TRUTH-TELLING.
"Conformity to fact or reality. Exact accordance with that which is,
has been, or shall be."
I looked up Webster's definition of Truth yesterday, after overhearing
a conversation between two girls in the horse-car. They spoke so
loudly that not to hear would have been an impossibility. My attention
was first attracted to them by the name of a friend.
"Did you know of Mr. B.'s illness?" asked the younger and more
pronounced colloquist.
"Yes," responded the other; "I know he has had pneumonia, but I
understand that he is now convalescent."
"Oh, then, you haven't heard the latest!"
The discovery of her companion's ignorance acted upon the girl like
magic. She became vivacious, and beamed with the glow of satisfaction
kindled by the privilege of being the first to relate a morsel of
news.
"Well, my dear! Mamma and I were calling there, and while I was
talking to Miss B., I heard Mrs. B. tell my mother this awful thing.
You know Mr. B.'s sister is a trained nurse (I never did believe in
trained nurses!) and when he was taken so ill they sent for her to
come and take care of him. She got along tolerably well until a few
days ago when the doctor prescribed quinine for Mr. B. By mistake, she
gave him ten grains of morphine."
"What!"
"Yes, my dear, she did! It seems like an immense quantity, but, as I
wanted to be accurate (I always say that accuracy is a Christian
duty), I asked Miss B. how many grains her father took, and she said
'Ten!' Well! the poor victim slept thirty hours, and they were so
frightened that they sent for the doctor. He said that, fortunately,
no harm was done, but that it was an unpardonable piece of
carelessness. They discharged the nurse forthwith. She ought to have
been arrested and punished,--not turned loose upon a confiding
community."
"Yet you say she is his own sister?"
"Yes, indeed! and the family have always been perfectly devoted to
her! But they have sent her to the right-about now. It is too bad! A
family row is such an unfortunate thing. They may be thankful not to
have a murder-case to deal with!"
Strangely enough, I was _en route_ for the house of my friend, Mrs.
B., and as the car, at this juncture, crossed the street on which she
lived, I motioned to the conductor to ring the bell, and alighted
before hearing more of that remarkable tale. Being acquainted with the
whole matter as it actually occurred, I was amused and indignant, as
well as curious, to learn how this girl had received the wretchedly
garbled version of an affair, the facts of which were these:
When Mr. B. was suddenly prostrated by an alarming attack of
pneumonia, his sister, a noble woman who had taken up as her life-work
the duties of a trained nurse in a Boston hospital, was telegraphed
for. As she had a serious case in charge, it was impossible to obey
the summons, and a New York nurse was engaged. Mr. B.'s physician had,
early in his illness, prepared some powders, each containing a minute
portion of morphine, and several had been administered to the patient.
Of late, he had taken five grains of quinine each morning. A few days
before the above mentioned harangue, the doctor ordered the nurse to
double the usual dose of quinine. She, carelessly, or misunderstanding
the directions, gave two of the morphine powders. The dose was not
large enough to cause more serious injury than throwing the patient
into a long and heavy sleep, and frightening his family. The doctor,
who had engaged the nurse, discharged her, as Mr. B. was so far
improved as to need only such care as his wife and daughter could
give him.
My curiosity prompted me to inquire of Mrs. B. and Miss B., without
divulging my motive, the particulars of the call they had received
from the horse-car orator. I learned that Mrs. B. had told the girl's
mother the facts of the case while the two daughters were talking
together. Miss B. said that they, now and then, overheard a few words
of the conversation between the older women, and that her companion
had made several inquiries concerning it. Among others was the query:
"How many grains of the medicine does your father take every day?"
Miss B., supposing she referred to the quinine, answered:
"Five, generally; but on the day of which mamma speaks, ten grains
were prescribed."
And from this scanty amount of rapidly acquired information had grown
the story to which I had been an amazed listener.
"Behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth!"
Yet this girl did not intend to lie. She gleaned scraps of a
conversation, and allowed a vivid imagination to supply the portions
she did not hear. Add to this the love of producing a sensation, which
is an inherent trait of many characters, and behold potent reasons for
seven-tenths of the cases of exaggeration which come to our notice,
romances constructed upon the "impressionist-picture" plan--a thing of
splash and glare and abnormal perspective that vitiates the taste for
symmetry and right coloring.
We all like to be the first to tell a story, and are anxious to relate
it so well that our listeners shall be entertained. That a tale loses
nothing in the telling is an established fact, especially if the
narrator thereof observes a lack of interest on the part of his
listeners. Then the temptation to arouse them to attention becomes
almost irresistible and unconsciously one accepts the maxim at which
we all sneer,--that it is folly to let the truth spoil a good story.
