Lying.—Honour.—Truth.—Small Duties.—History of Lady Sly, and Mrs.
Trueman.
The little girls were very assiduous to gain Mrs. Mason’s good opinion;
and, by the mildness of their behaviour, to prove to her that they were
ashamed of themselves. It was one of Mrs. Mason’s rules, when they
offended her, that is, behaved improperly, to treat them civilly; but to
avoid giving them those marks of affection which they were particularly
delighted to receive.
Yesterday, said she to them, I only mentioned to you one fault, though I
observed two. You very readily guess I mean the lie that you both told.
Nay, look up, for I wish to see you blush; and the confusion which I
perceive in your faces gives me pleasure; because it convinces me that it
is not a confirmed habit: and, indeed, my children, I should be sorry
that such a mean one had taken deep root in your infant minds.
When I speak of falsehood, I mean every kind; whatever tends to deceive,
though not said in direct terms. Tones of voice, motions of the hand or
head, if they make another believe what they ought not to believe, are
lies, and of the worst kind; because the contrivance aggravates the
guilt. I would much sooner forgive a lie told directly, when perhaps
fear entirely occupied the thoughts, and the presence of God was not
felt: for it is His sacred Majesty that you affront by telling an
untruth.
How so? enquired Mary.
Because you hope to conceal your falsehood from every human creature:
but, if you consider a moment, you must recollect, that the Searcher of
hearts reads your very thoughts; that nothing is hid from him.
You would blush if I were to discover that you told a lie; yet wantonly
forfeit the favour of Him, from whom you have received life and all its
blessings, to screen yourselves from correction or reproof, or, what is
still worse, to purchase some trifling gratification, the pleasure of
which would last but a moment.
You heard the gentleman who visited me this morning, very frequently use
the word Honour. Honour consists in respecting yourself; in doing as you
would be done by; and the foundation of honour is Truth.
When I can depend on the veracity of people, that is to say, am convinced
that they adhere to truth, I rely on them; am certain they have courage,
because I know they will bear any inconvenience rather than despise
themselves, for telling a lie. Besides, it is not necessary to consider
what you intend to say, when you have done right. Always determine, on
every occasion, to speak the truth, and you will never be at a loss for
words. If your character for this scrupulous attention is once fixed,
your acquaintance will be courted; and those who are not particularly
pleased with you, will, at least, respect your honourable principles. It
is impossible to form a friendship without making truth the basis; it is
indeed the essence of devotion, the employment of the understanding, and
the support of every duty.
I govern my servants, and you, by attending strictly to truth, and this
observance keeping my head clear and my heart pure, I am ever ready to
pray to the Author of good, the Fountain of truth.
While I am discussing the subject, let me point out to you another branch
of this virtue; Sincerity.—And remember that I every day set you an
example; for I never, to please for the moment, pay unmeaning
compliments, or permit any words to drop from my tongue, that my heart
does not dictate. And when I relate any matter of fact, I carefully
avoid embellishing it, in order to render it a more entertaining story;
not that I think such a practice absolutely criminal; but as it
contributes insensibly to wear away a respect for truth, I guard against
the vain impulse, lest I should lose the chief strength, and even
ornament, of my mind, and become like a wave of the sea, drifted about by
every gust of passion.
You must in life observe the most apparently insignificant duties—the
great ones are the pillars of virtue; but the constant concurrence of
trifling things, makes it necessary that reason and conscience should
always preside, to keep the heart steady. Many people make promises, and
appointments, which they scruple not to break, if a more inviting
pleasure occurs, not remembering that the slightest duty should be
performed before a mere amusement is pursued—for any neglect of this kind
embitters play. Nothing, believe me, can long be pleasant, that is not
innocent.
As I usually endeavour to recollect some persons of my acquaintance, who
have suffered by the faults, or follies, I wish you to avoid; I will
describe two characters, that will, if I mistake not, very strongly
enforce what I have been saying.
Last week you saw Lady Sly, who came to pay me a morning visit. Did you
ever see such a fine carriage, or such beautiful horses? How they pawed
the ground, and displayed their rich harnesses! Her servants wore
elegant liveries, and her own clothes suited the equipage. Her house is
equal to her carriage; the rooms are lofty, and hung with silk; noble
glasses and pictures adorn them: and the pleasure-grounds are large and
well laid out; beside the trees and shrubs, they contain a variety of
summer-houses and temples, as they are called.—Yet my young friends, this
is _state_, not _dignity_.
This woman has a little soul, she never attended to truth, and obtaining
great part of her fortune by falsehood, it has blighted all her
enjoyments. She inhabits that superb house, wears the gayest clothes,
and rides in that beautiful carriage, without feeling pleasure.
Suspicion, and the cares it has given birth to, have wrinkled her
countenance, and banished every trace of beauty, which paint in vain
endeavours to repair. Her suspicious temper arises from a knowledge of
her own heart, and the want of rational employments.
