others of sheer moral cowardice. Plutarch calls lying the vice of a
slave. There is no vice, says Lord Bacon, that so covers a man with
shame as to be found false and perfidious. Every lie, great or small, is
the brink of a precipice, the depth of which nothing but Omniscience can
fathom. Denying a fault always doubles it. All that a man can get by
lying and dissembling is that he will not be believed when he speaks the
truth. A liar is subject to two misfortunes, neither to believe nor to
be believed. If falsehood, says Montaigne, like truth, had but one face,
we should be upon better terms; for we should then take the contrary of
what the liar says for certain truth.
We are not called upon to speak all that we know; that would be folly.
But what a man says should be what he thinks; otherwise it is knavery.
No wrong is ever made better, but always worse, by a falsehood. Even
when detection does not follow, suspicion is always created. Wrong is
but falsehood put in practice. The Chinese have a proverb which says, "A
lie has no legs, and can not stand;" but it has wings and can fly far
and wide. You never can unite, though you may try ever so hard, the
antagonistic elements of truth and falsehood. The man who forgets a
great deal that has happened has a better memory than he who remembers a
great deal that never happened.
After all, the most natural beauty in the world is honesty and moral
truth; for all beauty is truth. True features make the beauty of a face,
and true proportions the beauty of architecture, as true measure that of
harmony and music. In poetry, truth still is the perfection. Fiction
must be governed by truth, and can only please by its resemblance to
truth. The appearance of reality is necessary to agreeably represent any
passion, and to be able to move others we must be moved ourselves, or at
least seem to be so upon some probable ground. Falsehood itself is never
so susceptible as when she baits her hook with truth, and no opinions so
fatally mislead us as those that are not wholly wrong. No watch so
effectually deceives the wearer as those that are sometimes right.
Such are the imperfections of mankind that the duplicities, the
temptations, and the infirmities that surround us have rendered the
truth, and nothing but the truth, as hazardous and contraband a
commodity as a man can possibly deal in. Colton says that "pure truth,
like pure gold, has been found unfit for circulation;" and another has
said, "It is dangerous to follow truth too near lest she should kick out
your teeth." The trouble consists not in obeying the behests of strict
veracity, but in lack of prudence and ordinary caution. While all we
tell should be the truth, it is not always necessary to tell all the
truth, unless the other one have a right to know. Silence is always an
alternative with truth. Remember that the silken cords of love must ever
be linked with those of truth; otherwise they will but gall and
irritate, instead of guiding into paths of rectitude.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: HONOR.]
[Illustration]
A man of honor! What a glorious title is that! Who would not rather have
it than any that kings can bestow? It is worth all the gold and silver
in the world. He who merits it wears a jewel within his soul and needs
none upon his bosom. "His word is as good as his bond," and if there
were no law in the land one might deal just as safely with him. To take
unfair advantage is not in him. To quibble and guard his speech so that
he leads others to suppose that he means something that he does not
mean, even while they can never prove that it is so, would be impossible
to his frank nature. His speeches are never riddles. He looks you in the
eye and says straight out the things he has to say, and he does unto
others the things he would that they should do to him.
He is a good son and a good brother. Who ever heard him betray the
faults and follies of his near kindred? And with his friends he proves
himself true, and will not betray the trust friendship imposes on him.
And with strangers you do not find him too curious about the affairs of
others, or too eager to impart information accidentally gleaned by him.
Real honor and esteem are not difficult to be obtained in the world.
They are best won by actual worth and merit rather than by art and
intrigue, which runs a long and ruinous race, and seldom seizes upon the
prize at last. Clear and round dealing is the honor of man's nature, and
mixture of falsehood is like alloy in coin of gold and silver, which may
make the metal work the better, but it embaseth it.
