6. CHAPTER VI
OF SINCERITY
It was further proposed to consider the value of truth in a practical
view, as it relates to the incidents and commerce of ordinary life, under
which form it is known by the denomination of sincerity.
The powerful recommendations attendant upon sincerity are obvious. It
is intimately connected with the general dissemination of innocence, energy,
intellectual improvement, and philanthropy.
Did every man impose this law upon himself, did he regard himself as not
authorized to conceal any part of his character and conduct, this circumstance
alone would prevent millions of actions from being perpetrated in which we
are now induced to engage by the prospect of secrecy and impunity. We have
only to suppose men obliged to consider, before they determined upon an equivocal
action, whether they chose to be their own historians, the future narrators
of the scene in which they were acting a part, and the most ordinary imagination
will instantly suggest how essential a variation would be introduced into
human affairs. It has been justly observed that the popish practice of confession
is attended with some salutary effects. How much better would it be if, instead
of an institution thus equivocal, and which has been made so dangerous an
instrument of ecclesiastical despotism, every man were to make the world
his confessional, and the human species the keeper of his conscience?
There is a further benefit that would result to me from the habit of telling
every man the truth, regardless of the dictates of worldly prudence and custom.
I should acquire a clear, ingenuous and unembarrassed air. According to the
established modes of society, whenever I have a circumstance to state which
would require some effort of mind and discrimination to enable me to do it
justice, and state it with the proper effect, I fly from the talk, and take
refuge in silence or equivocation. But the principle which forbad me concealment
would keep my mind for ever awake, and for ever warm. I should always be
obliged to exert my attention, lest, in pretending to tell the truth, I should
tell it in so imperfect and mangled a way as to produce the effect of falsehood.
If I spoke to a man of my own faults or those of his neighbour, I should
be anxious not to suffer them to come distorted or exaggerated to his mind,
or to permit what at first was fact to degenerate into satire. If I spoke
to him of the errors he had himself committed, I should carefully avoid those
inconsiderate expressions which might convert what was in itself beneficent
into offence; and my thoughts would be full of that kindness, and generous
concern for his welfare, which such a talk necessarily brings along with
it. Sincerity would liberate my mind, and make the eulogiums I had occasion
to pronounce, clear, copious and appropriate. Conversation would speedily
exchange its present character of listlessness and insignificance, for a
Roman boldness and fervour; and, accustomed, at first by the fortuitous operation
of circumstances, to tell men of things it was useful for them to know, I
should speedily learn to study their advantage, and never rest satisfied
with my conduct till I had discovered how to spend the hours I was in their
company in the way which was most rational and improving.
The effects of sincerity upon others would be similar to its effects upon
him that practised it. How great would be the benefit if every man were sure
of meeting in his neighbour the ingenuous censor, who would tell him in person,
and publish to the world, his virtues, his good deeds, his meannesses and
his follies? We have never a strong feeling of these in our own case, except
so far as they are confirmed to us by the suffrage of our neighbours. Knowledge,
such as we are able to acquire it, depends in a majority of instances, not
upon the single efforts of the individual, but upon the consent of other
human understandings sanctioning the judgement of our own. It is the uncertainty
of which every man is conscious as to his solitary judgement that produces,
for the most part, zeal for proselytism, and impatience of contradiction.
It is impossible I should have a true satisfaction in my dispositions and
talents, or even any precise perceptions of virtue and vice, unless assisted
by the concurrence of my fellows.
An impartial distribution of commendation and blame to the actions of
men would be a most powerful incentive to virtue. But this distribution,
at present, scarcely in any instance exists. One man is satirized with bitterness,
and the misconduct of another is treated with inordinate lenity. In speaking
of our neighbours, we are perpetually under the influence of sinister and
unacknowledged motives. Everything is disfigured and distorted. The basest
hypocrite passes through life with applause; and the purest character is
loaded with unmerited aspersions. The benefactors of mankind are frequently
the objects of their bitterest hatred and most unrelenting ingratitude. What
encouragement then is afforded to virtue? Those who are smitten with the
love of distinction will rather seek it in external splendour, and unmeaning
luxury, than in moral attainments. While those who are led to benevolent
pursuits by the purest motives yet languish under the privation of that honour
and esteem which would give new firmness to rectitude, and ardour to benevolence.