She imagines that every person she converses with means to deceive her;
and when she leaves a company, supposes all the ill they may say of her,
because she recollects her own practice. She listens about her house,
expecting to discover the designs of her servants, none of whom she can
trust; and in consequence of this anxiety her sleep is unsound, and her
food tasteless. She walks in her paradise of a garden, and smells not
the flowers, nor do the birds inspire her with cheerfulness.—These
pleasures are true and simple, they lead to the love of God, and all the
creatures whom He hath made—and cannot warm a heart which a malicious
story can please.
She cannot pray to God;—He hates a liar! She is neglected by her
husband, whose only motive for marrying her was to clear an incumbered
estate. Her son, her only child, is undutiful; the poor never have cause
to bless her; nor does she contribute to the happiness of any human
being.
To kill time, and drive away the pangs of remorse, she goes from one
house to another, collecting and propagating scandalous tales, to bring
others on a level with herself. Even those who resemble her are afraid
of her; she lives alone in the world, its good things are poisoned by her
vices, and neither inspire joy nor gratitude.
Before I tell you how she acquired these vicious habits, and enlarged her
fortune by disregarding truth, I must desire you to think of Mrs.
Trueman, the curate’s wife, who lives in yonder white house, close to the
church; it is a small one, yet the woodbines and jessamins that twine
about the windows give it a pretty appearance. Her voice is sweet, her
manners not only easy, but elegant; and her simple dress makes her person
appear to the greatest advantage.
She walks to visit me, and her little ones hang on her hands, and cling
to her clothes, they are so fond of her. If any thing terrifies them,
they run under her apron, and she looks like the hen taking care of her
young brood. The domestic animals play with the children, finding her a
mild attentive mistress; and out of her scanty fortune she contrives to
feed and clothe many a hungry shivering wretch; who bless her as she
passes along.
Though she has not any outward decorations, she appears superior to her
neighbours, who call her the _Gentlewoman_; indeed every gesture shews an
accomplished and dignified mind, that relies on itself; when deprived of
the fortune which contributed to polish and give it consequence.
Drawings, the amusement of her youth, ornament her neat parlour; some
musical instruments stand in one corner; for she plays with taste, and
sings sweetly.
All the furniture, not forgetting a book-case, full of well-chosen books,
speak the refinement of the owner, and the pleasures a cultivated mind
has within its own grasp, independent of prosperity.
Her husband, a man of taste and learning, reads to her, while she makes
clothes for her children, whom she teaches in the tenderest, and most
persuasive manner, important truths and elegant accomplishments.
When you have behaved well for some time you shall visit her, and ramble
in her little garden; there are several pretty seats in it, and the
nightingales warble their sweetest songs, undisturbed, in the shade.
I have now given you an account of the present situation of both, and of
their characters; listen to me whilst I relate in what manner these
characters were formed, and the consequence of each adhering to a
different mode of conduct.
Lady Sly, when she was a child, used to say pert things, which the
injudicious people about her laughed at, and called very witty. Finding
that her prattle pleased, she talked incessantly, and invented stories,
when adding to those that had some foundation, was not sufficient to
entertain the company. If she stole sweetmeats, or broke any thing, the
cat, or the dog, was blamed, and the poor animals were corrected for her
faults; nay, sometimes the servants lost their places in consequence of
her assertions. Her parents died and left her a large fortune, and an
aunt, who had a still larger, adopted her.
Mrs. Trueman, her cousin, was, some years after, adopted by the same
lady; but her parents could not leave their estate to her, as it
descended to the male heir. She had received the most liberal education,
and was in every respect the reverse of her cousin; who envied her merit,
and could not bear to think of her dividing the fortune which she had
long expected to inherit entirely herself. She therefore practised every
mean art to prejudice her aunt against her, and succeeded.
A faithful old servant endeavoured to open her mistress’s eyes; but the
cunning niece contrived to invent the most infamous story of the old
domestic, who was in consequence of it dismissed. Mrs. Trueman supported
her, when she could not succeed in vindicating her, and suffered for her
generosity; for her aunt dying soon after, left only five hundred pounds
to this amiable woman, and fifty thousand to Lady Sly.
They both of them married shortly after. One, the profligate Lord Sly,
and the other a respectable clergyman, who had been disappointed in his
hopes of preferment. This last couple, in spite of their mutual
disappointments, are contented with their lot; and are preparing
themselves and children for another world, where truth, virtue and
happiness dwell together.
For believe me, whatever happiness we attain in this life, must faintly
resemble what God Himself enjoys, whose truth and goodness produce a
sublime degree, such as we cannot conceive, it is so far above our
limited capacities.
I did not intend to detain you so long, said Mrs. Mason; have you
finished _Mrs. Trimmer’s Fabulous Histories_? Indeed we have, answered
Caroline, mournfully, and I was very sorry to come to the end. I never
read such a pretty book; may I read it over again to Mrs. Trueman’s
little Fanny? Certainly, said Mrs. Mason, if you can make her understand
that birds never talk. Go and run about the garden, and remember the
next lie I detect, I shall punish; because lying is a vice;—and I ought
to punish you if you are guilty of it, to prevent your feeling Lady Sly’s
misery.