Honor, like reputation and character, displays itself in little acts. It
is of slow growth. Anciently the Romans worshiped virtue and honor as
gods; they built two temples, which were so seated that none could enter
the temple of honor without passing through the temple of virtue, thus
symbolizing the truth that all honor is founded on virtue. He whose soul
is set to do right finds himself more firmly bound by the principle of
honor than by legal restraints—much more at ease when bound by the law
than when bound by his conscience. He who is actuated by false
principles of honor does not feel thus. True honor is internal, false
honor external. The one is founded on principles, the other on
interests. The one does not ostentatiously proclaim its lofty aims; it
prefers that its conduct and actions demonstrate its purposes. He who is
moved by false honor is constantly worried lest some one should doubt
that he was a man of honor. He is so busily engaged in sustaining his
reputation against fancied attacks on his honor that he finds but little
time to devote to the exercise of those acts which a fine sense of honor
would impel him to do. Such a one may be a libertine, penurious,
proud—may insult his inferiors and defraud his creditors—but it is
impossible for one possessed of true honor to be any of these.
Honor and virtue are not the same, though true honor is always founded
on virtue. Honor may take her tones and texture from the prevailing
manners and customs of those around us; this renders her vacillating
unless allied to virtue, which is the same in both hemispheres,
yesterday as to-day. When honor is not founded on virtue she becomes
essentially selfish in design, and is unworthy of her name. She is then
unstable and seldom the same, for she feeds upon opinion, and will be as
fickle as her food. She builds a lofty structure on the sandy foundation
of the esteem of those who are, of all beings, the most subject to
change. Combined with virtue she is uniform and fixed, because she looks
for approbation only from Him who is the same at all times. Honor by
herself is capricious in her rewards. She feeds us upon air, and often
pulls down our house to build our monument. She is contracted in her
views, inasmuch as her hopes are rooted on to earth, bounded by time,
and terminated by death. But, when directed by virtue, her hopes become
enlarged and magnified, inasmuch as they extend beyond present
things—even to things eternal. In the storms and tempests of life mere
honor is not to be depended on, because she herself partakes of the
tumult; she also is buffeted by the waves and borne along by the
whirlwind. But virtue is above the storm, and gives to honor a sure and
steadfast anchor, since it is cast into heaven.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: POLICY.]
[Illustration]
What is called policy is sometimes spoken of in the same sense as
prudence, but its nature is cunning. It is a thing of many aspects and
of many tongues; it can appear in any form and speak in any language. It
is sometimes called management, but is not worthy of that good name,
inasmuch as it is but a compound of sagacity and deceit, of duplicity
and of meanness. It puts on the semblance of kindness and concern for
your good, but its heart is treachery and selfishness.
This principle, strange as it may seem, is of very extensive influence.
It is adopted and acted upon by multitudes, who claim to be respectable
and intelligent men, and is not confined to the few or those of the
baser sort. Its devotees may not be aware that this is their ruling
principle of action. They mistake its meaning by giving it a wrong name.
They call it prudence, discretion, wisdom. Alas! it is not guided by the
high principles of integrity, which beautify and adorn those noble
attributes of perfect manhood. Its appropriate name is policy, the
sister of cunning, the child of deception and duplicity.
This principle of double dealing, of artful accommodation and
management, is eminently characteristic of the present age. It meets
every man on his blind side, and by stratagem makes a tool of him to
accomplish its own wily and selfish purposes. If he is weak, it deceives
him by its artifices; if he is vain, it puffs up his vanity by flattery;
if he is avaricious, it allures him with the prospect of gain; if he is
ambitious, it promises him promotion; if he is timid, it threatens him.
Its leading maxim is, "The end justifies the means," and, in pursuing
its end, it sticks at nothing that promises success. It may be traced in
all departments of business and through all grades of society, from the
grand councils of the nation to the little town or parish meeting.
Instead of acting in open daylight, pursuing the direct and
straightforward path of rectitude and duty, you see men extensively
putting on false appearances, working in the dark, and carrying their
plans by stratagem and deceit; nothing open, nothing direct and honest;
one thing is said, and another thing is meant. When you look for a man
in one place, you find him in another. With flattering lips and a double
heart do they speak. Their language and conduct do not proceed from
fixed principles and open-hearted sincerity, but from a spirit of
duplicity and selfish policy.
