Tales: Being Illustrations of Lying, in All its Branches

Preface

I am aware that a preface must be short, if its author aspires to have it read. I shall therefore content myself with making a very few preliminary observations, which I wish to be considered as apologies.

My first apology is, for having throughout my book made use of the words lying and lies, instead of some gentler term, or some easy paraphase, by which I might have avoided the risk of offending the delicacy of any of my readers.

Our great satirist speaks of a Dean who was a favourite at the church where he officiated, because

u He never mentioned hell to ears polite, — ”

ami I fear that to “ears polite,'* my coarsness, ia uniformly calling lying and lie by their real names, may sometimes be offensive.

But, when writing a book against lying, I was obliged to .express my meaning in the manner most consonant to the strict truth ; nor could I employ any words with such propriety as those hallowed and sanctioned for use, on such an occasion, by the practice of inspired, and holy men of old.

Moreover, I believe that those who accustom themselves to call lying and lie by a softning appellation, are in danger of weakening their aversion to the fault itself.

My second apology is, for presuming- to come forward, with such apparent boldness, as a didactic writer, and a teacher of truths, which I ought to believe that every one knows already, and better than I do vi

PREFACE.

But I beg permission to deprecate the charge of presumption and self-conceit, hy declaring that I pretend not to lay before my renders any new knowledge ; my only aim is to bring to their recollection knowledge which tlwy already possess, but do not constantly recall and act upon-

I am to them, and to my subject, what tile picture cleaner is to the picture ; the restorer to observation of what is valuable, and not the artist who created it.

In tne next place, I wish to remind them that a weak hand is as able as a powerful one to hold a mirror, in which we may see any defects in our dress or person.

In the last place, I venture to assert that there is not in my whole book a more common-place truth, than that kings are but men, and that monarchs, as well as their subjects, must surely die.

Notwithstanding, Philip of Macedon was so conscious oi his liability to forget this awful truth, that he. employed a monitor to follow him every day, repeating in his ear, “ Remember thou art but a man.’* And he who gave this salutary admonition neither possessed superiority of wisdom, nor pretended to possess it.

All, therefore, that I require of my readers is to do me justice to believe that, in the following work, my pretensions have been as humble, and as confined, as those of the remembrancer of Philip of Macedon.

AMELIA OPIE.

COJVTEJYTS.

Introduction

What constitutes lying 1

I answer the intention to deceive.

If this be a correct definition, there must be passive as well as active lying ; and those who withhold the truth, or do not tell the whole truth, with an intention to deceive-, are guilty of lying, as well as those who tell a direct or positive falsehood.

Lies are many, and various in their nature and in their tendency, and may be arranged under their different names, thus : —

Lies of Vanity.

Lies of Flattery.

Lies of Convenience.

Lies of Interest.

Lies of Fear.

Lies of first-rate Malignity.

Lies of second-rate Malignity.

Lies, falsely called Lies of Benevolence.

Lies of real Benevolence.

Lies of mere Wantonness, proceeding from, a depraved love oflying, or contempt for truth.

ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING.

ON LIES OF VANITY.

There are others probably ; but I believe that this list contains alt those which are of the most importance ; unless, indeed, we may add to it —

Practical Lies ; that is, Lies acted, not spoken.

I shall give an anecdote, or tale, in order t6 illustrate each sort of lie in its turn, or nearly so, lies for the sake of lying excepted ; for I should find it very difficult so to illustrate this the most despicable species of falsehood.

Chapter II. On The Active And Passive Lies Of Vanity

I shall begin my observations by defining what I mean by the Lie of Vanity, both in its active and passive nature 5 these lies being undoubtedly the most common, because vanity is one of the most powerful springs of human action* and is usually the besetting sin of every one. Suppose* that, in order to give myself consequence, 1 were to assert that I was actually acquainted with certain great and distinguished personages whom I had merely met in fashionable society. Suppose also, I were to say that I was at such a place, and such an assembly on such a night, without adding, that I was there, not as an invited guest, but only because a benefit concert was held at these places for which I had tickets. — These would both be lies of vanity ; but the one would be an active, the other a passive, lie.

