fell into a dispute about the danger of truth, which was occasioned by
my advising you to erase certain passages from the book you intend to
publish, as being adverse to the general opinion, and against your own
peace. You would by no means allow this confiscation; but defended the
passages in question with all the fidelity of an author. Hence ensued a
controversy between us, whether truth could ever be mischievous, in
which, by your arguments against my notions, you fully convinced me that
I was right, and I believe I had the same success with you. I have since
been engaged in some adventures, which have pursued and decided our
dispute in a remarkable manner, and I shall therefore write you a brief
account of what has happened. You will probably mistake my narrative for
a fiction; but whenever you visit Miletus you may satisfy yourself, from
the inhabitants, that the singular events which I shall relate have
really happened.
I was one day wandering alone in a wood, and had insensibly penetrated
into the thickest, and most remote part of it, when I suddenly perceived
myself at the very brink and danger of an opening in the earth, which I
found was a well, and looking cautiously down, I saw a glimmering from
the surface of water. I was leaving the place when I heard a human
voice, weak by the depth, but earnestly calling for aid, the person who
spoke having caught sight of me as I leaned over. I called down the well
to ask what unfortunate being was below, and by what accident, though I
have since thought that this inquiry into the particular method of
descent was not the measure that I ought first to have used for the
prisoner's release. The voice answered, that the person below was the
goddess Truth, who for some centuries had been hidden and useless in
that well, and entreated me to assist in her escape. It would commonly
be a natural and just caution to disbelieve any person casually met, who
should undertake to be Truth, but there was something more than human in
this voice, which instantly convinced me: I forgot my fears of this
goddess, and eagerly desired her freedom, which by ropes from a
neighbouring cottage I soon contrived.
I now saw before me the real person of Truth; and if I had before
doubted her divinity, the first sight of her would have persuaded me. It
is impossible to describe the beauty and contemplation of her
countenance. I had seen her picture by Apelles, which is so beautiful,
that I had always thought it must exactly resemble her; but I now found
it altogether erroneous, which, perhaps, may be from his having painted
without seeing her: for while she has been buried in her well both
painters and philosophers have been describing her with as much
confidence as if they had been in daily intercourse with her. She
thanked me for her release; and I ventured to ask why she had chosen so
singular a residence, which, I conceived, would afford her no advantage
for instructing mankind. She condescended to give me a short history of
herself, saying that she was the daughter of Thought, the oldest of the
gods, by a mother of earthly race, whose name was Experience. She had a
half sister named Falsehood, from the same father, but of an unknown
mother. This sister was so like her in appearance, that they were
perpetually mistaken for each other; but their disposition and character
were very different, she herself being thoughtful, cautious, and
sincere, her sister, volatile, talkative, and deceitful. She had been
sent to take possession of this earth, which she was to govern; but her
sister had immediately followed her into her new dominions, under
pretence of a friendly visit, and here, by her busy nature and plausible
arts, she had soon usurped the whole authority. It being found,
therefore, that Truth was incapable of command by her own merit, two
instruments of government had been sent her from Heaven. These were a
torch and a mirror, which she held in her hands when she rose out of the
well. It was thought that she would be able to establish her power by
these gifts, which were endued with wonderful virtue and discovery. But
before she had begun to employ her new arms, having caught sight of her
treacherous sister in that wood, she had so eagerly pursued her for
reproach and triumph, that she had not seen the well, but fallen into
it, and heard the laughter of her sister as she disappeared. I told her
it had been affirmed by the philosopher Democritus that she lived in a
well but I had supposed this to be a mere fable and allegory. To this
she answered, that Democritus, like myself, had discovered her by
accident: she had called to him, informed him who she was, and implored
freedom, upon which he had endeavoured to negotiate with her, and
bargain, that if released she should confirm his particular philosophy,
and explode all other doctrines. She asked what were the tenets that he
expected her to enforce; in answer to which he had begun to scream
