ON LYiNg AS A FINE ART.

Otago Witness, Issue 2310, 9 June 1898, Page 43

ON LYiNg AS A FINE ART.

"Tha whoie truth, and nothing but the truth ! " Why, if you come to think of it, how many of us speak thus, live thus 1

What does Thackeray say when he is speaking of that distinguished physician Dr Firmin 1 "IE I murder a mam, and the policeman inquires, • Pray, sir, did you cut this here gentleman's throat 1 ' I must bear false witness, you see, in self defence, though I may be naturally a most reliable, truthtelling man. And so with regard to many crimes which gentlemen commit ; it is painful to say with regard to gentlemen, but they become habitual liars, and neither more nor less than habitual liars, and have to go en lying through life to you, to me, to the servants, to their wives, to their children, to oh, Awful Name, I bow and humble myself ; may we kneel, may we kneel, nor strive to speak our falsehoods before Thee 1 "

Nor was there ever a finer preacher of honour, truth, and loyalty than the simplehearted, genial, great novelist.

Theoretically we are caref al to teach the joung idea to shoot in the direction of " Truth, tha whole truth, and nothing but tha truth," but we know perfectly well that the living oufc of the theory is practically impossible, unless, indeed, the whole plan of society could be reconstructed. There is not one among us who feels caded upon to begin in his or her little world a crusade of utter truthfulness, to cast away the masterly silences, the temporising smiles, the armoury of fibs which we use in daily social defence of our concerns, conservation of our leisure, preservation of our freedom from this or that annoyance. We count our truthfulness relatively, and are satisfied if we never tell unnecessary lies — this at least is the everyday aspect which truth really bears lor tha ordinary citizen of the world. Outside of this definition altogether are the people who bring lying to a fina art — tfaey ar© Jiten the most amusing people we know, ami trnrtiful as we are ourselves, and vigorously as ws punish our children and castigate cur servants for telling lies, we are not above being amused by these crisp and cheerful liars.

There is no barm in them — not the least ! They are artists who would not forego a good subject for lack of a foreground, or' sacrifice a splendid outline for wane of somb brilliant colouring. They are novelists who do nofc commit themselves to paper, paragrapbista whose only newspaper Sp thft chronicle of conversation. No one believes their good stories — per se ; on the contrary, we account ourselves fortunate if we can imagine that there is even a foundation of sandy truth beneath the foaming wave of fiction I In the hands of these accomplished liars the incidents of every-day life are but the conversational keys to unlock their rich store houses of romance. Your own little adventure of yesterday by rail or boat, on foot or a-wheel, instantly recalls to the hearty liar in good form and spirits an occurrence which, for peril and courage, for humour, or it may be for tragedy, dwarfs your poor little experience below the station even of an episode. He is usually a gay and hearty fellow this artful liar, and in bis best development seta an example to many

superior people whose love of truth impels them to rescue from a kindly oblivion all our errors, our failures, or our follies. Indeed, it is seldom that either scandal or misfortune creeps iato the* "yams" with which the man who has brought lying to a fine art entertain? us. If some mutual friend is tbe hero it is merely as tbe turning poinfe of some excellent joss, the corner stone of an irresistible farce. Usually, however, he ia himself the hero — he is editing personal reminiscences which in most cases date back several years — qaite an incredible number somelimea 1 Time matures the rich bouquet of his lies and mellows any discrepancies in the vintage. His best stories are also his oldest — for ha has grown to believe in them himself, therefore they reach the perfection of art, and at the same time reach the digDity of historical romance 1"

Each really distinguished liar has his own specialty, just as each distinguished writer has his own line of work asd excellence, for the liar who has broughs imagination and expression to the point of au art is really a novelist who doeß his own publishing.

" There are some burjglers who lie anybow and anywhere — all over the shop," as I once heard a man declare in an injured tone. This class of" liar corresponds to the inartistic or impecunious writer who writes about anything and everything that he can turn into oopy and find a market for. But these are mere second-raters who don't count. Neither do the dull, and stupid bunglers, whose lies are gaudy, vulgar, and boastful.

I know one charming specialist in lying who beguiles one admirably with his crisp anecdotes of notable people. Man or woman, gentle or simple, you caanot mention any notable persona — strictly within the bounds of possibility, for he is a gentleman and an attist — whom he has not met somewhere or other. The anecdote which follows is sure to be good, but it would not be half so good if it were not served with the "saoce piquante "of personal reminiscence. He is not an egotist, this charming fellow ; he does not need to advert jse himself or to pave his way into " sassiety " — it is paved for him already with gold and with position — but he lies pleasantly on because he enjoys it. He has brought it to a floe art. Like a true artist, be revels ? n his work ; •' Personal Reminiscences cf Notable People " is the lettering en this unpublished volume.

There are people, usually women, wbo adopt a branch of lying which sclwsys reminds me of the advertisements of Siegel's syrup, Ayer's earsaparilla, pink pills, or any similar quack medicine. They never can hear of illness or accident without feeling called upon to edit tbe most amazing fictions about their own past or present ailments. By their own showing, the most marvellous cures ever claimed for quack medicines simply are not in it with their experiences ; while the sufferings of the early Christian martyrs and the patience of the canonised saints grow dim in comparison. It is a queer taste, this particular form of fiction, but it shows that lying is like love — " nothing is above, nothing is below lis reach." I remember passing the loveliest part of a perfect summer afternoon in listening to "The Tragedy of a Pill." I never before knew that pills could be anything but disagreeable details. I wont away a wiser woman. My hostess was an artist — in lying. I assure ycu there was not a dull or an indecorous moment in the hour devoted to " The Tragedy

of a Pill."

Other artists in lying ara the men who lie on sport, who tell big game yarns, who recount psrilu and adventures in the making of amazing bags of game and the landing of phenomenal baskets of fish. These artists, like the artist in personal recollections, are usually racy and amuoing; There is a certain pocket flask which wanders through their recollections — it is the silver link which distills a fine flavour of geniality and humour throughout. Equally dear to our hearts is the early history liar — he who from the rich storehouse of reminiscence brings forth inexhaustible treasure of thrilling adventure, blood-curdling yarns, Kiplingese comedies ; deeds of valour and of daring belonging to those old days when life was more picturesque, unbound by conventionality, and the hononra were shared by brown and white, native and European equally. In the hands of a true artist how alluring those "roaring forties" become ; he sheds a glamour over even the neater outline of the " early sixties."

There is the faded beauty who lies aboub the conquests of her youth — a second Helen of Troy surely she accounts neraelf — who simpers sentimentally over the " offers " she had^ the lovers who wrote songs and composed waltzes in her honour. Let her pass on. There is the vnlgar egotist who ließ about his family connections and his wife's,. " people " and tn& expectations — bah I he is a. wearisome liar ; we can scarcely laugh at him, let alone with him. Let - him pass on — with dozens or other varieties of liars who are poor bungleru, unworthy of a place in our consideration of " Lying as a Fine Art."