple, who thought him the 
 best of sons, and one of the first of geniuses; but, 
 as they were not able to persuade the rest of the 
 family of this latter truth, when they died, Dar- 
 cy's uncle and guardian insisted on his going into 
 a merchant's counting-house in London, instead of 
 being educated for one of the learned professions. 
 Darcy had a mind too well disciplined to rebel 
 against his guardian's authority. He therefore 
 submitted to his allotment in silence ; resolving 
 that his love of letters and the muses should not 
 interfere with his duties to his employer, but he 
 devoted all his leisure hours to literary pursuits ; 
 and, as he had real talents, he was at length rais- 
 ed from the unpaid contributor to the poetical col- 
 umns in the newspaper, to the paid writer in a pop- 
 ular magazine ; while his poems, signed Alfred, 
 became objects of eager expectation. But Dar- 
 cy's own family and friends could not have been 
 more surprised at his growing celebrity than he 
 himself was : for he was a sincere, humble chris- 
 tian ; and, having been accustomed to bow to the 
 opinion of those whom he considered as his su- 
 periors in intellect and knowledge, he could 
 scarcely believe in his own eminence. But it was 
 precious to his heart, rather than to his vanity ; 
 as it enabled him to indulge those benevolent feel- 
 ings, which his small income had hitherto resuain- 
 4 
 
S8 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYJNG. 
 
 ed. At length he published a duodecimo volume 
 of poems and hymns, still under the name of Al- 
 fred, which was highly praised in reviews and 
 journals, and a strong desire was expressed to 
 know who the modest, promising, and pious writ- 
 er was. 
 
 Notwithstanding, Darcy could not prevail upon 
 himself to disclose his name. He visited his na- 
 tive town every year, and in the circle of his fami- 
 ly and friends, was still considered only as a good 
 sort-of lad ,who had been greatly overrated by his 
 parents — was just suited for the situation in which 
 he had been placed — and was very fortunate to 
 have been received into partnership with the mer- 
 chant to whom he had been clerk. In vain did Dar- 
 cy sometimes endeavour to hint that he was an au- 
 thor ; he remembered the contempt with which his 
 uncle, and relations, had read one of the earliest 
 fruits of his muse, when exhibited by his fond fa- 
 ther, and the advice given to burn such stuff, and 
 not turn the head of a dull boy, by making him 
 fancy himself a genius. Therefore, recollecting 
 the wise saying quoted above, he feared that the 
 news of his literary celebrity would not be re- 
 ceived with pleasure, and that the affection with 
 which he was now welcomed might suffer diminu- 
 tion. Besides, thought he, — and then his heart rose 
 in his throat, with a choking painful- feeling, — those 
 tender parents, who would have enjoyed my lit- 
 tle fame, are cold, and unconscious now ; and the 
 ears, to which my praises would have been sweet 
 music, cannot hear; therefore, methinks, I have a 
 mournful pleasure in- keeping on that veil, the re- 
 moval of which cannot confer pleasure on them." 
 — Consequently he remained contented to be 
 warmly welcomed at D — for talents of an hum- 
 ble sort such as his power for mending toys, mak- 
 
ONEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 39 
 
 ing kites, and rabbits on the wall; which talents 
 endeared him to all the children of his family and 
 friends ; and, through them, to their parents. 
 Yet it may be asked, was it possible that a young 
 man, so gifted, could conceal his abilities from ob- 
 servation ? 
 
 Oh, yes. Darcy, to borrow Addison's metaphor 
 concerning himself, though he could draw a bill 
 for £1000, had never any small change in his 
 pocket. Like him, he could write, but he could 
 not talk; he was discouraged in a moment; and 
 the slightest rebuff made him hesitate to a pain- 
 ful degree. He had, however, some flattering mo- 
 ments, even amidst his relations and friends ; for 
 he heard them repeating his verses and singing 
 his songs. He had also far greater joy in hearing 
 his hymns in places of public worship ; and then, 
 too much choked with grateful emotion to join in 
 the devotional chorus himself, he used to feel his 
 own soul raised to heaven upon those wings which 
 he had furnished for the souls of others. At such 
 moments he longed to discover himself as the au- 
 thor ; but was withheld by the fear that his songs 
 would cease to be admired, and his hymns would 
 lose their usefulness, if it were known that he had 
 written them. However, he resolved to ftel his 
 way ; and once, on hearing a song of his com- 
 mended, he ventured to observe, " 1 think I can 
 write as good a one." — " You !" cried his uncle ; 
 " what a conceited boy! I remember that you used 
 to scribble verses when a child ; but I thought you 
 had been laughed out of that nonsense." — " My 
 dear fellow, nature never meant thee for a poet, 
 believe me," said one of his cousins conceitedly, 
 — a young collegian. " No, no ; like the girl in 
 the drama, thou wouldst make c love ' and ' joy ' 
 rhyme, and know no better." — "But I have writ- 
 
40 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 ten, and I can rhyme," replied Darcy, colouring a 
 little. — " Indeed !" replied his formal aunt ;" Well, 
 Mr. Darcy Pennington, it really would be very 
 amusing to see your erudite productions ; perhaps 
 you will indulge us some day." — •" 1 will ; and then 
 you may probably alter your opinion." Soon after 
 Darcy wrote an anonymous prose tale in one vol- 
 ume, interspersed with poetry, which had even a 
 greater run than his other writings ; and it was at- 
 tributed first to one person, and then to another ; 
 while his publisher was excessively pressed to de- 
 clare the name of the author ; but he did not him- 
 self know it, as he only knew Darcy, avowedly. 
 under a feigned name. But, at length, Darcy re- 
 solved to disclose his secret, at least to his rela- 
 tives and friends at D— ; and just as the second 
 edition of his tale was nearly completed, he set 
 off for his native place, taking with him the man- 
 uscript, full of the printer's marks, to prove that he 
 was the author of it. 
 
 He had one irresistible motive for thus walking 
 out from his incognito, like Homer's deities from 
 their cloud. He had fallen in love with his sec- 
 ond cousin, Julia V^ane, an heiress, and his uncle's 
 ward - 7 and had become jealous of himself, as he 
 had. for some months, wooed her in anonymous 
 poetry, which she, he found, attributed to a gen- 
 tleman in the neighbourhood, whose name he- 
 knew not ; and she^had often declared that, such 
 was her passion for poetry, he who could woo her 
 in beautiful verse was alone likely to win her 
 heart. . 
 
 On the very day of his arrival, he said m the 
 family circle that he had brought down a little 
 manuscript of his own, which he wished to read to 
 them. Oh 1 the comical grimaces ! the suppress- 
 ed laughter, growing and^swelling, however, till it 
 
UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES, 41 
 
 could be restrained no longer, which was the re- 
 sult of this request ! And oh ! the looks of con- 
 sternation when Darcy produced the manuscript 
 from Jiis pocket ! " Why, Darcy," said his un- 
 cle, " this is really a word and a blow ; but you 
 cannot read it to-night; we are engaged." — " Cer- 
 tainly, Mr. Darcy Pennington," said his aunt, " if 
 you wish to read your astonishing productions, we 
 are bound in civility to hear them ; but we are all 
 going to Sir Hugh Belson's, and shall venture to 
 take you with us, though it is a great favour and 
 privilege to be permitted to go on such an occa- 
 sion ; for a gentleman is staying there who has 
 written such a sweet book ! It is only just out, 
 yet it cannot be had ; because the first edition is 
 sold, and the second not finished. So Sir Hugh, 
 for whom your uncle is exerting himself against 
 the next election, has been so kind as to invite us 
 to hear the author read his own work. This gen- 
 tleman does not, indeed, own that he wrote it ; 
 still he does not deny it ; and it is clear, by his 
 manner, that he did write it, and that he would be 
 very sorry not to be considered as the writer."— 
 " Very well, then ; the pleasure of hearing anoth- 
 er author read his own work shall be delayed," 
 replied Darcy smiling. " Perhaps, w 7 hen you 
 have heard this gentleman's, you will not be so 
 eager to read yours, Darcy," said Julia Vane ; 
 " for you used to be a modest man." Darcy sigh- 
 ed, looked significantly, but remained silent. 
 
 In the evening they went to Sir Hugh Belson's, 
 where, in the Captain Eustace, who was to delight 
 the company, Darcy recognized the gentleman 
 who had been pointed out to him as the author of 
 several meagre performances handed about in 
 manuscript in certain circles ; which owed their 
 celebrity to the birth and fashion of the writer. 
 4* 
 
42 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 and to the bribery which is always administered 
 to the self-love of those who are the select few' 
 chosen to see and judge on such occasions. 
 
 Captain Eustace now prepared to read ; but 
 when he named the title of the book which he 
 held in his hand, Darcy started from his seat in 
 surprise 5 for it was the title of his own work ! 
 But there might be two works with the same title ; 
 and he sat down again ; but when the reader con- 
 tinued, and he could doubt no longer, he again 
 started up, and with stuttering eagerness, said, 
 u Wh-wh— who, sir, did you say, wrote this 
 book ?" — " I have named no names, sir,*' replied 
 Eustace conceitedly ; " the author is unknown, 
 and wishes to remain so." — " Mr. Darcy Penning- 
 ton," cried his aunt, " sit down and be quiet ;" 
 and he obeyed. — " Mr. Pennington," said Sir 
 Hugh, affectedly, " the violet must be sought, and 
 is discovered with difficulty, you know ; for it 
 shrinks from observation, and loves the shade. 1 ' 
 Darcy bowed assent ; but fixed his eyes on the 
 discovered violet before him with such an equivo- 
 cal expression, that Eustace was disconcerted; 
 and the more so, when Darcy who could not but 
 feel the ludicrous situation in which he was plac- 
 ed, hid his face in his handkerchief, and was evi- 
 dently shaking with laughter. " Mr. Darcy Pen- 
 nington, I am really ashamed of you," whispered 
 his aunt : and Darcy recovered his composure. 
 He had now two hours of great enjoyment. He 
 heard that book admirably read which he had in- 
 tended to read the next day, and knew that he 
 should read ill. He heard that work applauded 
 to the skies as the work of another, which would, 
 he feared, have been faintly commended, if known 
 to be his ; and he saw the fine eyes of the woman 
 he loved drowned in tears, by the power of his 
 
UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 43 
 
 own simple pathos. The poetry in the book was 
 highly admired also ; and, when Eustace paused 
 to take breath, Julia whispered in his ear, " Cap- 
 tain Eustace is the gentleman who, I have every 
 reason to believe, wrote some anonymous poetry 
 sent me by the post; for Captain Eustace pays 
 me, as you see, marked attention ; and as he de- 
 nies that he wrote the verses, exactly as he denies 
 that he wrote the book which he is now reading, 
 it is very evident that he wrote both." — " 1 dare 
 say," replied Darcy, colouring with resentment, 
 " that he as much wrote the one as he wrote the 
 ether." — " What do you mean, Darcy ? There 
 can be no doubt of the fact ; and I own- that I can- 
 not be insensible to such talent ; for poetry and 
 poets are my passion, you know ; and in his au- 
 thorship I forget his plainness Do you not think 
 that a woman would be justified in loving a man 
 who writes so morally, so piously, and so delight- 
 fully ?" — " Certainly," replied Darcy, eagerly 
 grasping her hand, " provided his conduct be in 
 unison with his writings ;and I advise you to give 
 the writer in question your whole heart" 
 
 After the reading was over, the delighted audi- 
 ence crowded round the reader, whose manner 
 of receiving their thanks was such, as to make 
 every one but Darcy believe the work was his 
 own 5 and never was the passive lie of vanity 
 more completely exhibited ; while Darcy, intoxi- 
 cated, as it were, by the feelings of gratified au- 
 thorship, and the hopes excited by Julia's words, 
 thanked him again and again for the admirable 
 manner in which he had read the book ; declare 
 ing, with great earnestness, that he could not have 
 done it such justice himself ; adding, that this 
 evening was the happiest of his life. 
 
 " Mr. Darcy Pennington, what ails you?" cried 
 
44 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 
 
 bis aunt ; " you really are not like 3'ourself P* — 
 " Hold your tongue, Darcy," said his uncle, draw- 
 ing him on one side ; " do not be such a forward 
 puppy ; — who ever questioned, or cared, whether 
 you could have done it jnstice or not ? But here 
 is the carriage ; and I am glad you have no long- 
 er an opportunity of thus exposing yourself by 
 your literary and critical raptures, which sit as ill 
 upon you as the caressings of the ass in the fable 
 did on him, when he pretended to compete with 
 the lapdog in fondling his master." 
 
 During the drive home, Darcy did not speak a 
 word; not only because he was afraid of his se- 
 vere uncle and aunt, but, because he was medi- 
 tating how he should make that discovery, on the 
 success of which hung his dearest hopes. He was 
 also communing with his own heart, in order to 
 bring it back to that safe humility out of which it 
 had been led by the flattering, and unexpected, 
 events of the evening. " Well " said he, while 
 they drew round the fire, " as it is not late, sup- 
 pose I read my work to you now. I assure you 
 that it is quite as good as that which you have 
 heard." — u Mr. Darcy Pennington, you really 
 quite alarm me," cried his aunt. '* Why so ?" 
 — " Because I fear that you are a little delirious /" 
 —•On which Darcy nearly laughed himself into 
 convulsions. " Let me feel your pulse, Darcy," 
 said his uncle very gravely, — " too quick, — I shall 
 send for advice, if you are not better to-morrow ; 
 you look so flushed, and your eyes are so bright !" 
 — " My dear uncle," replied Darcy, " I shall be 
 quite well if you will but hear my manuscript be- 
 fore you go to bed." They now all looked at 
 each other with increased alarm; and Julia, in 
 order to please him, (for she really loved him) 
 said, " Well, Darcy, if you insist upon it ;" — but 
 
UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 45 
 
 interrupting her, he suddenly started up, and ex- 
 claimed, " No; on second thoughts, 1 will not read 
 it till Captain Eustace and Sir Hugh and his fami- 
 ly can be present ; and they will be here the day 
 after to-morrow." — " What 1 read your nonsense 
 to them !" cried his uncle, " Poor fellow ! poor 
 fellow J" But Darcy was gone ! he had caught 
 Julia's hand to his lips, and quitted the room, 
 leaving his relations to wonder, to fear, and to 
 pity. But as Darcy was quite composed the 
 next day, they all agreed that he must have drunk 
 more wine than he or they had been aware of the 
 preceding evening. But though Darcy was will- 
 ing to wait the ensuing evening, before he discov- 
 ered his secret to the rest of the family, he could 
 not be easy till he had disclosed it to Julia : for 
 he was mortified to find that the pious, judicious 
 Julia Vane had, for one moment, believed that a 
 mere man of the world, like Captain Eustace, 
 could have written such verses as he had anony- 
 mously addressed to her ; verses breathing the 
 very quintessence of pure love ; and full of anx- 
 ious interest not only for her temporal, but her 
 eternal welfare. " No, no," said he ; " she shall 
 not remain in such a degrading error one moment 
 longer :" and having requested a private interview 
 with her, he disclosed the truth. — " What ! are 
 you— can you be — did you write all!" she ex- 
 claimed in broken accents ; while Darcy gently 
 reproached her for having believed that a mere 
 worldly admirer could so have written ; however, 
 she justified herself by declaring how impossible 
 it was to suspect that a man of honour, as Eustace 
 seemed, could be so base as to assume a merit 
 which was not his own. Here she paused, turn- 
 ing away from Darcy's penetrating look, covered 
 with conscious blushes, ashamed that he should 
 
46 ILLUSTRATION'S OF LYING. 
 
 see how pleased she was. But she readily ac- 
 knowledged her sorrow at having been betrayed, 
 by the unworthy artifice of Eustace, into encour- 
 aging his attentions, and was eager to concert with 
 Darcy the best plan for revealing the surprising 
 secret. 
 
 The evening, so eagerly anticipated by Darcy 
 and Julia, now arrived ; and great was the conster- 
 nation of all the rest of the family, when Darcy 
 took a manuscript out of his pocket, and began to 
 open it. " The fellow is certainly possessed," 
 thought his uncle. " Mr. Darcy Pennington," 
 whispered his aunt, " I shall faint if you persist in 
 exposing yourself!" — "Darcy, 1 will shut you up 
 if you proceed," whispered his uncle ; " for you 
 must positively be mad." — u Let him go on, dear 
 uncle," said Julia ; "I am sure you will be de- 
 lighted, or ought to be so :" and, spite of his un- 
 cle's threats and whispers, he addressed Captain 
 Eustace thus : — 
 
 " Allow me, sir, to thank you again for the 
 more than justice which you did my humble per- 
 formance the other evening. Till I heard you 
 read it, I was unconscious that it had so much 
 merit ; and I again thank you for the highest gra- 
 tification which, as an author, I ever received." 
 New terror seized every one of his family who 
 heard him, except Julia ; while wonder filled Sir 
 Hugh and the rest of his party — Eustace excepted : 
 he knew that he was not the author of the work ; 
 therefore he could not dispute the fact that the 
 real author now stood before him ; and blushes of 
 detected falsehood^ covered his cheek ; but, ere 
 he could falter out a reply, Darcy's uncle and 
 sons seized him b} T the arm, and insisted on speak- 
 ing with him in another room. Darcj^, laughing 
 violently, endeavoured to shake them off, but in 
 
UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 41 
 
 vain. " Let him alone," said Julia, smiling, and 
 coming forward. " Dairy's 4 eye may be in a 
 fine frenzy rolling,' as you have all of you owned 
 him to be a poet ; but other frenzy than that of a 
 poet he has not, 1 assure you — so pray set him at 
 liberty ; / will be answerable for his sanity." — 
 " What does all this mean ?" said his uncle, as he 
 and his sons unwillingly obeyed. " It means, : ' 
 said Darcy, " that 1 hope not to quit this room till 
 I have had the delight of hearing these yet un- 
 published poems of mine read by Captain Eus- 
 tace. Look, sir," continued he, M here is a signa- 
 ture well known, no doubt, to you : that of Al- 
 fred" — " Are you indeed Alfred, the celebrated 
 Alfred ?" faltered out Eustace. " I believe so," 
 he replied with a smile ; though on some occasions, 
 you know, it is difficult to prove one's personal 
 identity"--" True," answered Eustace, turning over 
 the manuscript, to hide his confusion. " And F, 
 Captain Eustace," said Julia, have had the great 
 satisfaction of discovering that my unknown po- 
 etical correspondent is my long-cherished friend 
 and cousin, Darcy Pennington. Think how satis- 
 factory this discovery has been to me /" — s tt Cer- 
 tainly, Madam," he replied, turning pale with 
 emotion ; for he not only saw his Passive Lies of 
 Vanity detected, though Darcy had too much 
 Christian forbearance even to insinuate that he 
 intended to appropriate to himself the fame of an- 
 other, but he also saw, in spite of the kindness with 
 which she addressed him, that he had lost Julia, 
 and that Darcy had probably gained her. 
 " What is all this ?" cried Sir Hugh at last, who 
 with the uncle and aunt had listened in silent won- 
 der. " Why, Eustace, i thought you owned that?" 
 — u That I deny ; 1 owned nothing ;" he eagerly 
 replied. " You insisted on it, nay, every body 
 
48 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 insisted, that I was the author of the beautiful 
 work which I read, and of other things ; and if 
 Mr. Pennington asserts that he is the author, I 
 give him joy of his genius and his fame." — " What 
 do I hear !" cried the aunt ; " Mr. Darcy Pen- 
 nington a genius, and famous, and I not suspect 
 it !" — 4i Impossible !" cried his uncle, pettishly ; 
 K that dull fellow turnout a wit! It cannot be. 
 What ? are you Alfred, boy ? 1 cannot credit it ; 
 for if so, 1 have been dull indeed ;" while his sons 
 seemed to feel as much mortification as surprise. 
 " My dear uncle," said Darcy, " I am now a 
 professed author. I wrote the work which you 
 heard last night. Here it is in the manuscript, as 
 returned by the printer; and here is the last proof 
 of the second edition, which I received at the post- 
 office just now, directed to A. B. ; which is, I 
 think, proof positive that I may be Alfred also, 
 who, by your certainly impartial praises, is for 
 this evening, at least, in his own eyes elevated in- 
 to Alfred the Great." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ON THE LIES OF FLATTERY. 
 
 The Lies of Flattery are next on my list. 
 
 These lies are, generally speaking, not only un- 
 principled, but offensive ; and though they are 
 usually told to conciliate good will, the flatterer 
 often fails in his attempt ; for his intended dupe 
 frequently sees through his art, and he excites in- 
 dignation where he meant to obtain regard. 
 
£N /SHE LIES OP FLATTERY. 49 
 
 Those who know ought of human nature as it re- 
 ally is, and do not throw the radiance of their 
 own christian benevolence over it, must be well 
 aware that few persons hear with complacency 
 the praises of others, even where there is no com- 
 petition between the parties praised and them- 
 selves. Therefore, the objects of excessive flat- 
 tery are painfully conscious that the praises be- 
 stowed on them, in the hearing of their acquain- 
 tances, will not only provoke those auditors to un- 
 dervalue their pretensions, but to accuse them of 
 believing in and enjoying the gross flattery offer- 
 ed to them. There are no persons, in my opinon, 
 with whom it is so difficult to keep up " the rela- 
 tions of peace and amity," as flatterers by system 
 and habit. Those persons, I mean, who deal out 
 their flatteries on the same principle as boys throw 
 a handful of burs. However unskilfully the burs 
 are thrown, the chances are that some will stick ; 
 and flatterers expect that some of their compli- 
 ments will dwell with, and impose on, their inten- 
 ded dupe. Perhaps their calculation is not, gen- 
 erally considered, an erroneous one ; but if there 
 be any of their fellow-creatures uith whom the 
 sensitive and the discerning may be permitted to 
 loathe association, it is with those who presume to 
 address them in the language of compliment, too 
 violent and unappropriate to deceive even for a 
 moment ; while they discover on their lips the 
 flickering sneer of contempt contending with its 
 treacherous smile, and mark their wily eye look- 
 ing round in search of some responsive one, to 
 which it can communicate their sense of the utter- 
 ed falsehood, and their mean exultation over their 
 imagined dupe. The lies of benevolence, even 
 when they can be resolved into lies of flattery, 
 may be denominated amiable lies ; but the lie of 
 5 
 
50 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 flattery is usually uttered by the bad-hearted and 
 censorious ; therefore to the term lie of flattery 
 might be added an alias ; — alias, the lie of malev- 
 olence. 
 
 Coarse and indiscriminating flatterers lay it 
 down as a rule, that they are to flatter all persons 
 on the qualities which they have not. Hence, 
 they flatter the plain, on their beauty ; the weak, 
 on their intellect ; the dull, on their wit; believ- 
 ing, in the sarcastic narrowness of their concep- 
 tions, that no one possesses any self-knowledge ; 
 but that every one implicitly believes the truth of 
 the eulogy bestowed. This erroneous view, taken 
 by the flatterer of the penetration of the flattered, is 
 common only in those who have more cunning 
 than intellect ; more shrewdness than penetration ; 
 and whose knowledge of the weakness of our na- 
 ture has been gathered, not from deep study of 
 the human heart, but from the depravity of their 
 own, or from the pages of ancient and modern 
 satirists ; — those who have a mean, malignant 
 pleasure, in believing in the absence of all moral 
 truth amongst their usual associates ; and are glad 
 to be able to comfort themselves for their own 
 conscious dereliction from a high moral standard, 
 by the conviction that they are, at least, as good as 
 their neighbours. Yes ; my experience tells me 
 that the above-mentioned rule of flattery is acted 
 upon only by the half-enlightened, who take for 
 superiority of intellect that base low cunning, 
 
 which, in fools, supplies, 
 
 And amply too, the place of being- wise. 
 
 But the deep observer of human nature knows 
 thai where there is re^l intellect, there are dis- 
 cernu ent and self-knowledge also ; and that the 
 really intelligent are aware to how much praise 
 
THE TURBAN. 51 
 
 and admiration they are entitled, be it encomium 
 on their personal, or mental, qualifications. 
 
 I beg to give one illustration of the Lie of Flat- 
 tery, in the following- tale, of which the offending 
 heroine is a female ; though, as men are the liceris- 
 ed flatterers of women, I needed not to have fear- 
 ed the imputation of want of candour, had I taken 
 my example from one of the wiser sex. 
 
 THE TURBAN 5 
 
 OR 
 
 THE LIE OF FLATTERY. 
 
 Some persons are such determined flatterers both 
 by nature and habit, that they flatter unconscious- 
 ly, and almost involuntarily. Such a flatterer was 
 Jemima Aldred ; but, as the narrowness of her 
 fortune made her unable to purchase the luxuries 
 of life in which she most delighted, she was also a 
 conscious and voluntary flatterer whenever she was 
 with those who had it in their power to indulge 
 her favourite inclinations. 
 
 There was one distinguished woman in the cir- 
 cle of her acquaintance, whose favour she was 
 particularly desirous of gaining, and who was 
 therefore the constant object of her flatteries. 
 This lady, who was rendered, by her situation, 
 her talents, and her virtues, an object of earthly 
 worship to many of her associates, had a good- 
 natured indolence about her, which made her re- 
 ceive the incense offered, as if she believed in its 
 sincerity. But the flattery of young Jemima was 
 
til ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 so gross, and so indiscriminate, that it sometimes 
 converted the usual gentleness of Lady Delaval's 
 nature into gall ; and she felt indignant at being 
 supposed capable of relishing adulation so exces- 
 sive, and devotion so servile. But, as she was full 
 of christian benevolence, and, consequently, her 
 first desire was to do good, she allowed pity for 
 the poor girl's ignorance to conquer resentment, 
 and lad a plan, in order to correct and amend 
 her, if possible, by salutary mortification. 
 
 Accordingly, she invited Jemima, and some oth- 
 er young ladies, to spend a whole day with her at 
 her house in the country. But, as the truly bene- 
 volent are always reluctant to afflict any one, 
 even though it be to improve, Lady Delaval would 
 have shrunk from the task which she had imposed 
 on herself, had not Jemima excited her into per- 
 severance, by falling repeatedly and grossly into 
 her besetting sin during the course of the day. 
 For instance : Lady Delaval, who usually left 
 the choice of her ribands to her milliner, as she 
 was not studious of her personal appearance, wore 
 colours at breakfast that morning which she 
 thought ill-suited both to her years and complex- 
 ion ; and having asked her guests how they liked 
 her scarf and ribands, they pronounced them to 
 be beautiful. " But, surely, they do not become 
 my olive, ill-looking skin !"— " They are certainly 
 not becoming," was the ingenuous reply of all but 
 Jemima Aldred, who persisted in asserting that 
 the colour was as becoming as it was brilliant ; 
 adding, " I do not know what dear Lady Delaval 
 means by undervaluing her own clear complex- 
 ion," « The less that is said about that the bet- 
 ter, 1 believe," she dryly replied, not trying to 
 eonceal the sarcastic smile which played upon her 
 lip, and feeling strengthened, by this new instance 
 
THE TURBAN. 5*3 
 
 of Jemima's duplicity, to go on with her design ; 
 but Jemima thought she had endeared herself to 
 her by flattering her personal vanity ; and, while 
 her companions frowned reproach for her insincer- 
 ity, she wished for an opportunity of reproving 
 their rudeness. After tea, Lady Delaval desired 
 her maid to bring her down the foundation for a 
 turban, which she was going to pin up, and some 
 other finery prepared for the same purpose ; and 
 in a short time the most splendid materials for 
 millinery shone upon the table. When she began 
 her task, her other guests, Jemima excepted, 
 worked also, but she was sufficiently employed, 
 she said, in watching the creative and tasteful fin- 
 gers of her friend. At first, Lady Delaval made 
 the turban of silver tissue ; and Jemima was in 
 ecstacies ; but the next moment she declared that 
 covering to be too simple ; and Jemima thought 
 so too ; — while she was in equal ecstacies at the 
 effect of a gaudy many-coloured gauze which re- 
 placed its modest costliness. But still her young 
 companions openly preferred the silver covering, 
 declaring that the gay one could only be tolerated 
 if nothing else of showy ornament were superadd- 
 ed. They gave, however, their opinion in vain. 
 Coloured stones, a gold band, and a green spun- 
 glass feather, were all in their turn heaped upon 
 this showy head-dress, while Jemima exulted over 
 every fresh addition, and admired it as a new 
 proof of Lady Delaval's taste. "Now, then, it 
 is completed," cried Lady Delaval ; " but no ; 
 suppose I add a scarlet feather to the green one ; 
 Oh ! that would be superb ;" and having given 
 this desirable finish to her performance, Jemima 
 declared it to be perfect ; but the rest of the com- 
 pany were too honest to commend it. Lady De- 
 laval then put it on her head ; and it was as un- 
 5* 
 
54 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 becoming as it was ugly: but Jemima exclaimed 
 that her dear friend had never worn any thing be- 
 fore in which she looked so well, adding, " But 
 then she looks well in every thing. However, that 
 lovely turban would become any one." — " Try 
 how it would fit you !" said Lady Delaval, put- 
 ting it on her head. Jemima looked in a glass, 
 and saw that to her short, small person, little face 
 and little turned-up nose, such an enormous mass 
 of finery was the destruction of all comeliness ; 
 but, while the by-standers laughed immoderately 
 at her appearance, Jemima was loud in her admi- 
 ration, and volunteered a wish to wear it at some 
 public place — " for 1 think, I do look so well in 
 it !" cried Jemima. " If so," said her hostess, 
 " y° u i y oun g ladies, on this occasion, have neith- 
 er taste nor eyes ;" while Jemima danced about 
 the room, exulting in her heavy head-dress, in the 
 triumph of her falsehood, and in the supposed su- 
 perior ascendancy it had gained her over her hos- 
 tess above that of her more sincere companions. 
 Nor, when Lady Delaval expressed her fear that 
 the weight might be painful, would she allow it to 
 be removed ; but she declared that she liked her 
 burden. At parting, Lady Delaval, in a tone of 
 of great significance, told her that she should hear 
 from her the next day* The next morning Jemi- 
 ma often dwelt on these marked words, impatient 
 for an explanation of them ; and between twelve 
 and one o'clock a servant of Lady Delaval's 
 brought a letter and a bandbox. 
 
 The letter was first opened ; and was as follows : 
 
 a Dear Jemima, 
 i; As 1 know that you have long wished to visit 
 my niece Lady Ormsby, and also to attend the as- 
 tronomical lecture on the grand transparent orre- 
 
THE TORBAN. 55 
 
 ry, which is to be given at the public rooms this 
 evening, for the benefit of the Infirmary ; though 
 your praise-worthy prudence prevented you from 
 subscribing to it, I i>ave great pleasure in enclosing 
 you a ticket for the lecture, and in informing you 
 that i will call and take you to dinner at Lady 
 Ormsby's at four o'clock, whence you and I, and 
 the rest of the party, (which will be a splendid 
 
 one) shall adjourn to the lecture" 
 
 " How kind ! how very kind !" exclaimed Jemi- 
 ma ; but, in her heart, imputing these favours to 
 her recent flatteries ; and reading no farther, she 
 ran to her mother's apartment to declare the joy«- 
 ful news." " Oh, mamma !" exclaimed she, 
 " how fortunate it was that 1 made up my dyed 
 gauze when I did ! and I can wear natural flow- 
 ers in my hair ; and they are so becoming, as 
 well as cheap." She then returned to her own 
 room, to finish the letter and explore the contents 
 of the box. But what was her consternation on 
 reading the following words : . . . . " But I 
 shall take you to the dinner, and I give you the 
 ticket for the lecture, only on this express condi- 
 tion, — that you wear the accompanying turban, 
 which was decorated according to your taste and 
 judgment, and in which you were conscious of 
 looking so well ? — Every additional ornament was 
 bestowed to please you ; and as I know that your 
 wish will be not to deprive me of a head-dress in 
 which your partial eyes thought that I looked so 
 charmingly, I positively assure you that no con- 
 sideration shall ever induce me to wear it ; and 
 that I expect you to meet my summons, arrayed 
 in your youthful loveliness and my turban." 
 
 Jemima sat in a sort of stupor after perusing 
 this epistle : and when she started from it, it was 
 *© carry the letter and the turban to her mother. 
 
56 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 
 
 " Read that ! and look at that '" she exclaimed, 
 pointing to the turban. " Why, to be sure, Jemi- 
 ma, Lady Delaval must be making game of you," 
 she replied. " What could produce such an ab- 
 surd requisition ?" When called upon to answer 
 this question, Jemima blushed ; and, for the first 
 time, feeling some compunctious visitings of con- 
 science, she almost hesitated to own, that the an- 
 noying conditions were the consequence of her 
 flatteries. Still, to comply with them was impos- 
 sible : and to go to the dinner and lecture without 
 them, and thereby perhaps affront Lady Delaval, 
 was impossible also. — " What ! expect me to hide 
 my pretty hair under that preposterous mountain ? 
 Never, never !" Vainly, now, did she try to ad- 
 mire it ; and she felt its weight insupportable. 
 " To be sure," said she to herself, " Captain Les- 
 lie and George Vaux will dine at Lady Ormsby's 
 and go to the lecture ; but then they will not bear 
 to look at me in this frightful head-dress, and will 
 so quiz me ; and I am sure they will think me too 
 great a quiz to sit by ! No, no ; much as I wish 
 to go, and I do so very, very much wish it, I can- 
 not go on these cruel conditions." — " But what ex- 
 cuse can you make to Lady Delaval ?" — " I must 
 tell her that I have a bad toothach, and cannot 
 go ; and I will write her a n©te to say so ! and 
 at the same time return the ugly turban." She 
 did so ; — but when she saw Lady Delaval pass to 
 the fine dinner, and heard the carriages at night 
 going to the crowded lecture, she shed tears of 
 bitterness and regret, and lamented that she had 
 not dared to go without the conditional and de- 
 testable turban. The next day she saw Lady 
 Delaval's carriage drive up to the door, and also 
 saw the servant take a band-box out. " Oh dear 
 mamma," cried Jemima," I protest that ridiculous 
 
THE TURBAN. 57 
 
 old womaa has brought her ugly turban back 
 again !" and it was with a forced smile of welcome 
 that she greeted Lady Delaval. — That lady en- 
 tered the room with a graver and more dignified 
 mein than usual ; for she came to reprove, 
 and, she hQped, amend an offender against 
 those principles of truth which she honored, 
 and to which she uniformly acted up. Just 
 before Lady Delaval appeared, Jemima re- 
 collected that she was to have the toothach; there- 
 fore she tied up her face, adding a practical lie 
 to the many already told ; — for one lie is sure to 
 make many. "I was sorry to find that you were 
 not able to accompany me to the dinner and lec- 
 ture," said she ; " and were kept at home by the 
 toothach. Was that your only reason for staying 
 at home ?" " Certainly, madam ; can you doubt 
 it V — M Yes ; for I have strong suspicion that the 
 toothach is a pretence, not a reality." — "This 
 from you, Lady Delaval ! my once kind friend." 
 *' Jemima, I am come to prove myself a far kind- 
 er friend than ever I did before. I am glad to 
 find you alone ; because I should not like to re- 
 prove a child before her mother." Lady Delaval 
 then reproached her astonished auditor with the 
 mean habit of flattery, in which she was so apt to 
 indulge ; assuring her that she had never been for 
 one moment her dupe, and had insisted on her 
 wearing the turban, in order to punish her despi- 
 cable duplicity. " Had you not acted thus," con- 
 tinued Lady Delaval, " I meant to have taken you 
 to the dinner and lecture, without conditions ; but 
 I wished to inflict on you a salutary punishment, 
 in hopes of convincing you that there are no qual- 
 ities so safe, or so pleasing as truth and ingenuous*? 
 ness. — I saw you cast an alarmed look at the hat- 
 box," she added, in a gayer tone ; " but fear not ; 
 the turban is no more ! and, in its stead, I have 
 
£8 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYlNtt. 
 
 taken the liberty of bringing you a Leghorn bon- 
 net ; and should you, while you wear it, feel any 
 desire to flatter, in your usual degrading manner, 
 may it remind you of this conversation, and its 
 cause, — and make your present mortification the 
 means of your future good." At this moment Je- 
 mima's mother entered the room, exclaiming : 
 u Oh ! Lady Delaval ! I am glad you are come ! 
 my poor child's toothach is so bad ! and how un- 
 fortunate that" .... Lady Delaval cast on the 
 mistaken mother a look of severe reproof, and on 
 the daughter one of pity and unavailing regret 5 
 for she felt that, for the child who is hourly expos- 
 ed to the contagion of an unprincipled parent's 
 example, there can be little chance of amend- 
 ment ; and she hastened to the carriage, convinc- 
 ed that for the poor Jemima Aldred her labours 
 of christian duty had been exerted in vain. She 
 would have soon found how just her conviction 
 was, had she heard the dialogue between the mo- 
 ther and daughter, as soon as she drove off. Je- 
 mima dried up her hypocritical tears, and ex- 
 claimed, " Aeross,methodistical creature ! I am 
 glad she is gone !" — " What do you mean, child ? 
 and what is all this about ?" Jemima having told 
 her, she exclaimed, " Why the woman is mad! 
 What! object to a little harmless flattery ! and 
 call that lying, indeed ! Nonsense ! it is all a 
 pretence. She hate flattery ! no, indeed ; if you 
 were to tell her the truth, she would hate you like 
 poison." — " Very likely ; but see, mamma, what 
 she has given me. What a beautiful bonnet ! But 
 she owed it to me, for the trick she played me, 
 and for her preaching." — " Well, child," answer- 
 ed her mother, " let her preach to you every day 
 and welcome, if she comes, as to-day, full- 
 handed." 
 
LIES OF FEAR. #9 
 
 Such was the effect of Lady DelavaPs kind ef- 
 forts, on a mother so teaching, and a daughter so 
 taught ; for indelible indeed are those habits of 
 falsehood and disingenuousness which children 
 acquire, whose parents do not make a strict ad- 
 herence to truth the basis of their children's educa- 
 tion ; and punish all deviation from it with saluta- 
 ry rigour. But, whatever be the excellences or the 
 errors of parents or preceptors, there is one ne- 
 cessary thing for them to remember, or their ex- 
 cellences will be useless, and their faults irreme- 
 diable ; namely, that they are not to form their 
 children for the present world alone ; — they are 
 to educate them not merely as the children of time 
 but as the heirs of eternity. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LIES OF FEAR. 
 
 I once believed that the lie of fear was confined 
 to the low and uneducated of both sexes, and to 
 children ; but further reflection and observation 
 have convinced me that this is by no means the 
 case ; but that, as this lie springs from the want of 
 moral courage, and as this defect is by no means 
 confined to any class or age, the result of it, that 
 fear of man which prompts to the lie of fear, must 
 be universal also ; though the nature of the dread 
 may be various, and of different degrees of 
 strength. For instance ; a child or a servant (of 
 course I speak of ill-educated children) breaks a 
 toy or a glass, and denies having done so. Ac- 
 
«?6 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 quaintances forget to execute commissions intrust- 
 ed to them ; and either say that they are execut- 
 ed, when they are not, or make some false ex- 
 cuses for an omission which was the result of for- 
 getfulness only. No persons are guilty of so 
 many of this sort of lies, in the year, as negligent 
 correspondents ; since excuses for not writing 
 sooner are usually lies of fear — fear of having for- 
 feited favour by too long a silence. 
 
 As the lie of fear always proceeds, as 1 have 
 before observed, from a want of moral courage, it 
 is often the result of want of resolution to say 
 " no," when "yes" is more agreeable to the feel- 
 ings of the questioner. " Is not my new gown pret- 
 ty ?" " Is not my new hat becoming ?" " Is not 
 my coat of a good colour ?" There are few per- 
 sons who have courage to say u no," even to these 
 trivial questions ; though the negative would be 
 truth, and the affirmative, falsehood. And still less 
 are they able to be honest in their replies to ques- 
 tions of a more delicate nature. " Is not my last 
 work the best?" " Is not my wife beautiful?" 
 u Is not my daughter agreeable ?" " Is not my 
 son a fine youth ?" — those ensnaring questions, 
 which contented and confiding egotism is only too 
 apt to ask. 
 
 Fear of wounding the feelings of the interroga- 
 tor, prompts an affirmative answer. But, perhaps, 
 a lie on these occasions is one of the least displeas- 
 ing, because it may possibly proceed from a kind 
 aversion to give pain, and occasion disappoint- 
 ment ; and has a degree of relationship, a distant 
 family resemblance, to the lie of benevolence ; 
 though, when accurately analysed, even this good- 
 natured falsehood may be resolved into selfish 
 d v ead of losing favour by speaking the troth. Of 
 these pseudo-Iks of benevolence I shall treat in 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 61 
 
 their turn ; but I shall now proceed to relate a 
 story, to illustrate the lie of fear, and its impor- 
 tant results, under apparently unimportant cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 THE BANK NOTE. 
 
 " Are you returning immediately to Worcester ?" 
 said Lady Leslie, a widow residing near that city, 
 to a young officer who was paying her a morning 
 visit. — Ci I am; can I do any thing for you there ?" 
 — " Yes ; you can do me a great kindness. My 
 confidential servant, Baynes, is gone out for the 
 day and night ; and I do not like to trust my new 
 footman, of whom I know nothing, to put this let- 
 ter in the post-office, as it contains a fifty-pound 
 note." — "Indeed ! that is a large sum to trust to 
 the post." — " Yes ; but I am told it is the safest 
 conveyance. It is, however, quite necessary that 
 a person whom 1 can trust should put the letter in 
 the box." — " Certainly," replied Captain Free- 
 land. Then, with an air that showed he consider- 
 ed himself as a person to be trusted, he deposited 
 the letter in safety in his pocket-book, and took 
 leave : promising he would return to dinner the 
 next day which was Saturday. 
 
 On his road, Freeland met some of his brother- 
 officers, who were going so pass the day and night 
 at Great Malvern ; and as they earnestly pressed 
 him to accompany them, he wholly forgot the let- 
 ter entrusted to his care ; and, having despatched 
 6 
 
62 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 his servant to Worcester, for his sac-de-nuit* and 
 other things, he turned back with his companions, 
 and passed the rest of the day in that sauntering 
 but amusing idleness, that dolce far nientej which 
 may be reckoned comparatively virtuous, if it leads 
 to the forgetfulness of little duties only, and is not 
 attended by the positive infringement of greater 
 ones. But, in not putting this important letter in- 
 to the post, as he had engaged to do, Freeland 
 violated a real duty ; and he might have put it 
 in at Malvern, had not the rencounter with his 
 brother-officers banished the commission given 
 him entirely from his thoughts. Nor did he re- 
 member it till, as they rode through the village 
 the next morning, on their way to Worcester, they 
 met Lady Leslie walking in the road. 
 
 At sight of her, Freeland recollected with shame 
 and confusion that he had not fulfilled the charge 
 committed to him ; and fain would he have pass- 
 ed her unobserved ; for, as she was a woman of 
 high fashion, great talents, and some severity, he 
 was afraid that his negligence, if avowed, would 
 not only cause him to forfeit her favour, but ex- 
 pose him to her powerful sarcasm. 
 
 To avoid being recognised was, however, im- 
 possible ; and as soon as Lady Leslie saw him, 
 she exclaimed, " Oh ! Captain Freeland, I am so 
 glad to see you ? I have been quite uneasy con- 
 cerning my letter since I gave it to your care ; for 
 it was of such consequence! Did you put it into 
 the post yesterday ?" u Certainly," replied Free- 
 land, hastily, and in the hurry of the moment, 
 " Certainly. How could you, dear Madam, 
 doubt, my obedience to your commands?" — 
 " Thank you ! thank you !" cried she, " How 
 
 * Night bag. t Sweet doing nothing. 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 63 
 
 you have relieved my mind !" He had so ; but 
 be had painfully burthened his own. To be sure 
 it was only a white lie, — the lie of fear. Still 
 he was not used to utter falsehood ; and he felt 
 the meanness and degradation of this. He had 
 yet to learn that it. was mischievous also ; and that 
 none can presume to say where the consequences 
 of the most apparently trivial lie will end. As 
 soon as,Freeland parted with Lady Leslie, he 
 bade his friends farewell, and, putting spur to his 
 horse, scarcely slackened his pace till he had 
 reached a general post-office, and deposited the 
 letter in safety. M Now, then," thought he, " I 
 hope I shall be able to return and dine with Lady 
 Leslie, without shrinking from her penetrating 
 eye." 
 
 He found her when he arrived, very pensive 
 and absent; so much so, that she felt it necessary 
 to apologize to her guests, informing them that 
 Mary Benson, an old servant of hers, who was 
 very dear to her, was seriously ill, and painfully 
 circumstanced 5 and that she feared she had not 
 done her duty by her. " To tell you the truth, 
 Captain Freeland," said she, speaking to him in a 
 low voice, " I blame myself for not having sent 
 for my confidential servant, who was not very far 
 off, and despatched him with the money, instead 
 of trusting it to the post." — " It would have been 
 better to have done so, certainly /" replied Free- 
 land, deeply blushing. " Yes ; for the poor wo- 
 man, to whom I sent it, is not only herself on the 
 point of being confined, but she has a sick hus- 
 band, unable to be moved ; and as (but owing to 
 no fault of his) he is on the point of bankruptcy, 
 his cruel landlord has declared that, if they do 
 not pay their rent by to-morrow, he will turn 
 them out into the street, and seize the very bed 
 
64 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 
 
 they lie on ! However, as you put the letter into 
 the post yesterday, they must get the fifty-pound 
 note to-day, else they could not ; for there is no 
 delivery of letters in London on a Sunday, you 
 know." " True, \cvy true," replied Freeland, in 
 atone which he vainly tried to render steady. 
 41 Therefore," continued Lady Leslie, u if you 
 had told me, when we met, that the letter was not 
 gone, 1 should have recalled Baynes, and sent 
 him off by the mail to London ; and then he 
 would have reached Somerstown, where the Ben- 
 sons live, in good time ; — but now, though 1 own 
 it would be a comfort to me to send him, for fear 
 of accident, I could not get him back again soon 
 enough ; — therefore, 1 must let things take their 
 chance ; and, as letters seldom miscarry, the only 
 danger is, that the note may be taken out." She 
 mi^ht have talked an hour without answer or in- 
 terruption ;— for Freeland was too much shocked, 
 too much conscience-stricken, to reply; as he 
 found that he had not only told a falseheod, but 
 that, if he had had moral courage enough to tell the 
 truth, the mischievous negligence, of which he had 
 been guilty, could have been repaired ; but now, 
 as Lady Leslie said, " it was too late !" 
 
 But, while Lady Leslie became talkative, and 
 able to perform her duties to her friends, after 
 she had thus unburthened her mind to Freeland. 
 he grew every minute more absent, and more 
 taciturn ; and, though he could not eat with ap- 
 petite, he threw down, rather than drank, repeated 
 glasses of hock and champagne, to enable him to 
 rally his spirits ; but in vain. A naturally ingen- 
 uous and generous nature cannot shake off the 
 first compunctious visitings of conscience for hav- 
 ing committed an unworthy action, and having 
 also been the means of injury to another. All on 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 65 
 
 a sudden, however, his countenance brightened ; 
 and as soon as the ladies left the table, he started 
 up, left his compliments and excuses with Lady 
 Leslie's nephew, who presided at dinner ; said he 
 had a pressing call to Worcester ; and, when 
 there, as the London mail was gone, he threw 
 himself into a postchaise, and set off for Somers- 
 town, which Lady Leslie had named as the res- 
 idence of Mary Benson. " At least," said Free- 
 land to himself with a lightened heart, " I shall 
 now have the satisfaction of doing all 1 can to re- 
 pair my fault." But, owing to the delay occasion- 
 ed by want of horses, and by finding the ostlers 
 at the inns in bed, he did not reach London and 
 the place of his destination till the wretched fami- 
 ly had been dislodged ; while the unhappy wife 
 was weeping, not only over the disgrace of being 
 so removed, and for her own and her husband's 
 increased illness in consequence of it, but from the 
 agonizing suspicion that the mistress and friend, 
 whom she had so long loved, and relied upon, had 
 disregarded the tale jjf her sorrows, and had re- 
 fused to relieve her necessities ! Freeland soon 
 found a conductor to the mean lodging in which 
 the Bensons had obtained shelter ; for they were 
 well known ; and their hard fate was generally 
 pitied : — but it was some time before he could 
 speak, as he stood by their bedside — he was 
 choked with painful emotion at first ; with pleas- 
 ing emotions afterwards :- — for his conscience smote 
 him for the pain he had occasioned, and applaud- 
 ed him for the pleasure which he came to bestow. 
 — " I come," said he, at length, (while the suffer- 
 ers waited in almost angry wonder, to hear his 
 reason for thus intruding on them) " I come to tell 
 you, from your kind friend, Lady Leslie," — 
 " Then she has not forgotten me !" screamed out 
 6* 
 
66 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 the poor woman, almost gasping for breath, 
 " No, to be sure not : — she could not forget you ; 
 she was incapable . . • ." here his voice wholly 
 failed him. " Thank heaven !" cried she, tears 
 trickling down her pale cheek. " I can bear any 
 thing now ; for that was the bitterest part of all t" 
 — " My good woman," said Freeland, " it was 
 owing to a mistake : — pshaw ! no : it was owing 
 to my fault, that you did not receive a £50 note 
 by the post yesterday :" — " £50 !" cried the poor 
 man, wringing his hands, " why that would have 
 more than paid ail we owed ; and I could have 
 gone on with my business, and our lives would not 
 have been risked, nor I disgraced t" Freeland 
 now turned away, unable to say a word more ; 
 but recovering himself, he again drew near them ; 
 and, throwing his purse to the agitated speaker, 
 said " there ! get well ! only get well ! and what- 
 ever you want shall be yours ! or I shall never 
 lose this horrible choking again while I live !" 
 
