ON TRUTH.
It is not necessary here to pronounce a panegyric upon truth; its use
and value is thoroughly understood by all the world; but we shall
endeavour to give some practical advice, which may be of service in
educating children, not only to the love, but to the habits, of
integrity. These are not always found, as they ought to be,
inseparable.
Rousseau's eloquence, and Locke's reasoning, have sufficiently
reprobated, and it is to be hoped have exploded, the system of
lecturing children upon morality; of giving them precepts and general
maxims which they do not understand, and which they cannot apply. We
shall not produce long quotations from books which are in every body's
hands.[51] There is one particular in which Rousseau especially, and
most other authors who have written upon education, have given very
dangerous counsel; they have counselled parents to teach truth by
falsehood. The privilege of using contrivance, and ingenious
deceptions, has been uniformly reserved for preceptors; and the
pupils, by moral delusions, and the theatric effect of circumstances
treacherously arranged, are to be duped, surprised, and cheated, into
virtue. The dialogue between the gardener and Emilius about the
Maltese melon-seed, is an instance of this method of instruction.
Honest Robert, the gardener, in concert with the tutor, tells poor
Emilius a series of lies, prepares a garden, "choice Maltese
melon-seed," and "worthless beans," all to cheat the boy into just
notions of the rights of property, and the nature of exchange and
barter.
Part of the _artificial course of experience_ in that excellent work
on education, Adele and Theodore, is defective upon the same
principle. There should be no moral delusions; no _artificial_ course
of experience; no plots laid by parents to make out the truth; no
listening fathers, mothers, or governesses; no pretended confidence,
or perfidious friends; in one word, no falsehood should be practised:
that magic which cheats the senses, at the same time confounds the
understanding. The spells of Prospero, the strangenesses of the isle,
perplex and confound the senses and understanding of all who are
subjected to his magic, till at length, worked by force of wonders
into credulity, his captives declare that they will believe any thing;
"that there are men dewlapt like bulls; and what else does want
credit," says the Duke Anthonio, "come to me, and I'll be sworn 'tis
true."
Children, whose simplicity has been practised upon by the fabling
morality of their preceptors, begin by feeling something like the
implicit credulity of Anthonio; but the arts of the preceptors are
quickly suspected by their subjects, and the charm is for ever
reversed. When once a child detects you in falsehood, you lose his
confidence; his incredulity will then be as extravagant as his former
belief was gratuitous. It is in vain to expect, by the most eloquent
manifestoes, or by the most secret leagues offensive and defensive, to
conceal your real views, sentiments, and actions, from children. Their
interest keeps their attention continually awake; not a word, not a
look, in which they are concerned, escapes them; they see, hear, and
combine, with sagacious rapidity; if falsehood be in the wind,
detection hunts her to discovery.
Honesty is the best policy, must be the maxim in education, as well as
in all the other affairs of life. We must not only be exact in
speaking truth to our pupils, but to every body else; to acquaintance,
to servants, to friends, to enemies. It is not here meant to enter any
overstrained protest against the common phrases and forms of
politeness; the current coin may not be pure; but when once its alloy
has been ascertained, and its value appreciated, there is no fraud,
though there may be some folly, in continuing to trade upon equal
terms with our neighbours, with money of high nominal, and scarcely
any real, value. No fraud is committed by a gentleman's saying he is
_not at home_, because no deception is intended; the words are silly,
but they mean, and are understood to mean, nothing more than that the
person in question does not choose to see the visiters who knock at
his door. "I am, sir, your obedient and humble servant," at the end of
a letter, does not mean that the person who signs the letter is a
servant, or humble, or obedient, but it simply expresses that he knows
how to conclude his letter according to the usual form of civility.
Change this absurd phrase, and welcome; but do not let us, in the
spirit of Draco, make no distinction between errours and crimes. The
foibles of fashion or folly, are not to be treated with the
detestation due to hypocrisy and falsehood; if small faults are to
incur such grievous punishments, there can, indeed, be none found
sufficiently severe for great crimes; great crimes, consequently, for
want of adequate punishment, will increase, and the little faults,
that have met with disproportionate persecution, will become amiable
and innocent in the eyes of commiserating human nature. It is not
difficult to explain to young people the real meaning, or rather the
nonsense, of a few complimentary phrases; their integrity will not be
increased or diminished by either saying, or omitting to say, "I am
much obliged to you," or "I shall be very happy to see you at dinner,"
&c. We do not mean to include in the harmless list of compliments, any
expressions which are meant to deceive; the common custom of the
country, and of the society in which we live, sufficiently regulates
the style of complimentary language; and there are few so ignorant of
the world as seriously to misunderstand this, or to mistake civility
for friendship.
There is a story told of a Chinese mandarin, who paid a visit to a
friend at Paris, at the time when Paris was the seat of politeness.
His well-bred host, on the first evening of his arrival, gave him a
handsome supper, lodged him in the best bed-chamber, and when he
wished him a good night, amongst other civil things, said he hoped the
mandarin would, during his stay at Paris, consider that house as his
own. Early the next morning, the polite Parisian was awakened by the
sound of loud hammering in the mandarin's bed-chamber; on entering the
room, he found the mandarin and some masons hard at work, throwing
down the walls of the house. "You rascals, are you mad?" exclaimed the
Frenchman to the masons. "Not at all, my dear friend," said the
Chinese man, soberly, "I set the poor fellows to work; this room is
too small for my taste; you see I have lost no time in availing myself
of your goodness. Did not you desire me to use this house as if it
were my own, during my stay at Paris?" "Assuredly, my dear friend, and
so I hope you will," replied the French gentleman, "the only
misfortune here is, that I did not understand Chinese, and that I had
no interpreter." They found an interpreter, or a Chinese dictionary,
and when the Parisian phrase was properly translated, the mandarin,
who was an honest man, begged his polite host's pardon for having
pulled down the partition. It was rebuilt; the mandarin learned
French, and the two friends continued upon the best terms with each
other, during the remainder of the visit.