Prudence, caution, and business management are not only a necessity, but
are commended as the price of success in worldly affairs. They have the
sanction of our best judgment, and offend no moral sense of right. But
against mere policy every young man who has any desire of lasting
respectability and influence ought most carefully be on his guard.
Nothing can be more fatal to reputation and success in life than to
acquire the character of an artful intriguer, one who does all things
with the ulterior design of furthering his own ends. He may succeed for
a time; but he will soon be found out, and when found out will be
despised. He who acts on this principle thinks that nobody knows it; but
he is wretchedly mistaken. The thin disguise that is thrown over the
inner man is soon seen through by every one, and while he prides himself
on being very wise and keeping his designs out of sight, all persons of
the least discernment perfectly understand him, and despise him for
thinking he could make fools of them.
People often mistake policy for discretion. There is a wide difference
between the two traits. Policy is only the mimic of discretion, but may
pass current with the mass in the same manner as vivacity is often
mistaken for wit and gravity for wisdom. Policy has only private,
selfish aims, and stops at nothing which may render these successful.
Discretion has large and extended views, and, like a well-formed eye,
commands a wide horizon. Policy is a kind of short insight that
discovers the minutest objects that are close at hand, but is not able
to discover things at a distance. The whole power of policy is private;
to say nothing and to do nothing is the utmost of its reach. Yet men
thus narrow by nature and mean by art are sometimes able to rise by the
miscarriage of bravery and openness of integrity, and, watching failures
and snatching opportunities, obtain advantages which belong to higher
characters.
The observant man will not calculate any essential difference from mere
appearances. The light laughter that bubbles on the lips, often mantles
over brackish depths of sadness, and the serious look may be the sober
veil that covers a divine peace. The bosom may ache beneath diamond
broaches, or a blithe heart dance under coarse wool sacks. By a kind of
fashionable discipline the eye is taught to brighten, the lip to smile,
and the whole countenance to emanate the semblance of friendly welcome,
while the bosom is unwarmed by a single spark of genuine kindness and
good-will. Grief and anxiety lie hidden under the golden robes of
prosperity, and the gloom of calamity is often cheered by the secret
radiations of hope and comfort, as in the works of nature the bog is
sometimes covered with flowers and the mine concealed in barren crags.
Beware, so long as you live, of judging men by the outward appearance.
But nothing feigned or violent can last long. Life becomes manifest. It
will declare itself, and at last the worthless disguises are worn off.
Hence, the lesson that the wise man should learn is to guard against
mere appearances in others, but for himself to pursue the straightforward,
open course, and in a world of deceit and intrigue show himself a man
that can be relied on. Thus will his life be influential for good, and
after he is gone his memory will be revered as that of an upright man.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: EGOTISM.]
[Illustration]
There is one quality which brings to its possessor naught but ridicule,
or, what is still worse, positive dislike: it is sometimes called
self-conceit, but more commonly and more forcibly expressed by egotism.
Egotism and skepticism are always miserable companions in life, and are
especially unlovable in youth. The egotist is next door to a fanatic.
Constantly occupied with self, he has no thoughts to spare for others.
He refers to himself in all things, thinks of himself, and studies
himself, until his own little self becomes his ruling principle of
action. The pests of society are egotists. There are some men whose
opposition can be reckoned upon against every thing that has not
emanated from themselves. He that falls in love with himself will have
no rivals. The egotist's code is, Every thing for himself, nothing for
others. Hence it is by reason of their selfishness that they find the
world so ugly, because they can only see themselves in it.