 Freeland took a walk after this scene, and with 
 hasty, rapid strides; the painful choking being his 
 companion very often during the course of it, — for 
 he was haunted by the image of those whom he 
 had disgraced ; — and he could not help remem- 
 bering that, however blameable his negligence 
 might be, it was nothing, either in sinfulness or 
 mischief, to the lie told to conceal it ; and that, 
 but for that lie of fear, the effects of his negli- 
 gence might have been repaired in time. 
 
 But he was resolved that he would not leave 
 Somerstown till he had seen these poor people set- 
 tled in a good lodging. He therefore hired a con- 
 veyance for them, and superintended their removal 
 that evening to apartments full of every necessary 
 comfort. " My good friends," said he, fct I can- 
 not recall the mortification and disgrace which 
 
THE BANK NOTE* 6-7 
 
 you have endured through my fault ; but I trust 
 that you will have gained, in the end, by leaving 
 a cruel landlord, who had no pity for your un- 
 merited poverty. Lady Leslie's note will, I trust, 
 reach you to-morrow ; — but if not, I will make up 
 the loss ; therefore be easy ! and when 1 go away 
 may I have the comfort of knowing that your re- 
 moval has done you no harm !" 
 
 He then, but not till then, had courage to write 
 to Lady Leslie, and tell her the whole truth ; con- 
 cluding his letter thus : 
 
 " If your interesting proteges have not suffered 
 in their health, \ shall not regret what has hap- 
 pened ; because I trust that it will be a lesson to 
 me through life, and teach me never to tell even 
 the most apparently trivial white lie again. How 
 unimportant this violation of truth appeared to me 
 at the moment ! and how sufficiently mot ved ! as 
 it was to avoid falling in your estimation ; but it 
 was, you see, overruled for evil ; — and agony of 
 mind, disgrace, and perhaps risk of life, were the 
 consequences of it to innocent individuals ; — not 
 to mention my own pangs ; — the pangs of an up- 
 braiding conscience. But forgive me, my dear 
 Lady Leslie. However, I trust that this evil, so 
 deeply repented of, will be blessed to us all; but 
 it will be long before I forgive myself." 
 
 Lady Leslie was delighted with this candid let- 
 ter, though grieved by its painful details, while 
 she viewed with approbation the amends which 
 her young friend had made, and his modest dis- 
 regard of his own exertions. 
 
 The note arrived in safety ; and Freeland left 
 the afflicted couple better in health, and quite 
 happy in mind ; — as his bounty and Lady Leslie 
 had left them nothing to desire in a pecuniary 
 point of view. 
 
68 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 When Lady Leslie and he met, she praised his 
 virtue, while she blamed his fault ; and they forti- 
 fied each other in the wise and moral resolution, 
 never to violate truth again, even on the slightest 
 occasion ; as a lie, when told, however unimpor- 
 tant it may at the time appear, is like an arrow 
 shot over a house, whose course is unseen, and 
 may be unintentionally the cause, to some one, of 
 agony or death. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LIES FALSELY CALLED LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 These are lies which are occasioned by a sel- 
 fish dread of losing favour, and provoking dis- 
 pleasure, by speaking the truth, rather than by 
 real benevolence. Persons, calling themselves 
 benevolent, withhold disagreeable truths, and utter^ 
 agreeable falsehoods, from a wish to give pleas-" 
 ure, or to avoid giving pain. If you say that you 
 are looking ill, they tell you that you are looking 
 well. If you express a fear that you are growing 
 corpulent, they say you are only just as fat as you 
 ought to be. If you are hoarse in singing, and 
 painfully conscious of it, they declare that they 
 did not perceive it. And this not from the de- 
 sire of flattering you, or from the malignant one of 
 wishing to render you ridiculous, by imposing on 
 jrour credulity, but from the desire of making you 
 pleased with yourself. In short, they lay it down 
 as a rule, that you must never scruple to sacrifice 
 
THE POTTED SPRATS. 69 
 
 the truth, when the alternative is giving the slight- 
 est pain or mortification to any one. 
 
 I shall leave my readers to decide whether the 
 lies of fear or of benevolence preponderate, in the 
 following trifling, but characteristic anecdote. 
 
 A TALE OF POTTED SPRATS. 
 
 Most mistresses of families have a family re- 
 ceipt-book ; and are apt to believe that no re- 
 ceipts are so good as their own. 
 
 With one of these notable ladies a young house- 
 keeper went to pass a few days, both at her town 
 and country-house. The hostess was skilled, not 
 only in culinary lore, but in economy ; and was 
 m the habit of setting on her table, even when 
 aot alone, whatever her taste or carefulness had 
 led her to pot, pickle, or preserve, for occasional 
 use. 
 
 Before a meagre family dinner was quite over, 
 a dish of potted sprats was set before the lady of 
 the house, who, expatiating on their excellence, 
 derived from a family receipt of a century old, 
 pressed her still unsatisfied guest to partake of 
 them. 
 
 The dish was as good as much salt and little 
 spice could make it ; but it had one peculiarity ; 
 — it had a strong flavour of garlick, and to garlick 
 the poor guest had a great dislike. 
 
 But she was a timid woman ; and good-breed- 
 ing, and what she called benevolence, said, " per- 
 severe a swallow," though her palate said, u no." 
 " Is it not excellent 2" said the hostess. — " Ve- 
 
70 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 ry ;" faltered out the half- suffocated guest ; — and 
 this was lie the first. " Did you ever eat any 
 thing like it before V — " Never," replied the otner 
 more firmly ; for then she knew that she spoke 
 the truth, and longing to add, " and I hope I never 
 shall eat any thing like it again." — " 1 will give 
 you the receipt," said the lady kindly ; " it will 
 be of use to you as a young housekeeper ; for it 
 is economical, as well as good, and serves to make 
 out, when we have a scrap-dinner. My servants 
 often dine on it." — " I wonder you can get any 
 servants to live with you," thought the guest ; 
 t; but I dare say you do not get any one to stay 
 long !" — " You do not, however, eat as if you lik- 
 ed it." — " Oh yes, indeed, I do, very much," (lie 
 the second) she replied ; " hut you forget I have 
 already eaten a good dinner ;" (lie the third. 
 Alas! what had benevolence, so called, to answer 
 for on this occasion !) 
 
 " Well, I am delighted to find that you like my 
 sprats," said the flattered hostess, while the cloth 
 was removing; adding, "John! do not let those 
 sprats be eaten in the kitchen!" an order which 
 the guest heard with indescribable alarm. 
 
 The next day they were to set off for the coun- 
 trj'-house, or cottage. When they were seated in 
 the carriage, a large box was put in, and the guest 
 fancied she smelt garlick ; but 
 
 " . . . . where ignorance is bliss, 
 " 'Tis folly to be wise." 
 
 She therefore asked no questions ; but tried to 
 enjoy the present, regardless of the future. At a 
 certain distance they stoppedto bait the horses. 
 There the guest expected that they should get out, 
 and take some refreshment; but her economical 
 companion, with a shrewd wink of the eye, ob- 
 
THE POTTED SPRATS. 71 
 
 served, ;1 1 always sit in the carriage on these oc- 
 casions. If one gets out, the people at the inn 
 expect one to order a luncheon. I therefore take 
 mine with me." So saying, John was summoned 
 to drag the carriage out of sight of the inn win- 
 dows. He then unpacked the box, took out of it 
 knives and forks, plates, &c. and also ajar, which 
 impregnating the air with its effluvia, even before 
 it was opened, disclosed to the alarmed guest that 
 its contents were the dreaded sprats ! 
 
 " Alas I" thought she, " Pandora's box was no- 
 thing to this ! for in that, Hope remained behind ; 
 but, at the bottom of this, is Despair !" In vain 
 did the unhappy lady declare (lie the fourth) that 
 " she had no appetite, and (lie the fifth) that she 
 never ate in the morning." Her hostess would 
 take no denial. However, she contrived to get a 
 piece of sprat down, enveloped in bread ; and the 
 rest she threw out of the window, when her com- 
 panion was looking another way — who, on turning 
 round, exclaimed, " so you have soon despatched 
 the fish ! let me give you another ; do not refuse, 
 because you think they are nearly finished ; I as- 
 sure you there are several left ; and (delightful in- 
 formation !) we shall have a fresh supply to-mor- 
 row !" However, this time she was allowed to 
 know when she had eaten enough ; and the tra- 
 vellers proceeded to their journey's end. 
 
 This day, the sprats did not appear at dinner ; 
 — but, there being only a few left, they were kept 
 for a bonne bouche, and reserved for supper ! a 
 meal, of which, this evening, on account of indis- 
 position, the hostess did not partake, and was 
 therefore at liberty to attend entirely to the wants 
 of her guest, who would fo\n have declined eating 
 also, but it was impossible ; she had just declared 
 that she was quite well, and had often owned that 
 
$2 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 she enjoyed a piece of supper after an early dinner. 
 There was therefore no retreat from the maze in 
 which her insincerity had involved her ; and eat 
 she must : but, when she again smelt on her plate 
 the nauseous composition which being near the 
 bottom of the pot, was more disagreeable than 
 ever, human patience and human infirmity could 
 bear no more ; the scarcely tasted morsel fell 
 from her lips, and she rushed precipitately into the 
 open air, almost disposed to execrate, in her heart, 
 potted sprats, the good breeding of her officious 
 hostess, and even Benevolence itself. 
 
 Some may observe, on reading this story, 
 " What a foolish creature the guest must have 
 been ! and how improbable it is that any one 
 should scruple to say, the dish is disagreeable, and 
 I hate garlick !" But it is my conviction that the 
 guest on this occasion, exhibited only a slightly- 
 exaggerated specimen of the usual conduct of 
 those who have been taught to conduct themselves 
 wholly by the artificial rules of civilized society, 
 of which, generally speaking, falsehood is the 
 basis. 
 
 Benevolence is certainly one of the first of vir- 
 tues ; and its result is an amiable aversion to 
 wound the feelings of others, even in trifles ; there- 
 fore benevolence and politeness may be consider- 
 ed as the same thing ; but Worldly Politeness is 
 only a copy of benevolence. Benevolence is gold : 
 this politeness a paper currency, contrived as its 
 substitute ; as society, being aware that benevo- 
 lence is as rare as it is precious, and that ^cw are 
 able to distinguish, in any thing, the false from the 
 true, resolved, in lieu of benevolence, to receive 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 73 
 
 worldly politeness, with all her train of deceitful 
 welcomes, heartless regrets, false approbations, 
 and treacherous smiles ; those alluring seemings, 
 which shine around her brow, and enable her to 
 pass for Benevolence herself. 
 
 But how must the religious and the moral dis- 
 like the one, though they venerate the other ! The 
 kindness of the worldly Polite only lives its little 
 hour in one's presence ; but that of the Benevolent 
 retains its life and sweetness in one's absence. 
 The worldly polite will often make the objects of 
 their greatest flatteries and attentions, when pre- 
 sent, the butt of their ridicule as soon as they see 
 them no more ; — while the benevolent hold the 
 characters and qualities of their associates in a 
 sort of holy keeping at all times, and are as indul~ 
 gent to the absent as they were attentive to the pre- 
 sent. The kindness of the worldly polite is the gay 
 and pleasing flower worn in the bosom, as the orna- 
 ment of a few hours ; then suffered to fade, and 
 thrown by, when it is wanted no longer; — but 
 that of the really benevolent is like the fresh- 
 springing evergreen, which blooms on through all 
 times, and all seasons, unfading in beauty, and un- 
 diminishing in sweetness. But, it may be asked, 
 whether I do not admit that the principle of never 
 wounding the self-love or feelings of any one is a 
 benevolent principle ; and whether it be not com- 
 mendable to act on it continually. Certainly 5 
 if sincerity goes band in hand with benevolence. 
 But where is your benevolence, if you praise 
 those, to their faces, whom you abuse as soon 
 as they have left you ?-—■ where your benevo- 
 lence, if you welcome those, with smiling urbani- 
 ty, whom you see drive off with a " Well ; I 
 am glad they are gone ?" and how common is it 
 to hear persons, who think themselves very moral, 
 7 
 
74 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 and very kind, begin, as soon as their guests are 
 departed, and even when they are scarcely out of 
 hearing, to criticise their dress, their manners, and 
 their characters; while the poor unconscious visit- 
 ers, the dupes of their deceitful courtesy, are go- 
 ing home delighted with their visit, and saying 
 what a charming evening they have passed, and 
 what agreeable and kind-hearted persons the mas- 
 ter and mistress of the house, and their family 
 are !" — Surely, then, I am not refining too much 
 when I assert that the cordial seemings, which 
 these deluded guests were received, treated, and 
 parted with, were any thing rather than the lies 
 of benevolence. I also believe that those who 
 scruple not, even from well-intentioned kindness, 
 to utter spontaneous falsehoods, are not gifted 
 with much judgment and real feeIing T nor are they 
 given to think deeply ; for the virtues are nearly 
 related, and live in the greatest harmony with 
 each other ; — consequently, sincerity and benev- 
 olence must always agree, and not, as is often 
 supposed, be at variance with each other. The 
 truly benevolent feel, and cultivate, such candid 
 and kind views of those who associate with them 
 that they need not fear to be sincere in their an- 
 swers ; and if obliged to speak an unwelcome 
 truth, or an unwelcome opinion, their well-prin- 
 cipled kindness teaches them some way of mak- 
 ing what they utter palatable ; and benevolence 
 is gratified without injury to sincerity. 
 
 It is a common assertion, that society is so con- 
 stituted, that it is impossible to tell the truth al- 
 ways : — but, if those who possess good sense would 
 use it as zealously to remove obstacles in the way 
 of spontaneous truth as they do to justify them- 
 selves in the practice of falsehood, the difficulty 
 would vanish. Besides, truth is so uncommon an 
 ingredient in society, that few are acquainted with 
 
AN AUTHORESS AND HER AUDITORS. 15 
 
 it sufficiently to know whether it be admissible or 
 not. A pious and highly gifted man said in my 
 presence, to a friend whom I esteem and admire, 
 and who had asserted that truth cannot always 
 be told in society, " Has any one tried it ? — We 
 have all of us, in the course of our lives, seen dead 
 birds of Paradise so often, that we should scarce- 
 ly take the trouble of going to see one now. But 
 the Marquise of Hastings has brought over a liv- 
 ing bird of Paradise ; and every one is eagerly 
 endeavouring to procure a sight of that. I there- 
 fore prognosticate that, were spontaneous truth to 
 be told in society, where it now is rarely, if ever, 
 heard, real, living truth would be as much sought 
 after, and admired, as the living bird of Paradise."* 
 
 The following anecdote exhibits that Lie which 
 ^ome may call the lie of Benevolence, and others, 
 the lie of fear ; — that is the dread of losing fa- 
 vour, by wounding a person's self-love. I myself 
 denominate it the latter. 
 
 AN AUTHORESS AND HER AUDITORS. 
 
 A young lady, who valued herself on her be- 
 nevolence and good-breeding, and had as much re- 
 spect for truth as those who live in the world 
 usually have, was invited by an authoress, whose 
 
 * I fear that I have given the words weakly and imperfectly j 
 but I know I am correct, as to the sentiment and the illustration-, 
 The speaker was Edward Irving. 
 
76 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 favour she coveted, and by whose attention she 
 was flattered, to come and hear her read a manu- 
 script tragi-comedy. The other auditor was an 
 eld lady, who, to considerable personal ugliness, 
 united strange grimaces, and convulsive twitch- 
 ingsof the face, chiefly the result of physical 
 causes. 
 
 The authoress read in so affected and dramatic 
 a manner, that the young lady's boosted benevo- 
 lence had no power to curb her propensity to 
 laughter; which being perceived by the reader, 
 she stopped in angry consternation, and desired to 
 know whether she laughed at her, or her compo- 
 sition. At first she was too much fluttered to 
 make any reply ; — but as she dared not own the 
 truth, and had no scruple against being guilty of 
 deception, she cleverly resolved to excuse herself 
 by a practical lie. She therefore trod on her 
 friend's foot, elbowed her, and, by winks and signs, 
 tried to make her believe that it was the grimaces 
 of her opposite neighbour, who was quietly knit- 
 ting and twitching as usual, which had had such 
 an effect on her risible faculties ; and the deceiv- 
 ed authoress, smiling herself when her young 
 guest directed her eye to her unconscious vis-a-vis, 
 resumed her reading with a lightened brow and 
 increased energy. 
 
 This added to the young lady's amusement ; as 
 she could now indulge her risibility occasionally 
 at the authoress's expense, without exciting her 
 suspicions ; especially as the manuscript was 
 sometimes intended to excite smiles, if not laugh- 
 ter ; and the self-love of the writer led her to sup- 
 pose that her hearer's mirth was the result of her 
 comic powers. But the treacherous gratification 
 of the auditor was soon at an end. The manu- 
 script was meant to move tears as well as smiles ; 
 
AN AUTHORESS AND HER AUDITORS. 77 
 
 but as the matter became more pathetic, the man- 
 ner became more ludicrous ; and the youthful 
 hearer could no more force a tear than she could 
 restrain a laugh ; till the mortified authoress, irri- 
 tated intoforgetfulness of all feeling and propriety, 
 
 exclaimed, ""Indeed, Mrs. , i must desire you 
 
 to move your seat, and sit where Miss does 
 
 not see you ; for you make such queer grimaces 
 that you draw her attention and cause her to laugh 
 when she should be listening to me." The erring 
 but humane girl was overwhelmed with dismay at 
 the unexpected exposure ; and when the poor 
 infirm old lady replied, in a faltering tone, " Is 
 she indeed laughing at me V she could scarcely 
 refrain from telling the truth, and assuring her 
 that she was incapable of such cruelty. " Yes ;" 
 rejoined the- authoress, in a paroxysm of wounded 
 self-love, " She owned to me soon after she began, 
 that you occasioned her ill-timed mirth ; and when 
 I looked at you, I could hardly help smiling my- 
 self; but I am sure you could help making such 
 faces, if you would." — " Child !" cried the old 
 lady, while tears of wounded sensibility trickled 
 down her pale cheeks, " and you, my unjust 
 friend, I hope and trust that I forgive you both ; 
 but, if ever you should be paralytic yourselves, 
 may you remember this evening, and learn to re- 
 pent of having been provoked to laugh by the 
 physical weakness of a palsied old woman !" The 
 indignant authoress was now penitent, subdued, 
 and ashamed, — and earnestly asked pardon for 
 her unkindness ; but the young offender, whose 
 acted lie had exposed her to seem guilty of a fault 
 which she had not committed, was in an agony 
 to which expression was inadequate. But, to ex- 
 culpate herself was impossible : and she could 
 only give her wounded victim tear for tear. 
 7* 
 
78 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 
 
 To attend to a farther perusal of the manuscript 
 was impossible. The old lady desired that her 
 carriage should come round directly ; the author- 
 ess locked up her composition, that had been so 
 ill received; and the young lady, who had been 
 proud of the acquaintance of each, became an ob- 
 ject of suspicion and dislike both to the one and 
 the other ; since the former considered tier to be 
 of a cruel and unfeeling nature, and the latter 
 could not conceal from herself the mortifying 
 truth, that her play must be wholly devoid of in- 
 terest, as it had utterly failed either to rivet or to 
 attract her young auditor's attention* 
 
 But, though this girl lost two valued acquaintan- 
 ces by acting a lie (a harmless white lie, as it is 
 called,) 1 fear she was not taught or amended by 
 the circumstance ; but deplored her want of luck, 
 rather than her want of integrity ; and, had her 
 deception met with the success which she expect- 
 ed, she would probably have boasted of her in- 
 genious artifice to her acquaintance ; — nor can I 
 help believing that she goes on in the same way 
 whenever she is tempted to do so, and values her- 
 self on the lies of selfish fear, which she dignifies 
 by the name of lies of benevolence. 
 
 It is curious to observe that the kindness which 
 prompts to really erroneous conduet cannot con- 
 tinue to bear even a remote connexion with real 
 benevolence. The mistaken girl, in the anecdote 
 related above, begins with what she calls, a vir- 
 tuous deception. She could not wound the feel- 
 ings of the authoress by owning that she laughed 
 at her mode of reading : she therefore accused 
 herself of a much worse fault ; that of laughing 
 at the personal infirmities of a fellow-creature ; 
 and then, finding that her artifice enabled her to 
 indulge her sense of the ridiculous with impunity. 
 
AN AUTHORESS AND HER AUDITORS. 7$ 
 
 she at length laughs treacherously and systemat- 
 ically, because she dares k do so, and not involun- 
 tarily, as she did at first, at her unsuspecting 
 friend. Thus such hollow unprincipled benevo- 
 lence as hers soon degenerated into absolute ma- 
 levolence, Bur, had this girl been a girl of princi- 
 ple and of real benevolence^ she might have healed 
 her friend's vanity at the same time that she 
 wounded it, by saying, after she had owned that 
 her mode of reading made her laugh, that she was 
 now convinced of the truth of what she had often 
 heard ; namely, that authors rarely do justice to 
 their own works, when they read them aloud 
 themselves, however well they may read the works 
 of others j because they are naturally so nervous 
 on the occasion, that they are laughably violent, 
 because painfully agitated. 
 
 This reply could not have offended her friend 
 greatly if at all ; and it might have led her to 
 moderate her outre manner of reading. She 
 would in consequence have appeared to more ad- 
 vantage ; and the interests of real benevolence, 
 namely, the doing good to a fellow-creature, 
 would have been served, and she would not, by a 
 vain attempt to save a friend's vanity from being 
 hurt, have been the means of wounding the feel- 
 ings of an afflicted woman ; have incurred the 
 charge of inhumanity, which she by no means de- 
 served ; and have vainly, as well as grossly, sac- 
 rificed the interests of Truth. 
 
JSO ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 
 
 I have now before me a very copious subject : 
 and shall begin by that most common lie of con- 
 venience ; the order to servants, to say "Not at 
 home ;" a custom which even some moralists de- 
 fend, because they say that it is not lying ; as it 
 deceives no one. But this I deny ;— as 1 know it 
 is often meant to deceive. I know that if the per- 
 son, angry at being refused admittance, says, at 
 the next meeting with the denied person, " I am 
 sure you were at home such a day, when I called, 
 but did not choose to see me" the answer is, a Oh 
 dear, no ;— how can you say so ? J am sure I 
 was not at home ; — for I am never denied to you;" 
 though the speaker is conscious all the while that 
 " not at home" was intended to deceive, as well as 
 to deny. But, if it be true that " not at home " is 
 not intended to deceive, and is a form used mere- 
 ly to exclude visiters with as little trouble as pos- 
 sible, I would ask whether it were not just as easy 
 to say, " my master, or my mistress, is engaged ; 
 and can see no one this morning." Why have re- 
 course even to the appearance of falsehood, when 
 truth would answer every purpose just as well ? 
 
 But if " not at home " be understood amongst 
 equals, merely as a legitimate excuse, it still is 
 highly objectionable ; because it must have a most 
 pernicious effect on the minds of servants, who 
 cannot be supposed parties to this implied com- 
 pact amongst their superiors, and must therefore 
 understand the order literally ; which is, go, and 
 lie for my convenience !" How then, I ask in 
 
LIES OP CONVENIENCE. 81 
 
 the name of justice and common sense, can J, af- 
 ter giving such an order, resent any lie which ser- 
 vants may choose to tell me for their own conveni- 
 ence, pleasure, or interest ? 
 
 Thoughtless and injudicious (I do not like 
 to add,) unprincipled persons, sometimes say to ser- 
 vants, when they have denied their mistress, " Oh 
 fye ! how can you tell me such a fib without 
 blushing ? I am ashamed of you ! You know 
 your lady is at home ; — well ; — I am really shock- 
 ed at your having so much effrontery as to tell 
 such a lie with so grave a jface ! But give my 
 compliments to your mistress, and tell her, 1 hope 
 that she will see me the next time 1 call ;'' — and 
 all this uttered in a laughing manner, as if this 
 moral degradation of the poor servant were an 
 excellent joke ! But on these occasions, what can 
 the effect of such joking be on the conscious liars ? 
 It must either lead them to think as lightly of truth 
 as their reprovers themselves, (since they seem 
 more amused than shocked at the detected viola- 
 tion of it,) or they will turn away distressed in 
 conscience, degraded in their own eyes, for hav- 
 ing obeyed their employer, and feeling a degree 
 of virtuous indignation against those persons who 
 have, by their immoral command, been the means 
 of their painful degradation ; — nay, their master 
 and mistress will be for ever lowered in their ser- 
 vant's esteem ; they will feel that the teacher of a 
 lie is brought down on a level with the utterer of 
 it ; and the chances are that, during the rest of 
 their service, they will without scruple use against 
 their employers the dexterity which they have 
 taught them to use against others,* 
 
 * As I feel a great desire to lay before my readers the strong- 
 est arguments possiblf , to prove the vicious tendency of evea 
 tie most tolerated lie of convenience ; namely, the order t« ser- 
 
82 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 But amongst the most frequent lies of conveni- 
 ence are those which are told relative to engage- 
 ments, which they who make them are averse to 
 keep. " Headachs, bad colds, unexpected visi- 
 ters from the country ," all these, in their turn, are 
 used as lies of convenience, and gratify indolence, 
 or caprice, at the expense of integrity. 
 
 How often have I pitied the wives and daughters 
 of profession d men, for the number of lies which 
 
 vants to say " Not at home ;" and as I wholly distrust my inu 
 powers of arguing with effect on this, or any other subject, I 
 give the following extracts from Dr. Chalmers's " Discourses 
 on the Applicatioi of Christianity to the Commercial and Ordi- 
 nary Affairs of Lite j" — discourses which abundantly and elo- 
 quently prove the sinfulness of deceit in general, and the fear- 
 ful responsibility incuried by all who depart, even in the most 
 common occurrences, from that undeviating practice of truth 
 which is every where enjoined on Christians in the pages of 
 holy writ. But I shall, though reluctantly, confine myself in 
 these extracts to what bears immediately on the subject before 
 us. I must however state, in justice to myself, that my remarks 
 on the same points were not only written, but printed and pub- 
 lished, in a periodical work, before I knew that Dr. Chalmers 
 had written the book in question. 
 
 " You put a lie into the mouth of a dependant, and that for 
 the purpose of protecting your time from such an encroachment 
 as you would not feel to be convenient, or agreeable. Look to 
 the little account that is made of a brother's and sister's eterni- 
 ty. Behold the guilty task that is thus unmercifully laid upon 
 one who is shortly to appear before the judgment-seat of Christ. 
 Think of the entanglement that is thus made to beset the path 
 of a creature who is unperishable. That, at the shrine of Mam- 
 mon such a bloody sacrifice should be rendered, by some of his 
 unrelenting votaries, is not to be wondered at ; but, that the 
 shrine of elegance and fashion should be bathed in blood : — 
 that soft and sentimental ladyship should put forth her hand to 
 such an enormity ; — that she who can sigh so gently, and shed 
 her graceful tear over the sufferings of others, should thus be 
 accessary to the second and more awful death of her own do- 
 mestics ; — that one, who looks the mildest and loveliest of hu- 
 man beings, should exact obedience to a mandate which carries 
 wrath, and tribulation, and anguish in its train. Oh! how it 
 should confirm every Christian in his defiance of the authority 
 of fashion, and lead him to spurn at all its folly and all its 
 
LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 83 
 
 they are obliged to tell, in the course of the year ! 
 
 44 Dr. is very sorry ; but he was sent for to 
 
 a patient just as he was coming with me to your 
 house." — " Papa's compliments, and he is very 
 sorry ; but he was forced to attend a commission 
 of bankruptcy ; but will certainly come, it he can, - 
 by-and-by," when the chances are, that the phy- 
 sician is enjoying himself over his book and his 
 fire, and the lawyer also, congratulating them- 
 
 worthlessness. And it is quite in vain to say that the servant, ' 
 whom you thus employ as the deputy of your falsehood, can 
 possibly execute the commission without the conscience being at 
 all tainted or defiled by it ; that a simple cottage maid can so 
 sophisticate the matter, as, without any violence to her original 
 principles, to utter the language of what she assuredly knows to 
 be a downright lie ; — that she, humble and untutored soul ! can 
 sustain no injury, when thus mad* 5 to tamper with the plain 
 English of these realms; — that she can at all satisfy herself 
 how, by the prescribed utterance of " not at home," she is not 
 pronouncing such words as are substantially untrue, but merely 
 using them in another and perfectly understood meaning; — and 
 which, according to their modern translation, denote that the 
 person, of whom she is thus speaking, is securely lurking in one 
 ot the most secure and intimate of its receptacles. 
 
 " You may try to darken this piece of casuistry as you will, 
 and work up your minds into the peaceable conviction that it is 
 all right, and as it should be. But, be very certain that, where 
 the moral sense of your domestic is not already overthrown, 
 there is, at least, one bosom within which you have raised a war 
 of doubts and difficulties, and where, if the victory be on your 
 side, it will be on the side of him who is the great enemy of 
 righteousness. 
 
 " There is, at least, one person, along the line of this convey- 
 ance of deceit, who condeinneth herself in that which she al- 
 loweth ; who in the language of Paul, esteeming the practice to 
 be unclean, to her will it be unclean ; who will perform her 
 task with the offence of her own conscience, and to whom, 
 therefore, it will indeed bp evil ; who cannot render obedience 
 in this matter to her earthly superior, but, by an act, in which 
 she does not stand clear, and unconscious of guilt before God ; 
 and with whom, therefore, the sad consequence of what we can 
 call nothing else than a barbarous combination against the prin- 
 ciples and prospects of the lower orders, is — that, as she has 
 not cleaved fully unto the Lord, and has not kept by the service 
 
84 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 
 
 selves on having escaped that terrible bore, a par- 
 ty, at the expense of teaching their wife, or daugh- 
 ter, or son, to tell what they call, a white lie ! 
 But, I would ask those fathers and those mothers 
 who make their children the bearers of similar ex- 
 cuses, whether after giving them such commissions, 
 they could conscientiously resent any breach of 
 veracity, or breach of confidence, or deception, 
 committed by their children in matters of more im- 
 
 ©f the one Master, and has not forsaken all but His bidding, 
 she cannot be the disciple of Christ. 
 
 " And let us just ask a master or a mistress, who can thus 
 make free with the moral principle of their servants in one in- 
 stance, how they can look for pure or correct principle from 
 them in other instances ? What right have they to complain of 
 unfaithfulness against themselves, who have deliberately sedu- 
 ced another into a habit of unfaithfulness against God ? Are 
 they so utterly unskilled in the mysteries of our nature, as not to 
 perceive that the servant whom you have taught to lie, has got- 
 ten such rudiments of education at your hand, as that, without 
 any further help, he can now teach himself to purloin ? — and 
 yet nothing more frequent than loud and angry complainings 
 against the treachery of servants ; as if, in the general wreck of 
 their other principles, a principle of consideration for the good 
 and interest of their employer, and who has at the same time 
 been their seducer, was to survive in all its power and sensibili- 
 ty. It is just such a retribution as was to be looked for. It [s a 
 recoil, upon their own heads, of the mischief which they them- 
 selves have originated. It is the temporal part of the punish- 
 ment which they have to bear for the sin of our text ; but not 
 the whole of it : far better for them both that both person and 
 property were cast into the sea, than that they should stand the 
 reckoning of that day, when called to give an account of the 
 souls that they have murdered, and the blood of so mighty a 
 destruction is required at their hands." 
 
 These remarks at first made part of a chapter' on the lie of 
 convenience, but thinking them not suited to that period of my 
 work, I took them out again, and not being able to introduce 
 them in any subsequent chapter, because they treat of one par- 
 ticular lie, and not of lying in general, I have been obliged to 
 content myself with putting them in a note. 
 
LIES OF CONVENIENCE. - 85 
 
 portance. " Ce n'esl que le premier pas qui coutef 
 says the proverb ; and I believe that habitual, 
 permitted, and encouraged lying, in little and 
 seemingly unimportant things, leads to want of 
 truth and principle in great and serious matters ; 
 for when the barrier, or restrictive principle, is^ 
 once thrown down, no one can say where a stop 
 will be put to the inroads and the destruction. 
 
 I forgot, in the first edition of my work, to no- 
 tice one falsehood which is only too often uttered 
 by young women in a ball-room ; but I shall now 
 mention it with due reprehension, though 1 scarce- 
 ly know under what head to class it. I think, 
 however, that it may be named without impropri- 
 ety, one of the Lies of Convenience. 
 
 But, I cannot do better than give an extract on 
 this subject, from a letter addressed to me by a 
 friend, on reading this book, in which she has had 
 the kindness to praise, and the still greater kind- 
 ness to admonish me.* She says, as follows : — 
 " One falsehood that is very often uttered by the 
 lips of youth, 1 trust not without a blush, you 
 have passed unnoticed ; and, as I always consid- 
 ered it no venial one, I will take the present oppor- 
 tunity of pointing out its impropriety. A young 
 lady y: when asked by a gentleman to dance, whom 
 she does not approve, will, without hesitation, say, 
 though unprovided with any other partner, " If I 
 dance I am engaged ;" this positive untruth is cal- 
 culated to wound the feelings of the person to 
 whom it is addressed, for it generally happens 
 that such person discovers he has been deceived, 
 
 * Vide a (printed) letter addressed " to Mrs. Opie, with ob- 
 servations on her recent publication, " Illustrations of Lying 
 in all its Branches." The Authoress is Susan R^eve, wife of 
 Dr. Reeve, M. D , and daughter of E, Bonhote of Bungay, au* 
 thoress of many interesting publications. 
 8 
 
86 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 as well as rejected. It is very seldom that young 
 men, to whom it would really be improper that a 
 lady should give her hand for the short time oc- 
 cupied in one or two dances, are admitted into our 
 public places ; but, in such a case, could not a 
 reference be made by her, to any friends who are 
 present ; pride and vanity too often prompt the 
 refusal, and, because the offered partner has not 
 sufficiently sacrificed to the graces, is little versed 
 44 in the poetry of motion," or derives no conse- 
 quence from the possession of rank, or riches, he 
 is treated with what he must feel to be contempt. 
 True politeness, which has its seat in the heart, 
 would scorn thus to wound another, and the real 
 votaries of sincerity would never so violate its 
 rules to escape a temporary mortification." 
 
 1 shall only add, that 1 have entire unity of sen- 
 timent with the foregoing extract. 
 
 Here I beg leave to insert a short Tale, illus- 
 trative of Lies of Convenience* 
 
 PROJECTS DEFEATED. 
 
 There are a great many match-makers in the 
 world ; beings who dare to take on themselves 
 the fearful responsibility of bringing two persons 
 together into that solemn union which only death 
 or guilt can dissolve ; and thus make themselves 
 answerable for the possible misery of two of their 
 fellow-creatures. 
 
 One of these busy match-makers, a gentleman 
 naaied Byrome, was very desirous that Henry 
 Sandford, a relation of his, should become a mar- 
 
PROJECTS DEFEATED. 87 
 
 ried man ; and he called one morning to inform 
 him that he had at length met with a young lady 
 who would, he flattered himself, suit him in all re- 
 spects as a wife. Henry Sand ford was not a 
 man of many words ; nor had he a high opinion 
 of Byrome's judgment. He therefore only said, 
 in reply, that he was willing to accompany his re- 
 lation to the lady's house, where, on Byrome's 
 invitation, he found that he was expected to drink 
 tea. 
 
 The young lady in question, whom I shall call 
 
 Lydia L , lived with her widowed aunt, who 
 
 had brought her and her sisters up, and supplied 
 to them the place of parents, lost in their infancy. 
 She had bestowed on them an expensive and 
 showy education ; had, both by precept and ex- 
 ample, given every worldly polish to their man- 
 ners ; and had taught them to set off their beauty 
 by tasteful and fashionable dress : — that is, she 
 had done for them all that she thought was neces- 
 sary to be done ; and she, as well as Byrome, 
 believed that they possessed every requisite to 
 make the marriage state happy. 
 
 But Henry Sandford was not so easy to please. 
 He valued personal beauty and external accom- 
 plishments far below christian graces and moral 
 virtues ; and was resolved never to unite himself 
 to a woman whose conduct was not entirely under 
 the guidance of a strict religious principle. 
 
 Lydia L was not in the room when Sand- 
 ford arrived, but he very soon had cause to doubt 
 the moral integrity of her aunt and sisters ; for, 
 on Byrome's saying, u I hope you are not to have 
 any company but ourselves to-day," the aunt re- 
 plied. " Oh, no ; we put off some company that 
 we expected, because we thought you would like 
 to be alone ;" and one of the sisters added, " Yes; 
 
88 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 I wrote to the disagreeable D s, informing 
 
 them that my aunt was too unwell, with one of her 
 bad headachs, to see company ;" " and I," said 
 
 the other, " called on the G s, and said that we 
 
 wished them to come another day, because the 
 beaux, whom they liked best to meet were engag- 
 ed." — " Admirable !" cried Byrome, " Let wo- 
 men alone for excuses !" — while Sandford looked 
 grave, and wondered how any one could think 
 admirable what to him appeared so reprehensible. 
 " However," thought he, " Lydia had no share 
 in this treachery and white lying, but may dislike 
 them, as I do." Soon after she made her appear- 
 ance, attired for conquest; and so radiant did she 
 seem in her youthful loveliness and grace, that 
 Sandford earnestly hoped she had better princi- 
 ples than her sisters. 
 
 Time fled on rapid wings ; and Byrome and the 
 two elder sisters frequently congratulated each 
 other that " the disagreeable D s and tire- 
 some G s" had not been allowed to come, and 
 
 destroy, as they would have done, the pleasure of 
 the afternoon. But Lydia did not join in this 
 conversation ; and Sandford was glad of it. The 
 hours passed in alternate music and conversation, 
 and also in looking over some beautiful drawings 
 of Lydia's ; but the evening was to conclude with 
 a French game a jeu-de-societ6 which Sandford 
 was unacquainted with, and which would give 
 Lydia an opportunity of telling a story gracefully. 
 
 The L s lived in a pleasant village near the 
 
 town where Sandford and Byrome resided ; and 
 a long avenue of fine trees led to their door ; 
 when, just as the aunt was pointing out their beau- 
 ty to Sandford, she exclaimed, " Oh dear, girls, 
 what shall we do ? there is Mrs. Carthew now en- 
 tering the avenue! Not at home, John! not at 
 
PROJECTS DEFEATED. 89 
 
 home !" she eagerly vociferated. " My dear 
 aunt, that will not do for her, cried the eldest 
 sister ; for she will ask for us all in turn, and in- 
 quire where we are, that she may go after us." — 
 " True," said the other, " and if we admit her, 
 she is so severe and methodistical, that she will 
 spoil all our enjoyment." " However, in she 
 must come," observed the aunt ; " for, as she is an 
 old friend, 1 should not like to affront her." 
 
 Sandford was just going to say, " If she be an 
 old friend, admit her, by all means ;" when on 
 looking at Lydia, who had been silent all this 
 time, and was, he flattered himself, of his way of 
 thinking, he saw her put her finger archly to her 
 nose, and heard her exclaim, tk 1 have it ! there, 
 there ; go all of you into the next room, and close 
 the door !" she then bounded gracefully down the 
 avenue, while Sandford, with a degree of pain 
 which he could have scarcely thought possible, 
 heard one of the sisters say to Byrome, " Ah ! 
 Lydia is to be trusted ; she tells a white lie with 
 such an innocent look, that no one can suspect 
 her." " What a valuable accomplishment," 
 thought Sandford, " in a woman ! what a recom- 
 mendation in a wife !" and he really dreaded the 
 fair deceiver's return. 
 
 She came back, " nothing doubting," and, smil- 
 ing with great self-complacency, said, <fc It was 
 very fortunate that it was I who met her ; for I 
 have more presence of mind than you, my dear 
 
 sisters. The good soul had seen the D s ; 
 
 and hearing my aunt was ill, came to inquire con- 
 cerning her. She was even coming on to the 
 house, as she saw no reason why she should not ; 
 and I, for a moment, was at a loss how to keep 
 her away, when I luckily recollected her great 
 dread of infection, and told her that, as the typhus 
 
90 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 fever was in the village., I feared it was only too 
 possible that my poor aunt had caught. it !" — 
 " Capital !" cried the aunt and Byrome ! " Really, 
 Lydia, that waseven out-doing yourself," cried her 
 eldest sister. " Poor Carthewy ! I should not won- 
 der, if she came at all near the house, that she 
 went home, and took to her bed from alarm !" 
 
 Even Byrome was shocked at this unfeeling 
 speech ; and could not help observing, that it 
 would be hard indeed if such was the result, to a 
 good old friend, of an affectionate inquiry. 
 " True," replied Lydia, " and I hope and trust 
 she will not really suffer ; but, though very good,^ 
 she is very troublesome ; and could we but keep 
 up the hum for a day or two, it would be such a 
 comfort to us ! as she comes very often, and now 
 cannot endure cards, nor any music but hymn- 
 singing." 
 
 " Then I am glad she was not admitted ;" said 
 Byrome, who saw with pain, by Sandford's folded 
 arms and grave countenance, that a change in his 
 feelings towards Lydia had taken place. Nor 
 was he deceived : — Sandford was indeed gazing 
 intently, but not as before, with almost overpower- 
 ing admiration, on the consciously-blushing object 
 of it. No ; he was likening her, as he gazed, to 
 the beautiful apples that are said to grow on the 
 shores of the Dead Sea, which tempt the traveller 
 to pluck and eat, but are filled only with dust 
 and bitter ashes. 
 
 " But we are losing time," said Lydia ; " let 
 us begin our French game !" Sandford coldly 
 bowed assent ! but he knew not what she said ; 
 he was so inattentive, that he had to forfeit contin- 
 ually ; — he spoke not; — he smiled not ; — except 
 with a sort of sarcastic expression ; and Lydia felt 
 conscious that she had lost him, though she knew 
 
PROJECTS DEFEATED. 91 
 
 not why ; for her moral sense was too dull for her 
 to conceive the effect which her falsehood and 
 want of feeling, towards an old and pious friend, 
 had produced on him. This consciousness was a 
 painful one, as Sandford was handsome, sensible, 
 and rich ; therefore, he was what match-seeking 
 girls (odious vulgarity !) call a good catch. Be- 
 sides, Byrome had told her that she might depend 
 on making a conquest of his relation, Henry Sand- 
 ford. The evening, therefore, which began so 
 brightly, ended in pain and mortification, both to 
 Sandford and Lydia. The former w r as impatient 
 to depart as soon as supper was over, and the lat- 
 ter, piqued, disappointed, and almost dejected, did 
 not join her sisters in soliciting him to stay. 
 
 " Well," said Byrome, as soon as they left the 
 house, " How do you like the beautiful and ac- 
 complished Lydia ?" — " She is beautiful and ac- 
 complished ; but that is all." — " Nay, I am sure 
 you seemed to admire her exceedingly, till just 
 now, and paid her more animated attention than 1 
 ever saw you pay any woman before." — " True ; 
 but I soon found that she was as hollow-hearted 
 as she is fair." — " Oh ! 1 suppose you mean the 
 deception which she practised on the old lady. 
 Well; where was the great harm of that? she 
 only told a white lie ; and nobdy, that is not a 
 puritan, scruples to do that, you know." 
 
 " I am no puritan, as you term it ; yet I scruple 
 it; but, if I were lo be betrayed into such mean- 
 ness, (and no one perhaps can be always on his 
 guard,) I should blush to have it known ; but this 
 girl seemed to glory in her shame,and tobeproud 
 of the disgraceful readiness with which she utter- 
 ed her falsehood." — " I must own that I was sur- 
 prised she did not express some regret at being 
 forced to do what she did, in order to prevent our 
 
9?2 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYIN&. 
 
 pleasure from being spoiled."—" Why jshould 
 she? Like yourself she saw no harm in a white 
 lie ; but, mark me, Byrome, the woman whom I 
 marry shall not think there is such a thing as a 
 white lie ; — she shall think all lies black ; because 
 the intention of all lies is to deceive ; and, from 
 the highest authority, we are forbidden to deceive 
 one another. I assure you, that if I were mar- 
 ried to Lydia, I should distrust her expressions of 
 love towards me ; — I should suspect that she mar- 
 ried my fortune, not me ; and that, whenever 
 strong temptation offered, she would deceive me 
 as readily as, for a very slight one indeed, she de- 
 ceived that kind friend who came on an errand 
 of love, and was sent away alarmed, and anxious, 
 by this young hj^pocrite's unblushing falsehood ! 
 Trust me, Byrome, that my wife shall be a strict 
 moralist." — "What! a moral philosopher?" — 
 " No ; a far better thing. She shall be a humble 
 relying christian ; — thence she will be capable of 
 speaking the truth, even to her own condemna- 
 tion ;— and on all occasions, her fear of man will 
 be wholly subservient to her fear of her Cre- 
 ator." 
 
 " And, pray, how can you ever be able to as- 
 sure yourself that any girl is this paragon ?" — 
 " Surely, if what we call chance could so easily 
 
 exhibit to me Lydia L in ail the ugliness of her 
 
 falsehood, it may equally, one day or other, dis- 
 close to me some other girl in all the beauty of her 
 truth. Till then, I hope, I shall have resolution 
 enough to remain a bachelor." — " Then," replied 
 Byrome, shaking his head, " I must bid you good 
 night, an old bachelor in prospect and in perpetu- 
 ity !" And as he returned his farewell, Sandford 
 sighed to think that his prophecy was only too like- 
 ly to be fulfilled ; since his observation had con- 
 
PROJECTS DEFEATED. 
 
 vinced him that a strict adherence to truth, on 
 little as well as on great occasions, is, though one 
 of the most important, the rarest of. all virtues.*' 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ON LIES OF INTEREST. 
 
 These lies are very various, and are more ex- 
 cusable, and less offensive, than many others. 
 
 The pale ragged beggar, who, to add to the 
 effect of his or her ill looks, tells of the Targe fami- 
 ly which does not exist, has a strong motive to 
 deceive in the penury which does ; — and one can- 
 not consider as a very abandoned liar, the trades- 
 man, who tells you he cannot afford to come 
 down to the price which you offer, because he gave 
 almost as much for the goods himself. It is not 
 from persons like these that we meet with the 
 most disgusting marks of interested falsehood. It 
 is when habitual and petty lying profanes the 
 lips of those whom independence preserves from 
 any strong temptation to violate truth, and whom 
 religion and education might have taught to 
 value it. 
 
 The following story will illustrate the Lies of 
 Interest. 
 
94 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 THE SKREEN, or " NOT AT HOME." 
 
 The widow of Governor Atheling returned 
 from the East Indies, old, rich and childless ; and 
 as she had none but very distant relations, her 
 affections naturally turned towards the earliest 
 friends of her youth ; one of whom she found still 
 living, and residing in a large country-town. 
 
 She therefore hired a house and grounds adja- 
 cent, in a village very near to that lady's abode, 
 and became not only her frequent but welcome 
 guest. This old friend was a widow in narrow 
 circumstances, with four daughters slenderly pro- 
 vided for ; and she justly concluded that, if she 
 and her family could endear themselves to their 
 opulent guest, they should in all probability in- 
 herit some of her property. In the meanwhile, 
 as she never visited them without bringing with 
 her, in great abundance, whatever was wanted 
 for the table, and might therefore be said to con- 
 tribute to their maintenance, without seeming to 
 intend to do so, they took incessant pains to con- 
 ciliate her more and more every day, by flatteries 
 which she did not see through, and attentions 
 which she deeply felt. Still, the Livingstones 
 were not in spirit united to their amiable guest. 
 The sorrows of her heart had led her by slow 
 degrees, to seek refuge in a religious course of 
 life ; and, spite of her proneness to self-deception, 
 she could not conceal from herself that, on this 
 most important subject the Livingstones had never 
 thought seriously, and were, as yet, entirely wo- 
 men of the world. But still her heart longed to 
 be attached to something ; and as her starved af- 
 fections craved some daily food, she suffered her- 
 
THE SKREEN. 95 
 
 self to love this plausible, amusing, agreeable, and 
 seemingly-affectionate family ; and she every day 
 lived in hope, that, by her precepts and example, 
 she should ultimately tear them from that " world 
 they loved too well." Sweet and precious to 
 their own souls, are the illusions of the good ; and 
 the deceived East-Indian was happy, because 
 she did not understand the true nature of the Liv- 
 ingstones. 
 
 On the contrary, so fascinated was she by what 
 she fancied they were, or might become, that she 
 took very little notice of a shame-faced, awkward, 
 retiring, silent girl, the only child of the dearest 
 friend that her childhood and her youth had known, 
 ■ — and who had been purposely introduced to her 
 only as Fanny Barnwell. For the Livingstones 
 were too selfish, and too prudent, to let their rich 
 friend know that this poor girl was the orphan of 
 Fanny Beaumont. Withholding, therefore, the 
 most important part of the truth, they only inform- 
 ed her that Fanny Barnwell was an orphan, who 
 was glad to live amongst her friends, that she 
 might make her small income sufficient for her 
 wants ; taking care not to add that she was mis- 
 taken in supposing that Fanny Beaumont whose 
 long silence and subsequent death she had bitterly 
 deplored, had died childless ; for that she had 
 married a second husband, by whom she had the 
 poor orphan in question, and had lived many 
 years in sorrow and obscurity, the result of this 
 imprudent marriage ; resolving, however, in or- 
 der to avoid accidents, that Fanny's visit should 
 not be of long duration. In the mean while, they 
 confided in the security afforded them by what 
 may be called their passive lie of interest. 
 But, in order to make "assurance doubly sure," 
 they had also recourse to the active lie of inter- 
 
b)6 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 est ; and, in order to frighten Fanny from ever 
 daring to inform their visiter that she was the 
 child of Fanny Beaumont, they assured her that 
 that lady was so enraged against her poor mother, 
 for having married her unworthy father that no 
 one dared to mention her name to her ; because 
 it never failed to draw from her the most violent 
 abuse of her once dearest friend. " And you 
 know, Fanny," they took care to add, " that you 
 could not bear to hear your poor mother abused." 
 — " No ; that I could not, indeed," was the weep- 
 ing girl's answer ; the Livingstones therefore felt 
 safe and satisfied. However, it still might not be 
 amiss to make the old lady dislike Fanny, if they 
 could ; and they contrived to render the poor girl's 
 virtue the means of doing her injury. 
 