The Chesterfieldian system of endeavouring to please by dissimulation,
is obviously distinguishable by any common capacity, from the usual
forms of civility. There is no hope of educating young people to a
love of integrity in any family, where this practice is adopted. If
children observe that their parents deceive common acquaintance, by
pretending to like the company, and to esteem the characters, of those
whom they really think disagreeable and contemptible, how can they
learn to respect truth? How can children believe in the praise of
their parents, if they detect them in continual flattery towards
indifferent people? It may be thought, by latitudinarians in
politeness, that we are too rigid in expecting this strict adherence
to truth from people who live in society; it may be said, that in
Practical Education, no such Utopian ideas of perfection should be
suggested. If we thought them Utopian, we certainly should not waste
our time upon them; but we do not here speak theoretically of what may
be done, we speak of what has been done. Without the affectation of
using a more sanctified language than other people; without departing
from the common forms of society; without any painful, awkward
efforts, we believe that parents may, in all their conversation in
private and in public, set their children the uniform example of truth
and integrity.
We do not mean that the example of parents can alone produce this
effect; a number of other circumstances must be combined. Servants
must have no communication with children, if you wish to teach them
the habit of speaking truth. The education, and custom, and situation
of servants, are at present such, that it is morally impossible to
depend upon their veracity in their intercourse with children.
Servants think it good natured to try to excuse and conceal all the
little faults of children; to give them secret indulgences, and even
positively to deny facts, in order to save them from blame or
punishment. Even when they are not fond of the children, their example
must be dangerous, because servants do not scruple to falsify for
their own advantage; if they break any thing, what a multitude of
equivocations! If they neglect any thing, what a variety of excuses!
What evasions in actions, or in words, do they continually invent!
It may be said, that as the Spartans taught their children to detest
drunkenness, by showing them intoxicated Helots, we can make falsehood
odious and contemptible to our pupils, by the daily example of its
mean deformity. But if children, before they can perceive the general
advantage of integrity, and before they can understand the utility of
truth, see the partial immediate success of falsehood, how can they
avoid believing in their own experience? If they see that servants
escape blame, and screen themselves from punishment, by telling
falsehoods, they not only learn that falsehood preserves from pain,
but they feel obliged to those who practise it for their sakes; thus
it is connected with the feelings of affection and of gratitude in
their hearts, as well as with a sense of pleasure and safety. When
servants have exacted promises from their _proteges_, those promises
cannot be broken without treachery; thus deceit brings on deceit, and
the ideas of truth and falsehood, become confused and contradictory.
In the chapter upon servants, we have expatiated upon this subject,
and have endeavoured to point out how all communication between
children and servants may be most effectually prevented. To that
chapter, without further repetition, we refer. And now that we have
adjusted the preliminaries concerning parents and servants, we may
proceed with confidence.
When young children first begin to speak, from not having a sufficient
number of words to express their ideas, or from not having annexed
precise ideas to the words which they are taught to use, they
frequently make mistakes, which are attributed to the desire of
deceiving. We should not precipitately suspect them of falsehood; it
is some time before they perfectly understand what we mean by truth.
Small deviations should not be marked with too much rigour; but
whenever a child relates _exactly_ any thing which he has seen, heard,
or felt, we should listen with attention and pleasure, and we should
not show the least doubt of his veracity. Rousseau is perfectly right
in advising, that children should never be questioned in any
circumstances upon which it can be their interest to deceive. We
should, at least, treat children with the same degree of wise lenity,
which the English law extends to all who have arrived at years of
discretion. No criminal is bound to accuse himself. If any mischief
has been committed, we should never, when we are uncertain by whom it
has been done, either directly accuse, or betray injurious suspicions.
We should neither say to the child, "I believe you have done this,"
nor, "I believe you have not done this;" we should say nothing; the
mischief is done, we cannot repair it: because a glass is broken, we
need not spoil a child; we may put glasses out of his reach in future.
If it should, however, happen, that a child voluntarily comes to us
with a history of an accident, may no love of goods or chattels, of
windows, of china, or even of looking-glasses, come in competition
with our love of truth? An angry word, an angry look, may intimidate
the child, who has summoned all his little courage to make this
confession. It is not requisite that parents should pretend to be
pleased and gratified with the destruction of their furniture, but
they may, it is to be hoped, without dissimulation, show that they
set more value upon the integrity of their children, than upon a
looking-glass, and they will "keep their temper still, though china
fall."
H----, one day when his father and mother were absent from home, broke
a looking-glass. As soon as he heard the sound of the returning
carriage, he ran and posted himself at the hall door. His father, the
moment he got out of the carriage, beheld his erect figure, and pale,
but intrepid countenance. "Father," said the boy, "I have _broke_ the
best looking-glass in your house!" His father assured him, that he
would rather all the looking-glasses in his house should be broken,
than that one of his children should attempt to make an excuse. H----
was most agreeably relieved from his anxiety by the kindness of his
father's voice and manner, and still more so, perhaps, by perceiving
that he rose in his esteem. When the glass was examined, it appeared
that the boy had neglected to produce all the circumstances in his own
favour. Before he had begun to play at ball, he had had the precaution
to turn the back of the looking-glass towards him; his ball, however,
accidentally struck against the wooden back, and broke the glass.
H---- did not make out this favourable state of the case for himself
at first; he told it simply after the business was settled, seeming
much more interested about the fate of the glass, than eager to
exculpate himself.
