# Original Stories from Real Life/Chapter 5

CHAP. V.
Lying.—Honour.—Truth.—Small Duties.—Hiſtory of Lady Sly and Mrs. Trueman.
THE little girls were very aſſiduous to gain Mrs. Maſon's good opinion; and, by the mildneſs of their behaviour, to prove to her that they were aſhamed of themſelves. It was one of Mrs. Maſon's rules, when they offended her, that is, behaved improperly, to treat them civilly; but to avoid giving them thoſe marks of affection which they were particularly delighted to receive.
Yeſterday, ſaid ſhe to them, I only mentioned to you one fault, though I obſerved two. You very readily gueſs, I mean the lie that you both told. Nay, look up, for I wiſh to ſee you bluſh; and the confuſion which I perceive in your faces gives me pleaſure; becauſe it convinces me that it is not a confirmed habit: and indeed, my children, I ſhould be ſorry that ſuch a ​mean one had taken deep root in your infant minds.
When I ſpeak of falſehood, I mean every kind; whatever tends to deceive, though not ſaid in direct terms. Tones of voice, motions of the hand or head, if they make another believe what they ought not to believe, are lies, and of the worſt kind; becauſe the contrivance aggravates the guilt. I would much ſooner forgive a lie told directly, when perhaps fear entirely occupied the thoughts, and the preference of God was not felt; for it is His ſacred Majeſty that you affront by telling an untruth.
How ſo? enquired Mary.
Becauſe you hope to conceal your falsehood from every human creature: but, if you conſider a moment, you muſt recollect that the Searcher of hearts reads your very thoughts; that nothing is hid from him.
You would bluſh if I were to diſcover that you told a lie; yet wantonly forfeit the favour of Him, from whom you have received life and all its bleſſings, to ſcreen yourſelves from correction or reproof; or, ​what is ſtill worſe, to purchaſe ſome trifling gratification, the pleaſure of which would laſt but a moment.
You heard the gentleman who viſited me this morning, very frequently uſe the word Honour. Honour conſiſts in reſpecting yourſelf; in doing as you would be done by; and the foundation of Honour is Truth.
When I can depend on the veracity of people, that is to ſay, am convinced that they adhere to truth, I rely on them; am certain they have courage, becauſe I know they will bear any inconvenience, rather than deſpiſe themſelves for telling a lie. Beſides, it is not neceſſary to conſider what you intend to ſay, when you have done right. Always determine, on every occaſion, to ſpeak the truth, and you will never be at a loſs for words. If your character for this ſcrupulous attention is once fixed, your acquaintance will be courted; and thoſe who are not particularly pleaſed with you will, at leaſt, reſpect your honourable principles.
​It is impoſſible to form a friendſhip without making truth the baſis; it is indeed the eſſence of devotion, the employment of the underſtanding, and the ſupport of every duty.
I govern my ſervants, and you, by attending ſtrictly to truth; and this obſervance keeping my head clear and my heart pure, I am ever ready to pray to the Author of good, the Fountain of truth.
While I am diſuſſing the ſubject, let me point out to you another branch of this virtue; Sincerity.—And remember that I every day ſet you an example; for I never, to pleaſe for the moment, pay unmeaning compliments, or permit any words to drop from my tongue, that my heart does not dictate. And when I relate any matter of fact, I carefully avoid embelliſhing it, in order to render it a more entertaining ſtory; not that I think ſuch a practice abſolutely criminal; but as it contributes inſenſibly to wear away reſpect for truth, I guard againſt the vain impulſe, leſt I ſhould loſe the chief ſtrength, and even ornament, of ​my mind, and become like a wave of the ſea, drifted about by every guſt of paſſion.
You muſt in life obſerve the moſt apparently inſifnificant duties—the great ones are the pillars of virtue; but the conſtant concurrence of trifling things makes it neceſſary that reaſon and conſcience ſhould always preſide, to keep the heart ſteady. Many people make promiſes and appointments, which they ſcruple not to break, if a more inviting pleaſure occurs, not remembering that the ſlighteſt duty ſhould be performed before a mere amuſement is purſued—for any neglect of this kind embitters play. Nothing, believe me, can long be pleaſant, that is not innocent.
As I uſually endeavour to recollect ſome perſsons of my acquaintance, who have ſuffered by the faults, or follies, I wiſh you to avoid; I will deſcribe two characters, that will, if I miſtake not, very ſtrongly enforce what I have been ſaying.
Laſt week you ſaw Lady Sly, who came to pay me a morning viſit. Did you ever ſee ſuch a fine carriage, or ſuch beautiful ​horſes? How they pawed the ground, and diſplayed their rich harneſſes! Her ſervants wore elegant liveries, and her own clothes ſuited the equipage. Her houſe is equal to her carriage; the rooms are lofty, and hung with ſilk; noble glaſſes and pictures adorn them: and the pleaſure-grounds are large and well laid out; beſide the trees and ſhrubs, they contain a variety of ſummer-houſes and temples, as they are called. Yet, my young friends, this is ſtate, not dignity.
This woman has a little ſoul, ſhe never attended to truth, and obtaining a great part of her fortune by falſehood, it has blighted all her enjoyments. She inhabits that ſuperb houſe, wears the gayeſt clothes, and rides in that beautiful carriage, without feeling pleaſure. Suſpicion, and the cares it has given birth to, have wrinkled her countenance, and baniſhed every trace of beauty, which paint in vain endeavours to repair. Her ſuſpicious temper ariſes from a knowledge of her own heart, and the want of rational employments. ​She imagines that every perſon ſhe converſes with means to deceive her; and when ſhe leaves a company, ſuppoſes all the ill they may ſay of her, becauſe ſhe recollects her own practice. She liſtens about her houſe, expecting to diſcover the deſigns of her ſervants, none of whom ſhe can truſt; and in conſequence of this anxiety her ſleep iſ unſound, and her food taſteleſs. She walks in her paradiſe of a garden, and ſmells not the flowers, nor do the birds inſpire her with cheerfulneſs.—Theſe pleaſures are true and ſimple, they lead to the love of God, and all the creatures whom He hath made—and cannot warm a heart which a malicious ſtory can pleaſe.