 Fanny's mother could not bequeath much mo- 
 ney to her child ; but she had endeavoured to en- 
 rich her with principles and piety. Above all, 
 she had impressed her with the strictest regard 
 for truth ; — and the Livingstones artfully con- 
 trived to make her integrity the means of displeas- 
 ing their East-Indian friend. 
 
 This good old lady's chief failing was believing 
 implicitly whatever was said in her commenda- 
 tion : net that she loved flattery, but that she lik- 
 ed to believe she had conciliated good-7vill ; and 
 being sincere herself, she never thought of dis- 
 trusting the sincerity of others. 
 
 Nor was she at ail vain of her once fine person, 
 and liner face, or improperly fond of dress. Still 
 from an almost pitiable degree of bonhommie, she 
 allowed the Livingstones to dress her as they lik- 
 ed ; and, as they chose to make her wear fashion- 
 able and young-looking attire, in which they de- 
 clared that she looked " so handsome ! and so 
 well !" she believed they were the best judges of 
 
THE SKREEN. 97 
 
 what was proper for her, and always replied, 
 " Well, dear friends, it is entirely a matter of in- 
 difference to me ; so dress me as you please ;" 
 while the Livingstones, not believing that it was a 
 matter of indifference, used to laugh, as soon as she 
 was gone, at her obvious credulity. 
 
 But this ungenerous and treacherous conduct 
 excited such strong indignation in the usually gen- 
 tle Fanny, that she could not help expressing her 
 sentiments concerning it ; and by that means 
 made them the more eager to betray her into of- 
 fending their unsuspicious friend. They therefore 
 asked Fanny, in her presence, one day, whether 
 their dear guest did not dress most becomingly ? 
 
 The poor girl made sundry sheepish and awk- 
 ward contortions, now looking down, and then look- 
 ing up ; — unable to lie, yet afraid to tell the truth. 
 — " Why do you not reply, Fanny ?" said the art- 
 ful questioner. " Is she not well dressed ?" — 
 " Not in my opinion," faltered out the distressed 
 girl. " And, pray, Miss Barnwell," said the old 
 lady, " what part of my dress do you disap- 
 prove ?" After a pause, Fanny took courage to re- 
 ply, u all of it, madam."—" Why ? do you think 
 it too young for me ?" — " I do." — " A plain spok- 
 en young person that !" she observed in a tone of 
 pique ; — while the Livingstones exclaimed, " im- 
 pertinent ! ridiculous !" — and Fanny was glad to 
 leave the room, feeling excessive pain at having 
 been forced to wound the feelings of one whom 
 she wished to be permitted to love, because she 
 had once been her mother's dearest friend. Af- 
 ter this scene, the Livingstones, partly from the 
 love of mischief, and partly from the love of fun 
 used to put similar questions to Fanny, in the old 
 lady's presence, till, at last, displeased and indig- 
 
98 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 nant at her bluntness and ill-breeding, she scarce- 
 ly noticed or spoke to her. In the meanwhile, 
 Cecilia Livingstone became an object of increas- 
 ing interest to her ; for she had a lover to whom 
 she was greatly attached ; but who would not be 
 in a situation to marry for many years. 
 
 This young man was frequently at the house, 
 and was as polite and attentive to the old lady, 
 when she was present, as the rest of the family ; 
 but, like them, he was ever ready to indulge in a 
 laugh at her credulous simplicity, and especially 
 at her continually expressing her belief, as well 
 as her hopes, that they were all beginning to 
 think less of the present world and more of the 
 next ; and as Alfred Lawrie, (Cecilia's lover,) as 
 well as the Livingstones, possessed no inconsider- 
 able power of mimickry, they exercised them with 
 great effect on the manner and tones of her whom 
 they called the over-dressed saint, unrestrained, 
 alas ! by the consciousness that she was their 
 present, and would, as they expected, be their 
 future, benefactress. 
 
 That confiding and unsuspecting being was, 
 meanwhile, considering that though her health was 
 injured by a long residence in a warm climate, 
 she might still live many years ; and that, as Ce- 
 cilia might not therefore possess the fortune which 
 she had bequeathed to her till " youth and genial 
 years were flown," it would be better to give it to 
 her during her lifetime. " I will do so," she said 
 to herself (tears rushing into her eye as she 
 thought of the happiness which she was going to 
 impart,) " and then .the young people can marry 
 directly !" 
 
 She took this resolution one day when the Liv 
 ingstones believed that she had left her home on a 
 
THE SXREEN. 9d 
 
 visit. Consequently, having no expectation of 
 seeing her for some time, they had taken advan- 
 tage of her long vainly-expected absence to make 
 some engagements which they knew she would 
 have excessively disapproved. But though, as 
 yet, they knew it not, the old lady had been forc- 
 ed to put off her visit ; a circumstance which she 
 did not at all regret, as it enabled her to go soon- 
 er on her benevolent errand. 
 
 The engagement of the Livingstones for that 
 day was a rehearsal of a private play at their 
 house, which they were afterwards, and during 
 their saintly friend's absence, to perform at the 
 house of a friend ; and a large room, called the 
 library, in which there was a wide, commodious 
 skreen, was selected as the scene of action. 
 
 Fanny Barnwell, who disliked private and oth- 
 er theatricals as much as their old friend herself, 
 was to have no part in the performance ; but, as 
 they were disappointed of their prompter that 
 evening, she was, though with great difficulty, per- 
 suaded to perform the office, for that night only* 
 
 It was to be a dress rehearsal ; and the parties 
 were in the midst of adorning themselves, when 
 to their great consternation, they saw their suppos- 
 ed distant friend coming up the street, and evi- 
 dently intending them a visit. What was to be 
 done ? To admit her was impossible. They 
 therefore called up a new servant, who only came 
 to them the day before, and who did not know 
 the worldly consequence of their unwelcome 
 guest ; and Cecilia said to her, " you see that 
 old lady yonder ; when she knocks, be sure to 
 say that we are not at home ; and you had better 
 add, that we shall not be home till bed-time ;" thus 
 adding the lie of convenience to other deceptions. 
 
100 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 Accordingly, when she knocked at the door, the 
 girl spoke as she was desired to do, or rather she 
 improved upon it ; for she said that " her ladies 
 had been out all day, and would not return till 
 two o'clock in the morning." — "Indeed! that is 
 unfortunate 5" said their disappointed visiter, 
 stopping to deliberate whether she should not 
 leave a note of agreeable surprise for Cecilia ; 
 but the girl, who held the door in her hand, seem- 
 ed so impatient to get rid of her, that she resolved 
 not to write, and then turned away. 
 
 The girl was really in haste to return to the 
 kitchen ; for she was gossiping with an old fellow- 
 servant. She therefore neglected to go back to 
 her anxious employers ; but Cecilia ran down the 
 back stairs, to interrogate her, exclaiming, " Well ; 
 what did she say ! J hope she did not suspect 
 that we were at home." — " No, to be sure not, 
 Miss ; — how should she ? — for I said even more 
 than you told me to say," repeating her addi- 
 tions; being eager to prove her claim to the con- 
 fidence of her new mistress. w But are you sure 
 that she is really gone from the door ?" — " To be 
 sure, Miss." — " Still, I wish you could go and 
 see ; because we have not seen her pass the win- 
 dow, though we heard the door shut." — " Dear 
 me, Miss, how shouid you ? for I looked out after 
 her, and I saw her go down the street under the 
 windows, and turn .... yes, — 1 am sure that I 
 saw her turn into a shop. However, I will go and 
 look, if you desire it." She did so ; and certainly 
 saw nothing of the dreaded guest. Therefore, 
 her young ladies finished their preparations, de- 
 void of fear. But the truth was, that the girl, lit- 
 tle aware of the importance of this unwelcomed 
 lady, and concluding she could not be a friend. 
 
THE SKREEN. 101 
 
 but merely some troublesome nobody, showed her 
 contempt and her anger at being detained so long, 
 by throwing to the street-door with such violence, 
 that it did not really close; and the old lady, who 
 had ordered her carriage to come for her at a cer- 
 tain hour, and was determined, on second thoughts, 
 to sit down and wait for it, was able, unheard, to 
 push open the door, and to enter the library un- 
 perceived ; — for the girl lied to those who bade 
 her lie, when she said she saw her walk away. 
 
 In that room Mrs. Atherling found a sofa ; and 
 though she wondered at seeing a large skreen 
 opened before it, she seated herself on it, and, be- 
 ing fatigued with her walk, soon fell asleep. But 
 her slumber was broken very unpleasantly ; for 
 she heard, as she awoke, the following dialogue, 
 on the entrance of Cecilia and her lover, accom- 
 panied by Fanny. " Well — I am so glad we got 
 rid of Mrs. Atherling so easily !" cried Cecelia. 
 " That new girl seems apt. Some servants deny 
 one so as to show one is at home." — " I should like 
 them the better for it," said Fanny. " I hate to 
 see any one ready at telling a falsehood." — " Poor 
 little conscientious dear !" said the lover, mimick- 
 ing her, " one would think the dressed-up saint 
 had made you as methodistical as herself." 
 " What, I suppose, Miss Fanny, you would have 
 had us let the old quiz in." — u To be sure I would ; 
 and I wonder you could be denied to so kind a 
 friend. — Poor dear Mrs. Atherling ! how hurt she 
 would be, if she knew you were at home !" — "Poor 
 dear* indeed ? Do not be so affected, Fanny. 
 How should you care for Mrs. Atherling, when 
 you know that she dislikes you !" — " Dislikes me ! 
 Oh yes ; I fear she does !" — " I am sure she does," 
 replied Cecilia ; " for you are downright rude to 
 y 
 
102 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 her. Did you not say, only the day before yes- 
 terday, when she said, There, Miss Barnwell, I 
 hope I have at last gotten a cap which you like, — 
 No ; I am sorry to say you have not !" — " To be 
 sure I did ; — 1 could not tell a falsehood even to 
 please Mrs. Atherling, though she was my own 
 dear mother's dearest friend." — " Your mother's 
 friend, Fanny ? I never heard that before ;" said 
 the lover. " Did you not know that, Alfred ?" said 
 Cecilia , eagerly adding, " but Mrs. Atherling 
 does not know it ;" giving him a meaning look, as 
 if to say, " and do not you tell her." — " Would 
 she did know it !" said Fanny mournfully, " for, 
 though I dare not tell her so, lest she should abuse 
 my poor mother, as you say she would, Cecilia, 
 because she was so angry at her marriage with 
 my misguided father, still, I think she would look 
 kindly on her once dear friend's orphan child, and 
 like me, in spite of my honesty." — u No, no, silly 
 girl ; honesty is usually its own reward. Alfred, 
 what do you think ? Our old friend, who is not 
 very penetrating, said one day to her, I suppose 
 you think my caps too young for me ; and that 
 true young person replied, Yes, madam, I do." — 
 •' And would do so again, Cecilia ; — and it was 
 far more friendly and kind to say so than flatter 
 her on her dress, as you do, and then laugh at it 
 when her back is turned. I hate to hear any one 
 mimicked and laughed at ; and more especially 
 my mamma's old friend." — " There, there, child ! 
 your sentimentality makes me sick. But come ; 
 let us begin." — " Yes," cried Alfred, " let us re- 
 hearse a little, before the rest of the party come. 
 1 should like to hear Mrs. Atherling's exclama- 
 tions, if she knew what we were doing. She would 
 say thus :" .... Here he gave a most accurate 
 
THE SKREEN. 105 
 
 representation of the poorold lady's voice and man- 
 ner, and her fancied abuse of private theatricals, 
 while Cecilia cried, " bravo ! bravo !" and Fan- 
 ny, " shame! shame !" till the other Livingstones, 
 and the rest of the company, who now entered, 
 drowned her cry in their loud applauses and loud- 
 er laughter. 
 
 The old lady, whom surprise, anger and wound- 
 ed sensibility, had hitherto kept silent and still in 
 her involuntary hiding-place, now rose up, and, 
 mounting on the sofa, looked over the top of the 
 skreen, full of reproachful meaning, on the con- 
 scious offenders ! 
 
 What a moment, to them, of overwhelming sur- 
 prise and consternation ! The cheeks, flushed 
 with malicious triumph and satirical pleasure, be- 
 came covered with the deeper blush of detected 
 treachery, or pale withhfear of its consequences ; 
 — and the eyes, so lately beaming with ungener- 
 ous, injurious satisfaction, were now cast, wifh 
 painful shame, upon the ground, unable to meet 
 the justly indignant glance of her, whose kindness 
 they had repaid with such palpable and base in- 
 gratitude ! " An admirable likeness indeed, Al- 
 fred Lawrie," said their undeceived dupe, break- 
 ing her perturbed silence, and coming down from 
 her elevation ; " but it will cost you more than 
 you are at present aware of. — But who art thou ?" 
 she added, addressing Fanny (who, though it might 
 have been a moment of triumph to her, feit and 
 looked as if she had been a sharer in the guilt,) 
 " Who art thou, my honourable, kind girl ? And 
 who was your- mother ?" — " Your Fanny Beau- 
 mont," replied the quick-feeling orphan, bursting 
 into tears. " Fanny Beaumont's child ! and it 
 was concealed from me !" said she, folding the 
 
104 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 weeping girl to her heart* " But it was all of a 
 piece ; — all treachery and insincerity, from the 
 beginning to the end. However, I am undeceived 
 before it was too late." She then disclosed to the 
 detected family her generous motive for the unex- 
 pected visit ; and declared her thankfulness for 
 what had taken place, as far as she was herself 
 concerned-, though she could not but deplore, as a 
 christian, the discovered turpitude of those whom 
 she had fondly loved. 
 
 " I have now," she continued, " to make amends 
 to one whom I have hitherto not treated kindly ; 
 but I have at length been enabled to discover an 
 
 undeserved friend, amidst undeserved foes 
 
 My dear child," added she, parting Fanny's dark 
 ringlets, and gazing fearfully in her face, u J must 
 have been blind as well as blinded, not to see your 
 likeness to your dear mother.— Will you live with 
 me, Fanny, and be unto me as a daughter ?" — 
 " Oh, most gladly !" was the eager and agitated 
 reply. fc; You artful creature 1" exclaimed Ce- 
 cilia, pale with rage and mortification, " You 
 knew very well that she was behind the skreen." 
 — u I know that she could not know it," replied 
 the old lady ; " and you, Miss Livingstone, assert 
 what you do not yourself believe. But come, 
 Fanny, let us go and meet my carriage ; for, no 
 d®ubt your presence here is now as unwelcome as 
 mine." But Fanny lingered, as if reluctant to de* 
 part. She could not bear to leave the Living- 
 stones in anger. They had been kind to her ; 
 and she would fain have parted with them affec- 
 tionately ; but they all preserved a sullen indig- 
 nant silence, and scornfully repelled her advan- 
 ces. — " You see that you must not tarry here, 
 my good girl," observed the old lady, smiling ; 
 
LIES OP FIRST-RATE MALIGNITY. 105 
 
 "so let us depart." They did so ; leaving the 
 Livingstones and the lover, not deploring their 
 fault, but lamenting their detection ; — lamenting 
 also the hour when they added the lies of con- 
 venience to their other deceptions, and had there- 
 by enabled their unsuspecting dupe to detect those 
 falsehoods, the result of their avaricious fears, 
 which may be justly entitled the lies of interest. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 lies of first-rate malignity. 
 
 Lies of first-rate malignity come next to be 
 considered : and 1 think that I am right in assert- 
 ing that such lies, — lies intended wilfully to destroy 
 the reputation of men and women, to injure their 
 characters in public or private estimation, and for 
 ever cloud over their prospects in life, — are less 
 frequent than falsehoods of any other description. 
 
 Not that malignity is an unfrequent feeling;— 
 not that dislike or envy, or jealousy, would not 
 gladly vent itself in many a malignant falsehood, 
 or other efforts of the same kind, against the peace 
 and fame of its often innocent and unconscious 
 objects; — but that the arm of the law, in some 
 measure at least, defends reputations : and if it 
 should not have been able to deter the slanderer 
 from his purpose, it can at least avenge the slan- 
 dered. 
 
 Still, such is the prevailing tendency, in society, 
 to prey on the reputations of others (especially of 
 
i06 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 
 
 ihose who are at all distinguished, either in public 
 or private life ;) such the propensity to impute 
 bad motives to good actions : so common the 
 iiend-like pleasure of finding or imagining blem- 
 ishes in beings on whom even a motive judging 
 world in general gazes with respectful admiration 
 and bestows the sacred tribute of well-earned 
 praise ; that I am convinced there are many per- 
 sons, worn both in mind and body by the con- 
 sciousness of being the objects of calumnies and 
 suspicions which they have it not in their power 
 to combat, who steal broken-hearted to their 
 graves, thankful for the summons of death, and 
 hoping to find refuge from the injustice of their 
 fellow-creatures in the bosom of their God and 
 Saviour. 
 
 With the following illustration of the lie or 
 first-rate malignity 1 shall conclude my obser- 
 vations on this subject. 
 
 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 There are persons in the world whom circum- 
 stances have so entirely preserved from inter- 
 course with the base and the malignant, and whose 
 dispositions are so free from bitterness, that they 
 can scarcely believe in the existence of baseness 
 and malignity. Such persons, when they hear of 
 injuries committed, and wrongs done, at the insti- 
 gation of the most trivial and apparently worthless 
 motives, are apt to exclaim, " You have been im- 
 posed upon. No one could be so wicked as to act 
 
THE ORPHAN. 107 
 
 thus upon such slight grounds ; and you are not 
 relating as a sober observer of human nature and 
 human action, but with the exaggerated view of a 
 dealer in fiction and romance !" Happy, and 
 privileged beyond the ordinary charter of human 
 beings, are those who can thus exclaim ; — but the 
 inhabitants of the tropics might, with equal justice, 
 refuse to believe in the existence of that thing 
 called snow, as these unbelievers in the moral tur- 
 pitude in question refuse their credence to anec- 
 dotes which disclose it. All they can with pro- 
 priety assert is, that such instances have not come 
 under their cognizance. Yet, even to these fa- 
 voured few, I would put the following questions : 
 — Have you never experienced feelings of selfish- 
 ness, anger, jealousy, or envy, which, though 
 habits of religious and moral restraint taught you 
 easily to subdue them, had yet troubled you long 
 enough to make you fully sensible of their exis- 
 tence and their power ? If so, is it not easy to believe 
 that such feelings, when excited in the minds of 
 those not under religious and moral guidance, may 
 grow to such an unrestrained excess as to lead to 
 actions and lies of terrible malignity ? 
 
 I cannot but think that even the purest and best 
 of my friends must answer in the affirmative. 
 Still, they have reason to return thanks to their 
 Creator, that their lot has been cast amongst such 
 " pleasant places ;" and that it is theirs to breathe 
 an atmosphere impregnated only with airs from 
 heaven. 
 
 My lot, from a peculiar train of circumstances, 
 has been somewhat differently cast ; and when I 
 give the following story, to illustrate a lie of first- 
 rate malignity, 1 do so with the certain knowledge 
 that its foundation is truth. 
 
108 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 
 
 Constantia Gordon was the only child of a 
 professional man, of great eminence, in a provin- 
 cial town. Her mother was taken from her before 
 she had attained the age of womanhood, but not 
 before the wise and pious precepts which she 
 gave her had taken deep root, and had therefore 
 counteracted the otherwise pernicious effects of a 
 showy and elaborate education. Constantia's 
 talents were considerable ; and as her application 
 was equal to them, she was at an early age, dis- 
 tinguished in her native place for her learning and 
 accomplishments. 
 
 Among the most intimate associates of her fath- 
 er, was a gentleman of the name of Overton ; a 
 man of some talent, and some acquirement ; but, 
 as his pretensions to eminence were not as univer- 
 sally allowed as he thought that they ought to 
 have been, he was extremely tenacious of his own 
 consequence, excessively envious of the slightest 
 successes of others, while any dissent from his dog- 
 mas was an offence which his mean soul was in- 
 capable of forgiving. 
 
 It was only too natural that Constantia, as she 
 was the petted, though not spoiled, child of a 
 fond father, and the little sun of the circle in which 
 she moved, was, perhaps, only too forward in 
 giving her opinion on literature, and on some oth- 
 er subjects, which are not usually discussed by 
 women at all, and still less by girls at her time of 
 life ; and she had sometimes ventured to disagree 
 in opinion with Oracle Overton — the nickname by 
 which this man was known. But he commonly 
 took refuge in sarcastic observations on the igno- 
 rance and presumption of women in general, and 
 of blue-stocking girls in particular, while on his 
 
THE ORPHNN. 109 
 
 face a grin of conscious superiority contended with 
 the frown of pedantic indignation. 
 
 Hitherto this collision of wits had taken place 
 in Constantia's domestic circle only ; but, one day, 
 Overton and the former met at the house of a 
 nobleman in the neighbourhood, and in company 
 with many persons of considerable talent. While 
 they were at table, the master of the house said 
 that it was his birth-day ; and some one immedi- 
 ately proposed that all the guests, who could write 
 verses, should produce one couplet at least, in 
 honour of the day. 
 
 But as Overton and Constantia were the only 
 persons present who were known to be so gifted, 
 they alone were assailed with earnest entreaties to 
 employ their talents on the occasion. The latter, 
 however, was prevented by timidity from compli- 
 ance ; and she persevered in her refusal, though 
 Overton loudly conjured her to indulge the com- 
 pany with a display of her wonderful genius ; ac- 
 companying his words with a sarcastic smile, 
 which she well understood. Overton's muse, there- 
 fore, since Constantia would not let hers enter into 
 the competition, walked over the course ; having 
 been highly applauded for a mediocre stanza of 
 eight doggrel lines. But, as Constantia's timidity 
 vanished when she found herself alone with the 
 ladies in the drawing-room, who were most of 
 them friends of hers, she at length produced some 
 verses, which not only delighted her affectionate 
 companions, but, when shown to the gentlemen, 
 drew from them more and warmer encomiums 
 than had been bestowed on the frothy tribute of 
 her competitor; while the writhing and mortified 
 Overton forced himself to say they were very 
 well, very well indeed, for a scribbling Miss of six- 
 10 
 
110 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 teen ; insinuating at the same time that the pre 
 tended extempore was one written by her father 
 at home, and gotten by heart by herself. But 
 the giver of the feast declared that he had forgot- 
 ten it was his birth-day, till he sat down to' table ; 
 therefore, as every one said, although the verses 
 were written by a girl of sixteen only, they would 
 have done honour to a riper age, Overton gained 
 nothing, but added mortification from his mean at- 
 tempt to blight Constantia's well-earned laurels, 
 especially as his ungenerous conduct drew on him 
 severe animadversions from some of the other 
 guests. His fair rival also unwittingly deepened 
 his resentment against herself, by venturing, in a 
 playful manner, being emboldened by success, to 
 dispute some of his paradoxes ; — and once she did 
 it so successfully, that she got the laugh against 
 Overton, in a manner so offensive to his self-love, 
 that he suddenly left the company, vowing re- 
 venge in his heart, against the being who had thus 
 shone at his expense. However, he continued to 
 visit at her father's house ; and was still consider- 
 ed as their most intimate friend. 
 
 Constantia, meanwhile, increased not only both 
 in beauty and accomplishments, but in qualities of 
 a more precious nature ; namely, in a knowledge 
 of her christian duties. But her charities were 
 performed in secret, and so fearful was she of be- 
 ing deemed righteous overmuch, and considered 
 as an enthusiast, even by her father himself, that 
 the soundness of her religious character was 
 known only to the sceptical Overton, and two or 
 three more of her associates, while it was a noto- 
 rious fact, that the usual companions of her father 
 and herself were freethinkers and latitudinarians, 
 both in politicks and religion. But, if Constantia 
 
THE ORPHANS. Ill 
 
 did not lay open her religious faith to.those by 
 whom she was surrounded, she fed its lamp in her 
 own bosom, with never-ceasing watchfulness; and 
 like the solitary light in a cottage on the dark and 
 lonely moors, it beamed on her hours of solitude 
 and retirement, cheering and warming her amidst 
 surrounding darkness. 
 
 It was to do yet more for her. It was to sup- 
 port her, not only under the sudden death of a fa- 
 ther whom she tenderly loved, but under the un- 
 expected loss of income which his death occasion- 
 ed. On examining his affairs, it was discovered 
 that, when his debts were all paid, there would be 
 a bare maintenance only remaining for the afflict- 
 ed orphan. Constantia's sorrow, though deep, 
 was quiet and gentle as her nature ; and she felt, 
 with unspeakable thankfulness, that she owed the 
 tranquillity and resignation of her mind to her re- 
 ligious convictions alone. 
 
 The interesting orphan had only just returned 
 into the society of her friends, when a Sir Edward 
 Vandeleur, a young baronet of large fortune, 
 came on a visit in the neighbourhood. 
 
 Sir Edward was the darling and pride of a high- 
 ly-gifted mother, and several amiable sisters ; and 
 Lady Vandeleur, who was in declining health, had 
 often urged her son to let her have the satisfaction 
 of seeing him married before she was taken away 
 from him. 
 
 But, it was no easy thing for a man like Sir Ed- 
 ward Vandeleur to find a wife suited to him. His 
 feelings were too much under a strong religious 
 restraint, to admit of his falling violently in love, 
 as the phrase is ; and beauty and accomplishments 
 had ho chance of captivating his heart, unless 
 
112 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 they were accompanied by qualities which fully 
 satisfied his principles and his judgment. 
 
 It was at this period of his life that Sir Edward 
 Vandeleur was introduced to Constantia Gordon, 
 at a small conversation party, at the house of a 
 mutual acquaintance. 
 
 Her beauty, her graceful manners, over which 
 sorrow had cast a new and sobered charm, and 
 her great conversational powers, made her pre- 
 sently an object of interest to Sir Edward ; and 
 when he heard her story, that interest was con- 
 siderably increased by pity for her orphan state 
 and altered circumstances. 
 
 Therefore, though Sir Edward saw Constantia 
 rarely, and never, except at one house, he felt her 
 at every interview growing more on his esteem 
 and admiration ; and he often thought of the re- 
 cluse in her mourning simple attire, and wished 
 himself by her side, when he was courted, flatter- 
 ed, attendant on a reigning belle. 
 
 Not that he was in love ; — that is, not that he 
 had imbibed an attachment which his reason 
 could not at once enable him to conquer, if it 
 should ever disapprove its continuance ; — but his 
 judgment, as well as his taste, told him that Con- 
 stantia was the sort of woman to pass life with. 
 " Seek for a companion in a wife !" had always 
 been his mother's advice. " Seek for a woman 
 who has understanding enough to know her du- 
 ties, and piety and principle enough to enable her 
 to fulfil them ; one who can teach her children to 
 follow in her steps, and form them for virtue here, 
 and happiness hereafter!" "Surely," thought 
 Sir Edward, as he recalled this natural advice, 
 " I have found the woman so described in Con- 
 stantia Gordon !" But he was still too prudent to 
 
THE ORPHAN. 1 1 8 r 
 
 pay her any marked attention ; especially as La- 
 dy Vandeleur had recommended caution. 
 
 At this moment his mother wrote thus : 
 
 " 1 do not see any apparent objection to the la- 
 dy in question. — Still, be cautious ! Is there no 
 one at — — who has known her from her child- 
 hood, and can give you an account of her and her 
 moral and religious principles, which can be relied 
 upon ? Death, that great discoverer of secrets, 
 proved that her father was not a very worthy 
 man, still, bad parents have good children, and 
 vice versa ; but, inquire and be wary." 
 
 The day after Sir Edward received this letter, 
 he was introduced to Overton at the house of a 
 gentleman in the neighbourhood ; and at the most 
 unfortunate period possible for Constantia Gor- 
 don. Overton had always pretended to have a 
 sincere regard for the poor orphan, and no one 
 was more loud in regrets for her reduced fortune; 
 but, as he was fond of giving her pain, he used to 
 mingle with his pity, so many severe remarks on 
 her father's thoughtless conduct, that had he not 
 been her father's most familiar friend, she would 
 have forbidden him her presence. 
 
 One day having found her alone at her lodgings, 
 he accompanied his expressions of affected condo- 
 lence with a proposal to give her a bank-note now 
 and then, to buy her a new gown ; as he was (he 
 said) afraid that she would not have money suf- 
 ficient to set off her charms to advantage. To 
 real kindness, however vulgarly worded, Constan- 
 tia's heart was ever open ; but she immediately 
 saw that this offer, prefaced as it was by abuse of 
 her father, was merely the result of malignity and 
 coarseness combined ; and her spirit, though ha- 
 bitually gentle, was roused to indignant resentment. 
 10* 
 
1 1 4 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 But who, that has ever experienced the bitter- 
 ness of feeling excited by the cold, spiteful efforts 
 of a malignant temper to irritate a gentle and gene- 
 rous nature, can withhold their sympathy and 
 pardon from Constantia on this occasion ? At 
 last, gratified at having made his victim a while 
 forego her nature, and at being now enabled to 
 represent her as a vixen ; he took his leave with 
 hypocritical kindness, calling her his "naughty 
 scolding Con^ leaving her to humble herself be- 
 fore that Being whom she feared to have offended 
 by her violence, and to weep over the recollec- 
 tion of an interview which had added, to her other 
 miseries, that of self-reproach. 
 
 Overton, meanwhile, did not retire unhurt from 
 the combat. The orphan had uttered, in her ago- 
 ny, some truths which he could not forget. She 
 had held up to him a mirror of himself, from which 
 he found it difficult to turn away, while in propor- 
 tion to his sense of suffering was his resentment 
 against its fair cause j and his desire of revenge 
 was in proportion to both. 
 
 It was on this very day that he dined in com- 
 pany with Sir Edward Vandeleur, who was soon 
 informed, by the master of the house, that Overton 
 had been, from her childhood, the friend and in- 
 timate of Constantia Gordon ; and the same gen- 
 tleman informed Overton, in private, that Sir Ed- 
 ward was supposed to entertain thoughts of pay- 
 ing his addresses to Constantia. 
 
 Inexpressible was Overton's consternation at 
 hearing that this girl, whose poverty he had in- 
 sulted, whom he disliked because she had been a 
 thorn to his self-love, and under whose just se- 
 verity he was still smarting, was likely, not only 
 'm be removed from his power to torment 
 
THE ORPHAN. 115 
 
 her, but to be raised above him by a fortunate 
 marriage. 
 
 Great was his triumph, therefore, when Sir Ed- 
 ward, before they parted, requested an in- 
 terview with him the following morning, at his 
 lodgings in the town of , adding, that he wish- 
 ed to ask him some questions concerning their mu- 
 tual friend, Constantia Gordon. 
 
 Accordingly they met ; and the following con- 
 versation took place. Sir Edward began by can- 
 didly confessing the high opinion which be had 
 conceived of Constantia, and his earnest wish to 
 have its justice confirmed by the testimony of her 
 oldest and most intimate friend. " Sir Edward," 
 replied the exulting hypocrite, with well-acted re- 
 luctance, " you put an honourable and a kind- 
 hearted man, like myself, into a complete embar- 
 ras" — " Sir, what do 1 hear ?" cried Sir Edward 
 starting from his seat, " Can you feel any embar- 
 rassment, when called upon to bear testimony in 
 favour of Constantia Gordon ?" — " 1 dare say you 
 cannot think such a thing possible," he replied 
 with a sneer ; " for men in love are usually blind." 
 — " But I am not in love yet," eagerly replied Sir 
 Edward ; " and it very much depends on this 
 conversation whether 1 ever am so with the lady 
 in question." — " Well then, Sir Edward, however 
 unpalatable, I must speak the truth. I need not 
 tell you that Constantia is beautiful, accomplished, 
 and talented, is, 1 think, the new word." — " No, sir ; 
 I already know she is all these ; and she appears to 
 me as gentle, virtuous, and pious, as she is beauti- 
 ful." — " I dare say she does ; but, as to her gen- 
 tleness, however I might provoke her improperly ; 
 — but, 1 assure you, she flew into such a passion 
 with me yesterday, that I thought she would have 
 
116 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 
 
 struck me !" — " Is it possible? I really feel a dif* 
 ficulty in believing you !" — " No doubt ; — so let 
 us talk of something else." — " No, no, — Mr. Over- 
 ton ; I came hither to be informed on a subject 
 deeply interesting to me, and, at whatever risk of 
 disappointment, 1 will await all you have to say.'* 
 — " I have nothing to say, Sir Edward, you know 
 Con is beautiful and charming; and is not that 
 enough?" — "No! it is not enough. Outward 
 graces are not sufficient to captivate and fix me, 
 unless they are accompanied by charms that fade 
 not with time, but blossom to eternity.'* — " Whew!** 
 exclaimed Overton, with well-acted surprise, " I 
 see that you are a methodist, Sir Edward ; and if 
 so, my friend Con will not suit you." — " Does it 
 follow that I am a methodist, because 1 require 
 that my wife should be a woman of pious and 
 moral habits ?" — " Oh ! for morals, these, indeed, 
 my friend Con would suit you well enough. Let 
 her morals pass ; — but as to her piety, religion will 
 never turn her head." — '* What do you mean, Mr. 
 Overton ?" — u Why, sir, our lovely friend has 
 learned from the company which she has kept, to 
 think freely on such subjects ; — very freely ; — 
 for women, you know, always go to extremes. 
 Men keep within the rational bounds of deism ; but 
 the female sceptic, weaker in intellect, and incapa- 
 ble of reasoning, never rests, till she loses herself 
 in the mazes and absurdities of atheism." Had 
 Sir Edward Vandeleur seen the fair smooth skin 
 of Constantia suddenly covered with leprosy, he 
 would not have been more shocked than he was 
 at being informrd of this utter blight to her mental 
 beauty in his rightly judging eyes ;— and, starting 
 from his seat, he exclaimed, " do you really mean 
 to assert that your fair friend is an atheist?" — 
 
THE ORPHAN. 117 
 
 — " Sir Edward, I am Constantia's friend ; and I 
 was her father's friend ; and I am sorry these 
 things have been forced from me ; — but I could 
 not deceive an honourable man, who placed con- 
 fidence also in my honour ; though, as Constantia 
 is the child of an old friend, and poor, it would be, 
 perhaps, a saving to my pocket, if she were well 
 married." — li Then, it is true !" said Sir Edward, 
 clasping his hands in agony ; " and this lovely 
 girl is what 1 hate to name ! Yet, she looks so 
 right-minded ! and I have thought the expression 
 of her dark blue eye was that of pious resignation 1" 
 — " Yes, yes ; I know that look ; and she knows 
 that is her prettiest look. That eye, half turned 
 up, shows her fine long dark eyelashes to great 
 advantage !" — " Alas ["replied Sir Edward, deep- 
 ly sighing, "if this be so — oh 1 w 7 hat are looks ? 
 Good morning. You have distressed, but you 
 have saved me." — When Overton, soon after, saw 
 Sir Edward drive past in his splendid curricle, he 
 exulted that he had prevented Constantia from 
 ever sitting there by his side. 
 
 Yet he was, as I have said before, one of^the 
 few who knew how deeply and sincerely Constan- 
 tia was a believer ; for he had himself, in vain at- 
 tempted to shake her belief, and thence, he had 
 probably a double pleasure in representing her as 
 he did. 
 
 Sir Edward was engaged that evening to meet 
 Constantia at the accustomed house ; and, as his 
 attentions to her had been rather marked, and her 
 friends, with the usual dangerous officiousness on 
 such occasions, had endeavoured to convince her 
 that she had made a conquest, as the phrase is, of 
 the young baronet, the expectation of meeting him 
 was become a circumstance of no small interest to 
 
118 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 her ; though she was far too humble to be con- 
 vinced that they were right in their conjectures. 
 
 But the mind of Gonstantia was too much under 
 the guidance of religious principle, to allow her to 
 love any man, however amiable, unless she was 
 sure of being beloved by him. She was too deli- 
 cate, and had too much self respect, to be capa- 
 ble of such a weakness ; she therefore escaped 
 that danger, of which I have seen the peace of 
 some young women become the victim ; namely, 
 that of being talked and flattered into a hopeless 
 passion by the idle wishes and representations of 
 gossiping acquaintances. And well was it for her 
 peace that she had been thus holily on her guard ; 
 for, when Sir Edward Vandeleur, instead of keep- 
 ing his engagement, sent a note to inform her 
 friend that he w 7 as not able to wait on her, as he 
 thought of going to London the next day, Constan- 
 tia felt that the idea of his attachment was as un- 
 founded as it had been pleasing, and she rejoiced 
 that the illusion had not been long enough to en- 
 danger her tranquillity. Still, she could not but 
 own, in the secret of her heart, that the prospect 
 of passing life with a being apparently so suited to 
 herself, was one on which her thoughts had dwelt 
 with involuntary pleasure ; and a tear started to 
 her eyes, at the idea that she might see him no 
 more. But, she considered it as the tear of weak- 
 ness, and though her sleep that night was short, it 
 was tranquil, and she rose the next morning to re- 
 sume the duties of the day with her accustomed 
 alacritjr. I n her walks she met Sir Edward, but 
 happily for her, as he was leaning on Overton's 
 arm, whom she had not seen since she had parted 
 with him in anger, a turn was given to her feelings, 
 by the approach of the latter, which enabled her 
 
THE ORPHAN. 119 
 
 to conquer at once her emotion at the unexpected 
 sight of the former. Still the sight of Overton 
 occasioned in her disagreeable aad painful recol- 
 lections, which gave an unpleasing and equivocal 
 expression to her beautiful features, and enabled 
 Overton to observe, " You see, Sir Edward, how 
 her conscience flies in her face at seeing me ! 
 How are you ? How are you ?" said Overton, 
 catching her hand as she passed. — " Have you 
 forgiven me yet ? Oh ! you vixen, how you scold- 
 ed me the other day !" Constantia, too much 
 mortified and agitated to speak, and repel the 
 charge, replied by a loo"k of indignation ; and, 
 snatching her hand away, she bowed to Sir Ed- 
 ward, and hastened out of sight. " You see," 
 cried Overton, " that she resents still ! and how 
 like a fury she looked ! You must be convinced 
 that 1 told you the truth. Now, could you be- 
 lieve, Sir Edward, that pretty Con could have 
 looked in that manner ?" — " Certainly not; and 
 appearances are indeed deceitful." Still, Sir Ed- 
 ward wished Constantia had given him an oppor- 
 tunity of bidding her farewell ; however, he left 
 his good wishes and respects for her with their 
 mutual friend, and set off that evening to join his 
 mother at Hastings. " But are you sure, Ed- 
 ward," said Lady Vandeleur, when he had re- 
 lated to her all that had passed, " that this Over- 
 ton is a man to be depended upon ?" — " Oh, yes ! 
 and he could have no motive for calumniating her, 
 but the contrary, as it would have been a relief to 
 his mind and pocket to £et his old friend's daugh- 
 ter well married." — ■" But, cjpes she appear to her 
 other friends neglectful of. her religious duties, as 
 if she had really no religion at all ?"' — " So far 
 from it, that she has always been punctual in the 
 
120 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 outward performance of them ; therefore, no one 
 but Overton, the confidential friend and intimate of 
 the family, could suspect or know her real opin- 
 ions ; thus she adds, I fear, hypocrisy to scepticism. 
 Overton also accuses her of being violent in her 
 temper ; and I was unexpectedly enabled to see 
 the truth of this accusation, in a measure, confirm- 
 ed. Therefore, indeed, dear mother, all I have 
 to do is to forget her, and resume my intention of 
 accompanying 3 r ou and my sisters to the conti- 
 nent." Accordingly they set off very soon on a 
 foreign tour. - 
 
 Constantia, after she left Overton and Sir Ed- 
 ward so hastily and suddenly, returned home in 
 no enviable state of mind; because she felt sure 
 that her manner had been such as to convince the 
 latter that she was the violent creature which Over- 
 ton had represented her to be ; — and though she 
 had calmly resigned all idea of being beloved by 
 Sir Edward Vandeleur, she was not entirely in- 
 different to his good opinion. Besides, she feared 
 that her quitting him, without one word of kind 
 farewell, might appear to him a proof of pique and 
 disappointment ; nor could she be quite sure that 
 souiewhat of that feeling did not impel her to has- 
 ten abruptly away ; and it was some time before 
 she could conquer her self-blame and her regret. 
 But at length, she reflected that there was a want 
 of proper self-government in dwelling at all on re- 
 collections of Sir Edward Vandeleur ; and she forc- 
 ed herself into society and absorbing occupation. 
 
 Hitherto Constantia had been contented to re- 
 main in idleness; but, as her income was, she 
 found, barely equal to her maintenance, and she 
 was therefore obliged to relinquish nearly all her 
 charities, she resolved to turn her talents to ac- 
 
THE ORPHAN. 121 
 
 count ; and was just about to decide between two 
 plans, which she had thought desirable, when an 
 uncle in India died, and the question was decided 
 in a very welcome and unexpected manner. Till 
 this gentleman married, her father had such large 
 expectations from him, that he had fancied them a 
 sufficient excuse for his profuse expenditure ; but, 
 when his brother, by having children, destroyed 
 his hopes of wealth from that quarter, he had not 
 strength of mind enough to break the expensive 
 habits which he had acquired. To the deserving 
 child, however, was destined the wealth withheld 
 from the undeserving parent. Constantia's uncle's 
 wife and children died before he did, and she be- 
 came sole heiress to his Urge fortune. This event 
 communicated a sensation of gladness to the whole 
 town in which the amiable orphan resided. 
 
 Constantia had borne her faculties so meekly, 
 had been so actively benevolent, and was thence 
 so generally beloved, that she was now daily over- 
 powered with thankful and pleasing emotion, at 
 beholding countenances which, at sight of her, 
 were lighted up with affectionate sympathy and joy. 
 
 Overton was one of the first persons whom she 
 desired to see, on this accession of fortune. Her 
 truly christian spirit had long made her wish to 
 hold out to him her hand, in token of forgiveness; 
 but she wished to do so more especially now, be- 
 cause he could not suspect her of being influenued 
 by any mercenary views. Overton, however, 
 meant to call on her, whether she invited him or 
 not ; as, such was his love and respect for wealth, 
 that, though the poor Constantia was full of faults 
 in his eye, the rich Constantia was very likely to 
 appear to him, in time, impeccable. He was at 
 this period Mayor of the place in which he lived ; 
 11 
 
122 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 and having been knighted for carrying up an ad- 
 dress, he became desirous of using the privilege, 
 which according to Shakspeare's Falconbridge, 
 knighthood gives a man, o{ making " any Joan a 
 lady." Nor was it long before he entertained se- 
 rious thoughts of marrying ; and why not ? as he 
 was only fifty; was very young-looking for his 
 age; was excessively handsome still; and had 
 now a title, in addition to a good fortune. The 
 only difficulty was to make a choice ; for he was 
 very sure that h% must be the choice of any one 
 to whom he offered himself. 
 
 But where could he find in one woman all the 
 qualities which he required in a wife ! She must 
 nave youth, and beauty, or he could not love her; 
 good principles, or he could not trust her ; and, 
 though he was not religious himself, he had a cer- 
 tain consciousness that the best safeguard for a 
 woman's principles was to be found in piety ; there' 
 fore, he resolved that his wife should be a religious 
 woman. Temper, patience, and forbearance, 
 were also requisites in the woman he married ; 
 and, as the last and best recommendation, she 
 must have a large fortune. Reasonable man ! 
 youth, beauty, temper, virtue, piety, and riches ! 
 but what woman of his acquaintance possessed 
 all these ? No one, he believed, but that forgiving 
 being whom he had represented as an atheist ; — 
 44 that vixen Con l 1 ' and while this conviction came 
 over his mind, a blush of shame passed over even 
 his brassy brow. — However, it was soon succeed- 
 ed by one of pleasure, wbem he thought that, as 
 Constantia was evidently uneasy till she had made 
 it up with him, as the phrase is, it was not unlikely 
 that she had a secret liking to him ; and as to her 
 scribbling verses, and pretending to be literary, 
 
THE ORPHAN, 133 
 
 he would take care that she should not write when 
 she was his wife ; and he really thought he had 
 better propose to her at once, especially as it was 
 a duty in him to make her a lady himself, since he 
 had prevented another man's doing so. There 
 was perhaps another inducement to marry Con- 
 stantia. It would give him an opportuuity of tor- 
 menting her now and then, and making her smart 
 for former impertinences. Perhaps, this motive 
 was nearly as strong as the rest. Be that as it 
 may, Overton had, at length, the presumption to 
 make proposals of marriage to the young and love- 
 ly heiress, who, though ignorant of his base con- 
 duct to her, and the lie of first-rate malignity 
 with which he had injured her fame, and blighted 
 her prospects, had still a dislike to his manners 
 and character, which it was impossible for any 
 thing to overcome. He was therefore refused, — 
 and in a manner so decided, and, spite of herself, 
 so haughty, th;U Overton's heart renewed all its 
 malignity towards her ; and his manner became 
 so rude and offensive, that she was constrained to 
 refuse him admittance, and go on a visit to a 
 friend at some distance, intending not to return 
 till the house which she had purchased in a vil- 
 lage near to was ready for her. But she 
 
 had not been absent many months when she re- 
 ceived a letter one evening, to inform her that her 
 
 dearest friend at was supposed to be in the 
 
 greatest danger, and she was requested to set off 
 directly. To disobey this summons was impossi- 
 ble ; and, as the mail passed the house where she 
 was, and she was certain of getting on faster that 
 way than any other, she resolved, accompanied 
 by her servant, to go by the mail, if possible; and, 
 happily, there were two places vacant. It was 
 
124 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 
 
 night when Constantia and her maid entered the 
 coach, in which two gentlemen were already seat- 
 ed ; and, to the consternation of Constantia, she 
 soon saw, as they passed near a lamp, that her 
 vis-a-vis was Overton ! He recognised her at the 
 same moment ; and instantly began in the French 
 language, to express his joy at meeting her and 
 to profess the faithfulness of his fervent affection. 
 In vain did she try to force conversation with the 
 other passenger, who seemed willing to talk, and 
 who, though evidently not a gentleman, was much 
 preferable, in her opinion, to the new Sir Richard. 
 He would not allow her to attend to any conver- 
 sation but his own ; and, as it was with difficulty 
 that she could keep her hand from his rude grasp, 
 she tried to change seats with her maid ; but 
 Overton forcibly will; held her ; and she thought 
 it was better to endure the evil patiently, than vi- 
 olently resist it. When the mail stopped, that the 
 passengers might sup, Constantia hoped Overton 
 would, at least, leave her for a time ; but, though 
 the other passenger got out, he kept his seat, and 
 was so persevering, and was so much more dis- 
 agreeable when the restraint imposed on him by 
 the presence of others was removed, that she was 
 glad when the coach was again full, and the mail 
 drove off. 
 
 Overton, however, became so increasingly of- 
 fensive to her, that, at length, she assured him, in 
 language the most solemn and decided, that no- 
 thing should ever induce her to be his wife ; and 
 that, were she pennyless, service would be more 
 desirable to her than union with him. 
 
 This roused his anger even to frenzy : and, still 
 speaking French, a language which he was sure 
 the illiterate man in the corner could not under- 
 
THE ORPHAN. 126 
 
 stand, he told her that she refused him only be- 
 cause she loved Sir Edward Vandeleur; " but," 
 said he, " you have no chance of obtaining him. 
 I have taken care to prevent that. 1 gave him 
 such a character of you as frightened him away 
 
 from you, and " " Base-minded man !" 
 
 cried Constantia ; " what did you, what could 
 you say against my character ?" — u< Oh ! 1 said 
 nothing against your morals. 1 only told him you 
 were an atheist, and a vixen, that is all : — and, 
 you know, you are the latter, though not the form- 
 er ; but are more like a methodist than an 
 atheist !" — " And you told him these horrible 
 falsehoods ! And if you had not, would he have 
 
 did he then ? but I know not 
 
 what I say ; and I am miserable ! Cruel, wicked 
 man ! how could you thus dare to injure and mis- 
 represent an unprotected orphan ! and the child 
 of your friend ! and to calumniate me to him too ! 
 to Sir Edward Vandeleur ! Oh it was cruel in- 
 deed I" — " What ! then you wished to please him, 
 did you ? answer me !" he vociferated, seizing 
 both her hands in his ; M Are you attached to Sir 
 Edward Vandeleur ?" But, before Constantia 
 could answer no, and, while faintly screaming with 
 apprehension and pain, she vainly tried to free 
 herself from Overton's nervous grasp, a powerful 
 hand rescued her from the ruffian gripe. Then, 
 while the dawn shone brightly upon her face, 
 Constantia and Overton at the same moment re- 
 cognised, in her rescuer, Sir Edward Vandeleur 
 himself ! 
 
 He was just returned from France ; and was on 
 
 his w^y to the neighbourhood of being now, 
 
 as he believed, able to see Constantia with entire 
 indifference, when as one of his horses became ill, 
 11* 
 
126 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYIKG. 
 
 he resolved to take that place in the mail which 
 the other passenger had quitted for the box ;>and 
 had thus the pleasure of hearing all suspicions, all 
 imputations, against the character of Constantia 
 cleared off, and removed, at once, and for ever ! 
 Constantia r s joy was little inferior to his own ; 
 but it was soon lost in terror at the probable re- 
 sult of the angry emotions of Sir Ed ward and 
 Overton. Her fear, however, vanished, when the 
 former assured the latter, that the man who could 
 injure an innocent woman, by a lie of first-rate 
 malignity, was beneath even the resentment of an 
 honourable man. 
 