There is no great danger of teaching children to do mischief by this
indulgence to their accidental misfortunes. When they break, or waste
any thing, from pure carelesness, let them, even when they speak the
truth about it, suffer the natural consequences of their carelesness;
but at the same time praise their integrity, and let them distinctly
feel the difference between the slight inconvenience to which they
expose themselves by speaking the truth, and the great disgrace to
which falsehood would subject them. The pleasure of being esteemed,
and trusted, is early felt, and the consciousness of deserving
confidence is delightful to children; but their young fortitude and
courage should never be exposed to severe temptations. It is not
sufficient to excite an admiration of truth by example, by eloquent
praise, or by the just rewards of esteem and affection; we must take
care to form the habits at the same time that we inspire the love of
this virtue. Many children admire truth, and feel all the shame of
telling falsehoods, who yet, either from habit or from fear, continue
to tell lies. We must observe, that though the taste for praise is
strong in childhood, yet it is not a match for any of the bodily
appetites, when they are strongly excited. Those children, who are
restrained as to the choice, or the quantity, of their food, usually
think that eating is a matter of vast consequence, and they are
strongly tempted to be dishonest to gratify their appetites. Children
do not understand the prudential maxims concerning health, upon which
these restraints are founded; and if they can, "by any indirection,"
obtain things which gratify their palate, they will. On the contrary,
young people who are regularly let to eat and drink as much as they
please, can have no temptation from hunger and thirst, to deceive; if
they partake of the usual family meals, and if there are no whimsical
distinctions between wholesome and unwholesome dishes, or epicurean
distinctions between rarities and plain food, the imagination and the
pride of children will not be roused about eating. Their pride is
piqued, if they perceive that they are prohibited from touching what
_grown up people_ are privileged to eat; their imagination is set to
work by seeing any extraordinary difference made by judges of eating
between one species of food and another. In families where a regularly
good table is kept, children accustomed to the sight and taste of all
kinds of food, are seldom delicate, capricious, or disposed to exceed;
but in houses where entertainments are made from time to time with
great bustle and anxiety, fine clothes, and company-manners, and
company-faces, and all that politeness can do to give the appearance
of festivity, deceive children at least, and make them imagine that
there is some extraordinary joy in seeing a greater number of dishes
than usual upon the table. Upon these occasions, indeed, the pleasure
is to them substantial; they eat more, they eat a greater variety, and
of things that please them better than usual; the pleasure of eating
is associated with unusual cheerfulness, and thus the imagination, and
the reality, conspire to make them epicures. To these children, the
temptations to deceive about sweetmeats and dainties are beyond
measure great, especially as ill-bred strangers commonly show their
affection for them by pressing them to eat what they are not allowed
to say "_if you please_" to. Rousseau thinks all children are
gluttons. All children may be rendered gluttons; but few, who are
properly treated with respect to food, and who have any literary
tastes, can be in danger of continuing to be fond of eating. We
therefore, without hesitation, recommend it to parents never to hazard
the truth and honour of their pupils by prohibitions, which seldom
produce any of the effects that are expected.
Children are sometimes injudiciously restrained with regard to
exercise; they are required to promise to keep within certain
boundaries when they are sent out to play; these promises are often
broken with impunity, and thus the children learn habits of successful
deceit. Instead of circumscribing their play grounds, as they are
sometimes called, by narrow inconvenient limits, we should allow them
as much space as we can with convenience, and at all events exact no
promises. We should absolutely make it impossible for them to go
without detection into any place which we forbid. It requires some
patience and activity in preceptors to take all the necessary
precautions in issuing orders, but these precautions will be more
useful in preserving the integrity of their pupils, than the most
severe punishments that can be devised. We are not so unreasonable as
to expect, with some theoretic writers on education, that tutors and
parents should sacrifice the whole of their time to the convenience,
amusement, and education of their pupils. This would be putting one
set of beings "_sadly over the head of another_:" but if parents
would, as much as possible, mix their occupations and recreations with
those of their children, besides many other advantages which have been
elsewhere pointed out with respect to the improvement of the
understanding, they would secure them from many temptations to
falsehood. They should be encouraged to talk freely of all their
amusements to their parents, and to ask them for whatever they want to
complete their little inventions. Instead of banishing all the freedom
of wit and humour, by the austerity of his presence, a preceptor, with
superior talents, and all the resources of property in his favour,
might easily become the _arbiter deliciarum_ of his pupils.
When young people begin to taste the pleasures of praise, and to feel
the strong excitations of emulation and ambition, their integrity is
exposed to a new species of temptation. They are tempted, not only by
the hope of obtaining "well-earned praise," but by the desire to
obtain praise without the labour of earning it. In large schools,
where boys assist each other in their literary exercises, and in all
private families where masters are allowed to show off the
accomplishments of young gentlemen and ladies, there are so many
temptations to fraudulent exhibitions, that we despair of guarding
against their consequences. The best possible method is to inspire
children with a generous contempt for flattery, and to teach them to
judge impartially of their own merits. If we are exact in the measure
of approbation which we bestow, they will hence form a scale by which
they can estimate the sincerity of other people. It is said[52] that
the preceptor of the duke of Burgundy succeeded so well in inspiring
him with disdain for unmerited praise, that when the duke was only
nine years old, he one day called his tutor to account for having
concealed some of his childish faults; and when this promising boy,
and singular prince, was asked "why he disliked one of his courtiers,"
he answered, "Because he flatters me." Anecdotes like these will make
a useful impression upon children. The life of Cyrus, in the
Cyropaedia; several passages in Plutarch's Lives; and the lively,
interesting picture which Sully draws of his noble-hearted master's
love of truth, will strongly command the admiration of young people,
if they read them at a proper time of life. We must, however, wait for
this proper time; for if these things are read too early, they lose
all their effect. Without any lectures upon the beauty of truth, we
may, now and then in conversation, when occurrences in real life
naturally lead to the subject, express with energy our esteem for
integrity. The approbation which we bestow upon those who give proofs
of integrity, should be quite in a different tone, in a much higher
style of praise, than any commendations for trifling accomplishments;
hence children will become more ambitious to obtain a reputation for
truth, than for any other less honourable and less honoured
qualification.
We will venture to give two or three slight instances of the
unaffected truth and simplicity of mind, which we have seen in
children educated upon these principles. No good-natured reader will
suspect, that they are produced from ostentation: whenever the
children, who are mentioned, see this in print, it is ten to one that
they will not be surprised at their own good deeds. They will be a
little surprised, probably, that it should have been thought worth
while to record things, which are only what they see and feel every
day. It is this character of every-day goodness which we wish to
represent; not any fine thoughts, fine sentiments, or fine actions,
which come out for holyday admiration. We wish that parents, in
reading any of these little anecdotes, may never exclaim, "Oh that's
charming, that's surprising _for a child_!" but we wish that they may
sometimes smile, and say "That's very natural; I am sure _that_ is
perfectly true; my little boy, or my little girl, say and do just such
things continually."