A genuine and unalterable sincerity would not fail to reverse the scene.[1]
Every idle or malignant tale now produces its effect, because men are unaccustomed
to exercise their judgement upon the probabilities of human action, or to
possess the materials of judgement. But then the rash assertions of one individual
would be corrected by the maturer information of his neighbour. Exercised
in discrimination, we should be little likely to be misled. The truth would
be known, the whole truth, and the unvarnished truth. This would be a trial
that the most stubborn obliquity would be found unable to withstand. If a
just and impartial character were awarded to all human actions, vice would
be universally deserted, and virtue everywhere practised. Sincerity therefore.
once introduced into the manners of mankind, would necessarily bring every
other virtue in its train.
Men are now feeble in their temper because they are not accustomed to
hear the truth. They build their confidence in being personally treated with
artificial delicacy, and expect us to abstain from repeating what we know
to their disadvantage. But is this right? It has already appeared that plain
dealing, truth, spoken with kindness, but spoken with sincerity, is the most
wholesome of all disciplines. How then can we be justified in thus subverting
the nature of things, and the system of the universe, in breeding a set of
summer insects upon which the breeze of sincerity may never blow, and the
tempest of misfortune never beat?
In the third place, sincerity is, in an eminent degree, calculated to
conduce to our intellectual improvement. If from timidity of disposition,
or the danger that attends a disclosure, we suppress the reflections that
occur to us, we shall neither add to, nor correct them. From the act of telling
my thoughts, I derive encouragement to proceed. Nothing can more powerfully
conduce to perspicuity than the very attempt to arrange and express them.
If they be received cordially by others, they derive from that circumstance
a peculiar firmness and consistency. If they be received with opposition
and distrust, I am induced to revise them. I detect their errors; or I strengthen
my arguments, and add new truths to those which I had previously accumulated.
It is not by the solitary anchorite, who neither speaks, nor hears, nor reads
the genuine sentiments of man, that the stock of human good is eminently
increased. The period of bold and unrestricted communication is the period
in which the materials of happiness ferment and germinate. What can excite
me to the pursuit of discovery if I know that I am never to communicate my
discoveries? It is in the nature of things impossible that the man who has
determined never to utter the truths he may be acquainted with should be
an intrepid and indefatigable thinker. The link which binds together the
inward and the outward man is indissoluble; and he that is not bold in speech
will never be ardent and unprejudiced in enquiry.
What is it that, at this day, enables a thousand errors to keep their
station in the world; priestcraft, tests, bribery, war, cabal and whatever
else excites the disapprobation of the honest and enlightened mind? Cowardice;
the timid reserve which makes men shrink from telling what they know; and
the insidious policy that annexes persecution and punishment to an unrestrained
and spirited discussion of the true interests of society. Men either refrain
from the publication of unpalatable opinions because they are unwilling to
make a sacrifice of their worldly prospects; or they publish them in a frigid
and enigmatical spirit, stripped of their true character, and incapable of
their genuine operation. If every man today would tell all the truth he knew,
it is impossible to predict how short would be the reign of usurpation and
folly.
Lastly, a still additional benefit attendant on the practice of sincerity
is good humour, kindness and benevolence. At present, men meet together with
the temper less of friends than enemies. Every man eyes his neighbour, as
if he expected to receive from him a secret wound. Every member of a polished
and civilized community goes armed. He knows many things of his associate,
which he conceives himself obliged not to allude to in his hearing, but rather
to put on an air of the profoundest ignorance. In the absence of the person
concerned, he scarcely knows how to mention his defects, however essential
the advertisement may be, lest he should incur the imputation of a calumniator.