An egotist is seldom a man of brilliant parts. A talented or sensible
man is apt to drop out of his narration every allusion to himself. He is
content with putting his theme on its own ground. You shall not tell me
you have learned to know most men. Your saying so disproves it. You
shall not tell me by their titles what books you have read. You shall
not tell me your house is the best and your pictures the finest. You
shall make me feel it. I am not to infer it from your conversation. It
is a false principle, because we are entirely occupied with ourselves,
we must equally occupy the thoughts of others. The contrary inference is
but the fair one. We are such hypocrites that whatever we talk of
ourselves, though our words may sound humble, our hearts are nearly
always proud. When all is summed up, a man never speaks of himself
without loss; his accusation of himself is always believed, his praises
never. This love of talking of self is a disease that, like influenza,
falls on all constitutions. It is allowable to speak of yourself,
provided you do not continually advance new arguments in your favor. But
abuse of self is nearly as bad, since we can not help suspecting that
those who abuse themselves are, in reality, angling for approbation.
Ofttimes we dislike egotism in others simply because of our own. We feel
it a slight, when we are by, that one should talk of himself, or seek to
entertain us with his own interests instead of asking us ours. He who
thinks he can find in himself the means of doing without others is much
mistaken. But he who thinks others can not do without him is still more
mistaken. Conceit is the most contemptible and one of the most odious
qualities in the world. It is vanity drawn from all other shifts, and
forced to appeal to itself for admiration. It is to nature what paint is
to beauty; it is not only needless, but it impairs what it would
improve. He who gives himself airs of importance exhibits the
credentials of impotence. He that fancies himself very enlightened
because he sees the deficiency of others may be very ignorant because he
has not studied his own. In the same degree as we overrate ourselves we
shall underrate others; for injustice allowed at home is not likely to
be corrected abroad.
It is this unquiet love of self that renders us so sensitive. It is an
instrument useful, but dangerous. It often wounds the hand that makes
use of it, and seldom does good without doing harm. The sick man who
sleeps ill thinks the night long. We exaggerate all the evils which we
encounter; they are great, but our sensibility increases them. Man
should not prize himself by what he has; neither should others prize him
by what he professes to have, or what he by vigorous talk constantly
lays claim to possess. We should seek the more valuable qualities which
lie hidden in his true self. He mistakes who values a jewel by its
golden frame, or a book by its silver clasps, or a man by reason of his
estates or profession.
The true measure of success always lies between two extremes. Egotism
and overweening self-conceit are indeed deplorable blemishes in any
character; but we, perhaps, forget that he who is totally destitute of
them presents but a sorry figure in the world's battle-field. He lacks
individuality, and lacks the courage to push forward his own interests.
In this aggressive age it will not do to be destitute of a right degree
of self-confidence. Lacking this, men are too often deterred from taking
that position for which their talents eminently fit them, and at last
have only vain regrets as they contemplate life's failures. Egotism is
as distinct and separate from a manly self-confidence in one's own
powers as the unsightly block of marble is to the finished statuette,
which consists, indeed, of the same materials as the former, but so
softened and modified as to be an object of admiration to all. Nor is it
difficult to draw the dividing lines. Egotism exultingly proclaims to
all, "Look at me. What strength, what ability, what talents are mine!
Who so graceful? who so gifted? who so competent to be placed in
position of honor or authority as I? I am sure of success. Behold my
triumph!" The man who is withal modest, yet feels that he possesses
acquisitions and gifts, says: "True, the way is long, the time
discouraging, but what has been done can be done. I can but make the
effort, and go forward to the best of my ability; and if so be I fail,
with a brave heart and a cheerful face I will do what duty points out;
but if success crowns my efforts, I will so use my advantages that all
may be benefited."
[Illustration: VANITY.]
[Illustration]
There is no vice or folly that requires so much nicety and skill to
manage as vanity, nor any which, by ill-management, makes so
contemptible a figure. The desire of being thought wise is often a
hindrance to being so, for such a one is often more desirous of letting
the world see what knowledge he hath than to learn of others that which
he wants. Men are more apt to be vain on account of those qualities
which they fondly believe they have than of those which they really
possess Some would be thought to do great things who are but tools or
instruments, like the fool who fancied he played upon the organ when he
only blew the bellows.