Every day we have occasion to hold our heads, reeling to aching with
conflicting accounts of some one incident, and repeat the question
asked almost nineteen hundred years ago:
"What is truth?"
We hear much of people who are "too frank." These destroyers of the
peace of mind of friend and foe alike pride themselves on the fact
that they are "nothing if not candid," and "always say just what they
think." Be it understood, this is not truthfulness. The utterance of
unnecessary and unkind criticism, however honest, is impertinence,
amounting to insolence.
When your "frank friend(?)" tells you that your gown does not fit,
that you dress your hair in such an unbecoming manner, that your
management of your household is not what it should be, she takes an
unwarrantable liberty. If traced back, the source of these remarks
would be found in a large percentage of instances, in a disagreeable
temper, captious humors, and a spirit that is anything but Christian.
One may be entirely truthful without bestowing gratuitous advice and
admonition.
People differ widely in their notions of veracity, and few would
endorse the technical definition with which this talk begins. Is it
because there is so much intentional falsehood, so much that is not in
"exact accordance with that which is, has been, or shall be," or that
standards of veracity vary with individual disposition, and what may
be classified as social climatic influences? Is it true that in morals
there is no stated, infallible and eternal gauge--"the measure of a
man--that is, of an angel?"
If a lie is something told "with the intention to deceive," as says
the catechism, a nineteenth century Diogenes would have need to search
in a crowd with an electric light in quest of a perfectly truthful
man.
For our comfort and hope be it recorded that there are men and women
who are uniformly veracious, and still courteous, who would not
descend to falsehood or subterfuge, yet who are never guilty of the
rudeness of making untactful speeches.
Were there more of such exceptions to the rule of inconsiderate,
exaggerated and recklessly mendacious talk that wounds ear and heart,
the "society lie" would be no more, and this flimsy excuse for
falsehood would be voted an article too tenuous and threadbare for
use.
Good people, so-called Christians, seldom appreciate what immense
responsibility is theirs in setting the example of telling the truth,
the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Said an amiable woman to me
a few days ago:
"Mrs. Smith, who is a strict Sabbatarian, asked me yesterday if I had
ever been to a Sunday reception or tea. Now, while I do not generally
approve of them, I do, once in a great while, attend one. But, rather
than shock her by acknowledging the offence I lied out of it. It is
the only course left for the well-bred in such circumstances."
An hour later I saw her punish her child for denying that she had
committed some piece of mischief of which she was guilty. The mother's
excuse to herself probably was that the child told a lie, she, a
"society fib." Perhaps the smaller sinner had no reputation for
breeding to maintain.
The love for drink is not more surely transmitted from father to son
than is the habit of lying. Once begun in a family, it rears itself,
like a hooded snake, all along the line in generation after generation
and appears to be an ineradicable evil. It spreads, too, as specks in
a garnered fruit. We are startled by seeing it in children by the time
they can lisp a lie, and we note in them, with a sickening at heart,
the father's or grandfather's tendency to secretiveness or deceit, or
the mother's _penchant_ for false excuses. We can scarcely bequeath a
greater sorrow to our offspring than to curse them before their birth
with this hereditary taint, which is, perhaps, one of the hardest of
all evils to correct. It may take the form of exaggerated speech, of
courteous or cowardly prevarication, or of downright falsehood, but,
in whatever guise, it is a curse to the owner thereof as well as to
his family. If you are so unfortunate as to have any symptom of it in
your blood, watch your boy or girl from infancy, and try, by all the
arts in your power, fighting against nature itself, even, to prevent
what is bred in the bone from coming out in the flesh.
We children of a larger growth can do much toward the correction of
this blemish in others as in ourselves by close guard over our own
speeches and assertions.
There are no sharper, more intolerant critics than the little ones,
and if they inherit the tendency to insincerity the only way in which
you can avert the much-to-be dreaded sin is by being absolutely
truthful yourself. Cultivate veracity as a virtue, as a grace, as a
vital necessity for the integrity of the soul. Prune excrescences in
the shape of loose statements; if you err in telling a wonderful
story, let it be in cutting down rather than in magnifying. A couple
of ciphers less are better than one too many. It is to be feared that
for many of us this would be a hard, although a wholesome task. The
trail of the serpent is over us all. We yield heedlessly to the
temptation to break promises, and to the habit of giving false reasons
to our children, little thinking that their grave, innocent eyes may
read our souls more clearly than those of older persons who are not so
easily deceived by our tongues. When your child, although a mere baby
in years, once discovers in you exaggeration or untruthfulness, he
remembers it always, and you, from that moment, lose one of the most
precious joys and sacred opportunities of your life--that of inspiring
his entire confidence and trust, and of leading the tiny feet in the
seldom-trodden path of Perfect Truth.