forth the heads of his creed. She interrupted him in this erudition,
which with a great exertion of voice he was conveying down the well: she
assured him that these were chiefly deceptions of her sister, and
promised, at being set free, to teach him better things. It appeared,
however, that he did not desire her to instruct him, but to ratify the
doctrines that he had published; and finding her resolved not to become
his accomplice, he had left her, first declaring that he should
carefully surround the well with thorns, against the discovery of
others. Since that time, a few other philosophers had come by accident
to the mouth of her well, but all had refused her freedom, some like
Democritus wanting to make conditions in favour of their own fancies,
and others telling her that they were frightened by the very sound of
her voice, that, if let loose, she would be the most pernicious being,
and that the bottom of a well was the only post in which she could do no
mischief. Since, however, she was at last free, she declared that she
should immediately begin to put in force the arms that had been sent
her, and hoped soon to gain by them her just authority. I entreated,
that as a reward for my assistance she would make my native city the
place of her first revelation. To this she consented, and we approached
Miletus. Before we entered the town, the goddess said that her torch
must be lit, since it was to be a principal instrument in undeceiving
mankind. She breathed upon it, when instantly it broke into a flame, and
it is impossible to describe the beauty and rapture from its light. The
sudden brightness betrayed the rival sister, Falsehood, who happened
then to be very near us, and invisible by her art; but she had no
concealment against the torch, and now stood manifest before her
offended sister. As they were now together, I could easily distinguish
the superiority of Truth; but they were so much alike, that I thought
had I seen only one I could not have pronounced with any certainty which
of them it was. Truth walked angrily up to her sister; and a
conversation ensued, which I will relate as nearly as I can remember the
words.
TRUTH.
I wonder at the insolence with which you confront me.
FALSEHOOD.
Will you tell me what behaviour I ought to assume in your presence?
TRUTH.
My surprise is, that you should have the courage to meet one whom you
have so basely injured.
FALSEHOOD.
What wrong can you accuse me of?
TRUTH.
That you are found amongst mankind is a sufficient proof of my wrongs.
This world was bestowed upon me, and I originally occupied it, but you
have supplanted me, called yourself by my name, and governed in my
place.
FALSEHOOD.
Now it appears to me that your inability to keep your place amongst men
is a proof that you have no such title to the world as you pretend. The
wise men of every age have been engaged in seeking you, but in vain. You
persist in remaining out of sight, and complain that you are not known
and honoured. It is true that for some time past your situation, the
bottom of a well, has not been very favourable for teaching the world;
but before you made that singular choice of a home you were as much
neglected and as little known as now.
TRUTH.
I am unknown, because you offer yourself to those who seek me, and call
yourself by my name.
FALSEHOOD.
Am I to blame for proving the more attractive of the two? But you seem
to affirm that you alone are entitled to live, and that I ought not to
be in the universe.
TRUTH.
The universe would be much more prosperous without you.
FALSEHOOD.
I contend, on the contrary, that from me proceeds almost every thing
that is valuable or useful to mankind.
TRUTH.
Indeed! I wish you would name some of the blessings which you bestow
upon the world.
FALSEHOOD.
I will do so: my inventions are so numerous that I cannot want topics.
First, then, you will grant that religion is a blessing.
TRUTH.
And are you the founder of religion?
FALSEHOOD.
Why, since out of the many religions that have ever been in the world
you can certainly claim only one, all the rest must be ascribed to me.
Make your choice, therefore, I will give up to you without dispute
whichever you select; but the others are mine, and all the piety and
virtue which they have caused must redound to my honour.
TRUTH.
A very moderate claim.
FALSEHOOD.
You must acknowledge it, unless you affirm that no virtue has ever been
practised except under your one religion.
TRUTH.
I wonder you should think fit to boast of the variety of false religions
with which you have deceived the world. This is the complaint I made
against you at first, that you have supplanted me in the possession of a
world which is by nature mine.
FALSEHOOD.
And I maintain that my having supplanted you proves that this world was
not designed for you; besides which, I am confirming my title to
possession by showing that I have invented almost every thing that is
esteemed valuable amongst men.
