As I understand it, what you desire is information about 'my first lie,
and how I got out of it.' I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my
memory is not as good as it was. If you had asked about my first truth
it would have been easier for me and kinder of you, for I remember that
fairly well. I remember it as if it were last week. The family think it
was week before, but that is flattery and probably has a selfish project
back of it. When a person has become seasoned by experience and has
reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age of discretion, he likes a
family compliment as well as ever, but he does not lose his head over it
as in the old innocent days.
I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back; but I remember my
second one very well. I was nine days old at the time, and had noticed
that if a pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the usual
fashion, I was lovingly petted and coddled and pitied in a most agreeable
way and got a ration between meals besides.
It was human nature to want to get these riches, and I fell. I lied
about the pin--advertising one when there wasn't any. You would have
done it; George Washington did it, anybody would have done it. During
the first half of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise
about that temptation and keep from telling that lie. Up to 1867 all the
civilised children that were ever born into the world were liars--
including George. Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game. But
is that reform worth anything? No; for it is reform by force and has no
virtue in it; it merely stops that form of lying, it doesn't impair the
disposition to lie, by a shade. It is the cradle application of
conversion by fire and sword, or of the temperance principle through
prohibition.
To return to that early lie. They found no pin and they realised that
another liar had been added to the world's supply. For by grace of a
rare inspiration a quite commonplace but seldom noticed fact was borne in
upon their understandings--that almost all lies are acts, and speech has
no part in them. Then, if they examined a little further they recognised
that all people are liars from the cradle onwards, without exception, and
that they begin to lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it
up without rest or refreshment until they go to sleep at night. If they
arrived at that truth it probably grieved them--did, if they had been
heedlessly and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers; for why
should a person grieve over a thing which by the eternal law of his make
he cannot help? He didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to
obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy and keep so still
that he shall deceive his fellow-conspirators into imagining that he
doesn't know that the law exists. It is what we all do--we that know. I
am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can tell it without saying
a word, and we all do it--we that know. In the magnitude of its
territorial spread it is one of the most majestic lies that the
civilisations make it their sacred and anxious care to guard and watch
and propagate.
For instance. It would not be possible for a humane and intelligent
person to invent a rational excuse for slavery; yet you will remember
that in the early days of the emancipation agitation in the North the
agitators got but small help or countenance from any one. Argue and
plead and pray as they might, they could not break the universal
stillness that reigned, from pulpit and press all the way down to the
bottom of society--the clammy stillness created and maintained by the lie
of silent assertion--the silent assertion that there wasn't anything
going on in which humane and intelligent people were interested.
From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end of it all France,
except a couple of dozen moral paladins, lay under the smother of the
silent-assertion lie that no wrong was being done to a persecuted and
unoffending man. The like smother was over England lately, a good half
of the population silently letting on that they were not aware that Mr.
Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a war in South Africa and was
willing to pay fancy prices for the materials.
Now there we have instances of three prominent ostensible civilisations
working the silent-assertion lie. Could one find other instances in the
three countries? I think so. Not so very many perhaps, but say a
billion--just so as to keep within bounds. Are those countries working
that kind of lie, day in and day out, in thousands and thousands of
varieties, without ever resting? Yes, we know that to be true. The
universal conspiracy of the silent-assertion lie is hard at work always
and everywhere, and always in the interest of a stupidity or a sham,
never in the interest of a thing fine or respectable. Is it the most
timid and shabby of all lies? It seems to have the look of it. For ages
and ages it has mutely laboured in the interest of despotisms and
aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and military slaveries, and
religious slaveries, and has kept them alive; keeps them alive yet, here
and there and yonder, all about the globe; and will go on keeping them
alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from business--the silent
assertion that nothing is going on which fair and intelligent men are
aware of and are engaged by their duty to try to stop.
What I am arriving at is this: When whole races and peoples conspire to
propagate gigantic mute lies in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why
should we care anything about the trifling lies told by individuals? Why
should we try to make it appear that abstention from lying is a virtue?
