DEAR BOY: I received, by the last post, your letter of the 8th, N. S.,
and I do not wonder that you are surprised at the credulity and
superstition of the Papists at Einsiedlen, and at their absurd stories of
their chapel. But remember, at the same time, that errors and mistakes,
however gross, in matters of opinion, if they are sincere, are to be
pitied, but not punished nor laughed at. The blindness of the
understanding is as much to be pitied as the blindness of the eye; and
there is neither jest nor guilt in a man’s losing his way in either case.
Charity bids us set him right if we can, by arguments and persuasions;
but charity, at the same time, forbids, either to punish or ridicule his
misfortune. Every man’s reason is, and must be, his guide; and I may as
well expect that every man should be of my size and complexion, as that
he should reason just as I do. Every man seeks for truth; but God only
knows who has found it. It is, therefore, as unjust to persecute, as it
is absurd to ridicule, people for those several opinions, which they
cannot help entertaining upon the conviction of their reason. It is the
man who tells, or who acts a lie, that is guilty, and not he who honestly
and sincerely believes the lie. I really know nothing more criminal, more
mean, and more ridiculous than lying. It is the production either of
malice, cowardice, or vanity; and generally misses of its aim in every
one of these views; for lies are always detected sooner or later. If I
tell a malicious lie, in order to affect any man’s fortune or character,
I may indeed injure him for some time; but I shall be sure to be the
greatest sufferer myself at last; for as soon as ever I am detected (and
detected I most certainly shall be), I am blasted for the infamous
attempt; and whatever is said afterward, to the disadvantage of that
person, however true, passes for calumny. If I lie, or equivocate (for it
is the same thing), in order to excuse myself for something that I have
said or done, and to avoid the danger and the shame that I apprehend from
it, I discover at once my fear as well as my falsehood; and only
increase, instead of avoiding, the danger and the shame; I show myself to
be the lowest and the meanest of mankind, and am sure to be always
treated as such. Fear, instead of avoiding, invites danger; for concealed
cowards will insult known ones. If one has had the misfortune to be in
the wrong, there is something noble in frankly owning it; it is the only
way of atoning for it, and the only way of being forgiven. Equivocating,
evading, shuffling, in order to remove a present danger or inconveniency,
is something so mean, and betrays so much fear, that whoever practices
them always deserves to be, and often will be kicked. There is another
sort of lies, inoffensive enough in themselves, but wonderfully
ridiculous; I mean those lies which a mistaken vanity suggests, that
defeat the very end for which they are calculated, and terminate in the
humiliation and confusion of their author, who is sure to be detected.
These are chiefly narrative and historical lies, all intended to do
infinite honor to their author. He is always the hero of his own
romances; he has been in dangers from which nobody but himself ever
escaped; he has seen with his own eyes, whatever other people have heard
or read of: he has had more ‘bonnes fortunes’ than ever he knew women;
and has ridden more miles post in one day, than ever courier went in two.
He is soon discovered, and as soon becomes the object of universal
contempt and ridicule. Remember, then, as long as you live, that nothing
but strict truth can carry you through the world, with either your
conscience or your honor unwounded. It is not only your duty, but your
interest; as a proof of which you may always observe, that the greatest
fools are the greatest liars. For my own part, I judge of every man’s
truth by his degree of understanding.
This letter will, I suppose, find you at Leipsig; where I expect and
require from you attention and accuracy, in both which you have hitherto
been very deficient. Remember that I shall see you in the summer; shall
examine you most narrowly; and will never forget nor forgive those
faults, which it has been in your own power to prevent or cure; and be
assured that I have many eyes upon you at Leipsig, besides Mr. Harte’s.
Adieu!