March, 1792. We were at Clifton; the river Avon ran close under the
windows of our house in Prince's Place, and the children used to be
much amused with looking at the vessels which came up the river. One
night a ship, that was sailing by the windows, fired some of her guns;
the children, who were looking out of the windows, were asked "why the
light was seen when the guns were fired, before the noise was heard?"
C----, who at this time was nine years old, answered, "Because light
comes quicker to the eye, than sound to the ear." Her father was
extremely pleased with this answer; but just as he was going to kiss
her, the little girl said, "Father, the reason of my knowing it, was,
that L---- (her elder brother) just before had told it to me."
There is, it is usually found, most temptation for children to deceive
when they are put in competition with each other, when their ambition
is excited by the same object; but if the transient glory of excelling
in quickness, or abilities of any sort, be much inferiour to the
permanent honour which is secured by integrity, there is, even in
competition, no danger of unfair play.
March, 1792. One evening ---- called the children round the tea-table,
and told them the following story, which he had just met with in "The
Curiosities of Literature."
When the queen of Sheba went to visit king Solomon, she one day
presented herself before his throne with a wreath of real flowers in
one hand, and a wreath of artificial flowers in the other hand; the
artificial flowers were made so exactly to resemble nature, that at
the distance at which they were held from Solomon, it was scarcely
possible that his eye could distinguish any difference between them
and the natural flowers; nor could he, at the distance at which they
were held from him, know them asunder by their smell. "Which of these
two wreaths," demanded the queen of Sheba, "is the work of nature?"
Solomon reflected for some minutes; and how did he discover which was
real? S---- (five years old) _replied_, "Perhaps he went out of the
room very _softly_, and if the woman stood near the door, as he went
near her, he might _see better_."
_Father._ But Solomon was not to move from his place.
_S----._. Then he might wait till the woman was tired of holding them,
and then perhaps she might lay them down on the table, and then
perhaps he might see better.
_Father._ Well, C----, what do you say?
_C----._ I think he might have looked at the stalks, and have seen
which looked stiff like wire, and which were bent down by the weight
of the natural flowers.
_Father._ Well, H----?
_H----._ (ten years old.) I think he might send for a great pair of
bellows, and blow, blow, till the real leaves dropped off.
_Father._ But would it not have been somewhat uncivil of Solomon to
_blow, blow_, with his great pair of bellows, full in the queen of
Sheba's face?
_H----._ (doubting.) Yes, yes. Well, then he might have sent for a
telescope, or a magnifying glass, and looked through it; and then he
could have seen which were the real flowers, and which were
artificial.
_Father._ Well, B----, and what do you say?
_B----._ (eleven years old.) He might have waited till the queen moved
the flowers, and then, if he listened, he might hear the rustling of
the artificial ones.
_Father._ S----, have you any thing more to say?
_S----_ repeated the same thing that B---- had said; his attention was
dissipated by hearing the other children speak. During this pause,
whilst S---- was trying to collect his thoughts, Mrs. E---- whispered
to somebody near her, and accidentally said the word _animals_ loud
enough to be overheard.
_Father._ Well, H----, you look as if you had something to say?
_H----._ Father, I heard my mother say something, and _that_ made me
think of the rest.
Mrs. E---- shook hands with H----, and praised him for this instance
of integrity. H---- then said that "he supposed Solomon thought of
some _animal_ which would feed upon flowers, and sent it to the two
nosegays; and then the animal would stay upon the real flowers."
_Father._ What animal?
_H----._ A fly.
_Father._ Think again.
_H----._ A bee.
_Father._ Yes.
The story says that Solomon, seeing some bees hover about the window,
ordered the window to be thrown open, and watched upon which wreath of
flowers the bee settled.
August 1st, 1796. S---- (nine years old) when he was reading in Ovid
the fable of Perseus and Andromeda, said that he wondered that Perseus
fought with the monster; he wondered that Perseus did not turn him
into stone at once with his Gorgon shield. We believe that S---- saw
that his father was pleased with this observation. A few days
afterwards somebody in the family recollected Mr. E----'s having said,
that when he was a boy he thought Perseus a simpleton for not making
use of the Gorgon's head to turn the monster into stone. We were not
sure whether S---- had heard Mr. E---- say this or not; Mr. E----
asked him whether he recollected to have heard any such thing. S----
answered, without hesitation, that he did remember it.
When children have formed habits of speaking truth, and when we see
that these habits are grown quite easy to them, we may venture to
question them about their thoughts and feelings; this must, however,
be done with great caution, but without the appearance of anxiety or
suspicion. Children are alarmed if they see that you are very anxious
and impatient for their answer; they think that they hazard much by
their reply; they hesitate, and look eagerly in your face, to discover
by your countenance what they ought to think and feel, and what sort
of answer you expect. All who are governed by any species of fear are
disposed to equivocation. Amongst the lower class of Irish labourers,
and _under-tenants_, a class of people who are much oppressed, you can
scarcely meet with any man who will give you a direct answer to the
most indifferent question; their whole ingenuity, and they have a
great deal of ingenuity, is upon the _qui vive_ with you the instant
you begin to speak; they either pretend not to hear, that they may
gain time to think, whilst you repeat your question, or they reply to
you with a fresh question, to draw out your remote meaning; for they,
judging by their own habits, always think you have a remote meaning,
and they never can believe that your words have no intention to
ensnare. Simplicity puzzles them much more than wit: for instance, if
you were to ask the most direct and harmless question, as, "Did it
rain yesterday?" the first answer would probably be, "Is it yesterday
you mean?" "Yes." "Yesterday! No, please your honour, I was not at the
bog at all yesterday. Wasn't I after setting my potatoes? Sure I did
not know your honour wanted me at all yesterday. Upon my conscience,
there's not a man in the country, let alone all Ireland, I'd sooner
serve than your honour any day in the year, and they have belied me
that went behind my back to tell your honour the contrary. If your
honour sent after me, sure I never _got the word_, I'll take my
affidavit, or I'd been at the bog." "My good friend, I don't know what
you mean about the bog; I only ask you whether it rained yesterday."