In the first I should assert a direct falsehood, in the other I should withhold part of the truth ; but both would be lies, because, in both, my intention was to deceive.*

* This passive lie is a very frequent one in certain circles in London ; as many ladies and gentlemen there purchase tickets for benefit concerts held at great houses, in order that they may be able to say, “ I was at ladv such a one’s on such a night.”

But though we are frequently tempted to be guilty of die active lies of vanity, our temptations to its passive lies sere more frequent still ; nor can the sincere lovers of truth be too much on their guard agajfist this constantly recurring danger. The following instances will explain what I mean by -this observation.

If I assert that my motive for a particular action was virtuous, when I know that it was worldly and selfish, I am guilty of an active , or direct , lie. But I am equally guilty of falsehood, if, white I hear my actions or forbearances praised, and imputed to decidedly worthy motives, when I am concious that they sprung from unworthy or unimportant ones, I listen with silent complacency, and do not positively disclaim my right to commendation ; only, in the one case I lie directly , in the other indirectly : the lie is active in the one, and passive in the other. And are we not all of us conscious of having sometimes accepted incense to our vanity, which we knew that we did not deserve 1

Men have been known to boast of attention, and even of avowals of serious love from women, and women from men, which, in point of fact, they never received, and therein have been guilty of positive falsehood ; but they who, without any contradiction on their own part, allow their friends and flatterers to insinuate that they have been, OY are, objects of love and admiration to those who never professed either, are as much guilty of deception as the utterers of the above-mentioned assertion. Still, it is certain, that many, who would shrink with moral disgust from committing the latter species of falsehood, are apt to remain silent, when their vanity is gratified, without any overt act of deceit on their part, and are contented to let the flattering belief remain uncontradicted. Yet the turpitude is, in my opinion, at least, nearly equal, if my definition of lying be correct ; namely, the intention to deceive.

This disingenuous passiveness, this deceitful silence, belongs to that, extensive and common species of falsehood withholding the truth.

, this tolerated sin, denominated white lying , is a sin which I believe that some prsons commit, not only with* out being conscious that it is a sin, but, frequently, with a belief that, to do it readily, and without confusion, is often a merit, and always a piW of ability. Still more frequently, they do it unconsciously, perhaps, from the force of habit; and, like Monsieur Jourdain, “-the Bourgeois gentil-homme,” who ibumi out that he had talked prose ah his life without knowing it, these persons utter lie upon lie, without knowing that what they utter deserves to be considered as falsehood.

I am myself convinced, that a passive lie is equally as irreconcilable to moral principles as an active one; but 1 am well aware that most persons are of a different opinj; ion. Yet, I would say to those who thus differ from me, if you allow yourselves to violate truth — that is, to deceive , for any purpose whatever — who can say where this sort of self-indulgence vviil submit to be bounded 1 Can you be sure that you will not, when strongly tempted, utter what is equally false, in order to benefit yourself at the expense of a fellow creature 1

All mortals are, at times, accessible to temptation ; but, when we are not exposed to -it, we dwell with complacency on our means of resisting it, imour principles, and our tried and experienced self-denial : but, as the life-boat, and the safety -gun, which succeeded in all that they were made to do while the sea was calm, and the winds still, have been known to fail when the vessel was tost on a tempestuous ocean ; so those who may successfully oppose principle to temptation when the tempest of the passons is not awakened within their bosoms, may sometimes be overwelmed by its power when it meets them in all its awful energy and unexpected violence.