 I shall only add, that Overton left the mail at 
 the next stage, baffled, disgraced, and miserable ; 
 that Constantia found her friend recovering ; and 
 that the next time she travelled along that road, it 
 was as the bride of Sir Edward Vandeleur. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LIES OF SECOND-RATE MALIGNITY. 
 
 I have observed, in the foregoing chapter, that 
 lies of first-rate malignity are not frequent, be- 
 cause the arm of the law defends reputations ; — 
 but, against lies of second rate malignity, the law 
 holds out no protection ; nor is there a tribunal of 
 sufficient power either to deter any one from utter- 
 ing them, or to punish the utterer. The lies in 
 question spring from the spirit of detraction ; a 
 spirit more widely diffused in society than any 
 •ther ; and it gives birth to satire, ridicule, mim- 
 
LIES OF SECOND-RATE MALIGNITY. 127 
 
 icry, quizzing, and lies of second-rate malignity, 
 as certainly as a wet season brings snails. 
 
 I shall now explain what I consider as lies of 
 second-rate malignity ; — namely, tempting per- 
 sons, by dint of flattery, to do what they are in- 
 capable of doing well, from the mean, malicious 
 wish of leading them to expose themselves, in 
 order that their tempter may enjoy a hearty laugh 
 at their expense. Persuading a man to drink 
 more than his bead can bear, by assurances that the 
 wine is not strong, and that he has not drunk as 
 much as he thinks he has, in order to make him 
 intoxicated, and that his persuaders may enjoy 
 the cruel delight of witnessing his drunken silli- 
 ness, his vain-glorious boastings, and those physi- 
 cal contortions, or mental weaknesses, which in- 
 toxication is always sure to produce. Compli- 
 menting either man or woman on qualities which 
 they do not possess, in hopes of imposing on their 
 credulitj ; praising a lady's work, or dress, to her 
 face ; and then, as soon as she is no longer pre- 
 sent, not only abusing both her work and her 
 dress, but laughing at her weakness, in believing 
 the praise sincere. Lavishing encomiums on a 
 man's abilities and learning in his presence ; and 
 then, as soon as he is out of hearing, expressing 
 contempt for his credulous belief in the sinceri- 
 ty of the praises bestowed ; and wonder that he 
 should be so blind and conceited as not to know 
 that he was in learning only a smatterer, and in 
 understanding just not a fool. All these are lies 
 of second-rate malignity, which cannot be exceeded 
 in base and petty treachery. 
 
 The following story will, I trust, explain fully 
 what, in the common intercourse of society, I con- 
 sider as lies of second-rate malignity. 
 
128 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 THE OLD GENTLEMAN 
 
 AND 
 
 THE YOUNG ONE. 
 
 Nothing shows the force of habit more than the 
 tenaciousness with which those adhere to econom- 
 ical usages who, by their own industry and unex- 
 pected good fortune, are become rich in the de- 
 cline of life. 
 
 A gentleman, whom I shall call Dr. Albany, 
 had, early in life, taken his degree at Cambridge, 
 as a doctor of physick, and had settled in London 
 as a phj'sician ; but had worn away the best part 
 of his existence in vain expectation of practice, 
 when an old bachelor, a college friend, whom he 
 had greatly served, died, and left him the whole 
 of his large fortune. 
 
 Dr. Albany had indeed deserved this bequest ; 
 for he had rendered his friend the greatest of all 
 services. He had rescued him, by his friendly 
 advice and enlightened arguments, from scepti- 
 cism, apparently the most hopeless ; and, both by 
 precept and example, had allured him along the 
 way that leads to salvation. 
 
 But, as wealth came to Dr. Albany too late in 
 life for him to think of marrying, and as he had 
 no relations who needed all his fortune, he resolv- 
 ed to leave the greatest part of it to those friends 
 who wanted it the most. 
 
 Hitherto, he had scarcely ever left London ; as 
 he had thought it right to wait at home to receive 
 business, even though business never came ; but 
 now he was resolved to renew the neglected ac- 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 129 
 
 ^uaintanees of his youth ; and, knowing that some 
 of his early friends lived near Cheltenham, Leam- 
 ington, and Malvern, he resolved to visit those wa- 
 tering-places, in hopes of meeting there some of 
 these well-remembered faces. 
 
 Most men, under his circumstances, would have 
 ordered a handsome carriage, and entered Chel- 
 tenham in style ; but, as 1 before observed, habits 
 of economy adhere so closely to persons thus sit- 
 uated, that Dr. Albany could not prevail on him- 
 self to travel in a manner more in apparent accor- 
 dance with the acquisition of such a fortune. He 
 therefore went by a cheap day-coach ; nor did 
 he take a servant with him. But, though still de- 
 nying indulgences to himself, the first wish of his 
 heart was to be generous to others ; and, surely, 
 that economy which is unaccompanied by avarice 
 may, even in the midst of wealth, be denominated 
 a virtue. 
 
 While dinner was serving up, when they stopped 
 on the road, Albany walked up a hill near the inn, 
 and was joined there by a passenger from another 
 coach. During their walk he observed a very 
 pretty house on a rising ground in the distance, 
 and asked his companion, who lived there. The 
 latter replied that it was the residence of a cler- 
 gyman, of the name of Musgrave. " Musgrave !" 
 he eagerly replied, "what Musgrave? Is his 
 name Augustus ?" — " Yes ;" — <" Is he married ?" — 
 « Yes ;"— " Has he a family ?"— " Oh yes ; a 
 large one ; six daughters, and one son ; and he 
 has found it a hard task to bring them up, as he 
 wished to make them accomplished. The son is 
 now going to college." — " Are they an amiable 
 family ?" — " Very ; the girls sing and play well, 
 and draw well." — " And what is the son to be?" 
 
130 ILLtTSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 — u A clergyman." — " Has he any chance of a 
 living ?" — " Not that I know of ; but he most be 
 something ; and a legacy which the father has 
 just had, of a few hundred pounds, will enable 
 him to pay college expenses, till his son gets or- 
 dained, and can take curacies." — " Is Musgrave," 
 said Albany after a pause, " a likely man to give 
 a cordial welcome to an old friend, whom he has 
 not seen for many years ?" — M Oh yes ; he is very 
 hospitable ; and there he is, now going into his 
 own gate." — " Then I will not go on," said Alba- 
 ny, hastening to the stables. " There, coach- 
 man," cried he, " take your money ; and give 
 me my little portmanteau." 
 
 Augustus Musgrave had been a favourite college 
 friend of Dr. Albany and he had many associa- 
 tions with his name and image, which were dear 
 to his heart. 
 
 The objects of them were gone for ever ; but, 
 thus recalled, they came over his mind like strains 
 of long-forgotten musick, which he had loved and 
 carolled in youth ; throwing so strong a feeling of 
 tenderness over the recollection of Musgrave, that 
 he felt an irresistible desire to see him again, and 
 greet his wife and children in the language of 
 glowing good-will. 
 
 But, when he was introduced into his friend's 
 presence, he had the mortification of finding that 
 he was not recognized ; and was obliged to tell his ' 
 name. 
 
 The name, however, seemed to electrify Mus- 
 grave with affectionate gladness. He shook his 
 old friend heartily by the hand, presented him to 
 his wife and daughters, and for some minutes mov- 
 ed and spoke with the brightness and alacrity of 
 early youth. 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 131 
 
 But the animation was momentary. The cares 
 of a family, and the difficulty of keeping up the 
 appearance of a gentleman with an income not 
 sufficient tor his means, had preyed on Musgrave's 
 spirits ; especially as he knew himself to be in- 
 volved in debt. He had also other cares. The 
 weakness of his nature, which he dignified by the 
 name of tenderness of heart, had made him allow 
 his wife and children to tyrannize over him ; and 
 his son, who was an universal quizzer, did not per- 
 mit even his father to escape from his impertinent 
 ridicule. But then Musgrave was assured, by his 
 own family, that his son Marmaduke was a wit ; 
 and that, when he was once in orders, his talents 
 would introduce him into the first circles, and lead 
 to ultimate promotion in his profession. 
 
 I have before said that Dr. Albany did not tra- 
 vel like a gentleman ; nor were his every-day 
 clothes at all indicative of a well-filled purse. 
 Therefore, though he was a physician, and a man 
 of pleasing manners, Musgrave's fine lady wife, 
 and her tonnish daughters, could have readily ex- 
 cused him, if he had not persuaded their unex- 
 pected guest to stay a week with them ; and, with 
 a frowning brow, they saw the portmanteau, which 
 the strange person had brought himself, carried into 
 the best chamber. 
 
 But oh ! the astonishment and the comical gri- 
 mac'S with which Marmaduke Musgrave on his 
 coming in from fishing, beheld the new guest ! 
 Welcome smiled on one side of his face, but scorn 
 sneered on the other; and when Albany retired to 
 dress, he declared that the only thing which con- 
 soled him for finding such a person forced on 
 them, was the consciousness that he could extract 
 
132 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 great fun out of the old quiz, and serve him up for 
 the entertainment of himself and friends. 
 
 To this amiable exhibition the mother and 
 daughters looked forward with great satisfaction ; 
 while his father, having vainly talked of the dues 
 of hospitality, gave in, knowing that it was in vain 
 to contend ; comforting himself with the hope that, 
 while Marmaduke was quizzing his guest he must 
 necessarily leave him alone. 
 
 In the meanwhile, how different were the cogi- 
 tations and the plans of the benevolent Albany ! 
 He had a long tete-a-tete walk with Musgrave, 
 which had convinced him that his old friend was 
 not happy, owing, he suspected, to his narrow in- 
 come and expensive family. 
 
 Then his son was going to college ; a dangerous 
 and ruinous place ; and, while the good old man 
 was dressing for dinner, he had laid plans of ac- 
 tion which made him feel more deeply thankful 
 than ever for the wealth so unexpectedly bestow- 
 ed on him. Of this wealth he had as yet said no- 
 thing to Musgrave. He was not purse-proud ; and 
 when he heard his friend complain of his poverty, 
 he shrunk from saying how rich he himself was. 
 He had therefore simply said that he was enabled 
 to retire from business ; and when Musgrave saw 
 his friend's independent, economical habits, as 
 evinced by his mode of travelling, he concluded 
 that he had only gained a small independence, suf- 
 ficient for his slender wants. » 
 
 To those, to whom amusement is evcy thing, 
 and who can enjoy fun even when it is procured 
 by the sacrifice of every benevolent feelirisr, that 
 evening at the rectory, when the family parly was 
 increased by the arrival of some of the neighbours, 
 would have been an exquisite treat ; for Manna- 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 133 
 
 duke played off the unsuspicious old man to admi- 
 ration ; mimicked him even to his face, unperceiv- 
 ed by him ; and having found out that Albany 
 had not only a passion for musick, but unfortu- 
 nately fancied he could sing himself, he urged his 
 guest, by his flatteries, lies of second-rate malig- 
 nity, to sing sons: after song, in order to make him 
 expose himself for the entertainment of the com- 
 pany, and give him an opportunity of perfecting 
 his mimickry. 
 
 Blind, infatuated, contemptible boy ! short-sight- 
 ed trifleron the path of the world ! Marmaduke 
 Musgrave saw not that the very persons who 
 seemed to idolize his pernicious t dent must, unless 
 they were lost to all sense of moral feeling, de- 
 spise and distrust the youth who could play on the 
 weakness of an unoffending, artless old man, and 
 violate the rights of hospitality to his father's 
 friend. 
 
 But Marmaduke had no heart, and but little 
 mind ; for mimickry is the lowest of the talents ; 
 and to be even a successful quizzer requires no 
 talent at all. But his father had once a heart, 
 though cares and pecuniary embarrassments had 
 choaked it up. and substituted selfishness of sensi- 
 bility : the sight of his early companion had call- 
 ed some of the latter quality into action ; and he 
 seriously expostulated with his son on his daring 
 to turn so respectable a man into ridicule. But 
 Marmaduke answered him by insolent disregard ; 
 and when he also said, if your friend be so silly as 
 to sing, that is, do what he cannot do, am 1 not jus- 
 tified in laughing at him ? Musgrave assented to 
 the proposition. He might, however,have replied, 
 * but you are not justified in lying, in order to 
 urge him on, nor in saying, to him, 'you *can 
 12 
 
134 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 sing,' when you know he cannot. If he be 7otak, 
 it is not necessary that you should be treacherous" 
 But Musgrave always came off halting from a com- 
 bat with his undutiful son ; he therefore sighed, 
 ceased, and turned away. On one point Marma- 
 duke was right : — when vanity prompts us to do 
 what we cannot do well, while conceit leads us to 
 fancy that our efforts are successful, we are per- 
 haps fit objects for ridicule. A consideration 
 which holds up to us this important lesson ; namely, 
 that our ozcn weakness alone can, for any length of 
 time, make us victims of the satire and malignity 
 of others. When Albany's visit to Musgrave was 
 drawing near to its conclusion, he was very de- 
 sirous of being asked to prolong it, as he had be- 
 come attached to his friend's children, from living 
 with them, and witnessing their various accom- 
 plishments, and was completely the dupe of Mar- 
 maduke's treacherous compliments. He was 
 therefore glad when he, as well as the iMusgraves, 
 was invited to dine at a house in the neighbour- 
 hood, on the very day intended for his departure. 
 This circumstance led them all, with one accord to 
 say that he must remain at least a day longer, 
 while Marmaduke exclaimed, " Go you shall not! 
 Our friends would be so disappointed, if they and 
 their company did not hear you sing and act that 
 sweet song about Chloe ! and all the pleasure of 
 the evening would be destroyed to me, dear sir, if 
 you were not there !" 
 
 This was more than enough to make Albany put 
 off his departure ; and he accompanied the iVlus- 
 graves to the dinner party. They dined at an 
 early hour ; so early, that it was yet daylight, 
 when, tea heing over, the intended amusements of 
 the afternoon began, of which the most prominent 
 was to be the vocal powers of the mistaken Alba- 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 135 
 
 ny, who, without much pressing, after sundry flat- 
 teries from Marmaduke, cleared his throat, and be- 
 gan to sing and act the song of " Chloe." At first, 
 he was hoarse, and stopped to apologize for want 
 of voice ; " Nonsense !" cried Marmaduke, " you 
 were never in better voice in your life ! Pray go 
 on ; you are only nervous !" while the side of his 
 face not next to Albany was distorted with laugh- 
 ter and ridicule, Albany, believing him, continued 
 his song ; and Marmaduke, sitting a little behind 
 him, took off the distorted expression of his coun- 
 tenance and mimicked his odd action, But, at 
 this moment, the broadest splendour of the setting 
 sun threw its beams into a large pier glass oppo- 
 site, with such brightness, that Albany's eyes were 
 suddenly attracted to it, and thence to his treach- 
 erous neighbour, whom he detected in the act of 
 mimicking him in mouth, attitude, and expression 
 — while behind him he saw some of the company 
 laughing with a degree of violence which was all 
 but audible ! 
 
 Albany paused, in speechless consternation — 
 and when Marmaduke asked why " he did not 
 go on, as every one was delighted," the suscepti- 
 ble old man hid his face in his hands, shocked, 
 mortified, and miserable, but taught and enlighten- 
 ed. Marmaduke however, nothing doubting, pre- 
 sumed to clap him on the back, again urging him 
 to proceed ; but the indignant Albany, turning 
 suddenly round, and throwing off his arm with 
 angry vehemence, exclaimed, in the touching tone 
 of wounded feeling, "Oh! thou serpent, that I 
 would have cherished in my bosom, was it for thee 
 to sting me thus? But I was an old fool : and 
 the lesson, though a painful one, will, I trust be 
 salutary.'" — M What is all this ? what do you mean?" 
 faltered out Marmaduke ; but the rest of the par- 
 
136 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 ty had not courage enough to speak ; and many 
 of them rejoiced in the detection of baseness which, 
 though it amused their depraved taste, was very 
 offensive to their moral sense. " What does it 
 mean ?" cried Albany, " 1 appeal to all present, 
 whether they do not understand my meaning, and 
 whether my resentment be not just !" — u I hope, 
 my dear friend, that you acquit me," said the dis- 
 tressed father. — tk Ofall," he replied, tk except of 
 the fault of not having taught your son better mo- 
 rals and manners- Young man !" he continued, 
 " the next time you exhibit any one as your butt, 
 take care that you do not sit opposite a pier glass. 
 And now, sir," addressing himself to the master of 
 the house. " let me request to have a postchaise 
 sent for to the nearest town directly." — l * Surely, 
 you will not leave us, and in anger," cried all the 
 Musgraves, Marmaduke excepted. k ' l hope I do 
 not go in anger, but I cannot stay,'' cried he, M be- 
 cause I have lost my confidence in you." The 
 gentleman of the house, who thought Albany right 
 in going, and wished to make him all the amends 
 he could, for having allowed Marmaduke to turn 
 him into ridicule, interrupted him, to say that his 
 own carriage waited his orders, and would con- 
 vey him whithersoever he wished. u I thank you, 
 sir, and accept your offer," he replied, w since the 
 sooner I quit this company, in which I have so la- 
 mentably exposed myself, the better it will be for 
 you, and for us all." Having said this, he took 
 the agitated Musgrave by the hand, bowed to his 
 wife and daughters, who hid their confusion under 
 distant and haughty airs ; then, stepping opposite 
 to Marmaduke, who felt it difficult to meet ihe ex- 
 pression of that eye, on which just anger and a 
 seDse of injury had bestowed a power hitherto un 
 
 J U *T 
 it, h 
 
 known to it, he addressed him thus : " Before we 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 137 
 
 part, I must tell you, young man, that I intended, 
 urged, I humbly trust, by virtuous considerations^ 
 to expend on your maintenance at college a part 
 of that large income which J cannot spend on my- 
 self. I had also given orders to my agent to pur- 
 chase for me the advowson of a living now on 
 sale, intending to give it to you ; here is the letter, 
 to prove that I speak the truth ; but 1 need not 
 tell you that 1 cannot make the fortune which was 
 left me by a pious friend assist a youth to take on 
 himself the sacred profession of a christian minis- 
 ter, who can utter falsehoods, in order to betray a 
 fellow-creature into folly, utterly regardless of that 
 christian precept, ;i Do unto others as ye would 
 that others should do unto you." He then took 
 leave of the rest of the company, and drove off, 
 leaving the Musgraves chagrined and ashamed, 
 and bitterly mortified at the loss of the intended 
 patronage to Marmaduke, especially when a gen- 
 tleman present exclaimed, u No doubt, this is the 
 Dr. Albany, to whom Clewes of Trinity left his 
 large fortune !" 
 
 Albany, taught by his misadventure in this 
 worldly and treacherous family, went, soon after, 
 to the abode of another of hi* college friends, re- 
 siding near Cheltenham. He expected to find 
 this gentleman and family in unclouded prosperi- 
 ty ; but they were labouring under unexpected 
 adversity, brought on them by the villany of oth- 
 ers : he found them however bowed in lowly re- 
 signation before the inscrutable decree. On the 
 pious son of these reduced, but contented, parents 
 he, in due time, bestowed the living intended for 
 the treacherous Marmaduke. Under their roof 
 he experienced gratitude which he felt to be sin- 
 cere, and affection in which he dared to confide ; 
 12* 
 
138 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LY1N&, 
 
 and, ultimately, he took up his abode with them, 
 in a residence suited to their early prospects and 
 his riches; for even the artless and unsuspecting 
 can, without danger, associate and sojourn with 
 those whose thoughts and actions are under the 
 guidance of religious principle, and who live inthis 
 world as if they every hour expected to be sum- 
 moned away to the judgment of a world to come. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 In a former chapter I commented on those lies 
 which are, at best, of a mixed nature, and are 
 made up of worldly motives, of which fear and 
 selfishness compose the principal part, although 
 the utterer of them considers them as lies of be- 
 nevolence. 
 
 Lies of real benevolence are, like most other 
 falsehoods, various in their species and degrees ; 
 but, as they are, however in fact objectionable, the 
 most amiable and respectable of all lies, and seem 
 so like virtue that they may easily be taken for 
 her children ; and as the illustiations of them, 
 which 1 have been enabled to give, are so much 
 more connected with our tenderest and most 
 solemn feelings, than those afforded by other lies; 
 I thought it right that, like the principal figures in 
 a procession, they should bring up the rear. 
 
 The lies which relations and friends generally 
 think it their duty to tell an unconsciously dying 
 person, are prompted by real benevolence, as are 
 those which medical men deem themselves justified 
 in uttering to a dying patient ; though, if the per- 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 139 
 
 son dying, or the surrounding friends, be strictly 
 religious characters, they must be, on principle, 
 desirous that the whole truth should be told.* 
 
 * Richard Pearson, the distinguished author of the life of 
 William Hey of Leeds, says, in that interesting book, p. 261, 
 " Mr. Hey's sacred respect for truth, and his regard for the wel- 
 fare of his fellow-creatures, never permitted him intentionally 
 to deceive his patients by flattering representations of their state 
 of health, by assurances of the existence of no danger, when 
 he conceived their situation to be hopeless, or even greatly haz- 
 ardous " The duty of a medical attendant," continues he, 
 " in such delicate situations, has been a subject of considerable 
 embarrassment to men of integrity and conscience, who view 
 the uttering of a falsehood as a crime, and the practice of de- 
 ceit as repugnant to the spirit of Christianity. That a sacrifice 
 of truth may sometimes contribute to the comfort of a patient, 
 and be medically beneficial, is not denied ; but that a wilful 
 and deliberate falsehood can, in any case, be justifiable before 
 God, is a maxim not to be lightly admitted. The question may 
 be stated thus : Is it justifiable for a man deliberately to violate 
 a moral precept of the law of God, from a motive of prudence 
 and humanity ? If this be affirmed, it must be admitted that 
 it would be no less justifiable to infringe the laws of his country 
 from similar motives ; and, cousequently, it would be an act of 
 injustice to punish him for such a transgression. But, will it be 
 contended, that the divine, or even the human legislator, must 
 be subjected to the control of this sort of casuistry ? If false- 
 hood, under these circumstances, be no crime, then, as uo det- 
 riment can result from uttering it, very little merit can be at- 
 tached to so light a sacrifice ; whereas, if it were presumed 
 that some guilt were incurred, and that the physician voluntari- 
 ly exposed himself to the danger of future suffering, for the sake 
 of procuring temporary benefit to his patient, he would have a 
 high claim upon the gratitude of those who derived the advan- 
 tage. But, is it quite clear that pure benevolence commonly 
 suggests the deviation from truth, and that neither the low con- 
 sideration of conciliating favour, nor the view of escaping cen- 
 sure, and promoting his own interest, have any share in prompt- 
 ing him to adopt the measure he defends ? To assist in this 
 enquiry, let a man ask himself whether he carries this caution 
 and shows this kindness, indiscriminately on all occasions ; be- 
 ing as fearful of giving pain, by exciting apprehension in the 
 mind of the poor, as of the rich ; of the meanest, as of the most 
 elevated rank. Suppose it can be shown that these humane 
 falsehoods are distributed promiscuously, it may be inquired 
 further, whether, if such a proceeding were a manifest breach of 
 a municipal law, exposing the delinquent to suffer a very incon- 
 
140 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 Methinks I hear some of my readers exclaim, 
 can any one suppose it a duty to run the risk of 
 killing friends or relations, by telling the whole 
 truth ; that is, informing them that they are dying ! 
 But, if the patient be not really dying, or in dan- 
 ger, no risk is incurred ; and if they be near death 
 which is it of most importance to consider, — their 
 momentary quiet here, or their interests hereafter ? 
 Besides, many of those persons who would think 
 thai, for spiritual reasons merely, a disclosure of 
 the truth was improper, and who declare that, on 
 such occasions, falsehood is virtue, and concealment, 
 humanity, would hold a different language, and 
 act differently, were the unconsciously-dying per- 
 son one who was known not to have made a will, 
 and who had considerable property to dispose of. 
 Then, consideration for their own temporal inter- 
 ests, or for those of others, would probably make 
 them advise or adopt a contrary proceeding. Yet, 
 
 venient and serious punishment, a medical adviser would feel 
 himself obliged to expose his person or his estate to penal con- 
 sequences, whenever the circumstances of his patient should 
 seem to require the intervention of a falsehood. It may be pre- 
 sumed without any breach of charity, that a demur would fre- 
 quently, perhaps generally, be interposed on the occasion of 
 such a requisition. But, surely, the laws of the Moral Governor 
 of the universe are not to be esteemed less sacred, and a trans- 
 gression of them less important in its consequences, than the 
 violation of a civil statute ; nor ought the fear of God to be less 
 powerful in deterring men from the committing of a crime, than 
 the fear of a magistrate. Those who contend for the necessity 
 of violating truth, that they may benefit their patients, place 
 themselves between two conflicting rules of morality ; their ob- 
 ligation to obey the command of God, and their presumed duty 
 to their neighbour : or in other words, they are supposed to be 
 brought by the Divine Providence into this distressing alterna- 
 tive of necessarily sinning against God or their fellow-crea- 
 tures. When a moral and a positive duty stand opposed to each 
 other, the Holy Scriptures have determined that obedience to 
 the former is to be preserved, before compliance with the 
 latter." 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 141 
 
 who that seriously reflects can, for a moment, put 
 worldly interests in any comparison with those of 
 a spiritual nature ? But perhaps, an undue pre- 
 ference of worldly over spiritual interests might 
 not be the leading motive to tell truth in the one 
 case, and withhold it in the other. The persons 
 in question would probably be influenced by the 
 conviction satisfactory to them, but awful and er- 
 roneous in my apprehension, that a death-bed re- 
 pentance, and death-bed supplication, must be 
 wholly unavailing for the soul of the departing; 
 that, as the sufferer's work for himself is wholly 
 done, and his fate fixed for time, and for eternity, 
 it were needless cruelty to let him know his end 
 was approaching ; but that, as his work for others 
 is not done, if he has not made a testamentary 
 disposal of his property, it is a duty to urge him 
 to make a will, even at all risk, to himself. 
 
 My own opinion, which 1 give with great humil- 
 ity, is, that the truth is never to be violated or 
 withheld, in order to deceive ; but 1 know myself 
 to be in such a painful minority on this subject, 
 that I almost doubt the correctness of my own 
 judgment. , 
 
 lam inclined to think that lies of Benevolence 
 are more frequently passive, than active, — are 
 more frequently instanced in withholding and con- 
 cealing the truth, than in direct spontaneous lying. 
 There is one instance of withholding and conceal- 
 ing the truth from motives of mistaken benevo- 
 lence, which is so common, and so pernicious, that 
 I feel it particularly necessary to hold up to severe 
 reprehension. It is withholding or speaking only 
 half the truth in giving the character of a servant. 
 
 Many persons, from reluctance to injure the in- 
 terests even of very unworthy servants, never give 
 the whole character unless it be required of them. 
 
142 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 and then, rather than tell a positive lie, they dis- 
 close the whole truth. But are they not lying, 
 that is, are they not meaning to deceive, when they 
 withhold the truth ? 
 
 When I speak to ladies and gentlemen respect- 
 ing the character of a servant, I of course con- 
 clude that 1 am speaking to honourable persons. 
 I therefore expect that they should give me a cor- 
 rect character of the domestick in question ; and 
 should I omit to ask whether he, or she, be honest, 
 or sober, I require that information on those points 
 should be given me unreservedly. They must 
 leave me to judge whether I will run the risk of 
 hiring a drunkard, a thief, or a servant otherwise 
 ill-disposed ; but they would be dishonourable if 
 they betrayed me into receiving into my family, to 
 the risk of my domestick peace, or my property, 
 those who are addicted to dishonest practices, or 
 otherwise of immoral habits. Besides, what an 
 erroneous and bounded benevolence this conduct 
 exhibits ! If it be benevolent towards the servant 
 whom 1 hire, it is malevolent towards me, and un- 
 just also. True christian kindness is just and im- 
 partial in its dealings, and never serves even a 
 friend at the expense of a third person. But, the 
 masters and mistresses, who thus do what they 
 call a benevolent action at the sacrifice of truth 
 and integrity, often, no doubt, find their sin visited 
 on their own heads; for they are not likely to 
 have trust-worthy servants. If servants know 
 that, owing to the sinful kindness and lax morality 
 of their employers, their faults will not receive 
 their proper punishment — that of disclosure, — 
 when they are turned away, one of the most pow- 
 erful motives to behave well is removed ; for those 
 are not likely to abstain from sin, who are sure 
 that they shall sin with impunity. Thus, then. 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 143 
 
 the master or mistress who, in mistaken kindness, 
 conceals the fault of a single servant, leads the rest 
 of the household into the temptation of sinning al- 
 so 5 and what is fancied to be benevolent to one, 
 becomes, in its consequences, injurious to many. 
 But, let us now see what is the probable effect on 
 the servants so skreened and befriended ? They 
 are instantly exposed, by this withholding of the 
 truth, to the peril of temptation, Nothing, per- 
 haps, can be more beneficial to culprits, of all de- 
 scriptions, than to be allowed to take the immediate 
 consequences of their offences, provided those con- 
 sequences stop short of death, that, most awful of 
 punishments, because it cuts the offender off from 
 all means of amendment ; therefore it were better 
 for the interests of servants, in every point of 
 view, to let them abide by the certainty of not 
 getting a new place, because they cannot have a 
 character from their last ; by this means the hu- 
 mane wish to punish, in order to save, would be 
 gratified, and, consequently, if the truth was al- 
 ways told on occasions of this nature, the feelings 
 of real benevolexce would, in the end, be grati- 
 fied. But, if good characters are given to servants, 
 or incomplete characters, that is, if their good 
 qualities are mentioned, and their bad withheld, 
 the consequences to the beings so mistakenly be- 
 friended may be of the most fatal nature ; for, if 
 ignorant of their besetting sin, the heads of the fa- 
 mily cannot guard against it, but, unconsciously, 
 may every hour put temptations in their way; 
 while, on the contrary, had they been made ac- 
 quainted with that besetting sin, they would have 
 taken care never to have risked its being called 
 into action. 
 
 But who, it may be asked, would hire servan,ts ? 
 knowing that they had any " besetting sins ?" 
 
144 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 I trust tint there are many who would do this 
 from the pious and benevolent motive of saving 
 them from further destruction, especially if peni- 
 tence had been satisfactorily manifested. 
 
 J will now endeavour to illustrate some of my 
 positions by the following story. 
 
 CHAPTER X. CONTINUED. 
 
 MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 
 
 Ann Belson had lived in a respectable mer- 
 chant's family, of the name of Melbourne, for 
 many years, and had acquitted herself to the satis- 
 faction of her employers in successive capacities 
 of nurse, house-maid, and lady's-maid. But it 
 was at length discovered that she had long been 
 addicted to petty pilfering ; and, being embolden- 
 ed by past impunity, she purloined some valuable 
 lace, and was detected : but her kind master and 
 mistress could not prevail on themselves to give 
 up the tender nurse of their children to the just 
 rigour of the law, and as their children themselves 
 could not bear to have " poor Ann sent to gaol," 
 they resolved to punish her in no other manner, 
 than by turning her away luillnout a character, as 
 the common phrase is. But without a character 
 she could not procure another service, and might 
 be thus consigned to misery and ruin. This idea 
 was insupportable ! However she might deserve 
 punishment they shrunk from inflicting it ! and 
 they resolved to keep Ann Belson themselves, as 
 they could not recommend her conscientiously to 
 any one else. This was a truly benevolent ac- 
 tion ; because, if she continued to sin, they alone 
 
MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 145 
 
 were exposed to suffer from her fault. But they 
 virtuously resolved to put no further temptation in 
 her way, and to guard her against herself, by un- 
 remitting vigilance. 
 
 During the four succeeding years, Ann Belson^s 
 honesty was so entirely without a stain, that her 
 benevolent friends were convinced that her peni- 
 tence was sincere, and congratulated themselves 
 that they had treated her with such lenity. 
 
 At this period the pressure of the times, and 
 losses in trade, produced a change in the circum- 
 stances of the Melbournes ; and retrenchment be- 
 came necessary. They therefore, felt it right to 
 discharge some of their servants, and particularly 
 the lady's maid. 
 
 The grateful Ann would not hear of this dismis- 
 sal. She insisted on remaining on any terms, 
 and in any situation ; nay, she declared her wil- 
 lingness to live with her indulgent friends for no- 
 thing ; but, as they were too generous to accept 
 her services at so great a disadvantage to herself, 
 especially as she had poor relations to maintain, 
 they resolved to procure her a situation ; and hav- 
 ing heard of a very advantageous one, for which 
 she was admirably calculated, they insisted on 
 her trying to procure it. 
 
 " But what shall we do, my dear," said the wife 
 to her husband, " concerning Ann's character ? 
 Must we tell the whole truth ? As she has been 
 uniformly honest during the last four years, should 
 we not be justified in concealing her fault ?" — 
 " Yes ; 1 think, at least, I hope so," replied he. 
 " Still, as she was dishonest more years than she 
 has now been honest, J really .... I .... it 
 is a very puzzling question, Charlotte ; and I am 
 but a weak casuist." A strong christian might not 
 ' 13 
 
146 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 have felt the point so difficult. But the Mel- 
 bournes had not studied serious things deeply ; 
 and the result of the consultation was, that Ann 
 Belson's past faults should be concealed, if possible. 
 
 And possible it was. Lady Baryton, the young 
 and noble bride who wished to hire her, was a 
 thoughtless, careless woman of fashion ; and as 
 she learned that Ann could make dresses, and 
 dress hair to admiration, she made few other in- 
 quiries ; and Ann was installed in her new place. 
 
 It was, alas ! the most improper of places, even 
 for a sincere penitent, like Ann Belson ; for it was 
 a place of the most dangerous trust. Jewels, laces, 
 ornaments of all kinds, were not only continually 
 exposed to her eyes, but placed under her especial 
 care. Not those alone. When her lady returned 
 home from a run of good luck at loo, a reticule, 
 containing bank-notes and sovereigns, was emptied 
 into an unlocked drawer; and Ann was told how 
 fortunate her lady had been. The first time that 
 this heedless woman acted thus, the poor Ann beg- 
 ged she would lock up her money. " Not I ; it is 
 too much trouble; and why should I ?" — "Be- 
 cause, my lady, it is not right to leave money 
 about; it may be stolen." — " Nonsense ! who 
 should steal it ? I know you must be honest ; 
 the Melbournes gave you such a high character." 
 Here Ann turned away in agony and confusion. 
 a But, my lady, the other servants," she resumed 
 in a faint voice. " Pray, what business have the 
 other servants at my drawers ?— However, do you 
 lock up the drawer, and keep the key." — " No ; 
 keep it yourself, my lady." — M What, 1 go about 
 with keys, like a house-keeper ? Take it I say !" 
 Then flinging the key down, she went singingout of 
 the room, little thinking to what peril, temporal 
 
MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 147 
 
 and spiritual, she was exposing a hapless fellow- 
 creature. 
 
 For some minutes after this ntw danger had 
 opened upon her, Ann sat leaning on her hands, 
 absorbed in painful meditation, and communing 
 seriouslj^ with her own heart ; nay, she even pray- 
 ed for a few moments to be delivered from evil ; 
 but the next minute she was ashamed of her own 
 self-distrust, and tried to resume her business with 
 her usual alacrity. 
 
 A few evenings afterwards, her lady brought 
 her reticule home, and gave it to Ann, filled as be- 
 fore. " I conclude, my lady, you know how 
 much money is in this purse." — " I did know ; but 
 1 have forgotten."—" Then let me tell it." — "No, 
 no ; nonsense !" she replied as she left the room ; 
 " lock it up, and then it will be safe, you know, as 
 I can trust you." Ann sighed deeply, but repeat- 
 ed within herself, " Yes, yes ; lam certainly now 
 to be trusted ;" but, as she said this, she saw -two 
 sovereigns on the carpet, which she had dropped 
 out of the reticule in emptying it, and had locked 
 the drawer without perceiving. Ann felt flutter- 
 ed when she discovered them ; but, taking them 
 up, resolutely felt for the key to add them to the 
 others ; — but the image of her recently widowed 
 sister, and her large destitute family, rose before 
 her, and she thought she would not return them, 
 but ask her lady to give them to the poor widow. 
 But then, her lady had already been very bounti- 
 ful to her, and she would not ask her ; however, 
 she would consider the matter, and it seemed as if 
 it was intended she should have the sovereigns ; 
 for they were separated from the rest, as if for her. 
 Alas ! it would have been safer for her to believe 
 that they were left there as a snare to try her 
 penitence, and her faith ; but she look a different 
 
148 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 view of it; she picked up the gold, then laid it 
 down ; and long ynd severe was the conflict in her 
 heart between good and evil. 
 
 We weep over the woes of romance ; we shed 
 well-motived tears over the sorrows of real life ^ 
 but, where is the fiction, however highly wrought, 
 and where the sorrows, however acute, that can 
 deserve our pity and our sympathy so strongly, as 
 the agony and conflicts of a penitent, yet tempted 
 soul ! Of a soul that has turned to virtue, but as 
 forcibly pulled back again to vice, — that knows its 
 own danger, without power to hurry from it ; till, 
 fascinated by the glittering bait, as the bird by the 
 rattlesnake, it yields to its fatal allurements, re- 
 gardless of consequences ! It was not without 
 many a heartach, many a struggle, that Ann Bel- 
 son gave way to the temptation, and put the gold 
 in her pocket ; and when she had done so, she 
 was told her sister was ill, and had sent to beg she 
 would come to her, late as it was. Accordingly, 
 when her lady was in bed, she obtained leave to 
 go to her, and while she relieved her sister's wants 
 with the two purloined sovereigns, the poor thing 
 almost fancied that she had done a good action S 
 Oh ! never is sin so dangerous as when it has al- 
 lured us in the shape of a deed of benevolence. 
 It had so allured the Mel bournes when they con- 
 cealed Ann's faults from Lady Baryton ; and its 
 bitter fruits were only too fast preparing. 
 
 " Ce n'estque le premier pas qui coute ;" says the 
 proverb, or " the first step is the only difficult 
 one." The next time her lady brought her win- 
 nings to her, Ann pursued a new plan : she insist- 
 ed on telling the money over ; but took care to 
 make it less than it was, by two or three pounds. 
 Not long after, she told Lady Baryton that she 
 must have a new lock put on the drawer that held 
 
MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 149 
 
 the money, as she had certainly dropped the key 
 somewhere ; and that, before she missed it, some 
 one, she was sure, had been trying at the lock ; 
 for it was evidently hampered the last tune she 
 unlocked it, " Well, then, get a new lock, 1 ' re- 
 plied her careless mistress ; " however, let the 
 drawer be forced now ; and then we had better tell 
 over the money." The drawer was forced ; they 
 told the money ; and even Lady Baryton was 
 conscious that some of it was missing. But, the 
 missing key* and hampered lock, exonerated Ann 
 from suspicion ; especially as Ann ov\ ned that she 
 had discovered the loss b< fore ; and declared that, 
 had not her lady insisted on telling over the mo- 
 ney, she had intended to replace it gradually ; be- 
 cause she felt herself responsible : while Lady 
 Baryton, satisfied and deceived, recommended her 
 to be on the watch for the thief; and soon forgot 
 the whole circumstance. 
 
 Lady Baryton thought herself, and perhaps she 
 was, a woman of feeling. She never read the 
 Old-Bailey convictions without mourning over the 
 prisoners condemned to death ; and never read 
 an account of an execution without shuddering. 
 Still, from want of reflection, and a high-principled 
 sense of what we owe to others, especially to those 
 who are the members of our own household, she 
 never for one moment troubled herself to remem- 
 ber that she was daily throwing temptations in the 
 way of a servant to commit the very faults which 
 led those convicts, whom she pitied, to the fate 
 which she deplored. Alas ! what have those per- 
 sons to answer for, in every situation of life, who 
 consider their dependants and servants merely as 
 such, without remembering that they are, like 
 themselves, heirs of the invisible world to come : 
 13* 
 
150 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 and that, if they take no pains to enlighten their 
 minds, in order to save their immortal souls, they 
 should, at least be careful never to endanger 
 them. 
 
 In a few weeks after the dialogue given above, 
 Lady Baryton bought some strings of pearls at an 
 India sale ; and having, on her way thence, shown 
 them to her jeweller, that he might count them, 
 and see if there were enough to make a pair of 
 bracelets, she brought them home, because she 
 could not yet afford proper clasps to fasten them : 
 and these were committed to Ann's care. But, as 
 Lord Baryton, the next week, gave his lady a pair 
 of diamond clasps, she sent the pearls to be made 
 up immediately. In the evening, however, the 
 jeweller came to tell her that there were two 
 strings less than when she brought them before. 
 " Then they must have been stolen!" she exclaim- 
 ed ; "and now I remember that Belson told me 
 she was sure there was a thief in the house." — 
 "Are you sure," said Lord Baryton, " that Bel- 
 son is not the thief herself?" — M Impossible! I 
 had such a character of her ! and I have trusted 
 her implicitly!" — "It is not right to tempt even 
 the most honest," replied Lord Baryt< n ; " but 
 we must have strict search made; and ali the ser- 
 vants must be examined." 
 
 They were so; but, as Ann Belson was not a 
 hardened offender, she soon betraj^ed herself by 
 her evident misery and terror; and was commit- 
 ted to prison on her own full confession ; but she 
 could not help exclaiming, in the agony of her 
 heart, " Oh, my lady ! remember that I conjured 
 you not to trust me !" and Lady Baryton's heart 
 reproached her, at least for some hours. There 
 were other hearts also that experienced self-re- 
 proach, and of a far longer duration ; for the Mel- 
 
/ 
 MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 151 
 
 bournes, when they heard wha,t had happened, 
 saw that the seeming benevolence of their con- 
 cealment had been a real injury, and had ruined 
 her whom they meant to save. They saw that 
 had they told Lady Baryton the truth, that lady- 
 would either not have hired her, in spite of her 
 skill, or she would have taken care not to put her 
 in situations calculated to tempt her cupidity. 
 But, neither Lady Baryton's regrets, nor self re- 
 proach, nor the greater agonies of the Melbmrnes. 
 could alter or avert the course of justice : and 
 Ann Beison was condemned to death. She was, 
 however, strongly recommended to mercy, both 
 by the jury and the noble prosecutor ; and her 
 ♦conduct in prison was so exemplary, so indicative 
 of tne deep contrition of a trembling, humble 
 christian, that, at length, the intercession was not 
 in vain ; and the Melbournes had the comfort of 
 carrying to her what was to them, at least, joyful 
 news ; namely, that her sentence was commuted 
 for transportation. 
 
 Yet, even this mercy was a severe trial to the 
 self-judged Melbournes ; since they had the mise- 
 ry of seeing the affectionate nurse of their chil- 
 dren, the being endeared to them by many years 
 of active services, torn from all the tender ties of 
 existence, and exiled for life as a felon to a distant 
 land ! exiled loo for a crime which, had they per- 
 formed their social duty, she might never have 
 ccrnaiitted. But the pain of mind which they en- 
 dured on this lamentable occasion was not thrown 
 away on them ; as it awakened them to serious 
 reflection : they learned to remember, and to teach 
 their children to remember, the holy command, 
 " that we are not to do evil, that good may come;" 
 and that no deviation from truth and ingenuous- 
 ness can be justified, even if it claims for itself the 
 
152 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 plausible title of the active or passive lie of be- 
 nevolence. 
 
 There is another species of withholding the 
 truth, which springs from so amiable a source, and 
 is so often practised even by pious christians, that, 
 while I venture to say it is at variance with reli- 
 ance on the wisdom and mercy of the Creator, 
 I do so with reluctant awe. I mean a concealment 
 of the whole extent of a calamity from the person 
 afflicted, lest the blow should fall too heavily up- 
 on them. 
 
 I would ask, whether such conduct be not in- 
 consistent with the belief that trials are mercies in 
 disguise ? that the Almighty " loveth those whom 
 he chasieneth, and scourgeth every son that he 
 receivrth ?" 
 
 If this assurance be true, we set our own judg- 
 ment against that of the Deitv, by concealing from 
 the sufferer the extent of the trial inflicted : and 
 seem to believe ourselves more capable than he 
 is to determine the quantity of suffering that is 
 good for the person so visited ; and we set up our 
 finite a .ainst infinite wisdom. 
 
 TJiere are other reasons, besides religious ones, 
 why this sort of deceit should no more be practis- 
 ed than any other. 
 
 The motive for withholding the whole truth, on 
 these occasions, is to do good : but will the desir- 
 ed good be effected by this opposition to the Crea- 
 tor's revealed will towards the sufferer ? Is it 
 certain that good will be performed at all, or that 
 concealment is necessary ? 
 
 What is the reason given for concealing half the 
 truth ? Fear lest the whole would be more than 
 the sufferer could bear ; which implies that it is 
 already mighty, to an awful degree. Then, sure- 
 ly, a degree more of suffering, at such a moment, 
 
MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 153 
 
 cannot possess much added power to destroy , 
 and if the trial be allowed to come in its full force, 
 the mind of the victim will make exactly the same 
 efforts as minds always do when oppressed by 
 misery. A state of heavy affliction is so repul- 
 sive to the feelings, that even in the first paroxysms 
 of it we ail make efforts to get away from under 
 its weight ; and, in proof of this assertion, I ask, 
 whether we do not always find the afflicted less 
 cast down than we expected ? The religious pray 
 as well as weep : the merely moral look around 
 for consolation here, and, as a dog, when cast into 
 the sea, as soon as he rises and regains his breath, 
 strikes out his feet, in order to float securely upon 
 the waves ; so, be their sorrows great or small, all 
 persons instantly strive to find support some- 
 where ; and they do find it, while in proportion to 
 the depth of the affliction is often the subsequent 
 rebound. 
 
 I could point out instances (but I shall leave my 
 readers to imagine them) in which, by concealing 
 from bereaved sufferers the most affecting part 
 of the truth, we stand between them and the balm 
 derived from that very incident which was merci- 
 fully intended to heal their wounds. 
 
 I also object to such concealment ; because it 
 entails upon those who are guilty of it a series of 
 falsehoods; falsehoods too, which are often fruit- 
 lessly uttered ; since the object of them is apt to 
 suspect deceit, and endure that restless agonizing 
 suspicion, which those who have ever, experienced 
 it could never inflict on the objects of their love. 
 
 Besides, religion and reason enable us in time, 
 to bear the calamity of which we know the extent ; 
 but we are always on the watch to find out that 
 which we only suspect, and the mind's strength, 
 frittered away in vain and varied conjectures, runs 
 
154 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 the risk of sinking beneath the force of its own in- 
 distinct fears. 
 
 Confidence too in those dear friends whom we 
 trusted before is liable to be entirely destroyed ; 
 an I, in all its bearings, this \\e\\-intentioned de- 
 parture from truth is pregnant with mischief. 
 
 Lastly, J object to such concealment, from a 
 conviction that its continuance is impossible ; for, 
 some time or other, the whole truth is revealed at 
 a moment when the sufferers are not so well able 
 to bear it as they were in the first paroxysms of 
 grief. 
 
 In this, my next and last tale, I give another il- 
 lustration of those amiable, but pernicious lies, the 
 
 LIES OF REAL BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 THE FATHER AND SON. 
 
 " Well, then, thou art willing that Edgar should 
 go to a public school," snid the vicar of a small 
 parish in Westmoreland to his weeping wife. 
 u Quite willing."—" And yet thou art in tears, 
 Susan ?" — " I weep for his faults ; and not be- 
 cause he is to quit us. I grieve to think he is so 
 disobedient and unruly that we can manage him 
 at home no longer. — And yet I loved him so dear- 
 ly ! so much more than . . . ." Here her sobs 
 redoubled ; and, as Vernon rested her aching 
 head on his bosom, he said, in a low voice, " Aye ; 
 and so did I love him, even better than our other 
 children ; and therefore, probably, our injustice 
 is thus visited. But, he is so clever ! He learn- 
 ed more Lntin in one week than bis brothers in a 
 month !" — u And he is so beautiful /" observed his 
 mother. — u And so generous !" rejoined his fath- 
 
THE FATHER AND SON. 155 
 
 er ; " but, cheer up, my beloved ; under stricter 
 discipline than ours he may vet do well, and turn 
 out all we could wish." — **• 1 hope, however," re- 
 plied the fond mother, " that his master will not 
 be very severe 5 and I will try to'look forward." 
 As she said this, she left her husband with some- 
 thing like comfort ; for a tender mother's hopes for 
 a darling child are easily revived, and she went, 
 with recovered calmness, to get her son's ward- 
 robe ready against the day of his departure. The 
 equally affectionate father meanwhile called his 
 son into the study, to prepare his mind for that 
 parting which his undutiful conduct had made un- 
 avoidable. 
 
 But Vernon found that Edgar's mind required 
 no preparation ; that the idea of change was de- 
 lightful to his volatile nature ; and that he panted 
 to distinguish himself on a wider field of action 
 than a small retired village afforded to his daring, 
 restless spirit ; while bis father saw with agony, 
 which he could but ill conceal, that this desire of 
 entering into a new situation had power to annihi- 
 late all regret at leaving the lenderest of parents 
 and the companions of his childhood. 
 
 However, his feelings were a little soothed when 
 the parting hour arrived ; for then the heart of 
 Edgar was so melted within him at the sight of his 
 mother's tears, and his father's agony, that he ut- 
 tered words of tender contrition, such as they had 
 never heard from him before ; the recollection of 
 which spoke comfort to their minds when they be- 
 held him no longer. 
 