TRUTH.
Well, let me hear what other benefits the world owes you. It seems you
have invented religion.
FALSEHOOD.
All the religions but one; I give you one.
TRUTH.
You are very generous to me.
FALSEHOOD.
That is more than some philosophers allow you. Let us next consider
which of us benefits most the intercourse of private life. I affirm,
that without me there could be no such virtue as friendship amongst men.
TRUTH.
I thought it had been allowed by all that friendship is founded upon
truth.
FALSEHOOD.
Such is the common opinion, but altogether erroneous; for if any two
friends were to act with perfect sincerity, and mutually divulge every
thought that passes through their minds concerning each other, do you
think that they could remain friends? Let any man consider the secret
discoveries which he has made of his friend's infirmities, how he has
censured certain qualities of his mind, and ridiculed those failings
which could not endure to be mentioned or hinted at, and then let him
judge whether a candid disclosure of all his thoughts would tend to
confirm the friendship. He who would retain the kindness of any man must
suppress more than half his observations on that man's character.
But without my arts there would be not only no friendship amongst men,
but no amicable intercourse or society; for if all were disclosed that
had ever been said or thought by each man against others with whom he is
acquainted, the general indignation would be such that not one person
would be found ready to converse with another. I may add, that if all
courtesy were discontinued the world would not be much improved,--and
what is courtesy but falsehood? If you were to prevail as you wish, men
would tell each other of their faults with the greatest zeal and
sincerity, and no two persons could meet without giving pain to each
other. When people now assemble for conversation, the art is to expose
the faults of absent friends, which is always pleasing, and those who
can impart this knowledge most skilfully obtain the greatest praise; but
if every man were as eager to apprise another of his own faults, as he
now is to tell him of his friend's, the information would be very
differently received. I think it easy to prove, that more than half the
kindness of human life subsists by dissimulation, and must therefore be
ascribed to me.
TRUTH.
Pray go on: what other good have you done? Having construed benevolence
into deception, you can have no difficulty in proving every other virtue
to be your own contrivance.
FALSEHOOD.
Next I affirm, that if I did not inspire and entertain the mind of man
with innumerable fancies and visions the melancholy of life would be
intolerable. What would man be without hope? and where he borrows one
hope from you he receives a hundred from me. What would become of all
the unhappy if they listened only to you for comfort?
TRUTH.
But if men are indebted to you for hope, to you also they owe
disappointment.
FALSEHOOD.
No; for those who are truly under my government are always supplied with
a new hope before the old one is lost. Pray why is it that none wish to
live again that part of their lives which is gone, and yet all set a
high value upon the remainder? Because they see you in the past and me
in the future. Then what a perpetual recreation do I furnish by those
visions of the future, in which many persons pass a great part of their
lives, not really hoping that such things may happen, for they are
usually impossible, but enjoying them in speculation, and as if actually
taking place.
TRUTH.
I acknowledge that claim; and allow you to be the author of those idle
fantastical dreams which divert men from true business and study.
FALSEHOOD.
My next assertion is, that I contrive all the complacency and
satisfaction which a man has from his own character. Had I invented no
other art for the welfare of mankind, the grand discovery of
self-deception would entitle me to the gratitude of the whole human
race. For if each man were to discern with severity every oblique motive
in his own heart, every mean preference of himself to others, every
artifice for undeserved praise, who is there that could endure himself?
I taught men the skill to hide their infirmities from themselves, the
only remedy against conscience. By this invention great numbers pass
with themselves for excellent men, who after a lesson from you would
regard themselves with hatred and contempt. Men commemorate with
gratitude those whom they believe to have first taught agriculture,
mechanics, and other arts of convenience or plenty, but my praise for
this invention has been forgotten, though even the discovery of bread
from the earth has not conferred on man half of that ease and
contentment which I have given by teaching him not to know himself. I
conclude you do not dispute my title to this invention.
TRUTH.