But in every warfare against human corruption, habitual resistance to little temptations is, next to prayer, the most l ' efficacious aid. He who is to be trained for public exhibitions of feats of strength, is made to carry small weights -|-j at first, which are daily increased m heaviness, till, at last,

!| ( he is almost unconsciously able to bear, with ease, the : greatest weight possible to be borne by man. In like manner, those who resist the daily temptation to tell what are ap-

ON LIES OF VANITY.

parently trivial and innocent lies, will be better able to withstand allurements to serious and important deviations from truth, and be more fortified in the hour of more severe temptation against every species of dereliction from integrity.

The active lies of vanity are so numerous, but at the same time, are sc like each other, that it were useless, as well as endless, to attempt to enumerate them. I shall therefore mention one of them only, before I proceed to niy tale on the active lie of vanity, and that is the most common of all ; namely, the violation of truth which persons indulge in relative to their age ; an error so generally committed, especially by the unmarried of both sexes, that few persons can expect to be believed when declaring their age at an advanced period of life. So common, and therefore so little disreputable, is this species of He considered to be, that a sensible friend cf mine said to me the other day, when I asked him the age of the lady whom he was going to marry, “ She tells me she is five-and-twenty ; I therefore conclude that she is five-and-thirty.” This was undoubtedly spoked in joke ; still it was an evidence of the toleration generally granted on tins point.

But though it is possible that my friend believed the lady to be a year or two older than she owned herself to be, and thought a deviation from truth on this subject was of no consequence, I am very sure that he would not have ventured to mhrry a woman whom he suspected of lying on any other /occasion. This however is a lie which does not expose the utterer to severe animadversion, and for this reason probably, that all mankind are so averse to be thought old, that the wish to be considered younger than the truth warrants meet with complacent sympathy and indulgence, even when years are notoriously annihilated at the impulse of vanity.

1 give the following story in illustration of the active LIE OF VANITY.

THE STAGE COACH.

Amongst those whom great successes in trade had raised to considerable opulence in their native city, was a family by the name of Burford ; and the eldest brother, when he was the only surviving partner of that name in the firm, was not only able to indulge himself in the luxuries of a carriage, country-house, garden, hot-houses, and all the privileges which wealth bestows, but could also lay by money enough to provide amply for his children.

His only daughter had been adopted, when very young, by her paternal grandmother, whose fortune was employed in her son’s trade, and who could well afford to take on herself all the expences of Annabel’s education. But it was with painful reluctance that Annabel’s excellent mother consented to resign her child to another’s care ; nor could she be prevailed upon to do so, till Burford, who believed |hat his widowed parent, would sink under the loss of her husband, unless Annabel was permitted to reside with her, commanded her to yield her maternal rights in pity to this beloved sufferer. She could therefore presume to refuse no longer ; — but she yielded with a mental conflict only too prophetic of the mischief to which she exposed her child’s mind and character, by this enforced surrender of a mother’s duties.

The grandmother was a thoughtless woman of this world — the mother, a picus, reflecting being, continually preparing herself for the world to come. With the latter, Annabel would have acquired principles — with the former* she could only learn accomplishments ; and that weakly judging persons encouraged her in habits of mind and character which would have filled both her father and mother with pain and apprehension.

Vanity was her ruling passion ; and this her grandmother fostered by every means in her power. She gave her elegant dresses, and had her taught showy accomplishments. She delighted to hear her speak of herself, aud boast of the compliments paid her on her beauty and

THE STAGE COACH.

her talents. She was even weak enough to admire the skilful falsehood with which she embellished every thing which she narrated : but this vicious propensity the old lady considered only as a proof of a lively fancy ; ana she congratulated herself on the consciousness how much more agreeable her fluent and inventive Annabel was, than the matter-of-fact girls with whom she associated. But while Annabel and her grandmother were on a visit at Burford’s country-house, and while the parents were beholding with sorrow the conceit and flippancy of their only daughter, they were plunged at once into comparative