 But, short were the hopes which that parting 
 hour had excited. In a few months the master 
 of the school wrote to complain of the insubordina- 
 tion of his new pupil. In his next letter he de- 
 clared that be should he under the necessity of 
 
156 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYINGo 
 
 expelling him ; and Edgar had not been at school 
 six months, before he prevented the threatened 
 expulsion, only by running away, no one knew 
 whither ! Nor was he heard of by his family for 
 four years ; during which time, not even the duti- 
 ful affection of their other sons, nor their success 
 in life, had power to heal the breaking heart of 
 the mother, nor cheer the depressed spirits of the 
 father. At length the prodigal returned, ill, mea- 
 gre, pennyless, and penitent ; and was received, 
 and forgiven. " But where hast thou been, my 
 child, this long, long lime ?" said his mother, ten- 
 derly weeping, as she gazed on his pale sunk 
 cheek. " Ask me no questions ! I am here ; that 
 is enough ;" Edgar Vernon replied, shuddering as 
 he spake. " It is enough !" cried his mother, 
 throwing herself on his neck ! " For this, my son 
 was dead, and is alive again ; was lost, and is 
 found !" But the father felt and thought differ- 
 ently : he knew that it was his duty to interro- 
 gate his son ; and he resolved to insist on know- 
 ing where and how those long four 3 7 ears had been 
 passed. He, however, delayed his questions till 
 Edgar's health was re-established, but when that 
 time arrived, he told him that he expected to know 
 all that had befallen him since he ran away from 
 school." — " Spare me till to-morrow," said Edgar 
 Vernon, " and then you shall know all." His fa- 
 ther acquiesced ; but the next morning Edgar 
 had disappeared, leaving the following letter be- 
 hind him : — 
 
 " 1 cannot, dare not, tell you what a wretch I 
 have been ! though I own your right to demand 
 such a confession from me. Therefore, I must 
 become a wanderer again ! Pray for me, dearest 
 and tenderest of mothers ! Pray for me, best of 
 fathers and of men ! I dare not pray for myself, 
 
THE FATHER AND SON. 157 
 
 for I am a vile and wretched sinner, though your 
 grateful and affectionate son, E. V." 
 
 Though this letter nearly drove the mother to 
 distraction, it contained for the father a degree of 
 soothing comfort. She dwelt only on the convic- 
 tion which it held out to her, that she should pro- 
 bably never behold her son again ; but he dwelt 
 with pious thankfulness on the sense of his guilt, 
 expressed by the unhappy writer ; trusting that 
 the sinner who knows and owns himself to be 
 " vile " may, when it is least expected of him, re- 
 pent and amend. 
 
 How had those four years been passed by Ed- 
 gar Vernon ? That important period of a boy's 
 life, the years from fourteen to eighteen ? Suf- 
 fice it that, under a feigned name, in order that he 
 might not be traced, he had entered on board a 
 merchant ship ; that he had left it after he had 
 made one voyage ; that he was taken into the ser- 
 vice of what is called a sporting character, whom 
 he had met on board ship, who saw that Edgar 
 had talents and spirit which he might render ser- 
 viceable to his own pursuits. This man, finding 
 he was the son of a gentleman, treated him as 
 such, and initiated him gradually into the various 
 arts of gambling, and the vices of the metropolis ; 
 but one night they were both surprised by the of- 
 ficers of justice at a noted gaming-house ; and, af- 
 ter a desperate scuffle, Edgar escaped wounded, 
 and nearly killed, to a house in the suburbs. 
 There he remained till he was safe from pursuit, 
 and then, believing himself in danger of dying, he 
 longed for the comfort of his paternal roof; he al- 
 so longed for paternal forgiveness ; and the prodi- 
 gal returned to his forgiving parents. 
 
 But,-as this was a tale which Edgar might well 
 14 
 
158 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 shrink from relating to a pure and pious father, 
 flight was far easier than such a confession. Still, 
 " so deceitful is the human heart, and desperately 
 wicked," that I believe Edgar was beginning to 
 feel the monotony of his life at home, and there- 
 fore was glad of an excuse to justify to himself his 
 desire to escape into scenes more congenial to his 
 habits and, now, perverted nature. His father, 
 however, continued to hope for his reformation, 
 and was therefore little prepared for the next in- 
 telligence of his son, which reached him through a 
 private channel. A friend wrote to inform him 
 that Edgar was taken up for having passed forged 
 notes, knowing them to be forgeries; that he would 
 soon be fully committed to prison for trial ; and 
 would be tried with his accomplices at the ensuing 
 assizes for Middlesex. 
 
 At first, even the firmness of Vernon yielded to 
 the stroke, and he was bowed low unto the earth. 
 But the confiding christian struggled against the 
 sorrows of the suffering father, and overcame 
 them ; till, at last, he was able to exclaim, " I will 
 go to him ! I will be near him at his trial ! 1 will 
 be near him even at his death, if death be his por- 
 tion ! And no doubt, I shall be permitted to 
 awaken him to a sense of his guilt. Yes, 1 may be 
 permitted to see him expire contrite before God 
 and man, and calling on his name who is able to 
 save to the uttermost !" But, just as he was set- 
 ting off for Middlessex, his wife, who had long 
 been declining, was, to all appearance, so much 
 worse, that he could not leave her. She having 
 had suspicions that all was not right with Edgar, 
 contrived to discover the te.uth which had been 
 kindly, but erroneously concealed from her, and 
 had sunk under the sudden, unmitigated blow ; 
 and the welcome intelligence, that the prosecutor 
 
THE FATHER AND SON. 150 
 
 had withdrawn the charge, came at a moment when 
 the sorrows of the bereaved husband had closed 
 the father's heart against the voice of gladness. 
 
 " This news came too late to save the poor vic- 
 tim !" he exclaimed, as he knelt beside the corpse 
 of her whom he had loved so long and so tender- 
 ly ; " and I feel that 1 cannot, cannot yet rejoice 
 in it as I oughu" But he soon repented of this 
 ungrateful return to the mercy of Heaven ; and, 
 even before the body was consigned to the grave, 
 he thankfully acknowledged that the liberation of 
 his son was a ray amidst the gloom that surround- 
 ed him. 
 
 Meanwhile, Edgar Vernon, when unexpectedly 
 liberated from what he knew to be certain danger 
 to his life, resolved, on the ground of having been 
 falsely taken up, and as an innocent injured man, 
 to visit his parents ; for he had heard of his mo- 
 ther's illness 5 and his heart yearned to behold 
 her once more. But it was only in the dark hour 
 that he dared venture to approach his home : and 
 it was his intention to discover himself at first to 
 his mother only. 
 
 Accordingly, the gray parsonage was scarcely 
 visible in the shadows of twilight, when he reach- 
 ed the gate that led to the back door ; at which 
 he gently knocked, but in vain. No one answer- 
 ed his knock ; all was still within and around. 
 What could this mean ? He then walked round 
 the house, and looked in at the window ; all there 
 was dark and quiet as the grave ; but the church 
 bell was tolling, while alarmed, awed, and over- 
 powered, he leaned against the gate. At this mo- 
 ment he saw two men rapidly pass along the road, 
 saying, " I fear we shall be too late for the fune- 
 ral ! I wonder how the poor old man will bear 
 it 1 for he loved his wife dearly !"— " Aye ; and 
 
160 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 so he did that wicked boy, who has been the death 
 ©f her ;" replied the other. 
 
 These words shot like an arrow through the not 
 yet callous heart of Edgar Vernon, and, throwing 
 himself on the ground, he groaned aloud in his 
 agony ; but the next minute, with the speed of 
 desperation, he ran towards the church, and 
 reac bed it just as the service was over, the mourn- 
 ers departing, and as his father was borne away, 
 nearly insensible, on the arms of his virtuous 
 sons. 
 
 At such a moment Edgar was able to enter 
 the church unheeded ; for all eyes were on his 
 afflicted parent ; and the self-convicted culprit 
 dared not force himself, at a time like that, on the 
 notice of the father whom he had so grievously 
 injured. But his poor bursting heart felt that it 
 must vent its agony, or break ; and, ere the cof- 
 fin was lowered into the vault, he rushed for- 
 wards, and, throwing himself across it, called upon 
 his mother's name, in an accent so piteous and 
 appalling, that the assistants, though they did not 
 recognize him at first, were unable to drive him 
 away ; so awed, so affected, were they by the 
 agony which they witnessed. 
 
 At length he rose up and endeavoured to speak, 
 but in vain ; then, holding his clenched fists to his 
 forehead, he screamed out, " Heaven preserve 
 my senses !" and rushed from the church with 
 all the speed of desperation. But whither should 
 he turn those desperate steps ! He longed, 
 earnestly longed, to go and humble himself before 
 his father, and implore that pardon for which his 
 agonized soul pined. But, alas ! earthly pride 
 forbade him to indulge the salutary feeling ; for 
 he knew his worthy, unoffending brothers were in 
 the house, and he could not endure the mortifica- 
 
THE FATHER AND SON. 161. 
 
 don of encountering those whose virtues must be 
 put in comparison with his vices. He therefore 
 cast one long lingering look at the abode of his 
 childhood, and fled for ever from the house of 
 mourning, humiliation, and safety. 
 
 In a few days, however, he wrote to his father, 
 detailing his reasons for visiting home, and all the 
 agonies which he had experienced during his short 
 stay. Full of consolation was this letter to that 
 bereaved and mourning heart ! for to him it seem-? 
 ed the language of contrition ; and he lamentec\ 
 that his beloved wife was not alive, to share in 
 the hope which it gave him. " Would that he 
 had come, or would now come to me !" he ex- 
 claimed ; but the letter had no date ; and he 
 knew not whither to send an invitation. But 
 where was he, and what was he, at that period ? 
 In gambling-houses, at cock-fights, sparring-match^ 
 es, fairs ; and in every scene where profligacy 
 prevailed the most ; while at all these places he 
 had a preeminence in skill, which endeared these 
 pursuits to him, and made his occasional contrition 
 powerless to influence him to amendment of life. 
 He therefore continued to disregard the warning 
 voice within him 5 till at length, it was no longer 
 heeded. 
 
 One night, when on his way to Y , where 
 
 races were to succeed the assizes, which had just 
 commenced, he stopped at an inn, to refresh his 
 horse ; and, being hot with riding, and depressed 
 by some recent losses at play, he drank very free- 
 ly of the spirits which he had ordered. At this 
 moment he saw a school-fellow of his in the bar, 
 who, like himself, was on his way to Y-— . This 
 
 young man was of a coarse, unfeeling nature 5 
 14* 
 
162 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 and, having had fortune left him, was full of the 
 consequence of newly-acquired wealth. 
 
 Therefore, when Edgar Vernon impulsively ap- 
 proached him, and, putting his hand out, asked 
 how he did, Dunham haughtily drew back, put 
 his hands behind him, and, .in the hearing of se- 
 veral persons, replied, " I do not know you, sir !" 
 — u Not know me, Dunham ?" cried Edgar Ver- 
 non, turning very pale. " That is to say, I do 
 not choose to know you." — " And why not V cried 
 Edgar, seizing his arm, and with a look of me- 
 nace. " Because .... because .... 1 do not 
 choose to know a man who murdered his mo- 
 ther.'" " Murdered his mother!" cried the by- 
 standers, holding up their hands, and regarding 
 Edgar Vernon with a look of horror. " Wretch 1" 
 cried he, seizing Dunham in his powerful grasp, 
 " explain yourself this moment, or " . . . . — 
 " Then take your fingers from my throat !" Ed- 
 gar did so ; and Dunham said, " T meant only that 
 you broke your mother's heart by your ill con- 
 duct ; and pray, was not that murdering her ?" 
 While he was saying this, Edgar Vernon stood 
 with folded arms, rolling his eyes wildly from one 
 of the bystanders to the other ; and seeing, as he 
 believed, disgust towards him in the countenances 
 of them all. When Dunham had finished speak- 
 ing, Edgar Vernon wrung his hands in agony, 
 •' true, most true, I am a murderer ! I am a par- 
 ricide !" Then, suddenly drinking off a large 
 glass of brandy near him, he quitted the room, 
 and, mounting his horse, rode off at full speed. 
 Aim and object in view, he had none : he was on- 
 ly trying to ride from himself ; trying to escape 
 from those looks of horror and aversion which the 
 remarks of Dunham had provoked. But what 
 right had Dunham so to provoke him ? 
 
THE FATHER AND SON. 16S 
 
 After be had put this question to himself, the 
 image of Dunham, scornfully rejecting him his 
 hand, alone took possession of his remembrance, 
 till he thirsted for revenge ; and the irritation 
 of the moment urged him to seek it immediately. 
 The opportunity, as he rightly suspected, was 
 in his power ; Dunham would soon be coming 
 
 that way on his road to Y ; and he would 
 
 meet him. He did so ; and, riding up to him, 
 seized the bridle of his horse, exclaiming, " you 
 have called me a murderer, Dunham; and you 
 were right ; for, though I loved my mother dear- 
 ly, and would have died for her, 1 killed her by 
 my wicked course of life !" — " Well, well ; I 
 know that" replied Dunham, " so let me go! for 
 I tell you 1 do not like to be seen with such as 
 jou. Let me go, I say ! 15 
 
 He did let him go ; but it was as the tiger lets 
 go its prey, to spring on it again. A blow from 
 Edgar's nervous arm knocked the rash insnlter 
 from his horse. In another minute Dunham lay on 
 the road a bleeding corpse ; and the next morning 
 officers were out in pursuit of the murderer. That 
 wretched man was soon found, and soon secured. 
 Indeed, he had not desired to avoid pursuit ; but, 
 when the irritation of drunkenness and revenge 
 had subsided, the agony of remorse took posses- 
 sion of his soul ; and he confessed his crime with 
 tears of bitterest penitence. To be brief : Edgar 
 Vernon was carried into that city as a manacled 
 criminal, which he had expected to leave as a suc- 
 cessful gambler ; and, before the end of the as- 
 sizes, he was condemned to death. 
 
 He made a full confession of his guilt before 
 the judge pronounced condemnation ; gave a 
 brief statement of the provocation which he re- 
 ceived from the deceased : blaming himself at the 
 
164 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 same time for his criminal revenge, in so heart- 
 rending a manner, and lamenting so pathetically 
 the disgrace and misery in which he had involv- 
 ed his father and family, that every heart was 
 melted to compassion ; and the judge wept, while 
 he passed on him the awful sentence of the law. 
 His conduct in prison was so exemplary, that it 
 proved he had not forgotten his father's precepts, 
 though he had not acted upon them ; and his 
 brothers, for whom he sent, found him in a state 
 of mind which afforded them the only and best 
 consolation. This contrite lowly state of mind 
 accompanied him to the awful end of his exist- 
 ence ; and it might be justly said of him, that " no- 
 thing in his life became him like the losing it." 
 
 Painful, indeed, was the anxiety of Edgar and 
 his brothers, lest their father should learn this hor- 
 rible circumstance : but as the culprit was ar- 
 raigned under a feigned name, and as the crime, 
 trial and execution, had taken, and would take up, 
 so short a period of time, they flattered themselves 
 that he would never learn how and where Edgar 
 died ; but would implicitly believe what was told 
 him. They therefore wrote him word that Edgar 
 had been taken ill at an inn, near London, on his 
 road home ; that he had sent for them ; and they 
 had little hopes of his recovery. They followed 
 this letter of benevolent Lres as soon as they 
 could, to inform him that all was over. 
 
 This plan was wholly disapproved by a friend 
 of the family, who, on principle, thought all con- 
 cealment wrong ; and, probably, useless too. 
 
 When the brothers drove to his house, on their 
 way home, he said to them, " 1 found jour father 
 in a state of deep submission to tbf divine will, 
 though grieved at the loss of a child, whom not 
 even his errors could drive from his affections. 
 
THE FATHER AND SON. 165 
 
 I also found him consoled by those expressions of 
 filial love and reliance on the merits of his Re- 
 deemer, which you transmitted to him from Ed- 
 gar himself. Now, as the poor youth died pens- 
 tent and as his crime was palliated by great pro- 
 vocation, 1 conceive that it would not add much to 
 your father's distress, were he to be informed of 
 the truth. You know that, from a principle of 
 obedience to the implied designs of Providence, I 
 object to any concealment on such occasions, but 
 on this, disclosure would certainly be a safer, as 
 well as a more proper, mode of proceeding ; for, 
 though he does not read newspapers, he may one 
 day learn the fact as it is ; and then the conse- 
 quence may be fatal to life or reason. Remem- 
 ber how ill concealment answered in your poor 
 mother's case." But he argued in vain. How- 
 ever, he obtained leave to go with them to their 
 father, that he might judge of the possibility of 
 making the disclosure which he advised. 
 
 They found the poor old man leaning his head 
 upon an open Bible, as though he had been pray- 
 ing over it. The sight of his sons in mourning 
 told the tale which he dreaded to hear ; and, 
 wringing their hands in silence, he left the room, 
 but soon returned ; and with surprising composure 
 said, " Well ; now I can bear to hear particu- 
 lars." When they had told him all they chose to 
 relate, he exclaimed, melting into tears, u Enough ! 
 — Oh, my dear sons and dear friend, it is a sad 
 and grievous thing for a father to own ; but I 
 feel this sorrow to be a blessing ! 1 had always 
 feared that he would die a violent death, either 
 by his own hand, or that of the executioner ; 
 (here the sons looked triumphantly at each other;) 
 therefore, his dying a penitent, and with humble 
 christian reliance, is such a relief to my mind I 
 
166 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 Yes ; I feared he might commit forgery, or even 
 murder ; and that would have been dreadful !" 
 — " Dreadful, indeed !" faltered out both the 
 brothers, bursting into tears ; while Osborne, 
 choked, and almost convinced, turned to the 
 window. " Yet, 1 ' added he, " even in that case, 
 if he had died penitent, I trust that 1 could have 
 borne the blow, and been able to believe the soul 
 of my unhappy boy would find mercy !" Here 
 Osborne eagerly turned round, and would havd 
 ventured to tell the truth ; but was withheld 
 by the frowns of his companions, and the truth 
 was not told. 
 
 Edgar had not been dead above seven months, 
 before a visible change took place in his father's 
 spirits, and expression of countenance ; — for the 
 constant dread of his child's coming to a terrible 
 end had hitherto preyed on his mind, and ren- 
 dered his appearance haggard; but now helook- 
 ed, and was cheerful ; therefore his sons rejoiced, 
 whenever they visited him, that they had not 
 taken Osborne's advice. " You are wrong," said 
 he, " he would have been just as well, if he had 
 known the manner of Edgar's death. It is not 
 his ignorance, but the cessation of anxious sus- 
 pense, that has thus renovated him. However, 
 he may go in his ignorance to his grave ; and 
 I earnestly hope he will do so." — " Amen ;" 
 said one of his sons ; " for his life is most precious 
 to our children, as well as to us. Our little boys 
 . are improving so fast under his tuition !" 
 
 The consciousness of recovering health, as a 
 painful affection of the breath and heart, had 
 greatly subsided since the death of Edgar, made 
 the good old man wish to visit, during the summer 
 months, an old college friend, who lived in York- 
 shire ; and he communicated his intentions to his 
 
THE FATHER AND SON. 167 
 
 sons. But they highly disapproved them, be- 
 cause, though Edgar's dreadful death was not 
 likely to be revealed to him in the little village 
 
 of R , it might be disclosed to him by some 
 
 one or oiher during a long journey. 
 
 However, as he was bent on going, they could 
 not find a sufficient excuse for preventing it ; but 
 they took every precaution possible. Thej wrote 
 to their father's intended host, desiring him to 
 keep all papers and magazines for the last seven 
 months out of his way ; and when the day of his 
 departure arrived, Osborne himself went to take 
 a place for him ; and took care it should be in 
 that coach which did not stop at, or go through 
 York, in order to obviate all possible chance of his 
 hearing the murder discussed. But it so happen- 
 ed that a family, going from the town whence the 
 coach started, wanted the whole of it ; and, with- 
 out leave, Vernon's place was transferred to the 
 other coach, which went the very road Osborne 
 disapproved. " Well, well ; it is the same thing 
 to me ;" said the good old man, when he was in- 
 formed of the change ; and he set off. full of pious 
 thankfulness for the affectionate conduct and re- 
 grets of his parishioners at the moment of his de- 
 parture, as they lined the road along which the 
 coach was to pass, and expressed even clamorous- 
 ly their wishes for his return. 
 
 The coachstopped at an inn out-side the city of 
 York ; and as Vernon was not disposed to eat 
 any dinner, he strolled along the road, till he came 
 to a small church, pleasantly situated, and entered 
 the church-yard to read, as was his custom, the 
 inscriptions on the tombstones. While thus en- 
 gaged, he saw a man filling up a new-made grave, 
 and entered into conversation with him. He 
 found it was the sexton himself; and be drew 
 
168 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 from him several anecdotes of the persons interred 
 around them. 
 
 During this conversation they had walked over 
 the whole of the ground, when, just as they were 
 going to leave the spot, the sexton stopped to 
 pluck some weeds from a grave near the corner 
 of it, and Vernon stopped also ; taking hold, as he 
 did so, of a small willow sapling, planted near the 
 corner itself. 
 
 As the man rose from his occupation, and saw 
 where Vernon stood, he smiled significantly, and 
 said, " I planted that willow; and it is on a grave, 
 though the grave is not marked out." — " Indeed l" 
 — " Yes ; it is the grave, of a murderer." — " Of a 
 murderer !" — echoed Vernon, instinctively shud- 
 dering and moving away from it. — " Yes," resum- 
 ed he, " of a murderer who was hanged at York. 
 Poor lad ! it was very right that he should be 
 hanged ; but he was not a hardened villain ! and 
 he died so penitent ! and, as I knew him when he 
 used to visit where I was groom, f could not help 
 planting this tree, for old acquaintance sake." 
 Here he drew his hand across his eyes. " Then 
 he was not a low-born man." — "Oh no; his fa- 
 ther was a clergyman, 1 think." — " Indeed ! poor 
 man : was he jiving at the time ?" said Vernon, 
 deeply sighing. "Oh yes; for his poor son did 
 so fret, lest his father should ever know what he 
 had done ; for he said he was an angel upon 
 earth ; and he could not bear to think how he 
 would grieve ; for, poor lad, he loved his father 
 and mother too, though he did so badly." — " Is 
 his mother living ?" — " No ; if she had, he would 
 have been alive ; but his evil courses broke her 
 heart; and it was because the man he killed re- 
 proached him for having murdered his mother, 
 that he was provoked to murder him." — " Poor, 
 
THE FATHER AND SON. i69 
 
 rash, mistaken youth ! then he had provocation." 
 — " Oh yes ; the greatest : but he was very sorry 
 for what he had done ; and it would have brok- 
 en your heart to hear him talk of his poor fa- 
 ther." — -" I am glad I did not hear him," said 
 Vernon hastily, and in a faltering voice (for he 
 thought of Edgar.) " And yet, sir, it would have 
 done your heart good too." — " Then he had vir* 
 tuous feelings, and loved his father amidst all his 
 errors ?" — " Aye." — " And I dare say his father 
 loved him, in spite of his faults." — " I dare say 
 he did," replied the man ; " for one's children 
 are our own flesh and blood, you know, sir, after 
 all that is said and done ; and may be this young 
 fellow was spoiled in the bringing up." — " Per- 
 haps so," said Vernon, sighing deeply. " How- 
 ever, this poor lad made a very good end." — " I 
 am glad of that ! and he lies here," continued 
 Vernon, gazing on the spot with deepening inter- 
 est, and moving nearer to it as he spoke. "Peace 
 be to his soul ! but was he not dissected ?"— 
 " Yes ; but his brothers got leave to have the body 
 after dissection. They came to me ; and we 
 buried it privately at night." — u His brothers 
 came ! and who were his brothers ?" — " Mer- 
 chants in London ; and it was a sad cut on them ; 
 but they took care that their father should not 
 know it." — " No !" cried Vernon, turning sick at 
 heart. " Oh no ; they wrote him word that his 
 son was ill ; then went to Westmoreland, and " 
 . . . .— " Tell me," interrupted Vernon, gasp- 
 ing for breath, and laying his hand on his arm, 
 *' tell me the name of this poor youth !" — 
 " Why, he was tried under a false name, for the 
 sake of his family ; but his real name was Edgar 
 Vernon ! ?1 
 IS 
 
170 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 The agonized parent drew back, shuddered 
 violently and repeatedly, casting his eyes to 
 heaven at the same time, with a look of mingled 
 appeal and resignation. He then rushed to the 
 obscure spot which covered the bones of his son, 
 threw himself upon it, and stretched his arms over 
 it, as if embracing the unconscious deposit be- 
 neath, while his head rested on the grass, and he 
 neither spoke nor moved. But he uttered one groan; 
 then all was stillness ! 
 
 His terrified and astonished companion remain- 
 ed motionless for a few moments, — then stooped 
 to raise him ; but the fiat of mercy had gone 
 forth, and the paternal heart, broken by the sud- 
 den shock, had suffered, and breathed its last. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 lies of wantonness. 
 
 I come now to lies of wantonness ; that is, lies 
 told from no other motive but a love of lying, 
 and to show the utterer's total contempt of truth, 
 and for those scrupulous persons of their acquain- 
 tance who look on it with reverence, and endeav- 
 our to act up to their principles : lies, having 
 their origin merely in a depraved fondness for 
 speaking and inventing falsehood. Not that per- 
 sons of this description confine their falsehoods to 
 this sort of lying : on the contrary, they lie after 
 this fashion, because they have exhausted the 
 strongly-motived and more natural sorts of ly- 
 ing. Jn such as these, there is no more hope of 
 
PRACTICAL LIES. 171 
 
 amendment than there is for the man of intem- 
 perate habits, who has exhausted life of its pleas- 
 ures, and his constitution of its energy. Such per- 
 sons must go despised and (terrible state of hu* 
 man degradation !) untrusted, unbelieved, into 
 their graves. 
 
 Practical lies come last on my list ; lies not 
 «ttered, but acted ; and dress will furnish me 
 with most of my illustrations. 
 
 It has been said that the great art of dress is to 
 conceal defects and heighten beauties ; there- 
 fore, as concealment is deception, this great art 
 of dress is founded on falsehood ; but, certainly, 
 in some instances, on falsehood, comparatively, of 
 an innocent kind. 
 
 If the false hair be so worn, that no one can 
 fancy it natural ; if the bloom on the cheekos 
 such, that it cannot be mistaken for nature ; or, if 
 the person who " conceals defects, and heightens 
 beauties," openly avows the practice, then is the 
 deception annihilated. But, if the cheek be so 
 artfully tinted, that its hue is mistaken for natur- 
 al colour; if the false hair be so skilfully woven, 
 that it passes for natural hair ; if the crooked per- 
 son, or meagre form, be so cunningly assisted by 
 dress, that the uneven shoulder disappears, and 
 becoming fulness succeeds to unbecoming thin- 
 ness, while the man or woman thus assisted by art 
 expects their charms will be imputed to nature 
 alone ; then these aids of dress partake of the na- 
 ture of other lying, and become equally vicious in 
 the eyes of the religious and the moral. 
 
 I have said, the man or woman so assisted by 
 art ; and 1 believe that, by including the stronger 
 sex in the above observation, I have only been 
 strictly just. 
 
 While men hide baldness by gluing a piece of 
 
172 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 false hair on their heads', meaning that it should 
 pass for their own, and while a false calf gives 
 muscular beauty to a shapeless leg, can the ob- 
 server on human life do otherwise than include 
 the wiser sex in the list of those who indulge in 
 the permitted artifices and mysteries of the toilet ? 
 Nay; bolder still are the advances of some men 
 into its sacred mysteries. ] have seen the eye- 
 brows, even of the young, darkened by the hand 
 of art, and their cheeks reddened by its touch ; 
 and who has not seen, in Bond Street, or the 
 Drive, during the last twenty or thirty years, 
 certain notorious men of fashion glowing in im- 
 mortal bloom, and rivalling the dashing belle be- 
 side them ? 
 
 As the foregoing observations on the practical 
 lies of dress, have been mistaken by many, and 
 have exposed me to severe, (and I think I may 
 add) unjust animadversions, I take the opportuni- 
 ty afforded me by a second edition, to say a few 
 words in explanation of them. 
 
 I do not wish to censure any one for having re- 
 course to art to hide the defects of nature ; and, I 
 have expressly said, that such practices are com- 
 paratively innocent: but, it seems to me, that they 
 cease to be innocent, and become passive and 
 practical lies also, if, when men and women hear 
 the fineness of their complexion, hair, or teeth, 
 commended in their presence, they do not own 
 that the beauty so commended is entirely arti- 
 ficial, provided such be really the case. But, 
 
 I am far from advising any one to be guilty of 
 the unnecessary egotism, of volunteering such an as- 
 surance ; all I contend for is, that when we are- 
 praised for qualities, whether of mind or person, 
 which we do not possess, we are guilty of passive 
 
PRACTICAL LIES. 173 
 
 if not of practical, lying, if we do not disclaim our 
 right to the encomium bestowed. 
 
 The following also are practical lies of every 
 day's experience. 
 
 Wearing paste for diamonds, intending that the 
 false should be taken for the true; and purchasing 
 brooches, pins, and rings of mock jewels, intend- 
 ing that they should pass for real ones. Passing 
 off goosberry-wine at dinner for real Cham- 
 paigne, and English liqueurs for foreign ones. 
 But, on these occasions, the motive is not always 
 the mean and contemptible wish of imposing on 
 the credulity of others ; but it has sometimes its 
 source in a dangerous as w r ell as deceptive ambi- 
 tion, that of making an appearance beyond what the 
 circumstances of the persons so deceiving really war- 
 rant ; the wish to be supposed to be more o-ulent 
 than they really are ; that most common of all the 
 practical lies ; as ruin and bankruptcy follow in its 
 train. The lady who purchases and wears paste 
 which she hopes will pass for diamonds, is usual- 
 ly one who has no right to wear jewels at all; 
 and the gentleman who passes off gooseberry- 
 wine for Champaigne is, in all probability, 
 aiming at a style of living beyond his situation in 
 society. 
 
 On some occasions, however, when ladies sub- 
 stitute paste for diamonds, the substitution tells a 
 tale of greater error still. 1 mean, when ladies 
 wear mock for real jewels, because their extrava- 
 gance has obliged them to raise money on the lat- 
 ter ; and they are therefore constrained to keep 
 up the appearance of their necessary and accus- 
 tomed splendour, by a practical lie. 
 
 The following is another of the practical lies in 
 common use. 
 15* 
 
174 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 
 
 The medical man, who desires his servant to 
 call him out of church, or from a party, in order 
 to give him the appearance of the great business 
 which he has not, is guilty not of uttering but of 
 acting a falsehood ; and the author also, who 
 makes his publisher put second and third editions 
 before a work of which, perhaps, not even the first 
 edition is sold. 
 
 But, the most fatal to the interests of others, 
 though perhaps the most pitiable of practical lies, 
 are those acted by men who, though they know 
 themselves to be in the gulf of bankruptcy, either 
 from wishing to put off the evil day, or from the 
 visionary hope that something will occur unex- 
 pectedly to save them, launch out into increased 
 splendour of living, in order to obtain further 
 credit, and induce their acquaintances to intrust 
 their money to them. 
 
 There is, however, one practical lie more fa- 
 tal still, in my opinion ; because it is the practice 
 of schools, and consequently the sin of early life ; 
 — a period of existence in which it is desirable, 
 both for general and individual good, that habits 
 of truth and integrity should be acquired, and 
 strictly adhered to. I mean the pernicious cus- 
 tom which prevails amongst boys, and probably 
 girls, of getting their schoolfellows to do their ex- 
 ercises for them, or consenting to do the same of- 
 fice for others. 
 
 Some will say, " but it would be so ill natured 
 to refuse to write one's schoolfellows' exercises, 
 especially when one is convinced that they can- 
 not write them for themselves." But, leaving the 
 question of truth and falsehood unargued a while, 
 let us examine coolly that of the probable good or 
 evil done to the parties obliged. 
 
 What are children sent to school for ? — to learn. 
 
PRACTICAL LIES. 175 
 
 And when there, what are the motives which are 
 to make them learn ? dread of punishment, and 
 hope of distinction and reward. There are few 
 children so stupid, as not to be led on to industry 
 by one or both of these motives, however indolent 
 they may be ; but, if these motives be not allow- 
 ed their proper scope of action, the stupid boy will 
 never take the trouble to learn, if he finds that he 
 can avoid punishment, and gain reward, by pre- 
 vailing on some more diligent boy to do his ex* 
 ercises for him. Those, therefore, who indulge 
 their schoolfellows, do it at the expense of their 
 future welfare, and are in reality foes where they 
 fancied themselves friends. But, generally speak- 
 ing, they have not even this excuse for their per- 
 nicious compliance, since it springs from want of 
 sufficient firmness to say no, — and deny an earn- 
 est request at the command of principle. But, to 
 such I would put this question. " Which is the 
 real friend to a child, the person who gives it the 
 sweetmeats which it asks for, at the risk of making 
 it ill, merely because it were so hard to refuse the 
 dear little thing ; or the person who, considering 
 only the interest and health of the child, resists 
 its importunities, though grieved to deny its re- 
 quest? No doubt that they would give the palm 
 of real kindness, real good-nature to the latter ; 
 and in like manner, the boy who refuses to do his 
 schoolfellow's task is more truly kind, more truly 
 good-natured, to him than he who, by indulging 
 his indolence, runs the risk of making him a dunce 
 for life. 
 
 But some may reply, " It would make one 
 odious in the school, were one to refuse this com- 
 mon compliance with the wants and wishes of 
 one's companions-" — Not if the refusal were de- 
 clared to be the result of principle, and every aid 
 
176 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 not contrary to it were offered and afforded ; and 
 there are many ways in which schoolfellows may 
 assist each other, without any violation of truth, 
 and witnout sharing with them in the practical 
 lie, by imposing on their masters, as theirs, lessons 
 which they never wrote. 
 
 This common practice in schools is a practical 
 lie of considerable importance, from its frequen- 
 cy ; and because, as I before observed, the result 
 of it is, that the first step which a child sets in a 
 school is into the midst of deceit — tolerated, cher- 
 ished, deceit. For, if children are quick at learn- 
 ing, they are called upon immediately to enable 
 others to deceive ; and, if dull, they are enabled' 
 to appear in borrowed plumes themselves. 
 
 How often have I heard men in mature life say, 
 "Oh ! I knew such a one at school ; he was a 
 very good fellow, but so dull ! 1 have often done 
 his exercises for him." Or, 1 have heard the con- 
 trary asserted " Such a one was a very clever 
 boy at school indeed ; he has done many an ex- 
 ercise for me ; for he was very good-natured." 
 And in neither case was the speaker conscious 
 that he had been guilty of the meanness of decep- 
 tion himself, or been accessary to it in another. 
 
 Parents also correct their children's exercises, 
 and thereby enable them to put a deceit on the 
 master ; not only by this means convincing their 
 offspring of their own total disregard of truth ; a 
 conviction doubtless most pernicious in its effects 
 on their young minds ; but as full of folly as it is 
 of laxity of principle; since the deceit cannot fail 
 of being detected, whenever the parents are not 
 at hand to afford their assistance. 
 
 But, is it necessary that this school delinquency 
 should exist ? Is it not advisable that children 
 should learn the rudiments of truth, rather than 
 
PRACTICAL LIES. 
 
 i'7* 
 
 falsehood, with those of their mother tongue and 
 the classics ? Surely masters and mistresses 
 should watch over the morals, while improving 
 the minds of youth. Surely parents ought to be 
 tremblingly solicitous that their children should 
 always speak truth, and be corrected by their 
 preceptors for uttering falsehood. Yet, of what 
 use could it be to correct a child for telling a spon- 
 taneous lie, on the impulse of strong temptation, 
 if that child be in the daily habit of deceiving his 
 master on system, and of assisting others to do so? 
 While the present practice with regard to exer- 
 cise-making exists ; while boys and girls go up to 
 iheir preceptors with lies in their hands, whence, 
 sometimes, no doubt, they are transferred to their 
 lips ; every hope that truth will be taught in 
 schools, as a necessary moral duty, must be total- 
 ly, and for ever, annihilated. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 OUR OWN EXPERIENCE OF THE PAINFUL RESULTS 
 OF LYING. 
 
 1 cannot point out the mischievous nature and 
 impolicy of lying better than by referring my 
 readers to their own experience. Which of them 
 does not know some few persons, at least, from 
 whose habitual disregard of truth they have often 
 suffered ; and with whom they find intimacy un- 
 pleasant, as well as unsafe ; because confidence, 
 that charm and cement of intimacy, is wholly- 
 wanting in the intercourse? Which of my read- 
 
178 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYIN«. 
 
 ers is not sometimes obliged to say, " I ought to 
 add, that my authority for what I have just re- 
 lated, is only Mr. and Mrs. such-a-one, or a cer- 
 tain young lady, or a certain young gentleman ; 
 therefore, you know what credit is to be given 
 to it." 
 
 It has been asserted, that every town and vil- 
 lage has its idiot ; and, with equal truth, prob- 
 ably, it may be advanced, that every one's cir- 
 cle of acquaintances contains one or more persons 
 known to be habitual liars, and always mentioned 
 as such. I may be asked, " if this be so, of 
 what consequence is it ? And how is it mis- 
 chievous ? If such persons are known and chron- 
 icled as liars, they can deceive no one, and, there- 
 fore, can do no harm." But this is not true : we 
 are not always on our guard, either against our 
 own weakness, or against that of others ; and if 
 the most notorious liar tells us something which 
 we wish to believe, our wise resolution never to 
 credit or repeat what he has told us, fades before 
 our desire to confide in him on this occasion. 
 Thus, even in spite of caution, we become the 
 agents of his falsehood ; and, though lovers of 
 truth, are the assistants of lying. 
 
 Nor are there many of my readers. I venture to 
 pronounce, who have not at some time or other of 
 their lives, had cause to lament some violation of 
 truth, of which they themselves were guilty, and 
 which, at the time, they considered as wise, or pos- 
 itively unavoidable. 
 
 But the greatest proof of the impolicy even of 
 occasional lying is, that it exposes one to the dan* 
 ger of never being believed in future. It is dif- 
 ficult to give implicit credence to those who have 
 once deceived us ; when they did so deceive, 
 they were governed by a motive sufficiently pow- 
 
PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING. 1 79 
 
 erful to overcome their regard for truth ; and 
 how can one ever be sure, that equal temptation 
 is not always present, and always overcoming 
 them ? 
 
 Admitting, that perpetual distrust attends on 
 those who are known to be frequent violaters of 
 truth, it seems to me that the liar is, as if he was 
 not. He is, as it were, annihilated for all the im- 
 portant purposes of life. That man or woman is 
 no better than a nonentity, whose simple asser- 
 tion is not credited immediately. Those whose 
 words no one dares to repeat, without naming the 
 authority, lest the information conveyed by them 
 should be too implicitly credited, such persons, I 
 repeat it, exist, as if they existed not. They re- 
 semble that diseased eye, which, though perfect 
 in colour, and appearance, is wholly useless, be- 
 cause it cannot perform the function for which it 
 was created, that of seeing ; for, of what use to 
 others, and of what benefit to themselves, can 
 those be whose tongues are always suspected of 
 uttering falsehood, and whose words, instead of in- 
 spiring confidence, that soul and cement of society, 
 and of mutual regard, are received with offensive 
 distrust, and never repeated without caution and 
 apology ? 
 
 I shall now endeavour to show, that speaking 
 the truth does not imply a necessity to wound the 
 feelings of any one; but that, even if the unrestrict- 
 ed practice of truth in society did at first give pain 
 to self-love, it would, in the end, further the best 
 views of benevolence ; namely, moral improvement. 
 There cannot be any reason why offensive or 
 home truths should be volunteered, because one lays 
 it down as a principle that truth must be spoken, 
 when called for. If I put a question to another 
 which may, if truly answered, wound either my 
 
180 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 sensibility or my self-love, I should be rightly 
 served if replied to by a home truth; but, taking 
 conversation according to its general tenor — that 
 is, under the usual restraints of decorum and pro- 
 priety — truth and benevolence will, I believe, be 
 found to go hand in hand ; and not, as is common- 
 ly imagined, be opposed to each other. For in- 
 stance, if a person in company be old, plain, af- 
 fected, vulgar in manners, or dressed in a man- 
 ner unbecoming their years, my utmost love of 
 truth would never lead me to say, " how old you 
 look ! or how plain you are ! or how improperly 
 dressed ! or how vulgar ! and how affected !" But, 
 if this person were to say to me, "_do I not look 
 old ? am I not plain? am I not improperly dress- 
 ed ? am I vulgar in manners ?" and so on, I own 
 that,according to my principles, 1 must, in my reply, 
 adhere to the strict truth, after having vainly tried 
 to avoid answering, by a serious expostulation on 
 the folly, impropriety, and indelicacy of putting 
 such a question to any one. And what would the 
 consequence be? The person so answered, would 
 probably, never like me again. Still, by my re- 
 ply, I might have been of the greatest service to 
 the indiscreet questioner. If ugly, the inquirer 
 being convinced that not on outward charms could 
 he or she build their pretensions to please, might 
 study to improve in the more permanent graces of 
 mind and manner. If growing old, the inquirer 
 might be led by my reply to reflect seriously on 
 the brevity of life, and try to grow in grace while 
 advancing in years. If ill-dressed, or in a man- 
 ner unbecoming a certain time of life, the inquirer 
 might be led to improve in this particular, and be 
 no longer exposed to the sneer of detraction. If 
 vulgar, the inquirer might be induced to keep a 
 watch in future over the admitted vulgarity ; and, 
 
PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING* 181 
 
 it affected, might endeavour at greater simplicity, 
 and less pretension in appearance. 
 
 Thus, the temporary wound to the self-love of 
 the enquirer might be attended with lasting bene- 
 fit ; and benevolence in reality be not wounded, 
 but gratified. Besides, as 1 have before observed, 
 the truly benevolent can always find a balm for 
 the wounds which duty obliges them to inflict. 
 
 Few persons are so entirely devoid of external 
 and internal charms, as not to be subjects for 
 some kind of commendation ; therefore, 1 believe, 
 that means may always be found to smooth down 
 the plumes of that self-love which principle has 
 obliged us to ruffle. But, if it were to become a 
 general principle of action in society to utter spon- 
 taneous truth, the difficult situation in which 1 have 
 painted the utterers of truth to be placed, would, 
 in time, be impossible ; for, if certain that the 
 truth would be spoken, and their suspicions con- 
 cerning their defects confirmed, none would dare 
 to put such questions as I have enumerated- Those 
 questions sprung from the hope of being contra- 
 dicted and flattered, and were that hope annihilat- 
 ed, no one would ever so question again. 
 
 1 shall observe here, that those who make mor- 
 tifying observations on the personal defects of 
 their friends, or on any infirmity either of body or 
 mind, are not actuated by the love of truth, or by 
 any good motive whatever; but that such un- 
 pleasant sincerity is merely the result of coarse- 
 ness of mind, and a mean desire to inflict pain and 
 mortification ; therefore, if the utterer of them be 
 noble, or even royal, I should still bring a charge 
 against them, terrible to " ears polite," that of ill- 
 breeding and positive vulgarity. 
 
 All human beings are convinced in the closet of 
 16 
 
182 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 the importance of truth to the interests of society, 
 and of the mischief which they experience from 
 lying, though few, comparatively, think the prac- 
 tice of the one, and avoidance of the other, bind- 
 ing either on the christian or (he moralist, when 
 they are acting in the busy scenes of the world. 
 Nor, can I wonder at this inconsistency, when boys 
 and girls, as I have before remarked, however 
 they may be taught to speak the truth at home, 
 are so often tempted into the tolerated commission 
 of falsehood as soon as they set their foot into a 
 public school. 
 
 But we must wonder still less at the little shame 
 which attaches to what is called white lying, 
 when we see it sanctioned in the highest assem- 
 blies in this kingdom. 
 
 It is with fear and humility that I venture to 
 blame a custom prevalent in our legislative meet- 
 ings ; which, as Christianity is declared to be 
 " part and parcel of the law of the land," ought 
 to be christian as well as wise; and where every 
 member, feeling it binding on him individually to 
 act according to the legal oath, should speak the 
 truth, and nothing but the truth. Yet, what is the 
 real state of things there on some occasions ? 
 
 In the heat, (the pardonable heat, perhaps,) 
 of political debates, and from the excitement pro- 
 duced by collision of wits, a noble lord, or an 
 honourable commoner, is betrayed into severe 
 personal comment on his antagonist. The un- 
 avoidable consequence, as it is thought, is apology, 
 or duel. 
 
 But as these assemblies are called christian, even 
 the warriors present deem apology a more proper 
 proceeding than duel. Yet, how is apology to be 
 made consistent with the dignity and dictates of 
 worldly honour ? And how can the necessity of 
 
PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING. 183 
 
 duel, that savage heathenish disgrace to a civiliz- 
 ed and christian land, be at once obviated ? Oh ! 
 the method is easy enough. " Jt is as easy as ly- 
 ing," and lying is the remedy. A noble lord, or 
 an honourable member gets up, and says, that un- 
 doubtedly his noble or honourable friend used 
 such and such words ; but, no doubt, that by those 
 words he did not mean what those words usually 
 mean ; but he meant so and so. Some one on the 
 other side immediately rises on behalf of the of- 
 fended, and says, that if the offender will say that 
 by so and so, he did not mean so and so, the of 
 fended will be perfectly satisfied. On which the 
 offender rises, declares that by black he did not 
 mean black, but white ; in short, that black is 
 white, and white black ; the offended says, enough ; 
 — I am satisfied ! the honourable house is satisfied 
 also that life is put out of peril, and what is called 
 honour is satisfied by the sacrifice only of truth. 
 
 I must beg leave to state, that no one can re- 
 joice more fervently than myself when these dis- 
 putes terminate without duels ; but must there be 
 a victim ? and must that victim be truth ? As 
 there is no intention to deceive on these occasions, 
 nor wish, nor expectation to do so, the soul, the 
 essence of lying, is not in the transaction on the 
 side of the offender. But the offended is forced to 
 say that he is satisfied, when he certainly can not 
 be so. He knows that the offender meant, at the 
 moment, what he said ; therefore, he is not satis- 
 fied when he is told, in order to return his half- 
 drawn sword to the scabbard, or his pistol to the 
 holster, that black means white, and white means 
 black. 
 
 However, he has his resource ; he may ulti- 
 mately tell the truth, declare himself, when out of 
 the.house, unsatisfied ; and may (horrible alterna* 
 
184 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 tive !) peril his life, or that of his opponent. But 
 is there no other course which can be pursued by 
 him who gave the offence ? Must apology to 
 satisfy be made in the language of falsehood ? 
 Could it not be made in the touching and impres- 
 sive language of truth ? Might not the perhaps 
 already penitent offender say "no; I will not be 
 guilty of the meanness of subterfuge. By the 
 words which 1 uttered, 1 meant at the moment 
 what those words conveyed, and nothing else. 
 But I then saw through the medium of passion ; 
 I spoke in the heat cf resentment; and I now 
 scruple not to say that I am sorry for what I said, 
 and entreat the pardon of him whom I offended. 
 If he be not satisfied, 1 know the consequences, 
 and must take the responsibility." 
 
 Surely an apology like this would satisfy any 
 one, however offended ; and if the adversary were 
 not contented, the noble or honourable house 
 would undoubtedly deem his resentment brutal, 
 and he would be constrained to pardon the offen- 
 der in order to avoid disgrace. 
 
 But I am not contented with the conclusion of 
 the apology which I have put into the mouth of 
 the offending party ; for 1 have made him willing, 
 if necessary, to comply with the requirings of 
 worldly honour. Instead of ending his apology in 
 that unholy manner, 1 should have wished to end 
 it thus : — " But if this heart-felt apology be not suf- 
 ficient to appease the anger of him whom I have 
 offended, and he expects me, in order to expiate 
 my fault, to meet him in the lawless warfare of 
 single combat, I solemnly declare that I will not 
 so meet him ; that not even the dread of being 
 accused of cowardice, and being frowned on by 
 those whose respect I value, shall induce me to put 
 in peril either his life or my own." 
 
PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING* 185 
 
 If he and his opponent be married men, and, 
 above all, if he be indeed a christian, he might add, 
 " I will not, for any personal considerations, run 
 the risk of making his wife and mine a widow, 
 and his children and my own fatherless. 1 will 
 not run the risk of disappointing that confiding ten- 
 derness which looks up to us for happiness and 
 protection, by any rash and selfish action of mine. 
 But, J am not actuated to this refusal by this con- 
 sideration alone ; I am withheld by one more 
 binding and more powerful still. Fori remember 
 the precepts taught in the Bible, and confirmed in 
 the New Testament ; and i cannot, will not, dare 
 not, enter into single and deadly combat, in op- 
 position to that awful command, ' thou shalt not 
 kill !' " 
 
 Would any one, however narrow and worldly in 
 his conceptions, venture to condemn as a coward, 
 meanly shrinking from the responsibility he had 
 incurred, the man that could dare to put forth sen- 
 timents dike these, regardless of that fearful thing, 
 " the world's dread laugh V 
 
 There might be some among his hearers by 
 whom this truly noble daring could not possibly 
 be appreciated. But, though in both houses of 
 parliament, there might be heroes present, whose 
 heads are even bowed down by the weight of 
 their laurels ; men whose courage has often paled 
 the cheek of their enemies in battle, and brought 
 the loftiest low ; still, (I must venture to assert) 
 he who can dare, for the sake of conscience, to 
 speak and act counter to the prejudices and pas- 
 sions of the world, at the risk of losing his stand- 
 ing in society, such a man is a hero in the best 
 sense of the word ; his is courage of the most 
 difficult kind ; that moral courage, founded in- 
 16* 
 
186 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING* 
 
 deed on fear, but a fear that tramples firmly 
 on every fear of man ; for it is that holy fear, 
 
 the FEAR OF GOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LYING THE MOST COMMON OF ALL VICES. 
 
