"The false in trifles are seldom reliable in things of greater moment," replied the other. "There is less deliberate, malicious falsehood in the world than we suppose. Men are oftener liars from habit, than from necessity or temptation." "But to this habit there must be a beginning. Is there no sin in the earliest deviation from the right way?" "I did not say that there is not sin in every violation of truth. Each one is a stain upon the soul--blots, that too frequently deface it forever; but I do not subscribe to the casuistry that gauges the guilt of a lie entirely by its effects upon others--which smiles upon, as a harmless simpleton, him who 'fibs' or 'yarns' or 'embroiders' in cowardice or vanity, and empties the vials of wrath upon the Pariah, who seeks, by one heaven-daring falsehood, to save what he holds most dear. One destroys the mirror by gradually damaging its bright surface, the other shivers it at one reckless blow." "This has often struck me," said Ida. "It appears to me that the slower process deadens the conscience most surely, and the insensibility of those who practice it, betrays a more diseased state of the moral system than the pangs of remorse." "Undoubtedly; and this should make us doubly watchful against any infringement of veracity. The straightest, the only safe road is 'the truth--the whole truth--and nothing but the truth.'" "And who adheres to this rule?" asked Ida. "How much truth, do you imagine, is being uttered now in these rooms?" "We are discoursing very philosophically, and will be charitable enough to believe that numerous couples are similarly engaged." "Do you recollect Talleyrand's definition of speech?" inquired Ida. "'A faculty whereby we conceal our thoughts'--yes--a sentence worthy of its author. What a life this would be if we were all Talleyrands!" "We are--according to our capacities," said Ida. "A singular sentiment for one of your age and sex!" replied Mr. Lacy, with a searching look. "Has the world served you so unkindly, that you condemn your kind without reservation?" "There was a mental reservation; yet my observation was true in a general sense. Men live for themselves;--it is humiliating to see how this principle regulates feeling and action. We love our friends because they are ours;--the pronoun 'my' expresses a nearness and sweetness which causes us to idolize the thing we appropriate;--'my own' is the most endearing of appellations--what is the delight it inspires, but the grossest vanity and selfishness?" "Pardon me, that I differ with you. Our love is won by the qualities of its object;--there would be no pleasure in appropriation were not our affections enlisted;--no thrill of joy in identifying with ourselves, the unknown or unlovely;--if forced upon us, dislike would ensue. We become attached to our dear ones for their own sakes; although it cannot be denied, that a knowledge of a reciprocation of affection is an auxiliary to the growth of that fondness."