Be not so greedy of popular applause as to forget that the same breath
which blows up a fire may blow it out again. Vanity, like laudanum and
other poisonous medicines, is beneficial in small, though injurious in
large, quantities. Be not vain of your want of vanity. When you hear the
phrase, "I may say without vanity," you may be sure some characteristic
vanity will follow in the same breath. The most worthless things are
sometimes most esteemed. It is not all the world that can pull an humble
man down, because God will exalt him. Nor is it all the world that can
keep a proud man up, because God will debase him.
Vanity feeds voraciously and abundantly on the richest food that can be
served up, or can live on less and meaner diet than any thing of which
we can form a conception. The rich and the poor, learned and ignorant,
strong and weak,—all have a share in vanity. The humblest Christian is
not free from it, and when he is most humble the devil will flatter his
vanity by telling him of it. On the other hand, it is with equal
relish that it feeds upon vulgarity, coarseness, and fulsome
eccentricity,—every thing, in short, by which a person can attract
attention. It often takes liberality by the hand, prompts advice,
administers reproof, and sometimes perches visibly and gayly on the
prayers and sermons in the pulpit. It is an ever-present principle of
human nature—a wen on the heart of man; less painful, but equally
loathsome as a cancer. It is of all others the most baseless propensity.
O vanity, how little is thy force acknowledged or thine operations
discerned! How wantonly dost thou deceive mankind under different
disguises! Sometimes thou dost wear the face of pity; sometimes of
generosity; nay, thou hast the assurance to put on the robes of religion
and the glorious ornaments that belong only to heroic virtue. Vanity is
the fruit of ignorance. It thrives most in those places never reached by
the air of heaven or the light of the sun. It is a deceitful sweetness,
a fruitless labor, a perpetual fear, a dangerous honor; her beginning is
without providence, but her end not without repentance. Vanity is so
constantly solicitous of self that even where its own claims are not
interested it indirectly seeks the aliment which it loves by showing how
little is deserved by others.
Charms which, like flowers, lie on the surface—such as preserve figure
and dress—conduce to vanity. On the contrary, those excellencies which
lie down, like gold, and are discovered with difficulty—such as
profoundness of intellect and morality—leave their possessors modest
and humble. Vanity ceases to be blameless, even if it is not ennobled,
when it is directed to laudable objects, when it prompts us to great and
generous actions. Vanity is, indeed, the poison of agreeableness, yet
even a poison, when skillfully employed, has a salutary effect in
medicine; so has vanity in the commerce and society of the world.
Some intermixture of vainglorious tempers puts life into business, and
makes a fit composition for grand enterprises and hazardous endeavors;
for men of solid and sober natures have more of the ballast than the
sail. Vanity is, in one sense, the antidote to conceit, for, while the
former makes us all nerve to the opinions of others, the latter is
perfectly satisfied with its opinion of itself. A vain man can not be
altogether rude. Desirous as he is of pleasing he fashions his manners
after those of others. Therefore, let us give vanity fair quarter
wherever we meet with it, being persuaded that it is often productive of
good to its possessor, and to others who are within its sphere of
action.
Vanity pervades the whole human family to a greater or less degree, as
the atmosphere does the globe. It is so anchored in the heart of man
that not only in the lower walks of life but in the higher all wish to
have their admirers. Those who write against it wish to have the glory
of writing well, and those who read it wish the glory of reading well.
Vanity calculates but poorly on the vanity of others. What a virtue we
should distill from frailty! what a world of pain we would save our
brethren, if we would suffer our weakness to be the measure of theirs!
We would rather contend with pride than vanity, because pride has a
stand-up way of fighting. You know where it is. It throws its black
shadow on you, and you are not at a loss where to strike. But vanity is
such a delusive and multified failing that men who fight vanities are
like men who fight midgets and butterflies. It is much easier to chase
them than to hit them. Vanity may be likened to the mouse nibbling about
in the expectation of a crumb; while pride is apt to be like the
butcher's dog, who carries off your steak and growls at you as he goes.
Pride is never more offensive than when it condescends to be civil;
whereas vanity, whenever it forgets itself, naturally assumes good
humor.