Why should we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why should we
without shame help the nation lie, and then be ashamed to do a little
lying on our own account? Why shouldn't we be honest and honourable, and
lie every time we get a chance? That is to say, why shouldn't we be
consistent, and either lie all the time or not at all? Why should we
help the nation lie the whole day long and then object to telling one
little individual private lie in our own interest to go to bed on? Just
for the refreshment of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of
our mouth.
Here in England they have the oddest ways. They won't tell a spoken lie
--nothing can persuade them. Except in a large moral interest, like
politics or religion, I mean. To tell a spoken lie to get even the
poorest little personal advantage out of it is a thing which is
impossible to them. They make me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are
so bigoted. They will not even tell a lie for the fun of it; they will
not tell it when it hasn't eve a suggestion of damage or advantage in it
for any one. This has a restraining influence upon me in spite of
reason, and I am always getting out of practice.
Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies, just like
anybody; but they don't notice it until their attention is called to it.
They have got me so that sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except
in a modified form; and even in the modified form they don't approve of
it. Still, that is as far as I can go in the interest of the growing
friendly relations between the two countries; I must keep some of my
self-respect--and my health. I can live on a pretty low diet, but I
can't get along on no sustenance at all.
Of course, there are times when these people have to come out with a
spoken lie, for that is a thing which happens to everybody once in a
while, and would happen to the angels if they came down here much.
Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the lies I speak of are self-
sacrificing ones told for a generous object, not a mean one; but even
when these people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them and
unsettle their minds. It is a wonderful thing to see, and shows that
they are all insane. In fact, it is a country which is full of the most
interesting superstitions.
I have an English friend of twenty-five years' standing, and yesterday
when we were coming down-town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a
lie--a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a mulatto; I can't seem to
tell any other kind now, the market is so flat. I was explaining to him
how I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year. I do not know
what might have become of me if I hadn't happened to remember to tell the
police that I belonged to the same family as the Prince of Wales. That
made everything pleasant and they let me go; and apologised, too, and
were ever so kind and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much for
me, and explained how the mistake came to be made, and promised to hang
the officer that did it, and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not
say anything about it; and I said they could depend on me. My friend
said, austerely:
'You call it a modified lie? Where is the modification?'
I explained that it lay in the form of my statement to the police.
'I didn't say I belonged to the Royal Family; I only said I belonged to
the same family as the Prince--meaning the human family, of course; and
if those people had had any penetration they would have known it. I
can't go around furnishing brains to the police; it is not to be
expected.'
'How did you feel after that performance?'
'Well, of course I was distressed to find that the police had
misunderstood me, but as long as I had not told any lie I knew there was
no occasion to sit up nights and worry about it.'
My friend struggled with the case several minutes, turning it over and
examining it in his mind, then he said that so far as he could see the
modification was itself a lie, it being a misleading reservation of an
explanatory fact, and so I had told two lies instead of only one.
'I wouldn't have done it,' said he; 'I have never told a lie, and I
should be very sorry to do such a thing.'
Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful of surprised and
delighted smiles down at a gentleman who was passing in a hansom.
'Who was that, G---?'
'I don't know.'
'Then why did you do that?'
'Because I saw he thought he knew me and was expecting it of me. If I
hadn't done it he would have been hurt. I didn't want to embarrass him
before the whole street.'
'Well, your heart was right, G---, and your act was right. What you did
was kindly and courteous and beautiful; I would have done it myself; but
it was a lie.'
'A lie? I didn't say a word. How do you make it out?'
'I know you didn't speak, still you said to him very plainly and
enthusiastically in dumb show, "Hello! you in town? Awful glad to see
you, old fellow; when did you get back?" Concealed in your actions was
what you have called "a misleading reservation of an explanatory fact"--
the act that you had never seen him before. You expressed joy in
encountering him--a lie; and you made that reservation--another lie. It
was my pair over again. But don't be troubled--we all do it.'
Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other matters were being
discussed, he told how he happened along once just in the nick of time to
do a great service for a family who were old friends of his. The head of
it had suddenly died in circumstances and surroundings of a ruinously
disgraceful character. If know the facts would break the hearts of the
innocent family and put upon them a load of unendurable shame. There was
no help but in a giant lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.
'The family never found out, G---?'
