DECEPTION.
Probably nearly all who read this book have heard the story of George
Washington and his hatchet.
George, when a little boy, had received from his father a hatchet, and
he, much pleased with his present, walked around the house trying its
keen edge upon every thing which came within his reach. At last he
came to a favorite pear-tree of his father's, and began, with great
dexterity, to try his skill in felling trees. After hacking upon the
bark until he had completely ruined the tree, he became tired, and
went into the house. Before long, his father, passing by, beheld his
beautiful tree entirely ruined; and, entering the house, he earnestly
asked who had been guilty of the destruction. For a moment George
trembled and hesitated. He was strongly tempted to deny that he knew
any thing about it. But summoning all his courage, he replied,
"Father, I cannot tell a lie. I cut it with my hatchet." His father
clasped him to his arms, and said, "My dear boy, I would rather lose
a thousand trees than have my son a liar."
This little anecdote shows that George Washington, when a boy, was
too brave and noble to tell a lie. He had rather be punished than be
so mean and degraded as to utter a falsehood. He did wrong to cut the
pear-tree, though, perhaps, he did not know the extent of the injury
he was doing. But had he denied that he did it, he would have been a
cowardly and disgraceful liar. His father would have been ashamed of
him, and would never have known when to believe him. If little George
Washington had told a lie then, it is by no means improbable that he
would have gone on from falsehood to falsehood, till every body
would have despised him. And he would thus have become a disgrace to
his parents and friends, instead of a blessing to his country and the
world. No boy, who has one particle of that noble spirit which George
Washington had, will tell a lie. It is one of the most degrading of
sins. There is no one who does not regard a liar with contempt.
Almost always, when a lie is told, two sins are committed. The first
is, the child has done something which he knows to be wrong. And the
second is, that he has not courage enough to admit it, and tells a
lie to hide his fault. And therefore, when a child tells a lie, you
may always know that that child is a coward. George Washington was a
brave man. When duty called him, he feared not to meet danger and
death. He would march to the mouth of the cannon in the hour of
battle; he would ride through the field when bullets were flying in
every direction, and strewing the ground with the dead, and not a
nerve would tremble. Now, we see that George Washington was brave
when a boy, as well as when a man. He scorned to tell a lie, and,
like a noble-hearted boy, as he was, he honestly avowed the truth.
Every body admires courage, and every body despises cowardice. The
liar, whether he be a boy or a man, is looked upon with disgust.
Cases will occur in which you will be strongly tempted to say that
which is false. But if you yield to the temptation, how can you help
despising yourself? A little girl once came into the house and told
her mother something which was very improbable. Those who were
sitting in the room with her mother did not believe her, for they did
not know the character of the little girl. But the mother replied at
once, "I have no doubt that it is true, for I never knew my daughter
to tell a lie." Is there not something noble in having such a
character as this? Must not that little girl have felt happy in the
consciousness of thus possessing her mother's entire confidence? Oh,
how different must have been her feelings from those of the child
whose word cannot be believed, and who is regarded by every one with
suspicion! Shame, shame on the child who has not magnanimity enough
to tell the truth.
God will not allow such sins to go unpunished. Even in this world the
consequences are generally felt. God has given every person a
conscience, which approves that which is right, and condemns that
which is wrong. When we do any thing wrong, our consciences punish
us for it, and we are unhappy. When we do any thing that is right,
the approval of conscience is a reward. Every day you feel the power
of this conscience approving or condemning what you do. Sometimes a
person thinks that if he does wrong, and it is not found out, he
will escape punishment. But it is not so. He will be punished whether
it is found out or not. Conscience will punish him if no one else
does.
There was once a boy whose father sent him to ride a few miles upon
an errand, and told him particularly not to stop by the way. It was
a beautiful and sunny morning in the spring; and as he rode along by
the green fields, and heard the singing of the birds as they flew
from tree to tree, he felt as light-hearted and as happy as they.
After doing his errand, however, as he was returning by the house
where two of his friends and playmates lived, he thought he could not
resist the temptation just to call a moment to see them. He thought
there would be no great harm if he merely stopped a minute or two,
and his parents would never know it. Here commenced his sin. He
stopped, and was led to remain longer and longer, till he found he
had passed two hours in play. Then, with a troubled conscience, he
mounted his horse, and set his face towards home. The fields looked
as green, and the skies as bright and cloudless, as when he rode
along in the morning; but, oh, how different were his feelings! Then
he was innocent and happy; now he was guilty and wretched. He tried
to feel easy, but he could not; conscience reproached him with his
sin. He rode sadly along, thinking what excuse he should make
to his parents for his long absence, when he saw his father, at a
distance, coming to meet him. His father, fearing that some accident
had happened, left home in search of his son. The boy trembled and
turned pale as he saw him approaching, and hesitated whether he had
better confess the truth at once, and ask forgiveness, or endeavor to
hide the crime with a lie. Oh, how much better it would have been for
him if he had acknowledged the truth! How much sooner would he have
been restored to peace! But one sin almost always leads to another.