 I have observed in the preceding chapter, and 
 elsewhere, that all persons, in theory, consider ly- 
 ing as a most odious, mean, and pernicious prac- 
 tice. It is also one which is more than almost any 
 other reproved, if not punished, both in servants 
 and children ; — for parents, those excepted, whose 
 moral sense has been rendered utterly callous, or 
 who never possessed any, mourn over the slightest 
 deviation from truth in their offspring, and visit it 
 with instant punishment. Who has not frequently 
 heard masters and mistresses of families declaring 
 that some of their servants were such liars that 
 they could keep them no longer ? Yet, trying and 
 painful as intercourse with liars is universally al- 
 lowed to be, since confidence, that necessary 
 guardian of domestic peace, cannot exist where 
 they are ; lying is undoubtedly, the most common 
 of all vices. A friend of mine was once told by 
 a confessor, that it was the one most frequently 
 confessed to him ; and I am sure that if we enter 
 society with eyes open to detect this propensity, 
 we shall soon be convinced, that there are few, if 
 any, of our acquaintance, however distinguished 
 for virtue, who are not, on some occasions, led by 
 good and sufficient motives, in their own opinion 
 
THE MOST COMMON OF ALL VICES. 1 &? 
 
 at least, either to violate or withhold the truth 
 with intent to deceive. Nor do their most con- 
 scious or even detected deviations from veracity 
 fill the generality of the world with shame or 
 compunction. Sf they commit any other sins, 
 they shrink from avowing them : but 1 have often 
 heard persons confess, that they had, on certain 
 occasions, uttered a direct falsehood, with an air 
 which proved them to be proud of their deceptive 
 skill with which it was uttered, adding, " but it 
 was only a white lie. you know," with a degree 
 of sell-complacency which showed that, in their 
 eyes, a white lie was no lie at all. And what is 
 more common than to hear even the professedly 
 pious, as well as the moral, assert that a deviation 
 from truth, or, at least, withholding the truth, so 
 as to deceive, is sometimes absolutely necessary ? 
 Yet, 1 would seriously ask of those who thus ar- 
 gue, whether, when they repeat the command- 
 ment " thou shalt not steal," they feel willing to 
 admit, either in themselves or others, a mental re- 
 servation, allowing them to pilfer in any degree, or 
 even in the slightest particular, make free with the 
 property of another ? Would they think that 
 pilfering tea or sugar was a venial fault in a ser- 
 vant, and excusable under strong temptations ? 
 They would answer " no ;" and be ready to say 
 in the words of the apostle, " whosoever in this 
 respect shall offend in one point, he is guilty of 
 all." Yet, I venture to assert, that little lying, 
 alias white lying, is as much an infringement of the 
 moral law against " speaking leasing," as little 
 pilfering is of the commandment not to steal ; and 
 I defy any consistent moralist to escape from the 
 obligation of the principle which I here lay down. 
 The economical rule, ',' take care of the pence, 
 and the pounds will take care of themselves," 
 
188 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 
 
 may, with great benefit, be applied to morals. 
 Few persons comparatively, are exposed to the 
 danger of committing great crimes, but all are daily 
 and hourly tempted to commit little sins. Beware 
 therefore, of slight deviations from purity and rec- 
 titude, and great ones will take care of themselves ; 
 and the habit cf resistance to trivial sins will make 
 you able to resist temptation to errors of a more 
 culpable nature ; and as those persons will not be 
 likely to exceed improperly in pounds, who are 
 laudably saving in pence, and as little lies are to 
 great ones, what pence are to pounds, if we acquire 
 a habit of telling truth on trivial occasions, we 
 shall never be induced to violate it on serious and 
 important ones. 
 
 I shall now borrow the aid of others to strength- 
 en what 1 have already said on this important sub- 
 ject, or have still to say ; as I am painfully con- 
 scious of my own inability to do justice to it ; and 
 if the good which I desire be but effected, I am 
 willing to resign to others the merit of the success. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM LORD BACON, AND OTHERS. 
 
 In a gallery of moral philosophers, the rank of 
 Bacon, in my opinion, resembles that of Titian in 
 a gallery of pictures ; and some of his successors 
 not only look up to him as authority for certain 
 excellences, but, making him, in a measure, their 
 study ; they endeavour to diffuse over their own 
 productions the beauty of his conceptions, and 
 
EXTRACTS. 18$ 
 
 the depth and breadth of his manner. I am there- 
 fore, sorry that those passages in his Essay on 
 Truth which bear upon the subject before me, are 
 so unsatisfactorily brief; — however, as even a 
 sketch from the hand of a master is valuable, 1 give 
 the following extracts from the essay in question. 
 
 " But to pass from theological and philosophical 
 truth — to truth, or rather veracity, in civil busi- 
 ness, it will be acknowledged, even by those that 
 practise it not, that clear and sound dealing is the 
 honour of man's nature, and that mixture of false- 
 hood is like alloy in coin of gold and silver, 
 which may make the metal work the better, but 
 it embaseth it. For these winding and crooked 
 courses are the goings of the serpent, which goeth 
 basely upon the belly, and not upon the feet. 
 There is no vice that does so overwhelm a man 
 with shame, as to be found false or perfidious : 
 and therefore Montaigne saith very acutely, when 
 he inquired the reason, why the giving the lie 
 should be such a disgraceful and odious charge, 
 " If it be well weighed," said he, " to say that a 
 man lies, is as much as to say, he is a bravado to- 
 wards God, and a coward towards man. For the 
 liar insults God and crouches to man." Essay 
 on Truth. 
 
 I hoped to have derived considerable assistance 
 from Addison ; as he ranks so very high in the 
 list of moral writers, that Dr. Watts said of his 
 greatest work, " there is so much virtue in the 
 eight volumes of the Spectator, such a reverence 
 of things sacred, so many valuable remarks for 
 our conduct in life, that they are not improper to 
 lie in parlours, or summer-houses, to entertain 
 one's thoughts in any moments of leisure." But, 
 in spite of his fame as a moralist, and of this high 
 eulogium from one of the best authorities, Addison 
 
190 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 
 
 appears to have done very little as an advocate 
 for spontaneous truth, and an assailant of spon- 
 taneous lying; and has been much less zealous and 
 effective than either Hawkesworth or Johnson, 
 However, what he has said, is well said ; and I 
 have pleasure in giving it. 
 
 " The great violation of the point of honour 
 from man to man is, giving the lie. One may tell 
 another that he drinks and blasphemes, and it may 
 pass unnoticed ; but to say he lies, though but in 
 ject, is an affront that nothing but blood can ex- 
 piate. The reason perhaps may be, because no 
 other vice implies a want of courage so much as 
 the making of a lie ; and, therefore, telling a man 
 he lies, is touching him in the most sensible part 
 of honour, and, indirectly, calling him a coward. 
 I cannot omit, under this head, what Herodotus 
 tells us of the ancient Persians ; that, from the 
 age of five years to twenty, they instruct their 
 sons only in three things ; — to manage the horse, 
 to make use of the bow, and to speak the truth" — 
 Spectator, Letter 99. 
 
 I know not whence Addison took the extract, 
 from which I give the following quotation, but I 
 refer my readers to No. 352 of the Spectator. 
 
 " Truth is always consistent with itself, and 
 needs nothing to help it out : it is always near at 
 hand, and sits upon our lips, and is ready to drop 
 out, before we are aware : whereas a lie is 
 troublesome, and sets a man's invention upon the 
 rack; and one break wants a great many more 
 to make it good. It is like building on a false 
 foundation, which continually stands in need of 
 props to keep it up, and proves at last more 
 chargeable than to have raised a substantial build- 
 ing at first upon a true and solid foundation : for 
 sincerity is firm and substantial, and there is no- 
 
EXTRACTS. 191 
 
 thing hollow and unsound in it ; and, because it is 
 plain and open, fears no discovery, of which the 
 crafty man is always in danger. All his preterm 
 ces are so transparent, that he that runs may read 
 them ; he is the last man that finds himself to be 
 found out ; and while he takes it for granted that 
 he makes fools of others, he renders himself ridic- 
 ulous. Add to all this, that sincerity is the most 
 compendious wisdom, and an excellent instrument 
 for the speedy despatch of business. It creates 
 confidence in those we have to deal with, saves 
 the labour of many inquiries, and brings things to 
 an issue in a few words. It is like travelling in a 
 plain beaten road, which commonly brings a man 
 soonerto his journey's end than by-ways, in which 
 men often lose themselves. In a word, whatsoever 
 convenience may be thought to be in falsehood 
 and dissimulation, it is soon over ; but the incon- 
 venience of it is perpetual, because it brings a 
 man under an everlasting jealousy and suspicion, 
 so that he is not believed when he speaks 
 truth, nor trusted perhaps when he means honest- 
 ly. When a man has once forfeited the reputa- 
 tion of his integrity, he is set fast, and nothing will 
 serve his turn ; neither truth nor falsehood." 
 
 Dr. Hawkesworth, in the u Adventurer," makes 
 lying the subject of a whole number ; and begins 
 thus : — " When Aristotle was once asked what a 
 man could gain by uttering falsehoods," he re- 
 plied, " not to be credited when he shall speak 
 the truth." ; ' The character of a liar is at once 
 so hateful and contemptible, that even of those 
 who have lost their virtue it might be expected 
 that, from the violation of truth, they should be 
 restrained by their pride :" and again, u almost 
 every other vice that disgraces human nature may 
 be kept in countenance by applause and associa- 
 tion. ...... The liar, and only the liar, is 
 
192 Illustrations of lying. 
 
 invariably and universally despised, abandoned,, 
 and disowned. It is natural to expect that a crime 
 thus generally detested should be generally avoid- 
 ed, &c. Yet, so it is, that in defiance of censure 
 and contempt, truth is frequently violated ; and 
 scarcely the most vigilant and unremitted circum» 
 spection wilt secure him that mixes with mankind 
 from being hourly deceived by men of whom it 
 can scarcely be imagined that they mean any in- 
 jury to him, or profit to themselves." He then 
 enters into a copious discussion of the lie of vanity, 
 which he calls the most common of lies, and not 
 the least mischievous ; but I shall content myself 
 with only one extract from the conclusion of this 
 paper. " There is, I think, an ancient law in 
 Scotland, by which leasing making was capitally 
 punished. 1 am, indeed, far from designing to in- 
 crease in this country the number of executions ; 
 yet, I cannot but think that they who destroy the 
 confidence of society, weaken the credit of intelli- 
 gence, and interrupt the security of life, might 
 very properly be awakened to a sense of their 
 crimes by denunciations of a whipping-post or pil- 
 lory ; since many are so insensible of right and 
 wrong, that they have no standard of action but 
 the law, nor feel guilt but as they dread punish- 
 ment." 
 
 In No. 54 of the same work, Dr. Hawkesworth 
 says, " that these men, who consider the imputa- 
 tion of some vices as a compliment, would resent 
 that of a lie as an insult, for which life only could 
 atone. Lying, however,'" he adds, u does not in* 
 cur more infamy than it deserves, though other 
 vices incur less. But," continues he, " there is 
 equal turpitude, and yet greater meanness, in those 
 forms of speech which deceive without direct false- 
 hood. The crime is committed with greater de- 
 
EXTRACTS. 193 
 
 liberation, as it requires more contrivance ; and 
 by the offenders the use of language is totally per- 
 verted. They conceal a meaning opposite to that 
 which they express ; their speech is a kind of rid- 
 dle propounded for an evil purpose. 
 
 " Indirect lies more effectually than others de- 
 stroy that mutual confidence which is said to be 
 the band of society. They are more frequently 
 repeated, because they are not prevented by the 
 dread of detection. Is it not astonishing that a 
 practice so universally infamous should not be 
 more generally avoided ? To . think, is to re- 
 nounce it ; and, that I may fix the attention of my 
 readers a little longer upon the subject, I shall re- 
 late a story which, perhaps, by those who have 
 much sensibility, will not soon be forgotten." 
 
 He then proceeds to relate a story which is, I 
 think, more full of moral teaching than any one I 
 ever read on the subject ; and so superior to the 
 preceding ones written by myself that I am glad 
 there is no necessity for me to bring them in imme- 
 diate competition with it ; — and that all 1 need do, 
 is to give the moral of that story. Dr. Hawkes- 
 worth calls the tale " the Fatal Effects of False 
 Apologies and Pretences ;" but ;i the fatal effects 
 of white lying^ would have been a juster title ; 
 and perhaps, rny readers will be of the same opin- 
 ion, when I have given an extract from it. f shall 
 preface the extract by saying that, by a series of 
 white lies, well-intentioned, but, like all lies, mis- 
 chievous in their result, either to the purity of the 
 moral feeling, or to the interests of those who 
 utter them, jealousy was aroused in the husband 
 of one of the heroines, and duel and death were 
 the consequences. The following letter, writ- 
 ten by the too successful combatant to his wife, 
 17 
 
194 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYIN6. 
 
 will sufficiently explain all that is necessary for 
 my purpose. 
 
 " My dear Charlotte, 1 am the most wretched 
 of all men ; but 1 do not upbraid you as the 
 cause. Would that I were not more guilty than 
 you ! We are the martyrs of dissimulation. But 
 your dissimulation and falsehood were the effects 
 of mine. By the success of a He, put into the mouth 
 of a chairman, I was prevented reading a letter 
 which would at last have undeceived me ; and, by 
 persisting in dissimulation, the Captain has made his 
 friend a fugitive, and his wife a widow. Thus 
 does insincerity terminate in misery and confusion, 
 whether in its immediate purpose it succeeds, or is 
 disappointed. If we ever meet again (to meet 
 again in peace is impossible, but, if we ever meet 
 again,) let us resolve to be sincere ; to be sincere 
 is to be wise, innocent, and safe. We venture to 
 commit faults, which shame or fear would prevent, 
 if we did not hope to conceal them by a lie. But, 
 in the labyrin'h of falsehood, men meet those evils 
 which they seek to avoid ; and, as in the straight 
 path of truth alone they can see before them, in 
 the straight path of truth alone they can pursue 
 felicity with success. Adieu! lam ... . dread- 
 ful ! .... 1 can subscribe nothing that does not 
 reproach and torment me." 
 
 Within a few weeks after the receipt of this let- 
 ter, the unhappy lady heard that her husband was 
 cast away, in his passage to France. 
 
 I shall next bring forward a greater champion 
 of truth than the author of the Adventurer ; and 
 put her cause into the hands of the mighty author 
 of the Rambler. Boswell, in his Life of Dr John- 
 son, says thus : — 
 
 " He would not allow his servant to say he 
 was not at home when he really was." " A ser 
 
EXTRACTS. 195 
 
 vanfs strict regard for truth," said he, " must be 
 weakened by the practice. A philosopher may 
 know that it is merely a form of denial ; but few 
 servants are such nice distinguishers. If I accus- 
 tom a servant to tell a lie for me, have I not 
 reason to apprehend that he will tell many lies 
 for himself £"* 
 
 u The importance of strict and scrupulous ve- 
 racity," saj^s Boswell, vol. ii, pp. 454-55, " can- 
 not be too often inculcated. Johnson was known 
 to be so rigidly attentive to it, that, even in his 
 common conversation, the slightest circumstance 
 was mentioned with exact precision. The knowl- 
 edge of his having such a principle and habit 
 
 * Boswell adds, in his own person, " I am however satisfied 
 that every servant of any degree of intelligence, understands 
 saying, his master is not at home, not at all as the affirroatioa 
 of a fact, but as customary words, intimating that his master 
 wishes not to be seen ; so that there can be no bad effect from 
 it." So says the man of the world ; and so say almost all the 
 men of the world, and women too. But, even they will admit 
 that the opinion of Johnson is of more weight, on a question of 
 morals, than that of Boswell ; and I beg leave to add that of an- 
 other powerful-minded and pious man. Scott, the editor of the 
 Bible, says, in a note to the fourth chapter of Judges, " A very 
 criminal deviation from simplicity and godliness is become cus- 
 tomary amongst professed Christians. I mean the instructing 
 and requiring servants to prevaricate (to word it no more harsh- 
 ly,) in order that their masters may be preserved from the in- 
 convenience of unwelcome visitants. And it should be consider- 
 ed whether they who require their servants to disregard the 
 truth, for their pleasure, will not teach them an evil lesson, and 
 habituate them to use falsehood for their own pleasure' also." 
 When I first wrote on this subject, I was not aware that writers 
 of such eminence as those from whom I now quote had written 
 respecting this Lie of Convenience ; but it is most gratifying to 
 me to find the truth of my humble opinion confirmed by such 
 men as Johnson, Scott, and Chalmers. 
 
 I know not who wrote a very amusing and humourous book, 
 called "Thinks I to myself;" but this subject is admirably 
 treated there, and with effective ridicule, as, indeed, is worldly 
 insincerity in general, 
 
196 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 made his friends have a perfect reliance os 
 the truth of every thing that he told, however 
 it might have been doubted, if told by others, 
 
 u What a bribe and a reward does this anecdote 
 hold out to us to be accurate in relation ! for, of 
 all privileges, that of being considered as a person 
 on whose yera< ity and accuracy every one can 
 implicitly rely, is perhaps the most valuable to a 
 social being." Vol, iii, />. 450. 
 
 u Next morning while we were at breakfast," 
 observes the amusing biographer, ik Johnson gave 
 a very earnest recommendation of what he him- 
 self practised with the utmost conscientious- 
 ness ;" I mean, a strict regard to truth, even in 
 the most minute particulars. fcC Accustom your 
 children," said he, ul constantly to this. If a 
 thing happened at one window, and they, when 
 relating it, say, that it happened at another, do not 
 let it pass ; but instantly check them ; you don't 
 know where deviation from truth will end. Our 
 lively hostess, whose fancy was impatient of the 
 rein, ridgetted at this, and ventured to say, i this 
 is too much. If Mr. Johnson should forbid me to 
 drink tea, I would comply ; as 1 should feel the 
 restraint only twice a-day ; but little variations in 
 narrative must happen a thousand times a-day, if 
 one is not perpetually watching • — Johnson, 
 " Well, madam ; and you ought to be perpetually 
 watching. It is more from carelessness about truth, 
 than from intentional lying, that there is so much 
 falsehood in the world.' " 
 
 " Johnson inculcated upon all his friends the 
 importance of perpetual vigilance against the 
 slightest degree of falsehood ; the effect of which, 
 as Sir Joshua Reynolds observed to me, has been 
 that all who were of his school are distinguished 
 for a love of truth and accuracy, which they would 
 
EXTRACTS. 197 
 
 not have possessed in the same degree, if they 
 had not been acquainted with Johnson.* 
 
 " We talked of the casuistical question," says 
 Boswell, vol, iv, 334, " whether it was allowable 
 at any time to depart from truth." — Johnson. 
 " The general rule is, that truth should never be 
 violated ; because it is of the utmost importance to 
 the comfort of life that we should have a full se- 
 curity by mutual faith ; and occasional incon- 
 veniences should be willingly suffered, that we 
 may preserve it. I deny,'' he observed further 
 on, " the lawfulness of telling a lie to a sick man, 
 for fear of alarming him. You have no business 
 with consequences ; you are to tell the truth," 
 
 Leaving what the great moralist himself added 
 on this subject, because it is not necessary for my 
 purpose, I shall do Boswell the justice to insert 
 the following testimony, which he himself bears to 
 the importance of truth. 
 
 "I cannot help thinking that there is much 
 weight in the opinion of those who have held that 
 truth, as an eternal and immutable principle, is 
 never to be viohted for supposed, previous, or 
 superior obligations, of which, every man being 
 led to judge for himself, there is great danger that 
 we too often, from partial motives, persuade our- 
 selves that they exist ; and, probably, whatever 
 extraordinary instances may sometimes occur, 
 where some evil may be prevented by violating 
 this noble principle, it would be found that human 
 happiness would, upon the whole, be more perfect, 
 were truth universally preserved." 
 
 * However Boswell's self-flattery might blind him, what he 
 says relative to the harmlessness of servants denying their mas- 
 ters, makes him an exception to this general rule. 
 17* 
 
198 ILLUSTRATIONS OV LilS^ 
 
 But, however just are the above observations, 
 they are inferior in pithiness, and practical 
 power, to the following few words, extracted from 
 another of Johnson's sentences. " All truth is 
 not of equal importance; but, if little violations 
 be allowed, every violation will, in time he thought 
 little:" 
 
 The following quotation is from the 96th num- 
 ber of the Rambler. Jt is the introduction to an 
 Allegory, called Truth, Falsehood, and Fic- 
 tion ; but, as I think his didactic is here superior 
 to his narrative, I shall content myself with giv- 
 ing the first. 
 
 " It is reported of the Persians, by an ancient 
 writer, that the sum of their education consisted 
 in teaching youth to ride, to shoot with the bow, 
 and to speak truth. The bow and (he horse were 
 easily mastered: but it would have been happy 
 if we had been informed by what arts veracity 
 was cultivated, and by what preservations a 
 Persian mind was secured against the temptations 
 of falsehood. 
 
 " There are indeed, in the present corruptions 
 of mankind, many incitements to forsake truth; 
 the need of palliating our own faults, and the con- 
 venience of imposing on the ignorance or credu- 
 lity of others, so frequently occur ; so many im- 
 mediate evils are to be avoided, and so many 
 present gratifications obtained by craft and de- 
 lusion ; that very few of those who are much 
 entangled in life, have spirit and constancy suf- 
 ficient to support them in the steady practice of 
 open veracity. In order that all men may be 
 taught to speak truth, it is necessary that all like- 
 wise should learn to hear it ; for no species of 
 falsehood is more frequent than flattery, to which 
 the coward is betrayed by fear, the dependant 
 
EXTRACTS. 199 
 
 hy interest, and the friend by tenderness. Those 
 who are neither servile nor timorous, are yet de- 
 sirous to bestow pleasure ; and, while unjust de- 
 mands of praise continue to be made, there will 
 always be some whom hope, fear, or kindness, will 
 dispose to pay them." 
 
 There cannot be a stronger picture given of the 
 difficulties attendant on speaking the strict truth : 
 and 1 own I feel it to be a difficulty which it re- 
 quires the highest of motives to enable us to over- 
 come. Still, as the old proverb says, " where 
 there is a will, there is a way ;" and if that will be 
 derived from the only right source, the only effec- 
 tive moiive, 1 am well convinced, that all obstacles 
 to the utterance of spontaneous truth would at 
 length vanish, and that falsehood would become as 
 rare as it is contemptible and pernicious. 
 
 The contemporary of Johnson and Hawkes- 
 worth,Lord Karnes, comes next on my list of moral 
 writers, who have treated on the subject of truth : 
 but I am not able to give more than a short extract 
 from his Sketches of the History of Man ; a work 
 which had no small reputation in its day, and was 
 in ever} 7 one's hand, till eclipsed by the depth and 
 brilliancy of modern Scotch philosophers. 
 
 He says, p. 169, in his 7th section, with respect 
 to veracity in particular, " man is so constituted 
 that he must be indebted to information for 
 the knowledge of most things that benefit or hurt 
 him; and if he could not depend on information, 
 society would be very little benefitted. Further, 
 it is wisely ordered, that we should be bound by 
 the moral sense to speak truth, even where we per- 
 ceive no harm in transgressing that duty, because it 
 is sufficient that harm may come, though not foreseen ; 
 at the same time, falsehood always does mischief. 
 It may happen not to injure us externally in our 
 reputation, or goods; but it never fails to injure 
 
200 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 us internally ; the sweetest and most refined plea- 
 sure of society is a candid intercourse of senti- 
 ments, of opinion, of desires, and wishes ; and it 
 would be poisonous to indulge any falsehood in 
 such an intercourse.*' 
 
 My next extracts are from two celebrated di- 
 vines of the Church of England, Bishop Beve- 
 ridge, and Archdeacon Paley. The Bishop, in 
 his " Private Thoughts," thus heads one of his 
 sections ; which he denominates resolutions; — ) 
 
 Resolution hi. — / am resolved, by the grace of 
 God, always to make my tongue and heart go togeth- 
 er, so as never to speak with the one, what I do not 
 think with the other. 
 
 " As my happiness consisteth in nearness and 
 vicinity, so doth my holiness in likeness and con- 
 formity, to the chiefest good. 1 am so much 
 the better, as I am the liker the best; and so 
 much the holier, as I am more conformable to 
 the holiest, or rather to him who is holiness it- 
 self. Now, one great title which the Most High 
 is pleased to give himself, and by which, he is 
 pleased to reveal himself to us, is the God of 
 truth : so that I shall be so much the liker to 
 the God of Truth, by how much I am the more 
 constant to the truth of God. And, the farther 
 I deviate from this, the nearer I approach to 
 the nature of the devil, who is the father of lies, 
 and liars too ; John viii. 44. And therefore to 
 avoid the scandal and reproach, as well as the 
 dangerous malignity, of this damnable sin, I am 
 resolved, by the blessing of God, always to tune 
 my tongue in unison to my heart, so as never to 
 speak any thing, but what I think really to be 
 true. So that, if ever I speak what is not true 
 it shall not be the error of my will, but of my un- 
 derstanding. 
 
EXTRACTS. 201 
 
 u I know, lies are commonly distinguished into 
 officious, pernicious, and jocose : and some may 
 fancy some of them more tolerable than others. 
 But, for my own part, I think they are all per- 
 nicious; and therefore, not to be jested withal, 
 nor indulged, upon any pretence or colour whatso- 
 ever. Not as if it was a sin, not to speak exactly 
 as a thing is in itself, or as it seems to me in its lit- 
 eral meaning, without some liberty granted to rhet- 
 orical tropes and figures ; [for so, the Scripture 
 itself would be chargeable with lies ; many things 
 being contained in it which are not true in a lit- 
 eral sense.] But, I must so use rhetorical, as not 
 to abuse my Christian liberty ; and therefore, nev- 
 er to make use of hyperboles, ironies, or other 
 tropes and figures, to deceive or impose upon my 
 auditors, but only for the better adorning, illustrat- 
 ing, or confirming the matter. 
 
 " I am resolved never to promise any thing 
 with my mouth, but what I intend to perform in 
 my heart ; and never to intend to perform any 
 thing, but what I am sure I can perform. For, 
 though I may intend to do as I say now, yet there 
 are a. thousand weighty things that intervene, 
 which may turn the balance of my intentions, 
 or otherwise hinder the performance of my 
 promise." 
 
 I come now to an extract from Dr. Paley, the 
 justly celebrated author of the work entitled 
 " Moral Philosophy." 
 
 " A lie is a breach of promise : for whosoever 
 seriously addresses his discourse to another, tacit- 
 ly promises to speak the truth, because he knows 
 that the truth is expected. Or the obligation of 
 veracity may be made out from the direct ill 
 consequences of lying to social happiness ; which 
 consequences consist, either in some specific is- 
 
W$ ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 jury to particular individuals, or in the destruc- 
 tion of that confidence which is essential to the 
 intercourse of human life : for which latter reason 
 a lie may be pernicious in its general tendency ; 
 and therefore, criminal, though it produce no par- 
 ticular or visible mischief to any one. There are 
 falsehoods which are not lies ; that is, which are 
 not criminal, as where no one is deceived ; which 
 is the case in parables, fables, jests, tales to create 
 mirth, ludicrous embellishments of a story, where 
 the declared design of the speaker is not to inform 
 but to divert ; compliments in the subscription of a 
 letter ; a servant's denying his master ; a prisoner's 
 pleading not guilty ; an advocate asserting the jus- 
 tice, or his belief in the justice, of his client's cause. 
 In such instances, no confidence is destroyed, be- 
 cause none was reposed ; no promise to speak the 
 truth is violated, because none was given or under- 
 stood to be given* 
 
 " In the first place, it is almost impossible to 
 pronounce beforehand with certainty, concerning 
 any lie, that it is inoffensive, volat irrevocable, 
 and collects oft-times reactions in its flight, which 
 entirely changes its nature. It may owe, possi- 
 bly, its mischief to the officiousness or misrepre- 
 sentation of those who circulate it ; but the mis- 
 chief is, nevertheless*' in some degree chargeable 
 upon the original editor. In the next place, this 
 liberty in conversation defeats its own end. Much 
 of the pleasure, and all the benefit, of conversa- 
 tion depend upon our opinion of the speaker's ve- 
 racity, for which this rule leaves no foundation. 
 The faith, indeed, of a hearer must be extremely 
 perplexed, who considers the speaker, or believes 
 that the speaker considers himself, as under no 
 obligation to adhere to truth, but according to the 
 particular importance of what he relates. But, be- 
 
EXTRACTS. 20S 
 
 side and above *both these reasons, white lies al- 
 ways introduce others of a darker complexion. 
 I have seldom known any one who deserted 
 truth in trifles that could be trusted in matters of im- 
 portance.* 
 
 " Nice distinctions are out of the question upon 
 occasions which, like those of speech, return 
 every hour. The habit, therefore, when once 
 formed, is easily extended to serve the designs of 
 malice or interest ; like all habits, it spreads in- 
 deed of itself. 
 
 " As there may be falsehoods which are not 
 lies, so there are many lies without literal or di- 
 rect falsehood. An opening is always left for this 
 species of prevarication, when the literal and 
 grammatical signification of a sentence is different 
 from the popular and customary meaning. It is 
 the wilful deceit that makes the lie ; and we wil- 
 fully deceive when our expressions are not true in 
 the sense in which we believe the hearer appre- 
 hends them. Besides, it is absurd to contend for 
 any sense of words, in opposition to usage, and 
 upon nothing else ; — or a man may act a lie, — as 
 by pointing his finger in a wrong direction, when 
 a traveller inquires of him his road ; — or when a 
 tradesman shuts up his windows, to induce his 
 creditors to believe that he is abroad : for, to all 
 moral purposes, and therefore as to veracity, 
 speech and action are the same ; — speech being 
 only a mode of action. Or, lastly, there may be 
 lies of omission. A writer on English history, 
 who, in his account of the reign of Charles the 
 first, should wilfully suppress any evidence of 
 
 - How contrary is the spirit of this wise observation, and the 
 following ones, to that which Paley manifests in his toleration 
 of servants being taught to deny their masters ! 
 
204 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 that Prince's despotic measures arfd designs, might 
 be said to lie ; for, by entitling his book a His- 
 tory of England, he engages to relate the whole 
 truth of the history, or, at least, all he knows 
 of it." 
 
 I feel entire unity of sentiment with Paley on 
 all that he has advanced in these extracts, except 
 in those passages which are printed in Italic; 
 but Chalmers and Scott have given a complete 
 refutation to his opinion on the innocence of a 
 servant's denying his master, in the extracts given 
 in a preceding chapter; and it will be ably re- 
 futed in some succeeding extracts. But, eloquent 
 and convincing as Paley generally is, it is not 
 from his Moral Philosophy that he derives his 
 purest reputation. He has long been considered 
 as lax, negligent, and inconclusive, on many points, 
 as a moral philosopher. 
 
 It was when he came forward as a Christian 
 warrior against infidelity, that he brought his best 
 powers into the field ; and his name will live for 
 ever as the author of Evidences of Christianity, 
 and the Horas Paulinas.* 1 shall now avail my- 
 self of the assistance of a powerful and eloquent 
 writer of more modern date, William Godwin, 
 with whom I have entire correspondence of opin- 
 ion on the subject of spontaneous truth, though, 
 on some other subjects, I decidedly differ from 
 him. " It was further proposed," says he, " to 
 consider the value of truth in a practical view, as 
 it relates to the incidents and commerce of ordina- 
 
 * I heard the venerable bishop of say that wh- n he 
 
 gave Dr. Paley some very valuable preferment, he addrrssed 
 him thus : " I give you this, Dr Paley, not for jour IN'oral 
 Philosophy, nor for your JNatural Theolocy, but for your Evi- 
 dences of Christianity, and your Horee Pauiinse." 
 
EXTRACTS. 205 
 
 ry life, under which form it is known by the de- 
 nominations of sincerity. 
 
 " The powerful recommendations attendant on 
 sincerity are obvious. It is intimately connected 
 with the general dissemination of innocence, ener- 
 gy, intellectual improvement, and philanthrophy. 
 Did every man impose this law upon himself ; 
 did he regard himself as not authorized to con- 
 ceal any part of his character and conduct ; this 
 circumstance alone would prevent millions of 
 actions from being perpetrated, in which we are 
 now induced to engage, by the prospect of suc- 
 cess and impunity." " There is a further benefit 
 that would result to me from the habit of telling 
 every man the truth, regardless of the dictates of 
 worldly prudence and custom ; — I should acquire 
 a clear, ingenuous, and unembarrassed air. Ac- 
 cording to the established modes of society, when- 
 ever I have a circumstance to state which would 
 require some effort of mind and discrimination, to 
 enable me to do it justice, and state it with proper 
 effect, I fly from the task, and take refuge in si- 
 lence and equivocation." 
 
 " But the principle which forbade me conceal- 
 meut would keep my mind for ever awake, and 
 for ever warm. I should always be obliged to 
 exert my attention, lest in pretending to tell the 
 tru'.h, I should tell it in so imperfect and mangled 
 away, as to produce the effect of falsehood- If 
 I spoke to a man of ny own faults, or ihose of 
 his neighbour, I should be anxious not to suffer 
 them to come distorted or exaggerated to his 
 mind, or permit what at first was fact, to degene- 
 rate into satire. If I spoke to him of the errors he 
 bad himself committed, I should carefully avoid 
 those inconsiderate expressions which might con* 
 18 
 
206 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 vert what was in itself beneficent, into offence, 
 and my thoughts would be full of that kindness 
 and generous concern for his welfare which such 
 a task necessarily brings with it. The effects of 
 sincerity upon others would be similar to its ef- 
 fects on him that practised it. Plain dealing, 
 truth spoken with kindness, but spoken with sin- 
 cerity, is the most wholesome of all disciplines." 
 .... " The only species of sincerity which 
 can, in any degree, prove satisfactory to the en- 
 lightened moralist and politician, is that where 
 frankness is perfect, and every degree of reserve 
 is discarded." 
 
 " Nor is there any danger that such a character 
 should degenerate into ruggedness and brutality. 
 
 " Sincerity, upon the principles on which it is 
 here recommended, is practised from a conscious- 
 ness of its utility, and from sentiments of philan- 
 thropy. \ 
 
 " It will communicate frankness to the voice, 
 fervour to the gesture, and kindness to the heart. 
 
 " The duty of sincerity is one of those general 
 principles which reflection and experience have 
 enjoined upon us as conducive to the happiness of 
 mankind. 
 
 " Sincerity, and plain dealing are eminently con- 
 ducive to the interests of mankind at large, because 
 they afford that ground of confidence and reason- 
 able expectation which are essential to wisdom 
 and virtue." 
 
 I feel it difficult to forbear giving further ex- 
 tracts from this very interesting and well-argued 
 part of the work from which I quote ; but the 
 limits necessary for my own book forbid me to 
 to indulge myself in copious quotations from this. 
 1 must, however, give two further extracts from 
 the conclusion of this chapter. " No man can be 
 
EXTRACTS. 207 
 
 eminently either respectable, or amiable, or use- 
 ful, who is not distinguished for the frankness 
 and candour of his manners, ..... He that 
 is not conspicuously sincere, either very little 
 partakes of the passion of doing good, or is piti- 
 ably ignorant of the means by which the objects 
 of true benevolence are to be effected." The 
 writer proceeds to discuss the mode of exclud- 
 ing visiters, and it is done in so powerful a man- 
 ner, that I must avail myself of the aid which it 
 affords me. 
 
 " Let us then, according to the well-known 
 axiom of morality, put ourselves in the place of 
 that man upon whom is imposed this ungracious 
 task. Is there any of us that would be contented 
 to perform it in person, and to say that our father 
 and brother was not at home, when they were 
 really in the house ? Should we not feel our- 
 selves contaminated by the plebeian lie ? Can 
 we thus be justified in requiring that from an- 
 other which we should shrink from as an act of 
 dishonour in ourselves ?" I must here beg leave 
 to state that, generally speaking, masters and mis- 
 tresses only command their servants to tell a lie 
 which they would be very willing to tell themselves* 
 I have heard wives deny their husbands, husbands 
 their wives, children their parents, and parents 
 their children, with as much unblushing effrontery 
 at if there were no such thing as truth, or its obli- 
 gations ; but I respect his question on this sub- 
 ject, envy him his ignorance, and admire his epi- 
 thet plebeian lie. 
 
 Bat then, 1 think that all lies are plebeian. Was 
 it not a king of France, a captive in his kingdom, 
 who said, (with an honourable consciousness, that 
 a sovereign is entitled to set a high example to his 
 people,) " if honour be driven from every other 
 
208 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 spot, it should always inhabit the breast of kings ! n 
 and if truth be banished trom every other de- 
 scription of persons, it ought more especially to be 
 found on the lips of those whom rank and fortune 
 have placed above the reach of strong temptation 
 to falsehood. 
 
 But, while I think that, however exalted be the 
 rank of the person who utters a lie, that person 
 suffers by his deceit a worse than plebeian de- 
 gradation. 1 also assert, that the humblest plebe- 
 ian, who is known to be incapable of falsehood, 
 and to utter, on all occasions, spontaneous truth, 
 is raised far above the mendacious patrician in 
 the scale of real respectability ; and in compar- 
 ison, the plebeian becomes patrician, and the pa- 
 trician plebeian. 
 
 I shall conclude my references, with extracts 
 from two modern Scotch philosophers of consider- 
 able and deserved reputation, Dr. Reid, and Dr. 
 Thomas Browne.* 
 
 " Without fidelity and trust, there can be no hu- 
 man society. There never was a society even of 
 savages, nay, even of robbers and pirates, in 
 which there was not a great degree of veracity 
 and fidelity amongst themselves. Every man 
 thinks himself injured and ill-used when he is im- 
 posed upon. Every man takes it as a reproach 
 when falsehood is imputed to him. There are 
 the clearest evidences that all men disapprove of 
 falsehood, when their judgment is not biassed." — 
 Raid's Essays on the Power of the Human Mind, 
 chap. vi. " On the Nature of a Contract." 
 
 * This latter gentleman, with whom I had the pleasure of be- 
 ing personally acquainted, has, by his early death, left a chasm 
 in the world of literature, and in the domestic circle in which he 
 moved, which cannot easily be filled up. 
 
EXTRACTS, 
 
 209 
 
 u The next duty of which we have to treat, is 
 that of veracity, which relates to the knowledge 
 or belief of others, as capable of being affected by 
 the meanings, true or false, which our words or 
 our conduct may convey ; and consists in the 
 faithful conformity of our language, or of our con- 
 duct, when it is intended tacitly to supply the 
 place of language to the truth which we profess to 
 deliver; or, at least, to that which is at the time 
 believed by us to be true. So much of the hap- 
 piness of social life is derived from the use of lan- 
 guage, and so profitless would the mere power of 
 language be, but for the truth which dictates it, 
 that the abuse of the confidence which is placed 
 in our declarations may not merely be in the 
 highest degree injurious to the individual deceived, 
 but would tend, if general, to throw back the 
 whole race of mankind into that barbarism from 
 which they have emerged, and ascended through 
 still purer air, and still brighter sunshine, to that 
 noble height which they have reached. It is not 
 wonderful, therefore, that veracity, so important 
 to the happiness of all, and yet subject to so many 
 temptations of personal interest in the violation of 
 it, should, in all nations, have had a high place 
 assigned to it among the virtues " — Dr. Thomas 
 Browne's Lectures on- the Philosophy of the Human 
 Mind, vol iv. p. 225. 
 
 It may be asked why I have taken the trouble 
 to quote from so many authors, in order to prove 
 what no one ever doubted ; namely, the impor- 
 tance and necessity of speaking the truth, and the 
 meanness and mischief of uttering falsehood. 
 But I have added authority to authority, in order 
 renewedly to force on the attention of my readers 
 that not one of these writers mentions any allow- 
 18* 
 
210 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 ed exception to the general rule, that truth is al- 
 ways to be spoken ; no mental reservation is point- 
 ed out as permitted on special occasions ; no indi- 
 vidual is authorized to be the judge of right or 
 wrong in his own case, and to set his own opin- 
 ion of the propriety and necessity of lying, in par- 
 ticular instances, against the positive precept to 
 abstain from lying ; an injunction which is so 
 commonly enforced in the page of the moralist, 
 that it becomes a sort of imperative command. 
 Still, in spite of the universally-acknowledged con- 
 viction of mankind, that truth is virtue, and false- 
 hood vice, I scarcely know an individual who 
 does not occasionally shrink from acting up to his 
 conviction on this point, and is not, at times, irre- 
 sistibly impelled to qualify that conviction, by 
 saying, that on " almost all occasions the truth is 
 to be spoken, and never to be withheld." Or 
 they may, perhaps, quote the well known pro- 
 verb, that " truth is not to bespoken at all times." 
 But the real meaning of that proverb appears to 
 me to be simply this : that we are never officious- 
 ly or gratuitously to utter offensive truths; not 
 that truth, when required, is ever to be withheld. 
 The principle of truth is an immutable principle, 
 or it is of no use as a guard, nor safe as the foun- 
 dation of morals. A moral law on which it is 
 dangerous to act to the uttermost, is, however ad- 
 mirable, no better than Harlequin's horse, which 
 was the very best and finest of all horses, and 
 worthy of the admiration of the whoie world ; but, 
 unfortunately, the horse was dead ; and if the 
 law to tell the truth inviolably, is not to be strict- 
 ly adhered to, without any regard to consequen- 
 ces, it is, however admirable, as useless as the 
 merits of Harlequin's dead horse. King Theodo- 
 ric, when advised by his courtiers to debase the 
 
EXTRACTS. 211 
 
 coin, declared, " that nothing which bore his 
 image should ever lie." Happy would it be for 
 the interests of society, if, having as much proper 
 self-respect as this good monarch had, we could 
 resolve never to allow our looks or words to bear 
 any impress, but that of the strict truth > and 
 were as reluctant to give a false impression of our- 
 selves, in any way, as to circulate light sovereigns 
 and forged banknotes. Oh ! that the day may 
 come when it shall be thought as dishonourable to 
 commit the slightest breach of veracity, as to pass 
 counterfeit shillings ; and when both shall be 
 deemed equally detrimental to the safety and pros- 
 perity of the community. 
 
 . I intend in a future work to make some obser- 
 vations on several collateral descendants from the 
 large family of lies. Such as inaccuracy in re- 
 lation ; promise-breaking ; engagement-break- 
 ing, and want of punctuality. Perhaps pro- 
 crastination comes in a degree under the nead 
 of lying; at least procrastinators lie to themselves ; 
 they say " I will do so and so to-morrow," and as 
 they believe their own assertions, they are guilty 
 of self-deception, the most dangerous of all de- 
 ceptions. But those who are enabled by con- 
 stant watchfulness never to deceive others, will at 
 last learn never to deceive themselves ; for truth 
 being their constant aim in all their dealings they 
 will not shrink from that most effective of all 
 means to acquire it, self-examination. 
 
212 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS FROM HAWKES- 
 WORTH AND OTHERS. 
 
 In the preceding chapter, I have given various 
 extracts from authors who have written on the 
 subject of truth and borne their testimony to the 
 necessity of a strict adherence to it on all occa- 
 sions, if individuals wish not only to be safe and 
 respectable themselves, but to establish the inter- 
 ests of society on a sure foundation ; but, before 
 I proceed to other comments on this important sub- 
 ject, I shall make observations on some of the 
 above-mentioned extracts. 
 
 Dr. Hawkesworth says, " that the liar, and 
 only the liar, is universally despised, abandoned, 
 and disowned." But is this the fact? Incon- 
 venient, dangerous, and disagreeable, though it 
 be, to associate with those on whose veracity we 
 cannot depend ; yet which of us has ever known 
 himself, or others, refuse intercourse with persons 
 who habitually violate the truth ? We dismiss 
 the servant indeed, whose habit of lying offends us, 
 and we cease to employ the menial, or the trades- 
 man ; but when did we ever hesitate to associate 
 with the liar of rank and opulence ? When was 
 our moral sense so delicate as to make us refuse 
 to eat of the costly food, and reject the favour or 
 services of any one, because the lips of the oblig- 
 er were stained with falsehood, and the conversa- 
 tion with guile 1 Surely, this writer overrates the 
 delicacy of moral feeling in society, or we, of these 
 latter days, have fearfully degenerated from our 
 ancestors. 
 
OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 213 
 
 He also says, " that the imputation of a lie, is 
 an insult for which life only can atones" And 
 amongst men of worldly honour, duel is undoubt- 
 edly the result of the lie given, and received. 
 Consequently, the interests of truth are placed 
 under the secure guardianship of fear on great oc- 
 casions. But, it is not so on daily, and more com- 
 mon ones, and the man who would thus fatally re- 
 sent the imputation of falsehood, does not even re- 
 prove the lie of convenience in his wife or chil- 
 dren, nor refrain from being guilty of it himself ; 
 he will often, perhaps, be the bearer of a lie to 
 excuse them from keeping a disagreeable en- 
 gagement ; and will not scruple to make lying 
 apologies for some negligence of his own. But, 
 is Dr. Hawkesworth right in saying that offenders 
 like these are shunned and despised ? Certainly 
 not ; nor are they even self-reprobated, nor would 
 they be censured by others, if their falsehood 
 were detected. Yet, are they not liars ? and is 
 the lie, imputed to them, (in resentment of which 
 imputation they were willing to risk their life, and 
 the life of another,) a greater breach of the moral 
 law, than the little lies which they are so willing 
 to tell ? and who, that is known to tell lies on tri- 
 vial occasions, has a right to resent the imputation 
 of lying on great ones ? Whatever flattering unc- 
 tion we may lay to our souls, there is only one 
 wrong and one right ; and I repeat, that, as those 
 servants who pilfer grocery only are with justice 
 called thieves, because they have thereby shown 
 that the principle of honesty is not in them, — so 
 may the utterers of little lies be with justice call- 
 ed liars, because they equally show that they are 
 strangers to the restraining and immutable prin- 
 ciples of truth. 
 
 Hawkesworth says, " that indirect lies more e£ 
 
214 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 fectuallj destroy mutual confidence, that band of 
 society, than any others ; and J fully agree with 
 him in his idea of the '* great turpitude, and great- 
 er meanness, of those forms of speech, which de- 
 ceive without direct falsehood ;" but I cannot 
 agree with him, that these deviations from truth 
 are " universally infamous ;" on the contrary, they 
 are even scarcely reckoned a fault at all ; their 
 very frequency prevents them from being censur- 
 ed, and they are often considered both necessary 
 and justifiable. 
 
 In that touching and useful tale by which 
 Hawkesworth illustrates the pernicious effect of 
 indirect, as well as direct, lies, " a lie put into the 
 mouth of a chairman, and another lie, accompanied 
 by withholding of the whole truth, are the 
 occasion of duel and of death." 
 
 And what were these lies, direct and indirect, 
 active and passive ? Simply these. The bearer 
 of a note is desired to say that he comes from a 
 milliner, when, in reality, he comes from a lady in 
 the neighbourhood ; and one of the principal ac- 
 tors in the story leaves word that he is gone to a 
 coffee-house, when, in point of fact, he is gone to a 
 friend's house. That friend, on being questioned 
 by him, withholds, or conceals part of the truth, 
 meaning to deceive ; the wife of the questioner dots 
 the same, and thus, though both are innocent even 
 in thought, of any thing offensive to the strictest 
 propriety, they become involved in the fatal con- 
 sequences of imputed guilt, from which a disclo- 
 sure of the whole truth would at once have pre- 
 served them. 
 
 Now, I would ask if there be any thing more 
 common in the daily affairs of life, than those very 
 lies and dissimulations which I have selected ? 
 
 Who has not given, or heard given, this order, 
 
OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 215 
 
 " do not say where you come from ;" and often 
 accompanied by " if you are asked, say you do 
 not know, or you come from such a place." Who 
 does not frequently conceal where they have 
 been ; and while they own to the questioner that 
 they have been to such a place, and seen such a 
 person, keep back the information that they have 
 been to another place, and seen another person, 
 though they are very conscious that the two latter 
 were the real objects of the inquiry made ? 
 
 Some may reply, " yes ; 1 do these things every 
 day perhaps, and so does every one ; and where 
 is the harm of it ? You cannot be so absurd as 
 to believe that such innocent lies, and a conceal- 
 ment such as 1 have a right to indulge in, will cer- 
 tainly be visited by consequences like those im* 
 agined by a writer of fiction ?" 
 
 I answer, no ; but though' I cannot be sure that 
 fatal consequences will be the result of that impos- 
 sible thing, an innocent lie, some consequences 
 attend on all deviations from truth, which it were 
 better to avoid. In the first place, the lying order 
 given to a servant, or inferior, not only lowers the 
 standard of truth in the mind of the person so 
 commanded, but it lowers the person who gives it ; 
 it weakens that salutary respect with which the 
 lower orders regard the higher ; servants and in- 
 feriors are shrewd observers ; and those domestics 
 who detect a laxity of morals in their employers, 
 and find that they do not hold truth sacred, but 
 are ready to teach others to lie for their service, 
 deprive themselves of their best claim to respect 
 and obedience from them, that of a deep convic- 
 tion of their moral superiority. And they who 
 discover in their intimate friends and associates a 
 systematic habit, an assumed and exercised right 
 of telling only as much of the truth as suits their in- 
 
216 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 elinations and purposes, must feel their confidence 
 in them most painfully destroyed ; and listen, in 
 future, to their disclosures and communications 
 with unavoidable suspicion, and degrading distrust. 
 
 The account given by Boswell of the regard 
 paid by Dr. Johnson to truth on all occasions, fur- 
 nishes us with a still better shield against devia- 
 tions from it, than can be afforded even by the 
 best and most moral fiction. For, as Longinus was 
 said " to be himself the great sublime he draws," so 
 Johnson was himself the great example of the be* 
 nefit of those precepts which he lays down for the 
 edification of others ; and what is still more use- 
 ful and valuable to us, he proves that however dif- 
 ficult it may be to speak the truth, and to be ac- 
 curate on all occasions, it is certainly possible ; for, 
 as Johnson could do it, why cannot others? It re- 
 quires not his force of intellect to enable us to fol- 
 low his example ; all that is necessary is a knowl- 
 edge of right and wrong, a reverence for truth, and 
 an abhorrence of deceit. 
 