B , by the ruin of some of Burford’s correspondents _ and by the fraudulent conduct of a friend in whom ne had trusted. In a few short weeks, therefore, the ruined grandmother and her adopted child, together with the parents and their boys , were forced to seek an asylum in the heart of Wales, and live on the slender marriage settlement of Burford’s amiable wife. For her every one felt, as it was thought that she had always discouraged that expensive style of living which had exposed her husband to envy, and its concomitant detractions, amongst those whose increase in wealth had not kept pace with his own. He had also carried his ambition so far, that he had even aspired to represent his native city in parliament ; and as he was a violent politician, some of the opposite party not only rejoiced in his downfall, but were ready to believe and to propagate that he had made a fraudulent bankruptcy in concert with his friend who had absconded, and that he had secured or conveyed away from his creditors money to a considerable amount. But the tale of calumny, which has no foundation in truth, cannot long retain its power to injure; and, in process of time, the feelings of the creditors in general were so completely changed towards Burford, that some of them who had been most decided against signing hirs certificate, were at length brought to confess that it was a matter for reconsideration. Therefore, when a distinguished friend of his fathers, who had been strongly prejudiced against him at Grst, repented of his unjust credulity, and, in order to make him amends, offered him a share in his own busi-

ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING.

ness, all the creditors, except two of the principal ones, il1 became willing to sign the certificate. Perhaps there is J ; i nothing so difficult to remove from some minds as suspi-

!!:• cions of a derogatory nature; and the creditors in ques-

■ \ u tion were envious, worldly men, who piqued themselves on j'jn their shrewdness, could not brook the idea of being over-

'% reached, and were, perhaps, not sorry that he whose pro**

: ! |ii uerity had excited their jealousy, should now be humbled

iW *$fore them as a dependant and a suppliant. However,

•; even they began to be tired at length of holding out

!:• against the opinion of so many ; and Burford had the com-

fort of being informed, after he had been some months in “] Wales, that matters were in train to enable him to get in* 4 to business again, with restored credit and renewed proa- !t; pects.

“ Then, who knows, Anna,’’ said he to his wife, “ but that in a few years I shall be able, by industry and economy, to pay^ali tli at I owe, both principal and interest 1 | for, till I have done so, I shall not be really happy ; and then poverty will be robbed of its sting. ” — “ Not only so,” she replied, — “ we could never have given our chib (i dren a better inheritance than this proof of their father’s strict integrity ; and, surely my dear husband, a blessing will attend thy labours and intentions.” — ■“ I humbly trust that it will.” — “ Yes,” she continued ; “ our change of fortune has humbled oar pride of heart, and the cry of our contrition and humility has not ascended in vain.” — “ Our Mi; pride of heart !” replied Burford, tenderly embracing her ;

V|i : “ it was /, I alone, who deserved chastisement, and I can-

K- not bear to hear thee blame thyself; but it is like thee,

. 0 . Anna, — thou art ever kind, ever generous ; however, as I

i;!; 1 like to be obliged to thee, I am contented that thou shouldst

V talk of our pride and our chastisement.” While these

hopes were uppermost in the minds of this amiable couble, and were cheering the weak mind of Burford’s mother, which, as it had been foolishly elated by prosperity, ji' was now as improperly depressed by adversity, Annabel

;ij|* had been passing several months at the house of a school-

$;[ fellow some miles from her father’s dwelling. The vain

vj; giri had felt the deepest mortification at this blight to her illustrations of lying.