When this kind father met his son with a smile, the boy said, "Father,
I lost the road, and it took me some time to get back again, and that
is the reason why I have been gone so long."
His father had never known him to be guilty of falsehood before, and
was so happy to find his son safe, that he did not doubt what he said
was true. But, oh, how guilty, and ashamed, and wretched, did that boy
feel, as he rode along! His peace of mind was destroyed. A heavy
weight of conscious guilt pressed upon his heart. The boy went home
and repeated the lie to his mother. It is always thus when we turn
from the path of duty; we know not how widely we shall wander. Having
committed one fault, he told a lie to conceal it, and then added sin
to sin, by repeating and persisting in his falsehood. What a change
had one short half day produced in the character and the happiness of
this child! His parent had not yet detected him in his sin, but he
was not, on that account, free from punishment. Conscience was at
work, telling him that he was degraded and guilty, His look of
innocence and his lightness of heart had left him. He was ashamed to
look his father or mother in the face. He tried to appear easy and
happy, but he was uneasy and miserable. A heavy load of conscious
guilt rested upon him, which destroyed all his peace.
When he retired to bed that night, he feared the dark. It was long
before he could quiet his troubled spirit with sleep. And when he
awoke in the morning, the consciousness of his guilt had not
forsaken him. There it remained fixed deep in his heart, and would
allow him no peace. He was guilty, and of course wretched. The first
thought which occurred to him, on waking, was the lie of the
preceding day. He could not forget it. He was afraid to go into the
room where his parents were, lest they should discover, by his
appearance, that he had been doing something wrong. And though, as
weeks passed away, the acuteness of his feelings in some degree
abated, he was all the time disquieted and unhappy. He was
continually fearing that something would occur which should lead to
his detection.
Thus things went on for several weeks, till, one day, the gentleman at
whose house he stopped called at his father's on business. So soon
as this boy saw him come into the house, his heart beat violently,
and he turned pale with the fear that something would be said that
would bring the whole truth to light. The gentleman, after conversing
a few moments with his father, turned to the little boy, and said,
"Well, how did you get home the other day? My boys had a very
pleasant visit from you." Can you imagine how the boy felt? You could
almost have heard his heart beat. The blood rushed into his face, and
he could not speak; and he dared not raise his eyes from the floor.
The gentleman then turned to his parents, and said, "You must let
your son come up again and see my boys. They were quite disappointed
when he was there a few weeks ago, for he only staid about two hours,
and they hoped he had come to spend the whole day with them." There,
the whole truth was out. And how do you suppose that boy felt? He had
disobeyed his parents; told a lie to conceal it; had for weeks
suffered the pangs of a guilty conscience; and now the whole truth
was discovered. He stood before his parents overwhelmed with shame,
convicted of disobedience, and mean, degraded falsehood.
This boy was all the time suffering the consequences of his sin. For
many days he was enduring the reproaches of conscience, when the
knowledge of his crime was confined to his own bosom. How bitterly
did he suffer for the few moments of forbidden pleasure he had
enjoyed! The way of the transgressor is always hard. Every child who
does wrong must, to a greater or less degree, feel the same sorrows.
This guilty child, overwhelmed with confusion and disgrace, burst
into tears, and implored his parents' forgiveness. But he was told by
his parents that he had sinned, not only against them, but against
God. The humble child went to God in penitence and in prayer. He made
a full confession of all to his parents, and obtained their
forgiveness; and it was not till then that peace of mind was restored.
Will not the child who reads this account take warning from it? If
you have done wrong, you had better confess it at once. Falsehood will
but increase your sin, and aggravate your sorrow. Whenever you are
tempted to say that which is untrue, look forward to the consequences.
Think how much sorrow, and shame, and sin, you will bring upon
yourself. Think of the reproaches of conscience; for you may depend
upon it, that those reproaches are not easily borne.
And is it pleasant to have the reputation of a liar? When persons are
detected in one falsehood, they cannot be believed when they speak the
truth. No person can place any more confidence in them till a long
time of penitence has elapsed, in which they have had an opportunity
to manifest their amendment. The little boy, whose case we have above
alluded to, was sincerely penitent for his sin. He resolved that he
never would tell another lie. But since he had deceived his parents
once, their confidence in him was necessarily for a time destroyed.