"Please your honour, I couldn't get a car and horse any way, to draw
home my little straw, or I'd have had the house thatched long ago."
"Cannot you give me a plain answer to this plain question? Did it rain
yesterday?" "Oh sure, I wouldn't go to tell your honour a lie about
the matter. Sarrah much it rained yesterday after twelve o'clock,
barring a few showers; but in the night there was a great fall of rain
any how; and that was the reason prevented my going to Dublin
yesterday, for fear the mistress's band-box should get wet upon my
cars. But, please your honour, if your honour's displeased about it,
I'll not be waiting for a loading; I'll take my car and go to Dublin
to-morrow for the slates, if that be what your honour means. Oh, sure
I would not tell a lie for the entire price of the slates; I know very
well it didn't rain to call rain yesterday. But after twelve o'clock,
I don't say I noticed one way or other."
In this perverse and ludicrous method of beating about the bush, the
man would persist till he had fairly exhausted your patience; and all
this he would do, partly from cunning, and partly from that
apprehension of injustice which he has been taught to feel by hard
experience. The effects of the example of their parents is early and
most strikingly visible in the children of this class of people in
Ireland. The children, who are remarkably quick and intelligent, are
universally addicted to lying. We do not here scruple or hesitate in
the choice of our terms, because we are convinced that this
unqualified assertion would not shock the feelings of the parties
concerned. These poor children are not brought up to think falsehood a
disgrace; they are praised for the ingenuity with which they escape
from the cross examination of their superiors; and their capacities
are admired in proportion to the _acuteness_, or, as their parents
pronounce it, '_cuteness_, of their equivocating replies. Sometimes
(the _garcon_[53]) the little boy of the family is despatched by his
mother to the landlord's neighbouring bog or turf rick, to _bring
home_, in their phraseology, in ours to _steal_, a few turf; if, upon
this expedition, the little Spartan be detected, he is tolerably
certain of being whipped by his mother, or some of his friends, upon
his return home. "Ah, ye little brat! and what made ye tell the
gentleman when he met ye, ye rogue, that ye were going to the rick?
And what business had ye to go and belie me to his honour, ye
unnatural piece of goods! I'll teach ye to make mischief through the
country! So I will. Have ye got no better sense and manners at this
time o'day, than to behave, when one trusts ye abroad, so like an
innocent?" An innocent in Ireland, as formerly in England, (witness
the Rape of the Lock) is synonymous with a fool. "And fools and
innocents shall still believe."
The associations of pleasure, of pride and gayety, are so strong in
the minds of these well educated children, that they sometimes expect
the very people who suffer by their dishonesty, should sympathise in
the self-complacency they feel from roguery. A gentleman riding near
his own house in Ireland, saw a cow's head and fore feet appear at the
_top of a ditch_, through a gap in the hedge by the road's side, at
the same time he heard a voice alternately threatening and encouraging
the cow; the gentleman rode up closer to the scene of action, and he
saw a boy's head appear behind the cow. "My good boy," said he,
"that's a fine cow." "Oh, faith, that she is," replied the boy, "and
I'm teaching her to get her own living, please your honour." The
gentleman did not precisely understand the meaning of the expression,
and had he directly asked for an explanation, would probably have died
in ignorance; but the boy, proud of his cow, encouraged an exhibition
of her talents: she was made to jump across the ditch several times,
and this adroitness in breaking through fences, was termed "getting
her own living." As soon as the cow's education is finished, she may
be sent loose into the world to provide for herself; turned to graze
in the poorest pasture, she will be able and willing to live upon the
fat of the land.
It is curious to observe how regularly the same moral causes produce
the same temper and character. We talk of climate, and frequently
attribute to climate the different dispositions of different nations:
the climate of Ireland, and that of the West Indies, are not precisely
similar, yet the following description, which Mr. Edwards, in his
history of the West Indies, gives of the propensity to falsehood
amongst the negro slaves, might stand word for word for a character of
that class of the Irish people who, until very lately, actually, not
metaphorically, called themselves _slaves_.
"If a negro is asked even an indifferent question by his master, he
seldom gives an immediate reply; but affecting not to understand what
is said, compels a repetition of the question, that he may have time
to consider, not what is the true answer, but what is the most politic
one for him to give."
Mr. Edwards assures us, that many of these unfortunate negroes learn
cowardice and falsehood after they become slaves. When they first come
from Africa, many of them show "a frank and fearless temper;"[54] but
all distinction of character amongst the native Africans, is soon lost
under the levelling influence of slavery. Oppression and terror
necessarily produce meanness and deceit in all climates, and in all
ages; and wherever fear is the governing motive in education, we must
expect to find in children a propensity to dissimulation, if not
confirmed habits of falsehood. Look at the true born Briton under the
government of a tyrannical pedagogue, and listen to the language of
_in-born_ truth; in the whining tone, in the pitiful evasions, in the
stubborn falsehoods which you hear from the school-boy, can you
discover any of that innate dignity of soul which is the boasted
national characteristic? Look again; look at the same boy in the
company of those who inspire no terror; in the company of his
school-fellows, of his friends, of his parents; would you know him to
be the same being? his countenance is open; his attitude erect; his
voice firm; his language free and fluent; his thoughts are upon his
lips; he speaks truth without effort, without fear. Where individuals
are oppressed, or where they believe that they are oppressed, they
combine against their oppressors, and oppose cunning and falsehood to
power and force; they think themselves released from the compact of
truth with their masters, and bind themselves in a strict league with
each other; thus school-boys hold no faith with their schoolmaster,
though they would think it shameful to be dishonourable amongst one
another. We do not think that these maxims are the peculiar growth of
schools; in private families the same feelings are to be found under
the same species of culture: if preceptors or parents are unjust or
tyrannical, their pupils will contrive to conceal from them their
actions and their thoughts. On the contrary, in families where
sincerity has been encouraged by the voice of praise and affection, a
generous freedom of conversation and countenance appears, and the
young people talk to each other, and to their parents, without
distinction or reserve; without any distinction but such as superior
esteem and respect dictate. These are feelings totally distinct from
servile fear: these feelings inspire the love of truth, the ambition
to acquire and to preserve character.
