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 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 
 
 IN 
 
 
 Jtll \i% ^tixit\t%. 
 
 REVISED BY 
 
 Nashville, Tenn. : 
 SOUTHERN METHODIST PUBLISHING HOUSE. 
 
 1882. 
 
\ 
 
 S K V « 
 
 Otyi, 
 
 3,0. PUBLIC LIBBABX 
 BBPT. lO. 1940 
 
CflitUnts. 
 
 PASS 
 
 EDITORIAL NOTE V 
 
 DEDICATION vi 
 
 PREFACE Vii 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 Introduction 9 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 On the Active and Passive Lies of Vanity — The 
 Stage-Coach — Unexpected Discoveries 11 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 On the Lies of Flattery— The Turban/: 56 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 Lies of Fear— The Bank Note G8 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Lies falsely called Lies of Benevolence — A Tale of 
 Potted Sprats — An Authoress and her Auditors. 78 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Lies of Convenience — Proj ects Defeated 91 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 Lies of Interest— The Screen 106 
 
 (iii) 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Lies of First-rate Malignity — The Orphan 120 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Lies of Second-rate Malignity — The Old Gentleman 
 and the Young One 143 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Lies of Benevolence — Mistaken Kindness — Father 
 and Son 156 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 Lies of Wantonness and Practical Lies 193 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Our own Experience of the Painful Results of Lying. 201 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 Lying the most common of all Vices 210 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 Extracts from Lord Bacon, and others 213 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Observations on the Extracts from Hawkesworth 
 and others 240 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 Religion the only Basis of Truth 249 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 The same subject continued — Conclusion.... 288 
 
(BVxtaxhi Matt. 
 
 <i> 
 
 Mrs. Opie's work on Lying has long since 
 taken its rank among English classics, and there- 
 fore needs no recommendation from us. It has 
 gained an immense popularity, which is the more 
 remarkable as it traverses the views of some of 
 our great moralists — Archdeacon Paley being one 
 of them. We have edited it with care, inserting 
 an occasional note, the reasons for which will be 
 obvious to the reader. We counsel all parents to 
 put this admirable volume into the hands of their 
 children. 
 
 Nashyille, Tenn., Dec. 31, 1856. 
 
 1* (r) 
 
TO 
 
 )x. JUfomwn, at itoakfr> 
 
 To thee, my beloved Fathrr, I dedicated my 
 first, and to thee I also dedicate my present work ; 
 with the pleasing conviction that thou art dis- 
 posed to form a favorable judgment of any pro- 
 duction, however humble, which has a tendency 
 to promote the moral and religious welfare of 
 mankind. Amelia Opie. 
 
 (vi) 
 
fnfan. 
 
 I am aware that a preface must be short, if its author 
 aspire to have it read. I shall therefore content myself 
 with making a very few preliminary observations, 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 of my readers. 
 
 Our great satirist speaks of a Dean who was a favor- 
 ite at the church where he officiated, because 
 
 " He never mentioned hell to ears polite," — 
 
 and I fear that to " ears polite," my coarseness, in uni- 
 formly calling lying and lie by their real names, may 
 sometimes be offensive. 
 
 But, when writing a book against lying, I was obliged 
 to express my meaning in the manner most consonant 
 to the strict truth ; nor could I employ any words with 
 such propriety as those hallowed and sanctioned 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. 
 
 (vii) 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 My second apology is, for presuming to come for- 
 ward, with such apparent boldness, as a didactic writer, 
 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 pre- 
 sumption and self-conceit, by declaring that I pretend 
 not to lay before my readers any new knowledge ; 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 mirror, 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 commonplace truth than that 
 kings are but men, and that monarchs, as well as their 
 subjects, must surely die. 
 
 Notwithstanding, Philip of Macedon was so conscious 
 of his liability to forget this awful truth, that he cm- 
 ployed a monitor to follow him every day, repeating in 
 his ear, " Remember thou art but a man." And he 
 who gave this salutary admonition neither possessed su- 
 periority 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 pre- 
 tensions have been as humble, and as confined, as those 
 
 Of the REMEMBRANCER of PHILIP OF MACEDON. 
 
 AMELIA OPIE. 
 
.*•■.-■' 
 
 Illustrations of fgrag, 
 
 IN ALL ITS BRANCHES. 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 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 false- 
 hood. 
 
 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. 
 
 (9) 
 
. - ***** 
 
 v 10 ILLUSTRATIONS OF^^ENG. 
 
 Lie's of second-rate Malignity. 
 
 Lies, falsely called Lies of Benevolence. 
 
 Lies of real Benevolence. , 
 
 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 
 illustrate 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 
 despicable species of falsehood. 
 
ON THE ACTIVE AND PASSI 
 
 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 cer- 
 tain 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 assembly, on such a night, without add- 
 ing 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 • but the one would be an 
 active, the other a passive lie. 
 
 In the first I should assert a direct falsehood, 
 in the other I should withhold part of the truth ; 
 but both would be lies, because in both my in- 
 tention was to deceive.* 
 
 * This passive lie is a very frequent one in certain 
 circles in London ; as many ladies and gentlemen there 
 purchase tickets for benefit concerts held at great 
 houses, in order that they may be able to say.. "I was 
 at Lady Such-a-one's on such a night." 
 
****** 
 
 12 ILLUSTRATIONS OF L^ING. 
 
 But though we are frequently tempted to be 
 guilty 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 following instances will explain what I mean 
 by this observation. 
 
 If I assert that my motive for a particular ac- 
 tion was virtuous, when I know that it was 
 worldly and selfish, I am guilty of 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 I 
 am conscious that they sprang from unworthy 
 or unimportant ones, I listen with silent compla- 
 cency, and do not positively disclaim my right to 
 commendation- only, in the one case I lie di- 
 rectly, in the other indirectly : the lie is active 
 in the one, and passive in the other. And are 
 we not all of us conscious of having sometimes ac- 
 cepted incense to our vanity, 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 positive falsehood ; but they who, without any 
 contradiction 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 de- 
 ception as the utterers of the above-mentioned as- 
 sertion. Still, it is certain that many, who would 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 13 
 
 shrink with moral disgust from committing the 
 latter species of falsehood, are apt to remain si- 
 lent, when their vanity is gratified, without any 
 overt act of deceit on their part, and are con- 
 tented to let the flattering belief remain uncontra- 
 dicted. Yet the turpitude is, in my opinion, at 
 least, nearly equal, if my definition of lying be 
 correct — namely, the intent ion to deceive. 
 
 This disingenuous passiveness, this deceitful 
 silence, belongs to that extensive and common 
 species of falsehood, withholding the truth. 
 
 But this tolerated sin, denominated white ly- 
 ing, 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 fre- 
 quently, they do it unconsciousl} 7 , perhaps, from 
 the force of habit ; and, like Monsieur Jourdain, 
 " the Bourgeois gentle-homme/' who found out 
 that he had talked prose ail his life without know- 
 ing it. these persons utter lie upon lie, without 
 knowing that what they utter deserves to be con- 
 sidered as falsehood. 
 
 I am myself convinced that a passive lie is 
 equally as irreconcilable to moral principles as an 
 active one \ but I am well aware that most per- 
 sons are of a different opinion. Yet I would say 
 to those who thus differ from me, if you allow 
 yourselves to violate truth — that is, to deceive, for 
 any purpose whatever — who can say where this 
 sort of self-indulgence will submit to be bounded ? 
 Can you be sure that you will not, when strongly 
 
14 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 tempted, utter what is equally false, in order to 
 benefit yourself, at the expense of a fellow-crea- 
 ture ? 
 
 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 tossed 
 on a tempestuous ocean 5 so those who may suc- 
 cessfully 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 unexpected violence. 
 
 But in every warfare against human corrup- 
 tion, 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 unconsciously able to bear, with 
 ease, the greatest weight possible to be borne by 
 man. In like manner, those who resist the 
 daily temptation to tell what are apparently tri- 
 vial and innocent lies, will be better able to with- 
 stand allurements to serious and important devia- 
 tions 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. 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 15 
 
 at the same time, are so like each other, that it 
 were useless, as well as endless, to attempt to 
 enumerate them. I shall therefore mention one 
 of them only, before I proceed to my tale on the 
 active lie of vanity, and that is the most common 
 of all, namely, the violation of truth which per- 
 sons indulge in relative to their age; an error 
 so generally committed, especially by the unmar- 
 ried of both sexes, that few persons can expect 
 to be believed when declaring their age at an ad- 
 vanced period of life. So common, and therefore 
 so little disreputable, is this species of lie consid- 
 ered 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, u She 
 tells me she is five-and-twenty : I therefore con- 
 clude that she is five-and-thirty." This was un- 
 doubtedly spoken in joke ; still it was an evidence 
 of the toleration generally granted on this point. 
 But though it is ]D° ss ^ e that my friend be- 
 lieved the lady to be a year or two older than she 
 owned herself to be, and thought a deviation from 
 truth ou this subject was of no consequence, I 
 am very sure that he would not have ventured to 
 marry a woman whom he suspected of lying on 
 any other occasion. This however is a lie which 
 does not expose the utterer to severe animadver- 
 sion, and for this reason probably, that all man- 
 kind are so averse to be thought old, that the 
 wish to be considered younger than the truth 
 warrants meets with complacent sympathy and in- 
 dulgence, even when years are notoriously annihi- 
 lated at the impulse of vanity. 
 
16 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 I give the following story in illustration of the 
 active lie of vanity. 
 
 THE STAGE-COACH. 
 
 Amongst those whom great successes in trade 
 had raised to considerable opulence in their na- 
 tive city, was a family by the name of Burford ; 
 and the eldest brother, when he was the only sur- 
 viving 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 ex- 
 penses of Annabel's education. But it was with 
 painful reluctance that Annabel's excellent mo- 
 ther consented to resign her child to another's 
 care ; nor could she be prevailed upon to do so, 
 till Burford, who believed that his widowed pa- 
 rent would sink under the loss of her husband 
 unless Annabel was permitted 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 prophetic of the 
 mischief to which she exposed her child's mind 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 17 
 
 and character, by this enforced surrender of a 
 mothers duties. 
 
 The grandmother was a thoughtless woman of 
 this world : the mother, a pious, reflecting being, 
 continually preparing herself for the world to 
 come. With the latter, Annabel would have ac- 
 quired principles : with the former, she could only 
 learn accomplishments; and that weakly judging 
 person encouraged her in habits of mind and 
 character which would have filled both her father 
 and mother with pain and apprehension. 
 
 Yanity was her ruling passion; and this her 
 grandmother fostered by every means in her pow- 
 er. She gave her elegant dresses, and had her 
 taught showy accomplishments. She delighted 
 to hear her speak of herself, and boast of the com- 
 pliments paid her on her beauty and her talents. 
 She was even weak enough to admire the skilful 
 falsehood with which she embellished everything 
 which she narrated; but this vicious propensity 
 the old lady considered only as a proof of a lively 
 fancy ; and she congratulated herself on the con- 
 sciousness how much more agreeable her fluent 
 and inventive Annabel was, than the matter-of- 
 fact girls with whom she associated. But while 
 Annabel and her grandmother were on a visit at 
 Burford's jountry-house, and while the parents 
 were beholding with sorrow the conceit and flip- 
 pancy of their only daughter, they were plunged 
 at once into comparative poverty, by the ruin of 
 some of Burford's correspondents abroad, and by 
 the fraudulent conduct of a friend in whom he had 
 trusted. Tn a few short weeks, therefore, the 
 
18 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 ruined grandmother and her adopted child, to 
 gether with the parents and their boys, were 
 forced 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 nlways discouraged 
 that expensive style of living which had exposed 
 her husband to envy, and its concomitant detrac- 
 tions, among those whose increase in wealth had 
 not kept pace with his own. He had also car- 
 ried his ambition so far, that he had even aspired 
 to represent his native city in parliament ) and, 
 as he was a violent politician, some of the oppo- 
 site party not only rejoiced in his downfall, but 
 were ready to believe and to propagate that he 
 had made a fraudulent bankruptcy in concert with 
 his friend who had absconded, and that he had 
 secured or conveyed away from his creditors mo- 
 ney to a considerable amount. But the tale of 
 calumny, which has no foundation in truth, can- 
 not long retain its power to injure; and, in pro- 
 cess of time, the feelings of the creditors in gen- 
 eral were so completely changed toward 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 recon- 
 sideration. Therefore, when a distinguished 
 friend of his father's, who had been strongly pre- 
 judiced against him at first, repented of his un- 
 just credulity, and, in order to make him amends, 
 offered him a share in his own business, all the 
 creditors, except two of the principal ones, be- 
 came willing to sign the certificate. Perhaps 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 19 
 
 there is nothing so difficult to remove from some 
 minds as suspicions of a derogatory nature ; and 
 the creditors in question were envious, worldly 
 men, who piqued themselves on their shrewdness, 
 could not brook the idea of being overreached, 
 and were, perhaps, not sorry that he whose pros- 
 perity had excited their jealousy, should now be 
 humbled before them as a dependent and a sup- 
 pliant. 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 in- 
 formed, 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 re- 
 newed prospects. 
 
 " Then, who knows, Anna/"' said he to his 
 wife, " but that in a few years I shall be able, by 
 industry and economy, to pay all that I owe, both 
 principal and interest ? for till I have done so, I 
 shall not be really happy; and then poverty will 
 be robbed of its sting." " Not only so/' she re- 
 plied : " we could never have given our children a 
 better inheritance than this proof of their father's 
 strict integrity; and surely, my dear husband, a 
 blessing will attend thy labors and intentions. v 
 '•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 !" replied Burford. tenderly em- 
 bracing her : " it was 7, I alone, who deserved 
 chastisement, and I cannot bear to hear thee 
 blame thyself; but it is like thee, Anna, — thou 
 
20 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 art ever kind, ever generous ; however, as L like 
 to be obliged to thee, I am contented that thou 
 shouldst talk of our pride and our chastisement." 
 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 
 schoolfellow some miles from her father's dwell- 
 ing. The vain girl had felt the deepest mortifica- 
 tion at this blight to her worldly prospects, and 
 bitterly lamented being no longer able to talk of 
 her grandmother'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 there- 
 fore delighted to leave home on a visit, and very 
 sorry when unexpected circumstances in her 
 friend's family obliged her to return sooner than 
 she intended. She was compelled also to return 
 by herself in a public coach, — a great mortifica- 
 tion to her still existing pride; but she had now 
 no pretensions to travel otherwise, and found it 
 necessary to submit to circumstances. In the 
 coach were one young man and two elderly ones \ 
 and her companions seemed so willing to pay her 
 attention, and make her journey pleasant to her, 
 that Annabel, who always believed herself an ob- 
 ject of admiration, was soon convinced that she 
 had made a conquest of the youth, and that the 
 others thought her a very sweet creature. She 
 therefore gave way to all her loquacious vivacity : 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 21 
 
 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 ex- 
 isted. In short, she tried to impress her compa- 
 nions with a high idea of her consequence, and as 
 if unusual and unexpected circumstances had led 
 her to travel incog., while she put in force all her 
 attractions against their poor condemned hearts. 
 What an odious thing is a coquette of sixteen ! 
 and such was Annabel Burford. Certain it is, 
 that she became an object of great attention to 
 the gentlemen with her, but of admiration proba- 
 bly to the young man alone, who, in her youthful 
 beauty, might possibly overlook her obvious de- 
 fects. During the journey, one of the elderly 
 gentlemen opened a basket which stood near him, 
 containing some fine hot-house grapes and flowers. 
 H There, young lady," said he to her, " did you 
 ever see such fruit as this before ?" " dear, yes, 
 in my papa's- grapery." " Indeed ! but did you 
 ever see such fine flowers F" " dear, yes, in 
 papa's succession-houses. There is nothing, I as- 
 sure you, of that sort," she added, drawing up 
 her head with a look of ineffable conceit, u that 
 I am not accustomed to" — condescending, how- 
 ever, 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 
 disguise was deigning to travel in a manner so 
 unworthy of her; and when they stopped within 
 
22 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 a few miles of her home, one of the gentlemen, 
 having discovered that she was known to a pas- 
 senger on the top of the coach, who was about to 
 leave it, got out and privately asked him who she 
 was. u Burford ! Burford !" cried he, when he 
 heard the answer ; " what ! the daughter of Bur- 
 ford the bankrupt V " Yes, the same." With a 
 frowning brow he reentered the coach, and, when 
 seated, whispered to the old gentleman next him ; 
 and both of them, having exchanged glances of 
 sarcastic and indignant meaning, looked at Annabel 
 with great significance. Nor was it long before 
 she observed a marked change in their manner to- 
 ward her. They answered her with abruptness, 
 and even with reluctance; till, at length, the one 
 who had interrogated her acquaintance on the 
 coach said, in a sarcastic 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 noiv, I take it." 
 " Dear me ! why not, sir V replied the conscious 
 girl, in a trembling voice. u Why not ? Why, 
 excuse my freedom, but are you not the daughter 
 of Mr. Burford the bankrupt 2" Never was child 
 more tempted to deny her parentage than Anna- 
 bel was ; but, though with great reluctance, she 
 faltered out, " Yes; and to be sure my father was 
 once unfortunate; but" — here she looked at her 
 young and opposite neighbor; 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 
 
LIES OP VANITY. 23 
 
 pretty ! Such a sweet garden ! and such a charm- 
 ing hot-house !" 
 
 " Indeed I" returned the old man with a signi- 
 ficant 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 favored by fortune?" a 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 children and fools speak truth, 
 says the proverb; and sometimes," added he in 
 a low voice, " the child and the fool are the same 
 person." " So, so," he muttered aside to the 
 other traveller : " gardens ! hot-house ! carriage ! 
 swindling, specious rascal !" But Annabel heard 
 only the first part of the sentence ; and being 
 quite satisfied that she had recovered 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 re- 
 sumed 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 fa- 
 ther's groom was to meet her, and take her 
 portmanteau. The truth was, she did not choose 
 to be set down at her own humble home, which 
 was at the farther end of the village, because it 
 would not only tell the tale of her fallen for- 
 tunes, but would prove the falsehood of what 
 
24 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 she had been asserting. When the coach stopped, 
 she exclaimed, with well-acted surprise, " Dear 
 rne ! 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 re- 
 gret at parting with her. 
 
 The parents, meanwhile, were eagerly expect- 
 ing her return; for though the obvious defects in 
 her character gave them excessive pain, and they 
 were resolved to leave no measures untried in or- 
 der to eradicate them, they had missed her amus- 
 ing vivacity; and even their low and confined 
 dwelling was rendered cheerful when, with her 
 sweet and brilliant 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 
 the parental heart was worked up to a high pitch 
 of feeling, and they were even beginning to share 
 the fantastic fears of the impatient grandmother, 
 when they saw the coach stop at a distant turn of 
 the road, and soon after beheld Annabel coming 
 toward them ; who was fondly clasped to those affec- 
 tionate bosoms, for which her unprincipled false- 
 hoods, 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 Wyn- 
 staye on business, and were returning thence to 
 London ; intending, when they arrived there, to 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 25 
 
 assure Sir James Alberry — that friend of Bur- 
 ford's father, who resided in London, and wished 
 to take him into partnership — that they were no 
 longer averse to sign his certificate; being at length 
 convinced that he was a calumniated man. But 
 now all their suspicions were renewed and con- 
 firmed : since it was easier for them to believe 
 that Burford was still the villain which they always 
 thought him, than that so young a girl should 
 have told so many falsehoods at the mere impulse 
 of vanity. They therefore became more inveterate 
 against her poor father than ever; and, though 
 their first visit to the metropolis was to the gen- 
 tleman in question, it was now impelled by a 
 wish to injure, not to serve him. How differ- 
 ently would they have felt, had the vain and false 
 Annabel allowed the coach to set her down at her 
 father's lowly door; and had they beheld the in- 
 terior arrangement of his house and family: had 
 they seen neatness and order giving attraction to 
 cheap and ordinary furniture : had they beheld 
 the simple meal spread out to welcome the wan- 
 derer home, and the Bible and Prayer-book ready 
 for the evening service, which was deferred till it 
 could be shared again with her whose return would 
 add fervor to the devotion of that worshipping 
 family, and would call forth additional expressions 
 of thanksgiving ! 
 
 The dwelling of Burford was that of a man 
 improved by trials past : of one who looked for- 
 ward with thankfulness and hope to the renewed 
 possession of a competence, in the belief that he 
 should now be able to make a wiser and holier use 
 
26 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 hu- 
 miliation is more safe and blessed than one of 
 worldly prosperity; while their Welch cottage and 
 wild mountain garden had been converted, by her 
 resources and her example, into a scene of such 
 rural industry and innocent amusement, that they 
 could no longer regret the splendid house and 
 grounds which they had been obliged to resign. 
 The grandmother, indeed, 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 occa- 
 sioned. 
 
 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 
 looked; and having convinced herself that she 
 was returned 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," 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 27 
 
 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 V 3 But the evening 
 duties were first to be performed; and performed 
 they were, with more than usual solemnity ; but 
 after them Annabel had to eat her supper ; and 
 she was so engrossed in relating hejr 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, 
 u Do, Annabel, go with your brothers V 3 and add, 
 "Go now; for it is near their bed-time! 7 ' She 
 was too fond of hearing herself talk, and of .her 
 grandmother's flatteries, to be willing 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 relat- 
 ing 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 V and owned what her reply was : 
 on which her grandmother exclaimed, with great 
 emotion, " Unthinking girl ! you know not what 
 injury you may have done your father I" She 
 then asked for a particular description of the per- 
 sons of the old men, saying, " Well, well, it can- 
 not be helped now — I may be mistaken ; but be sure 
 not to tell your mother what you have told me/' 
 
28 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 wouid 
 have much disliked any idea of change, had their 
 income been sufficient to give their boys good 
 education ; but as it was only just sufficient for 
 their maintenance, they looked forward with anx- 
 ious expectation to the arrival of a summons to 
 London, and to their expected residence there. 
 Still the idea of leaving their present abode was 
 really painful to all, save Annabel and her grand- 
 mother. They thought the rest of the family 
 devoid of proper spirit, and declared that living 
 in Wales was not living at all. 
 
 But a stop was now put to eager anticipations 
 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 metro- 
 polis, that gentleman wrote to him as follows : 
 
 " Sir : All connection between us is for ever at 
 an end ; and I have given the share in my busi- 
 ness 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 represented to be — a fraudulent bankrupt ; 
 and 3'our certificate now will never he signed. 
 Should you wonder 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 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 29 
 
 principal creditors ) and I 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 
 disgraced for ever !" then rushed into his own 
 chamber. His terrified wife followed him with 
 the unread letter in her hand, looking the inqui- 
 ries which she could not utter. "Read that/' he 
 replied, " and see that Sir James Alberry deems 
 me a villain V 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 
 mischief to her father — a conviction which con- 
 siderably increased Burford' s agony, when she 
 pointed out the passage in Sir James's letter 
 alluding to Annabel, who was immediately sum- 
 moned, and desired to explain Sir James's myste- 
 rious meaning. "Dear me, papa," cried she, 
 changing color, " I am sure, if I had thought, — - 
 I am sure I could not think, — nasty, ill-natured * 
 
 old man ! I am sure I only said " " But what 
 
 did you say?" cried her agitated father. "I can 
 explain all," said his mother, who had entered 
 uncalled for, and read the letter. She then re- 
 peated 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 
 
30 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 not only the cause of disappointment and disgrace 
 to them, but a mean, vainglorious, and despica- 
 
 . ble 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 what 
 can be done ; for my reputation must be cleared, 
 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 
 mother'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 money — as he had recently been obliged 
 to pay some debts of his still thoughtless and 
 extravagant mother — nor could he bear to borrow 
 of his neighbor what he was afraid he might be 
 for some time unable to return. " Cruel, unprin- 
 cipled girl I" cried he, as he paced their little room 
 in agony: "see to what misery thou hast reduced 
 thy father ! However, I must go to London im- 
 mediately, though it be on foot." "Well, really, 
 I don't see 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 reproached with her father's bankruptcy 
 and her fallen fortunes ; and it was very natural 
 for her to say what she did." "Natural!" ex- 
 claimed the indignant mother : " natural for my 
 child to utter falsehood on falsehood, and at the 
 instigation of a mean vanity ! Natural for my 
 child to shrink from the avowal of poverty, which 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 81 
 
 was unattended with disgrace ! ! 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 neither 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 weak- 
 ness which stood upon 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." "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 !" " Harmless !" 
 replied Burford, in a tone of indignation ; while 
 his wife exclaimed, in the agony of a wounded 
 spirit, " ! mother, mother ! do not make us 
 deplore, more than we already do, that fatal hour 
 when we consented to surrender our dearest duties 
 at the call of compassion for your sorrows, and 
 intrusted the care of our child's precious soul to 
 your erroneous tenderness ! But I trust that 
 Annabel deeply feels her sinfulness, and that the 
 effects of a mistaken education may have been 
 counteracted in time." 
 
32 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 be- 
 ginning to suspect that he had acted hastily, and, 
 perhaps, unjustly. He had written his distress- 
 ing letter in the moments of his first indignation, 
 on hearing the statement of the two creditors; 
 and he had moreover written it under their dicta- 
 tion ) and as the person who had long wished 
 to be admitted into partnership with him hap- 
 pened to call at the same time, and had taken 
 advantage of Burford' s supposed delinquency, he 
 had, without further hesitation, granted his re- 
 quest. But as Sir James, though a rash, was a 
 hind-hearted man, when his angry feelings had 
 subsided, the rebound of them was in favor of 
 the poor accused ; and he reproached himself for 
 having condemned and punished a supposed cul- 
 prit, before he was even heard in his defence. 
 Therefore, having invited Burford's accusers to 
 return to dinner, he dismissed 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 candid spirit and discrimi- 
 nating judgment. "What is all this?'' cried 
 Lady Alberry, when he had done speaking. u Is 
 it possible that, on the evidence of these two 
 men, who have shown themselves inveterate ene- 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 33 
 
 fifties of the poor bankrupt, you have broken your 
 promise to him, and pledged it to another?" " Yes ; 
 and my letter to Burford is gone. I wish I had 
 shown it to you before it went; but surely Bar- 
 ford's child could not have told them falsehoods." 
 "That depends on her education." "True, Jane; 
 and she was brought up, you know, by that para- 
 gon, her mother, who cannot do wrong." " No : 
 she was brought up by that weak woman, her 
 graudniother, 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 accusers. In the mean while, I 
 must regret your excessive precipitancy." 
 
 As Lady Al berry was a woman who scrupu- 
 lously performed all her religious and moral du- 
 ties, she was, consequently, always observant of 
 that holy command, " not to take up a reproach 
 against her neighbor." 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 falsehood, which 
 had also, perhaps, been magnified by involuntary 
 exaggeration, than that the husband of such a 
 woman 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 felt attracted toward 
 her by the strongest of all sympathies, that of 
 entire unity on those subjects most connected 
 with our welfare here and hereafter : those sym- 
 pathies which can convert strangers into friends, 
 2 
 
o4 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 and draw them together in the enduring ties of 
 pure, Christian love. "No, no," said she to her- 
 self: " the beloved husband of such a woman 
 cannot be a villain ;" and she awaited, with benevo- 
 lent impatience, the arrival of her expected guests. 
 They came, accompanied by Charles Dan vers, 
 Annabel's young fellow-traveller, who was nephew 
 to one of them; and Lady iVlberry lost no time 
 in drawing from them an exact detail of all that 
 had passed. "And this girl, you say, was a for- 
 ward, conceited, set-up being, full of herself and 
 her accomplishments : in short, the creature of 
 vanity." "Yes," replied one of the old men, 
 " it was quite a comedy to look at her and hear 
 her !" " But what says my young friend ?" " The 
 same. She is very pretty; but a model of affec- 
 tation, boasting, and vanity. Now she was hang- 
 ing her head on one side — then looking languish- 
 ingly with her eyes; and when my uncle, coarsely, 
 as I thought, talked of her father as a bankrupt, 
 her expression of angry mortification was so ludi- 
 crous, 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 of 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 compliments, and pretended to admire 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 35 
 
 her, notwithstanding." "I 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 flatter us the most." " But, dear Lady 
 Alberry, this 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 beauty." " 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 vainglorious girl told lies, 
 than that her father, the husband of one of the 
 best of women, should be guilty of the grossest 
 dishonesty?" "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 incon- 
 sistent 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." 
 
 "I am forced to return to Wynstaye to-mor- 
 row," growled out Charles's uncle; ik therefore, 
 suppose I go myself." " We had fixed to go into 
 
86 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 Wales ourselves next week/' replied Lady Alberry, 
 "ona 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 bet- 
 ter." To this proposal Sir James gladly assented : 
 and they set off for Wales the next day, accom- 
 panied by the uncle and the nephew. 
 
 As Lady Alberry was going to her chamber, on 
 the second night of their journey, she was startled 
 by the sound of deep groans, and a sort of de- 
 lirious raving, from a half-open door. "Surely," 
 said she to the landlady who was conducting her, 
 " there is some one very ill in that room." " 
 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 
 hither." " Has any medical man seen him ?" 
 "Not yet; for our surgeon lives a good way; 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." "Poor creature! he must be at- 
 tended 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 can- 
 not tell what." " I should like to see him," said 
 Lady Alberry, whose heart always yearned toward 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 37 
 
 the afflicted; u and I think that I am myself no 
 bad doctor." Accordingly she entered the room, 
 just as the sick man exclaimed in his delirium, 
 
 "Cruel Sir James! I a fraudulent 01 my 
 
 dearest Anna !" .... and Lady Alberry recog- 
 nized, in the poor raving being before her, the 
 calumniated Burford ! "I know him I" she cried, 
 bursting into tears : u we will be answerable 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 in- 
 valid : then, while Sir James, shocked and dis- 
 tressed beyond measure, interrogated the landlady, 
 Lady Alberry examined the nearly threadbare 
 coat of the supposed rich man, which lay on the 
 bed, and searched for the slenderly-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 illness; and which, 
 therefore, in an agony of repentant 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 re- 
 turned to their fellow-travellers, carrying with 
 them the evidences of Burford' s scanty means, in 
 corroboration of the tale of suffering and fatigue 
 which they had to relate. "See," said Lady Al- 
 berry, holding up the coat, and emptying the purse 
 on the table, " are these the signs of opulence ? 
 and is travelling on foot, in a hot June day, a 
 proof of splendid living?" -while the harsh 
 
88 ILLLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 creditor, as he listened to the tale of delirium, 
 and read the confession of Annabel, regretted the 
 hasty credence which he had given to her false- 
 hoods. 
 