If he mention them, it is under the seal of secrecy. He speaks of them with
the sentiments of a criminal, conscious that what he is saying he would be
unwilling to utter before the individual concerned. Perhaps he does not fully
advert to this artificial character in himself; but he at least notes it
with infallible observation in his neighbour. In youth, it may be, he accommodates
himself with a pliant spirit to the manners of the world; and, while he loses
no jot of his gaiety, learns from it no other lessons than those of selfishness
and cheerful indifference. Observant of the game that goes forward around
him, he becomes skilful in his turn to elude the curiosity of others, and
smiles inwardly at the false scent he prompts them to follow. Dead to the
emotions of a disinterested sympathy, he can calmly consider men as the mere
neutral instruments of his enjoyments. He can preserve himself in a true
equipoise between love and hatred. But this is a temporary character. The
wanton wildness of youth at length subsides, and he is no longer contented
to stand alone in the world. Anxious for the consolations of sympathy and
frankness, he remarks the defects of mankind with a different spirit. He
is seized with a shuddering at the sensation of their coldness. He can no
longer tolerate their subterfuges and disguises. He searches in vain for
an ingenuous character, and loses patience at the eternal disappointment.
The defect that he before regarded with indifference he now considers as
the consummation of vice. What wonder that, under these circumstances, moroseness,
sourness and misanthropy become the ruling sentiments of so large a portion
of mankind?
How would the whole of this be reversed by the practice of sincerity?
We could not be indifferent to men whose custom it was to tell us the truth.
Hatred would perish from a failure in its principal ingredient, the duplicity
and impenetrableness of human actions. No man could acquire a distant and
unsympathetic temper. Reserve, deceitfulness, and an artful exhibition of
ourselves take from the human form its soul, and leave us the unanimated
semblance of what man might have been; of what he would have been, were not
every impulse of the mind thus stunted and destroyed. If our emotions were
not checked, we should be truly friends with each other. Our character would
expand: the luxury of indulging our feelings, and the exercise of uttering
them, would raise us to the stature of men. I should not conceive alarm from
my neighbour, because I should be conscious that I knew his genuine sentiments.
I should not harbour bad passions and unsocial propensities, because the
habit of expressing my thoughts would enable me to detect and dismiss them
in the outset. Thus every man would be inured to the sentiment of love and
would find in his species objects worthy of his affection. Confidence is
upon all accounts the surest foil of mutual kindness.
The value of sincerity will be still further illustrated by a brief consideration
of the nature of insincerity. Viewed superficially and at a distance, we
are easily reconciled, and are persuaded to have recourse to it upon the
most trivial occasions. Did we examine it in detail, and call to mind its
genuine history, the result could not fail to be different. Its features
are neither like virtue, nor compatible with virtue. The sensations it obliges
us to undergo are of the most odious nature. Its direct business is to cut
off all commerce between the heart and the tongue. There are organs however
of the human frame more difficult to be commanded than the mere syllables
and phrases we utter. We must be upon our guard, or our cheeks will be covered
with a conscious blush, the awkwardness of our gestures will betray us, and
our lips will falter with their unwonted task. Such is the issue of the first
attempt, not merely of the liar, but of him who practises concealment, or
whose object it is to mislead the person with whom he happens to converse.
After a series of essays we become more expert. We are not, as at first,
detected by the person from whom we intended to withhold what we knew; but
we fear detection. We feel uncertainty and confusion; and it is with difficulty
we convince ourselves that we have escaped unsuspected. Is it thus a man
ought to feel? At last perhaps we become consummate in hypocrisy, and feel
the same confidence and alacrity in duplicity that we before felt in entire
frankness. Which, to an ordinary eye, would appear the man of virtue; he
who, by the depth of his hypocrisy, contrived to keep his secret wholly unsuspected,
or he who was precipitate enough to be thus misled, and to believe that his
neighbour made use of words for the purpose of being understood?
But this is not all. It remains for the deceiver, in the next place, to
maintain the delusion he has once imposed, and to take care that no unexpected
occurrence shall betray him. It is upon this circumstance that the common
observation is founded that "one lie will always need a hundred others
to justify and cover it." We cannot determine to keep anything secret
without risking to be involved in artifices, quibbles, equivocations and
falsehoods without number. The character of the virtuous man seems to be
that of a firm and unalterable resolution, confident in his own integrity.