The value of a character for truth, should be distinctly felt by
children in their own family: whilst they were very young, we advised
that their integrity should not be tempted; as they grow up, trust
should by degrees be put in them, and we should distinctly explain to
them, that our confidence is to be deserved before it can be given.
Our belief in any person's truth, is not a matter of affection, but of
experience and necessity; we cannot doubt the assertions of any person
whom we have found to speak uniformly the truth; we cannot believe any
person, let us wish to do it ever so much, if we have detected him in
falsehoods. Before we have had experience of a person's integrity, we
may hope, or take it for granted, that he is perfectly sincere and
honest; but we cannot feel more than _belief upon trust_, until we
have actually seen his integrity tried. We should not pretend that we
have faith in our pupils before we have tried them; we may hope from
their habits, from the examples they have seen, and from the
advantageous manner in which truth has always been represented to
them, that they will act honourably; this hope is natural and just,
but confidence is another feeling of the mind. The first time we trust
a child, we should not say, "I am sure you will not deceive me; I can
trust you with any thing in the world." This is flattery or folly; it
is paying beforehand, which is not the way to get business done; why
cannot we, especially as we are teaching truth, say the thing that
is--"I _hope_ you will not deceive me. If I find that you may be
trusted, you know I shall be able to trust you another time: this must
depend upon you, not entirely upon me." We must make ourselves certain
upon these occasions, how the child conducts himself; nor is it
necessary to use any artifice, or to affect, from false delicacy, any
security that we do not feel; it is better openly to say, "You see, I
do you the justice to examine carefully, how you have conducted
yourself; I wish to be able to trust you another time."
It may be said, that this method of strict inquiry reduces a trust to
no trust at all, and that it betrays suspicion. If you examine
evidently with the belief that a child has deceived you, certainly you
betray injurious suspicion, and you educate the child very ill; but if
you feel and express a strong desire to find that your pupil has
conducted himself honourably, he will be glad and proud of the
strictest scrutiny; he will feel that he has earned your future
confidence, and this confidence, which he clearly knows how he has
obtained, will be more valuable to him than all the belief upon trust
which you could affect to feel. By degrees, after your pupil has
taught you to depend upon him, your confidence will prevent the
necessity of any examination into his conduct. This is the just and
delightful reward of integrity: children know how to feel and
understand it thoroughly: besides the many restraints from which our
confidence will naturally relieve them, they feel the pride for being
trusted; the honour of having a character for integrity: nor can it be
too strongly impressed upon their minds, that this character must be
preserved, as it was obtained, by their own conduct. If one link in
the chain of confidence be broken, the whole is destroyed. Indeed,
where habits of truth are early formed, we may safely depend upon
them. A young person, who has never deceived, would see, that the
first step in falsehood costs too much to be hazarded. Let this appear
in the form of calculation, rather than of sentiment. To habit, to
enthusiasm, we owe much of all our virtues--to reason more; and the
more of them we owe to reason, the better. Habit and enthusiasm are
subject to sudden or gradual changes--but reason continues for ever
the same. As the understanding unfolds, we should fortify all our
pupil's habits; and virtuous enthusiasm, by the conviction of their
utility, of their being essential to the happiness of society in
general, and conducive immediately to the happiness of every
individual. Possessed of this conviction, and provided with
substantial arguments in its support, young people will not be exposed
to danger, either from sophistry or ridicule.
Ridicule certainly is not the test of truth; but it is a test which
truth sometimes finds it difficult to stand. Vice never "bolts her
arguments" with more success, than when she assumes the air of
raillery, and the tone of gayety. All vivacious young people are fond
of wit; we do not mean children, for they do not understand it. Those
who have the best capacities, and the strictest habits of veracity,
often appear to common observers absolutely stupid, from their
aversion to any play upon words, and from the literal simplicity with
which they believe every thing that is asserted. A remarkably
intelligent little girl of four years old, but who had never in her
own family been used to the common phrases which sometimes pass for
humour, happened to hear a gentleman say, as he looked out of the
window one rainy morning, "It rains cats and dogs to-day." The child,
with a surprised, but believing look, immediately went to look out of
the window to see the phenomenon. This extreme simplicity in
childhood, is sometimes succeeded in youth by a strong taste for wit
and humour. Young people are, in the first place, proud to show that
they understand them; and they are gratified by the perception of a
new intellectual pleasure. At this period of their education, great
attention must be paid to them, lest their admiration for wit and
frolic should diminish their reverence and their love for sober truth.
In many engaging characters in society, and in many entertaining
books, deceit and dishonesty are associated with superior abilities,
with ease and gayety of manners, and with a certain air of frank
carelessness, which can scarcely fail to please. Gil Blas,[55] Tom
Jones, Lovelace, Count Fathom, are all of this class of characters.