They could judge of the reality of his penitence only by his future
conduct. One day he was sent to a store to purchase some small
articles for his mother. In his haste, he forgot to stop for the few
cents of change which he ought to have received. Upon his return
home, his mother inquired for the change. He had not thought a word
about it before, and very frankly told her, that he had forgotten it
entirely. How did his mother know that he was telling the truth? She
had just detected him in one lie, and feared that he was now telling
her another. "I hope, my dear son," she said, "you are not again
deceiving me." The boy was perfectly honest this time, and his
parents had never before distrusted his word. It almost broke his
heart to be thus suspected, but he felt that it was just, and went to
his chamber and wept bitterly. These are the necessary consequences
of falsehood. A liar can never be believed. It matters not whether he
tells truth or falsehood, no one can trust his word. If you are ever
tempted to tell a lie, first ask yourself whether you are willing to
have it said that nobody can trust your word. The liar is always
known to be such. A person may possibly tell a lie which shall not be
detected, but, almost always something happens which brings it to
light. The boy who stopped to play when on an errand two miles from
his father's house, thought that his falsehood would never be
discovered. But he was detected, and overwhelmed with shame.
It is impossible for a person who is in the habit of uttering
untruths to escape detection. Your character for truth or falsehood
will be known. And what can be more humiliating and degrading than to
have the name of a liar? It is so considered in all nations and with
all people. It is considered one of the meanest and most cowardly
vices of which one can be guilty. The liar is always a coward. He
tells lies, because he is afraid to tell the truth.
And how do you suppose the liar must feel when he comes to die? It
is a solemn hour. Perhaps many of the children who read this book
have never seen a person die. I have seen many. I have seen children
of all ages dressed in the shroud and placed in the coffin. I might
write pages in describing to you such scenes. One day, I went to see
a little girl about ten years of age, who was very sick. When I went
into the room, she was lying upon the little cot-bed, her lips
parched with fever, and her face pale and emaciated with suffering.
Her mother was standing by her bed-side, weeping as though her heart
would break. Other friends were standing around, looking in vain for
something to do to relieve the little sufferer. I went and took her
by the hand, and found that she was dying. She raised her languid
eyes to me, but could not speak. Her breathing grew fainter and
fainter. Her arms and limbs grew cold. We could only look mournfully
on and see the advances of death, without being able to do any thing
to stop its progress. At last she ceased to breathe. Her spirit
ascended to God to be judged, and her body remained upon the bed, a
cold and lifeless corpse. All children are exposed to death; and when
you least expect it, you may be called to lie upon a bed of sickness,
and go down to the grave. There is nothing to give one joy in such an
hour, but a belief that our sins are forgiven, and that we are going
to the heavenly home. But how must a child feel in such an hour, when
reflecting upon falsehoods which are recorded in God's book of
remembrance! Death is terrible to the impenitent sinner; but it is a
messenger of love and of mercy to those who are prepared to die. If
you have been guilty of a falsehood, you cannot, die in peace till
you have repented and obtained forgiveness.
There was a little girl eleven years of age, who died a few months
ago. She loved the Savior, and when told that she could not live, was
very happy. She said she was happy to die, and go home and be with
her Savior and the angels in heaven. But there was one thing, which,
for a time, weighed heavily upon her mind. A year or two before she
felt interested in religion she had told a lie to her aunt; and she
could not die in peace, till she had seen that aunt, confessed her
sin, and asked forgiveness. Her aunt was sent for, though she was
many miles distant. When her aunt came, the sick little girl, with
sorrow for her fault, made confession, and asked forgiveness, "Aunt,"
said she, "I have prayed to God, and hope that he has forgiven me;
and I cannot die in peace till I have obtained your forgiveness." If
any child who reads this book is tempted to deceive his parents or
his friends, I hope he will remember that he must soon die, and think
how he will feel in that solemn hour.
But perhaps you think that the falsehood of which this girl was guilty
was one of peculiar aggravation. It was simply this: She was one day
playing in the room with several little children, and was making them
laugh very loud. Her aunt said, "My dear, you must not make them
laugh so loud."
And she replied, "It is not I, aunt, who makes them laugh."
This was the falsehood she uttered. And though her aunt did not know
that it was false, the little girl did, and God in heaven did. And
when she came to die, though it was a year or two after, her soul was
troubled, and the consciousness of her sin destroyed her peace. A lie
is, in the sight of God, a dreadful sin, be it ever so trifling in our
estimation. When we are just ready to leave the world, and to appear
before God in judgment, the convictions of a guilty conscience will
press upon the heart like lead.
There are many ways of being guilty of falsehood without uttering
the lie direct in words. Whenever you try to deceive your parents, in
doing that which you know they disapprove, you do, in reality, tell
a lie. Conscience reproves you for falsehood. Once, when I was in
company, as the plate of cake was passed round, a little boy, who sat
by the side of his mother, took a much larger piece than he knew she
would allow him to have. She happened, for the moment, to be looking
away, and he broke a small piece off and covered the rest in his lap
with his handkerchief. When his mother looked, she saw the small
piece, and supposed he had taken no more. He intended to deceive her.