But the character that results from insincerity, begins in hesitation, and
ends in disgrace. Let us suppose that the imposition I practised is in danger
of detection. Of course it will become my wisdom to calculate this danger,
and, if it be too imminent, not to think of attempting any further disguise.
But, if the secret be important, and the danger problematical, I shall probably
persist. The whole extent of the danger can be known only by degrees. Suppose
the person who questions me return to the charge, and affirm that he heard
the fact, as it really was, but not as I represent it, from another. What
am I now to do? Am I to asperse the character of the honest reporter, and
at the same time, it may be, instead of establishing the delusion, only astonish
my neighbour with my cool and intrepid effrontery?
What has already been adduced may assist us to determine the species of
sincerity which virtue prescribes, and which alone can be of great practical
benefit to mankind. Sincerity may be considered as of three degrees. First,
a man may conceive that he sufficiently preserves his veracity if he never
utter anything that cannot be explained into a consistency with truth. There
is a plain distinction between this man and him who makes no scruple of the
most palpable and direct falsehood. Or, secondly, it may happen that his
delicacy shall not stop here, and he may resolve, not only to utter nothing
that is literally untrue, but also nothing which he knows or believes will
be understood by the hearer in a sense that is untrue. This he may consider
as amounting for the most part to an adequate discharge of his duty; and
he may conceive that there is little mischief in the frequently suppressing
information which it was in his power to supply. The third and highest degree
of sincerity consists in the most perfect frankness, discards every species
of concealment or reserve, and, as Cicero expresses it, "utters nothing
that is false, and withholds nothing that is true."
The two first of these by no means answer the genuine purposes of sincerity.
The former labours under one disadvantage more than direct falsehood. It
is of little consequence, to the persons with whom I communicate, that I
have a subterfuge by which I can, to my own mind, explain my deceit into
a consistency with truth; while at the same time the study of such subterfuges
is more adverse to courage and energy than a conduct which unblushingly avows
the laxity of its principles. The second of the degrees enumerated, which
merely proposes to itself the avoiding every active deception, seems to be
measured less by the standard of magnanimity than of personal prudence. If,
as Rousseau has asserted,[2] "the great duty of man be to do no injury
to his neighbour," then this negative sincerity may be of considerable
value: but, if it be the highest and most indispensable business of man to
study and promote his neighbour's welfare, a virtue of this sort will contribute
little to so honourable an undertaking. If sincerity be, as we have endeavoured
to demonstrate, the most powerful engine of human improvement, a scheme for
restraining it within so narrow limits cannot be entitled to considerable
applause. Add to this, that it is impossible, in many cases, to suppress
information without great mastery in the arts of ambiguity and evasion, and
such a perfect command of countenance as shall prevent it from being an index
to our real sentiments. Indeed the man who is frequently accustomed to seem
ignorant of what he really knows, though he will escape the open disgrace
of him who is detected in direct falsehood or ambiguous imposition, will
yet be viewed by his neighbours with coldness and distrust, and esteemed
an unfathomable and selfish character.
Hence it appears that the only species of sincerity which can in any degree
prove satisfactory to the enlightened moralist and politician is that where
the frankness is perfect, and every degree of reserve is discarded.
Nor is there any danger that such a character should degenerate into ruggedness
and brutality. Sincerity, upon the principles on which it is here recommended,
is practised from a consciousness of its utility, and from sentiments of
philanthropy. It will communicate frankness to the voice, fervour to the
gesture and kindness to the heart. Even in expostulation and censure, friendliness
of intention and mildness of proceeding may be eminently conspicuous. There
should be no mixture of disdain and superiority. The interest of him who
is corrected, not the triumph of the corrector, should be the principle of
action. True sincerity will be attended with that equality which is the only
sure foundation of love, and that love which gives the best finishing and
lustre to a sentiment of equality.