They should not be introduced to our pupils till their habits of
integrity are thoroughly formed; and till they are sufficiently
skilful in analysing their own feelings, to distinguish whence their
approbation and pleasure in reading of these characters arise. In
books, we do not actually suffer by the tricks of rogues, or by the
lies they tell. Hence their truth is to us a quality of no value; but
their wit, humour, and the ingenuity of their contrivances, are of
great value to us, because they afford us entertainment. The most
honest man in the universe may not have had half so many adventures as
the greatest rogue; in a romance, the history upon oath of all the
honest man's bargains and sales, law-suits and losses; nay, even a
complete view of his ledger and day-book, together with the regular
balancings of his accounts, would probably not afford quite so much
entertainment, even to a reader of the most unblemished integrity and
phlegmatic temper, as the adventures of Gil Blas, and Jonathan Wild,
adorned with all the wit of Le Sage, and humour of Fielding. When Gil
Blas lays open his whole heart to us, and tells us all his sins,
unwhipt of justice, we give him credit for making us his confidant,
and we forget that this sincerity, and these liberal confessions, are
not characteristic of the hero's disposition, but essential only to
the novel. The novel writer could not tell us all he had to say
without this dying confession, and inconsistent openness, from his
accomplished villain. The reader is ready enough to forgive, having
never been duped. When young people can make all these reflections for
themselves, they may read Gil Blas with as much safety as the Life of
Franklin, or any other the most moral performance. "Tout est sain aux
sains,"[56] as Madame de Sevigne very judiciously observes, in one of
her letters upon the choice of books for her grand-daughter. We refer
for more detailed observations upon this subject to the chapter upon
Books. But we cannot help here reiterating our advice to preceptors,
not to force the detestable characters, which are sometimes held up to
admiration in ancient and modern history, upon the common sense, or,
if they please, the moral feelings, of their pupils. The bad actions
of _great_ characters, should not be palliated by eloquence, and fraud
and villainy should never be explained away by the hero's or warrior's
code; a code which confounds all just ideas of right and wrong. Boys,
in reading the classics, must read of a variety of crimes; but that is
no reason that they should approve of them, or that their tutors
should undertake to vindicate the cause of falsehood and treachery. A
gentleman, who has taught his sons Latin, has uniformly pursued the
practice of abandoning to the just and prompt indignation of his
young pupils all the ancient heroes who are deficient in moral
honesty: his sons, in reading Cornelius Nepos, could not absolutely
comprehend, that the treachery of Themistocles or of Alcibiades could
be applauded by a wise and polished nation. Xenophon has made an
eloquent attempt to explain the nature of military good faith.
Cambyses tells his son, that, in taking advantage of an enemy, a man
must be "crafty, deceitful, a dissembler, a thief, and a robber." Oh
Jupiter! exclaims the young Cyrus, what a man, my father, you say I
must be! And he very sensibly asks his father, why, if it be necessary
in some cases to ensnare and deceive men, he had not in his childhood
been taught by his preceptors the art of doing harm to his
fellow-creatures, as well as of doing them good. "And why," says
Cyrus, "have I always been punished whenever I have been discovered in
practising deceit?" The answers of Cambyses are by no means
satisfactory upon this subject; nor do we think that the conversation
between the old general and Mr. Williams,[57] could have made the
matter perfectly intelligible to the young gentleman, whose scrupulous
integrity made him object to the military profession.
It is certain, that many persons of strict honour and honesty in some
points, on others are utterly inconsistent in their principles. Thus
it is said, that private integrity and public corruption frequently
meet in the same character: thus some gentlemen are jockies, and they
have a convenient latitude of conscience as jockies, whilst they would
not for the universe cheat a man of a guinea in any way but in the
sale of a horse: others in gambling, others in love, others in war,
think all stratagems fair. We endeavour to think that these are all
honourable men; but we hope, that we are not obliged to lay down rules
for the formation of such moral prodigies in a system of practical
education.
We are aware, that with children[58] who are educated at public
schools, truth and integrity cannot be taught precisely in the same
manner as in private families; because ushers and schoolmasters cannot
pay the same hourly attention to each of their pupils, nor have they
the command of all the necessary circumstances.--There are, however,
some advantages attending the early commerce which numbers of children
at public seminaries have with each other; they find that no society
can subsist without truth; they feel the utility of this virtue, and,
however they may deal with their masters, they learn to speak truth
towards each other.--This partial species of honesty, or rather of
honour, is not the very best of its kind, but it may easily be
improved into a more rational principle of action. It is illiberal to
assert, that any virtue is to be taught only by one process of
education: many different methods of education may produce the same
effects. Men of integrity and honour have been formed both by private
and public education; neither system should be exclusively supported
by those who really wish well to the improvement of mankind. All the
errours of each system should be impartially pointed out, and such
remedies as may most easily be adopted with any hope of success,
should be proposed. We think, that if parents paid sufficient
attention to the habits of their children, from the age of three to
seven years old, they would be properly prepared for public education;
they would not then bring with them to public schools all that they
have learned of vice and falsehood in the company of servants.[59] We
have purposely repeated all this, in hopes of impressing it strongly.
May we suggest to the masters of these important seminaries, that
Greek and Latin, and all the elegance of classical literature, are
matters but of secondary consequence, compared with those habits of
truth, which are essential to the character and happiness of their
pupils? By rewarding the moral virtues more highly than the mere
display of talents, a generous emulation to excel in these virtues may
with certainty be excited.
Many preceptors and parents will readily agree, that Bacon, in his
"general distribution of human knowledge," was perfectly right not to
omit that branch of philosophy, which his lordship terms "_The
doctrine of rising in the world_." To this art, integrity at length
becomes necessary; for talents, whether for business or for oratory,
are now become so cheap, that they cannot alone ensure pre-eminence to
their possessors.--The public opinion, which in England bestows
celebrity, and necessarily leads to honour, is intimately connected
with the public confidence. Public confidence is not the same thing as
popularity; the one may be won, the other must be earned. There is
amongst all parties, who at present aim at political power, an
unsatisfied demand for honest men. Those who speculate in this line
for their children, will do wisely to keep this fact in their
remembrance during their whole education.
We have delayed, from a full consciousness of the difficulty of the
undertaking, to speak of the method of curing either the habits or the
propensity to falsehood. Physicians, for mental as well as bodily
diseases, can give long histories of maladies; but are surprisingly
concise when they come to treat of the method of cure. With patients
of different ages, and different temperaments, to speak with due
medical solemnity, we should advise different remedies. With young
children, we should be most anxious to break the habits; with children
at a more advanced period of their education, we should be most
careful to rectify the principles. Children, before they reason, act
merely from habit, and without having acquired command over
themselves, they have no power to break their own habits; but when
young people reflect and deliberate, their principles are of much more
importance than their habits, because their principles, in fact, in
most cases, govern their habits. It is in consequence of their
deliberations and reflections that they act; and, before we can change
their way of acting, we must change their way of thinking.