She cannot pray to God;—He hates a liar! She is neglected by her huſband, whoſe only motive for marrying her was to clear an incumbered eſtate. Her ſon, her only child, iſ undutiful; the poor never have cauſe to bleſs her; nor does ſhe contribute to the happineſs of any human being.
​To kill time, and drive away the pangs of remorſe, ſhe goes from one houſe to another, collecting and propagating ſcandalous tales, to bring others on a level with herſelf. Even thoſe who reſemble her are afraid of her; ſhe lives alone in the world, its good things are poiſoned by her vices, and neither inſpire joy nor gratitude.
Before I tell you how ſhe acquired theſe vicious habits, and enlarged her fortune by diſregarding truth, I must deſire you to think of Mrs. Trueman, the curate's wife, who lives in yonder white houſe cloſe to the church; it is a ſmall one, yet the woodbines and jeſſamins that twine about the windows give it a pretty appearance. Her voice is ſweet, her manners not only eaſy, but elegant; and her ſimple dreſs makes her perſon appear to the greateſt advantage.
She walks to viſit me, and her little ones hang on her hands, and cling to her clothes, they are ſo fond of her. If any thing terrifies them, they run under her apron, and she looks like the hen taking care of her ​young brood. The domeſtic animals play with the children, finding her a mild attentive miſtreſs; and out of her ſcanty fortune ſhe contrives to feed and clothe many a hungry, ſhivering wretch; who bleſs her as ſhe paſſes along.
Though ſhe has not any outward decorations, ſhe appears ſuperior to her neighbours, who call her the Gentlewoman; indeed every geſture ſhews an accompliſhed and dignified mind, that relies on itſelf; when deprived of the fortune which contributed to poliſh and give it conſequence.
Drawings, the amuſement of her youth, ornament her neat parlour; ſome muſical inſtruments ſtand in one corner; for ſhe plays with taſte, and ſings ſweetly.
All the furniture, not forgetting a book-caſe, full of well-choſen books, ſpeak the refinement of the owner, and the pleaſures a cultivated mind has within its own graſp, independent of proſperity.
Her huſband, a man of taſte and learning, reads to her, while ſhe makes clothes for her children, whom ſhe teaches in the ​tendereſt, and moſt perſuaſive manner, important truths and elegant accompliſhments.
When you have behaved well for ſome time you ſhall viſit her, and ramble in her little garden; there are ſeveral pretty ſeats in it, and the nightingales warble their ſweetest ſongs, undiſturbed, in the ſhade.
I have now given you an account of the preſent ſituation of both, and of their characters; liſten to me whilſt I relate in what manner theſe characters were formed, and the conſequence of each adhering to a different mode of conduct.
Lady Sly, when ſhe was a child, uſed to ſay pert things, which the injudicious people about her laughed at, and called very witty. Finding that her prattle pleaſed, ſhe talked inceſſantly, and invented ſtories, when adding to thoſe that had ſome foundation was not ſufficient to entertain the company. If ſhe ſtole ſweetmeats, or broke any thing, the cat or the dog was blamed, and the poor animals were corrected for her faults; nay, ſometimes the ſervants loſt their places in conſequence of her aſſertions. ​Her parents died and left her a large fortune, and an aunt, who had a ſtill larger, adopted her.
Mrs. Trueman, her couſin, was, ſome years after, adopted by the ſame lady; but her parents could not leave their eſtate to her, as it deſcended to the male heir. She had received the moſt liberal education, and was in every reſpect the reverſe of her couſin; who envied her merit, and could not bear to think of her dividing the fortune which ſhe had long expected to inherit entirely herſelf. She therefore practiſed every mean art to prejudice her aunt againſt her, and ſucceeded.
A faithful old ſervant endeavoured to open her miſtreſs's eyes; but the cunning niece contrived to invent the moſt infamous ſtory of the old domeſtic, who was in conſequence of it diſmiſſed. Mrs. Trueman ſupported her, when ſhe could not ſucceed in vindicating her, and ſuffered for her generoſity; for her aunt dying ſoon after, left only five hundred pounds to this amiable woman, and fifty thouſand to Lady Sly.
​They both of them married ſhortly after. One, the profligate Lord Sly, and the other a reſpectable clergyman, who had been diſappointed in his hopes of preferment. This laſt couple, in ſpite of their mutual diſappointments, are contented with their lot; and are preparing themſelves and children for another world, where truth, virtue and happineſs dwell together.
For believe me, whatever happineſs we attain in this life muſt faintly reſemble what God himſelf enjoys, whoſe truth and goodneſs produce a ſublime degree, ſuch as we cannot conceive, it is ſo far above our limited capacities.
I did not intend to detain you ſo long, ſaid Mrs. Maſon; have you finiſhed Mrs. Trimmer's Fabulous Hiſtories? Indeed we have, anſwered Caroline mournfully, and I was very ſorry to come to the end. I never read ſuch a pretty book; may I read it over again to Mrs. Trueman's little Fanny? Certainly, ſaid Mrs. Maſon, if you can make her underſtand that birds never talk. Go and run about the garden, ​and remember, the next lie I detect I ſhall puniſh; becauſe lying is a vice; and I ought to puniſh you if you are guilty of it, to prevent your feeling Lady Sly's miſery.