Certainly not; I allow you all the honour of this noble science, in
which men have received your lessons with great alacrity.
FALSEHOOD.
Let it not be supposed that because men now misunderstand their own
characters with great facility it must be a thing of no art or study.
The ease with which it is done proves how well my instruction has been
imparted. Many books have been written to teach the deceiving of
mankind, and many statesmen have practised with renown the rules they
assign, but no artifice of these books or statesmen can equal the skill
of men, even the most ignorant, in cheating themselves. It is
impossible, without admiration, to observe a man diligently keeping his
failings out of his own sight, and enjoying them under fictitious names,
inventing motives for his own use, and faithfully believing whatever he
chooses to tell himself, providing for his own advantage, and still
persuaded that he is labouring for others. With what genius have I
contrived that all these stratagems shall be conducted within one head
where there is no partition, so that it might have been supposed all the
thoughts must be known to each other! By this art I am the great author
of all serenity of mind, for the chief part of mankind can neither bear
to practise virtue nor to live without it; but by this excellent
contrivance they are enabled to believe themselves good without the
inconvenience of really being so.
TRUTH.
An excellent device for improving mankind! I had supposed that before a
man reforms his faults he ought to know them.
FALSEHOOD.
Your remark shows how much I excel you in the management of men. You can
think of no expedient to free men from the evil of their vices except
the leaving them off, which if you knew this world you would know to be
a visionary undertaking. I attempt nothing impossible, but teach men to
avoid the reproach of their faults by not knowing that they have any.
This art supplies most men with peace of mind; but some, it is true, are
troubled with a curiosity about what they are doing, and in all their
culpable actions take care to inform themselves what the employment
really is, so that they seldom can do wrong without knowing it. The
consequence of which is, that they pass their lives in great uneasiness
and ineffectual endeavours to relinquish their bad habits. But I have
found a remedy even for these people; for after every commission of a
fault I teach them to be convinced that they shall never be guilty of
it again, by which confidence they are restored to their tranquillity.
TRUTH.
You have stated very justly the share you have in men's opinion of
themselves.
FALSEHOOD.
To proceed, then, with my benefits: amongst the valuable entertainments
of life, literature and philosophy are most eminent. Let us consider
what part of them must be assigned to me. First, I think you will hardly
contest my right to poetry; or, if you please, you shall correct the
works of Homer, and expunge from them all the incidents that you
disallow. Your genius for poetry will be proved by what remains, if,
indeed, any thing is left; and it will be seen whether you have
increased the glory of Greece by inspiring its poets. But I shall
presume myself beyond dispute the author of poetry and other fiction;
and amongst the arts of fiction I think oratory may be ranked.
TRUTH.
I confess you are a more successful orator than I am.
FALSEHOOD.
I go on to philosophy, moral and physical, in which many things are
instituted as certainties, but I must observe that I can be as positive
as you. When there are two contending certainties, I must be entitled to
one of them, very frequently to both; and since there is not any opinion
to be found in philosophy without an adverse opinion equally resolute, I
must at least own half of that which is taught. But perhaps the most
equitable division will be that which I proposed in the case of
religion: you shall choose any one philosophical sect of which you like
to have been the author, and I will resign to you all that has been
written and said in defence of it, taking all the remaining controversy
for my share. Or, if you hesitate to undertake any entire sect with all
the belief that it exacts, I permit you from all the schools to select
what opinions you please, and be the author of them, while I keep what
you reject. I believe all that you have dictated would be comprised in a
very small volume, and leave me a splendid library of philosophical
writings.
TRUTH.
I grant you have been more copious than myself in works of this kind.
But go on, let me next hear of your exploits in mathematics.
FALSEHOOD.
No; you have named the only kind of learning in which I have not
excelled.
TRUTH.
Is there, indeed, any thing in which I surpass you?
FALSEHOOD.
Since, then, mathematics are the only kind of human learning which you
can ascribe to yourself alone, what would the world be without my
inventions? Very few men have a capacity for pure mathematics: to the
generality of those who study them they are no more than a help to
contemplations in which I have a share.