 Such was Johnson's known habit of telling the 
 truth, that even improbable things were believed, 
 if he narrated them ! Such was the respect for 
 truth which his practice of it excited, and such the 
 beneficial influence of his example, that all his in- 
 timate companions " were distinguished for a love 
 of truth and an accuracy " dented from associa- 
 tion with him. 
 
 I can never read this account of our great mor- 
 alist, without feeling my heart glow with emula- 
 tion and triumph ! With emulation, because I 
 know that it must be my own fault, if 1 become 
 not as habitually the votary of truth as he himself 
 was ; and with triumph, because it is a complete 
 refutation of the commonplace arguments against 
 enforcing the necessity of spontaneous truth, that 
 
OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 21 7 
 
 it is absolutely impossible ; and that, if possible, 
 what would be gained by it ? • 
 
 What would be gained by it ? Society at large 
 would, in the end, gain a degree of safety and 
 purity far beyond what it has hitherto known ;and, 
 in the meanwhile, the individuals who speak truth 
 would obtain a prize worthy the highest aspirings 
 of earthly ambition, — the constant and involuntary 
 confidence and reverence of their fellow-creatures. 
 
 The consciousness of truth and ingenuousness 
 gives a radiance to the countenance, a freedom to 
 the play of the lips, a persuasion to the voice, and 
 a graceful dignity to the person, which no other 
 quality of mind can equally bestow. And who is 
 not able to recollect the direct contrast to this pic- 
 ture exhibited by the conscious utterer of false- 
 hood and disingenuousness ? Who has not ob- 
 served the downcast eye, the snapping restless 
 eyelid, the changing colour, and the hoarse, im- 
 peded voice, which sometimes contradict what the 
 hesitating lip utters, and stamp, on the positive as- 
 sertion, the undoubted evidence of deceit and in- 
 sincerity ? 
 
 Those who make up the usual mass of society 
 are, when tempted to its common dissimulations, 
 like little boats on the ocean, which are continu- 
 ally forced to shift sail, and row away from dan- 
 ger ; or, if obliged to await it, are necessitated, 
 from want of power, to get on one side of the bil- 
 low, instead of directly meeting it. While the 
 firm votaries of truth, when exposed to the temp- 
 tations of falsehood, proceed undaunted along the 
 direct course, like the majestic vessel, coming bold- 
 ly and directly on, breasting the waves in con- 
 scious security, and inspiring confidence in all 
 whose well-being is intrusted to them. Is it not a 
 19 
 
218 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 delightful sensation to feel and to fnspire confi- 
 dence ? Is it not delightful to know, when we lie 
 down at night, that, however darkness may enve- 
 lope us, the sun will undoubtedly rise again, and 
 chase away the gloom ? True, he may rise in 
 clouds, and his usual splendour may not shine out 
 upon us during the whole diurnal revolution ; still 
 we know that though there be not sunshine, there 
 will be light, and we betake ourselves to our 
 couch, confiding in the assurances of past experi- 
 ence, that day will succeed to night, and light to 
 darkness. But, is it not equally delightful to feel 
 this cheering confidence in the moral system of 
 the circle in which we move ? And can any thing 
 inspire it so much as the constant habit of truth in 
 those with whom we live ? To know that we 
 have friends on whom we can always rely for 
 honest counsel, ingenuous reproof, and sine re 
 sympathy, — to whom we can look with never- 
 doubting confidence in the night of our soul's des- 
 pondency, knowing that they will rise on us like 
 the cheering never-failing light of day, speaking 
 unwelcome truths perhaps, but speaking them with 
 tenderness and discretion, — is, surely, one of the 
 dearest comforts which this world can give. It is 
 the most precious of the earthly staffs, permitted 
 to support us as we go, trembling, short-sighted, 
 and weary, pilgrims, along the chequered path of 
 human existence. 
 
 And is it not an ambition worthy of thinking and 
 responsible beings to endeavour to qualify our- 
 selves, and those whom we love, to be such friends 
 as these ? And if habits of unblemished truth 
 will bestow this qualification, were it not wise to 
 labour hard in order to attain them, undaunled 
 by difficulty, undeterred by the sneers of world- 
 lings, who cannot believe in the possibility of that 
 
OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 219 
 
 moral excellence which they feel themselves un- 
 able to obtain ? 
 
 To you, O ye parents and preceptors ! I par- 
 ticularly address myself. Guard your own lips 
 from " speaking leasing," that the quickly discern- 
 ing child or servant, may not, in self-defence, set 
 the force of your example against that of your pre- 
 cepts. If each individual family would seriously 
 resolve to avoid every species of falsehood them- 
 selves, whether authorized by custom or not, and 
 would visit every deviation from truth, in those 
 accused, with punishment and disgraee, the exam- 
 ple would unceasingly spread ; for, even now, 
 wherever the beauty of truth is seen, its influence 
 is immediately felt, and its value acknowledged. 
 Individual efforts, however humble, if firm and 
 repeated, must be ultimately successful, as the 
 feeble mouse in the fable was, at last, enabled, by 
 its perseverance, to gnaw the cords asunder which 
 held the mighty lion. Difficult, I own, would such 
 general purification be ; but what is impossible to 
 zeal and enterprize ? 
 
 Hercules, as fabulous but instructive story tells 
 us, when he was required to perform the apparent- 
 ly impossible task of cleansing the Augean stables, 
 exerted all his strength, and turned the course of 
 a river through them to effect his purpose, proving 
 by his success, that nothing is impossible to perse- 
 verance and exertion ; and however long the du- 
 ration, and wide-spreading the pollutions of false- 
 hood and dissimulation in the world, there is a 
 river, which, if suffered to flow over their impuri- 
 ties, is powerful enough to wash away every stain, 
 since it flows from the " fountain of ever-living 
 
220 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 RELIGION THE ONLY BASIS OF TRUTH. 
 
 All the moralists from whom I have quoted, 
 and those on whom 1 have commented in the pre- 
 ceding chapters, have treated the subject of truth, 
 as moralists only. They do not lay it down as an 
 indisputable fact, that truth, as a principle of ac- 
 tion, is obligatory on us all. in enjoined obedience to 
 the clear dictates of revealed religion. Therefore, 
 they have kept out of sight the strongest motives 
 to abhor lying, and cleave unto truth, obedience 
 to the divine will; yet, as necessary as were the 
 shield and the buckler to the ancient warriors, is 
 the u breastplate of faith " to the cause of sponta- 
 neous truth. It has been asserted that morality 
 might exist in all its power and purity, were there 
 no such thing as religion, since it is conducive to 
 the earthly interests and happiness of man. But, 
 are moral motives sufficient to protect us in times 
 of particular temptations ? There appears to me 
 the same difference between morality, unprotect- 
 ed by religious motives, and morality derived 
 from them, as between the palace of ice, famous in 
 Russian story, and a castle built of ever-during 
 stone ; perfect to the eye, and, as if formed to last 
 for ever was the building of frost-work, ornament- 
 ed and lighted up for the pleasure of the sover- 
 eign ; but, it melted aw 7 ay before the power of 
 natural and artificial warmth, and was quickly 
 resolved to the element from which it sprung. But 
 the castle formed of stones joined together by a 
 strong and enduring cement, is proof against all 
 assailment 5 and, even though it may be occasion- 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 221 
 
 ally shattered by the enemies, it still towers in its 
 grandeur, indestructible, though impaired. In 
 like manner, unassailable and perfect, in appear- 
 ance, may be the virtue of the mere moralist ; but 
 when assailed by the warmth of the passions on one 
 side, and by different enemies on the other, his 
 virtue, like the palace of ice, is likely to melt 
 away, and be as though it had not been. But, 
 the virtue of the truly religious man, even though 
 it may on occasion be slightly shaken, is yet proof 
 against any important injury ; and remains, spite 
 of temptation and danger, in its original purity and 
 power. The moral man may, therefore utter 
 spontaneous truth; but the religious man must : 
 for he remembers the following precepts, which 
 amongst others he has learned from the scrip- 
 tures ; and knows that to speak lies is displeasing 
 
 tO the GOD OF TRUTH. 
 
 In the 6th chapter of Leviticus, the Lord threat- 
 ens the man u Who lies to his neighbour, and who 
 deceives his neighbour." Again he says, " Ye 
 shall not deal falsely, neither lie to one another." 
 We read in the Psalms that " the Lord will de- 
 stroy those who speak leasing." He is said to be 
 angry with the wicked every day, who have con- 
 ceived mischief, and brought forth falsehood. 
 " He that worketh deceit," says the Psalmist, 
 ; ' shall not dwell within my house — he that telleth 
 lies shall not tarry in my sight." The Saviour, in 
 the 8th chapter of John, calls the devil u a liar, 
 and the father of lies." Paul, in the 3d chapter 
 of Colossians, says, " Lie not one tb another !" 
 Prov. vi. 19, " The Lord hates a false witness 
 that speaketh lies." Prov. ix. " And he that 
 speaketh lies shall perish." Prov. xix, 22, " A 
 poor man is better than a liar." James iii. 14, 
 19* 
 
222 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 " Lie not against the truth." Isaiah xvii. "The 
 Lord shall sweep away the refuge of lies." 
 Prov, xviii. kt Let the lying lips be put to silence." 
 P»aim cxix. 29. '■ Remove from me the way of 
 lying." Ps. Ixiii. 11, ^ The mouth that speaketh 
 lies shall be stopped." The fate of Gehazi, in the 
 5th chapter of the second book of Kings, who lied 
 to the prophet Elisha, and went out of his pre- 
 sence " a leper whiter than snow ;" and the 
 judgment on Ananias and Sapphira,in the 5th chap- 
 ter of Acts, on the former for withholding the 
 truth intending to deceive, and on the latter for 
 telling a direct lie, are awful proofs how hateful 
 filsebood is in the sight of the Almighty ; and, 
 that though the seasons of his immediate judg- 
 ments may be past, his vengeance against every 
 species of falsehood is tremendously certain. 
 
 But though, as I have stated more than once, all 
 persons, even those who are most negligent of 
 truth, exclaim continually against lying ; and liars 
 cannot forgive the slightest imputation against their 
 veracity, still, few are willing to admit that telling 
 lies of courtesy, or convenience, is lying ; or thai 
 the occasional violator of truth, for what are call- 
 ed innocent purposes, ought to be considered as a 
 liar ; and thence the universal falsehood which 
 prevails. And, surely, that moral precept which 
 every one claims a right to violate, according to 
 his wants and wishes, loses its restraining power, 
 and is, as I have before observed, for all its origi- 
 nal purposes, wholly annihilated. 
 
 But, as that person has no right to resent being 
 called a sloven who goes about in a stained gar- 
 ment, though that stain be a single one ; so that 
 being who allows himself to indulge in any one 
 species of lie, cannot declare with justice that he 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 22Sr 
 
 deserves not the name of a liar. The general 
 voice and tenor of Scripture say " lie not at all." 
 
 This may appear a command very difficult to 
 obey, but he who gave it, has given us a still more 
 appalling one ; " be ye perfect, as your Father in 
 heaven is perfect." Yet surely, he would never 
 have given a command impossible for us to fulfil. 
 However, be that as it may, we are to try to fulfil 
 it. The drawing-master who would form a pupil 
 to excellence, does not set incorrect copies be- 
 fore him, but the most perfect models of immortal 
 art ; and that tyro who is awed into doing nothing 
 by the perfection of his model, is not more weak 
 than those who persevere in the practice of lying 
 by the seeming impossibility of constantly telling 
 the truth. The pupil may never be able to copy 
 the model set before him, because his aids are 
 only human and earthly ones. But, 
 
 He who has said that " as our day our strength 
 shall be ;" He whose ear is open to the softest 
 cry ; He whom the royal psalmist called upon to 
 deliver him from those " whose mouth speaketh 
 vanity, and whose right hand is a right hand of 
 falsehood ;" — This pure, this powerful, this per- 
 fect Being, still lives to listen to the supplications 
 of all who trust in him ; and will, in the hour of 
 temptation to utter falsehood and deceit, strength- 
 en them out of Zion. 
 
 In all other times of danger the believer suppli- 
 cates the Lord to grant him force to resist tempta- 
 tion; but, whoever thinks of supplicating him to 
 be enabled to resist daily temptation to what is 
 called little, or white lying 1 Yet, has the Lord re- 
 vealed to us what species of lying he tolerates, 
 and what he reproves ? Does he tell us that we 
 may tell the lie of courtesy and convenience, but 
 avoid all others ? The lying of Ananias was only 
 
224 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 the passive lie of concealing that he had kept 
 back part of his own property, yel he was punished 
 with instant death ! The only safety is in believ- 
 ing, or remembering, that all lying and insincerity 
 whatever is rebellion against the revealed will of 
 the great God of Truth ; and they whoso believe, 
 or remember, are prepared for the strongest at- 
 tacks of the soul's adversary, " that devil, who 
 is the father of lies ;" for their weapons ore deriv- 
 ed from the armoury of heaven ; their steps are 
 guided by light from the sanctuary, and the 
 cleansing river by which they are enabled to 
 drive away all the pollutions of falsehood and 
 deceit, is that pure river of " the water of life, 
 flowing from the throne of God, and of the 
 Lamb." 
 
 I trust, that I have not in any of the preceding 
 pages underrated the difficulty of always speaking 
 the truth ; — I have only denied that it was impossi- 
 ble to do so, and I have pointed out the only means 
 by which the possibility of resisting the tempta- 
 tion to utter falsehood might be secured to us on 
 all occasions ; namely, religious motives derived 
 from obedience to the will of God. 
 
 Still, in order to prove how well aware I am of 
 the difficulty in question, 1 shall venture to bring 
 forward some distinguished instances on record of 
 holy men, who were led by the fear of death 
 and other motives to lie against their consciences ; 
 thereby exhibiting beyond a doubt, the difficulty 
 of a constant adherence to the practice of sinceri- 
 ty. But they also prove that the real Christian 
 must be miserable under a consciousness of having 
 violated the truth, and that to escape from the 
 most poignant of all pangs the pangs of self-re- 
 proach, the delinquents in question sought for re- 
 fuge from their remorse, by courting that very 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 225 
 
 death which they had endeavoured to escape 
 from, by being guilty of falsehood. They at the 
 same time furnish convincing proofs that it is in 
 the power of the sincere penitent to retrace his 
 steps, and be reinstated in the height of virtue 
 whence he has fallen, if he will humble himself 
 before the great Being whom he has offended, 
 and call upon Him who can alone save to the ut- 
 termost." 
 
 My first three examples are taken from the 
 martyred reformers, who were guilty of the most 
 awful species of lying, in signing recantations of 
 their opinions, even when their belief in them re- 
 mained unchanged ; but who, as I have before 
 observed, were compelled by the power of that 
 word of God written on the depth of the secret 
 heart, to repent with agonizing bitterness of their 
 apostacy from truth, and to make a public repara- 
 tion for their short-lived error, by a death of pa- 
 tient suffering, and even of rejoicing. 
 
 Jerome of Prague comes first upon the list. 
 He was born at the close of the thirteenth cen- 
 tury; and in the year 1415, after having spent 
 his youth in the pursuit of knowledge at the great- 
 est Universities in Europe, — namely, those of 
 Prague, Paris, Heidelberg, and Cologne, — we 
 find him visiting Oxford, at which place he be^ 
 came acquainted with the works of Wickliffe; and 
 at his return to Prague he not only professed him- 
 self an open favourer of the doctrines of that cele- 
 brated reformer ; but r finding that John Huss was 
 at the head of Wickliffe's party in Bohemia, he at- 
 tached himself immediately to that powerful lead- 
 er. It were unnecessary for me to follow him 
 through the whole of his polemical career, as it is 
 the close of it only which is fitted for my purpose ; 
 suffice, that having been brought before the Coun- 
 
226 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 cil of Constance, in the year 1415, to answer for 
 what they deemed his heresies, a thousand voices 
 called out, even after his first examination, " away 
 with him ! burn him ! burn him ! burn him !" On 
 which, little doubting that his power and virtuous 
 resistance could ever fail him in time of need, Je- 
 rome replied, looking round on the assembly with 
 dignity and confidence, " Since nothing can satis- 
 fy you but my blood, God's will be done !" 
 
 Severities of a most uncommon nature were now 
 inflicted on him, in order to constrain him to re- 
 cant, a point of which the council were excessive- 
 ly desirous. So rigourous was his confinement, 
 that at length it brought upon him a dangerous 
 illness, in the course of which he entreated to have 
 a confessor sent to him ; but he was given to un- 
 derstand, that only on certain terms would this in- 
 dulgence be granted; notwithstanding, he remain- 
 ed immoveable. The next attempt on his faith- 
 fulness was after the martyrdom of Huss ; when all 
 its affecting and appalling details were made known 
 to him, he listened, however, without emotion, and 
 answered in language so resolute and determined, 
 that the}- had certainly no hope of his sudden con- 
 version. But, whether, too confident in his own 
 strength, he neglected to seek, as he had hitherto 
 done, that only strength " which cometh from 
 above," it is certain that his constancy at length 
 gave way. " He withstood," says Gilpin, in his 
 Lives of the Reformers, " the simple fear of death; 
 but imprisonment, chains, hunger, sickness, and 
 torture, through a succession of months, was more 
 than human nature could bear ; and though he still 
 made a noble stand for the truth, when brought 
 three times before the infuriated council, he be- 
 gin at last to waver, and to talk obscurely of his 
 having misunderstood the tendency of some of the 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 22? 
 
 writings of Huss. Promises and threats were now 
 redoubled upon hiin, till, at last, he read aloud an 
 ample recantation of all the opinions that he had 
 recently entertained, and declared himself in eve- 
 ry article a firm believer with the church of 
 Rome." 
 
 But with a heavy heart he retired from the 
 council ; chains were removed from his body, but 
 his mind was corroded by chains of his con- 
 science, and his soul was burthened with a load, 
 till then unknown to it. Hitherto, the light of an 
 approving conscience had cheered the gloom of 
 his dungeon, but now all was dark to him both 
 without and within. 
 
 But in this night of his moral despair, the day- 
 spring from on high was again permitted to visit 
 him, and the penitent was once more enabled to 
 seek assistance from his God. Jerome had long 
 been apprized that he was to be brought to a sec- 
 ond trial, upon some new evidence which had ap- 
 peared ; and this was his only consolation in the 
 midst of his painful penitence. At length the mo- 
 ment so ardently desired by him arrived ; and, 
 rejoicing at an opportunity of publicly retracting 
 his errors, and deploring his unworthy falsehood, 
 he eagerly obeyed the summons to appear before 
 the council in the year 1416. There after deliv- 
 ering an oration, which was, it is said, a model of 
 pathetic eloquence, he ended by declaring before 
 the whole assembly, "that, though the fear of 
 death, and the prevalence of human infirmity, had 
 induced him to retract those opinions with his lips 
 which had drawn on him the anger and ven- 
 geance of the council, yet they were then and still 
 the opinions near and dear to his heart, and that 
 he solemnly declared they were opinions in which 
 he alone believed, and for which he was ready, 
 
228 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 and even glad to die." " It was expected," says 
 Ptfgg^ the Florentine, who was present at his ex- 
 amination, Ck that he would have retracted his er- 
 rors ; or, at least, have apologized lor them ; but 
 he plainly declared that he had nothing to re- 
 tract." After launching forth into the most elo* 
 queut encomiums on Huss, declaring him to be a 
 wise and holy man, and lamenting his unjust and 
 cruel death, he avowed that he had armed him- 
 self with a firm resolution to follow the steps of 
 that blessed martyr, and suffer with constancy 
 whatever the malice of his enemies should inflict ; 
 and he was mercifully enabled to keep his re- 
 solution. 
 
 When brought to the stake, and when the wood 
 was beginning to blaze, he sang a hymn, which he 
 continued with great fervency, till the fury of the 
 fire scorching him, he was heard to cry out, u O 
 Lord God ! have mercy on me !" and a little af- 
 terwards, u thou knowest,*' he cried, u how I 
 have loved thy truth ;" and he continued to ex- 
 hibit a spectacle of intense suffering, made bear- 
 able by as intense devotion, till the vital spark was 
 in mercy permitted to expire ; and the contrite, 
 but then triumphant, spirit was allowed to return 
 unto the God who gave it. 
 
 Thomas Bilnev, the next on my list, u was 
 brought up from a child (says Fox, in his Acts 
 and Monuments) in the University of Cambridge, 
 profiting in all kind of liberal sciences even unto 
 the profession of both laws. But, at the last, hav- 
 ing gotten a better school-master, even the Holy 
 Spirit of Christ enduing his heart by privie inspi- 
 ration with the knowledge of better and more 
 wholesome things, he came unto this point, that 
 forsaking the knowledge of man's lawes he con- 
 verted his studie to those things which tended 
 
RELIGION THE BA8IS OF TRUTH. 229 
 
 more unto godlinesse, than gainfulnesse. At the 
 last,Bilney forsaking the universitie,went into many 
 places teaching and preaching, being associate 
 with Thomas Arthur, which accompanied him 
 from the universitie. The authoritie of Thomas 
 Wolsey, Cardinall of York, at that time was greate 
 in England, but his temper and pride much great- 
 er, which did evidently declare unto all wise men 
 the maifest vanitie, not only of his life, but also 
 of all the Bishops and clergie ; whereupon, Bilney 
 with other good men, marvelling at the incredible 
 insolence of the clergie, which they could no long- 
 er suffer or abide, began to shake and reprove 
 this excessive pompe, and also to pluck at the 
 authority of the Bishop of Rome." 
 
 It therefore became necessary that the Cardinal 
 should rouse himself and look about him. A 
 chapter being held at Westminster for the occasion 
 Thomas Bilney, with his friends, Thomas Arthur 
 and Hugh Latimer, were brought before them. 
 Gilpin says, " That, as Bilney was considered as 
 the Heresiarch, the rigour of the court was chief- 
 ly levelled against him. The principal persons 
 at this time concerned in Ecclesiastical affaires 
 besides Cardinal Wolsey, were Warham, Arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury, and Tunstall, Bishop of 
 London." The latter was of all the prelates of 
 these times the most deservedly esteemed, u as 
 he was not influenced by the spirit of popery, and 
 had just notions of the mild genius of Christiani- 
 ty ;" but, every deposition against Bilney was en- 
 larged upon with such unrelenting bitterness, that 
 Tunstal), though the president of the court, de- 
 spaired of being able to soften by his influence 
 the enraged proceedings of his colleagues. And, 
 when the process came to an end, " Bilney, de- 
 20 
 
230 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 daring himself what they called an obstinate he- 
 retic, was found guilty." Tunstall now proved 
 the kindness of his heart. He could not come 
 forward in Bilney's favour by a judicial interfer- 
 ence, but he laboured to save him by all means 
 in his power. " He first set his friends upon him 
 to persuade him to recant, and when that would 
 not do, he joined his entreaties to theirs ; had pa- 
 tience with him day after day, and begged he 
 would not oblige him, contrary to his inclinations, 
 to treat him with severity." 
 
 The man whom fear was not able to move was 
 not proof against the language of affectionate per- 
 suasion. " Bilney could not withstand the win- 
 ning rhetoric of Tunstall, though he withstood the 
 menaces of Warham." He therefore recanted, 
 bore a fagot on his shoulders, in the Cathedral 
 church of Paul, bareheaded, according to the cus- 
 tom of the times, and was dismissed with Latimer 
 and the others who had met with milder treatment 
 and easier terms." 
 
 The liberated heretics as they were called, re- 
 turned directly to Cambridge, where they were 
 received with open arms by their friends ; but in 
 the midst of this joy, Bilney kept aloof, bearing on 
 his countenance the marks of internal suffering 
 and incessant gloom. " He received the congratu- 
 lations of his officious friends with confusion and 
 blushes ;" he had sinned against his Cod, there- 
 fore he could neither be gratified nor cheered by 
 the affection of any earthly being. In short, his 
 mind at length preying on itself, nearly disturbed 
 his reason, and his friends dared not allow him to 
 be left alone either by night or day. They tried 
 to comfort him ; but they tried in vain ; and when 
 they endeavoured to sooth him by certain texts in 
 Scripture, " it was as though a man would run him 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 231 
 
 through with a sword." In the agonies of his de- 
 spair he uttered pathetic and eager accusations of 
 his friends, of Tunstall, and above all, of himself. 
 At length, his violence having had its course, it 
 subsided, by degrees, into a state of profound 
 melancholy. In this state he continued from the 
 year 1629 to 1631, " reading much, avoiding com- 
 pany ; and, in all respects, preserving the severi- 
 ty of an ascetic." 
 
 It is interesting to observe in how many differ- 
 ent ways our soul's adversary deals with us, in- 
 order to allure us to perdition ; and he is never 
 so successful as when he can make the proffered 
 sin assume the appearance of what is amiable. 
 This seems to have been the case with the self- 
 judged Briney. To the fear of death, and the 
 menaces of Warham, we are told that he opposed 
 a resolution and an integrity which could not be 
 overcome ; but the gentle entreaties of affection, 
 and the tender, persuasive eloquence of Tunstall, 
 had power to conquer his love of truth, and make 
 the pleadings of conscience vain ; while he proba- 
 ly looked upon his yielding as a proof of affection- 
 ate gratitude, and that, not to consider the feel- 
 ings of those who loved him, would have been of- 
 fensive, and ungrateful hardness of heart. 
 
 But, whatever were his motives to sin, that sin 
 was indeed visited with remorse as unquestionable 
 as it was efficacious ; and it is pleasant to turn 
 from the contemplation of Bilney's frailty, to that 
 of its exemplary and courted expiation. 
 
 The consequences of this salutary period of sor- 
 row and seclusion was, that after having, for some 
 time, thrown out hints that he was meditating an 
 extraordinary design ; after saying that he was 
 almost prepared, that he would shortly go up to 
 Jerusalem, and that God must be glorified in him ;■ 
 
232 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 and keeping his friends in painful suspense by this 
 mysterious language, he told them at last that he 
 was fully determined to expiate his late shameful 
 abjuration, that wicked lie against his conscience, 
 by death. 
 
 There can be no doubt but that his friends 
 again interposed to shake his resolution ; but that 
 Being who had lent a gracious ear to the cry of 
 his penitence and his agony, " girded up his loins 
 for the fight," and enabled him to sacrifice every 
 human affection at the foot of the cross, and 
 strengthened him to take up that cross, and bear 
 it, unfainting, lo the end. He therefore broke 
 from all his Cambridge ties, and set out for 
 Norfolk, the place of his nativity, and which, 
 for that reason, he chose to make the place of his 
 death. 
 
 When he arrived there, he preached openly in 
 fields, confessing his fault, and preaching public- 
 ly that doctrine which he had before abjured, to 
 be the very truth, and willed all men to beware 
 by him, and never to trust to theivjleshly friends 
 in causes of religion ; and so setting forward in his 
 journey towards the celestial Jerusalem, he de- 
 parted from thence to the Anchresse in Norwich, 
 (whom he had converted to Christ) and there 
 gave her a New Testament of TindalPs trans- 
 lation, and " the obedience of a christian-man ;" 
 whereupon he was apprehended, and carried to 
 prison. 
 
 Nixe, (the blind Bishop Nixe, as Fox calls him) 
 the then Bishop of Norwich, was a man of a fierce, 
 inquisitorial spirit, and he lost no time in sending 
 up for a writ to burn him. 
 
 In the meanwhile, great pains were taken by 
 divers religious persons to re-convert him to what 
 his assailants believed to be the truth ; but he 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. c 2So 
 
 having " planted himselfe upon the firm rocke of 
 * God's word, was at a point, and so continued to 
 the end." 
 
 While Bilney lay in the county gaol, waiting 
 the arrival of the writ for his execution, he entire- 
 ly recovered from that melancholy which had so 
 long oppressed him ; and " like an honest man 
 who had long lived under a difficult debt, he be- 
 gan to resume his spirits when he thought himself 
 in a situation to discharge it." — Gilpin's Lives of 
 the Reformers, p. 358. 
 
 " Some of his friends found him taking a hear- 
 ty supper the night before his execution, and ex- 
 pressing their surprise, he told them he was but 
 doing what they had daily examples of in common 
 life ; he was only keeping his cottage in repair 
 while he continued to inhabit it." The same com- 
 posure ran through his whole behaviour, and his 
 conversation was more agreeable that evening 
 than they had ever remembered it to be. 
 
 Some of his friends put him in mind u that 
 though the fire which he should suffer the next 
 day should be of great heat unto his body, yet 
 the comfort of God's Spirit should coole it to his 
 everlasting refreshing." At this word the said 
 Thomas Bilney putting his hand toward the flame 
 of the candle burning before them, (as he also did 
 divers times besides,) and feeling the heat thereof, 
 u Oh !" said he, " 1 feel by experience, and have 
 knowne it long by philosophic, that fire by God's 
 ordinance is naturally hot, but yet I am persuaded 
 by God's holy word, and by the experience of 
 some spoken of in the same, that in the flame they 
 felt no heate, and in the fire they felt no consump- 
 tion : and I constantly believe that, howsoever the 
 stubble of this my bodie shall be wasted by it, yet 
 20* 
 
234 ILLUSTRATIOKS OF LYIN6. 
 
 my soule and spirit shall be purged thereby ; a 
 paine for the time, whereon, notwithstanding, fol- 
 loweth joy unspeakable." He then dwelt much 
 upon a passage in Isaiah. " Fear not, for I have 
 redeemed thee, and called thee by thy name. 
 Thou art mine own ; when thou passeth through 
 the waters, I will be with thee ; when thou walk- 
 est in the fire, it shall not burn thee, and the flame 
 shall not kindle upon thee ; for I am the Lord thy 
 God, the Holy One of Israel." 
 
 " He was led to the place of execution* without 
 the citie gate, called Bishop's gate, in a low valley > 
 commonly called the Lollard's pit, under Saint 
 Leonard's hill." At the coming forth of the said 
 
 * " In the Lollard's pit, I find that many persons of a sect, 
 known by the name of Lollards, in the city of Norwich, were 
 thrown, after being burnt, in the year 1424, and for many years 
 afterwards ; and thence it was called the Lollard's pit : and 
 the following account of the meaning of the term Lollard may 
 not be unacceptable. Soon after the commencement of the 14th 
 century, the famous sect of the Cellite brethren and sisters 
 arose at Antwerp : they were also styled the Alexian brethren 
 and sisters, because St. Alexius was their patron ; and they 
 were named Cellites, from the cells in which they were accus- 
 tomed to live. As the clergy of this age took little carp of the 
 sick and the dying, and deserted such as were infected with 
 those pestilential disorders which were then very frequent, some 
 compassionate and pious persons at Antwerp formed themselves 
 into a society for the performance of those religious offices 
 which the sacerdotal orders so shamefully neglected. In the 
 prosecution of this agreement, they visited and comforted the 
 sick, assisted the dying with their prayers and exhortations, 
 Cook care of the interment of those who were cut off by the 
 plague, and on that account forsaken by the terrified clergy, and 
 committed them to the grave with a solemn funeral dirge. H 
 was with reference to this last office that the common people 
 gave them the name of Lollards. The term Lollhard, or Lull- 
 harder as the ancient Germans wrote it, Lolleft, Lullert, is 
 compounded of the old German word lullen, lollan, lallen, and 
 the well-known termination of hard, with which many of the old 
 High Dutch words end. Lollen, or Lullen, signifies to sing with 
 a low yoke. 4t is yet used in the same sense among the English, 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 235 
 
 Thotnas Bilney out of the prison doore, one of his 
 friends came to him, and prayed him, in God's 
 behalf, to be constant, and take his death as pa- 
 tiently as he could. Whereuito the said Bilney 
 answered with a quiet and mild countenance, " ye 
 see when the mariner is entered his ship to saile 
 on the troublous sea, how he is for a while toss- 
 ed in the billows of the same, but yet in hope that 
 he shall come to the quiet haven, he beareth in 
 better comfort the perils which he feeleth ; so am 
 I now toward this sayling ; and whatsoever 
 stormes I shall feele, yet shortly after shall my 
 ship be in the haven, as I doubt not thereof, by 
 the grace of God, desiring you to helpe me with 
 your prayers to the same effect." 
 
 who say lulla sleep, which signifies to sing any one into a slum- 
 ber with a sweet indistinct voice. 
 
 '' Lollhard, therefore, is a singer, or one who frequently 
 sings. For, as the word beggen, which universally signifies to 
 request any thing fervently, is applied to devotional requests, 
 or prayers, so the word lolien or lallen is transferred from a 
 common to a sacred song, and signifies, in its most limited 
 sense, to sing a hymn. Lolhard, therefore,|in the vulgar tongue 
 of the ancient Germans, denotes a person who is continual- 
 ly praising God with a song, or singing hymns to his honour. 
 
 " And as prayers and hymns are regarded as an external sign 
 of piety towards God, those who were more frequently employ- 
 ed in singing hymns of praise to God than others, were, in the 
 common popular language, called Lollhards." 
 
 " But the priests, and monks, heing invete/ately exasperated 
 against these good men, endeavoured to persuade the people 
 that innocent and beneficent as the Lollhards appeared to be, 
 they were tainted with the most pernicious sentiments of a re- 
 ligious kind, and secretly addicted to all sorts of vices ; hence 
 the name of Lollard at length became infamous. Thus, by de- 
 grees it came to pass, that any person who covered heresies, or 
 crimes, under the appearance of piety, was called a Lollard, so 
 that this was not a name to denote any one particular sect, but 
 wixs formerly common to all persons, and all sects, who were 
 supposed to be guilty of impiety towards God, and the church, 
 under an external profession of extraordinary piety." — M$G~ 
 lane's Eccles. History, p. 355—56. 
 
236 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 
 
 While he kneeled upon a little ledge coming out 
 of the stake, upon which he was afterwards to 
 stand, that he might be better seen, be made his 
 private prayers with such earnest elevation of his 
 eyes and hands to heaven, " and in so good quiet 
 behaviour, that he seemed not much to consider 
 the terror of his death," ending his prayer with 
 the 43d psalm, in which he repeated this verse 
 thriee, " Enter not into judgment with thy servant, 
 O Lord ! for in thy sigut shall no man living be 
 justified ;" and so finishing the psalm, he conclud- 
 ed. " Nor did that God in whom he trusted for- 
 sake him in the hour of his need; while the flames 
 raged around him, he held up his hands and 
 knocked upon his breast, crying, " Jesus," and 
 sometimes " Credo," till he gave up the ghost, 
 and his body being withered, bowed downward 
 upon the chaine, " while, triumphing over death, 
 (to use the words of the poet laureate) u he ren- 
 dered up his soul in the fulness of faith, and en- 
 tered into his reward." 
 
 'tSo exemplary," says Bloomfield, in his His- 
 tory of Norwich, " was Bilney's life and conver- 
 sation, that when Nixe, his persecutor, was con- 
 stantly told how holy and upright he was, he said 
 he feared that he had burnt AbeV 
 
 I have recently visited the Lollard's pit : that 
 spot where my interesting martyred countryman 
 met his dreadful death. The top of the hill re- 
 tains, probably, much the same appearance as it 
 had when he perished at its foot ; and, without 
 any great exertion of fancy, it would have been 
 easy for me to figure to myself the rest of the 
 scene, could I have derived sufficient comfort from 
 the remembrance of the fortitude with which he 
 bore his sufferings, to reconcile me to the con- 
 templation of them. Still, it is, I believe, salutary 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 237 
 
 10 visit the places hallowed in the memory, as 
 marked by any exhibition of virtuous acts and suf- 
 ferings endured for the sake of conscience. To 
 the scaffold, and to the stake, on account of their 
 religious opinions, it is humbly to be hoped that 
 Christians will never again be brought. But all 
 persecution, on the score of religion, is, in a de- 
 gree, an infliction of martyrdom on the mind and 
 on the heart. It matters not that we forbear to 
 kill the body of the Christian, if we afflict the soul 
 by aught of a persecuting spirit. 
 
 Yet does not our daily experience testify, that 
 there is nothing which calls forth petty persecu- 
 tions, and the mean warfare of a detracting spirit, 
 so much as any marked religious profession ? 
 
 And while such aprofession is assailed, by rid- 
 icule on the one hand, by distrust of its motives on 
 the other ; while it exposes the serious Christian, 
 converted from the errors of former days, to the 
 stigma of wild enthusiasm, or of religious hypoc- 
 risy ; who shall say that the persecuting spirit of 
 the Lauds and the Bonners is not still the spirit 
 of the world ? Who shall say to the tried and 
 shrinking souls of those who, on account of their 
 having made a religious profession, are thus ca- 
 lumniated, and thus judged, the time of martyrdom 
 is over, and we live in mild, and liberal and truly 
 Christian days ? 
 
 Such were the thoughts uppermost in my mind, 
 while 1 stood, perhaps, on the very spot where 
 Bilney suffered, and where Bilney died ; and 
 though I rejoiced to see that the harmless employ- 
 ment of the lime burner had succeeded to the 
 frightful burning of the human form, I could not 
 but sigh as I turned away, while I remembered 
 that so much of an intolerant, uncandid spirit still 
 prevailed amongst professed Christians, and, that 
 
236 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 the practice of persecution still existed, though ap- 
 plied in a very different manner. I could not but 
 think* that many of the present generation might 
 do well to visit scenes thus fraught with the recol- 
 lection of martyrdom. If it be true that " our 
 love of freedom would burn brighter on the plains 
 of Marathon," and that our devotion " must glow 
 more warmly amidst the ruins of lona, sure am I 
 that the places where the martyrs for conscience' 
 sake have passed through the portals of fire and 
 agony to their God, must assist in bestowing on us 
 power to endure with fortitude the mental martyr- 
 dom which may, unexpectedly, become our por- 
 tion in life ; and by recalling the sufferings ©f 
 others, we may, meekly bowing to the hand that 
 afflicts us for good, be in time enabled to bear, 
 and even to love, our own. 
 
 The last, and third, on my list, is Thomas 
 Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was 
 promoted to that See by the favour of Henry the 
 Eighth, and degraded from it in consequence of 
 his heretical opinions, by virtue of an order from 
 the sovereign pontiff, in the reign of Queen Mary. 
 " The ceremony of his degradation," says Gilpin, 
 which took place at Oxford, " was performed by 
 Thirlby, Bishop of Ely, a man recently converted, 
 it should seem, to Catholicism ; who, in Cranmer's 
 better days, had been honoured with his particular 
 friendship, and owed him many obligations. 
 
 As this man, therefore, had long been so much 
 attached to the Archbishop, it was thought proper 
 by his new friends that he should give an extraor- 
 dinary test of his zeal ; for this reason the ceremo- 
 ny of his degradation was committed to him. 
 He had undertaken, however, too hard a task. 
 The mild benevolence of the primate, which shone 
 forth with great dignity, though he stood in mock 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRliTH. 239 
 
 grandeur of canvas robes, struck the old apostate 
 to the heart. All the past came throbbing to his 
 breast, and a few repentant tears began to trickle 
 down the furrows of his aged cheek. The Arch- 
 bishop gently exhorted him not to suffer his pri- 
 vate to overpower his public affections. At 
 length, one by one, the canvas trappings were 
 taken off, amidst the taunts and exultations of 
 Bonner, bishop of London, who was present at the 
 ceremony. 
 
 Thus degraded, he was attired in a plain freize 
 gown, the common habit of a yeoman at that peri- 
 od, and had what was then called a townsman's 
 cap put upon his head. In this garb he was 
 carried back to prison, Bonner crying after him, 
 " He is now no longer my Lord ! he is now 
 no longer my Lord !" — Gilpin's Lives of the Re- 
 formers, 
 
 I know not what were Cranmer's feelings at 
 these expressions of mean exultation from the 
 contemptible Bonner ; but, I trust that he treated 
 them, and the ceremony of degradation at the 
 time, with the indifference which they merited. 
 Perhaps, too, he might utter within himself, this 
 serious and important truth, that none of us can 
 ever be truly degraded, but by ourselves alone ; 
 and this moment of his external humiliation was, 
 in the eyes of all whose esteem was worth having, 
 one of triumph and honour to the bereaved eccle- 
 siastick. But what, alas ! were those which suc- 
 ceeded to it? That period, and that alone, was 
 the period of his real degradation, when, over- 
 come by the flatteries and the kindness of bis real 
 and seeming friends, and subdued by the enter- 
 tainments given him, the amusements offered him, 
 and, allowed to indulge in the " lust of the eye, 
 and the pride of life," he was induced to lend a 
 
240 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 willing ear to the proposal of being reinstated 
 in his former dignity, on condition that he 
 would conform to the present change of re- 
 ligion, and " gratify the queen by being wholly 
 a catholic !" 
 
 The adversary of man lured Crantner, as well 
 as Bilney, by the unsuspected influence of mild and 
 amiable feelings, rather than the instigations of 
 fear ; and he who was armed to resist, to the ut- 
 most, the rage and malice of his enemies, was 
 drawn aside from truth and duty by the sugges- 
 tions of false friends. 
 
 After the confinement of a full year in the 
 gloomy walls of a prison, his sudden return into 
 social intercourse dissipated his firm resolves. 
 That love of life returned, which he had hitherto 
 conquered ; and when a paper was offered to him 
 importing his assent to the tenets of popery, his 
 better resolutions gave way, and in an evil hour 
 he signed the fatal scroll ! 
 
 Cranmer's recantation was received by the po- 
 pish party with joy beyond expression ; but, as all 
 they wanted was to blast the reputation of a man, 
 whose talents, learning, assd virtue, were of such 
 great importance to the cause which he espoused, 
 they had no sooner gained what they desired, 
 than their thirst for his blood returned, and though 
 he was kept in ignorance of the fate which await- 
 ed him, a warrant was ordered for his execution 
 with all possible expedition. 
 
 But long before the certainty of his approaching 
 fate was made known to him, the self-convicted 
 culprit sighed for the joy and the serenity which 
 usually attend the last days of a martyr for the 
 truth which he loves. 
 
 Vainly did his friends throw over his faults the 
 balm afforded by those healing words, " the spirit 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 241 
 
 was willing, but the flesh was weak." In his own 
 clear judgment he was fully convicted, while his 
 days were passed in horror and remorse, and his 
 nights in sleepless anguish. 
 
 To persevere in his recantation was an insup- 
 portable thought ; but, to retract it was scarcely 
 within the verge of possibility ; but he waa allow- 
 ed an opportunity of doing so which he did not ex- 
 pect, and though death was the means of it, he felt 
 thankful that it was afforded him, and deemed his 
 life a sacrifice not to be regarded for the attain- 
 ment of such an object. 
 
 When Dr. Cole, one of the heads of the popish 
 party, came to him on the twentieth of March, the 
 evening preceding his intended execution, and in- 
 sinuated to him his approaching fate, he spent the 
 remaining part of the evening in drawing up a full 
 confession of his apostacy, and of his bitter re- 
 pentance, wishing to take the best opportunity to 
 speak or publish it, which he supposed would be 
 afforded him when he was carried to the stake ; 
 but, beyond his expectation, a better was provid- 
 ed for him. It was intended that he should be 
 conveyed immediately from his prison to the place 
 of his execution, where a sermon was to be 
 preached ; but, as the morning of the appointed 
 day was wet and stormy, the ceremony was per- 
 formed under cover. 
 
 About nine o'clock, the Lord Williams of 
 Thame, attended by the magistrates of Oxford, re- 
 ceived him at the prison gate, and conveyed him 
 to St. Mary's church, where he found a crowded 
 audience awaiting him, and was conducted to an 
 elevated' place, in public view, opposite to the 
 pulpit. If ever there was a broken and a con- 
 trite heart before God and man; if ever there 
 21 
 
242 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 
 
 was a person humbled in the very depths of his 
 soul, from the consciousness of having committed 
 sin, and of having deserved the extreme of earth- 
 ly shame and earthly suffering ; that man was 
 Cranmer! 
 
 He is represented as standing against a pillar, 
 pale as the stone against which he leaned. " It 
 is doleful," says a popish, but impartial, spectator, 
 " to describe his behaviour during the sermon, 
 part of which was addressed to him ; his sorrow- 
 ful countenance ; his heavy cheer, his face bedew- 
 ed with tears ; - sometimes lifting up his eyes to 
 heaven in hope ; sometimes casting them down to 
 the earth for shame. To be brief, he was an 
 image of sorrow. The dolour of his heart burst 
 out continually from his eyes in gushes of tears : 
 yet he retained ever a quiet and grave behaviour, 
 which increased pity in men's hearts, who un- 
 feigned ly loved him, hoping that it had been his re- 
 pentance for his transgressions." And so it was; 
 though not for what many considered his trans- 
 gressions ; but it was the deep contrition of a con- 
 verted heart, and of a subdued and penitent soul, 
 prepared by the depth of human degradation and 
 humility, to rise on the wings of angels, and meet 
 in another world its beloved and blessed Re- 
 deemer. 
 
 The preacher having concluded his sermon, 
 turned round to the audience, and desired all who 
 were present to join with him in silent prayers for 
 the unhappy man before them. A solemn still- 
 ness ensued ; every eye and heart were instantly 
 lifted up to heaven. Some minutes having been 
 passed in this affecting manner, the degraded pri- 
 mate, who had also fallen on his knees, arose in 
 all the dignity of sorrow, accompanied by con- 
 scious penitence and Christian reliance, and thus 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 243 
 
 addressed his audience. " I had myself intended 
 to desire your prayers. My desires have been 
 anticipated, and 1 return you all that a dying man 
 can give, my sincerest thanks. To your prayers 
 for me let me add my own ! Good Christian peo* 
 pie !" continued he, " my dearly beloved breth- 
 ren and sisters in Christ, I beseech you most hear- 
 tily, to pray for me to Almighty God, that he will 
 forgive me all my sins and offences, which are 
 many, without number, and great beyond meas- 
 ure. But one thing grieveth my conscience more 
 than all the rest ; whereof, God willing, I mean to 
 speak hereafter. But, how great and how many 
 soever my sinnes he, 1 beseech you to pray God, 
 of his mercy, to pardon and forgive them all." 
 He then knelt down and offered up a prayer as 
 full of pathos as of eloquence ; then he took a pa* 
 per from his bosom, and read it aloud, which was 
 to the following effect. 
 
 " It is now, my brethren, no time to dissemble 
 —I stand upon the verge of life — a vast eternity 
 before me — what my fears are, or what my hopes, 
 it matters not here to unfold. For one action of 
 m}' life, at least, 1 am accountable to the world. 
 My late shameful subscription to opinions, which are 
 wholly opposite to my real sentiments* Before this 
 congregation I solemnly declare, that the fear of 
 death alone induced me to this ignominious action 
 — that it hath cost me many bitter tears — that, in 
 my heart, I totally reject the Pope, and doctrines 
 of the church of Rome, and that" 
 
 As he was continuing his speech, the whole as- 
 sembly was in an uproar. " Stop the audacious 
 heretic," cried Lord Williams of Thame. On 
 which several priests and friars, rushing from dif- 
 ferent parts of the church, seized, or pulled him 
 from his seat, dragged him into the street, and, 
 
244 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 with indecent precipitation, hurried him to the 
 stake, which was already prepared. 
 
 As he stood with all the horrid apparatus of 
 death around him, amidst taunts, revilings, and ex- 
 ecrations, he alone maintained a dispassionate be- 
 haviour. Having discharged his conscience, he 
 seemed to feel, even in his awful circumstances, an 
 inward satisfaction, to which he had long been a 
 stranger. His countenance was not fixed, as be- 
 fore, in sorrow on the ground ; but he looked 
 round him with eyes full of sweetness and benig- 
 nity, as if at peace with all the world. 
 
 Who can contemplate the conduct of Cranmer, 
 in the affecting scene that followed, without feeling 
 a deep conviction of the intensity of his penitence 
 for the degrading lie. of which he had been guilty ! 
 and who can fail to think that Cranmer, in his 
 proudest days, when the favourite, the friend, the 
 counsellor of a king, and bearing the highest ec- 
 clesiastical rank in the country, was far inferior 
 in real dignity and real consequence to Cranmer, 
 when, prostrate in soul before his offended, yet 
 pardoning God, but erect and fearless before his 
 vindictive enemies, he thrust the hand, with which 
 he had signed the lying scroll of recantations, 
 into the fast-rising flames, crying out, as he did 
 so, " this hand hath offended ! this hand hath 
 offended !" 
 
 It is soothing to reflect, that his sufferings were 
 quickly over ; for, as the fire rose fiercely round 
 him, he was involved in a thick smoke, and it was 
 supposed that he died very soon. 
 
 " Surely," says the writer before quoted, " his 
 death grieved every one : his friends sorrowed for 
 love ; his enemies for pity ; and strangers through 
 humanity." 
 
 To us of these latter days, his crime and his 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OP TRUTH. 245 
 
 penitence afford an awful warning, and an instruc- 
 tive example. 
 
 The former proves how vain are talents, learn- 
 ing, and even exalted virtues, to preserve us in the 
 path of rectitude, unless we are watchful unto 
 prayer, and unless, wisely distrustful of our own 
 strength, we wholly and confidently lean upon 
 " that rock, which is higher than we are." And 
 the manner in which he was enabled to declare 
 his penitence and contrition for his falsehood and 
 apostacy, and to bear the tortures which attended 
 on his dying hours, is a soothing and comforting 
 evidence, that sinners, who prostrate themselves 
 with contrite hearts before the throne of their 
 God, and their Redeemer, " he will in no wise 
 cast out," but will know his Almighty arm to be 
 round about them, " till death is swallowed up in 
 victory." 
 
 It is with a degree of fearful ness and awe, that 
 I take my fourth, example from one who, relying 
 too much on his own human strength, in his hour 
 of human trial, was permitted to fall into the com- 
 mission of human frailty, and to utter the most de- 
 cided and ungrateful of falsehoods ; since he that 
 thus erred was no less a person than the apostle 
 Peter himself, who, by a thrice-told lie, denied his 
 Lord and Master ; but who, by his bitter tearful 
 repentance, and by his subsequent faithfulness un- 
 to death, redeemed, in the eyes both of his Sa- 
 viour and of men, his short-lived frailty, and prov- 
 ed himself worthy of that marked confidence in his 
 active zeal, which was manifested by our great 
 Redeemer, in his parting words. 
 