 But what was best to be done ? To send for 
 Burford's wife ; and till she arrived to nurse 
 him, Sir James and Lad}' Alberry declared that 
 they would not leave the inn. It was therefore 
 agreed that the nephew should go to Burford's 
 nouse 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-tra- 
 veller in it. As it requires great suffering to sub- 
 due such overweening vanity as Annabel's, her 
 first thought on seeing him was that her youth- 
 ful beau was a young heir, who had travelled in 
 disguise, and was now come in state to make her 
 an offer ! She therefore blushed with pleasure 
 as he approached, and received his bow with a 
 countenance of joy. But his face expressed no 
 answering 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 fal- 
 tering accents, and delivered Lady Alberry's let- 
 ter. ''Annabel must go with me !" said her mo- 
 ther, in a deep and solemn tone. Then, lowering 
 her voice, because unwilling to reprove her be- 
 fore a stranger, 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. 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 39 
 
 We shall not detain you long, sir/' she continued, 
 turning to Charles Dan vers : " our slender ivard- 
 robe 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 thoughts 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 by the sight of 
 Lady Alberry, who opened her arms to receive 
 her with the kindness of an attached friend ; whis- 
 pering 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 
 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 
 
40 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 knees ; " but if he die, what will become of me V* 
 u What will become of us all?' 1 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 kind- 
 ly invoked, and tenderly desired, and her ab- 
 sence icondered at; while the other never heard 
 her name mentioned, during the ravings of fever, 
 without heartrending upbraidings and just re- 
 proofs. But Burford's life was granted to the 
 prayers of agonizing affection ; and, when recol- 
 lection returned, he had the joy of knowing that 
 his reputation was cleared, that his angry credit- 
 ors were become his kind friends, and that Sir 
 James Alberry lamented, with bitter regret, that 
 he could no longer prove his confidence in him by 
 making him his partner. But, notwithstanding 
 this blight to liis prospects, Burford piously 
 blessed the event which had so salutary an influ- 
 ence on his offending child, and had taught her 
 a lesson which she was not likely to forget. Lady 
 Alberry, however, thought that the lesson was 
 not yet sufficiently complete; for, though Anna- 
 bel might be cured of lying by the consequences 
 of her falsehoods, the vanity which prompted 
 them might still remain uncorrected. Therefore, 
 as Annabel had owned that it was the wish not 
 to lose consequence in tjie eyes of her supposed 
 admirer which had led her to her last fatal 
 falsehood, Lady Alberry, with the mother's 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 41 
 
 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 Danvers, in 
 her presence, and that of her mother, some par- 
 ticulars concerning what passed in the coach, and 
 his opinion on the subject. As she expected, he 
 gave a softened and favorable representation ; and 
 would not allow that he did not form a favorable 
 opinion of his fair companion. " What ! Charles/' 
 said she, u do you pretend to deny that you 
 mimicked her voice and manner t" She then 
 repeated all that he had said, and his declaration 
 that her evident vanity and coquetry steeled his 
 heart against her, copying, at the same time, his 
 accurate mimicry 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, humbled, but corrected Annabel 
 could only hide her face in her mother's bosom ; 
 who, while she felt for the salutary pangs in- 
 flicted 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 dura- 
 tion. The lesson was now complete indeed. An- 
 nabel found that she had not only, by her lies of 
 vanity, deprived her father of a lucrative business, 
 bat that she had exposed herself to the ridicule and 
 contempt of that very being who had been the 
 cause of her error ; and, in the depth of her hum- 
 bled and contrite heart, she resolved from that 
 moment to struggle with her besetting sins, and 
 
42 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 subdue them. Nor was the resolve of that try- 
 ing moment ever broken. But when her father, 
 whose original destination had been the Church, 
 was led by his own wishes to take orders, and 
 was, in process of time, inducted into a consider- 
 able living, in the gift of Sir James Alberry, An- 
 nabel 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 chil- 
 dren ; 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 
 your 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 lia- 
 ble to punishment and 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 
 experience. They are these : "A prophet is not 
 without honor, except in his own country;" and 
 "No man is a hero to his valet-de-chambre." 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 43 
 
 " Familiarity breeds contempt/' is also a proverb 
 to the same effect ; and they all three bear upon 
 the tendency in our natures to undervalue the 
 talents, and the claims to distinction, of those 
 with whom we are closely connected and associ- 
 ated ; 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 re- 
 spect. 
 
 Xo 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, Darcy's uncle and guardian insisted on his 
 going into a merchant's counting-house in Lon- 
 don, instead of being educated for one of the 
 learned professions. Darcy had a mind too well 
 disciplined to rebel against his guardian's au- 
 thority. 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 raised, from the unpaid contri- 
 butor to the poetical columns in a newspaper, to the 
 paid writer in a popular magazine; while his 
 poems, signed Alfred, became objects of eager ex- 
 pectation. But Darcy's own family and friends 
 could not have been more surprised at his grow- 
 ing celebrity than he himself was ; for he was a 
 
44 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 sincere, humble Christian • and having been ac- 
 customed to bow to the opinion of those whom he 
 considered as his superiors in intellect and know- 
 ledge, he could scarcely believe in his own emi- 
 nence. But it was precious to his heart, rather 
 than to his vanity ; as it enabled him to indulge 
 those benevolent feelings which his small income 
 had hitherto restrained. At length he published 
 a duodecimo volume of poems and hymns, still 
 under the name of Alfred, which was highly 
 praised in reviews and journals, and a strong de- 
 sire was expressed to know who the modest, pro- 
 mising, and pious writer 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 fam- 
 ily 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 
 merchant to whom he had been clerk. In vain 
 did Darcy sometimes endeavor to hint that he was 
 an author : 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 father, and the advice given to burn 
 such stuff, and not turn the head of a dull boy, 
 by making him fancy himself a genius. There- 
 fore, recollecting the wise saying quoted above, 
 he feared that the news of his literary celebrity 
 would not be received with pleasure, and that the 
 affection with which he was now welcomed might 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 45 
 
 suffer diminution. Besides, thought he, — and 
 then his heart rose in his throat, with a choking, 
 painful feeling, — those tender parents, who would 
 have enjoyed my little fame, are cold and uncon- 
 scious now; and the ears to which my praises 
 would have been sweet music, cannot hear; 
 therefore methinks 1 have a mournful pleasure in 
 keeping on that veil, the removal of which can- 
 not confer pleasure on them. Consequently, he 
 remained contented to be warmly welcomed at 
 
 D for talents of an humble sort, such as his 
 
 power for mending toys, making kites, and rab- 
 bits 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 observation S? 
 
 0, yes. Darcy, to borrow Addison's metaphor 
 concerning himself, though lie 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 
 moments, even amidst his relations and friends ; 
 for he heard them repeating his verses and sing- 
 ing 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 lomred to discover 
 
46 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 himself as the author ; 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. How- 
 ever, he resolved to feel his icay ; and once, on 
 hearing a song of his commended, he ventured to 
 observe, " I 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 ' love' and 'joy' rhyme, and know no bet- 
 ter." "But I have written, and I can rhyme," 
 replied Darcy, coloring a little. " Indeed !" re- 
 plied his formal aunt : " well, Mr. Darcy Pen- 
 nington, it really would be very amusing to see 
 your erudite productions : perhaps you will in- 
 dulge us some day" " I will : and then you 
 will probably change your opinion." Soon after, 
 Darcy wrote an anonymous prose tale in one 
 volume, interspersed with poetiy, which had even 
 a greater run than his other writings; and it was 
 attributed 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 
 himself know it, as he only knew Darcy, avowed- 
 ly, under a feigned name. But at length Darcy 
 resolved to disclose his secret, at least to his rela- 
 tives and friends at D ; and just as the se- 
 cond edition of his tale was nearly completed, he 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 47 
 
 set off for his native place, taking with him the 
 manuscript, full of the printer's marks, to prove 
 that he was the author of it. 
 
 He had one irresistible motive for thus walk- 
 ing out from his incognito, like Homer's deities 
 from their cloud. He had fallen in love with his 
 second cousin. Julia Yane. an heiress, and his un- 
 cle's ward, 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 neighborhood, 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 in the 
 family circle that he had brought down a little 
 manuscript of his own which he wished to read 
 to them. 0! the comical grimaces! the sup- 
 pressed laughter, growing and swelling, however, 
 till it could be restrained no longer, which was 
 the result of this request ! And I the looks of 
 consternation when Darcy produced the manu- 
 script from his pocket ! " Why. Darcy." said his 
 uncle, "this is really a word and a blow: but 
 you cannot read it to-night : we are engaged.'' 
 " Certainly. Mr. Darcy Pennington.'' said his 
 aunt. '*' if you wish to read your astonishing pro- 
 ductions, 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 favor and privilege to be permitted to goon 
 such an occasion ; for a. gentleman is staying 
 there who has written such a sweet book 1 It is 
 
48 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 only just out, yet it cannot be had; because the 
 first edition is sold, and the second is 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 gentleman 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 consid- 
 ered as the writer." " Very well, then : the plea- 
 sure of hearing another author read his own work 
 shall be delayed/' replied Darcy, smiling. " Per- 
 haps, when you have heard this gentleman's, you 
 will not be so eager to read yours, Darcy," said 
 Julia Vane; " for you itsed to be a modest man." 
 Darcy sighed, looked significantly, but remained 
 silent. 
 
 In the evening they went to Sir Hugh Bel- 
 son's, where, in the Captain Eustace, who was to 
 delight the company, Darcy recognized the gen- 
 tleman 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, and to the bribery which is always admin- 
 istered to fhe self-love of those who are the se- 
 lect few chosen to see and judge on such occa- 
 sions. 
 
 Captain Eustace now prepared to read; but 
 when he named the title of the book which he 
 held in his haud, Darcy started from his seat in 
 surprise ; for it was the title of his owti work ! 
 But there might be two works with the same title \ 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 49 
 
 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, 
 ¥ \Vh-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." u 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." 
 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 placed, 
 hid his face in his handkerchief, and was evident- 
 ly shaking with laughter. " Mr, Darcy Penning- 
 ton, I am really ashamed of you," whispered his 
 aunt ; and Darcy recovered his composure. He 
 had now two hours of great enjo} T ment. 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 
 own simple pathos. The poetry in the book was 
 highly admired also; and when Eustace paused 
 to take breath, Julia whispered in his ear, kk Cap- 
 tain Eustace is the gentleman who, I have every 
 
50 ILLUSTRATIONS TJGCjfjKjG. 
 
 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." " I dare 
 say," replied Darcy, coloring with resentment, 
 u that he as much wrote the one as he wrote the 
 other" u What do you mean, Darcy? There 
 can be no doubt of the fact; and I own that I 
 cannot be insensible to such talent; for poetry 
 and poets are my passion, you know ; and in his 
 authorship 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 de- 
 lightfully?" " 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 around the reader, whose manner 
 of receiving their thanks was such as to make 
 every one but Darcy believe the work was his 
 own; 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; declaring, 
 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 
 
MpJKS OF VANITY. ^^C%% 51 
 
 his K\mtW ( ffo\i really are not like yourself 'V 
 " Hold your tongue/ Darcy," sard his uncle, draw- 
 ing him on one side : " do not be such a forward 
 puppy : whoever questioned, or cared, whether you 
 could have done it justice or not ? But here is 
 the carriage; and-I-arn glad you have no longer 
 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 lap- 
 dog in fondling his master/' 
 
 During the drive home, Darcy did not speak a 
 word — not only because he was afraid of his severe 
 uncle and aunt, but because he was meditating how 
 he should make that discovery, on the success of 
 which hung his dearest hopes. He was also com- 
 muning 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, suppose I 
 read my work to you now. I assure you that it 
 is quite as good as that which you have heard " 
 " 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 before we gc 
 
& 
 
 52 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 interrupting 
 her, he suddenly started up, and exclaimed, "No: 
 on second thoughts, I will not read it till Captain 
 Eustace and Sir Hugh and his family can be pre- 
 sent; and they will he here the day after to-mor- 
 row." " What ! read your nonsense to them !" 
 cried his uncle. " Poor fellow ! poor fellow V 
 But Darcy was gone ! he had caught Julia's hand 
 to his lips, and quitted the room, leaving his re- 
 lations 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 even- 
 ing. But though Darcy was willing to wait till 
 the ensuing evening before he discovered 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 anonymously addressed to 
 her — verses breathing the very quintessence 
 of pure love ; and full of anxious 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 hav- 
 ing requested a private interview with her, he 
 disclosed the truth. " What ! are you — can you 
 be — did you write all ?" she exclaimed, in broken 
 accents; while Darcy gently reproached her foi 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 53 
 
 having believed that a mere worldly admirer eonld 
 so have written : however, she justified herself 
 by declaring how impossible it was to suspect that 
 a man of honor, as Eustace seemed, could be 
 so base as to assume a merit which was not his 
 own. Here she paused, turning away from Darcy' s 
 penetrating look, covered with conscious blushes, 
 ashamed that he should see how pleased she was. 
 But she readily acknowledged her sorrow at hav- 
 ing been betrayed, by the unworthy artifice of 
 Eustace, into encouraging his attentions ; and was 
 eager to concert with Darcy the best plan for re- 
 vealing the surprising secret. 
 
 The evening, so eagerly anticipated by Darcy 
 and Julia, now arrived ; and great was the con- 
 sternation 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 pos- 
 sessed/' thought his uncle. " Mr. Darcy Pen- 
 nington/ ' whispered his aunt, " I shall faint if 
 you persist in exposing yourself !" " Darcy, I will 
 shut you up if you proceed/' whispered his uncle ; 
 " for you must positively be mad/' "Let him go 
 on, dear uncle/' said Julia : "I am sure you will 
 be delighted, or ought to be so ;" and, spite of his 
 uncle'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 perform- 
 ance 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 gratification 
 which, as an author, I ever received." New 
 
54 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 ; there- 
 fore he could not dispute the fact that the real 
 author now stood before him ) and blushes of de- 
 tected falsehood covered his cheek; but ere he 
 could falter out a reply, Darcy's uncle and sons 
 seized him by the arm, and insisted on speaking 
 with him in another room. Darcy, laughing vio- 
 lently, endeavored to shake them off', but in vain. 
 " Let him alone," said Julia, smiling, and com- 
 ing forward. " Darcy's ' 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, I 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 Dar- 
 cy, " that I hope not to quit this room till I have 
 had the delight of hearing these yet unpublished 
 poems of mine read by Captain Eustace. Look, 
 sir," continued he, " here is a signature well 
 known, no doubt, to you — that of Alfred." "Are 
 you indeed Alfred, the celebrated Alfred ?" fal- 
 tered out Eustace. " I believe so," he replied 
 with a smile ; " though on some occasions, you 
 know, it is difficult to prove one's personal iden- 
 tity" " True," answered Eustace, turning over 
 the manuscript to hide his confusion. "And I, 
 Captain Eustace," said Julia, "have had the 
 great satisfaction of discovering that my unknown 
 poetical correspondent is my long cherished friend 
 
LIES OF VANITY. 00 
 
 and cousin, Darcy Pennington. Think how satis- 
 factory this discovery has been to me !" " Cer- 
 tainly, madain," 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 
 wonder. " Why, Eustace, I thought you owned 
 that?" "That I deny: I owned nothing;" he 
 eagerly replied. "You insisted on it, nay, every- 
 body insisted, that I was the author of the beau- 
 tiful 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!" "Impossible!" cried his uncle, pettishly ; 
 " that dull fellow turn out a wit ! It cannot be. 
 What ! are you Alfred, boy ? I cannot credit it ; 
 for if so, I have been dull indeed;" while his 
 sons seemed to feel as much mortification as sur- 
 prise. " 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 manu- 
 script, 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 
 
56 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 Alfred also, who, by your certainly impartial 
 praises, is for this evening, at least in his own 
 eyes, elevated into 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 indig- 
 nation where he meant to obtain regard. Those 
 who know aught of human nature as it really is, 
 and do not throw the radiance of their own Chris- 
 tian benevolence over it. must be well aware that 
 few persons hear with complacency the praises 
 of others, even where there is no competition be- 
 tween the parties praised and themselves. There- 
 fore, the objects of excessive flattery are painfully 
 conscious that the praises bestowed on them, in 
 the hearing of their acquaintances, will not only 
 provoke those auditors to undervalue their pre- 
 tensions, but to accuse them of believing in and 
 enjoying the gross flattery offered to them. There 
 are no persons, in my opinion, with whom it is so 
 difficult to keep up " the' relations of peace and 
 amilf/ 1 as flatterers by system and habit : those 
 
LIES OF FLATTERY. 57 
 
 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 flatter- 
 ers expect that some of their compliments will 
 dwell with, and impose on, their intended dupe. 
 Perhaps their calculation is not, generally consid- 
 ered, an erroneous one ; but if there be any 
 of their fellow-creatures with whom the sensi- 
 tive 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 inappropriate to deceive even for 
 a moment j 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 ut- 
 tered falsehood, and their mean exultation over 
 their imagined dupe. The lies of benevolence, 
 even when they can be resolved into lies of flat- 
 tery, may be denominated amiable lies, but the 
 lie of 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 malevolence. 
 
 Coarse and indiscriminating flatterers lay it 
 down as a rale, 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 
 
58 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 the eulogy bestowed. This erroneous view taken 
 by the flatterer of the penetration of the flat- 
 tered, is common only in those who have more 
 cunning than intellect; more shrewdness than 
 penetration ; and whose knowledge of the weak- 
 ness of our nature 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 neighbors. 
 Yes : my experience tells me that the above-men- 
 tioned rule of flattery is acted upon only by the 
 half-enlightened, who take for superiority of intel- 
 lect that base low cunning, 
 
 "which, in fools, supplies, 
 
 , „ And amply too, the place of being wise." 
 
 But the deep observer of human nature knows 
 that where there is real intellect, there are dis- 
 cernment and self-knowledge also; and that the 
 really intelligent are aware to how much praise 
 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 
 licensed flatterers of women, I needed not to have 
 feared the imputation of want of candor, had I 
 taken my example from one of the wiser sex. 
 
LIES OF FLATTERY. 59 
 
 THE TURBAN; 
 
 OE, THE LIE OF FLATTERY. 
 
 Some persons are such determined flatterers, 
 both by nature and habit, that they flatter uncon- 
 sciously, and almost involuntarily. Such a flat- 
 terer was Jemima Aldred ; but, as the narrow- 
 ness 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 favorite iDclinatioDS. 
 
 There was one distinguished woman in the cir- 
 cle of her acquaintance, whose favor 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 
 receive the incense offered, as if she believed in 
 its sincerity. But the flattery of young Jemima 
 was so gross, and so indiscriminate, that it some- 
 times converted the usual gentleness of Lady 
 Delaval's nature into gall \ and she felt indignant 
 at being supposed capable of relishing adulation 
 so excessive, and devotion so servile. But, as 
 she was full of Christian benevolence, and, conse- 
 quently, her first desire was to do good, she 
 allowed pity for the poor girl's ignorance to con- 
 quer resentment, and laid a plan, in order to cor- 
 rect and amend her, if possible, by salutary mor- 
 tification. 
 
60 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 Accordingly, she invited Jemima, and some 
 other young ladies, to spend a whole day with 
 her at her house in the country. But, as the 
 truly benevolent 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 ex- 
 cited her into perseverance, 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 per- 
 sonal appearance, wore colors at breakfast that 
 morning which she thought ill-suited both to her 
 years and complexion • and having asked her guests 
 how they liked her scarf and ribands, they pro- 
 nounced 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 color was as be- 
 coming as it was brilliant; adding, "I do not 
 know what dear Lady Delaval means by under- 
 valuing her own clear complexion." " The less 
 that is said about that the better, T believe/' she 
 dryly replied, not trying to conceal the sarcastic 
 smile which played upon her lip, and feeling 
 strengthened, by this new instance of Jemima's 
 duplicity, to go on with her design ; but Jemima 
 thought she had endeared herself to her by flat- 
 tering her personal vanity ) and, while her com- 
 panions frowned reproach for her insincerity, she 
 wished for an opportunity of reproving their 
 
LIES OF FLATTERY. 61 
 
 rudeness. After tea. Lady Delaval desired her 
 
 maid to bring her down the foundation for a tur- 
 ban, which she was going to pin up. and some 
 other finery prepared for the same purpose ; and 
 iu a short time the most splendid materials for 
 millinery shone upon the table. When she be- 
 gan her task, her other guests, Jemima excepted, 
 worked also, but she was sufficiently employed, she 
 said, in watching the creative and tasteful fingers 
 of her friend. At first. Lady Delaval made the 
 turban of silver tissue ; and Jemima was in ecs- 
 tasies : but the next moment she declared that 
 covering to be too simple; and Jemima thought 
 so too ; while she was in equal ecstasies at the 
 effect of a gaudy many-colored gauze which 
 replaced 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 superadded They gave, however, their 
 opinion in vain. Colored stones, a gold band, 
 and a green spun-glass feather, wore 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 Delavai's taste. 
 '- Xow, then, it is completed.'' cried Lady Dela- 
 val ; ;; but no; suppose I add a scarlet feather to 
 the green one?" ;i ! that would be superb;" 
 and having given this desirable finish to her per- 
 formance, Jemima declared it to be perfect ; but 
 the rest of the company were too honest to com- 
 mend it. Lady Delaval then put it on her head; 
 and it was as unbecoming as it was ugly ; but 
 
62 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 Jemima exclaimed that her dear friend had never 
 worn any thing before in which she looked so 
 ■well; adding. " But then she looks well in every 
 thing. However, that lovely turban would be- 
 come anyone." u Try how it would fit you!" 
 said Lady Delaval, putting it on her head. Je- 
 mima 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 
 bystanders laughed immoderately at her appear- 
 ance, Jemima was loud in her admiration, and 
 volunteered a wish to wear it at some public place : 
 " for I think I do look so well in it I" cried 
 Jemima. " If so," said her hostess, il you, young 
 ladies, on this occasion, have neither taste nor 
 eyes;" while Jemima danced about the room, ex- 
 ulting in her heavy head-dress, in the triumph 
 of her falsehood, and in the supposed superior 
 ascendency it had gained her over her hostess 
 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 the 
 burden. At parting, Lady Delaval, in a tone of 
 great significance, told her that she should hear 
 from her the next day. The next morning Je- 
 mima often dwelt on these marked words, im- 
 patient for an explanation of them. Between 
 twelve and one o'clock, a servant of Lady Dela- 
 val brought a letter and a bandbox. 
 
 The letter was first opened; and was as fol- 
 lows : 
 
lies of flattery. 63 
 
 "Deaf* Jemima: 
 
 "As I know that you have long wished to visit 
 my niece, Lady Ormsby, and also to attend the 
 astronomical lecture on the grand transparent 
 orrery, which is to be given at the public rooms 
 this evening, for the benefit of the Infirmary, 
 though your praiseworthy prudence prevented 
 you from subscribing to it, 1 have 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 
 Jemima ) but, in her heart, imputing these favors 
 to her recent flatteries ; and reading no farther, 
 she ran to her mother's apartment to declare the 
 joyful news. "0! mamma!" exclaimed she, 
 " how fortunate it was that I made up my dyed 
 gauze when I did ! And I can wear natural 
 flowers 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 con- 
 sternation 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 condition — that you wear the accompany- 
 ing turban, which was decorated according to 
 your taste and judgment, and in which you 
 were conscious of looking so well ! Every ad- 
 ditional ornament was bestowed to please you ; 
 
64 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 and as I know that your wish will be not to de- 
 prive me of a head-dress in which your partial 
 eyes thought that I looked so charmingly, I 
 positively assure you that no consideration shall 
 ever induce me to wear it; and that I expect 
 you to meet my summons, arrayed in your youth- 
 ful loveliness and my turban." 
 
 Jemima sat in a sort of stupor after perusing 
 this epistle; and when she started from it, it 
 was to carry the letter and the turban to her 
 mother. "Read that! and look at that!" she 
 exclaimed, pointing to the turban. "Why to 
 be sure, Jemima, Lady Delaval must be making 
 game of you/' she replied. "What could pro^ 
 duce such an absurd requisition ?" When called 
 upon to answer this question, Jemima blushed ; 
 and, for the first time, feeling some compunctious 
 visitings of conscience, she almost hesitated to 
 own that the annoying conditions were the con- 
 sequence of her flatteries. Still, to comply with 
 them was impossible; 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 admire it; and she felt its 
 weight insupportable. "To be sure," said she to 
 herself, "Captain Leslie 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 
 
LIES OF FLATTERY. 65 
 
 git by ! No, no : much as I wish to go, and I 
 
 do so very, very much wish it, I cannot go on 
 these cruel conditions." "But what excuse can 
 you make to Lady Delaval ?" "I must tell her 
 that I have a bad toothache, and cannot go ; and 
 I will write her a note 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 detestable turban. 
 The next day she saw Lady Delaval' s carriage 
 drive up to the door, and also saw the servant 
 take a bandbox out. "0 dear, mamma," cried 
 Jemima, "I protest that ridiculous old woman 
 has brought her ugly turban back again !" and 
 it was with a forced smile of welcome that she 
 greeted Lady Delaval. That lady entered the 
 room with a graver and more dignified mien than 
 usual; for she came to reprove, and, she hoped, 
 to amend an offender against those principles 
 of truth which she honored, and to which she 
 uniformly acted up. Just before Lady Delaval 
 appeared, Jemima recollected that she was to have 
 the toothache ; therefore 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 lecture," said she, "and 
 were kept at home by the toothache. Was that 
 your only reason for staying at home?" "'Cer- 
 tainly, madam: can you doubt it?" "Yes; for 
 
06 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 I have strong suspicion that the toothache is a 
 pretence, not a reality/' "This from you, Lady 
 Delaval ! my once kind friend!*' "Jemima, I 
 am come to prove myself a far kinder friend than 
 ever I did before. I am glad to find you alone : 
 because I should not have liked to reprove a child 
 before her mother." Lady Delaval then re- 
 proached her astonished auditor with the mean 
 habit of flattery in which she was so apt to in- 
 dulge : 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," 
 continued Lady Delaval, "I meant to have taken 
 you to the dinner and lecture without conditions ; 
 but I wished to inflict on you a salutary punish- 
 ment, in hopes of convincing you that there arc 
 no qualities so safe, or so pleasing, as truth and 
 ingenuousness. 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 taken the liberty of bringing 
 you a Leghorn bonnet; 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 Jemima's mother entered 
 the room, exclaiming: u O Lady Delaval ! I am 
 glad you are come ! my poor child's toothache is 
 
 so bad ! and how unfortunate that " Lady 
 
 Delaval cast on the mistaken mother a look of 
 severe reproof, and on the daughter one of pity 
 
LIES OF FLATTERY. 67 
 
 and unavailing regret; for she felt that, for the 
 child who is hourly exposed to the contagion of 
 an unprincipled parent's example, there can be 
 little chance for amendment; and she hastened 
 to her carriage, convinced that for poor Jemima 
 Aldred her labors of Christian duty had been ex- 
 erted in vain. She would have soon found how 
 just her conviction was. had she heard the dia- 
 logue between the mother and daughter, as soon 
 as she drove off. Jemima dried up her hypo- 
 critical tears, and exclaimed, "A cross, method- 
 istical creature! I am glad she is gone!" 
 "What do vou 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, in- 
 deed ! Nonsense ! it is all a pretence. She hate 
 flattery I 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," answered her mother, 
 fci let her preach to you every clay, and welcome, 
 if she conies, as to-day, full-handed." 
 
 Such was the effect of Lady Delaval's 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 adhe- 
 rence to truth the basis of their children's educa- 
 tion, and punish all deviation from it with salutary 
 rigor. But, whatever be the excellences or the 
 
68 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 errors of parents or preceptors, there is one neces- 
 sary 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 con- 
 fined to the low and uneducated of both sexes, 
 and to children; but further reflection and obser- 
 vation 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 de- 
 grees of strength. For instance : a child or a 
 servant (of course I speak of ill-educated child- 
 ren) breaks a toy or a glass, and denies having 
 done so. Acquaintances forget to execute com- 
 missions intrusted to them, and either say they 
 are executed when they are not, or make some 
 false excuses for an omission which was the result 
 of forgetfulness only. No persons are guilty of 
 so many of this sort of lies, in the year, as negli- 
 
LIES OF FEAR. 69 
 
 gent correspondents : since excuses for not writing 
 sooner are usually lies of fear — fear of having 
 forfeited favor by too long a silence. 
 
 As the lie of fear always proceeds, as I have be- 
 fore 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 feelings of the 
 questioner. "Is not my new gown pretty?" " Is 
 not my new hat becoming?" "Is not my coat of 
 a good color?" There are few persons who have 
 courage to say " no," even to these trivial ques- 
 tions; though the negative would be truth, and 
 the affirmative falsehood. And still less are they 
 able to be honest in their replies to questions of 
 a more delicate nature : " Is not my last work the 
 best?" "Is not my wife beautiful?" " Is not 
 my daughter agreeable?" "Is not my son a fine 
 youth?" — those ensnaring questions, which con- 
 tented and confiding egotism is only too apt to ask. 
 
 Fear of wounding the feelings of the interro- 
 gator prompts an affirmative answer. But, per- 
 haps, a lie on these occasions is one of the least 
 displeasing, because it may possibly proceed from 
 a kind of aversion to give pain, and occasion dis- 
 appointment; and has a degree of relationship, a 
 distant family resemblance to the lie of benevo- 
 lence ; though, when accurately analyzed, even 
 this good-natured falsehood may be resolved into 
 selfish dread of losing favor by speaking the truth. 
 Of these pseudo lies of benevolence I shall treat in 
 their turn ; but I shall now proceed to relate a story 
 to illustrate the lie of fear, and its important re- 
 sults, under apparently unimportant circumstances. 
 
70 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 THE BANK-NOTE. 
 
 "Are you returning immediately to Worces- 
 ter?" said Lady Leslie, a widow residing near 
 that city, to a young officer who was paying her 
 a morning visit. " I am: can I do any thing for 
 you there ?" u Yes, you can do me a great kind- 
 ness. 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 letter 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 I can trust should 
 put the letter in the box." " Certainly/' replied 
 Captain Freeland. Then, with an air that showed 
 he considered 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 to pass the day and night 
 at Great Malvern ; and as they earnestly pressed 
 him to accompany them, he wholly forgot the letter 
 intrusted to his care ; and, having dispatched 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 niente^ 
 
 * Night-bag. f Sweet doing nothing. 
 