'Never. In all these years they have never suspected. They were proud
of him and had always reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to
them his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful.'
'They had a narrow escape, G---.'
'Indeed they had.'
'For the very next man that came along might have been one of these
heartless and shameless truth-mongers. You have told the truth a million
times in your life, G---, but that one golden lie atones for it all.
Persevere.'
Some may think me not strict enough in my morals, but that position is
hardly tenable. There are many kinds of lying which I do not approve. I
do not like an injurious lie, except when it injures somebody else; and I
do not like the lie of bravado, nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy; the
latter was affected by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.
Mr. Bryant said, 'Truth crushed to earth will rise again.' I have taken
medals at thirteen world's fairs, and may claim to be not without
capacity, but I never told as big a one as that. Mr. Bryant was playing
to the gallery; we all do it. Carlyle said, in substance, this--I do not
remember the exact words: 'This gospel is eternal--that a lie shall not
live.' I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books, and have read
his 'Revelation' eight times; and so I prefer to think he was not
entirely at himself when he told that one. To me it is plain that he
said it in a moment of excitement, when chasing Americans out of his
back-yard with brickbats. They used to go there and worship. At bottom
he was probably fond of it, but he was always able to conceal it. He
kept bricks for them, but he was not a good shot, and it is matter of
history that when he fired they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as
a nation we like relics, and so long as we get them we do not much care
what the reliquary thinks about it. I am quite sure that when he told
that large one about a lie not being able to live he had just missed an
American and was over excited. He told it above thirty years ago, but it
is alive yet; alive, and very healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive
any fact in history. Carlyle was truthful when calm, but give him
Americans enough and bricks enough and he could have taken medals
himself.
As regards that time that George Washington told the truth, a word must
be said, of course. It is the principal jewel in the crown of America,
and it is but natural that we should work it for all it is worth, as
Milton says in his 'Lay of the Last Minstrel.' It was a timely and
judicious truth, and I should have told it myself in the circumstances.
But I should have stopped there. It was a stately truth, a lofty truth--
a Tower; and I think it was a mistake to go on and distract attention
from its sublimity by building another Tower alongside of it fourteen
times as high. I refer to his remark that he 'could not lie.' I should
have fed that to the marines; or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his
style. It would have taken a medal at any European fair, and would have
got an honourable mention even at Chicago if it had been saved up. But
let it pass; the Father of his Country was excited. I have been in those
circumstances, and I recollect.
With the truth he told I have no objection to offer, as already
indicated. I think it was not premeditated but an inspiration. With his
fine military mind, he had probably arranged to let his brother Edward in
for the cherry tree results, but by an inspiration he saw his opportunity
in time and took advantage of it. By telling the truth he could astonish
his father; his father would tell the neighbours; the neighbours would
spread it; it would travel to all firesides; in the end it would make him
President, and not only that, but First President. He was a far-seeing
boy and would be likely to think of these things. Therefore, to my mind,
he stands justified for what he did. But not for the other Tower; it was
a mistake. Still, I don't know about that; upon reflection I think
perhaps it wasn't. For indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one
live. If he hadn't said 'I cannot tell a lie' there would have been no
convulsion. That was the earthquake that rocked the planet. That is the
kind of statement that lives for ever, and a fact barnacled to it has a
good chance to share its immortality.
To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with things the way they are.
There is a prejudice against the spoken lie, but none against any other,
and by examination and mathematical computation I find that the
proportion of the spoken lie to the other varieties is as 1 to 22,894.
Therefore the spoken lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth while
to go around fussing about it and trying to make believe that it is an
important matter. The silent colossal National Lie that is the support
and confederate of all the tyrannies and shams and inequalities and
unfairnesses that afflict the peoples--that is the one to throw bricks
and sermons at. But let us be judicious and let somebody else begin.
And then--But I have wandered from my text. How did I get out of my
second lie? I think I got out with honour, but I cannot be sure, for it
was a long time ago and some of the details have faded out of my memory.
I recollect that I was reversed and stretched across some one's knee, and
that something happened, but I cannot now remember what it was. I think
there was music; but it is all dim now and blurred by the lapse of time,
and this may be only a senile fancy.