 The character of Peter affords us a warning, as 
 well as an example, while the affectionate reproofs 
 of the Saviour, together with the tender encour- 
 21* 
 
246 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING r 
 
 agement, and generous praise, which he bestowed 
 upon him, prove to us, in a manner the most cheer- 
 ing and indisputable, how merciful are the deal- 
 ings of the Almighty with his sinful creatures ; how 
 ready he is to overlook our offences, and to dwell 
 with complacency on our virtues ; and that " he 
 willeth not the death of a sinner, but had rather 
 that he should turn from his wickedness and live." 
 
 Self-confidence, and self-righteousness, proceed- 
 ing perhaps from his belief in the superior depth 
 and strength of his faith in Christ, seem to have 
 been the besetting sins of Peter; and that his faith 
 was lively and sincere, is sufficiently evidenced by 
 his unhesitating reply to the questions of his Lord : 
 i; Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God !" 
 A reply so satisfactory to the great being whom 
 he addressed, that he answered him, saying, 
 i; Blessed art thou, Simon Barjona ; for flesh and 
 blood have not revealed it unto thee, but my Fa- 
 ther which is in Heaven : and I say unto thee, 
 that thou art Peter ; and upon this rock will I 
 build my church, and the gates of hell shall not 
 prevail against it." 
 
 It seems as if Peter became, from this assurance, 
 so confident in his own strength, that he neglected 
 to follow his master's injunction, " Watch and 
 pray, lest ye enter into temptation ;" and therefore 
 became an easy victim to the first temptation which 
 beset him : for soon after, with surprising confi- 
 dence in his own wisdom, we find him rebuking 
 his Lord, and asserting, that the things which he 
 prophecied concerning himself should not happen 
 unto him. On which occasion, the Saviour says, 
 addressing* the adversary of Peter's soul, then 
 powerful within him, " Get thee behind me, Satan ! 
 thou art an offence to me !" His want of implicit 
 faith on this occasion was the more remarkable, 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 247 
 
 because he had just before uttered that strong 
 avowal of his confidence in Christ, to which I 
 have already alluded. 
 
 In an early part of the history of the Gospel we 
 read that Peter beholding the miraculous draught 
 of fishes, fell on his knees, and exclaimed, in the 
 fulness of surprise and admiration, and in the depth 
 of conscious sinfulness and humility, " Depart 
 from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord !" 
 
 On a subsequent occasion, ever eager as he 
 was to give assurances of what he believed to be 
 his undoubting faith, we find him saying to the Sa- 
 viour, when he had removed the terror of his dis- 
 ciples at seeing him walking on the sea, by those 
 cheering words, " It is I, be not afraid !" — " Lord ! 
 if it be thou, bid me come to thee on the water !" 
 — And he walked on the water to come to Jesus ; 
 but, when he saw the wind boisterous, he was 
 again afraid, and beginning to sink, he cried, say- 
 ing, u Lord, save me!" Immediately, Jesus 
 stretched forth his hand and caught him, saying 
 unto him, "O thou of little faith, wherefore didst 
 thou doubt ? n v The first of these facts shows the 
 great sensibility of his nature, and his exemplary 
 aptitude to acknowledge and admire every proof 
 of the power and goodness of his Redeemer : and 
 the second is a further corroborating instance of 
 his eager confidence in his own courage and be- 
 lief, followed by its accustomed falling off in the 
 hour of trial. 
 
 His unsubmitted and self-confident spirit shows 
 itself again in his declarations, that Christ should 
 not wash his feet ; as if he still set human wisdom 
 against that of the Redeemer, till, subdued by the 
 Saviour's reply, he exclaims, " not my feet only, 
 but also my hands and my head." 
 
 The next instance of the mixed character of 
 
248 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 Peter, and of the solicitude which it excited in our 
 Saviour, is exhibited by the following address to 
 him) " And the Lord said, Simon, Simon, behold ! 
 Satan hath desired to have thee, that he may sift 
 thee as wheat ; but I have prayed for thee, (add- 
 ed the gracious Jesus,) that thy faith fail not ; and 
 when thou art converted, strengthen thy breth- 
 ren." Peter replied, in the fulness of self-confi- 
 dence, " Lord, 1 am ready to go with thee into 
 prison, and unto death !" And he said, " I tell 
 thee, Peter, that before the cock crows, thou shalt 
 deny me thrice." It does not appear what visible 
 effect this humiliating prophecy had on him to 
 whom it was addressed, though Matthew says that 
 he replied, " though I should die with thee, still I 
 will not deny thee ;" but it is probable that, by 
 drawing his sword openly in his defence, when 
 they came out" with swords and with staves to 
 take him," he hoped to convince his Lord of his 
 fidelity. But this action was little better than 
 one of mere physical courage, the result of sudden 
 excitement at the time; and was consistent with 
 that want of moral courage, that most difficult 
 courage of all, which led him, when the feelings of 
 the moment had subsided, to deny his master, and 
 to utter the degrading lit of fear. After he had 
 thus sinned, the Lord turned and looked upon 
 Peter ; and Peter remembered the words of the 
 Lord, how he had said unto him, " Before the 
 cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice. And Peter 
 went out, and wept bitterly." 
 
 It seems as if that self-confidence, that blind 
 trusting in one's own strength, that tendency which 
 we all have to believe, like Hazael, that we can 
 never fall into certain sins, and yield to certain 
 temptations, was conquered, for a while, in the 
 humbled, self-judged, and penitent apostle. Per- 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 249 
 
 haps the look of mild reproach which the Saviour 
 gave him was long present to his view, and that, 
 in moments of subsequent danger to this truth, 
 those eyes seemed again to admonish him, and 
 those holy lips to utter the salutary and saving 
 precept, " watch and pray, lest ye enter into 
 temptation." 
 
 Nevertheless, rendered too confident, probably, 
 in his own unassisted strength, we find him sinning 
 once more in the same way ; namely, from fear of 
 man ; for, being convinced that the Mosaic law 
 was no longer binding on the conscience, he ate 
 and drank freely at Antioch with the Gentiles ; 
 but, when certain Jewish converts were sent to 
 him from the apostle James, he separated from the 
 Gentiles, lest he should incur the censure of the 
 Jews ; being thus guilty of a sort of practical lie, 
 and setting those Jews, as it proved, a most per- 
 nicious example of dissimulation ; for which disin- 
 genuous conduct, the apostle Paul publicly and 
 justly reproved him before the whole Church. 
 But as there is no record of any reply given by 
 Peter, it is probable that he bore the rebuke 
 meekly ; humbled, no doubt, in spirit, before the 
 great Being whom he had again offended ; and 
 not only does it seem likely that he met this pub- 
 lic humiliation with silent and Christian forbear-- 
 ance, but, in his last Epistle, he speaks of Paul, 
 " as his beloved brother," generously bearing his 
 powerful testimony to the wisdom contained in his 
 Epistles, and warning the hearers of Paul against 
 rejecting aught in them which from want of learn- 
 ing, they may not understand, and "therefore 
 wrest them, as the unlearned and unstable do also 
 the other Scriptures, to their own destruction." 
 
 The closing scene of this most interesting apos- 
 tle's life, we have had no means of contemplating, 
 
250 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 though the Saviour's last affecting and pathetic 
 address to him, in which he prophecies that he 
 will die a martyr in his cause, makes one particu- 
 larly desirous to procure details of it. 
 
 44 So when they had dined, Jesus saith to Simon 
 Peter, 4 Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me more 
 than these ?' He saith unto him, fc Yea, Lord, 
 thou knowest that 1 love thee.' He saith unto him, 
 ' Feed my lambs !' He saith unto him again the 
 second time, ' Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou 
 me?' He saith unto him, 'Yea. Lord! thou 
 knowest that 1 love thee.' He saith unto him 
 i feed my sheep!' He saith unto him the third 
 time, 4 Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me ?' 
 Peter was grieved because he said unto him the 
 third time, Lovest thcu me? and he said unto 
 him, 4 Lord, thou knowest that 1 love thee.' Je- 
 sus saith unto him, 4 Feed my sheep. Verily, 
 verily, I say unto thee, when thou wast young, thou 
 girdedstthyself,and walkedst whither thou wouldst; 
 but when thou shalt be old, thou shalt stretch forth 
 thy hands, and another shall gird thee, and carry 
 thee whither thou wouldst not.' This spake he, 
 signifying by what death he should glorify God ; 
 and when he had spoken this he saith unto him, 
 follow me !" 
 
 " The case of Peter," says the pious and learn- 
 ed Scott, in his Notes to the Gospel of John, " re- 
 quired a more particular address than that of the 
 other apostles, in order that both he and others 
 might derive the greater benefit from his fall and 
 his recovery. Our Lord, therefore, asked him by 
 his original name, as if he had forfeited that of 
 peter by his instability, whether he loved him 
 more than these. The latter clause might be in- 
 terpreted of his employment and gains as a fisher- 
 man, and be considered as a demand whether he 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 251 
 
 loved Jesus above his secular interests ; but Pe- 
 ter's answer determines us to another interpreta- 
 tion. He had before his fall, in effect, said that he 
 loved his Lord more than the other disciples did ; 
 for he had boasted that, though all men should for- 
 sake him, yet would not he. Jesus now asked 
 him whether he would stand to this, and aver that 
 he loved him more than the others did. To this 
 he answered modestly by saying, " thou knowest 
 that I love thee," without professing to love him 
 more than the others. Our Lord therefore re- 
 newed his appointment to the ministerial and 
 apostolical office ; at the same time commanding 
 him to feed his lambs, or his little lambs, even the 
 least of them, for the word is diminutive : this inti- 
 mated to him that his late experience of his own 
 weakness ought to render him peculiarly conde- 
 scending, complaisant, tender, and attentive to the 
 meanest and feeblest believers. As Peter had 
 thrice denied Christ, so he was pleased to repeat 
 the same question a third time : this grieved Pe- 
 ter, as it reminded him that he had given sufficient 
 cause for being thus repeatedly questioned con- 
 cerning the sincerity of his love to his Lord. 
 Conscious, however, of his integrity, he more sol- 
 emnly appealed to Christ, as knowing all things, 
 even the secrets of his heart, that be knew he 
 loved him with cordial affection, notwithstanding 
 the inconsistency of his late behaviour. Our 
 Lord thus tacitly allowed the truth of his profes- 
 sion, and renewed his charge to him to feed his 
 sheep." 
 
 u Peter," continues the commentator, " had 
 earnestly professed his readiness to die with 
 Christ, yet had shamefully failed when put to the 
 trial ; but our Lord next assured him that he 
 would at length be called on to perform that en- 
 
252 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 gagement, and signified the death by which he 
 would, as a martyr for his "truth, glorify God." 
 No doubt that this information, however awful, 
 was gratefully received by the devoted, ardent, 
 though, at times, the unstable, follower of his be- 
 loved Master ; as it proved the Saviour's confi- 
 dence in him, notwithstanding all his errors. 
 
 There was, indeed, an energy of character in 
 Peter, which fitted him to be an apostle and a 
 martyr. He was the questioning, the observing, 
 the conversing, disciple. The others were proba- 
 bly withheld by timidity from talking with their 
 Lord, and putting frequent questions to him ; but 
 Peter was the willing spokesman on all occasions; 
 and to him we owe that impressive lesson afforded 
 us by the Saviour's reply, when asked by him 
 how often he was to forgive an offending brother, 
 i; I say not unto thee until seven times, but unto 
 seventy times seven." 
 
 But, whether we contemplate Peter as an exam- 
 ple, or as a warning, in the early part of his re- 
 ligious career, it is cheering and instructive, in- 
 deed, to acquaint ourselves with him in his writ- 
 ings, when he approached the painful and awful 
 close of it. When, having been enabled to fight a 
 good fight, in fulfilment of his blessed Lord's 
 prayer, that '■ his faith might not fail ;" and hav- 
 ing been " converted himself," and having 
 strengthened his brethren, he addressed his last 
 awfully impressive Epistle to his Christian breth- 
 ren, before he himself was summoned to that aw- 
 ful trial, after which he was to receive the end of 
 " his faith," even " the salvation of his soul !" 
 Who can read, without trembling; awe, his elo- 
 quent description of the day of judgment ; " that 
 day," which, as he says, u will come like a thief 
 in the night, in the which the heavens shall pass 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 253 
 
 away with a great noise, and the elements shall 
 melt with fervent heat; and the works that are 
 therein shall be burned up," while he adds this 
 impressive lesson, " seeing then that all things 
 shall be dissolved, what manner of persons ought 
 ye to be in all holy conversation and godliness ?" 
 And who can contemplate, without affectionate 
 admiration, the undoubting, but unfearing, cer- 
 tainty with which he speaks of his approaching 
 death, as foretold by our Lord ; w knowing," 
 said he, u that shortly I must put off this my 
 tabernacle, even as our Lord Jesus Christ has 
 showed us !" 
 
 Soon after he had thus written, it is probable 
 that he repaired to the expected scene of his suf- 
 fering, and met his doom — met it. undoubtedly, as 
 became one taught by experience to his own re- 
 curring weakness, admonished often by the re- 
 membrance of that eye, which had once beamed 
 in mild reproof upon him ; but which, I doubt not, 
 he beheld in the hour of his last trial and dying 
 agonies, fixed upon him with tender encourage- 
 ment and approving love ; while, in his closing 
 ear, seemed once again to sound the welcome 
 promise to the devoted follower of the cross, 
 " well done, good and faithful servant, enter thou 
 into the joy of thy Lord." 
 
 We, of these latter days, can see the founder of 
 our religion only in the record of his word, and 
 hear him only in his ever-enduring precepts ; but, 
 though we hear him not externally with our ears, 
 he still speaks in the heart of us all, if we will but 
 listen to his purifying voice ; and though the look 
 of his reproachful eye can be beheld by us only 
 with our mental vision, still, that eye is continually 
 over us ; and when, like the apostle, we are tempt- 
 22 
 
254 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 ed to feel too great security in our own strength, 
 and to neglect to implore the assistance which 
 comet h from above, let us recal the look which 
 Jesus gave the offending Peter, and remember that 
 the same eye, although unseen, is watching and 
 regarding us still. 
 
 Oh ! could we ever lie, even upon what are call- 
 ed trifling occasions, if we once believed the cer- 
 tain, however disregarded, truth, that the Lord 
 takes cognizance of every species of falsehood, 
 and that the eye, which looked the apostle into 
 shame and agonizing contrition, beholds our lying 
 lips with the same indignation with which it re- 
 proved him, reminding us that " all liars shall have 
 their part in the lake that burneth with fire and 
 brimstone," and that without the city of life is 
 " whosoever loveth and maketh a lie." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 
 
 I shall not give many individual instances of 
 those whom even the fear of death has not been 
 able to terrify into falsehood, because they were 
 supported in their integrity by the fear of God ; 
 but such facts are on record. The history of the 
 primitive Christians contains many examples both 
 of men and women whom neither threats nor 
 bribes could induce for s moment to withhold or 
 falsify the truth, or to conceal their newly-embrac- 
 ed opinions, though certain that torture and death 
 would be the consequence ; fearless and determin- 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 255 
 
 td beings, who, though their rulers, averse to pun- 
 ish them, would gladly have allowed their change 
 to pass unnoticed, persisted, like the prophet Dan- 
 iel, openly to display the faith that was in them, 
 exclaiming at every interrogatory, and in the 
 midst of tortures and of death, " we are Chris- 
 tians ; we are Christians !" Some martyrs of 
 more modern days, Catholics, as well as Protes- 
 tants, have borne the same unshaken testimony to 
 what they believed to be religious truth ; but La- 
 timer, more especially, was so famous among the 
 latter, not only for the pureness of his life, but for 
 the sincerity and goodness of his evangelical doc- 
 trine -, (which, since the beginning of his preach- 
 ing, had, in all points been conformable to the 
 teaching of Christ and of his apostles,) that the 
 very adversaries of God's truth, with all their 
 menacing words and cruel imprisonment, could not 
 withdraw him from it. But, whatsoever he had 
 once preached, he valiantly defended the same be- 
 fore the world, without fear of any mortal creature, 
 although of ever so great power and high author- 
 ity; wishing and minding rather to suffer not only 
 loss of worldly possessions, but of life, than that 
 the glory of God, and the truth of Christ's Gospel 
 should is any point be obscured or defaced through 
 him," Thus this eminent person exhibited a strik- 
 ing contrast to that fear of man, which is the root 
 of m11 lying, and all dissimulation ; that mean, 
 grovelling, and pernicious fear, which every day 
 is leading us either to disguise or withhold our real 
 opinion ; if nat, to be absolutely guilty of uttering 
 falsehood, and which induces us but too often, to 
 remain silent, and ineffective, even when the op- 
 pressed and the insulted require us to speak in 
 their defence, and when the cause of truth, and of 
 righteousness, is injured by our silence. The ear- 
 
156 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 ly Friends were exemplary instances of the pow- 
 er of faith to lift the Christian above all fear of 
 man ; and not only George Fox himself, but 
 many of his humblest followers, were known to 
 be persons M who would rather have died than spok- 
 en a lie." 
 
 There was one female Friend amongst others, 
 of the name of Mary Dyar, who, after undergoing 
 some persecution for the sake of her religious 
 tenets at Boston, in America, was led to the gal- 
 lows between two young men, condemned, like 
 herself, to suffer for conscience 1 sake ; but, hav- 
 ing seen them executed, she was repriexed, carri- 
 ed back to prison, and then, being discharged, 
 was permitted to go to another part of the coun- 
 try ; but, apprehending it to be her duty to re« 
 turn to " the bloody town of Boston," she was 
 summoned before the general court. On her ap- 
 pearance there, the governor, John Endicott, 
 said, " Are you the same Mary Dyar that was 
 here before?" And it seems he zvas preparing 
 an evasion for her ; there having been another 
 of that name returned from Old England. But 
 she was so far from disguising the truth, that she 
 answered undauntedly, ' k I am the same Mary 
 Dyar that was here the last general court" The 
 consequence was immediate imprisonment ; and 
 soon after, death. 
 
 But the following narrative, which, like the pre- 
 ceding one, is recorded in Sewell's History of the 
 people called Quakers, bears so directly on the 
 point in question, that I am tempted to give it to my 
 readers in all its details. 
 
 " About the fore part of this year, if I mistake 
 not, there happened a case at Edmond's-Bury, 
 which 1 cannot well pass by in silence ; viz. a cer- 
 tain young woman was committed to prison for 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OP TRUTH. 257 
 
 child-murder. Whilst she was in jail, it is said, 
 William Bennet, a prisoner for conscience' sake, 
 came to her, and in discourse asked her whether, 
 during the course of her life, she had not many 
 times transgressed against her conscience ? and 
 whether she had not often thereupon felt secret 
 checks and inward reproofs, and been troubled in 
 her mind because of the evil committed ; and this 
 he did in such a convincing way, that she not only 
 assented to what he laid before her, but his dis- 
 course so reached her heart, that she came clear- 
 ly to see, that if she had not been so stubborn and 
 disobedient to those inward reproofs, in all proba- 
 bility she would not have come to such a miser- 
 able fall as she now had ; for man, not desiring 
 the knowledge of God's ways, and departing from 
 him, is left helpless, and cannot keep himself from 
 evil, though it may be such as formerly he would 
 have abhorred in the highest degree, and have 
 said with Hazael, "what! is thy servant a dog, 
 that he should do this great thing?" W. Bennet 
 thus opening matters to her, did, by his wholesome 
 admonition, so work upon her mind, that she, who 
 never had conversed with the Quakers, and was 
 altogether ignorant of their doctrine, now came to 
 apprehend that it was the grace of God that 
 brings salvation, which she so often had withstood, 
 and that this grace had not yet quite forsaken her, 
 but now made her sensible of the greatness of her 
 transgression. This consideration wrought so pow- 
 erfully, that, from a most grievous sinner, she be- 
 came a true penitent ; and with hearty sorrow she 
 cried unto the Lord, " that it might please him not 
 to hide his countenance." And continuing in this 
 state of humiliation and sincere repentance, and 
 persevering in supplication, she felt, in time, ease : 
 22* 
 
25S ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 and giving heed to the exhortations of the said 
 Betinei, she obtained, at length, to a sure hope of 
 forgiveness by the precious blood of the immacu- 
 late Lamb, who died for the sins of the world. 
 Of this she gave manifest proofs at her trial before 
 Judge Matthew Hale, who, having heard how pen- 
 itent she was, would fain have spared her ; she 
 being asked, according to the form, u guilty or not 
 guilty T\ readily answered, , M guilty." This as- 
 tonished the judge, and therefore he told her that 
 she seemed not duly to consider what she said, 
 since it could not well be believed that such a one 
 as she, who, it may be, inconsiderately, and rough- 
 ly handled her child, should have killed it " wil- 
 fully and designedly." Here the judge opened a 
 back door for her to avoid the punishment of 
 death. But now the fear of God had got so much 
 room in her heart, that no tampering would do ; 
 no fig-leaves could serve her for a cover ; for she 
 now knew that this would have been adding sin to 
 sin, and to cover herself with a covering, but not 
 of God's spirit ; and therefore she plainly signifi- 
 ed to the court that indeed she had committed the 
 mischievous act intended^, thereby to hide her 
 shame; and that having sinned thus grievously, 
 and being affected now with true repentance, she 
 could by no means excuse herself, but was willing 
 to undergo the punishment the law required ; and, 
 therefore, she could but acknowledge herself guil- 
 ty, since otherwise how could she expect forgive- 
 ness from the Lord ?" This undisguised and free 
 confession being spoken with a serious counte- 
 nance, did so affect the judge that, tears trickling 
 down his cheeks, he sorrowfully said, " Woman ! 
 such a case as this I never met with before. Per- 
 haps you, who are but young, and speak so pious- 
 ly, as being struck to the heart with repentance. 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 259 
 
 might yet do much good in the world ; but now 
 you force me so that ex officio, I must pronounce 
 sentence of death against you, since you will ad- 
 mit of no excuse." Standing to what she had said 
 the judge pronounced the sentence of death ; and 
 when, afterward, she came to the place of execu- 
 tion, she made a pathetical speech to the people, 
 exhorting the spectators, especially those of the 
 young, " to have the fear of God before their 
 eyes ; to give heed to his secret reproofs for evil, 
 and so not to grieve and resist the good of the 
 Lord, which she herself not having timely minded, 
 it had made her run on in evil, and thus proceed- 
 ing from wickedness to wickedness, it had brought 
 her to this dismal exit. But, since she firmly 
 trusted to God's infinite mercy, nay, surely believ- 
 ed her sins, though of a bloody dye, to be washed 
 off by the pure blood of Christ, she could content- 
 edly depart this life." Thus she preached at the 
 gallows the doctrine of the Quakers, and gave 
 heart-melting proofs that her immortal soul was to 
 enter into Paradise, as well as anciently that of the 
 thief on the cross." 
 
 The preceding chapter contains three instances 
 of martyrdom, undergone for the sake of religious 
 truth, and attended with that animating publicity 
 which is usual on such occasions, particularly 
 when the sufferers are persons of a certain rank 
 and eminence in society. 
 
 But, she who died, as narrated in the story 
 given above, for the cause of spontaneous truth, 
 and willingly resigned her life, rather than be 
 guilty of a lie to save it, though that lie was con- 
 sidered by the law of the country, and by the 
 world at large, to be no lie at all ; this bright ex- 
 ample of what a true and lively faith can do for 
 us in an hour of strong temptation, was not only 
 
260 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 an humble, guilty woman, but a nameless one al- 
 so. She was an obscure, friendless, individual, 
 whose name on earth seems to be nowhere re- 
 corded ; and probably, no strong interest was felt 
 for her disastrous death, except by the preacher 
 who converted her, and by the judge who con- 
 demned her. This afflicted person was also well 
 aware that the courage with which she met her 
 fate, and died rather than utter a falsehood, would 
 not be cheered and honoured by an anxious popu- 
 lace, or by the tearful farewells of mourning, but 
 admiring, friends ; she also knew that her honest 
 avowal would brand her with the odious guilt of 
 murdering her child, and yet she persevered in 
 her adherence to the truth ! Therefore, I hum- 
 bly trust that, however inferior she may appear, 
 in the eyes of her fellow-mortals, to martyrs of a 
 loftier and more important description, this willing 
 victim of what she thought her duty, offered as 
 acceptable a sacrifice as theirs, in the eyes of her 
 Judge and her Redeemer. 
 
 No doubt, as I before observed, the history of 
 both public and private life may afford many 
 more examples of equal reverence for truth, deriv- 
 ed from religious motives; but, as the foregoing in- 
 stance was more immediately before me, I was in- 
 duced to give it as an apt illustration of the pre- 
 cept which 1 wish to enforce. 
 
 The few, and not the many, are called upon to 
 earn the honours of public martyrdom, and to 
 shine like stars in the firmament of distant days ; 
 and, in like manner, few of us are exposed to the 
 danger of telling great and wicked falsehoods. 
 But, as it is more difficult, perhaps, to bear with 
 fortitude the little daily trials of life, than great ca- 
 lamities, because we summon up all our spiritual 
 and moral strength to resist the latter, but often do 
 
CONCLUSION. 261 
 
 not feel it to be a necessary duty to bear 
 the former with meekness and resignation ; 
 so is it more difficult to overcome and resist temp- 
 tations to every-day lying and deceit, than to 
 falsehoods of a worse description ; since, while 
 these little lies often steal on us unawares, and 
 take us unprepared, we know them to be so trivial, 
 that they escape notice, and to be so tolerated, that 
 even, if detected, they will not incur reproof. Still, 
 I must again and again repeat the burden of my 
 song, the moral result, which, however weakly I 
 may have performed my task, I have laboured in- 
 cessantly, through the whole of my work, to draw, 
 and to illustrate ; namely, that this little tolerated 
 lying, as well as great and reprobated falsehood, is 
 wholly inconsistent with the character of a serious 
 Christian, and sinful in the eyes of the God of 
 Truth; that, in the daily recurring temptation to 
 deceive, our only security is to lift up our soul, in 
 secret supplication, to be preserved faithful in the 
 hour of danger, and always to remember, without 
 any qualification of the monitory words, that " ly- 
 ing lips are an abomination to the Lord." 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 I shall now give a summary of the didactic part 
 of these observations on lying, and the principles 
 which, with much fearlessness and humility, 1 have 
 ventured to lay down. 
 
 I have stated, that if there be no other true defi- 
 nition of lying than an intention to deceive, with- 
 holding the truth, with such an intention, partakes 
 
262 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LTIN©. 
 
 as much of the nature of falsehood as direct lies 5 
 and that, therefore, lies are of two natures, active 
 and passive ; or, in other words, direct and in- 
 direct. 
 
 That a passive lie is equally as irreconcilable 
 to moral principles as an active one. 
 
 That the lies of vanity are of an active and 
 passive nature ; and that, though we are tempted 
 to be guilty of the former, our temptations to the 
 latter are stronger still. 
 
 That many, who would shrink with moral dis- 
 gust from committing the latter species of false- 
 hood, are apt to remain silent when their vanity is 
 gratified, without any overt act of deceit on their 
 part; and are contented to let the flattering rep- 
 resentation remain uncontradicted. 
 
 That this disingenuous passiveness belongs to 
 that common species of falsehood, withholding the 
 truth. 
 
 That lying is a common vice, and the habit of 
 it so insensibly acquired, that many persons violate 
 the truth, without being conscious that it is a sin 
 to do so, and even look on dexterity in white ly- 
 ing, as it is called, as a thing to be proud of; 
 but, that it were well to consider whether, if we 
 allow ourselves liberty to lie on trivial occa- 
 sions, we do not weaken our power to resist temp- 
 tation to utter falsehoods which may be danger- 
 ous, in their results, to our own well being, and 
 that of others. 
 
 That, if we allow ourselves to violate the truth, 
 that is, deceive for any purpose whatever, who 
 can say where this self-indulgence will submit to 
 be bounded ? 
 
 That those who learn to resist the daily tempta- 
 tion to tell what are deemed trivial and innocent 
 
CONCLUSION. 263 
 
 lies, will be better able to withstand allurements to 
 serious and important deviations from truth. 
 
 That the lies of flattery are, generally speak- 
 ing, not only unprincipled, but offensive. 
 
 That there are few persons with whom it is so 
 difficult to keep up the relations of peace and ami- 
 ty as flatterers by system and habit. 
 
 That the view taken by the flatterer of the 
 penetration of the flattered is often erroneous. 
 That the really intelligent are usually aware to 
 how much praise and admiration they are en- 
 titled, be it encomium on their personal or mental 
 qualifications. 
 
 That the lie of fear springs from the want of 
 moral courage ; and that, as this defect is by no 
 means confined to any class or age, the result of it, 
 that fear of man, which prompts to the lie of fear, 
 must be universal. 
 
 That some lies, which are thought to be lies of 
 benevolence, are not so in reality, but may be re- 
 solved into lies of fear, being occasioned by a 
 dread of losing favour by speaking the truth, and 
 not by real kindness of heart. ' 
 
 That the daily lying and deceit tolerated in so- 
 ciety, and which are generally declared necessary 
 to preserve good- will, and avoid offence to the 
 self love of others, are the result of false, not real 
 benevolence, — for that those, who practise it the 
 most to their acquaintances when present, are only 
 too apt to make detracting observations on them 
 when they are out of sight. 
 
 That true benevolence would ensure, not de- 
 stroy, the existence of sincerity, as those who cul- 
 tivate the benevolent affections always see the good 
 qualities of their acquaintance in the strongest 
 light, and throw their defects into shade ; that, 
 consequently, they need not shrink from speaking 
 
264 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 truth on all occasions. That the kindness which 
 prompts to erroneous conduct cannot long contin- 
 ue to bear even a remote connection with real be- 
 nevolence ; that unprincipled benevolence soon de- 
 generates into malevolence. 
 
 That, if those w ho possess good sense would 
 use it as zealously to remove obstacles in the way 
 of spontaneous truth, as they do to justify them- 
 selves in the practice of falsehood, (he difficulty 
 of always speaking the truth would in time vanish. 
 
 That the lie of convenience —namely, the or- 
 der to servants (o say, " not at home," that is, 
 teaching them to lie for our convenience, is at the 
 same time teaching them to lie for their own, 
 whenever the temptation offers. 
 
 That those masters and unstresses who show 
 their domesticl<s, that they do not themselves val- 
 ue truth, and thus render the conseiences of the 
 latter callous to its requirings, forfeit their right, 
 and lose their chance, of having servants worthy 
 of confidence, degrade their own characters also 
 in their opinions, and incur an wful guilt by en- 
 dangering their servant's well-being here, and 
 hereafter. 
 
 That husbands who employ their wives, and 
 wives their husbands, and that parents who em- 
 ploy their children to utter for them the lies of 
 convenience, have no right to be angry, or sur- 
 prised if their wedded or parental confidence be 
 afterwards painfully abused, since they have 
 taught their families the habit of deceit, by en- 
 couraging them in the practice of what they call 
 innocent white lying* 
 
 The lies of interest are sometimes more ex- 
 cusable, and less offensive than others, but are dis- 
 gusting when told by those whom conscious inde- 
 
CONCLUSION. 265 
 
 pendente preserves from any strong temptation to 
 violate truth. 
 
 That lies of first-rate malignity, namely, lies 
 intended wilfully to destroy the reputation of men 
 and women, are less frequent than falsehoods of 
 any other description, because the arm of the law 
 defends reputations. 
 
 That, notwithstanding, there are many persons, 
 worn both in body and mind by the consciousness 
 of being the object of calumnies and suspicions 
 which they have not power to combat, who steal 
 broken-hearted into their graves, thankful for the 
 summons of death, and hoping to find refuge from 
 the injustice of their fellow-creatures in the bosom 
 of their Saviour. 
 
 That against lies of second-rate malignity the 
 law holds out no protection. 
 
 That they spring from the spirit of detraction, 
 and cannot be exceeded in base and petty 
 treachery. 
 
 That lies of real benevolence, though the most 
 amiable and respectable of all lies, are, not- 
 withstanding, objectionable, and ought not to be 
 told. 
 
 That, to deceive the sick and the dying, is a de- 
 reliction of principle which not even benevolence 
 can excuse; since, who shall venture to assert that 
 a deliberate and wilful falsehood is justifiable ? 
 
 That, withholding the truth with regard to the 
 character of a servant, alias, the passive lie of be- 
 nevolence, is a pernicious and reprehensible cus- 
 tom ; that, if benevolent to the hired, it is malev- 
 olent to the Wring, and may be fatal to the per- 
 son so favoured. 
 
 That the masters and mistresses who thus per- 
 form what they call a benevolent action, at the ex- 
 23 
 
266 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 pense of sincerity, often, no doubt, find their sin 
 visited on their own heads; because, if servants 
 know that, owing to the lax morality of their em- 
 ployers, their faults will not receive their proper 
 punishment, that is, disclosure, when they are 
 turned away,— one of the most powerful motives 
 to behave well is removed, since those are not 
 likely to abstain from sin, who are sure that they 
 shall sin with impunity. 
 
 That it would be real benevolence to tell, and 
 not to withhold, the whole truth on such occasions ; 
 because those who hire servants so erroneously 
 befriended, may, from ignorance of their besetting 
 sins, put temptations in their way to repeat their 
 fault ; and may thereby expose them to incur, some 
 day or other, the severest penalty of the law. 
 
 That it is wrong, however benevolently meant, 
 to conceal the whole extent of a calamity from an 
 afflicted person, not only because it shows a dis- 
 trust of the wisdom of the Deity, and implies that 
 he is not a fit judge of the proper degree of trial to 
 be inflicted on his creatures, but, because it is a 
 withholding of the truth with an intention to deceive, 
 and that such a practice is not only wrong, but in- 
 expedient ; as we may thereby stand between the 
 sufferer and the consolation which might have 
 been afforded in some cases by the very nature 
 and intensity of the blow inflicted ; and lastly, be- 
 cause such concealment is seldom ultimately suc- 
 cessful, since the truth comes out, usually in the 
 end, when the sufferer is not so well able to bear it. 
 
 That lies of wantonness, are lies which are of- 
 ten told for no other motive than to show the ut- 
 terpr's tot*l contempt for truth ; and that there is 
 no hope for the amendment of such persons, since 
 they thus sin from a depraved fondness for speak- 
 ing, and inventing falsehood. 
 
CONCLUSION. 267 
 
 That dress affords good illustrations of practi- 
 cal lies. 
 
 That if false hair, false bloon^ false eyebrows, 
 and other artificial aids to the appearance, are so 
 well contrived, that they seem palpably intended 
 to pass for natural beauties, then do these aids of 
 dress partake of the vicious nature of other lying. 
 
 That the medical man who desires his servant 
 to call him out of church, or from a party, when 
 he is not wanted, in order to give him the appear- 
 ance of the great business which he has not ; and 
 the a :thor who makes his publisher put second 
 and third edition before a work of which, perhaps 
 even the first is not wholly sold, are also guilty of 
 practical lies 
 
 That the practical lies most fatal to others, are 
 those acted by men uho, when in the gulf of bank- 
 ruptcy, launch out into increased splendour of liv- 
 ing, in order to obtain further credit, by inducing 
 an opinion that they are rich. 
 
 That another pernicious practical lie is acted by 
 boj 7 s and girls at school, who employ their school- 
 fellows to do exercises for them ; or who them- 
 selves do them for others; that, by this means, 
 children become acquainted with the practice of 
 deceit as soon as they enter a public school ; and 
 thus is counteracted the effect of those principles 
 of spontaneous truth which they may have learnt 
 at home. 
 
 That lying is mischievous and impolitic, because 
 it destroys confidence, that best charm and only 
 cement of society ; and that it is almost impossi- 
 ble to believe our acquaintances, or expect to be 
 believed ourselves, when we or they have once 
 been detected in falsehood. 
 
 That speaking the truth does not imply a neces- 
 sity to wound the feelings of any one. That of- 
 
268 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 fensive, or home truths, should never be volunteer- 
 ed, though one lays it down as a principle, that 
 truth must be spoken when called for. 
 
 That often ti;e temporary wound given to us on 
 principle, to the sell-love of others, may be attend- 
 ed with lasting benefit to them, and benevolence 
 in reality be not wounded, but gratified ;, $ince the 
 truly benevolent can always find a balm for the 
 wounds which duty obliges them to inflict. 
 
 That, were the utterance of spontaneous truth to 
 become a general principle of action in society, 
 no one would dare to put such questions concern- 
 ing their defects as I have enumerated ; therefore 
 the difficulty of always speaking truth would be 
 almost annihilated. 
 
 That those who, in the presence of their ac- 
 quaintance, make mortifying observations on their 
 personal defects, or wound their self-love in any 
 other way, are not actuated by the love of truth, 
 but that their sincerity is the result of coarseness of 
 mind, and of the mean wish to inflict pain. 
 
 That all human beings are. in their closets, con- 
 vinced of the importance of truth to the interests 
 of society, though few, comparatively, think the 
 practice binding on them, when acting in the busy 
 scene of the world. 
 
 That we must wonder still less at the little shame 
 attached to white lying, when we see it sanctioned 
 in the highest assemblies in the kingdom. 
 
 That, in the heat of political debate, in either 
 house of parliament, offence is given and received, 
 and the unavoidable consequence is thought to be 
 apology, or duel ; that the necessity of either is 
 obviated only by lying, the offender being at 
 length induced to declare that by black he did not 
 mean black, but white, and the offended says, 
 " enough — I am satisfied." 
 
CONCLUSION. 269 
 
 That the supposed necessity of thus making 
 apologies, in the language of falsehood, is much to 
 be deplored ; and that the language of truth might 
 be used with equal effect. 
 
 That, if the offender and offended were married 
 men, the former might declare, that he would not, 
 for any worldly consideration, run the risk of mak- 
 ing his own wife a widow, and his own children 
 fatherless, nor those of any other man ; and that 
 he was also withheld by obedience to the divine 
 command, " Thou shalt not kill." 
 
 That, though there might be many heroes pres- 
 ent on such an occasion, whose heads were bowed 
 down with the weight of their laurels, the man 
 who could thus speak and act against the bloody 
 custom of the world would be a greater hero, in 
 the best sense of the word, as he would be made 
 superior to the fear of man, by fear of God, 
 
 That some persons say, that they have lied so 
 as to deceive, with an air of complacency, as if 
 vain of their deceptive art, adding " but it was 
 only a white lie, you know ;" as if, therefore, it 
 was no lie at all. 
 
 That it is common to hear even the pious and 
 the moral assert that deviation from truth, or a 
 withholding of the truth, is sometimes absolutely 
 necessary. 
 
 That persons who thus reason, if asked whether, 
 while repeating the commandment, " thou shalt 
 not steal," they may, nevertheless, pilfer in some 
 small degnee, would, undoubtedly, answer in the 
 negative; yet, that white lying is as much an in- 
 fringement of the moral law as little pilfering is of 
 the comma ndraent not to steal. 
 
 That 1 have thought it right to give extracts from 
 23* 
 
270 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 many powerful writers, in corroboration of my own 
 opinion on the subjects of-lying. 
 
 That, if asked why I have taken so much trouble 
 to prove what no one ever doubted, I reply, that I 
 have done so in order to force on the attention of 
 my readers that not one of these writers mentions 
 any allowed exception to the general rule of truth; 
 and it seems to be their opinion that no mental re- 
 servation is to be permitted on special occasions. 
 
 That the principle of truth is an immutable princi- 
 ple, or it is of no use as a guard to morals. 
 
 That it is earnestly to be hoped and desired, 
 that the day may come, when it shall be as dis- 
 honourable to commit the slightest breach of ve- 
 racity as to pass counterfeit shillings. 
 
 That Dr. Haw kes worth is wrong in saying that 
 the liar is universally abandoned and despised ; 
 for, although we dismiss the servant whose habit 
 of lying offends us, we never refuse to associate 
 with the liar of rank and opulence. 
 
 That, though, as he says, the imputation of a lie 
 is an insult for which life only can atone, the man 
 who would thus fatally resent it does not even re- 
 prove the lie of convenience in his wife or child, and 
 is often guilty of it himself. 
 
 That the lying order given to a servant entails 
 consequences of a mischievous nature ; that it low- 
 ers the standard of truth in the person who receives 
 it, lowers the persons who give it, and deprives the 
 latter of their best claim to their servants' respect ; 
 namely, a conviction of their moral superiority. 
 
 That the account given, by Boswell, of John- 
 son's regard to truth, furnishes us with a better ar- 
 gument for it than is afforded by the best moral 
 fictions. 
 
 That, if Johnson could always speak the truth, 
 
CONCLUSION. 271 
 
 others can do the same ; as it does not require his 
 force of intellect to enable us to be sincere. 
 
 That, if it be asked what would be gained by 
 always speaking the truth ; I answer, that the in- 
 dividuals so speaking would acquire the involunta- 
 ry confidence and reverence of their fellow- 
 creatures. 
 
 That the consciousness of truth and ingenuous- 
 ness gives a radiance to the countenance, and a 
 charm to the manner, which no other quality of 
 mind can equally bestow. 
 
 That the contrast to this picture must be famil- 
 iar to the memory of every one. 
 
 That it is a delightful sensation to feel and in- 
 spire confidence. 
 
 That it is delightful to know that we have friends 
 on whom we can always rely for honest counsel 
 and ingenuous reproof. 
 
 That it is an ambition worthy of thinking beings 
 to endeavour to qualify ourselves, and those whom 
 we love, to be such friends as these. 
 
 That if each individual family would resolve to 
 avoid every species of falsehood, whether author- 
 ized by custom or not, the example would soon 
 spread. 
 
 That nothing is impossible to zeal and enterprize. 
 
 That there is a river which, if suffered to flow 
 over the impurities of falsehood and dissimulation 
 in the world, is powerful enough to wash them all 
 away ; since it flows from the fountain of ever- 
 living WATERS. 
 
 That the powerful writers, from whom 1 have 
 given extracts, have treated the subject of truth as 
 moralists only ; and have, therefore, kept out of 
 sight the only sure motive to resist the temptation 
 to lie ; namely, obedience to the divine will. 
 
 That the moral man may utter spontaneous truth 
 
2?2 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 pn all occasions ; but, the religious man, if he acts 
 consistently must do so. 
 
 That, both the Old and New Testament abound 
 in facts and texts to prove how odious the sin of ly- 
 ing is in the sight of the Almighty ; as 1 have 
 shown in several quotations from Scripture to 
 that effect. 
 
 That as no person has a right to resent being 
 called a sloven who goes about in a stained gar- 
 ment, though that stain be a single one ; so that 
 person who indulges in any one species of lie can- 
 not declare, with justice, that he deserves not the 
 name of liar. 
 
 That the all-powerful Being who has said " as 
 is our day, our strength shall be," still lives to 
 hear the prayer of all who call on Him, and in 
 the hour of temptation will " strengthen them out 
 of Zion." 
 
 That, in all other times of danger, the believer 
 supplicates for help, but few persons think of pray- 
 ing to be preserved from little lying, though the 
 Lord has not revealed to us what species of lying 
 he tolerates, and what he reproves. 
 
 That, though I am sure it is not impossible to 
 speak the truth always, when persons are power- 
 fully influenced by religious motives, 1 admit the 
 extreme difficulty of it, and have given the con- 
 duct of some distinguished religious characters as 
 illustrations of the difficulty. 
 
 That other instances have been stated, in order 
 to exemplify the power of religious motives on 
 some minds to induce undaunted utterance of the 
 truth, even when death was the sure consequence. 
 That temptations to little lying are far more 
 common than temptations to great and important 
 lies ; that they are far mere difficult to resist, be- 
 cause they come upon us daily and unawares, and 
 
CONCLUSION. 273 
 
 because we know that we may utler white lies 
 without fear of detection ; and, if detected, with- 
 out any risk of being disgraced by them in the 
 eyes of others. 
 
 That, notwithstanding, they are equally, with 
 great lies, contrary to the will of God, and that it 
 is necessary to be " watchful unto prayer," when 
 we are tempted to commit them. 
 
 1 conclude this summary by again conjuring my 
 readers to reflect that there is no moral difficulty, 
 however great, which courage, zeal, and perse- 
 verance, will not enable them to overcome ; and, 
 never, probably, was there a period, in the history 
 of man, when those qualities seemed more suc- 
 cessfully called into action than at the present 
 moment. 
 
 Never was there a better opportunity of estab- 
 lishing general society on the principles of truth, 
 than that now afforded by the enlightened plan of 
 educating the infant population of these United 
 Kingdoms. 
 
 There is one common ground on which the most 
 sceptical philosopher, and the most serious Chris- 
 tian meet, and cordially agree ; namely, on the 
 doctrines of the omnipotence of motives. They dif- 
 fer only on the nature of the motives to be applied 
 to human actions ; the one approving of moral 
 motives alone, the other advocating the propriety 
 of giving religious ones. 
 
 But. those motives only can be made to act up- 
 on the infant mind which it is able to understand ; 
 and they are, chiefly, the hope of reward for obe- 
 dience, and the dread of punishment for disobedi- 
 ence. But, these motives are all-sufficient ; there- 
 fore, even at the earliest period of life, a love of 
 truth and an abhorrence of lying may be inculcat- 
 ed with the greatest success. Moreover, habit ? 
 
274 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 that best of friends, or worst of foes, according to 
 the direction given to its power, may form an im- 
 pregpable barrier to defend the pupils thus train- 
 ed, against the allurements of falsehood. 
 
 Children taught to tell the truth from the motive 
 of fear and of hope, and from the force of habit, 
 will be so well prepared to admit and profit by the 
 highest motives to do so, as soon as they can be 
 unfolded to their minds, that, when they are re- 
 moved to other schools, as they advance in life, 
 they will be found to abhor every description of 
 lying and deceit ; and thus the cause of spontane- 
 ous truth and general education will go forward, 
 progressing and prospering together. 
 
 Nor can the mere moralist, or the man of the 
 world, be blind to the benefit which would accrue 
 to them, were society to be built on the founda- 
 tion of truth "and of sincerity. If our servants, a 
 race of persons on whom much of our daily com- 
 fort depends, are trained up in habits of truth, do- 
 mestic confidence and security will be the happy 
 result; and we shall no longer hear the common 
 complaint of their lies and dishonesty ; and, the 
 parents who feel the value of truth in their do- 
 mestics, will, doubtless, take care to teach their 
 children those habits which have had power to 
 raise even their inferiors in the scale of utility and 
 of moral excellence. Where are the worldlings 
 who, in such a state of society, would venture to 
 persevere in what they now deen necessary white 
 lying, when the lady may be shamed into truth 
 by the refusal of her waiting-maid to utter the lie 
 required ; and the gentleman may learn to feel 
 the meanness of falsehood, alias, of the lie of 
 convenience, by the respectful, but firm, resistance 
 to utter it of his valet-de-chambre ? But, if the 
 minds of the poor and the laborious, who must al- 
 
CONCLUSION. 275 
 
 ways form the most extensive part of the communi- 
 ty, are formed in infancy to the practice of moral 
 virtue, the happiness, safety, and improvement, of 
 the higher classes will, I doubt not, be thereby se- 
 cured. As the lofty heads of the pyramids of 
 Egypt were rendered able to resist the power of 
 the storm and the whirlwind, through successive 
 ages, by the extent of their bases, and by the 
 soundness and s irength of the materials of which 
 they were constructed, so the continued security, 
 and the very existence, perhaps, of the higher or- 
 ders in society, may depend on the extended moral 
 teaching and sound principles of the lowest orders ; 
 for treachery and conspiracy, with their results, 
 rebellion, and assassination, are not likely to be the 
 crimes of those who have been taught to practise 
 truth and openness in all their dealings,on the ground 
 of moral order, and of obedience to the will 
 
 OF GOD. 
 
 But, it is the bounden duty of the rich and of the 
 great to maintain their superiority of mind and 
 morals, as well as that of wealth and situation. I 
 beseech them to remember that it will always be 
 their place to give and not to take example ; and 
 they must be careful, in the race of morality, to 
 be neither outstripped, nor overtaken by their in- 
 feriors. They must also believe, in order to ren- 
 der their efforts successful, that, although morality 
 without religion is, comparatively, weak, yet when 
 these are combined, they are strong enough to 
 overcome all obstacles 
 
 Lying is a sin which tempts us on every side, 
 but is more to be dreaded when it allures us in the 
 shape of white lies ; for against these, as I have 
 before observed, we are not on our guard ; and, 
 instead of looking on them as enemies we consider 
 them as friends. 
 
i27G ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING* 
 
 Black lies, if I may so call them, are beasts and 
 birds of prey, which we rarely see ; and which, 
 when seen, we know that we must instantly avoid: 
 but white lies approach us in the pleasing shape of 
 necessary courtesies and innocent self-defence. 
 
 Finally, I would urge them to remember that if 
 they believe in the records of holy writ, they can 
 thence derive sufficient motives to enable them to 
 tell spontaneous truth, in defiance of the sneers of 
 the world, and of " evil and good report." 
 
 That faith in a life to come, connected with a 
 close dependence on divine grace, will give them 
 power in this, as well as in other respects, to eman- 
 cipate themselves from their own bondage of cor- 
 ruption, as well as to promote the purification of 
 others. For, Christians possess what Archimedes 
 wanted; they have another sphere on which to fix 
 their hold ; and, by that means, can be enabled to 
 move, to influence, and to benefit, this present 
 world of transitory enjoyments ; a world which is 
 in reality safe and precious to those alone who 
 i; use it without abusing it," and who are ever 
 looking beyond it " to a building of God, a home 
 not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." 
 
 THE END. 
 
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