LIES OF FEAR. 71 
 
 which may be reckoned comparatively virtuous, 
 if it leads to the forgetful ness of little duties only, 
 and is not attended by the positive infringement 
 of greater ones. But, in not putting this import- 
 ant letter into 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 passed 
 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 favor, but expose 
 him to her powerful sarcasm. 
 
 To avoid being recognized was, however, impos- 
 sible; and as soon as Lady Leslie saw him, she 
 exclaimed, "0! Captain Freeland, I am so glad 
 to see you ! I have been quite uneasy concerning 
 my letter since I gave it to your care; for it was 
 of such consequence ! Did you put it into the 
 post yesterday ?" " Certainly/' replied Freeland, 
 hastily, and in the hurry of the moment — " cer- 
 tainly. How could you, dear madam, doubt my 
 obedience to your commands ?" " Thank you ! 
 thank you V cried she : " how you have relieved 
 my mind !" He had so ; but he had painfully 
 burdened his own. To be sure, it was only a 
 
72 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 white lie — the lie of fear. Still, he was not 
 used to utter falsehood; and he felt the meanness 
 aud degradation of this. He had yet to learn 
 that it was mischievous also 5 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 fare- 
 well, and putting spurs to his horse, scarcely slack- 
 ened his pace till he had reached a general post- 
 office, and deposited the letter in safety. "Now, 
 then," thought he, " I hope I shall be able to 
 return and dine with Lady Leslie without shrink- 
 ing 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 sexvant of hers, who was 
 very dear to her, was seriously ill, and painfully 
 circumstanced j 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 dispatched him with the money, in- 
 stead of trusting it to the post." " It would have 
 been better to have done so, certainly V replied 
 Freeland, deeply blushing. "Yes; for the poor 
 - woman to whom I sent it is not only herself on 
 the point of being confined, but she has a sick 
 husband, unable to be moved; and as (but owing 
 to no fault of his) he is on the point of bank- 
 ruptcy, his cruel landlord has declared that, if 
 they do not pay their rent by to-morrow, he will 
 
LIES OF FEAR. 73 
 
 turn them out into the street, and seize the very 
 bed they lie on ! However, as you put the letter 
 into the post-office 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, very true/' replied 
 Freeland, in a tone which he vainly tried to ren- 
 der steady. " Therefore," continued Lady Leslie, 
 u if you had told me, when we met, that the letter 
 was not gone, I 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 I 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, I must let things take their 
 chance; and, as letters seldom miscarry, the only 
 danger is that the note may be taken out/' She 
 might 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 falsehood, 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, u it was too late !" 
 
 But, while Lady Leslie became talkative, and 
 able to perform her duties to her friends, after 
 she had thus unburdened her mind to Freeland, 
 he grew every minute more absent, and more 
 taciturn; and though he could not eat with appe- 
 tite, he threw down, rather than drank, repeated 
 glasses of hock and champagne, to enable him to 
 
74 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 rally his Spirits, but in vain. A naturally ingen- 
 uous and generous nature cannot shake off the first 
 compunctious visitings of conscience for having 
 committed an unworthy action, and having also 
 been the means of injury to another. All on a sud- 
 den, 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 Somerstown, which 
 Lady Leslie had named as the residence of Mary 
 Benson. "At least/ ' said Freeland to himself 
 with a lightened heart, " I shall now have the 
 satisfaction of doing all I can to repair my fault." 
 But owing to the delay occasioned by want of 
 horses, and by finding the hostlers at the inns in 
 bed, he did not reach London and the place of 
 his destination till the wretched family 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 ill- 
 ness in consequence of it, but from the agonizing 
 suspicion that the mistress and friend whom she 
 had so long loved and relied upon, had disre- 
 garded the tale of her sorrows, and had refused 
 to relieve her necessities! Freeland s.oon found a 
 conductor to the mean lodging in which the Ben- 
 sons 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 pain- 
 
LIES OF FEAR. 75 
 
 ful emotions at first — with pleasing emotions after- 
 ward ; for his conscience smote him for the pain 
 he had occasion ed, and applauded him for the 
 pleasure which he came to bestow. " I come," 
 said he, at length, (while the sufferers 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 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 I" iX 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 fifty-pound note by the post yes- 
 terday." " Fifty pounds !" cried the poor man, 
 wringing his hands: "why, that would have more 
 than paid all we owed, and I could have gone on with 
 my business, and our lives would not have been 
 risked, nor I disgraced !" 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 I and whatever you want 
 shall be yours ! or I shall never lose this horrible 
 choking again while I live I" 
 
 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; 
 (or he was haunted by the image of those whom 
 
76 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 he had disgraced ; and he could not help re- 
 membering that, however blamable his negli- 
 gence might be, it was nothing, either in sinful- 
 ness or mischief, to the lie told to conceal it ; and 
 that, but for that lie of fear, the effect of his 
 negligence might have been repaired in time. 
 
 But he was resolved that he would not leave 
 Somerstown till he had seen these poor people 
 settled in a good lodging. He therefore hired a 
 conveyance for them, and superintended their re- 
 moval that evening to apartments full of every 
 necessary comfort. " My good friends/' said he, 
 " I cannot recall the mortification and disgrace 
 which 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 
 unmerited 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 
 I go away, may I have the comfort of knowing 
 that your removal 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 proves have not suffered 
 in their health, I 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 
 
 D 7 
 
 the most apparently trivial white lie again. How 
 unimportant this violation of truth appeared to 
 me at the moment ! and how sufficiently motived ! 
 as it was to avoid falling in your estimation ; but 
 it was, you see, overruled for evil; and agony 
 
LIES OF FEAR. 77 
 
 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 
 upbraiding conscience. But forgive me, my dear 
 Lady Leslie. However, I trust that this evil, so 
 deeply repented of, will be blessed to us all 3 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 Les- 
 lie's had left them nothing to desire in a pecuni- 
 ary point of view. 
 
 When Lady Leslie and he met, she praised his 
 virtue, while she blamed his fault ; and they for- 
 tified each other in the wise and moral resolution, 
 never to violate truth aoain, 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. 
 
78 ILLLUSTRATIONS Of LYING. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LIES FALSELY CALLED LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 These are lies which are occasioned by a sel- 
 fish dread of losing favor, and provoking displea- 
 sure, by speaking the truth, rather than by real 
 benevolence. Persons, calling themselves bene- 
 volent, withhold disagreeable truths, and utter 
 agreeable falsehoods, from a wish to give plea- 
 sure, 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 desire of flattering you, or from the malignant 
 one of wishing to render you ridiculous, by im- 
 posing on your credulity, but from the desire of 
 making you pleased with yourself. In short, the} 7 
 lay it down as a rule, that you must never scru- 
 ple to sacrifice the truth, when the alternative is 
 giving the slightest 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. 
 
FALSELY CALLED LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. i\ 
 
 A TALE OF POTTED SPRATS. 
 
 Most mistresses of families have a family re- 
 cipe-book $ and are apt to believe that do recipes 
 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 
 in the habit of setting on her table, even when 
 not 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, expatiatiug on their excellence, 
 derived from a family recipe 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 flavor of garlic, and to garlic 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, " No," 
 " Is it not excellent T ; said the hostess. "Very," 
 faltered out the half-suffocated guest; and this 
 was lie the first. " Did you ever eat any 
 thing like it before?" "Never," replied the 
 other, more firmly ) for then she knew that she 
 spoke the truth, and longing i® add, "And I hope 
 
80 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 I never shall eat any thing like it again. " u I 
 will give you the recipe/' said the lady, kindly : 
 " it will be of use to you as a young house- 
 keeper ; 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 won- 
 der you can get any servants to live with you," 
 thought the guest; " but I dare say you do not 
 get any one to stay long V " You do not, how- 
 ever, eat as if you liked it." "0 yes, indeed, I 
 do, very much," (lie the second,) she replied; 
 "but you forget I have already eaten a good din- 
 nei -;" (lie the third. Alas! what had benevo- 
 lence, 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- 
 try-house, or cottage. When they were seated in 
 the carriage, a large box was put in, and the 
 guest fancied she smelt garlic; 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 stopped to 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- 
 served, " I always sit in the carriage on these oc- 
 
FALSELY CALLED LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. SI 
 
 casions. If one gets out, the people at the inn 
 expect one to order a luncheon. 1 therefore take 
 mine with me/' So saying, John was summoned to 
 drag the carriage out of sight of the inn windows. 
 He then unpacked the box, took out of it knives 
 and forks, plates, etc., and also a jar, which, im- 
 pregnating the air with its effluvia, even before it 
 was opened, disclosed to the alarmed guest that 
 its contents were the dreaded sprats ! 
 
 "Alas !" thought she, " Pandora's box was no- 
 thing to this ! for in that, Hope remained behind \ 
 but at the bottom of this is Despair V' 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 dispatched 
 the fish ! let me give you another : do not refuse 
 because you think they are nearly finished : I 
 assure you there are several left ; and (delightful 
 information I) we shall have a fresh supply to- 
 morrow!" However, this time she was allowed 
 to know when she had eaten enough; and the 
 travellers 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 indisposi- 
 tion, the hostess did not partake, and was therefore 
 
82 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 at liberty to attend entirely to the wants of her 
 guest, who would fain have declined eating also, 
 but it was impossible : she had just declared that she 
 was quite well, and had often owned that 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 
 boar 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 garlic I" 
 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 ; therefore be- 
 
FALSELY CALLED LIES OP BENEVOLENCE. 83 
 
 nevolcnce and politeness may be considered as the 
 same thing j but worldly politeness is only a 
 copy of benevolence. Benevolence is gold : this 
 politeness is a paper currency, contrived as its sub- 
 stitute : as society, being aware that benevolence 
 is as rare as it is precious, and that few are able 
 to distinguish, in any thing, the false from the 
 true, resolved, in lieu of benevolence, to receive 
 worldly politeness, with all her train of de- 
 ceitful welcomes, heartless regrets, false appro- 
 bations, and treacherous smiles — those alluring 
 semirings, which shine around her brow, and ena- 
 ble her to pass for benevolence herself. 
 
 But how must the religious and the moral dis- 
 like the one, thoi5£h they venerate the other ! The 
 kindness of the worldly polite only lives its little 
 hour in one's presence ; but that of the benevo- 
 lent retains its life and sweetness in one's absence. 
 The worldly polite will often make the objects of 
 their greatest flatteries aud 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 holt/ keeping at all times, and are as Indul- 
 gent to the absent as they were attentive to the 
 jrresent. The kindness of the worldly polite is 
 the gay and pleasing flower worn in the bosom, as 
 the ornament 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 
 
84 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 undiminishing 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 commendable to act on it continually. Cer- 
 tainly 5 if sincerity goes hand in hand with be- 
 nevolence. 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 urbanity, 
 whom you see drive off with a " Well, I am glad 
 they are gone V And how common is it to hear 
 persons who think themselves very moral, and 
 very kind, begin, as soon as their guests are de- 
 parted, and even when they are* scarcely out of 
 hearing, to criticise their dress, their manners, and 
 their characters : while the poor unconscious vis- 
 itors, the dupes of their deceitful courtesy, are 
 going home delighted with their visit, and saying 
 what a charming evening they have passed, and 
 what" agreeable and kind-hearted persons the 
 master 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 lies of be- 
 nevolence. 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 feeling, nor are they given to 
 think deeply; for the virtues are nearly related, 
 and live in the greatest harmony with each other : 
 
FALSELY CALLED LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. bD 
 
 consequently, sincerity and benevolence 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 answers ; and if 
 obliged to speak an unwelcome truth, or an un- 
 welcome opinion, their well-principled kindness 
 teaches them some way of making what they 
 utter palatable ; and benevolence is gratified with- 
 out 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 zealouslv 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 
 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 ad- 
 mire, and who had asserted that truth cannot 
 always be told in society, " Has an} T one tried it? 
 We have all of us. in the course of our lives, 
 seen dead birds of Paradise so often, that we 
 should scarcely take the trouble of going to see 
 one now. But the Marquis of Hastings has 
 brought over a living bird of Paradise ; and every 
 one is eagerly endeavoring to procure a sight of 
 that. I therefore prognosticate that, were spon- 
 taneous truth to be told in society, where it now 
 is rarely, if ever, heard, real, living truth would 
 
80 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 bo as much sought after, and admired, as the 
 living bird of Paradise/'* 
 
 The following anecdote exhibits that lie which 
 some may call the lie of benevolence, and others, 
 the lie of fear : that is, the dread of losing favor, 
 by wounding a person's self-love. I myself de- 
 nominate 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 
 respect for truth as those who live in the world 
 usually have, was invited by an authoress, whose 
 favor she coveted, and by whose attention she 
 was flattered, to come and hear her read a man- 
 uscript tragi-comedy. The other auditor was an 
 old lady, who, to considerable personal ugliness, 
 united strange grimaces, and convulsive twitch- 
 ings of the lace, chiefly the result of physical 
 causes. 
 
 The authoress read in so affected and dramatic 
 a manner, that the young lady's boasted benevo- 
 lence had no power to curb her propensity to 
 
 * I fear that I have given the words weakly and im- 
 perfectly ; but I know that I am correct as to the sen- 
 timent and the illustration. The speaker was Edward 
 Irving. 
 
FALSELY CALLED LIES OE BENEVOLENCE. 87 
 
 laughter ; which being perceived by the reader, 
 she stopped in angry consternation, and desired 
 to know whether* she laughed at her, or her com- 
 position. 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 neighbor, who was qui- 
 etly knitting and twitching as usual, which had 
 had such an effect on her risible faculties ; and 
 the deceived 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 
 suppose that her hearer's mirth was the result of 
 her comic powers. But the treacherous gratifica- 
 tion of the auditor was soon at an end. The 
 manuscript was meant to move tears as well as 
 smiles; but as the matter became more pathetic, 
 the manner became more ludicrous; and the 
 youthful hearer could no more force a tear than 
 she could restrain a laugh, till the mortified 
 authoress, irritated into forgetfulness of all feeling 
 and propriety, exclaimed, '-Indeed, Mrs. — — , 1 
 
05 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 over- 
 whelmed with dismay at the unexpected expo- 
 sure ; and when the poor infirm old lady replied, 
 in a faltering tone, "Is she indeed laughing at 
 me?" 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 myself; but lam sure you could 
 help making such faces if you would." " Child !" 
 cried the old lady, while tears of wounded sensi- 
 bility 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 repent of having been provoked to laugh 
 by the physical weakness of a palsied old woman !" 
 The indignant authoress was now penitent, sub- 
 dued, 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 exculpate herself was impossible; and 
 she could only give her wounded victim tear for 
 tear. 
 
 To. attend to a further perusal of the manu- 
 
FALSELY CALLED LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 89 
 
 script was impossible. The old lady desired that 
 her carriage should come round directly : the au- 
 thoress 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 object of suspicion and dislike both to the one 
 and the other; since the former considered her 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 
 attract her young auditor's attention. 
 
 But though this girl lost two valued acquaint- 
 ances by acting a lie, (a harmless white lie, as it 
 is called,) I fear she was not taught or amended 
 by the circumstance j but deplored her want of 
 luck, rather than her want of integrity ; and had 
 her deception met with the success which she ex- 
 pected, she would probably have boasted of her 
 ingenious 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 conduct cannot 
 continue to bear even a remote connection with 
 real benevolence. The mistaken girl, in the 
 anecdote related above, begins with what she calls 
 a virtuous deception. She could not wound the 
 feelings of the authoress by owning that she 
 laughed at her mode of reading: she therefore 
 accused herself of a much worse fault, that of 
 
90 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 laughing at the personal infirmities of a fellow- 
 creature ) and then, finding that her artifice ena- 
 bled her to indulge her sense of the ridiculous 
 with impunity, she at length laughs treacherously 
 and systematically, because she dares do so, and 
 not involuntarily , as she did at first, at her unsus- 
 pecting friend. Thus such hollow, unprincipled 
 benevolence as hers soon degenerated into absolute 
 malevolence. But had this girl been a girl of 
 principle 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 thern 
 aloud themselves, however well they may read the 
 works of others ; 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 
 deserved ; and have vainly, as well as grossly, 
 sacrificed the interests of truth. 
 
LIES OP CONVENIENCE. 91 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 
 
 I have now before me a very copious subject • 
 and shall begin by that most common lie of con- 
 veriwnce, 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 I know it is 
 after meant to deceive. I know that if the person, 
 angry at being refused admittance, says, at the next 
 meeting with the denied person, MJ am sure you 
 were at home such a day. when I called, but did not 
 choose to see me" the answer is, •• dear, no : how 
 can you say so ? I 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 in- 
 tended 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 merely to exclude visitors 
 with as little trouble as possible, I would ask 
 whether it were not just as easy to say. •• j±y 
 master, or my mistress, is engaged, and can 
 see no one this morning."' Why have recourse 
 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 objectionabk because it must have a 
 most pernicious effect on the minds of servants, 
 
92 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 who cannot be supposed parties to this implied 
 compact amongst their superiors, and must there- 
 fore understand the order literally ; which is, 
 " Go, and lie for my convenience I" How then, 
 I ask, in the name of justice and common sense, 
 can I, after giving such an order, resent any lie 
 which servants may choose to tell me for their own 
 convenience, 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, "0 
 fie ! how can you tell me such a fib without blush- 
 ing ? I am ashamed of you ! You know your 
 lady is at home. Well : I am really shocked at 
 your having so much effrontery as to tell such a 
 lie with so grave a face ! But give my compli- 
 ments to your mistress, and tell her I hope that 
 she will see me the next time I call f — 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 
 violation 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 
 
LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 93 
 
 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 strongest arguments possible to prove the vicious 
 tendency of even the most tolerated lie of convenience : 
 namely, the order to servants to say, "Not at home;" 
 and as I wholly distrust my own powers of arguing 
 with effect on this or any other subject, I give the fol- 
 lowing extracts from Dr. Chalmers's "Discourses on the 
 Application of Christianity to the Commercial and Ordi- 
 nary Affairs of Life: 5 ' discourses which abundantly 
 and eloquently prove the sinfulness of deceit in general, 
 and the fearful responsibility incurred by all who de- 
 part, even in the most common occurrences, from that 
 undeviating practice of truth which is everywhere en- 
 joined on Christians in the pages of holy writ. But I 
 shall, though reluctantly, confine myself in these ex- 
 tracts 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 published, 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 dependent, and 
 that for the purpose of protecting your time from such 
 an encroachment as you would not feel to be con- 
 venient or agreeable. Look to the little account that 
 is made of a brother's and sister's eternity. 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 imperishable. 
 That at the shrine of Mammon such a bloody sacrifice 
 should be rendered, by some of his unrelentiDg votaries, 
 
( J4 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 But amongst the most frequent lies of con- 
 venience are those which are told relative to en- 
 gagements, which they who make them are averse 
 to keep. "Headaches, bad colds, unexpected 
 visitors from the country" — all these, in their turn, 
 
 is not to be wondered at ; but that the shrine of ele- 
 gance 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 accessory to the second and more awful 
 death of her own domestics — that one who looks the 
 mildest and loveliest of human beings, should exact 
 obedience to a mandate which carries wrath, and 
 tribulation, and anguish in its train — ! 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 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 made 
 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, de- 
 note that the person, of whom she is thus speaking, 
 is securely lurking in one of the most secure and in- 
 timate of its receptacles. 
 
 "You may try to darken this piece of casuistry as 
 you will, and work up your minds into the peaceable 
 
LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 95 
 
 are used as lies of convenience, and gratify in- 
 dolence, or caprice, at the expense of integrity. 
 
 How often have I pitied the wives and daugh- 
 ters of professional men, for the number of lies 
 which they are obliged to tell in the course of the 
 
 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 conveyance of deceit, who condemneth herself in 
 that which she alloweth : 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 be 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 con- 
 sequence of what we can call nothing else than a bar- 
 barous combination against the principles and pros- 
 pects of the lower orders, is. that, as she has not 
 cleaved fully unto the Lord, and has not kept by the 
 service of 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 ser- 
 vants in one instance, 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 seduced 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 
 
96 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 year ! " 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 com- 
 mission of bankruptcy ; but will certainly come, 
 if he can, by-and-by ;" when the chances are that 
 the physician is enjoying himself over his book 
 
 lie, has gotten such rudiments of education at your 
 hand, as that, without any further help, he can now 
 teach himself to purloin? — and yet nothing more fre- 
 quent than loud and angry complainings against 
 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 sensibility. It was just such a retri- 
 bution as was to be looked for. It is a recoil upon 
 their own heads, of the mischief which they themselves 
 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 chap- 
 ter, because they treat of one particular lie, and not 
 of lying in general, I have been obliged to content 
 myself with putting them in a note. 
 
TJES OF CONVENIENCE. 97 
 
 and his fire, and the lawyer also, congratulating 
 themselves on having escaped that terrible bore, 
 a party, at the expense of teaching their wife, 
 or daughter, 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 excuses, whether, after giving them 
 such commissions, they could conscientiously re- 
 sent any breach of veracity, or breach of confi- 
 dence, or deception, committed by their children 
 in matters of more importance ? "Ce n'est que 
 le 'premier jpas qui eoute," says the proverb \ 
 and I believe that habitual, permitted, and en- 
 couraged lying, in little and seemingly unimpor- 
 tant things, leads to want of truth and principle 
 in great and serious matters ; for when the bar- 
 rier, 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 
 notice 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 I 
 scarcely knew under what head to class it. I 
 think, however, that it may be named without 
 impropriety, 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 
 kindness to admonish me.* She says as follows : 
 
 * Vide a (printed) letter addressed "to Mrs. Opie, 
 4 
 
98 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 "One falsehood that is very often uttered by the 
 lips of youth, I trust not without a blush, you 
 have passed unnoticed ; and, as I always con- 
 sidered it no venial one, I will take the present 
 opportunity of pointing out its impropriety. A 
 young lady, when asked by a gentleman to dance 
 whom she does not approve, will, without hesita- 
 tion, say, though unprovided with any other 
 partner, "If I dance I am engaged." This posi- 
 tive untruth is calculated to wound the feelings 
 of the person to whom it is addressed, for it 
 generally happens that such person discovers he 
 has been deceived, as well as rejected. It is 
 very seldom that young men to whom it would 
 really be improper that a young lady should give 
 her hand for the short time occupied 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 suffi- 
 ciently sacrificed to the graces, is little versed 
 '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 con- 
 tempt. True politeness, which has its seat in 
 the heart, would scorn thus to wound another, 
 and the real votaries of sincerity would never so 
 
 with observations on her recent publication, 'Illustra- 
 tions of Lying in all its branches.' " The authoress is 
 Susan Reeve, wife of Dr. Reeve, M. D., and daughter 
 of E. Bonhote, of Bungay, authoress of many interesting 
 publications. 
 
LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 99 
 
 violate its rules to escape a temporary mortifica- 
 tion." 
 
 I shall only add, that I have entire «ew% of 
 sentiment with the foregoing extract.* 
 
 Here I beg leave to insert a short tale, illustra- 
 tive 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 per- 
 sons together into that solemn union which only 
 death or -guilt can dissolve ; and thus make them- 
 selves answerable for the possible misery of two 
 of their fellow-creatures. 
 
 One of these busy match-makers, a gentleman 
 named Byrome, was very desirous that Henry 
 Saudford, a relation of his, should become a mar- 
 ried man ; and he called one morning to inform 
 him that he had at length met with a }~oung lady 
 who would, he flattered himself, suit him in all 
 respects as a wife. Henry Sandford 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 
 relation to the lady's house, where, on Byrome's 
 
 * Young ladies have no business in such scenes of 
 temptation. — [Editor 
 
100 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 j 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 ne- 
 cessary 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, "I hope you are not to 
 have any company but ourselves to-day," the 
 aunt replied, "0 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; I wrote to the disagreeable D s, 
 
 informing them that my aunt was too unwell, 
 with one of her bad headaches, to see company/' 
 "And I," said the other, "'called on the G s, 
 
LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 101 
 
 and said that we wished them to come another 
 day, because the beaux whom they liked best to 
 meet were engaged." "Admirable I" cried By- 
 rome, "let women 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 appearance, attired for conquest; and 
 so radiant did she seem in her youthful loveliness 
 and grace, that Sandford earnestly hoped she 
 had better principles 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 
 
 tiresome 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-clc- 
 societe 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 
 beauty to Sandford, she exclaimed, "0 dear, girls, 
 what shall we do? There is 31rs. Carthew now 
 
102 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 entering the avenue ! Not at home, John ! not 
 at 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 
 inquire 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, I 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, "I have it! 
 There, there ; go all of you into the next room, 
 and close the door!" .She then bounded grace- 
 fully 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 ac- 
 complishment," thought Sandford, "in a woman ! 
 what a recommendation in a wife !" and he 
 really dreaded the fair deceiver's return. 
 
 She came back, "nothing doubting," and, 
 smiling with great self-complacency, said, "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 J) s; 
 
 and hearing my aunt was ill, came to inquire 
 
LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 103 
 
 concerning 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 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 was even outdoing your- 
 self," cried her eldest sister. "Poor Carthew f 
 I should not wonder, 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 aifectionate inquiry. 
 "True," replied Lydia, "and I hope and trust she 
 will not really suffer; but, though vefy 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, aud 
 now cannot endure cards, or any music but hymn- 
 singing." 
 
 " Then I am glad she was not admitted," said 
 Byrome, who saw with pain, by Sandford's fold- 
 ed 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 overpow- 
 ering admiration, on the consciously blushing ob- 
 ject of it. No : he was likening her, as he gazed, 
 to the beautiful apples that are said to grow on 
 
104 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 : u let us begin our French game V 
 Sandford coldly bowed assent ; but he knew not 
 what she said : he was so inattentive, that he had 
 to forfeit continually: 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 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. Besides, Byrome had told 
 her that she might depend on making a con- 
 quest of his relation, Henry Sandford. The 
 evening, therefore, w r hich began so brightly, 
 ended in pain and mortification, both to Sandford 
 and Lydia. The former was impatient to depart 
 as soon as supper was over, and the latter, 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 accom- 
 plished Lydia ?" " She is beautiful and accom- 
 plished, but that is all." " Nay, I am sure you 
 seemed to admire her exceedingly, till just now, 
 and paid her more animated attention than I 
 ever saw you pay any woman before." "True; 
 but I soon found that she was as hollow-hearted as 
 
LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 105 
 
 she is fair." " ! I suppose you mean the de- 
 ception which she practiced on the old lady. 
 Well : where was the great harm of that ? She 
 only told a white lie; and nobody, that is not a 
 puritan , scruples to do that, you know." 
 
 " I am no puritan, as you term it ; yet I scruple 
 to do it ; but if I were to be betrayed into such 
 meanness, (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 to be 
 proud of the disgraceful readiness with which 
 she uttered her falsehood." " I must own that I 
 was surprised she did not express some regret at 
 being forced to do what she did, in order to pre- 
 vent our pleasure from being spoiled." " Why 
 should she ? Like yourself, she saw no harm in 
 a white lie ; but, mark me, Byroroe, the woman 
 whom I marry shall not think there is such a 
 thing as a ivhite lie : she shall think all lies blade; 
 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 married to Lydia, I should distrust her ex- 
 pressions of love toward me : I should suspect that 
 she married my fortune, not me ; and that, when- 
 ever strong temptation offered, she would deceive 
 me as readily as, for a very slight one indeed, she 
 deceived that kind friend who came on an errand 
 of love, and was sent awa} 7 alarmed and anxious, 
 by this young hypocrite'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 an humble, rely* 
 
106 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 ing 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 Creator/' 
 "And, pray, how can you ever be able to 
 assure yourself that any girl is this paragon V 
 u Surely, if what we* call chance could so easily 
 exhibit to me Lydia, in all 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 reso- 
 lution enough to remain a bachelor/' "Then," 
 replied Byrome, shaking his head, "I must bid 
 you good night, an old bachelor in prospect and 
 in perpetuity !" And as he returned his fare- 
 well, Sandford sighed to think that his prophecy 
 was only too likely to be fulfilled ; since his ob- 
 servation had convinced him that a strict adher- 
 ence to truth, on little as well as on great occa- 
 sions, 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 large 
 family which does not exist, has a strong motive 
 to deceive in the penury which does ; and one 
 
LIES OF INTEREST. 107 
 
 cannot consider as a very abandoned liar, the 
 tradesman 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. 
 
 THE SCREEN; OR, "NOT AT HOME." 
 
 The widow of Governor Atherling returned 
 from the East Indies, old, rich, and childless; 
 and as she had none but very distant relations, 
 her affections naturally turned toward the earli- 
 est 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 Hiisgif]& with 
 
108 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 her, in great abundance, whatever was wanted 
 for the table, and might therefore be sai$ 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 
 women of the world. But still her heart longed 
 to be attached to something; and as her starved 
 affections craved some daily food, she suffered 
 herself to love this plausible, amusing, agreeable, 
 and seemingly affectionate family; and she every 
 day lived in hope that, by her precepts and ex- 
 ample, 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 
 Livingstones. 
 
 On the contrary, so fascinated was she by what 
 she fancied they were, or might become, that she 
 took very little notice of a shamefaced, 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 Liv- 
 
LIES OP INTEREST. 109 
 
 ingstones were too selfish, and too prudent, to let 
 
 their rich friend know that this poor girl was the 
 orphan of Fanny Beaumont. Withholding, there- 
 fore, the most important part of the truth, they 
 only informed 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 
 mistaken in supposing that Fanny Beaumont, whose 
 long silence and subsequent death she had bitter- 
 ly 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 order to avoid 
 accidents, that Fanny's visit should not be of long 
 duration. In the meanwhile, 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 interest; and, 
 in order to frighten Fanny from ever daring to 
 inform their visitor that she was the child of 
 Fanny Beaumont, they assured her that that lady 
 was so enraged against her poor mother, for hav- 
 ing 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. u 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 
 
110 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 bequeathe much mo- 
 ney to her child ; but she had endeavored to en- 
 rich her with principles and piety. Above all, 
 she had impressed her with the strictest regard 
 for truth; and the Livingstones artfully contrived 
 to make her integrity the means of displeasing their 
 East-Indian friend. 
 
 This good old lady's chief failing was believing 
 implicitly whatever was said in her commendation : 
 not that she loved flattery, but that she liked to 
 believe she had conciliated good-will ; and being 
 sincere herself, she never thought of distrusting 
 the sincerity of others. 
 