worldly prospects, and bitterly lamented being no longer able to talk of her grandmother’s villa and carnages, and Aer father’s hot-houses and grounds ; nor could she h^P repining at the loss of those indulgences to which she had been accustomed. She was therefore delighted to leave hpme on a visit, and very sorry when unexpected circumstances in her friend’s family obliged her to return sooner than she intended. She was compelled also to return by herself in a public coach, — a great mortification to her still existing pride ; but she had now no pretensions to travel otherwise, and found it necessary to submit to circumstances. — In the coach were one young man and two elderly ones ; and her companions seemed so willing: to pay her attention, and make her journey pleasant to her, that Annabel, who always believed herself an object of admiration, was soon convinced that she had made a conquest of the youth, and that the others thought her a very sweet creature. She, therefore, gave way to all her loquacious vivacity ; she hummed tunes in order to show that she could sing ; she took out her pencil and sketched wherever they stopped to change horses, and talked of her own boudoir , her own maid, and all the past glories of her state, as if they still existed. In short, she tried to impress her companions with a high idea of her consequence, and as if unusual and unexpected circumstances had led her to travel incog., while she put in force all her attractions against their poor condemned heart. What an odious thing is a coquette of sixteen ! and such was Annabel Burford. Certain it is that she became an object of great attention to the gentlemen with her, but of adtairation, probably to the young man alone, who, in her youthful beauty, might possibly overlook her obvious defects. During the journey, one of the elderly gentlemen opened a basket which stood near him, containing some £ne hot-house grapes and flowers. « There, young lady,” said he to her, “ did you ever see such fruit as this before"' V* “.Oh dear, yes, in my papa’s grapery.” « Indeed ! but did you ever see such fine flowers V * “ Oh dear, yes, in papa’s succession-houses. There is nothing, I assure you, •f that sort,” she added, drawing up her head with a look

I

■ j of ineffable conceit, “ that I am not accustomed to

condescending, however, at the same time, to eat some of '( the grapes, and accept some of the flowers, i It was natural that her companions should now be veil ry desirous of finding out what princess in disguise was

j deigning to travel in a manner so unworthy of her ; and

I when they stopped within a few miles of her home, one of i the gentlemen, having discovered that she was known to a

':! passenger on the top of the coach, who was about to leave

; ! ft, got out and privately asked him who she was. “ Bur-

{ ford! Burford !” cried he, when he heard the answer;

« what ! the daughter of Burford, the bankrupt V ' “ Yes,

| the same.” — With a frowning brow he re-entered the

! coach, and, when seated, whispered the old gentleman

I 1 next him ; and both of them, having exchanged glances

of sarcastic and indignant meaning, looked at Annabel ; with great significance. Nor was it long before she ob-

; served a marked change in their manner towards her.

| They answered her with abruptness, and even with reluc-

'! j tance; till at length, the one who had interrogated her

;,i acquaintance on the coach said, in a sarcastic tone, “ 1

* conclude that you were speaking just now, young lady, of

the fine things which were once yours. You have no ! graperies and succession -houses, note, I take it.” “ Dear me ! why not, sir V * replied the conscious girl, in a trembling voice.” — “ Why not 1 Why, excuse iny freedom, hut are you not the daughter of Mr. Burford the bankrupt V* Never was a child more tempted to deny her parentage than Annabel was ; but, though with great reluctance, she faltered out, “ Yes ; and to be sure, my father was once unfortunate ; but”— here she looked at her young and opposite neighbour; and, seeing that his look of admiring ! respect was exchanged for one of ill-suppressed laughter, she felt irresistibly urged to add, “ But we are very well off now, I assure you ; and our present residence is so ; i i pretty ! Such a sweet garden ! and such a charming, hot- ;| house!” f ,

“Indeed!” returned the old man, witlt a significant :>:[ nod to his friend ; “ well then, let your papa take care he ih' does not make his house too hot to hold him, and that

I

THE STAGE COACH.