But now, since I have reduced you to a mere mathematician, and proved
myself the author of all that is chiefly esteemed by the world, I think
that, instead of acknowledging my own usurpations, I have a right to
complain of yours.
TRUTH.
But, since you hardly allow me any possession upon the earth, what have
I usurped?
FALSEHOOD.
The honour and applause which justly belongs to me. I am the great
benefactor of mankind, yet am universally hated and despised.
TRUTH.
As you deserve to be.
FALSEHOOD.
You are revered and extolled though you have done nothing for the
improvement of human life. Men entreat you to show yourself to them and
you refuse; still, without having seen you, they are convinced of your
vast perfections and benefits. The only real cause which they have for
gratitude towards you is, that you are deaf to their prayers; for were
you to live amongst them, as they desire, all human happiness would be
at an end.
TRUTH.
Pray how should I interfere with human happiness?
FALSEHOOD.
I believed I had said enough to explain the advantages of your absence,
since at your appearance all my useful inventions must vanish. But
consider, if there were no error in the world there would be no
diversity of opinion; and although every philosopher thinks that the
world cannot prosper till all men think as he does, the truth is, that a
greater injury could not be inflicted upon man than the banishment of
all variety in belief. It is doubt and conjecture that keep the minds of
men in activity: if all were certainty, there would be no conversation,
for nothing could be imparted: there would be no literature or
philosophy of any kind; for nothing would remain to be done by argument,
eloquence, explanation, or research. If men were incapable of being
deceived they would not need to be informed. Hope and surprise would be
no more; and the minds of all would be possessed by a perpetual calm and
dejection. The search after Truth is caused by Falsehood; and I
acknowledge that the pursuit of you is useful, though the finding you
would be a great misfortune. I repeat, therefore, your only benefit to
man is the having taught him nothing. The bottom of a well is the most
useful situation of which you are capable. Being known by name, and
fancied something excellent, you may provoke a visionary hope and
pursuit of you which busies and employs men much to their advantage. You
ought, therefore, to be satisfied with being heard of, since your name
is here the only part of you that can be of use; but if you have an
ambition to be better known, I advise you to wander amongst the stars,
and seek for a race of beings fit to receive you in person. Whatever
dreams some philosophers may entertain of establishing you here at a
future time, as long as the faculties of men remain what they now are
you will be honoured and praised, but the world will really be governed
by me.
TRUTH.
You are mistaken; your reign is at an end: by these new weapons I shall
soon defeat all your arts. You cannot look at this torch without knowing
its power against you.
FALSEHOOD.
I know not what new authority may have been given you; but if in these
weapons, as you call them, there is really a power to undeceive the
world, I think I have proved to you the folly and calamity of using
them. I warn you of the universal despair that you are going to cause.
Remember that a man once undeceived cannot be restored to error. The
mischief you are preparing is irreparable, and I therefore give you my
opinion, that the best use you can make of your liberty is to leap back
into your well, as the only effort by which you can benefit mankind.
* * * * *
Thus speaking, Falsehood walked away: her sister had heard her with a
scornful look, and allowed her to argue without much contradiction. We
now entered the town, where I conducted the goddess to my house, and
going immediately to the prætor, who was then at Miletus, informed him
that Truth was arrived there to free the people of Miletus from all
their errors, and I asked his permission and concurrence, which he
readily granted, and wrote to the emperor an account of the
extraordinary event. I then returned to the goddess, and by her
instruction made preparations in my house for her discoveries. I
published that those who liked it might come and be undeceived with
regard to various fallacies. The goddess kept herself concealed, and I
was empowered to command the torch and mirror.
The first day was assigned to the satisfying of suspicious husbands. It
had been made known that an invention was ready, by which all married
men who doubted the fidelity of their wives might discover either their
guilt or innocence. The first who offered himself to this hazard was a
rich citizen of Miletus. He came to me accompanied by a friend, who
earnestly endeavoured to dissuade him from the experiment.