 Nor was she at all vain of her once fine person, 
 and finer face, or improperly fond of dress. Still, 
 from an almost pitiable degree of bonhommie, she 
 allowed the Livingstones to dress her as they 
 liked ; and, as they chose to make her wear fash- 
 ionable and young-looking attire, in which they 
 declared she looked " so handsome ! and so well !" 
 she believed they were the best judges of what 
 was proper for her, and always replied, " Well, 
 dear friends, it is entirely a matter of indifference 
 tome; 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 
 
LIES OF INTEREST. Ill 
 
 gentle Fanny, that she could not help expressing 
 her sentiments concerning it; and by that means 
 made them the more eager to betray her into 
 offending their unsuspicious friend. They there- 
 fore asked Fanny, in her presence, one day, 
 whether their dear guest did not drese ^qst he- 
 comingly f 
 
 The poor girl made sundry sheepish and awk- 
 ward contortions, now looking down, and then 
 looking up— unable to lie, yet afraid to tell the 
 truth. " Why do you not reply, Fanny ¥' said 
 the artful questioner. " Is she not well dressed ?" 
 " Not in my opinion, " faltered out the distressed 
 girl. "And, pray, Miss Barnwell," said the old 
 lady, u what part of my dress do you disapprove ?" 
 After a pause, Fanny took courage to reply, "All 
 of it, madam." u Why ? do you think it too 
 young for me?" u I do." "A plain-spoken young 
 person, that !" she observed, in a tone of pique \ 
 while the Livingstones exclaimed, " Impertinent ! 
 ridiculous I" 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. After this scene, 
 the Livingstones, partly from the love of mischief, 
 and partly from the love of fun, used to put simi- 
 lar questions to Fanny, in the old lady's pres- 
 ence, till, at last, displeased and indignant at her 
 bluntness and ill-breeding, she scarcely noticed 
 or spoke to her. In the meanwhile, Cecilia Liv- 
 ingstone became an object of increasing interest 
 to her; for she had a lover to whom she was 
 
112 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 greatly attached, but who would not be in a situ- 
 ation 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 especi- 
 ally 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 powers of mimicry, 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 pre- 
 sent, 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 cli- 
 mate, she might still live many years ) and that, 
 as Cecilia 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 
 eyes as she thought of the happiness which she 
 was going to impart,) "and then the young peo- 
 ple can marry directly!" 
 
 She took this resolution one day when the Liv- 
 ingstones believed that she had left her home on 
 a visit. Consequently, having no expectation of 
 
LIES OF INTEREST. 113 
 
 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 forced 
 to put off her visit; a circumstance which she 
 did not at all regret, as it enabled her to go sooner 
 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 afterward, 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 
 screen, was selected as the scene of action. 
 
 Fanny Barnwell, who disliked private and other 
 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, 
 persuaded 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 sup- 
 posed distant friend coming up the street, and 
 evidently 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 you say 
 
114 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 that ice 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 decep- 
 tions. 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." u In- 
 deed ! that is unfortunate," said their disap- 
 pointed visitor, 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, seemed 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 ? I 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. u But are you sure 
 that she is really gone from the door ?" " To be 
 sure, Miss." u 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 should you ? for I looked out after 
 her, and I saw her go down the street under 
 the windows, and turn — yes, I am sure that I 
 
LIES OF INTEREST. 115 
 
 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 prepa- 
 rations, devoid of fear. But the truth was, that 
 the girl, little aware of the importance of this un- 
 welcorned lady, and concluding she could not be 
 vl friend, but merely some troublesome nobody, 
 showed her contempt and her anger at being de- 
 tained so loug, by throwing to the street-door 
 with such violence, that it did not really close; 
 and the old lady, who had ordered her car- 
 riage to come for her at a certain 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 uupereeived ; — for 
 the girl lied to those who bade her lie, when she 
 said she saw her walk away. 
 
 In that room Mrs. x\therling found a sofa; 
 and though she wondered at seeing a larsre screen 
 opened before it, she seated herself on it, and, 
 being 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, lam so glad we got rid of 
 Mrs. Atherling so easily!" cried Cecilia. "That 
 new girl seems apt. Some servants deny one so 
 as to show one is at home." u I should like them 
 the better for it," said Fanny. U I hate to see 
 any one ready at telling a falsehood." " Poor 
 little conscientious dear !" said the lover, mimick- 
 ing her; u one would think the dressed-up saint 
 
116 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 had made you as methodistical as herself." 
 " What ! I suppose, Miss Fanny, you would have 
 had us let the old quiz in." " To be sure I 
 would ; and I wonder you could be denied to sc 
 kind a friend. Poor dear Mrs. Atherlin*: ! 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. Ather- 
 ling, when you know that she dislikes you V 
 u Dislikes me! yes : I fear she does !" "I 
 am sure she does," replied Cecilia; "for you are 
 downright rude to her. Did you not say, only 
 the day before yesterday, 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 V " " To be sure I did : I 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 
 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." "No, no, silly girl: honesty is usu- 
 ally its own reward. Alfred, what do you think ? 
 Our old friend, who is not very penetrating, said 
 
LIES OF INTEREST. 117 
 
 one day to her, ' I suppose you think my caps too 
 young for me f and that true young person re- 
 plied, ' 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 sentimen- 
 tality makes me sick. But come : let us begin." 
 " Yes," cried Alfred, " let us rehearse a little, be- 
 fore the rest of the party come. I should like to 
 hear Mrs. Atherling's exclamations, if she knew 
 what we were doing. She would say thus." 
 Here he gave a most accurate representation of 
 the poor old lady's voice and manner, and her 
 fancied abuse of private theatricals, while Cecilia 
 cried, "Bravo! bravo!" and Fanny, "Shame! 
 shame !" till the other Livingstones, and the rest 
 of the company, who now entered, drowned her 
 crj- in their loud applauses and louder 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 
 screen, full of reproachful meaning, on the con- 
 scious offenders ! 
 
 What a moment, to them, of overwhelming 
 surprise and consternation ! The cheeks, flushed 
 with malicious triumph and satirical pleasure, 
 became covered with a deeper blush of detected 
 treachery, or pale with fear of its consequences ; 
 and the eyes, so lately beaming with ungenerous, 
 
118 ILLUSTRATIONS OJF LYING. 
 
 injurious satisfaction, were now east, with 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, breaking 
 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, 
 felt and looked as if she had been a sharer in the 
 guilt,) " Who art thou, my honorable, kind girl ? 
 And who was your mother?" " Your Fanny 
 Beaumont," replied the quick-feeling orphan, 
 bursting into tears. " Fanny Beaumont's child ! 
 and it was concealed from me !" said she, folding 
 the 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 
 unexpected 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 tearfully in her face, " I must 
 
LIES OF INTEREST. - 119 
 
 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 rne as a daughter V 
 u 0, most gladly !" was the eager and agitated 
 reply. " You artful creature !" exclaimed Cecilia, 
 pale with rage and mortification, "you knew very 
 well that she was behind the screen/' 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 doubt your 
 presence here is now as unwelcome as mine." 
 But Fanny lingered, as if reluctant to depart. 
 She could not bear to leave the Livingstones in 
 anger. They had been kind to her, and she would 
 fain have parted with them affectionately; but 
 they all preserved a sullen, indignant silence, and 
 scornfully repelled her advances. " You see that 
 you must not tarry here, my good girl/' observed 
 the old lady, smiling, " so let us depart," They 
 did so ) leaving the Livingstones and the lover, 
 not deploring their fault, but lamenting their de- 
 tection : lamenting also the hour when they added 
 the lies of convenience to their other decep- 
 tions, and had thereby enabled their unsuspecting- 
 dupe to detect those falsehoods, the result of their 
 avaricious fears, which may be justly entitled the 
 lies of interest. 
 
120 ~ ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 LIES OF FIRST-RATE MALIGNITY. 
 
 Lies of first-rate malignity come next to 
 be considered; and I think that I am right in 
 asserting that such lies — lies intended wilfully tc 
 destroy the reputation of men and women, tc 
 injure their characters in public or private esti- 
 mation, 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 uncon- 
 scious objects; but that the arm of the law, in 
 some measure at least, defends reputations ; and 
 if it should not hav.e been able to deter the 
 slanderer from his purpose, it can at least avenge 
 the slandered. 
 
 Still, such is the prevailing tendency in society 
 to prey on the reputations of others, especially 
 of those who are at all distinguished, either in 
 public or private life; such the propensity to 
 impute bad motives to good actions ; so com- 
 mon the fiend-like pleasure of finding or imagining 
 blemishes in beings on whom even a motive-judging 
 ivorld in general gazes with respectful admiration, 
 and bestows the sacred tribute of well-earned 
 
LIES OF FIRST-RATE MALIGNITY. 121 
 
 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-crea- 
 tures in the bosom of their God and Saviour. 
 
 With the following illustration of the LIE OF 
 first-rate malignity, I shall conclude my ob- 
 servations on this subject. 
 
 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 There are persons in the world whom circum- 
 stances have so entirely preserved from intercourse 
 with the base and the malignant, and whose dis- 
 positions are so free from bitterness, that they can 
 scarcely believe in the existence of baseness and 
 malignity. Such persons, when they hear of in- 
 juries committed, and wrongs done, at the instiga- 
 tion 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 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 jus- 
 
122 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 tice, refuse to believe in the existence of that 
 thing called snow, as these unbelievers in the 
 moral turpitude in question refuse their credence 
 to anecdotes which disclose it. All they can with 
 propriety assert is, that such instances have not 
 come under their cognizance. Yet, even to these 
 favored 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 existence 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, I do so with the certain know- 
 ledge that its foundation is truth. 
 
 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 
 
LIES OP FIRST-RATE MALIGNITY. 123 
 
 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 coun- 
 teracted 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, distinguished in her 
 native place for her learning and accomplishments. 
 
 Among the most intimate associates of her 
 father, 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 
 dogmas was an offence which his mean soul was 
 incapable 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 giv- 
 ing her opinion on literature, and on some other 
 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 ignorance and 
 presumption of women in general, and of blue- 
 stocking girls in particular, while on his face a 
 grin of conscious superiority contended with the 
 frown of pedantic indignation. 
 
124 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 no- 
 bleman in the neighborhood, and in company with 
 many persons of considerable talent. While they 
 were at table, the master of the house said that it 
 was his birthday, and some one immediately pro- 
 posed that all the guests, who could write verses, 
 should produce one couplet, at least, in honor of 
 the day. 
 
 But as Overton and Constantiawere the only per- 
 sons present who were known to be so gifted, tbey 
 alone were assailed with earnest entreaties to em- 
 ploy 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 ; 
 accompanying 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 doggerel lines. But as Gonstantia'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, 
 
LIES OF FIRST-RATE MALIGNITY. 125 
 
 very well indeed, for a scribbling miss of sixteen: 
 insinuating at the same time that the pretended 
 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 forgotten it was 
 his birthday till he sat down to table ; therefore, 
 as every one said, although the verses were writ- 
 ten by a girl of sixteen only, they would have 
 doue honor to a riper age, Overton gained nothing 
 but added mortification from his mean attempt 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 re- 
 sentment 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 Over- 
 ton, in a manner so offensive to his self-love, that 
 he suddenly left the company, vowing revenge 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 considered 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 
 being 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 skeptical Overton, and two or three 
 
126 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 more of her associates, while it was a notorious 
 fact that the usual companions of her father and 
 herself were freethinkers and latitudinarians, both 
 in politics and religion. But if Constantia 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 moor, 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 
 father whom she tenderly loved, but under the 
 unexpected loss of income which his death occa- 
 sioned. On examining his affairs, it w r as discovered 
 that, when his debts were all paid, there would 
 be a bare maintenance only remaining for his 
 afflicted 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 
 religious 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 neighborhood. 
 
 Sir Edward was the darling and pride of a 
 highly gifted mother, and several amiable sisters; 
 and Lady Vandeleur, who was in declining health, 
 had often urged her son to let her have the satis- 
 faction of seeing him married before she was taken 
 away from him. 
 
LIES OF FIRST-RATE MALIGNITY. 127 
 
 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 no chance of captivating his heart, unless 
 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 G-ordou, 
 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 presently 
 an object of interest to Sir Edward; and when he 
 heard her story, that interest was considerably in- 
 creased 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 the courted, 
 flattered 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 
 
128 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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!' 7 "Surely," thought 
 Sir Edward, as he recalled this natural advice, "I 
 have found the woman so described in Constantia 
 Gordon !" But he was still too prudent to pay 
 her any marked attention; especially as Lady 
 Vandeleur had recommended caution. 
 
 At this moment his mother wrote thus : 
 
 "I do not see any apparent objection to the 
 lady 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 neighborhood ; and at the most 
 unfortunate period possible for Constantia Gordon. 
 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 min- 
 gle 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 lodg- 
 ings, he accompanied his expressions of affected 
 
LIES OF FIRST-RATE MALIGNITY. 129 
 
 condolence 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 
 sufficient 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 habit- 
 ually gentle, was roused to indignant resentment. 
 
 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 generous nature, can withhold their sympa- 
 thy and pardon from Constantia on this occasion ? 
 At last, gratified at having made his victim 
 awhile forego her nature, and at being now enabled 
 to represent her as a vixen, he took his leave with 
 hypocritical kinduess, 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 recollection 
 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 agony, 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 
 proportion to his sense of suffering was his resent- 
 ment against its fair cause ; and his desire of re- 
 venge was in proportion to both. 
 
 It was on this very day that he dined in com- 
 5 
 
130 ILLUSTRATIONS 02 LYING. 
 
 pany with Sir Edward Vandeleur, who was scon 
 informed, by the master of the house, that Over- 
 ton had been, from her childhood, the friend and 
 intimate of Constantia Gordon; and the same 
 gentleman informed Overton, in private, that Sir 
 Edward was supposed to entertain thoughts of 
 paying his addresses to Gonstantia. 
 
 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 
 to be removed from his power to torment her, 
 but to be raised above him by a fortunate mar- 
 riage. 
 
 Great was his triumph, therefore, when Sir 
 Edward, before they parted, requested an inter- 
 view with him the following morning, at his lodg- 
 ings in the town of ; adding, that he wished 
 
 to ask him some questions concerning their 
 mutual friend, Constantia Gordon. 
 
 Accordingly, they met; and the following con- 
 versation took place. Sir Edward began by can- 
 didly confessing the high opinion which he 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 honorable and a kind- 
 hearted man, like myself, into a complete embar- 
 ras" " Sir, what do I hear?" cried Sir Edward, 
 starting from his seat: "Can you feel any embar- 
 rassment when called upon to bear testimony in 
 
LIES OF FIRST-RATE MALIGNITY. 131 
 
 favor of Constantia Gordon?" "I 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 con- 
 versation whether I 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, I think, the new word." " No, 
 sir: I already know she is all these; and she ap- 
 pears to me as gentle, virtuous, and pious, as she 
 is beautiful." "I dare say she does; but, as to 
 her gentleness — however, I might provoke her im- 
 properly ; but, I assure you, she flew into such 
 a passion with me yesterday that I thought she 
 would have struck me!" "Is it possible? I 
 really feel a difficulty in believing you!" "No 
 doubt : so let us talk of something else." " No, 
 no, Mr. Overton, I came hither to be informed 
 on a subject deeply interesting to me, and, at 
 whatever risk of disappointment, I will await all 
 you have to say." "I have nothing to say, Sir 
 Edward: you know Con is beautiful and charm- 
 ing; 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 I require that my wife should 
 
182 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 be a woman of pious and moral habits?" "O! 
 for morals, there, 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 V 
 " 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 
 skeptic, weaker in intellect, and incapable of rea- 
 soning, never rests till she loses herself in the 
 mazes and absurdities of Atheism. 7 ' Had Sir Ed- 
 ward Vandeleur seen the fair smooth skin of Con- . 
 stantia suddenly covered with leprosy, he would 
 not have been more shocked than he was at being 
 informed 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 ?" "Sir Ed- 
 ward, 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 
 honorable man, who placed confidence also in my 
 honor ; though, as Constantia is the child of an 
 old friend, and poor, it would be, perhaps, a sav- 
 ing to my pocket if she were well married." 
 "Then it is true !" said Sir Edward, clasping 
 his hands in agony; "and this lovely girl is what 
 I 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 !" " Yes, 
 yes: I know that look; and she knows that is her 
 
LIES OF FIRST-RATE MALIGNITY. 133 
 
 prettiest look. That eye, half turned up, shows 
 her fine, long, dark eyelashes to great advantage I" 
 "Alas !" replied Sir Edward, deeply sighing, "if 
 this be so — ! what 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, 
 attempted 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 officious- 
 ness on such occasions, had endeavored to con- 
 vince 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 her; though she was far too 
 humble to be convinced that they were right in 
 their conjectures. 
 
 But the mind of Constantia was too much un- 
 der 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 
 delicate, and had too much self-respect, to be ca- 
 pable of such a weakness ; she therefore escaped 
 that danger of which I have seen the peace of 
 
134 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 was not able to wait on her, as he 
 thought of going to London the next day, Con- 
 stantia felt that the idea of his attachment was as 
 unfounded as it had been pleasing, and she re- 
 joiced that the illusion had not been long enough 
 to endanger her tranquillity. Still, she could not 
 but own, in the secret of her heart, that the pros- 
 pect 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 weakness, and though her sleep that night 
 was short, it was tranquil, and she arose the next 
 morning to resume the duties of the day with her 
 accustomed alacrity. In 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 lat- 
 ter, which enabled her to conquer at once her 
 emotion at the unexpected sight of the former. 
 Still, the sight of Overton occasioned in her disa- 
 greeable and painful recollections, which gave an 
 unpleasing and equivocal expression to her beau- 
 tiful features, and enabled Overton to observe, 
 
LIES OE FIRST-RATE MALIGNITY. 135 
 
 " 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 ? ! you 
 vixen, how you scolded me the other day !" Con- 
 stantia, too much mortified and agitated to speak, 
 and repel the charge, replied by a look of indig- 
 nation ) and, snatching her hand away, she bowed 
 to Sir Edward, 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 I 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 Yandeleur, when he had related 
 to her all that had passed, " that this Overton is 
 a man to be depended upon ?" " 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 get his old friend's daughter 
 well married." "But does she appear to her 
 other friends neglectful of her religious duties, as 
 if she really had no religion at all ?" "So far 
 from it, that she has always been punctual in the 
 outward performance of them; therefore, no one 
 but Overton, the confidential friend and intimate 
 of the family, could suspect or know her real 
 
136 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 opinions : thus she adds, I fear, hypocrisy to skep- 
 ticism. Overton also accuses her of being vio- 
 lent in her temper; and I was unexpectedly 
 enabled to see the truth of this accusation, in a 
 measure, confirmed. Therefore, indeed, dear mo- 
 ther, all I have to do is to forget her, and resume 
 my intention of accompanying you and my sisters 
 to the continent." 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 
 Overton had represented her to be ; and though she 
 had calmly resigned all idea of being beloved by Sir 
 Edward Vandeleur, she was not entirely indiffe- 
 rent 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 
 somewhat 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 recollections of Sir Edward Vandeleur; and 
 she forced herself into society and absorbing oc- 
 cupation. 
 
 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 
 
LIES OF FIRST-RATE MALIGNITY. 137 
 
 charities, she resolved to turn her talents to ac- 
 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 un- 
 cle's wife and children died before he did, and 
 she became sole heiress to his large fortune. This 
 event communicated a sensation of gladness to 
 the whole town in which the amiable orphan re- 
 sided. 
 
 Gonstantia 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 
 
 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 forgive- 
 ness ; but she wished to do so more especially 
 now, because he could not suspect her of being 
 influenced by any mercenary views. Overton, 
 
138 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 however, meant to call on her, whether she in- 
 vited him or not; as, such was his love and re- 
 spect 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, impec- 
 cable. Pie was at this period Mayor of the place 
 in which he lived ; and, having been knighted 
 for carrying up an address,, he became desirous of 
 using the privilege which, according to Shak- 
 speare's Falconbridge, knighthood gives a man, 
 of making u any Joan a lady." Nor was it long 
 before he entertained serious thoughts of marry- 
 ing. 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 lie 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 
 have 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 
 certain consciousness that the best safeguard for a 
 woman's principles was to be found in piety; 
 therefore, he resolved that his wife should be a 
 religious woman. Temper, patience, and forbear- 
 ance, were also requisites in the woman he mar- 
 ried; 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 
 
LIES OF FIRST-HATE MALIGNITY. 189 
 
 these ? No one, he believed, but that forgiving 
 being whom he had represented as an Atheist — 
 " that vixen Con !" — and while this conviction 
 came over his mind, a blush of shame passed over 
 even his brassy brow. However, it was soon suc- 
 ceeded by one of pleasure, when 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, 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 him- 
 self, since he had prevented another man's doing 
 so. There was perhaps another inducement to 
 marry Constantia. It would give him an oppor- 
 tunity of tormenting her now and then, and mak- 
 ing her smart for former impertinences. Per- 
 haps 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 lovely heiress, who, though ignorant 
 of his base conduct to her, and the lie of first- 
 rate malignity with which he had injured her 
 fame and blighted her prospects, had still a dis- 
 like 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, that Overton's 
 heart renewed all its malignity toward her ] and 
 his manner became so rude and offensive, that she 
 was constrained to refuse him admittance, and go 
 
140 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 on a visit to a friend at some distance, intending 
 not to return till the house which she had pur- 
 chased in a village near to was ready for her. 
 
 But she had not been absent many months when 
 she received a letter one evening, to inform her 
 
 that her dearest friend at was supposed to be 
 
 in the greatest dauger, and she was requested to 
 set off directly. To disobey this summons was 
 impossible ; 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, ac- 
 companied by her servant, to go by mail, if possi- 
 ble ; and, happily, there were two places vacant. 
 It was night when Constantia and her maid en- 
 tered the coach, in which two gentlemen were 
 already seated ; and, to the consternation of Con- 
 stantia, she soon saw, as they passed near a lamp, 
 that her vis-a-vis was Overton ! He recognized 
 her at the same moment; and instantly began, in 
 the French language, to express his joy at meet- 
 ing, 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 conversation 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 withheld her; and she thought it was 
 better to endure the evil patiently, than violently 
 resist it. When the mail stopped j that the 
 
LIES OE FIRST-RATE MALIGNITY. 141 
 
 passengers might sup, Constantia hoped Overton 
 would, at least, leave her for a time ) but, though 
 the other passengers got out, he kept his seat ; and 
 was so persevering, and was so much more disa- 
 greeable 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 offen- 
 sive 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 penniless, 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- 
 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. 
 1 have taken care to prevent that. I gave hi in 
 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 f" " I I said nothing 
 against your morals. I only told him you were 
 an Atheist, and a vixen, that is all; and you 
 know you are the latter, though not the former; 
 but are more like a Methodist than an Atheist V 
 "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. 
 
 urn miserable ! Cruel, wicked man ! how could 
 
112 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 you thus dare to injure and misrepresent an un- 
 protected orphan ! and the child of your friend ! 
 and to calumniate me to him too ! to Sir Edward 
 Vandeleur ! ! it was cruel indeed V " What ! 
 then you wished to please him, did you ? Answer 
 me ! ,; he vociferated, seizing both her hands in 
 his: " are you attached to Sir Edward Vande- 
 leur?" 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 res- 
 cued her from the ruffian gripe. Then, while 
 the dawn shone brightly upon her face, Constantia 
 and Overton at the same moment recognized, in 
 her rescuer, Sir Edward Vandeleur himself! 
 He was just returned from France, and was on 
 
 his way to the neighborhood of \ being now, 
 
 as he believed, able to see Constantia with entire 
 indifference; when, as one of his horses became 
 ill, 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 ail 
 suspicions, all imputations against the character 
 of Constantia cleared ^off and removed at once, 
 and for ever ! Constantia' s joy was little infe- 
 rior to his own ; but it was soon lost in terror 
 at the probable result of the angry emotions of 
 Sir Edward 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 honorable 
 man. 
 
LIES OF SECOND-RATE MALIGNITY. 143 
 
 I shall only add, that Overton left the mail 
 at the next stage, baffled, disgraced, and misera- 
 ble; that Coustantia found her friend recover- 
 ing; and that the next time she travelled along 
 that road, it was as the bride of Sir Edward 
 Yandeleur. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LIES . OF SECOND-RATE MALIGNITY. 
 
 I have observed in the foregoing chapter that 
 lies or first-rate malignity are not frequent, 
 because 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 
 uttering 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 
 other ; and it gives birth to satire, ridicule, mim- 
 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 inca- 
 pable 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 head can bear, by assurances that 
 
144 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 the wine is not strong, and that he has Dot 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 
 silliness, his vainglorious boastings, and those 
 physical contortions, or mental weaknesses, which 
 intoxication is always sure to produce : compli- 
 menting either man or woman on qualities which 
 they do not possess, in hopes of imposing on their 
 credulity : praising a lady's work, or dress, to her 
 face, and then, as soon as she is no longer present, 
 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 con- 
 tempt for his credulous belief in the sincerity 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 under- 
 standing just not a fool : — all these are lies of 
 second-rate malignity, which cannot be exceeded 
 in base and jpetty 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. 
 
 THE OLD GENTLEMAN AND THE YOUNG ONE. 
 
 Nothing shows the force of habit more than 
 the tenaciousness with which those adhere to 
 
LIES OF SECOND-RATE MALIGNITY. 145 
 
 economical usages, who, by their own industry and 
 unexpected good fortune, have become rich in the 
 decline of life. 
 
 A gentleman, whom I shall call Dr. Albany, had, 
 early in life, taken his degree at Cambridge, as a 
 doctor of physic, and had settled in London as a 
 physician ; 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 skepticism 
 apparently the most hopeless; and, both by pre- 
 cept 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 resolved 
 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- 
 quaintances of his youth ; and knowing that some 
 of his early friends lived near Cheltenham, Leam- 
 ington, and Malvern, he resolved to visit those 
 watering-places, in hopes of meeting there some 
 of these well-remembered faces. 
 
 Most men, under his circumstances, would have 
 
146 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 ordered a handsome carriage, and entered Chel- 
 tenham in style; but, as I before observed, habits 
 n economy adhere so closely to persons thus situ- 
 ated, that Dr. Albany could not prevail on him- 
 self to travel in a manner more in apparent ac- 
 cordance 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 
 denying 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 de- 
 nominated 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 clergy- 
 man' of the name of Musgrave. " Musgrave l" 
 he eagerly replied, " what Musgrave ? Is his 
 name Augustus ?" "Yes." " Is he married V 9 
 '• Yes." " Has he a family V 9 " 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 ?" 
 "A clergyman." "Has he any chance of a 
 living ?" " Not that I know of; but he must be 
 something; and a legacy which the father has 
 
LIES OF SECOND-RATE MALIGNITY. 147 
 
 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 ?" " yes : he is very 
 hospitable ; and there he is now, going into his 
 own gate." "Then I will not go on," said Al- 
 bany, hastening to the stables. " There, coach- 
 man," cried he, " take your money, and give me 
 my little portmanteau." 
 
 Augustus Musgrave had been a favorite college 
 friend of Dr. Albany's, 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 music, 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 
 moved and spoke with the brightness and alacrity 
 of early youth. 
 
148 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 for 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 sou, who was a universal quizzer, did not 
 permit even his father to escape from his imper- 
 tinent 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 
 travel 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 lad} r -wife, 
 and her tonnish daughters, could have readily ex- 
 cused him, if Ire 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 ! the astonishment and the comical gri- 
 maces 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 
 
LIES OF SECOND-RATE MALIGNITY 149 
 
 consoled him for finding such a person forced on 
 them, was the consciousness that he could extract 
 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 goino* to college — a dangerous 
 and ruinous place ; and, while the good old man 
 was dressing for dinner, he had laid plans of action 
 which made him feel more deeply thankful than 
 ever for the wealth so unexpectedly bestowed on 
 him. Of this wealth he had, as yet, said nothing 
 to Musgrave. He was not purse-proud; and when 
 he heard his friend complain of his poverty, he 
 shrank from saying how rich he himself was. He 
 had therefore siroply said that be 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, sufficient 
 for his slender wants. 
 
 To those to whom amusement is every thing, 
 

 ^s 
 
 r 9 T^ 
 
 150 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 and who can enjoy fun even when it is procured 
 at the sacrifice of every benevolent feeling, that 
 evening at the rectory, when the family party was 
 increased by the arrival of some of the neighbors, 
 would have been an exquisite treat ; for Marma- 
 duke played" off the unsuspicious old man to ad- 
 miration : mimicked him even to his face, unper- 
 ceived by him; and having found out that Albany 
 had not only a passion for music, but unfortunately 
 fancied that he could sing himself, he urged his 
 guest, by his flatteries — lies of second-rate ma- 
 lignity — to sing song after song, in order to 
 make him expose himself for the entertainment 
 of the company, and give him an opportunity of 
 perfecting his mimicry. 
 
 Blind, infatuated, contemptible boy ! short- 
 sighted trifler on the path of the world ! Mar- 
 maduke Musgrave saw not that the very persons 
 who seemed to idolize his pernicious talents, must, 
 unless they were lost to all sense of moral feeling, 
 despise and distrust the youth who could play on 
 the weakness of an unoffending, artless old man, 
 and violate the rites of hospitality to his father's 
 friend. 
 
 But Marmaduke had no heart, and but little 
 mind; for mimicry 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 
 choked it up, and substituted selfishness for sensi- 
 bility : the sight of his early companion had called 
 some of the latter quality into action; and he seri- 
 ously expostulated with his son on his daring to 
 
>V: 
 
 LIES OF SECONmSBPE MALIGNITY. 15l 
 
 turn so respectable f{ man i^j^jiAiepi^,' ."But 
 Marmaduke answeredmim by msolent disregard; 
 and when he also saicl,4\If your friend be so silly 
 as to sine:, that is, do whlti hoft&nnot do, am I not 
 justified in laughing at him:'/' Musgrave assented 
 to the proposition. He might, however, have re- 
 plied, "But you are not justified in lying, in order 
 to urge him on, nor in saying to him, ' You can 
 sing/ when you know he cannot. If he be weak, 
 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 own 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 desi- 
 rous of being asked to prolong it, as he had become 
 attached to his friend's children, from living with 
 them, and witnessing their various accomplish- 
 ments, and was completely the dupe of Marma- 
 duke' s treacherous compliments. He was there- 
 fore glad when he, as well as the Musgraves, was 
 invited to dine at a house in the neighborhood, 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- 
 Mar maduke exclaimed, " Go you shall not ! Our 
 
152 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 friends would bo so disappointed if they and their 
 company did not hear you sing and act that sweet 
 song about Ghloe ! And all the pleasure of the 
 evening would be destroyed to me ; dear sir, if 
 you were not there I" 
 
 This was more than enough to make Albany 
 put off his departure ; and he accompanied the 
 Musgraves to the dinner-party. They dined at 
 an early hour; so early that it was yet daylight 
 when, tea being over, the intended amusements 
 of the afternoon began, of which the most promi- 
 nent was to be the vocal powers of the mistaken 
 Albany, who, without much pressing, after sundry 
 flatteries from Marmaduke, cleared his throat, and 
 began to sing and act the song of " Chloe." At 
 first he was hoarse, and stopped to apologize for 
 want of voice. " Nonsense I" 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 laughter and ridicule. Albany, believing 
 him, continued his song; and Marmaduke, sit- 
 ting a little behind him, took off the distorted 
 expression of his countenance and mimicked his 
 odd action. But, at this moment, the broadest 
 splendor of the setting sun threw its beams into 
 a large pier-glass opposite, with such brightness 
 that Albany's eyes were suddenly attracted to it, 
 and thence to his treacherous neighbor, 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 ! 
 