To break _habits_ of falsehood in young children, let us begin by
removing the temptation, whatever it may be. For instance, if the
child has the habit of denying that he has seen, heard, or done things
which he has seen, heard, and done, we must not, upon any account,
ever question him about any of these particulars, but we should
forbear to give him any pleasure which he might hope to obtain by our
faith in his assertions. Without entering into any explanations, we
should absolutely[60] disregard what he says, and with looks of cool
contempt, turn away without listening to his falsities. A total change
of occupations, new objects, especially such as excite and employ the
senses, will be found highly advantageous. Sudden pleasure, from
strong expressions of affection, or eloquent praise, whenever the
child speaks truth, will operate powerfully in breaking his habits of
equivocation. We do not advise parents to try sudden pain with
children at this early age, neither do we advise bodily correction, or
lasting _penitences_, meant to excite shame, because these depress and
enfeeble the mind, and a propensity to falsehood ultimately arises
from weakness and timidity. Strengthen the body and mind by all means;
try to give the pupils command over themselves upon occasions where
they have no opportunities of deceiving: the same command of mind and
courage, proceeding from the consciousness of strength and fortitude,
may, when once acquired, be exerted in any manner we direct. A boy who
tells a falsehood to avoid some trifling pain, or to procure some
trifling gratification, would perhaps dare to speak the truth, if he
were certain that he could bear the pain, or do without the
gratification. Without talking to him about truth or falsehood, we
should begin by exercising him in the art of bearing and forbearing.
The slightest trials are best for beginners, such as their fortitude
can bear, for success is necessary to increase their courage.
Madame de Genlis, in her Adele and Theodore, gives Theodore,
when he is about seven years old, a box of sugar-plums to take
care of, to teach him to command his passions. Theodore produces
the untouched treasure to her mother, from time to time, with great
self-complacency. We think this a good practical lesson. Some years
ago the experiment was tried, with complete success, upon a little boy
between five and six years old. This boy kept raisins and almonds in a
little box in his pocket, day after day, without ever thinking of
touching them. His only difficulty was to remember at the appointed
time, at the week's end, to produce them. The raisins were regularly
counted from time to time, and were, when found to be right, sometimes
given to the child, but not always. When, for several weeks, the boy
had faithfully executed his trust, the time was extended for which he
was to keep the raisins, and every body in the family expressed that
they were now certain, before they counted the raisins, that they
should find the number exact. This confidence, which was not pretended
confidence, pleased the child, but the rest he considered as a matter
of course. We think such little trials as these might be made with
children of five or six years old, to give them early habits of
exactness. The boy we have just mentioned, has grown up with a more
unblemished reputation for truth, than any child with whom we were
ever acquainted. This is the same boy who broke the looking-glass.
When a patient, far advanced in his childhood, is yet to be cured of a
propensity to deceive, the business becomes formidable. It is
dangerous to set our vigilance in direct opposition to his cunning,
and it is yet more dangerous to trust and give him opportunities of
fresh deceit. If the pupil's temper is timid, fear has probably been
his chief inducement to dissimulation. If his temper is sanguine, hope
and success, and perhaps the pleasure of inventing schemes, or of
outwitting his superiors, have been his motives. In one case we should
prove to the patient, that he has nothing to fear from speaking the
truth to us; in the other case we should demonstrate to him, that he
has nothing to hope from telling us falsehoods. Those who are pleased
with the ingenuity of cunning, should have opportunities of showing
their ingenuity in honourable employments, and the highest praise
should be given to their successful abilities whenever they are thus
exerted. They will compare their feelings when they are the objects of
esteem, and of contempt, and they will be led permanently to pursue
what most tends to their happiness. We should never deprive them of
the hope of establishing a character for integrity; on the contrary,
we should explain distinctly to them, that this is absolutely in their
own power. Examples from real life will strike the mind of a young
person just entering into the world, much more than any fictitious
characters, or moral stories; and strong indignation, expressed
incidentally, will have more effect than any lectures prepared for the
purpose. We do not mean, that any artifice should be used to make our
lessons impressive; but there is no artifice in seizing opportunities,
which must occur in real life, to exemplify the advantages of a good
character. The opinions which young people hear expressed of actions
in which they have no share, and of characters with whom they are not
connected, make a great impression upon them. The horror which is
shown to falsehood, the shame which overwhelms the culprit, they have
then leisure to contemplate; they see the effects of the storm at a
distance; they dread to be exposed to its violence, and they will
prepare for their own security. When any such strong impression has
been made upon the mind, we should seize that moment to connect new
principles with new habits of action: we should try the pupil in some
situation in which he has never been tried before, and where he
consequently may feel hope of obtaining reputation, if he deserves it,
by integrity. All reproaches upon his former conduct should now be
forborne, and he should be allowed to feel, in full security, the
pleasures and the honours of his new character.
We cannot better conclude a chapter upon Truth, than by honestly
referring the reader to a charming piece of eloquence, with which Mr.
Godwin concludes his essay upon Deception and Frankness.[61] We are
sensible how much we shall lose by the comparison: we had written this
chapter before we saw his essay.
FOOTNOTES:
[51] We refer to Locke's Thoughts concerning Education, and Rousseau's
Emilius, vol. i.
[52] V. The Life of the Duke of Burgundy in Madame de la Fite's
agreeable and instructive work for children, "Contes, Drames et
Entretiens, &c."
[53] Pronounced gossoon.
[54] Edwards's History West Indies, vol. ii.
[55] See Mrs. Macaulay's Letters on Education.
[56] Every thing is healthful to the healthy.
[57] See Mr. Williams's Lectures on Education, where Xenophon is
quoted, page 16, &c. vol. ii.--also, page 31.
[58] Vide Williams.
[59] V. Servants and "Public and Private Education."
[60] Rousseau and Williams.