His mother has never found out what he did. But God saw him, and
frowned upon him, as he committed this sin. And do you not think that
the boy has already suffered for it? Must he not feel mean and
contemptible whenever he thinks that, merely to get a little bit of
cake, he would deceive his kind mother? If that little boy had one
particle of honorable or generous feeling remaining in his bosom, he
would feel reproached and unhappy whenever he thought of his
meanness. If he was already dead to shame, it would show that he had
by previous deceit acquired this character. And can any one love or
esteem a child who has become so degraded? And can a child, who is
neither beloved nor respected, be happy? No! You may depend upon it,
that when you see a person guilty of such deceit, he does in some way
or other, even in this world, suffer a severe penalty. A frank and
open-hearted child is the only happy child. Deception, however
skilfully it may be practised, is disgraceful, and ensures sorrow and
contempt. If you would have the approbation of your own conscience,
and the approval of friends, never do that which you shall desire to
have concealed. Always be open as the day. Be above deceit, and then
you will have nothing to fear. There is something delightful in the
magnanimity of a perfectly sincere and honest child. No person can
look upon such a one without affection. You are sure of friends, and
your prospects of earthly usefulness and happiness are bright.
But we must not forget that there is a day of most solemn judgment
near at hand. When you die, your body will be wrapped in the shroud,
and placed in the coffin, and buried in the grave; and there it will
remain and moulder to the dust, while the snows of unnumbered
winters, and the tempests of unnumbered summers, shall rest upon the
cold earth which covers you. But your spirit will not be there. Far
away, beyond the cloudless skies, and blazing suns, and twinkling
stars, it will have gone to judgment. How awful must be the scene
which will open before you, as you enter the eternal world! You will
see the throne of God: how bright, how glorious, will it burst upon
your sight! You will see God the Savior seated upon that majestic
throne. Angels, in numbers more than can be counted, will fill the
universe with their glittering wings, and their rapturous songs. Oh,
what a scene to behold! And then you will stand in the presence of
this countless throng to answer for every thing you have done while
you lived. Every action and every thought of your life will then be
fresh in your mind. You know it is written in the Bible, "God will
bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it
be good or whether it be evil." How must the child then feel who has
been guilty of falsehood and deception, and has it then all brought
to light! No liar can enter the kingdom of heaven. Oh, how dreadful
must be the confusion and shame with which the deceitful child will
then be overwhelmed! The angels will all see your sin and your
disgrace. And do you think they will wish to have a liar enter
heaven, to be associated with them? No! They must turn from you with
disgust. The Savior will look upon you in his displeasure. Conscience
will rend your soul. And you must hear the awful sentence, "Depart
from me, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his
angels." Oh, it is a dreadful thing to practice deceit. It will shut
you from heaven. It will confine you in eternal wo. Though you should
escape detection as long as you live; though you should die, and your
falsehood not be discovered, the time will soon come when it will
all be brought to light, and when the whole universe of men and of
angels will be witnesses of your shame. If any child who reads this
feels condemned for past deception, oh, beware, and do not postpone
repentance till the day of judgment shall arrive. Go at once to those
whom you have deceived, and make confession, and implore forgiveness.
Then go to your Savior, fall upon your knees before him; pray that he
will pardon you, and promise to sin no more. If your prayer is
offered in sincerity, and your resolution remains unbroken, the
Savior will forgive you; and when the trump of the archangel shall
summon you to judgment, he will give you a home in heaven. The tear
of sincere penitence our kind Saviour is ever ready to accept.
If you are ever tempted to deceive, O, remember, that your deception
must soon be known. It is utterly impossible that it should long
remain undetected. The moment the day of judgment arrives, your heart
will be open to the view of the universe, and every thought will be
publicly known. How much safer then is it to be sincere and honest!
Strive to preserve your heart free from guile. Then you will have
peace of conscience. You will fear no detection. You can lie down at
night in peace. You can awake in the morning with joy. Trusting in
the Saviour for acceptance, you can die happy. And when the morning
of the resurrection dawns upon you, your heart will be filled with a
joy which earth's sunniest mornings and brightest skies never could
afford. The Saviour will smile upon you. Angels will welcome you to
heaven. You will rove, in inexpressible delight, through the green
pastures of that blissful abode. You will lie down by the still
waters where there is sweet repose for ever. Oh, what an hour of
bliss must that be, when the child, saved from sin and sorrow,
"Has reached the shore
Where tempests never beat nor billows roar!"