LIES OF SECOND-RATE MALIGNITY. 153 
 
 Albany paused in speechless consternation ■ and 
 when Marrnaduke asked why " he did not go on, 
 as every one was delighted/' the susceptible old 
 man hid his face in his hands, shocked, mortified, 
 and miserable, but taught and enlightened. Mar- 
 maduke, however, nothing doubting, presumed to 
 clap him on the back, again urging him to pro- 
 ceed ; but the indignant Albany, turning sud- 
 denly round, and throwing off his arm with angry 
 vehemence, exclaimed, in the touching tone of 
 wounded feeling, " ! 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 salu- 
 tary." " What is all this ? what do you mean V 
 faltered out Marrnaduke; but the rest of the 
 party had not courage enough to speak ; and 
 many of them rejoiced in the detection of base- 
 ness which, though it amused their depraved 
 taste, was very offensive to their moral sense.. 
 " What does it mean V 9 cried Albany. " I appeal 
 to all present, whether they do not understand my 
 meaning, and whether my resentment be not 
 just!" "I hope, my dear friend, that you ac- 
 quit me" said the distressed father. " Of all/' 
 he replied, " except of the fault of not having 
 taught your son better morals 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 tc 
 the nearest town directly." u Surely you will 
 
154 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 not leave us, and in anger/' cried all the Mus- 
 graves, Marmaduke excepted. " I hope I do not 
 go in anger, but I cannot stay/' cried he, " 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 
 convey him whithersoever he wished. u I thank 
 you, sir, and accept your offer," he replied, " since 
 the sooner I quit this company, in which I have 
 so lamentably 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 the expression of that eye, on which just 
 anger and a sense of injury had bestowed a power 
 hitherto unknown to it, he addressed him thus : 
 " Before we 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 I cannot 
 spend on myself. I had also given orders to my 
 agent to purchase 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 I 
 need not tell you that I 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 minister, who can utter falsehoods in 
 
LIES OF SECOND-RATE MALIGNITY. 155 
 
 order to betray a fellow-creature into folly, utterly 
 regardless of that Christian precept, ' 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 gentleman present exclaimed, 
 "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 his college friends, re- 
 siding near Cheltenham. He expected to find 
 this gentleman and his family in unclouded pros- 
 perity ; but they were laboring under unexpected 
 adversity, brought on them by the villany of 
 others : he found them, however, bowed in lowly 
 resignation 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 ; 
 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 in 
 this world as if they every hour expected to be 
 summoned away to the judgment of a world to 
 come. 
 
156 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 CHAPTEE 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 
 
 BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 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 illustrations of them 
 which I 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 justi- 
 fied in uttering to a dying patient; though, if the 
 person dying, or the surrounding friends, be strictly 
 religious characters, they must be, on principle, 
 desirous that the whole truth should be told.* 
 
 * Bichard Pearson, the distinguished author of the 
 Life of William Hey, of Leeds, says, in that interesting 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 157 
 
 Methinks I hear some of my readers exclaim, 
 Cau any one suppose it a duty to run the risk of 
 
 his regard for the welfare of his fellow-creatures, never 
 permitted him intentionally to deceive his patients by 
 nattering representations of their state of health, by 
 assurances of the existence of no danger, when he con- 
 ceived their situation to be hopeless, or even greatly 
 hazardous." "The duty of a medical attendant," con- 
 tinues he, "in such delicate situations, has been a sub- 
 ject of considerable embarrassment to men of integrity 
 and conscience, who view the uttering of a falsehood as 
 a crime, and the practice of deceit as repugnant to the 
 spirit of Christianity. That a sacrifice of truth may 
 sometimes contribute to the comfort of a patient, and be 
 medicinally 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 simi- 
 lar motives ; and, consequently, 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 
 legislature must be subjected to the control of this sort 
 of casuistry ? If falsehood, under these circumstances, 
 be no crime, then, as no detriment can result from utter- 
 ing it, very little merit can be attached to so light a 
 sacrifice ; whereas, if it were presumed that some guilt 
 were incurred, and that the physician voluntarily ex- 
 posed 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 advantage. But is it quite clear that 
 pure benevolence commonly suggests the deviation from 
 truth, and that neither the low consideration of couclL 
 
158 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 killing friends or relations, by telling the whole 
 truth : that is, informing them that they are 
 
 iating favor, nor the view of escaping censure and pro- 
 moting his own interest, has any share in prompting 
 him to adopt the measure he defends ? To assist in this 
 inquiry, let a man ask himself whether he carries this 
 caution, and shows this kindness, indiscriminately on 
 all occasions ; being as fearful of giving pain, by ex- 
 citing 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 fur- 
 ther, whether, if such a proceeding were a manifest 
 breach of a municipal law, exposing the delinquent to 
 suffer a very inconvenient and serious punishment, a 
 medical adviser would feel himself obliged to expose his 
 person or his estate to penal consequences, whenever the 
 circumstances of his patient should seem to require the 
 intervention of a falsehood. It may be presumed, with- 
 out any breach of charity, that a demur would fre- 
 quently, perhaps generally, be interposed on the oc-~ 
 casion of such a requisition. But, surely, the laws of the 
 Moral Governor of the universe are not to be esteemed 
 less sacred, and a transgression 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 deter- 
 ring 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 mo- 
 rality: their obligation to obey the command of God, and 
 their presumed duty to their neighbor ; or, in other 
 words, they are supposed to be brought by the Divine 
 Providence into this distressing alternative of necessa- 
 rily sinning against God, or injuring 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 com- 
 pliance with the latter." 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 15S 
 
 dying ! But if the patients be not really dying, 
 or in danger, no risk is incurred; and if they be 
 near death, which is it of most importance to con- 
 sider — their momentary quiet here, or their in- 
 terests hereafter? Besides, many of those per- 
 sons who would think that, 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 person one who was known 
 not to have made a will, and who had considera- 
 ble property to dispose of. Then, consideration 
 for their own temporal interests, or for those of 
 others, would probably make them advise or 
 adopt a contrary proceeding. Yet who that se- 
 riously reflects can, for a moment, put worldly 
 interests in any comparison with those of a spirit- 
 ual nature ? But, perhaps, an undue preference 
 of worldly over spiritual interests might not be 
 the leading motive to tell the 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 awfully erro- 
 neous 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 
 
1G0 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 I give with great hu- 
 mility, is, that the truth is never to be violated or 
 withheld in order to deceive ; but I know myself 
 to be in such a painful minority on this subject, 
 that I almost doubt the correctness of my own 
 judgment. 
 
 I am inclined to think that lies of benevolence 
 are more frequently passive than active — are more 
 frequently instanced in withholding and conceal- 
 ing 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 it up to se- 
 vere 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; 
 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 I am speaking to honorable persons. I 
 therefore expect that they should give me a cor- 
 rect character of the domestic in question ; and 
 should I omit to ask whether he or she be honest or 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE, 161 
 
 sober, I require that information on these 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 dishonorable if 
 they betrayed me into receiving into rny family, 
 to the risk of my domestic peace, or my property, 
 those who are addicted to dishonest practices, or 
 are otherwise of immoral habits. Besides, what 
 an erroneous and bounded benevolence this con- 
 duct exhibits ! If it be benevolent toward the 
 servant whom I hire, it is malevolent toward me, 
 and unjust also. True Christian kindness is just 
 and impartial 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 trustworthy servants. If servants know 
 that, owing to the sinful kin du ess 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 
 th^e are not likely to abstain from sin who are 
 sure that they shall sin with impunity. Thus, 
 then, the master or mistress who, in mistaken 
 kindness, conceals the faults of a single servant, 
 leads the rest of the household into the tempta- 
 tion of sinning also ; and what is fancied to be 
 benevolent to one, become^ in its consequences, 
 injurious to many. But let us now see what is 
 
102 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 the probable effect on the servants so screened and 
 befriended? They are instantly exposed, by this 
 withholding of the truth, to the perils of tempta- 
 tion. Nothing, perhaps, can be more beneficial to 
 culprits, of all descriptions, than to be allowed to 
 take the immediate consequences of their offences, 
 provided those consequences 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 serv- 
 ants, 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 
 these means the humane wish to punish in order 
 to save would be gratified, and consequently, if 
 the truth were always told on occasions of this na- 
 ture, the feelings of real benevolence would, 
 in the end, be gratified. But if good characters 
 are given with servants, or incomplete characters \ 
 that is, if their good qualities are mentioned, and 
 their bad withheld, the consequences to the be- 
 ings so mistakenly befriended may be of the most 
 fatal nature; for if ignorant of their besetting 
 sin, the head of the family cannot guard against 
 it, but, unconsciously, may every hour put tempta- 
 tions in their way ; while, on the contrary, had 
 they been made acquainted 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 servant3, 
 knowing that they had any " besetting sins ?" 
 
 I trust that there are many who would do this, 
 from the pious and benevolent motive of saving 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 163 
 
 them from further destruction, especially if peni- 
 tence had been satisfactorily manifested. 
 
 I will now endeavor to illustrate some of my 
 positions by the following story. 
 
 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 the successive capaci- 
 ties 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 embold- 
 ened by past impunity, she purloined some valu- 
 able 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 rigor of the law, and as their children them- 
 selves could not bear to have " poor Ann sent to 
 jail," they resolved to punish her in no other 
 manner than by turning her away without a cha- 
 racter, 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 I However she 
 might deserve punishment, they shrank from in- 
 flicting it; and they resolved to keep Ann Bel- 
 son themselves, as they could not recommend her 
 conscientiously to any one else. This was a truly 
 
164 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 benevolent action; because, if she continued tc 
 sin, they alone 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 unremitting vigilance. 
 
 During the four succeeding years, Ann Bel- 
 son's honesty was so entirely without a stain, that 
 her benevolent friends were convinced that her 
 penitence was sincere, and congratulated them- 
 selves 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 dis- 
 missal. She insisted on remaining on any terms, 
 and in any situation ; nay, she declared her will- 
 ingness 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 the husband, u concerning Ann's charac- 
 ter ? 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 V 
 " Yes : I think, at least I hope so," replied he. 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 165 
 
 " Still ; as she was dishonest more years than she 
 has now been honest, I really — I — it is a 
 very puzzling question, Charlotte ) and I am but 
 a weak casuist/' A strong Christian might not 
 have felt the point so difficult. But the Mel- 
 bournes had not studied serious things deeply ) 
 and the result of the consultation was, that Aim 
 Belson's past faults should be concealed, if pos- 
 sible. 
 
 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 con- 
 tinually exposed to her eyes, but placed under her 
 special 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 begged she would lock up her money. 
 "Not I: it is too much trouble, and why should 
 I?" " Because, my lady, it is not right to leave 
 money about : it may be stolen. " " Nonsense ! 
 who should steal it? I know you must be hon- 
 est ) the Melbournes gave you such a high cha- 
 racter." Here Ann turned away in agony and 
 
166 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 confusion. " But, my lady, the other servants," 
 she resumed in a faint voice. " Pray, what busi- 
 ness have the other servants at my drawers ? 
 However, do you lock up the drawer, and keep 
 the key/' " No : keep it yourself, my lady/' 
 " What, I go about with keys, like a housekeeper ? 
 Take it, I say I" Then flinging the key down, 
 she went singing out of the room, little thinking 
 to what peril, temporal and spiritual, she was ex- 
 posing a hapless fellow-creature. 
 
 For some minutes after this new danger had 
 opened upon her, Ann sat leaning on her hands, 
 absorbed in painful meditation, and communing 
 seriously with her own heart; nay, she even 
 prayed 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 afterward, her lady brought 
 her reticule home, and gave it to Ann, filled as 
 before. " I conclude, my lady L you know how 
 much money is in this purse?" U I did know; 
 but I 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 repeated within herself, " Yes, yes : I am 
 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 fluttered when she discovered them ; 
 but, taking them up, resolutely felt for the key 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 167 
 
 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 bountiful 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 sepa- 
 rated 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 took a different view of it : she 
 picked up the gold, then laid it down ; and long 
 and 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 is 
 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, 
 regardless of consequences ! It was not without 
 many a heartache, many a struggle, that Ann 
 Belson 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. Accord- 
 
168 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 ingly, when her lady was in bed, she obtained 
 leave to go to her; and while she relieved her sis- 
 ter's wants with the two purloined sovereigns, the 
 poor thing almost fancied that she had done a 
 good action ! ! never is sin so dangerous as 
 when it has allured us in the shape of a deed of 
 benevolence. It had so allured the Melbournes 
 when they concealed Ann's faults from Lady 
 Baryton ; and its bitter fruits were only too fast 
 preparing. 
 
 "Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute," saj-s 
 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 in- 
 sisted 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 the money, as she had certainly dropped 
 the key someichere ; and that, before she missed 
 it, some one, she was sure, had been trying at the 
 lock ; for it was evidently hampered the last time 
 she unlocked it. " Well, then, get a new lock," 
 replied 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 hey, and hampered lock, exonerated 
 Ann from suspicion; especially as Ann owned 
 that she had discovered the loss before ; and de- 
 clared that, had not her lady insisted on telling 
 over the money, she had intended to replace it 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 169 
 
 gradually, because she felfc herself responsible : 
 while Lady Baryton, satisfied and deceived, re- 
 commended 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-princi- 
 pled sense of what we owe to others, especially to 
 those who are the members of our own house- 
 hold, she never for one moment troubled herself 
 to remember that she was daily throwing tempta- 
 tions 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 persons to answer for, in every situation of 
 life, who consider their dependents and servants 
 merely as such, without remembering that they 
 are, like themselves, heirs of the invisible world 
 to come i and that, if they take no pains to en- 
 lighten their minds, in order to save their immor- 
 tal 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 
 
170 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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, how- 
 ever, the jeweller came to tell her that there were 
 two strings less than when she brought them be- 
 fore. "Then they must have been stolen I" she 
 exclaimed ; " 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 
 Belson is not the thief herself?" "Impossible ! 
 I had such a character of her ! and I have trusted 
 her implicitly V "It is not right to tempt even 
 the most honest," replied Lord Baryton; "but 
 we must have strict search made ; and all the 
 servants must be examined." 
 
 They were so ; but as Ann Belson was not a 
 hardened offender, she soon betrayed 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, "0, my lady! remember that I conjured 
 you not to trust me !" and Lady Barytones 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 
 Melbournes, when they heard what had hap- 
 pened, saw that the seeming benevolence of their 
 concealment 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 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 171 
 
 cupidity. But neither Lady Baryton's regrets 
 nor self-reproach, nor the greater agonies of the 
 Melbournes, could alter or avert the course of 
 justice ; and Ann Belson was condemned to 
 death. She was, however, strongly recommend- 
 ed to mercy, both by the jury and the noble 
 prosecutor; and her conduct in prison was so ex- 
 emplary, so indicative of the 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 to transportation. 
 
 Yet even this mercy was a severe trial to the 
 self-judged Melbournes ; since they had the misery 
 of seeing the affectionate nurse of their children, 
 the being endeared to them by many years of ac- 
 tive services, torn from all the tender ties of ex- 
 istence, and exiled for life as a felon to a distant 
 land ! exiled too for a crime which, had they per- 
 formed their social duty, she might never have 
 committed. But the pain of mind which they 
 endured 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 f and that no deviation from truth 
 and ingenuousness can be justified, even if it 
 claims for itself the plausible title of the active 
 or passive lie of benevolence. 
 
 There is another species of withholding the 
 truth, which springs from so amiable a source, 
 
172 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 and is so often practiced even by pious Christians, 
 that, while I venture to say it is at variance with 
 reliance on the wisdom and mercy of the Creator, 
 I do so with reluctant awe. I mean a conceal- 
 ment of the whole extent of a calamity from the 
 persons afflicted, lest the blow should fall too 
 heavily upon them. 
 
 I would ask, whether such conduct be not 
 inconsistent with the belief that trials are mercies 
 in disguise ? — that the Almighty " loveth those 
 whom he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son 
 that he receiveth ?" 
 
 If this assurance be true, we set our own judg- 
 ment against that of the Deity, 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 against infinite wisdom. 
 
 There are other reasons, besides religious ones, 
 why this sort of deceit should no more be prac- 
 ticed than any other. 
 
 The motive for withholding the whole truth, 
 on these occasions, is to do good. But will the 
 desired good be effected by this opposition to the 
 Creator's revealed will toward 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, 
 surely, a degree more of suffering, at such a iuo- 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 173 
 
 merit, cannot possess much added power to de- 
 stroy ; and if the trial be allowed to come in its 
 fall force, the mind of the victim will make ex- 
 actly the same efforts as minds always do when 
 oppressed by misery. A state of heavy affliction 
 is so repulsive to the feelings, that even in the 
 first paroxysms of it we all 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 somewhere; 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 con- 
 cealing from the bereaved sufferers the most 
 affecting part of the truth, we stand between 
 them and the balm derived from that very in- 
 cident which was mercifully 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 
 fruitlessly uttered : since the object of them is 
 apt to suspect deceit, and endure that restless, 
 a ionizing suspicion, which those who have ever 
 
174 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 ex- 
 tent; 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 con- 
 jectures, runs the risk of sinking beneath the 
 force of its own indistinct fears. 
 
 Confidence, too, in those dear friends whom 
 we trusted before, is liable to be entirely de- 
 stroyed; and, in all its bearings, this well-inten- 
 tioned departure from truth is pregnant with mis- 
 chief. 
 
 Lastly, I object to such concealment, from a 
 conviction that its continuance is impossible; 
 for, some time or other, the whole truth is re- 
 vealed, 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 
 illustration 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/' said the vicar 
 of a small parish in Westmoreland to his weep- 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 175 
 
 ing wife. "Quite willing." "And yet thou art 
 in tears, Susan. " "I weep for his faults; and 
 not because 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 dearly ! so much more than " 
 
 Here her sobs redoubled ; and, as Vernon rested 
 her aching head on his bosom, he said, in a low 
 voice, "Ay; 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 learned more Latin in a week than his brothers 
 in a month !" "And he is so beautiful!" ob- 
 served his mother. "'And so generous !" rejoined 
 his father: "but cheer up, my beloved ; under 
 stricter discipline than ours he may yet do well, 
 and turn out all we could wish." "I hope, how- 
 ever," replied the fond mother, "that his master 
 will not be very severe ; and I will try to look 
 forward." As she said this, she left her husband 
 with something 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 wardrobe ready against the day of his de- 
 parture. The equally affectionate father mean- 
 while called his son into the study, to prepare 
 his mind for that parting which his undutiful 
 conduct had made unavoidable. 
 
 But Vernon found that Edgar's mind re- 
 quired no preparation : that the idea of change 
 was delightful to his volatile nature; and that 
 he panted to distinguish himself on a wider field 
 of action than a small retired village afforded to 
 
176 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 his daring, restless spirit; while his father saw 
 with agony, which he could but ill conceal, that 
 this desire of entering into a new situation had 
 power to annihilate all regret at leaving the 
 tenderest 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 uttered words of tender contrition, such 
 as they had never heard from him before : the 
 recollection of which spoke comfort to their 
 minds when they beheld 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 insubordi- 
 nation of his new pupil. In his next letter he 
 declared that he should soon be under the ne- 
 cessity of 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 dutiful affection of their other sons, 
 nor their success in life, had power to heal the 
 breaking heart of the mother, nor cheer the de- 
 pressed spirits of the father. At length the 
 prodigal returned, ill, meagre, penniless, and 
 penitent; and was received and forgiven. "But 
 where hast thou been, my child, this long, long 
 time V said his mother, tenderly weeping, as she 
 gazed on his pale, sunken cheek* "Ask me no 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 177 
 
 questions ! I am here : that is enough," Edgai 
 Vernon replied, shuddering as he spoke. "It is 
 enough ?' cried his mother, throwing herself on 
 his neck ! u 'For this, my son, was dead, and is 
 alive again : was lost, and is found V 9 But the 
 father felt and thought differently : he knew 
 that it was his duty to interrogate his son ; and 
 he resolved to insist on knowing where and how 
 those long four years had been passed. He, 
 however, delayed his questions till Edgar's health 
 was reestablished ; 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 father ac- 
 quiesced ; but the next morning Edgar had dis- 
 appeared, leaving the following letter behind him : 
 
 "I cannot, dare not tell you what a wretch 
 I have been ! though I own }'our 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 my- 
 self, for I am a vile and wretched sinner, though 
 your grateful and affectionate sou, 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 
 conviction which it held out to her, that she 
 should probably never behold her son again ; 
 but lie dwelt with pious thankfulness on the 
 sense of his guilt, expressed by the unhappy 
 writer; trusting that the sinner who knows and 
 
178 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 owns himself to be "vile/* may, when it is least 
 expected of him, repent 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 ? Suffice 
 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 
 service 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 serviceable 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 officers of justice at a noted 
 gaming-houge ; and, after 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, believin 
 himself in danger of dying, he longed for the 
 comfort of his paternal roof; he also longed for 
 paternal forgiveness; and the prodigal returned 
 to his forgiving parents. 
 
 But as this was a tale which Edgar might 
 well 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 therefore was glad of an excuse to 
 
 s 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 179 
 
 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 pre- 
 pared for the next intelligence 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 com- 
 mitted to prison for trial ; and would be tried 
 with his accomplices at the ensuing assizes for 
 3Iiddlesex. 
 
 At first, even the firmness of Vernon yielded 
 to the stroke, and he was bowed low to 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 ! 
 I will be near him even at his death, if death be 
 his portion ! And no doubt I shall be able to 
 awaken him to a sense of his guilt. Yes, I 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 setting off for Middlesex, 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 truth, which 
 had been kindly, but erroneously, concealed 
 from her, and had sunk under the sudden, un- 
 mitigated blow ) and the welcome intelligence, 
 that the prosecutor had withdrawn the charge, 
 
ISO ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 came at a moment when the sorrows of the be- 
 reaved 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 ten- 
 derly ) "and I feel that I cannot, cannot yet re- 
 joice in it as I ought. " But he soon repented 
 of this ungrateful return for the mercy of Hea- 
 ven ; 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 surrounded 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 
 mother's illness } 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 
 reached the gate that led to the back door; at 
 which he gently knocked, but in vain. No one 
 answered 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 overpowered, he leaned 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 181 
 
 against the gate. At this moment he saw two 
 men rapidly pass along the road, saying, i; I fear 
 we shall be too late for the funeral ! I wonder 
 how the poor old man will bear it ? for he loved 
 his wife dearly !" "Ay; and so he did that 
 wicked boy who has been the death of her/' re- 
 plied 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 toward the 
 church, and reached it just as the service was 
 over, the mourners 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 coffin was low- 
 ered into the vault, he rushed forward, and, 
 throwing himself across it, called upon his 
 mother's name, in an accent so piteous and ap- 
 palling, 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 endeavored to speak, 
 but in vain : then, holding his clenched fists to 
 his forehead, he screamed but, "Heaven preserve 
 
1S2 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 be- 
 fore 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 morti- 
 fication of encountering those whose virtues must 
 be put in comparison with his vices. He there- 
 fore cast one lon^ 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 
 seemed the language of contrition ; and he 
 lamented 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 exclaimed; 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- 
 matches, 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 contri- 
 tion powerless to influence him to amendment of 
 life He therefore continued to disregard the 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 183 
 
 warning voice within him ; 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 
 freely of the spirits which he had ordered. At 
 this moment he saw a schoolfellow of his in the 
 
 bar, who, like himself, was on his way to Y . 
 
 This young man was of a coarse, unfeeling na- 
 ture; and, having had a 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 
 several persons, replied, "I do not know you, 
 sir !" " Not 7cnoiv me, Dunham V cried Edgar 
 Vernon, turning very pale. " That is to say, I 
 do not choose to know you/' "And why not?" 
 cried Edgar, seizing his arm, and with a look 
 of menace. " Because — because — I do not 
 choose to know a man who murdered his mother." 
 u Murdered his mother I" cried the bystanders, 
 holding up their hands, and regarding Edgar 
 Vernon with a look of horror. " Wretch!" 
 cried he, seizing Dunham in his powerful grasp, 
 
 " explain yourself this moment, or " " Then 
 
 take your fingers from my throat I" Edgar did 
 so ; and Dunham said, " I meant only that you 
 broke your mother's heart by your ill conduct ) 
 and pray, was not that murdering her?" While 
 
184 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 toward him in the countenances 
 of them all. When Dunham had finished 
 speaking, Edgar Vernon wrung his hands in 
 agony, saying, " True, most true, I am a mur- 
 derer ! I am a parricide !" Then, suddenly drink- 
 ing 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 only trying to ride from him- 
 self : trying to escape from those looks of horror 
 and aversion which the remark of Dunham had 
 provoked. But what right had Dunham so to 
 provoke him ? 
 
 After he 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 dearly, 
 and would have died for her, I killed her by my 
 wicked course of life V " Well, well : I know 
 that/' replied Dunham, "so let me go ! for I tell 
 you I do not like to be seen with such as you. 
 Let me go, I say !" 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 185 
 
 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 insulter 
 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 mur- 
 derer. 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 possession of his soul j and he confessed his 
 crime with tears of the bitterest penitence. To be 
 brief : Edgar Vernon was carried into that city as 
 a manacled criminal, which he had expected to 
 leave as a successful gambler; and, before the 
 end of the assizes, 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 received 
 from the deceased; blaming himself at the same 
 time for his criminal revenge, in so heartrending 
 a manner, and lamenting so pathetically the dis- 
 grace and misery in which he had involved 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 pre- 
 cepts, 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, Christian 
 state of mind accompanied him to the awful end 
 
186 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 of his existence; and it might be justly said of 
 him, that " nothing 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 
 horrible circumstance ; but as the culprit was 
 arraigned 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 them- 
 selves that he never would 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 lies 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, " I found your father 
 in a state of deep submission to the Divine will, 
 though grieved at the loss of a child, whom not 
 even his errors could drive from his affections. 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 peni- 
 tent, and as his crime was palliated by great pro- 
 vocation, I conceive that it would not add much 
 to your father's distress were he to be informed 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 187 
 
 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 con- 
 sequence may be fatal to life or reason. Be- 
 member how ill concealment answered in your 
 poor mother's case." But he argued in vain. 
 However, he obtained leave to go with them to 
 their father, that he might judge of the possi- 
 bility 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, wring- 
 ing their hands in silence, he left the room, but soon 
 returned ; and, with surprising composure, said, 
 xi Well : now I can bear to hear particulars." 
 When they had told him all they chose to relate, 
 he exclaimed, melting into tears, " Enough ! 0, 
 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 ! I 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;) there- 
 fore, his dying a penitent, and with humble 
 Christian reliance, is such a relief to my mind! 
 Yes : I feared he might commit forgery, or eveu 
 murder; and that would have been dreadful I" 
 " Dreadful, indeed I" faltered out both the brothers. 
 
188 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 bursting into tears ; while Osborne, choked, and 
 almost convinced, turned to the window. " Yet," 
 added he, u even in that case, if he had died 
 penitent, I trust that I 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 have ventured to tell 
 the truth, but was withheld by the frowns of hi* 
 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 upon his mind, and ren- 
 dered his appearance haggard ; but now he looked 
 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 this 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 breast and heart had 
 greatly subsided since the death of Edgar, made 
 the good old man wish to visit, during the sum- 
 mer months, an old college friend, who lived in 
 Yorkshire; and he communicated his intentions 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 189 
 
 to his sons. But they highly disapproved them, 
 because, 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 other 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. They 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 hap- 
 pened, that a family, going from the town whence 
 the coach started, wanted the whole of it; and, 
 without leave, Vernon's place was transferred to 
 the other coach, which went the very road which 
 Osborne disapproved. " "Well, well : it is the 
 same thing to me," said the good old man, when 
 he was informed of the change ; and he set off, 
 full of pious thankfulness for the affectionate con- 
 duct and regrets of his parishioners at the mo- 
 ment of his departure, as they lined the road 
 along which the coach was to pass, and expressed 
 even clamorously their wishes for his return. 
 
 The coach stopped at an inn outside 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 churchyard, to read, as was his 
 
190 ILLLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 custom, the inscriptions on the tombstones. 
 While thus engaged, he saw a man filling up a 
 new-made grave, and entered into conversation 
 with him. He found it was the sexton himself; 
 and he drew 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 !" 
 " Yes : it is the grave of a murderer." " Of a 
 murderer !" echoed Vernon, instinctly shudder- 
 ing, and moving away from it. " Yes," resumed 
 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, I could not 
 help planting this tree, for old acquaintance's sa*ke." 
 Here he drew his hand across his eyes. "Then 
 he was not a low-born man." " no, his father 
 was a clergyman, I think." " Indeed ! poor 
 man : was he living at the time ?" said Vernon, 
 deeply sighing. " 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 ; 
 
LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 191 
 
 and he could not bear to think how he would 
 grieve; for, poor lad, he loved his father and his 
 mother too, though he did so badly." " Is his 
 mother living ?" " No : if she was, he would have 
 been alive ; but his evil courses broke her heart ; 
 and it was because the man he killed reproached 
 him for having murdered his mother, that he was 
 provoked to murder him." ' "Poor, rash, mis- 
 taken youth ! then he had provocation." " yes, 
 the greatest; but then he was very sorry for what 
 he had done; and it would have broken your 
 heart to hear him talk of his poor father." " I 
 am glad I did not hear him/' said Yernon, has- 
 tily, and in a faltering voice; (for he thought of 
 Edgar.) "And yet, sir, it would have done your 
 heart good too." " Then he had virtuous feel- 
 ings, and loved his father amidst all his errors?" 
 "Ay." "And I dare say his father loved him, 
 in spite of his faults." " I dare say he did," re- 
 plied the man ; " for one's children are our own 
 flesh and blood, you know, sir, after all that is 
 said and done ; and maybe this young fellow 
 was spoiled in the bringing up." " Perhaps so," 
 said Yernon, sighing deeply. " However, this 
 poor lad made a very good end." " I am glad 
 of that ! and he lies here," continued Yernon, 
 gazing on the spot with deepening interest, 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 dis- 
 section. They came to me; and we buried it 
 privately at night." " His brothers came ! and 
 who were his brothers ?" " Merchants in London ; 
 
192 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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. u O no : 
 they wrote him word that his son was ill ; then 
 
 went to Westmoreland, and " "Tell me/' 
 
 interrupted Vernon, gasping for breath, and laying 
 his hand on his arm, "tell me the name of this 
 poor youth I" " Why, he was tried under a false 
 name, for the sake of his family ; but his real name 
 was Edgar Vernon." 
 