another house be not added to his list of residences.” Here he laughed heartily at his own wit, and was echoed by his companion. “But pray, how long has he been thus again favoured by fortune — Oh dear ! I cannot say ; but, for some time ; and I assure you our style of living is very complete,”— “ I do not doubt it ; for children and fools speak truth, says the proverb ; and sometimes,” added he in a low voice, “ the child and the fool are the same person.” — “ So, so,” he muttered aside to the other traveller ; “ gardens ! hot-houses ! carriage ! swindling, specious rascal!” But Annabel heard only the first part of the sentence : and being quite satisfied that she had recovered all her consequence in the eyes of her young be^u by two or three white lies , as she termed them (nights of fancy, in which she was apt to indulge,) she resumed her attack on his heart, and continued to converse, in her most seducing manner, till the coach stopped, according to her desire, at a cottage by the roadsi e, where as she said, her father’s groom was to meet Uhl* a\T t0 . her Portmanteau. The truth was, that hn?™ i?- 0 l choose t0 ** 861 down at her own humble it Z:J h,C . h W ? at further end of the village, because wmZ n ^ th * ta,e of her fal ‘en fortunes, but WhprwK° Ve falsehood of what she had been asserting, surDriJr << ?? aCh st0 PP ed > she exclaimed with well acted vwutinir fnr e '\ r r» me> .^ ow Grange that the servant is not till heconl^' Ihi’A d T ft D °f * i S nif yi 1 can stop here bv her Aid- i t ^. en coa °h, scarcely greeted

bv lnnka nM ^ ®? m P amon > but followed, as she fancied,

exnrcsspH h’ ^° m the y° uth > who handed her out, and expressed h.s great regret at parting with her.

rptnrn. ’ n * ean ' vh ile, were eagerly expecting her

return , for though the obvious defects in her character gave them excessive pain, and they were resolved to leave no measures untried in order to eradicate thJl tY? u a

^taodtei;T. render t d chcerfu1 ’ "hen, with her house She went carolling about the '

and S a „d WaS ‘ he fi "* time alone

*l MlK : x P ec ien > and, as the coach was later *u i

ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING.

up to a high pitch of feeling, and they were even beginning to share the fantastic fears of the impatient grandmother, when they saw the coach stop at a distant turn of the road, and soon after beheld Annabel coming towards them, who was fondly clasped to those affectionate bosoms, for which her unprincipled falsehoods, born of the most contemptible vanity, had prepared fresh trials and fresh injuries : for her elderly companions were her father’s principal and relentless creditors, who had been down to Wynetaye on business, and were returning thence, to London ; intending when they arrived there to assure Sir James Alberry, — that friend of Burfnrd’s father, who resided in London, and wished to take him into partnership, — that they were no longer averse to sign his certificate ; being at length convinced he was a calumniated man. But now all their suspicions were renewed and confirmed ; since it was easier for them to believe that Burford was still the villain which they always thought him, than that so young a girl should have told so many falsehoods at the mere impulse of vanity. They therefore became more inveterate against her poor father than ever ; and though their first visit to the metropolis was to the gentlemen in question, it was now' impelled by a wish to injure, not to serve him. How differently would they have felt, had the vain and false Annabel allowed the coach to set her down at her father’s lowly door ! and had they beheld the interior arrangement of his house and family ! Had they seen neatness and order giving attraction to cheap and ordinary furniture; had they beheld the simple meal spread out to welcome the wanderer home, and the Bible and Prayerbook ready for the evening service, which was deferred till it could be shared again with her whose return would add fervour to the devotion of that worshipping family, and would call forth additional expressions of thanksgiving !

The dwelling of Burford was that of a man improved by trials past ; — of one who looked forward with thankfulness and hope to the renewed possession of a competence, in the belief that he should now be able to make a wiser and nolier use of it than he had done before. His wife had needed no such lesson ; though, in the humility of her lieart, she thought otherwise; and she had helped her

THE STAGE COACH.

husband to impress on the yielding minds of her boys, who (happier than their sister) had never left her, that a season of worldly humiliation is more safe and blessed than one of worldly prosperity— while their Welch cottage and wild mountain garden had been converted, by her resources, and her example, into a scene of such rural industry and innocent amusement, that they could no longer regret the splendid 1 muse and grounds which they had been obliged to resign. The grandmother, indeed, had never ceased to mourn and to murmur ; and, to her, the hope of seeing a return of brighter days, by means of a new partnership, was beyond measure delight .fill. But she was doomed to be disappointed, through those errors in the child of her adoption which she had at lest encouraged, it she had not occasioned.