 The agonized parent drew back, shuddered vio- 
 lently and repeatedly, casting up 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 beneath, 
 while his head rested on the grass, and he nei- 
 ther spoke nor moved. But he uttered one groan : 
 then all was stillness ! 
 
 His terrified and astonished companion remained 
 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 sudden 
 shock, had suffered and breathed its last. 
 
LIES OF WANTONNESS. 193 
 
 t 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 LIES OF WANTONNESS, AND PRACTICAL LIES. 
 I COME HOW to LIES OF WANTONNESS 2 that 
 
 is, lies told from no other motive but a love of 
 lying, and to show the utterers total contempt of 
 truth, and for those scrupulous persons of their 
 acquaintance who look on it with reverence, and 
 endeavor to act up to their principles : lies hav- 
 ing their origin merely in a depraved fondness 
 for speaking and inventing falsehood. Not that 
 persons 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 
 lying. In such as these, there is no more hope 
 of amendment than there is for the man of in- 
 temperate habits, who has exhausted life of its 
 pleasures, and his constitution of its energy. 
 Such persons must go despised and (terrible state 
 of human degradation !) untrusted, unbelieved, 
 into their graves. 
 
 Practical lies come last on my list : lies not 
 uttered, 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 ; 
 
 therefore, as concealment is deception, this great 
 
 art of dress is founded on falsehood; but cer- 
 
 7 
 
194 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 tainly, in some instances, on falsehood compara- 
 tively of an innocent kind. 
 
 If the false hair be so worn that no one can 
 fancy it natural : if the bloom on the cheek is: 
 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 natural 
 color : if the false hair be so skilfully woven that 
 it passes for natural hair : if the crooked person, 
 or meagre form, be so cunningly assisted by dress, 
 that the uneven shoulder disappears, and becom- 
 ing fulness succeeds to unbecoming thinness, while 
 the man or woman thus assisted by art expects 
 their charm will be imputed to nature alone ; 
 then these aids of dress partake of the nature 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 I 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 
 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 of 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. I have seen the eye- 
 brows, even of the young, darkened by the hand 
 
PRACTICAL LIES. 195 
 
 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 opportu- 
 nity 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 
 recourse to art to hide the defects of nature; and 
 I have expressly said that such practices are 
 comparatively 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 artificial, 
 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 
 assurance : 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, 
 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 
 
196 ILLUSTRATIONS OE LYING. 
 
 brooches, pins, and rings of mock jewels, intend- 
 ing that they should pass for real ones : passing 
 off gooseberry -wine at dinner for real cham- 
 pagne, 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 well as deceptive ambi- 
 tion, that of making an appearance beyond what 
 the circumstances of the persons so deceiving 
 really warrant; the wish to be supposed to be more 
 opulent 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 dia- 
 monds, is usually one who has no right to wear 
 jewels at all; and the gentleman who passes off 
 gooseberry-wine for champagne, is, in all proba- 
 bility, aiming at a style of living beyond his situ- 
 ation .in society.* 
 
 On some occasions, however, when ladies sub- 
 stitute paste for diamonds, the substitution tells a 
 tale of greater error still. I 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 splendor, b}^ a practical lie. 
 
 The following is another of the PRACTICAL 
 lies in common use. 
 
 * The best way to avoid temptations to practice these 
 deceptions, is to dispense with those beverages and jewels 
 altogether. — [Editor. 
 
PRACTICAL LIES. 197 
 
 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 
 splendor 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 
 fatal still, in my opinion, because it is the prac- 
 tice 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 
 exercises for them, or consenting to do the same 
 office 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 cannot 
 write them for themselves." But, leaving the 
 
198 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 question of truth aud falsehood unargued awhile, 
 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. 
 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 indo- 
 lent they may be ; but if these motives be not 
 allowed their proper scope of action, the stupid 
 boy will never take the trouble to learn, if he 
 finds m that he can avoid punishment and gain 
 reward by prevailing on some more diligent boy 
 to do his exercises for him. Those, therefore, 
 who thus indulge their schoolfellows, do it at the 
 expense of their future welfare, and are in reality 
 foes where they fancied themselves friends. But, 
 generally speaking, they have not even this excuse 
 for their pernicious compliance, since it springs 
 from want of sufficient firmness to say no, and 
 deny an earnest request at the command of prin- 
 ciple. But to such I would put this question : 
 "Which is the real friend to a child — the person 
 who gives 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 request ? No doubt 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, 
 
PRACTICAL LIES. 199 
 
 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 odi- 
 ous in the school, were one to refuse this common 
 compliance with the wants and wishes of one's 
 companions." Not if the refusal were declared 
 to be the result of principle, and every aid 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 
 without 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 practi- 
 cal lie of considerable importance, from its fre- 
 quency; 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 — tole- 
 rated, cherished deceit. For if children are 
 quick at learning, they are called upon immedi- 
 ately 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, 
 "0 ! I knew such a one at school : he was a very 
 good fellow, but so dull ! I have often done his 
 exercises for him." Or I have heard the con- 
 trary asserted : " Such a one was a very clever 
 boy at school indeed : he has done many an exer- 
 cise 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 
 
200 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 deception himself, or been accessory to it in 
 another. 
 
 Parents also correct their children's exercises, 
 and thereby enable them to put a deceit on the 
 master 5 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 ngcessary that this school delinquency 
 should exist ? Is it not advisable that children 
 should learn the rudiments of truth, rather than 
 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 
 spontaneous lie, on the impulse of strong tempta- 
 tion, if that child be in the daily habit of deceiv- 
 ing his master on system, and of assisting others 
 to do so ? Vv 7 hile the present practice with re- 
 gard to exercise-making exists — while boys and 
 girls go up to their 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 totally, and for ever, annihilated. 
 
PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING. 201 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 OUR OWN EXPERIENCE OF THE PAINFUL RESULTS 
 OF LYING. 
 
 I 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 
 readers is not sometimes obliged to say, "I ought 
 to add, that my authority for what I have just 
 related is only Mr. or Mrs. such-a-one, or a cer- 
 tain young lady, or a certain young gentleman; 
 therefore, you know what credit is to be iriven to 
 it." 
 
 It has been asserted that every town and vil- 
 lage has its idiot; and with equal truth, probably, 
 it may be advanced, that every one's circle of ac- 
 quaintances 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 conse- 
 quence is it ? And how is it mischievous ? If 
 such persons are known and chronicled as liars, 
 they can deceive no one, and therefore can do 
 no harm." But this is not true : we are not al- 
 ways on our guard, either against our own weak- 
 
202 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 ness, 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 positively 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 diffi- 
 cult to give implicit credence to those who have 
 once deceived us: when they did so deceive, they 
 were governed by a motive sufficiently powerful 
 to overcome their regard for truth ; and how can 
 one ever be sure that equal temptation is not al- 
 ways present, and always overcoming them ? 
 
 Admitting that perpetual distrust attends on 
 those who are known to be frequent violators 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 assertion 
 is not credited immediately. Those whose words 
 no one dares to repeat, without naming the autho- 
 rity, lest the information conveyed by them 
 should be too implicitly credited, such persons, I 
 
PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING. 20S 
 
 repeat it, exist as if they existed not. They re- 
 semble that diseased eye, which, though perfect 
 in color 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 
 inspiring confidence, that soul and cement of so- 
 ciety, and of mutual regard, are received with 
 offensive distrust, and never repeated without 
 caution and apology? 
 
 I shall now endeavor to show that speaking 
 the* truth does not imply a necessity to wound the 
 feelings of any one j but that, even if the unre- 
 stricted practice of truth in society did at first 
 give pain to self-love, it would, in the end, further 
 the best views of benevolence 5 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 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 de- 
 corum and propriety — truth and benevolence will, 
 I believe, be found to go hand in hand ; and not, 
 as is commonly imagined, be opposed to each 
 other. For instance, if a person in company be 
 old, plain, affected, vulgar in manners, or dressed 
 in a manner unbecoming their years, my utmost 
 
204 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 love of truth would never lead me to say, "How 
 old you look ! or how plain you are ! or how im- 
 properly dressed ! or how vulgar ! and how af- 
 fected!" But if this person were to say to me, 
 "Do I not look old? am I not plain? am I not 
 improperly dressed? am I vulgar in manners ?" 
 and so on, I own that, according to my principles, I 
 must, in my reply, adhere to the strict truth, after 
 having vainly tried to avoid answering, by a seri- 
 ous expostulation on the folly, impropriety, and 
 indelicacy of putting such questions to any one. 
 And what would the consequence be ? The per- 
 son so answered would, probably, never like me 
 again. Still, by my reply, 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 pre- 
 tensions 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 re- 
 ply to reflect seriously on the brevity of life, and 
 try to grow in grace while advancing in years. 
 If ill-dressed, or in a manner unbecoming a cer- 
 tain time of life, the inquirer might be led to im- 
 prove 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 if affected, might 
 endeavor at greater simplicity, and less pretension 
 in appearance. 
 
 Thus, the temporary wound to the self-love of 
 the inquirer might be attended with lasting bene- 
 fit; and benevolence in reality be not wounded, 
 but gratified. Besides, as I have before observed. 
 
PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING. 205 
 
 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 I 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 
 spontaneous truth, the difficult situation in which 
 I 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 
 concerning their defects confirmed, none would 
 dare to put such questions as I have enumerated. 
 Those questions sprang from the hope of being 
 contradicted and flattered; and were that hope an- 
 nihilated, no one would ever so question again. 
 
 I 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 the importance of truth to the interests of so- 
 ciety, and of the mischief which they experience 
 from lying; though few comparatively think the 
 
206 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 practice of the one, and avoidance of the other, 
 binding either on the Christian or the 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 
 assemblies 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 
 produced by collision of wits, a noble lord, or an 
 honorable commoner, is betrayed into severe 
 personal comment on his antagonist. The una- 
 voidable consequence, as it is thought, is apology, 
 or duel. 
 
 But as these assemblies are called Christian, 
 
 * Alas ! Republics as well as realms furnish too 
 many examples of this. — [Editor. 
 
PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING. 207 
 
 even the warriors present deem apology a more 
 proper proceeding than duel. Yet how is apol- 
 ogy to be made consistent with the dignity and 
 dictates of worldly honor? And how can the 
 necessity of duel, that savage, heathenish disgrace 
 to a civilized and Christian land, be at once ob- 
 viated ? 0! the method is easy enough. "It 
 is as easy as lying/' and lying is the remedy. A 
 noble lord, or an honorable member, gets up, 
 and says, that undoubtedly his noble or honor- 
 able 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 offended, and says, that if 
 the offender will say that, by so and so, he did 
 not mean so and so, the offended will be perfectly 
 satisfied. On which the offender rises, and declares 
 that by black he did not mean black, but ichite ; 
 in short, that black is white, and white black : 
 the offended says, Enough, I am satisfied ! The 
 honorable house is satisfied also that life is put out 
 of peril, and what is called honor is satisfied by 
 the sacrifice only of truth. 
 
 I must beg leave to state, that no one can 
 rejoice more fervently than myself when these 
 disputes terminate without duels ; but must there 
 be a victim ? and must that victim be truth ? 
 As there is no intention to deceive on these oc- 
 casions, nor wish nor expectation to do so, the 
 soul, the essence of lying, is not in the trans- 
 action on the side of the offender. But the 
 offended is forced to say that he is satisfied, when 
 
208 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 he certainly cannot be so. He knows that tho 
 offender meant, at the moment, what he said ; 
 therefore, he is not satisfied 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 
 alternative !) peril his life, or that of his oppo- 
 nent. 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 Y Could it not be made in the touching 
 and impressive 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 I uttered, I 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 of 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, I know 
 the consequences, and must take the responsi- 
 bility." 
 
 Surely an apology like this would satisfy any 
 one, however offended ; and if the adversary were 
 not contented, the noble or honorable house 
 would undoubtedly deem his resentment brutal, 
 and he would be constrained to pardon the of- 
 fender, in order to avoid disgrace. 
 
 But I am not contented with the conclusion 
 
PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING. 209 
 
 of the apology which I have put into the mouth 
 of the offending party j for I have made him 
 willing, if necessary, to comply with the requi- 
 sitions of icorldly honor. Instead of ending his 
 apology in that unholy manner, I should have 
 wished it to end thus: "But if this heartfelt 
 apology be not sufficient 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." 
 
 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. I will 
 not run the risk of disappointing that confiding 
 tenderness which looks up to us for happiness 
 and protection, by any rash and selfish action of 
 mine. But I am not actuated to this refusal 
 by this consideration alone : I am withheld by 
 one more binding and powerful still. For I re- 
 member the precepts taught in the Bible, * and 
 confirmed in the New Testament; and I cannot, 
 will not, dare not enter into single and deadly 
 
 * The author inconsiderately writes the name of 
 "Bible" to the Old Testament, as if the New were not 
 a part of the Bible. — [Editor. 
 
210 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 combat, in opposition 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 sentiments like these, regardless of that 
 fearful thing, "the world's dread laugh?" 
 
 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 passions 
 of the world, at the risk of losing his standing 
 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- 
 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, con- 
 
THE MOST COMMON OF ALL VICES. 211 
 
 sider lying as the most odious, mean, and per- 
 nicious practice. 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 punish- 
 ment. 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 allowed 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 at least, either to violate or withhold the 
 truth with intent to deceive. Nor do their most 
 conscious or even detected deviations from vera- 
 city fill the generality of the world with shame 
 or compunction. If they commit any other 
 sins, they shrink from avowing them ; but I have 
 often heard persons confess that they had, on 
 certain occasions, uttered a direct falsehood, with 
 an air which proved them to be proud cf the 
 
212 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 deceptive skill with which it was uttered y adding, 
 " But it was only a white lie, you know/' with a 
 degree of self-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 pro- 
 fessedly 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 I would seriously ask of those 
 who thus argue, whether, when they repeat the 
 commandment, "Thou shalt not steal/' they feel 
 willing to admit, either in themselves or others, 
 a mental reservation, 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 servant, 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 con- 
 sistent 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," 
 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. 
 
EXTRACTS. 213 
 
 Beware, therefore, of slight deviations from purity 
 and rectitude, and great ones will take care of 
 themselves ; and the habit of 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 I have already said on this important sub- 
 ject, or have still to say; as I am painfully conscious 
 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 endeavor to diffuse over their own 
 productions the beauty of his conceptions, and the 
 depth and breadth of his manner. I aim there- 
 
214: ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 fore, sorry that those passages in his Essay on 
 Truth which bear upon the subject before me, arc 
 so unsatisfactorily brief: however, as even a sketch 
 from the hand of a master is valuable, I 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 who 
 practice it not, that clear and sound dealing is the 
 honor 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 em- 
 baseth 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, i to say that a man lies 
 is as much as to say that he is a bravado toward 
 God, and a coward toward man. For the liar in- 
 sults God, and crouches to man/ "—Essay on Truth. 
 
 I hope I 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 parlors, or summer-houses, to entertain one's 
 thoughts in any moments of leisure." But, in 
 
EXTRACTS. 215 
 
 spite of his fame as a moralist, and of this high 
 eulogiuni from one of the best authorities, Addi- 
 son appears to have done very little as an advo- 
 cate for spontaneous truth, and an assailant of 
 spontaneous lying; and has been much less zeal- 
 ous and effective than either Hawk es worth or 
 Johnson. However, what he has said is well said ; 
 and I have pleasure in giving it : 
 
 u The great violation of the point of honor from 
 man to man is, giving the lie. One may tell an- 
 other that he drinks and blasphemes, and it may 
 pass unnoticed; but to say he lies, though but in 
 jest, 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 honor, 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 Xo. 352 of the Spectator : 
 
 "Truth, is always consistent with itself, and 
 needs nothing to help it out : it is always near at 
 
 * The Christian parent will improve on the Persian, 
 by training his children to the truth from their very 
 birth. — [Editor. 
 
218 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 hand, and sits upon our lips, and is ready to drop 
 out before we are aware : whereas a lie is trouble- 
 some, and sets a man's invention upon the rack; 
 and one trick wants a great many more to make 
 it good. It is like building on a false foundation, 
 which constantly stands in need of props to shore 
 it up, and proves at last more chargeable than to 
 have raised a substantial building at first upon a 
 true and solid foundation; for sincerity is firm 
 and substantial, and there is nothing hollow and 
 unsound in it; and, because it is plain and open, 
 fears no discovery, of which the crafty man is al- 
 ways in danger. All his pretences are so trans- 
 parent, 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 ridiculous. 
 Add to all this, that sincerity is the most com- 
 pendious wisdom, and an excellent instrument for 
 the speedy dispatch of business. It creates con- 
 fidence in those we have to deal with, saves the 
 labor 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 sooner 
 to his journey's end than by-ways, in which men 
 often lose themselves. In a word, whatsoever con- 
 venience may be thought to be in falsehood and 
 dissimulation, it is soon over; but the inconve- 
 nience 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 honestly. When 
 a man has once forfeited the reputation of his in- 
 
EXTRACTS. 217 
 
 tegrity, lie is set fast, and nothing will serve his 
 turn — neither truth nor falsehood." 
 
 Dr. Hawkes worth, in the "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 replied, 
 '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 : "Almost every other 
 vice that disgraces human nature may be kept in 
 
 countenance by applause and association 
 
 The liar, and only the liar, is invariably and uni- 
 versally despised, abandoned, and disowned. It 
 is natural to expect that a crime thus generally 
 detested should be generally avoided, etc. Yet 
 so it is, that, in defiance of censure and contempt, 
 truth, is frequently violated; and scarcely the most 
 vigilant and unremitted circumspection will secure 
 him, that mixes with mankind, from being hourly 
 deceived by men of whom it can scarcely be ima- 
 gined that they mean any injury 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 leas- 
 ing-makixg was capitally punished. I am, in- 
 deed, far from desiring to increase in this country 
 
218 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 the number of executions; yet I cannot but think 
 that they who destroy the confidence of society, 
 weaken the credit of intelligence, and interrupt the 
 security of life, might very properly be awakened 
 to a sense of their crimes by denunciations of a 
 whipping-post or pillory ; since many are so in- 
 sensible of right and wrong, that they have no 
 standard of action but the laiv] nor feel guilt but 
 as they dread punishment" 
 
 In No. 54 of the same work, Dr. Hawkes worth 
 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, " 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- 
 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, 
 destroy 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 renounce 
 it; and, that I may fix the attention of my readers 
 
EXTRACTS. 219 
 
 a little longer upon the subject, I shall relate 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 im- 
 mediate competition with it; and that all I 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 "the fatal effects 
 of white lying" would have been a juster title; 
 and perhaps my readers will be of the same opin- 
 ion, when I have given an extract from it. I 
 shall preface the extract by saying that, by a se- 
 ries of white lies, well-intentioned, but, like all 
 lies, mischievous in their result, either to the pu- 
 rity 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, 
 written by the too successful combatant to his 
 wife, will sufficiently explain all that is necessary 
 for my purpose : 
 
 u My dear Charlotte : I am the most wretched 
 of all men ; but I 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 lie, put into the mouth 
 of a chairman y I was prevented reading a letter 
 which would at last have undeceived me; and, 
 
220 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 sin- 
 cere : 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 con- 
 ceal them by a lie. But, in the labyrinth of false- 
 hood, 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 ! I am dreadful ! — I can subscribe 
 
 nothing that does not reproach and torment me." 
 
 Within a few weeks after the receipt of this 
 letter, 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. 
 Johnson, says thus : 
 
 " He would not allow his servant to say he was 
 not at home when he really was." "A servant's 
 strict regard for truth," said he, "must be weak- 
 ened by the practice. A philosopher may know 
 that it is merely a form of denial ; but few ser- 
 vants are such nice distinguishers. If I accus- 
 tom a servant to tell a lie for me, have I not rea- 
 
EXTRACTS. 221 
 
 son to apprehend that he will tell many lies for 
 himself?"* 
 
 " The importance of strict and scrupulous vera- 
 city/' says Boswell, vol. ii. pp. 454, 455, " cannot 
 be too often inculcated. Johnson was known to 
 
 * 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 affirmation 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 another powerful-minded and pious 
 man. Scott, the editor of the Bible, says, in a note to 
 the fourth chapter of Judges, "A very criminal devia- 
 tion from simplicity and godliness is become customary 
 amongst professed Christians. I mean the instructing 
 and requiring servants to prevaricate, (to word it no more 
 harshly,) in order that their masters may be preserved 
 from the inconvenience of unwelcome visitants. And it 
 should be considered 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 humorous 
 book, called " Thinks I to Myself;" but this subject is 
 admirably treated there, and with effective ridicule, as, 
 indeed, is worldly insincerity in general. 
 
ZZZ ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 be so rigidly attentive to it, that, even in his com- 
 mon conversation, the slightest circumstance was 
 mentioned with exact precision. The knowledge 
 of his having such a principle and habit, made his 
 friends have a perfect reliance on the truth of 
 every thing that he told, however it might 
 have been doubted if told by others. 
 
 u What a bribe and 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 veracity and accuracy every one can im- 
 plicitly rely, is perhaps the most valuable to a so- 
 cial being/' — Vol. iii. p. 450. 
 
 " Next morning, while we were at breakfast/' 
 observes the amusing biographer, " Johnson gave 
 a very earnest recommendation of what he him- 
 self practiced with the utmost conscientiousness : 
 I mean, a strict regard to truth, even in the 
 most minute particulars. 'Accustom your chil- 
 dren/ said he, i 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 
 ichere deviation from truth toill end.' Our lively 
 hostess, whose fancy was impatient of the rein, 
 fidgetted at this, and ventured to say, l This is too 
 much. If Mr. Johnson should forbid me to drink 
 tea, I would comply, as I 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 ivatching. It is 
 more from carelessness about truth, than from 
 
EXTRACTS. ZZo 
 
 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 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 : 
 1 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 
 security by mutual faith ; and occasional inconve- 
 niences 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 in- 
 sert 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 
 
 * However Boswell' s self-flattery might blind him, 
 what he says relative to the harmlessness of servants 
 denying their masters, makes him an exception to this 
 general rule. 
 
224 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 truth, as an eternal and immutable principle, if 
 never to be violated for supposed, previous, 01 
 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 hu- 
 man happiness would, upon the whole, be more 
 perfect, were truth universally preserved/ ' 
 
 But however just are the above observations, 
 they are inferior in pithiness and practical power 
 to the following few words, extracted from ano- 
 ther of Johnson's sentences. "All truth is not 
 of equal importance ; but if Utile violations be 
 allowed, every violation will, in time, be thought 
 little^ 
 
 The following quotation is from the 96th num- 
 ber of the Rambler. It is the introduction to an 
 Allegory, called Truth, Falsehood, and Fiction ; 
 but, as I think his didactic is here superior to his 
 narrative, I shall content myself with giving the 
 first. 
 
 u 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 the 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 Per- 
 sian mind was secured against the temptations of 
 falsehood. 
 
EXTRACTS. 225 
 
 u There are, indeed, in the present corruptions 
 of mankind, many incitements to forsake truth ; 
 the need of palliating our own faults, and the conve- 
 nience of imposing on the ignorance or credulity 
 of others, so frequently occur; so many immedi- 
 ute evils are to be avoided, and so many present 
 gratifications obtained by craft and delusion, that 
 very few of those who are much entangled in life, 
 have spirit and constancy sufficient 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 likewise should learn to hear 
 it; for no species of falsehood is more frequent 
 than flattery, to which the coward is betrayed by 
 fear, the dependent by interest, and the friend by 
 tenderness. Those who are neither servile nor 
 timorous, are yet desirous to bestow pleasure ; 
 and, while unjust demands 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 I own I feel it to be a difficulty which it re- 
 quires the highest of motives to enable us to 
 overcome. 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 
 effective motive, I am well convinced that all ob- 
 stacles to the utterance of spontaneous truth would 
 at length vanish, and that falsehood would be- 
 come as rare as it is contemptible and pernicious. 
 
 The contemporary of Johnson and Hawkes- 
 worth, Lord Karnes, comes next on my list of 
 
226 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 every one's hand till ' 
 eclipsed by the depth and brilliancy of more 
 modern Scotch philosophers. 
 
 He says, p. 169, in his 7th section, with re- 
 spect to veracity in particular, "Man is so con- 
 stituted, 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 in- 
 formation, society would be very little benefited. 
 Further, it is wisely ordered that we should be 
 bound by the moral sense to speak truth, even 
 where we perceive 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 
 our goods; but it never fails to injure us in- 
 ternally : the sweetest and most refined pleasure 
 of society is a candid intercourse of sentiments, 
 of opinion, of desires, and wishes; and it would 
 be poisonous to indulge any falsehood in such an 
 intercourse/ 7 
 
 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 : 
 
 " Eesoltjtion III. — lam resolved, by the grace 
 of God, always to make my tongue and heart 
 
EXTRACTS. Lli 
 
 go together, so as never to speak with the one 
 what I do not think in the other. 
 
 "As my happiness consisteth in nearness and 
 vicinity, so doth my holiness in likeness and con- 
 formity to the chiefest good. I 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 itself. 
 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 con- 
 stant 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 danger- 
 ous malignity of this damnable sin, I am resolved, 
 by the blessing of God, always to tune my tongue 
 in unison with niy 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 under- 
 standing. 
 
 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 pernicious ; and therefore not to be jested 
 withal, nor indulged, upon any pretence or color 
 ichatsoever. Not as if it was a sin not to speak 
 exactly as a thing is in itself, or as it seems to 
 
228 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 me in its literal meaning, without some liberty 
 granted to rhetorical tropes and figures; (for so, 
 the Scripture itself would he chargeable with 
 lies; many things being contained in it which are 
 not true in a literal sense.) But I must so use 
 rhetorical, as not to abuse my Christian liberty ; 
 and therefore, never to make use of hyperboles, 
 ironies, or other tropes and figures, to deceive or 
 impose upon my auditors, but only for the better 
 adorning, illustrating, 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 inter- 
 vene, which may turn the balance of my inten- 
 tions, 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, 
 tacitly promises to speak the truth, because he 
 knows that the truth is expected. Or the ob- 
 ligation of veracity may be made out from the 
 direct ill consequences of lying to social happi- 
 ness; which consequences consist, either in some 
 specific injury to particular individuals, or in the 
 destruction of that confidence which is essential 
 to the intercourse of human life; for which 
 latter reason, a lie may be pernicious in its 
 
EXTRACTS. 229 
 
 general tendency ; and, therefore, criminal, though 
 it produce no particular 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 em- 
 bellishments of a story, where the declared de- 
 sign of the speaker is, not to inform, but to 
 divert : compliments in the subscription of a 
 letter: a servant's denying his master: a pri- 
 soner's pleading not guilty : an advocate assert- 
 ing the justice, or his belief in the justice, of his 
 client's cause. In such instances, no confidence 
 is destroyed, because none icas reposed : no 
 promise to speak the truth is violated, because 
 none teas given, or understood to be given. 
 
 u In the first place, it is almost impossible to 
 pronounce beforehand with certainty concerning 
 any lie, that it is inoffensive, volat irrevocabile, 
 and collects ofttimes reactions in its flight, which 
 entirely change its nature. It may owe, possibly, 
 its mischief to the officiousness or misrepresenta- 
 tion of those who circulate it ; but the mischief 
 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 
 conversation, depend upon our opinion of the 
 speaker's veracity, 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 
 
230 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 according to the particular importance of what 
 he relates. But, besides and above both these 
 reasons, white lies always introduce others of a 
 darker complexion. I have seldom known any 
 one who deserted truth in trifles that could be 
 trusted in matters of importance* 
 
 u Nice distinctions are out of the question 
 upon occasions which, like those of speech, re- 
 turn every hour. The habit, therefore, when 
 once formed, is easily extended to serve the de- 
 signs of malice or interest : like all habits, it 
 spreads indeed of itself. 
 
 a As there may be falsehoods which are not 
 lies, so there are many lies without literal or 
 direct 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 mean- 
 ing. It is the wilful deceit that makes the lie ; 
 and . we wilfully deceive when our expressions 
 are not true in the sense in which we believe 
 the hearer apprehends them. Besides, it is ab- 
 surd to contend for any sense of words, in oppo- 
 sition 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 
 
 * 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 ! 
 
EXTRACTS. 231 
 
 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 that prince's despotic 
 measures and designs, might be said to lie \ for, 
 by entitling his book a History 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, ex- 
 cept 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 as 
 ably refuted in some succeeding extracts. But 
 eloquent and convincing as Paley generally is, 
 it is not from his Moral Philosophy that he de- 
 rives 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 Horse Paulinse.* I shall now avail my- 
 
 * I heard the venerable Bishop of say, that 
 
 when he gave Dr. Paley some very valuable preferment, 
 he addressed him thus: "I give you this, Dr. Paley, 
 not for your Moral Philosophy, nor for your Natural 
 Theology, but for your Evidences of Christianity, and 
 your Hora> Paulina}." 
 
232 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 self of the assistance of a powerful and eloquent 
 writer of a more modern date, William Godwin, 
 with whom I have entire correspondence of 
 opinion 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 ordinary life, under which form it is known 
 by the denomination of sincerity. 
 
 "The powerful -recommendations attendant on 
 sincerity are obvious. It is intimately connected 
 with the general dissemination of innocence, en- 
 ergy, intellectual improvement, and philanthropy. 
 Did every man impose this law upon himself; did 
 he regard himself as not authorized to conceal 
 any part of his character and conduct ; this cir- 
 cumstance alone would prevent millions of actions 
 from being perpetrated, in which we are now in- 
 duced to engage r by the prospect of success 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, aud state it with 
 proper effect, I fly from the task, and take refuge 
 in silence and equivocation." "But the principle 
 which forbade me concealment, would keep my 
 mind for ever awake, and for ever warm. I 
 should always be obliged to exert my attention, 
 
EXTRACTS. 233 
 
 lest, in pretending to tell the truth, I should tell 
 it in so imperfect and mangled a way as to pro- 
 duce the effect of falsehood. If I spoke to a 
 man of my own faults, or those of his neighbor, 
 I should be anxious not to suffer them to come 
 distorted or exaggerated to his mind, or permit 
 what at first was fact, to degenerate into satire. 
 If I spoke to him of the errors he had himself com- 
 mitted, I should carefully avoid those inconsider- 
 ate expressions which might convert what was in it- 
 self 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 effects on him that prac- 
 ticed it. Plain-dealing, truth spoken with kind- 
 ness, but spoken with sincerity, is the most 
 wholesome of all disciplines.-' " The only species 
 of sincerity which can, in any degree, prove 
 satisfactory to the enlightened moralist and politi- 
 cian, is that where frankness is perfect, and every 
 degree of reserve is discarded/'' 
 
 " Nor is there any danger that such a charac- 
 ter should degenerate into ruggedness and bru- 
 tality. 
 
 " Sincerity, upon the principles on which it is 
 here recommended, is practiced from a conscious- 
 ness of its utility ; and from sentiments of philan- 
 thropy. 
 
 u It will communicate frankness to the voice, 
 fervor to the gesture, and kindness to the heart. 
 
 "The duty of sincerity is one of those general 
 princioles which reflection and experience have 
 
234 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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, be- 
 cause they afford that ground of confidence and 
 reasonable expectation which are essential to wis- 
 dom 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 
 indulge myself in copious quotations from this. 
 I must, however, give two further extracts from 
 the conclusion of this chapter : " No man can 
 be eminently either respectable, or amiable, or 
 useful, who is not distinguished for the frankness 
 and candor of his manners. . . . He that is not 
 conspicuously sincere* either very little partakes 
 of the passion of doing good, or is pitiably igno- 
 rant of the means by which the objects of true 
 benevolence are to be effected." The writer pro- 
 ceeds to discuss the mode of excluding visitors; 
 and it is done in so powerful a manner, that I 
 must avail myself of the aid which it affords me. 
 
 u Let us, then, according to the well-known 
 axiom of morality, put ourselves in the place 
 of that man upon whom is imposed this ungra- 
 cious task. Is there any of us that would be con- 
 tented to perform it in person, and to say that 
 our father and brother were not at home, when 
 they were really in the house T Should we not 
 feel ourselves contaminated by the plebeian lie ? 
 Can we thus be justified in requiring that from 
 
EXTRACTS. 235 
 
 another which we should shrink from as an act 
 of dishonor in ourselves?" I must here beg 
 leave to state that, generally speakings masters 
 and mistresses only command their servants to 
 tell a lie which they would be very willing to tell 
 themselves. I have heard wives deny their hus- 
 bands, husbands their wives, children their par- 
 ents, and parents their children, with as much un- 
 blushing effrontery as if there were no such thing 
 as truth, or its obligations; but I respect his 
 question on this subject, envy him his ignorance, 
 and admire his epithet, plebeian lie. 
 
 But then I think that all lies are plebeian. 
 Was it not a king of France, a captive in this 
 kingdom, who said, (with an honorable conscious- 
 ness that a sovereign is entitled to set a high ex- 
 ample to his people,) "If honor be driven from 
 every other spot, it should always inhabit the 
 breast of kings V And if truth be banished from 
 every other description 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 degra- 
 dation, I also assert, that the humblest plebeian, 
 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 comparison, 
 the plebeian becomes patrician, and the patrician 
 plebeian. 
 
236 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 I shall conclude my references with extracts 
 from two modern Scotch philosophers of consider- 
 able and deserved reputation, Dr. Reid, and Dr. 
 Thomas Brown.* 
 
 " Without fidelity and trust, there can be no 
 human 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 
 imposed 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 biased." — 
 Reid's Essays on the Potver of the Human Mind, 
 chap, vi., " On the Nature of a Contract." 
 
 "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 
 conduct, 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 
 happiness of social life is derived from the use of 
 language, and so profitless would the mere power 
 
 * This latter gentleman, with whom I had the plea- 
 sure of being 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. 237 
 
 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 de- 
 ceived, 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 sun- 
 shine, 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 na- 
 tions, have had a high place assigned to it among 
 the virtues." — Dr. Thomas Brown 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 import- 
 ance 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 al- 
 lowed exception to the general rule, that truth is 
 always to be spoken : no mental reservation is 
 pointed out as permitted on special occasions: no 
 individual 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 
 particular instances, against the positive precept 
 to abstain from lying; an injunction which is so 
 
238 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 commonly enforced in the page of the moralist, 
 that it becomes a sort of imperative command. 
 Still, in spite of the universally acknowledged 
 conviction of mankind, that truth is virtue, and 
 falsehood vice, T scarcely know an individual who 
 does not occasionally shrink from acting up to his 
 conviction on this point, and is not, at times, 
 irresistibly 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 proverb, 
 that " truth is not to be spoken at all times." But 
 the real meaning of that proverb appears to me 
 to be simply this : that we are never officiously 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 
 foundation of morals. A moral law on which it 
 is dangerous to act to the uttermost, is, however 
 admirable, no better than Harlequin's horse, 
 which was the very best and finest of all horses, 
 and worthy of the admiration of the whole world, 
 but unfortunately the horse was dead; and if the 
 law to tell the truth inviolably is not to be 
 strictly adhered to, without any regard to conse- 
 quences, it is, however admirable, as useless as 
 the merits of Harlequin's dead horse. King 
 Theodoric, when advised by his courtiers to de- 
 base the 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 
 
EXTRACTS. 239 
 
 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 im- 
 pression of ourselves, in any way, as to circulate 
 light sovereigns and forged bank-notes. that 
 the day may come when it shall be thought as 
 dishonorable to commit the slightest breach of 
 veracity, as to pass counterfeit shillings ; and 
 when both shall be deemed equally detrimental 
 to the safety and prosperity 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 
 
 RELATION J PROMISE-BREAKING ) ENGAGEMENT- 
 BREAKING, and want oe punctuality. Per- 
 haps procrastination comes in a degree under 
 the head 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 danger- 
 ous of all deceptions. But those who are enabled 
 by constant 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 ef- 
 fective of all means to acquire it, self-examina- 
 tion. ' 
 
240 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS FROM 
 HAWKESWORTH 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 inte- 
 rests of society on a sure foundation j but, before 
 I proceed to other comments on this important 
 subject, 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 thisthe fact ? Inconvenient, 
 dangerous, and disagreeable though it be to as- 
 sociate with those on whose veracity we cannot 
 depend, yet which of us has ever known himself, 
 or others, refuse intercourse with persons who ha- 
 bitually violate the truth ? We dismiss the ser- 
 vant, indeed, whose habit of lying offends us, and 
 we cease to employ the menial, or the tradesman ; 
 but when did we ever hesitate to associate with 
 a 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 favor or services 
 of any one, because the lips of the obliger were 
 stained with falsehood, and the conversation with 
 
OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 241 
 
 guile ? Surely, this writer overrates the delicacy 
 of moral feeling in society, or we, of these lat- 
 ter days, have fearfully degenerated from our an- 
 cestors. 
 
 He also says, c( that the imputation of a lie is 
 an insult for which life only can atone.' ' And 
 amongst men of worldly honor, 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 
 occasions. But it is not so on daily and more 
 common ones ; and the man who would thus fa- 
 tally resent the imputation of falsehood, does not 
 even reprove the lie of convenience in his wife 
 and children, 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 
 engagement ; 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 impu- 
 tation 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 imputa- 
 tion of lying on great ones ? Whatever flatteriug 
 unction we may lay to our souls, there is only one 
 wrong and one right ; and I repeat, that, as those 
 
242 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 servants who pilfer groceries 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 called 
 liars, because they equally show that they are 
 strangers to the restraining and immutable princi- 
 ple of truth. 
 
 Hawkesworth says that " indirect lies more 
 effectually destroy mutual confidence, that band 
 of society, than any others;" and I fully agree 
 with him in his idea of the " great turpitude and 
 greater meanness of those forms of speech which 
 deceive without direct falsehood m " 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 
 censured, and they are often considered both ne- 
 cessary 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, accompa- 
 nied 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 neighborhood ; and one of the principal 
 actors 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 
 
OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 243 
 
 questioned by him, withholds or conceals part 
 of the truth, meaning to deceive;- the wife 
 of the questioner does the same; and thus, 
 though both are innocent, even in thought, of any 
 thing offensive to the strictest propriety, they be- 
 come involved in the fatal consequences of im- 
 puted guilt, from which a disclosure of the whole 
 truth would at once have preserved 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 : 
 "Do not say where you came from;" and often 
 accompanied by, " If you are asked, say you do 
 not know, or you came from such a place?" Who 
 do 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 per- 
 son, keep bach the information that they have 
 been to another place, and seen another jjerson, 
 though they are very conscious that the two lat- 
 ter were the real objects of the inquiry made ? 
 
 Some may reply, " Yes : I 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 I have a right to indulge in, will 
 certainly be visited by consequences like those 
 imagined by a writer of fiction V 
 
 I answer, No ; but though I cannot be sure that 
 fatal consequences will be the result of that im- 
 possible thing, an innocent lie, some conse- 
 quences attend on all deviations from truth, which 
 
244 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 loioers the per- 
 son who gives it : it weakens that military ra- 
 sped with which the lower orders regard the 
 higher. Servants and inferiors are shrewd obser- 
 vers ; and those domestics who detect a laxity of 
 mora.s 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 claims to respect and obedience from them, 
 that of a deep conviction of their moral superi- 
 ority. And they who discover in their intimate 
 friends and associates a systematic habit, an as- 
 sumed and exercised right of telling only as much 
 of the truth as suits their inclinations and pur- 
 poses, 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, 
 furnishes us with a still better shield against de- 
 viations from it, than can be afforded even by 
 the best and most moral fiction. For as Longi- 
 nus was said " to be himself the great sublime 
 he draws/' so Johnson was himself the great ex- 
 ample of the benefit of those precepts which he 
 lays down for the edification of others ; and, what 
 is still more useful and valuable to us, he proves 
 that however difficult it maybe to speak the truth 
 and to be accurate on all occasions, it is certainly 
 
OBSERVATIONS OX THE EXTRACTS. 245 
 
 possible; for, as Johnson could do it why cannot 
 others ? It requires not his force of intellect to 
 enable us to follow his example : all that is ne- 
 cessary is a knowledge of right and wrong, a re- 
 verence 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 
 intimate companions " were distinguished for a 
 love of truth and accuracy/' derived from asso- 
 ciation with him. 
 
 I can never read this account of our great moral- 
 ist without feeling my heart glow with emula- 
 tion and triumph ! With emulation, because I 
 know that it must be my own fault if I become 
 not as habitually the votary of truth as he him- 
 self was ; and with triumph, because it is a com- 
 plete refutation of the commonplace arguments 
 against enforcing the necessity of spontaneous 
 truth, that it is absolute!?/ 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 fel- 
 low-creatures. 
 
 The consciousness of truth and ingenuousness 
 oaves a radiance to the countenance, a freedom to 
 
246 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 
 picture exhibited by the conscious utterer of false- 
 hood and disingenuousness ? Who has not ob- 
 served the downcast eye, the snapping, restless 
 eyelid, the changing color, and the hoarse, im- 
 peded voice, which sometimes contradict what the 
 hesitating lip utters, and stamp, on the positive 
 assertion, the undoubted evidence of deceit and 
 insincerity ? 
 
 Those who make up the usual mass of society 
 are, when tempted to its common dissimulations, 
 like little boats on the ocean, which are continually 
 forced to shift sail, and row away from danger; or, 
 if obliged to await it, are necessitated, from want 
 of power, to get on one side of the billow, instead 
 of directly meeting it : while the firm votaries 
 of truth, when exposed to the temptations of false- 
 hood, proceed undaunted along the direct course, 
 like the majestic vessel, coming boldly and directly 
 on, breasting the waves in conscious security, and 
 inspiring confidence in all whose well-being is in- 
 trusted to them. Is it not a delightful sensation 
 to feel and to inspire confidence ? Is it not de- 
 lightful to know, when we lie down at night, that, 
 however darkness may envelop us, the sun will 
 undoubtedly rise again, and chase away the gloom ? 
 True, he may rise in clouds, and his usual splen- 
 dor 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 
 
OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 247 
 
 betake ourselves to our couch, confiding in the as- 
 surances of past experience, 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 sincere sympathy, — to whom we can 
 look with never-doubting confidence in the night 
 of our soul's despondency, 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 checkered path of human existence. 
 
 And is it not an ambition worthy of thinking 
 and responsible beings to endeavor to qualify our- 
 selves, and those whom we love, to he such friends 
 as these ? And if habits of unblemished truth 
 will bestow this qualification, were it not wise to 
 labor hard in order to attain them, undaunted by 
 difficulty, undeterred by the sneers of worldlings, 
 who cannot believe in the possibility of that moral 
 excellence which they feel themselves unable to 
 obtain ? 
 
 To you, ye parents and preceptors, I parti- 
 cularly address myself. Guard your own lips from 
 " speaking leasing/' that the quickly discerning 
 
248 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 disgrace, the ex- 
 ample 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 enterprise ? 
 
 Hercules, as fabulous but instructive story tells 
 us, when he was required to perform the appa- 
 rently impossible task of cleansing the Augean 
 stables, exerted all his strength, and turned the 
 course of a river through them to effect his pur- 
 pose, proving by his success that nothing is im- 
 possible to perseverance and exertion \ and how- 
 ever long the duration and wide-spreading the 
 pollutions of falsehood and dissimulation in the 
 world, there is a river which, if suffered to flow 
 over their impurities, is powerful enough to wash 
 away every stain, since it flows from the " foun- 
 tain OF EVER-LIVING WATERS." 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 2<l9 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 RELIGION THE ONLY BASIS OF TRUTH. 
 
 All the moralists from whom I have quoted, 
 and those on whom I have commented in the 
 preceding 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 action, is obligatory on us all, in enjoined obe- 
 dience to the clear dictates of revealed religion. 
 Therefore, they have kept out of sight the strongest 
 motive to abhor lying, and cleave unto truth — 
 obedience to the Divine will i yet as neces- 
 sary as were the shield and the buckler to the 
 ancient warriors, is the " breastplate of faith" to 
 the cause of spontaneous truth. It has been as- 
 serted 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 suffi- 
 cient to protect us in times of particular tempta- 
 tions ? There appears to me the same difference 
 between morality, unprotected by religious mo- 
 tives, and morality derived from them, as between 
 the palace of ice, famous in Russian story, and a 
 castle built of ever-enduring stone : perfect to the 
 eve, and as if formed to last for ever, was the 
 building of frost-work, ornamented and lighted 
 up for the pleasure of the sovereign j but it melted 
 
250 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 away before the power of natural and artificial 
 warmth, and was quickly resolved to the element 
 from which it sprang. But the castle formed of 
 stones, joined together by a strong and enduring 
 cement, is proof against all assailment; and even 
 though it may be occasionally shattered by the 
 enemies, it still towers in its grandeur, indestructi- 
 ble though impaired. In like manner, unassaila- 
 ble and perfect in appearance may be the virtue 
 of the mere moralist ; but when assailed by the 
 warmth of the passions on one side, and by differ- 
 ent 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 occa- 
 sion be slightly shaken, is yet proof against any 
 important injury; and remains, spite of tempta- 
 tion and danger, in its original purity and power. 
 The moral man may, therefore, utter spontaneous 
 truth, but the religious man mast; for he re- 
 members the following precepts, which, amongst 
 others, he has learned from the Scriptures, and 
 knows that to speak lies is displeasing to the God 
 of Truth. 
 
 In the 6th chapter of Leviticus, the Lord 
 threatens the man " who lies to his neighbor, 
 and who deceives his neighbor." Again, he says, 
 " Ye shall not deal falsely, neither lie to one an- 
 other." We read in the Psalms that "the Lord 
 will destroy those who speak leasing." He is 
 said to be angry with the wicked every day, who 
 have conceived mischief, and brought forth false- 
 hood. " He that worketh deceit," says the 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 251 
 
 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 " a liar, and the father of lies." Paul, in 
 the 3d chapter of Colossians, says, " Lie not one 
 to another!" Prov. vi. 19 : "The Lord hates a 
 false witness that speaketh lies." Prov. xix. 9 : 
 "And he that speaketh lies shall perish." Prov. 
 xix. 22: "A poor man is better than a liar." 
 James iii. 14 : " Lie not against the truth." 
 Isaiah xxviii. 17: "The hail shall sweep away the 
 refuge of lies." Psalm xxxi. 18 : "Let the lying- 
 lips be put to silence." Psalm cxix. 29: "Re- 
 move from me the way of lying." Psalm lxiii. 
 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 presence " a 
 leper as white as snow;" and the judgment on 
 Ananias and Sapphira, in the 5th chapter of Acts 
 — on the former for withholding the truth, 
 intending to deceive, and on the latter for 
 telling a direct die — are awful proofs how hate- 
 ful falsehood 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; 
 
252 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 or that the occasional violator of truth, for what 
 are called innocent purposes, ought to be con- 
 sidered as a liar ; and thence the universal false- 
 hood which prevails. And, surely, that moral 
 precept which every one claims a right to violate 
 according to his wants and wishes, loses its re- 
 straining power, and is, as I have before observed, 
 for all its original purposes, wholly annihilated. 
 
 But as that person has no right to resent 
 being called a sloven who goes about in a stained 
 garment, 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 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 Fa- 
 ther 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 
 before him, but the most perfect models of im- 
 mortal 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 prac- 
 tice of lying by the seeming impossibility of con- 
 stantly 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 hath said that " as our day our strength 
 shall be;" He whose ear is open to the softest 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 253 
 
 cry; He whom the royal Psalmist called upon to 
 deliver him from those " whose mouth speak eth 
 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 sup- 
 plicates the Lord to grant him force to resist 
 temptation ; but who ever thinks of supplicating 
 him to be enabled to resist daily temptation to 
 what is called little, or white lying ? Yet has 
 the Lord revealed 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 conve- 
 nience, but avoid all others ? The lying of Ana- 
 nias was only the passive lie of concealing that he 
 had kept back part of Ms own property, yec he 
 was punished with instant death ! The only safety 
 is in believing, or remembering, that all lying 
 and insincerity whatever is rebellion against the 
 revealed will of the great God of Truth; and 
 they who so believe, or remember, are prepared 
 for the strongest attacks of the soul's adversary, 
 " that Devil, who is the father of lies m " for their 
 weapons are derived from the armory of heaven ; 
 their steps are guided by light from the sanctu- 
 ary ; and the cleansing river by which they are 
 enabled to drive away all the pollutions of false- 
 hood and deceit, is that pure river of " the water 
 of life, flowing from the throne of God and of 
 the Lamb/' 
 
251 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 I trust that I have not in any of the preceding 
 pages underrated the difficulty of always speaking 
 the truth : I have only dented that it is im- 
 possible to do so, and I have pointed out the only 
 means by which the possibility of resisting the 
 temptation 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, I 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 pang of self- 
 reproach, the delinquents in question sought for 
 refuge from their remorse by courting that very 
 death which tbey had endeavored 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 uttermost. 
 
 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- 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OE TRUTH. 255 
 
 niained unchanged ; but who, as I have before ob- 
 served, 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 apos- 
 tasy from truth, and to make a public reparation 
 for their short-lived error, by a death of patient 
 suffering, and even of rejoicing. 
 
 Jerome oe Prague comes first upon the list. 
 He was born at the close of the thirteenth centu- 
 ry; and in the year 1415, after having spent his 
 youth in the pursuit of knowledge at the greatest 
 universities in Europe — namely, those of Prague, 
 Paris, Heidelberg, and Cologne — we find him 
 visiting Oxford, at which place he became ac- 
 quainted with the works of Wycliffe ; and, at his 
 return to Prague, he not only professed himself an 
 open favorer of the doctrines of that celebrated 
 reformer, but finding that John Huss was at the 
 head of Wycliffe's party in Bohemia, he attached 
 himself immediately to that powerful leader. 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 Council 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 virtu- 
 ous resistance could ever fail him in time of need, 
 Jerome replied, looking round on the assembly 
 with dignity and confidence, " Since nothing can 
 satisfy you but my blood, God's will be done I" 
 
256 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 Severities of a most uncommon nature were 
 now inflicted on him, in order to constrain him to 
 recant, a point of which the council were exces- 
 sively desirous. So rigorous was his confine- 
 ment, that at length it brought upon him a dan- 
 gerous illness, in the course of which he entreated 
 to have a confessor sent to him ; but he was given 
 to understand that only on certain terms would 
 this indulgence be granted ; notwithstanding, he 
 remained immovable. The next attempt ou his 
 faithfulness was after the martyrdom of Huss : 
 when all its affecting and appalling details were 
 made known to him, he listened, however, with- 
 out emotion, and answered in language so resolute 
 and determined, that they had certainly no hope 
 of his sudden conversion. But whether, too con- 
 fident in his own strength, he neglected to seek, 
 as he had hitherto done, that only strength H which 
 cometh from above/' it is certain that his con- 
 stancy at length gave way. " He withstood/' says 
 Grilpin, in his Lives of the Reformers, " the 
 simple fear of death ; but imprisonment, chains, 
 hunger, sickness, and torture, through a succes- 
 sion 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 in- 
 furiated council, he began at last to waver, and to 
 talk obscurely of his having misunderstood the 
 tendency of some of the writings of Huss. Pro- 
 mises and threats were now redoubled upon him, 
 till, at last, he read aloud an ample recanta- 
 tion of all the opinions that he had recently 
 entertained, and declared himself in every 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 251 
 
 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 burdened 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 apprised that he was to be brought to a 
 second trial, upon some new evidence which had 
 appeared ; 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, ye- 
 joieing at an opportunit} 7 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 delivering 
 an oration, which was, it is said, a model of pa- 
 thetic eloquence, he ended by declaring before the 
 whole assembly, " that though the fear of death, 
 and the prevalence of human infirmity, had in- 
 duced him to retract those opinions with his lips 
 which had drawn on him the anger and vengeance 
 or 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 and 
 9 
 
258 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 even glad to die." "It was expected/' says 
 Pogge, the Florentine, who was present at his 
 examination, " that he would have retracted his 
 errors ; or, at least, have apologized for them ; but 
 he plainly declared that he had nothing to retract." 
 After launching forth into the most eloquent en- 
 comiums on Huss, declaring him to be a wise and 
 holy man, and lamenting his unjust and cruel 
 death,, he avowed that he had armed himself 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 resolution. 
 
 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, " Lord God ! have mercy on me I" 
 and a little afterward, "Thou knowest," he cried, 
 "how I have loved thy truth ;" and he continued 
 to exhibit a spectacle of intense suffering, made 
 "bearable 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 Bilney, the next on my list, "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, 
 having gotten a better schoolmaster, even the 
 Holy Spirit of Christ enduing his heart by privie 
 inspiration with the knowledge of better and 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 259 
 
 more wholesome things, he came unto this point, 
 that, forsaking the knowledge of man's laws, 
 he converted his studie to those things which 
 tended 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 ac- 
 companied him from the universitie. The authoritie 
 of Thomas Wolsey, Cardinal of York, at that 
 time was greate in England, but his temper and 
 pride much greater, which did evidently declare 
 unto all wise men the manifest vanitie, not only 
 of his life, but also of all the bishops and clergie ; 
 whereupon, Bilney, with other good men, marvel- 
 ling at the incredible insolence of the clergie, 
 which they could no louger 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 oc- 
 casion, Thomas Bilney, with his friends, Thomas 
 Arthur and Hugh Latimer, were brought before 
 them. Gilpin says, u 'That, as Bilney was con- 
 sidered as the Heresiarch, the rigor of the court 
 was chiefly levelled against him. The principal 
 persons at this time concerned in ecclesiastical 
 affairs, besides Cardinal Wolsey, were Warham, 
 Archbishop of Canterbury, and Tunsfall, 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, 
 
260 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 and had just notions of the mild genius of Christ- 
 ianity ;" but every deposition against Biiney was 
 enlarged upon with such unrelenting bitterness, 
 that Tunstall, though the president of the court, 
 despaired of being able to soften, by his influence, 
 the enraged proceedings of his colleagues. And 
 when the process came to an end, " Biiney, 
 declaring himself what they called an obstinate 
 heretic, was found guilty. " Tunstall now proved 
 the kindness of his heart. He could not come 
 forward in Bilney's favor by a judicial inter- 
 ference, but he labored 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 patience with him day after day, and begged 
 he would not oblige him, contrary to his inclina- 
 tions, to treat him with severity/' 
 
 The man whom fear was not able to move, 
 was. not proof against the language of affectionate 
 persuasion. "Biiney could not withstand the 
 winning rhetoric of Tunstall, though he with- 
 stood the menaces of Warham." He therefore, 
 recanted, bore a faggot on his shoulders in the 
 cathedral church of Paul, bareheaded, according 
 to the custom 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, 
 returned directly to Cambridge, where they were 
 received with open arms by their friends ; but 
 in the midst of this joy, Biiney kept aloof, bear- 
 ins* on his countenance the marks of internal 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 261 
 
 suffering and incessant gloom. "He received 
 the congratulations of his officious friends with 
 confusion and blushes :" he had sinned against 
 his God, therefore 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 endeavored to soothe 
 him by certain texts of Scripture, ,k 'it was as 
 though a man would run him through with a 
 sword/' In the agonies of his despair, 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 company, and, 
 in all respects, preserving the severity 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 Bilney. 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, 
 
262 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 had power to conquer his love of truth, and make 
 the pleadings of conscience vain ; while he pro- 
 bably looked upon his yielding as a proof of af- 
 fectionate gratitude ; and that not to consider 
 the feelings of those who loved him would have 
 been offensive, and ungrateful hardness of heart. 
 
 But whatever were his motives to sin, that sin 
 was indeed visited with remorse as unquestion- 
 able 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 
 sorrow and seclusion were, 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 ; 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 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 sacri- 
 fice every human affection at the foot of the 
 cross, and strengthened him to take up that 
 cross, and bear it, unfainting, to the end. He 
 therefore broke from all his Cambridge ties, and 
 set out for Norfolk, the place of his nativity, and 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 263 
 
 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 publicly 
 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 their fleshly friends 
 in causes of religion ; and so setting forward iu 
 his journey toward the celestial Jerusalem, he 
 departed from thence to the Anchresse in Nor- 
 wich, (whom he had converted to Christ,) and 
 there gave her a New Testament of Tindale's 
 translation, and u 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 reconvert him to what 
 his assailants believed to be the truth j but he 
 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 jail, waiting 
 the arrival of the writ for his execution, he 
 entirely recovered from that melancholy which 
 had so long oppressed him ; and, "like an honest 
 man who had long lived under a difficult debt, 
 he began to resume his spirits when he thought 
 himself in a situation to discharge it." — Gilpin 's 
 Lives of the Reformers, p. 358. 
 
264 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 "Some of bis friends found him taking a hearty 
 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 
 composure ran through his whole behavior, and 
 his conversation was more agreeable that evening 
 than they had ever remembered it to be. 
 
 Some of his friends put him in mind "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, "0!" said he, "I feel by experience, 
 and have knowne it long by philosophie, 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 consumption ; and I constantly 
 believe that, howsoever the stubble of this my 
 bodie shall be wasted by it, yet my soule and 
 spirit shall be purged thereby : a paine for the 
 time, whereon, notwithstanding, followeth joy 
 unspeakable." He then dwelt much upon a 
 passage in Isaiah : "Fear not, for I have re- 
 deemed thee, and called thee by thy name. 
 Thou art mine own : when thou passest through 
 the waters, I will b^ with thee : when thou 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 265 
 
 walkest 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* witll- 
 
 * " In the Lollard's pit, I find that many persons of a 
 sect known by the name of Lollards, in the city of Nor- 
 wich, 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 mean- 
 ing 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 care 
 of the sick and the dying, and deserted such as were in- 
 fected with those pestilential disorders which were then 
 Yery frequent, some compassionate and pious persons at 
 Antwerp formed themselves into a society for the per- 
 formance of those religious offices which the sacerdotal 
 orders so shamefully neglected. In the prosecution of 
 this agreement, they visited and comforted the sick, as- 
 sisted the dying with their prayers and exhortations, 
 took 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. It was with reference to this last office 
 that the common people gave them the name of Lollards. 
 The term Lollhard, or Lullhard, or, as the ancient Ger- 
 mans wrote it, Lollert, Lullert, is compounded of the 
 old German word lullen, lollan, or 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 voice. It is yet used in the same sense 
 among the English, who say lulla sleep, which signifies 
 to sing any one into a slumber with a sweet indistinct 
 voice. 
 
266 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 out 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 Thomas Bilney out of the prison doore, 
 one of his friends came to him, and, with few words 
 as he durst, spake to him, and prayed him, in God's 
 behalf, to be constant, and to take his death as 
 patiently as he could. Whereunto the said Bil- 
 ney answered, with a quiet and mild countenance, 
 
 " Lollhard, therefore, is a singer, or one who frequently 
 sings. For as the word beggen, which universally sig- 
 nifies to request any thing fervently, is applied to devo- 
 tional requests, or prayers, so the word lollen or lallen 
 is transferred from a common to a sacred song, and sig- 
 nifies, in its most limited sense, to sing a hymn. Lollhard, 
 therefore, in the vulgar tongue of the ancient Germans, 
 denotes a person who is continually praising God with a 
 song, or singing hymns to his honor. 
 
 "And as prayers and hymns are regarded as an -ex- 
 ternal sign of piety towards God, those who were more 
 frequently employed in singing hymns of praise to God 
 than others, were, in the common popular language, 
 called Lollhards. 
 
 " But the priests and monks, being inveterately exas- 
 perated against these good men, endeavored to persuade 
 the people that, innocent and beneficent as the Lollards 
 appeared to be, they were tainted with the most perni- 
 cious sentiments of a religious kind, and secretly ad- 
 dicted to all sorts of vices ; hence the name of Lollard 
 at length became infamous. Thus, by degrees, 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 was formerly common to all persons and all sects 
 who were supposed to be guilty of impiety toward God 
 and the Church, under an external profession of extra- 
 ordinary piety." — Machine's Eccles. History y pp. 355-G. 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 267 
 
 ( Ye see when the mariner is entered into his 
 ship to saile on the troublous sea, how he is fqr a 
 while tossed 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 feel- 
 eth : so am I now toward this sayling; and what- 
 soever 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/ " 
 
 While he kneeled upon a little ledge coming 
 out of the stake, upon which he was afterward to 
 stand, that he might be better seen, he made his 
 private prayers with such earnest elevation of his 
 eyes and hands to heaven, " and in so good quiet 
 behavior, that he seemed not much to consider 
 the terror of his death ;" ending his prayer with 
 the 143d Psalm, in which he repeated this verse 
 thrice : " Enter not into judgment with thy ser- 
 vant, Lord ! for in thy sight shall no man living 
 be justified ;" and so finishing the psalm, he con- 
 cluded. " Nor did that God in whom he trusted 
 forsake 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,) he rendered up 
 his soul in the fulness of faith, and entered into 
 his reward/'' 
 
 u So exemplary," says Bloomfield, in his History 
 of Norwich, "was Bilney's life and conversation, 
 
268 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 that when Nixe, his persecutor, was constantly told 
 how holy and upright he was, he said he feared 
 that he had burnt Abel." 
 
 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, salu- 
 tary to visit the places hallowed in the memory, 
 as marked by any exhibition of. virtuous acts and 
 sufferings 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 a profession is assailed by ridi- 
 cule 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 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 269 
 
 stigma of wild enthusiasm, or of religious hypo- 
 crisy; 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 calum- 
 niated 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 I stood, perhaps, on the very spot where Bil- 
 ney suffered and where Bilney died; and though 
 I rejoiced to see that the harmless employment 
 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 pre- 
 vailed among professed Christians, and that 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 Iona," sure am I 
 that the places where the martyrs for conscience's 
 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 mar- 
 tyrdom which may, unexpectedly, become our 
 portion in life; and by recalling the "sufferings of 
 others, we may, meekly bowing to the hand that 
 
270 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 Cran- 
 Mer, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was pro- 
 moted to that see by the favor 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 Gil- 
 pin, 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 honored with his particular 
 friendship, and owed him many obligations. 
 
 "As this man, therefore, had long been so mucli 
 attached to the Archbishop, it was thought pro- 
 per by his new friends that he should give an 
 extraordinary test of his zeal: for this reason the 
 ceremony 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 
 the mock grandeur of canvas robes, struck the old 
 apostate to the heart. All the past came throb- 
 bing to his breast, and a few repentant tears began 
 to trickle down the furrows of his aged cheek. 
 The archbishop gently exhorted him not to suffer 
 his private 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 frieze 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 271 
 
 gown, the common habit of a yeoman at that pe 
 riod, and had what was then called a townsman's 
 cap put upon his head. In this garb he was car- 
 ried 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 Reformers. 
 
 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 honor to the bereaved eccle- 
 siastic. But what, alas ! were those which suc- 
 ceeded to it ? That period, and that alone, was 
 the period of his real degradation, when, overcome 
 by the flatteries and the kindness of his real and 
 seeming friends, and subdued by the entertain- 
 ments 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 
 willing ear to the proposal of being reinstated in 
 his former dignity, on condition' that he would 
 conform to the present change of religion, and 
 " gratify the queen by being wholly a Catholic !" 
 
 The adversary of man lured Cranmer, 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 
 
272 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 utmost, 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 and 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 awaited 
 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 
 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- 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. ZiO 
 
 portable thought; but to retract it was scarcely 
 within the verge of possibility ; but he was allowed 
 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 at- 
 tainment 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 apostasy, and of his bitter repent- 
 ance, 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 provided for him. It 
 was intended that he should be conveyed imme- 
 diately from his prison to the place of his execu- 
 tion, where a sermon was to be preached; but, as 
 the morning of the appointed day was wet and 
 stormy, the ceremony was performed under cover. 
 
 About nine o'clock, the Lord Williams of 
 Thame, attended by the magistrates of Oxford, 
 received him at the prison gate, and conveyed 
 him to St. Mary's church, where he found a 
 crowded audience awaiting him, and was con- 
 ducted to an elevated place, in public view, oppo- 
 site to the pulpit. If ever there was a broken 
 and a contrite heart before God and man — if ever 
 there was a person humbled in the very depths of 
 his soul, from the consciousness of having com- 
 mitted sin, and of having deserved the extreme 
 
274 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 of earthly 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 behavior during the sermon, part 
 of which was addressed to him ; his sorrowful 
 countenance; his heavy cheer; his face bedewed 
 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 continu- 
 ally from his eyes in gushes of tears ; yet he re- 
 tained ever a quiet and grave behavior, which in- 
 creased pity in men's hearts, who unfeignedly loved 
 him, hoping that it had been his repentance for 
 his transgressions," And so it was; though not 
 for what many considered his transgressions ; but 
 it was the deep contrition of a converted 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 Redeemer. 
 
 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 stillness 
 ensued : every eye and heart were instantly lifted 
 up to heaven. Some minutes having been passed 
 in this affecting manner, the degraded primate, 
 who had also fallen on his knees, arose in all the 
 dignity of sorrow, accompanied by conscious peni- 
 tence and Christian reliance, and thus addressed 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. Z70 
 
 his audience : " I had myself intended to desire 
 your prayers. My desires have been anticipated, 
 
 and I return you all that a dying man can give, 
 my sincerest thanks. To your prayers for me, let 
 me add my own ! Good Christian people 1" con- 
 tinued he, "my dearly beloved brethren and 
 sisters in Christ, I beseech you most heartily 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 measure. 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 sins be. I 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; and then took a paper 
 from his bosom, and read it aloud, which was to 
 the following effect : 
 
 u 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 hope-. 
 it matters not here to unfold. For one action of 
 my life, at least, I 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 Borne, and that " 
 
 As he was continuing his speech, the whole as- 
 sembly was in an uproar. " Stop the audacious 
 
J,tb ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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, 
 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 
 execrations, he alone maintained a dispassionate 
 behavior. 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 favorite, the friend, the 
 counsellor of a king, and bearing the highest eccle- 
 siastical 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 his recantations, 
 into the fast-rising flames, crying out as he did so, 
 " This hand hath offended ! this hand hath of- 
 fended r 
 
 It is soothing to reflect that his sufferings were 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 277 
 
 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 
 penitence afford an awful warning, and an in- 
 structive 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 
 apostasy, 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 vic- 
 tory." 
 
 It is with a degree of fearfulness 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 
 commission of human frailty, and to utter the 
 most decided and ungrateful of falsehoods ; since 
 he that thus erred was no less a person than the 
 
JWO ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 unto death, redeemed, in the eyes 
 both of his Saviour and of men, his short-lived 
 frailty, and proved himself worthy of that marked 
 confidence in his active zeal, which was mani- 
 fested 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 
 encouragement and generous praise which he 
 bestowed upon him, prove to us, in a manner 
 the most cheering and indisputable, how merci- 
 ful are the dealings 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 evi- 
 denced by his unhesitating reply to the questions 
 of his Lord: "Thou art the Christ, the Son of 
 the living God V — a reply so satisfactory to the 
 great Being whom he addressed, that he answered 
 him, saying, "Blessed art thou, Simon Barjona ; 
 for Jlesh and blood have not revealed it unto thee, 
 but my Father which is in heaven ; and I say 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 279 
 
 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 assu- 
 rance, so confident in his own strength, that he 
 neglected to follow his Master's injunction, 
 :t 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 confidence in his own wisdom, we find 
 him rebuking his Lord, and asserting that the 
 things which he prophesied 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 be- 
 hind me, Satan ! thou art an offence to me I" 
 His want of implicit faith on this occasion was 
 the more remarkable, 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, 
 Lord I" 
 
 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 
 Saviour, when he had removed the terror of his 
 disciples at seeing him walking on the sea, by 
 those cheering words, "It is I, be not afraid !"— 
 
280 ILLLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 "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, saying, "Lord, save me!" Immediately 
 Jesus stretched forth his hand and caught him, 
 saying unto him, "0 thou of little faith, where- 
 fore didst thou doubt?''' 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 belief^ followed by its ac- 
 customed falling off in the hour of trial. 
 
 His unsubmitted and self-confident spirit shows 
 itself again in his declaration that Christ should 
 not wash his feet; as if he still set his human 
 wisdom against that of the Redeemer, till, sub- 
 dued 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 
 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 you, that 
 he may sift you as wheat ; but I have prayed 
 for thee, (added the gracious Jesus,) that thy 
 faith fail not; and when thou art converted, 
 strengthen thy brethren." Peter replied, in the 
 fulness of self-confidence, "Lord, I am ready to 
 go with thee both into prison, and to death !" And 
 he said, "I tell thee, Peter, that before the cock 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 281 
 
 crow, thou shalt deny me thrice." It does not 
 appear what visible effect this humiliating pro- 
 phecy had on him to whom it was addressed, 
 though Matthew says that he replied, " Though I 
 should die with thee, still will I not deny thee;" 
 but it is probable that by drawing his sword 
 openly in his defence, when they came out "with 
 swords and 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 lie 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, i 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 humble, self-judged, and penitent apostle. 
 Perhaps the look of mild reproach which the 
 Saviour gave him was long present to his view, 
 and that, in moments of subsequent danger to 
 his truth, those eyes seemed again to admonish 
 him, and those holy lips to utter the salutary 
 
282 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 and saving precept, " Watch and pray, lest ye 
 enter into temptation." 
 
 Nevertheless, rendered too confident, probably, 
 in his own unassisted strength, we find him sin- 
 ning once more in the same way — namely, from 
 fear of man; for, being convinced that the 
 Mosaic law was no longer binding on the con- 
 science, 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 in- 
 cur the censure of the Jews ; being thus guilty 
 of a sort of practical lie, and setting those Jews, 
 as it proved, a most pernicious example of dis- 
 simulation ) for which disingenuous 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 public humiliation with 
 silent and Christian forbearance, 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 learning, they may not 
 understand, and " therefore wrest them, as the 
 unlearned and unstable do also the other Scrip- 
 tures, to their own destruction." 
 
 The closing scene of this most interesting 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 283 
 
 apostle's life, we have had no means of con- 
 templating, though the Saviour's last affecting 
 and pathetic address to him, in which he pro- 
 phesies that he will die a martyr in his cause, 
 makes one particularly desirous to procure details 
 of it. 
 
 "So when they had dined, Jesus saith to Si- 
 mon Peter, ' Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me 
 more than these V He saith unto him, 'Yea, 
 Lord, thou knowest that I love thee !' He saith 
 unto him, ' Feed my lambs!' He saith to him 
 again the second time, l Simon, son of Jonas, 
 lovest thou me?' He saith unto him, 'Yea, 
 Lord ! thou knowest that I love thee !' He 
 saith unto him, 'Feed my sheep!' He saith 
 unto him the third time, 'Simon, son of Jonas, 
 lovest thou me V Peter was grieved because he 
 said unto him the third time, Lovest thou me ? 
 and he said unto him, 'Lord, thou knowest all 
 things : thou knowest that I love thee !' Jesus saith 
 unto him, 'Feed my sheep ! Verily, verily, I say 
 unto thee, When thou wast young, thou girdedst 
 thyself, 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 learned 
 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 
 
284 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 interpreted of his employment and 
 gains as a fisherman, and be considered as a 
 demand whether he loved Jesus above his secular 
 interests; but Peter's answer determines us to 
 another interpretation. 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 forsake him, yet would 
 not he. Jesus now asked 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 
 others. Our Lord, therefore, renewed his ap- 
 pointment to the ministerial and apostolical office ; 
 at the same time commanding him to feed his 
 lambs, or his Utile lambs, even the least of them * 
 for the word is diminutive : this intimated to 
 him that his late experience of his own weak- 
 ness 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 Peter, as it reminded him that he had 
 given sufficient cause for being thus repeatedly 
 questioned concerning the sincerity of his love 
 to his Lord. Conscious, however, of his integrity, 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 285 
 
 he more solemnly appealed to Christ, as know- 
 ing all things, even the secrets of his heart, that 
 he knew he loved him with cordial affection, 
 notwithstanding the inconsistency of his late 
 behavior. Our Lord thus tacitly allowed the 
 truth of his profession, and renewed his charge 
 to him to feed his sheep. " 
 
 " Peter/' continues the commentator, u 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 engagement, 
 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 beloved Master; as 
 it proved the Saviour's confidence in him, not- 
 withstanding 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 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 reli- 
 
286 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 gious career, it is cheering and instructive, indeed, 
 to acquaint ourselves with him in his writings, 
 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 having been 
 " converted himself/' and having strengthened his 
 brethren, he addressed his last awfully impressive 
 epistle to his Christian brethren, before he him- 
 self was summoned to that awful 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 eloquent description *f 
 the day of judgment; "that day" which, as he 
 says, " will come like a thief in the night, in the 
 which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, 
 and the elements shall melt with fervent heat : the 
 earth also, and the works that are therein shall be 
 burned up ;" while he adds this impressive lesson, 
 " Seeing then that all these things shall be dis- 
 solved, what manner of persons ought ye to be in 
 all holy conversation and godliness ?" And who 
 can contemplate, without affectionate admiration, 
 the undoubting, but unj Tearing, certainty with 
 which he speaks of his approaching death, as 
 foretold by our Lord: " Knowing/' said he, "that 
 shortly I must put off this my tabernacle, even 
 as our Lord Jesus Christ hath showed me." 
 
 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 know his 
 oi^n recurring weakness, admonished often by the 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 287 
 
 remembrance 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 en- 
 couragement and approving love; while, in his 
 closing ear, seemed once again to sound the wel- 
 come promised to the devoted follower of the cross, 
 " Weil 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- 
 ed to feel too great security in our own strength, 
 and to neglect to implore the assistance which 
 cometh from above, let us recall the look which 
 Jesus gave to the offending Peter, and remember 
 that the same eye, although unseen, is watching 
 and regarding us still. 
 
 ! could we ever lie, even upon what are 
 called trifling occasions, if we once believed the 
 certain, 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 
 
288 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 ; 
 out 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 a moment to withhold or 
 falsify the truth, or to conceal their newly-em- 
 braced opinions, though certain that torture and 
 death would be the consequence : fearless and 
 determined beings, who, though their rulers, 
 averse to punish them, would gladly have allowed 
 their change to pass unnoticed, persisted, like the 
 prophet Daniel, openly to display the faith that 
 was in them, exclaiming at every interrogatory, 
 and in the midst of tortures and of death, " We are 
 Christians ! we are Christians !" Some martyrs of 
 more modern days, Catholics, as well as Protest- 
 ants, have borne the same unshaken testimony to 
 what they believed to be religious truth ; but Lati- 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. ZbV 
 
 mer. more especially, was so famous amongst the 
 latter, not only for the pureness of his life, but for 
 the sincerity and goodness of his evangelical dor. 
 trine, (which, since t^o 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, lie valiantly defended the same 
 before the world, without fear of any mortal 
 creature, although of never so great power and 
 high authority ; 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 in any point be obscured 
 or defaced through him. Thus this eminenv-per- 
 son exhibited a striking contrast to that fear of 
 man. which is the root of all lying, and all dis- 
 simulation ; that mean, grovelling, and pernicious 
 fear, which every day is leading us either to dis- 
 guise or withhold our real opinion, if not to be 
 absolutely guilty of uttering falsehood, and which 
 induces us but too often to remain silent, and in- 
 effective, even when the oppressed arid the in- 
 sulted require us to speak in their defence, and 
 when the cause of truth and of righteousness is 
 injured by our silence. The ?s$s Friends were 
 exemplary instances of the power of faith to lift 
 the Christian above all fear of nym ; and not only 
 George Fox himself, but many of his humblest 
 followers, were known to be persons •• who would 
 rather have died than spoken of a lie.'' 
 10 
 
290 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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' sake ; but having 
 seen them executed/ she was reprieved, carried 
 back to prison, and then, being discharged, was 
 permitted to go to another part of the country; 
 but, apprehending it to be her duty to return to 
 " the bloody town of Boston, " she was summoned 
 before the General Court. On her appearance 
 there, the Governor, John Endicott, said, "Are 
 you the same Mary Dyar that was here before ?" 
 And it seems he was preparing an evasion foi 
 her ; there having been another of that name re- 
 turned from Old England. But she was so far 
 from disguising the truth, that she answered un- 
 dauntedly, " 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 SewelFs 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 Edmoud's-Bury, 
 which I cannot well pass by in silence ; viz., a cer- 
 tain young woman was committed to prison for 
 child-murder. Whilst she was in jail, it is said, 
 William Bennet, a prisoner for conscience' sake, 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 291 
 
 came to her, aud 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 j 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 clearly 
 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 misera- 
 ble 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, i What ! is thy servant a 
 dog, that he should do this great thing V William 
 Bennet, thus opening matters to her, did, by his 
 wholesome admonition, so work upon her mind, 
 that she, who never had conversed with the Qua- 
 kers, 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 powerfully, that, from a most grievous 
 sinner, she became a true penitent; and with 
 hearty sorrow she cried unto the Lord, i that it 
 might please him not to hide his countenance/ 
 And continuing in this state of humiliation and 
 
292 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYINO. 
 
 sincere repentance, and persevering in supplica- 
 tion, she felt, in time, ease; and, giving heed to 
 the exhortations of the said Bennet, she obtained, 
 at length, to a sure hope of forgiveness by the 
 precious blood of the immaculate 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 penitent she was, 
 would fain have spared her. She being asked, ac- 
 cording to the form, t Guilty or not guilty ? readily 
 answered, I Guilty/ This astonished 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, had roughly handled her 
 child, should have killed it wilfully and designed- 
 ly. 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 knew now 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 signified to the court 
 that indeed she had committed the mischievous 
 act intendedly, 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 guilty, since 
 otherwise how could she expect forgiveness from 
 the Lord ? This undisguised and free confession 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 293 
 
 being spoken with a serious countenance, 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. Perhaps you, 
 who are but young, and speak so piously, as being 
 struck to the heart with repentance, 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 admit 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, i 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 Spirit of 
 the Lord, which she herself not having timely 
 minded, it had made her run on in evil, and thus 
 proceeding from wickedness to wickedness, it had 
 brought her to this dismal exit. But, since she 
 firmly trusted to God's infinite mercy, nay, surely 
 believed her sins, though of a bloody dye, to be 
 washed off by the pure blood of Christ, she could 
 contentedly 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 re- 
 ligious truth, and attended with that animating 
 publicity which is usual on such occasions, par- 
 
294 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 ticularly 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 
 example of what a true and lively faith can do 
 for us in an hour of strong temptation, was not 
 only an humble, guilty woman, but a nameless 
 one also. She was an obscure, friendless in- 
 dividual, whose name on earth seems to be 
 nowhere recorded ; and, probably, no strong in- 
 terest was felt for her disastrous death, except 
 by the preacher who converted her, and by the 
 judge who condemned her. This afflicted per- 
 son 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 
 honored by an anxious populace, or by the tear- 
 ful 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 humbly 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 ac- 
 ceptable a sacrifice as theirs, in the eyes of her 
 Judge and her Redeemer. 
 
 No doubt, as I before observed, the history of 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 295 
 
 both, public and private life may afford many 
 more examples of equal reverence for truth, de- 
 rived from religious motives; but as the fore- 
 going instance was more immediately before me, 
 I was induced to give it, as an apt illustration of 
 the precept which I wish to enforce. 
 
 The few, and not the many, are called upon 
 to earn the honors 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 
 calamities, because we summon up all our spiritual 
 and moral strength to resist the latter, but often 
 do not feel it to be a necessary duty to bear the 
 former with meekness and resignation 5 so is it 
 more difficult to overcome and resist temptations 
 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 un- 
 prepared, 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, that moral result which, however 
 weakly I may have performed my task, I have labor- 
 ed incessantly through the whole of my work to 
 draw and illustrate ; namely, that this little and 
 tolerated lying, as well as great and reprobated 
 falsehood, is wholly inconsistent with the cha- 
 racter of a serious Christian, and sinful in the 
 eyes of the God of truth : that in the daily re- 
 
296 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 curring 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 " lying lips are abomi- 
 nation 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 tearfulness and 
 numility, I have ventured to lay down. 
 
 I have stated that if there be no other true 
 definition of lying than an intention to deceive, 
 withholding the truth with such an intention 
 partakes as much of the nature of falsehood as 
 direct lies; and that, therefore, lies are of two 
 natures, active and passive ; or, in other words, 
 direct and indirect. 
 
 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 
 disgust from committing the latter species of 
 falsehood, are apt to remain silent when their 
 vanity is gratified, without any overt act of de- 
 
CONCLUSION. 297 
 
 ceit on their part ; and are contented to let the 
 flattering representation remain uncontradicted. 
 
 That this disengenuous 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 lying, 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 occasions, we do not weaken our power to 
 resist temptation to utter falsehoods which may 
 be dangerous 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 
 lies, will be better able to withstand allurements 
 to serious and important deviations from truth. 
 
 That the lies of flattery are, generally 
 speaking, not only unprincipled, but offensive. 
 
 That there are few persons with whom it is so 
 difficult to keep up the relations of peace and 
 amity 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 entitled, 
 
298 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 resolved into lies of fear, being occasioned by 
 a dread of losing favor by speaking the truth, 
 and not by real kindness of heart. 
 
 That the daily lying and deceit tolerated in 
 society, and which are generally declared neces- 
 sary 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 practice 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 insure, not 
 destroy, the existence of sincerity, as those who 
 cultivate the benevolent affections always see the 
 good qualities of their acquaintances in the 
 strongest light, and throw their defects into shade; 
 that, consequently, they need not shrink from 
 speaking truth on all occasions. That the kind- 
 ness which prompts to erroneous conduct cannot 
 long continue to bear even a remote connection 
 with real benevolence : that unprincipled bene- 
 volence soon degenerates into malevolence. 
 
 That if those who possess good sense would 
 use it as zealously to remove obstacles in the 
 
CONCLUSION. 299 
 
 way of spontaneous truth, as they do to justify 
 themselves in the practice of falsehood, the diffi- 
 culty of always speaking the truth would in time 
 vanish. 
 
 That the lie of convenience, namely, the 
 order to servants to 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 mistresses who show 
 their domestics that they do not themselves value 
 truth, and thus render the consciences 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 awful guilt by 
 endangering their servants' 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 
 afterward 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. 
 
 That lies of interest are sometimes more 
 excusable and less offensive than others, but are 
 disgusting when told by those whom conscious 
 independence preserves from any strong tempta- 
 tion to violate truth. 
 
 That lies of first-rate malignity, namely, 
 
300 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 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 suspicious 
 which they have not the 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 ex- 
 ceeded 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 
 benevolence — is a pernicious and reprehensible 
 custom : that, if benevolent to the hired, it is 
 malevolent to the person hiring, and may be fatal 
 to the person so favored. 
 
 That the masters and mistresses who thus per- 
 form what they call a benevolent action, at the 
 expense of sincerity, often, no doubt, find their 
 
CONCLUSION. 301 
 
 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 occa- 
 sions ; because those who hire servants so errone- 
 ously 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 de- 
 ceive ; and that such a practice is not only wrong, 
 but inexpedient ; as we may thereby stand be- 
 tween the sufferer and the consolation which might 
 have been afforded in some cases by the very na- 
 ture and intensity of the blow inflicted; and. lastly, 
 because such concealment is seldom ultimately 
 successful, since the truth comes out usually in 
 the end. and when the sufferer is not so well able 
 to bear ■* 
 
302 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 That lies OF wantonness are lies which are 
 often told for no other motive than to show the 
 utterer's total contempt for truth; and that there 
 is no hope for the amendment of such persons, 
 since they thus sin from a depraved fondness for 
 speaking and inventing falsehood. 
 
 That dress affords good illustrations of practi- 
 cal LIES. 
 
 That if false hair, false bloom, 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 author 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 who, when in the gulf of 
 bankruptcy, launch out into increased splendor 
 of living, in order to obtain further credit by in- 
 ducing an opinion that they are rich. 
 
 That another pernicious practical lie is acted 
 by boys and girls at school, who employ their 
 schoolfellows to do exercises for them ; or who 
 themselves 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 
 
CONCLUSION. 303 
 
 thus is counteracted the effect of those principles 
 of spontaneous truth which they may have learned 
 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 ne- 
 cessity to wound the feelings of any one. That 
 offensive or home truths should never be volun- 
 teered, though one lays it down as a principle that 
 truth must be spoken when called for. 
 
 That often the temporary wound given by us, 
 on principle, to the self-love of others, may be at- 
 tended with lasting benefit to them, and benevo- 
 lence in reality be not wounded, but gratified ; 
 since 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. 
 
304 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 That all human beings are, in their closets, 
 convinced of the importance of truth to the in- 
 terests 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 king- 
 dom. 
 
 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 to say, 
 " Enough : I am satisfied." 
 
 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 pre- 
 sent 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 
 
CONCLUSION. 305 
 
 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 the 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 a 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 degree, would undoubtedly answer in the 
 negative; yet that white lying is as much an in- 
 fringement of the moral law as pilfering is of the 
 commandment not to steal. 
 
 That I have thought it right to give extracts 
 from many powerful writers in corroboration of 
 my own opinion on the subject of lying. 
 
 That if asked why I have taken so much trou- 
 ble to prove what no one ever doubted, I reply 
 that I have done so in order to force on the atten- 
 tion 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 reservation is to be permitted on 
 special occasions. 
 
 That the principle of truth is an immutable 
 
 principle, or it is of no use as a guard to morals. 
 
 • That Jt is earnestly to be hoped -and desired 
 
306 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 that the day may come when it shall be as dis- 
 honorable to commit the slightest breach of ve- 
 racity as to pass counterfeit shillings. 
 
 That Dr. Ha wkes 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 
 reprove 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 
 lowers the standard of truth in the person who 
 receives it, lowers the persons who give it, and de- 
 prives the latter of their best claim to their ser- 
 vants' respect; namely, a conviction of their moral 
 
 SUPERIORITY. 
 
 That the account given by Boswell of Johnson's 
 regard to truth furnishes us with a better argu- 
 ment for it than is afforded by the best moral 
 fictions. 
 
 That if Johnson could always speak the truth, 
 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 
 individuals so speaking would acquire the invol- 
 untary confidence and reverence of their fellow- 
 nreatures. 
 
 That the consciousness of truth and ingenuous- 
 
CONCLUSION. 307 
 
 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 fami- 
 liar 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 endeavor to qualify ourselves, and those whom 
 we love, to be such friends as these. 
 
 That if each individual family would resolve tc 
 avoid every species of falsehood, whether author- 
 ized by custom or not, the example would soon 
 spread. 
 
 That nothing is impossible to zeal and enter- 
 prise. 
 
 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 I have 
 s;iven extracts have treated the subject of truth 
 as moralists only ; and have, therefore, kept out 
 of sight the only sure motive to resist the tempta- 
 tion to lie ; namely, obedience to the Divine 
 
 WILL. 
 
 That the moral man may utter spontaneous 
 truth on all occasions ; but the religious man, if 
 he acts consistently, must do so. 
 
o08 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 That both the Old and New Testament abound 
 in facts and texts to prove how odious the sin of 
 lying is in the sight of the Almighty • as I 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 
 praying 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 arc power- 
 fully influenced by religious motives, I 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 consequeuce. 
 
 That temptations to little lying are far more 
 common than temptations to great '~tii\& important 
 
CONCLUSION. 309 
 
 lies : that they are far more difficult to resist, be- 
 ' cause they come upon us daily and unawares, and 
 because we know that we may utter white lies with- 
 out fear of detection; and, if detected, without aay 
 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, aud that it 
 is necessary to be " watchful unto prayer/' when 
 we are tempted to commit them. 
 
 I conclude this summary by again conjuring 
 my readers to reflect that there is no moral diffi- 
 culty, however great, which courage, zeal, and 
 perseverance will not enable them to overcome; 
 and never, probably, was there a period in the his- 
 tory of man, wheu those qualities seemed more 
 successfully called into action than at the present 
 moment. 
 
 Never was there a better opportunity of esta- 
 blishing 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 skeptical philosopher and the most serious 
 Christian meet, and cordially agree ; namely, on 
 the doctrine of the omnipotence of motives. They 
 differ only on the nature of the motives to be ap- 
 plied to human actions : the one approving of 
 moral motives alone, the other advocating the pro- 
 priety of giving religious ones. 
 
 But those motives only can be made to act 
 upon the infant mind which it is able to under- 
 stand ; and they are, chiefly, the hope of reward 
 
310 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 for obedience, and the dread of punishment foi 
 disobedience. But these motives are all-sufficient; ' 
 therefore, even at the earliest period of life, a love 
 of truth, and an abhorrence of lying, may be in- 
 culcated with the greatest success. Moreover, 
 habit, that best of friends or worst of foes, ac- 
 cording to the direction given to its power, may 
 form an impregnable barrier to defend the pupils 
 thus trained against the allurements of false- 
 hood. 
 
 Children taught to tell the truth from the mo- 
 tive 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 removed 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 spon- 
 taneous truth and general education will go for- 
 ward, progressing and prospering together. 
 
 Nor can the mere moralist, nor the man of the 
 world, be blind to the benefits 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 
 comfort depends, are trained up in habits of truth, 
 domestic 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 
 
CONCLUSION. 311 
 
 and of moral excellence. Where are the world- 
 lings who, in such a state of society, would ven- 
 ture to persevere in what they now deem necessary 
 ichite 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 
 or convenience, by the respectful but firm re- 
 sistance to utter it of his valet-de-chambre f But if 
 the minds of the poor and the laborious, who must 
 always form the most extensive part of the com- 
 munity, are formed in infancy to the practice of 
 moral virtue, the happiness, safety, and improve- 
 ment of the higher classes will, I doubt not, be 
 thereby secured. As the lofty heads of the pyra- 
 mids 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 strength of the materials of 
 which they were constructed, so, the continued 
 security, and the very existence, perhaps, of the 
 higher orders in society, may depend on the ex- 
 tended 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 practice truth and openness in all their 
 dealings, on the ground of moral order, and 
 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 situa- 
 tion. I beseech them to remember that it will 
 
312 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 
 
 always be their place to give and not to take ex- 
 ample ; and they must be careful, in a race of 
 morality, to be neither outstripped nor overtaken 
 by their inferiors, They must also believe, in 
 order to render their efforts successful, that al- 
 though 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. 
 
 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 arid 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 
 
CONCLUSION. 313 
 
 world of transitory enjoyments : a world which is 
 in reality safe and precious to those alone who 
 " use it without abusing it," and who are ever look- 
 ing beyond it to "a building of God, a house not 
 made with hands, eternal in the heavens." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 H 113 82 ff 
 

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