A Lie Never Justifiable.

by H. Clay Trumbull.

PREFACE.

That there was need of a book on the subject of which this treats, will be evidenced to those who examine its contents. Whether this book meets the need, it is for those to decide who are its readers.

The circ.u.mstances of its writing are recited in its opening chapter. I was urged to the undertaking by valued friends. At every step in its progress I have been helped by those friends, and others. For much of that which is valuable in it, they deserve credit. For its imperfections and lack, I alone am at fault.

Although I make no claim to exhaustiveness of treatment in this work, I do claim to have attempted a treatment that is exceptionally comprehensive and thorough. My researches have included extensive and varied fields of fact and of thought, even though very much in those fields has been left ungathered. What is here presented is at least suggestive of the abundance and richness of the matter available in this line.

While not presuming to think that I have said the last word on this question of the ages, I do venture to hope that I have furnished fresh material for its more intelligent consideration. It may be that, in view of the data here presented, some will settle the question finally for themselves--by settling it right.

If the work tends to bring any considerable number to this practical issue, I shall be more than repaid for the labor expended on it; for I have a profound conviction that it is the question of questions in ethics, now as always.

H. CLAY TRUMBULL.

PHILADELPHIA,

August 14,1893

I.

A QUESTION OF THE AGES.

Whether a lie is ever justifiable, is a question that has been in discussion, not only in all the Christian centuries, but ever since questions concerning human conduct were first a possibility. On the one hand, it has been claimed that a lie is by its very nature irreconcilable with the eternal principles of justice and right; and, on the other hand, it has been a.s.serted that great emergencies may necessitate a departure from all ordinary rules of human conduct, and that therefore there may be, in an emergency, such a thing as the "lie of necessity."

It is not so easy to consider fairly a question like this in the hour when vital personal interests pivot on the decision, as it is in a season of rest and safety; yet, if in a time of extremest peril the unvarying duty of truthfulness shines clearly through an atmosphere of sore temptation, that light may be accepted as diviner because of its very power to penetrate clouds and to dispel darkness. Being forced to consider, in an emergency, the possible justification of the so-called "lie of necessity," I was brought to a settlement of that question in my own mind, and have since been led to an honest endeavor to bring others to a like settlement of it. Hence this monograph.

In the summer of 1863 I was a prisoner of war in Columbia, South Carolina. The Federal prisoners were confined in the common jail, under military guard, and with no parole binding them not to attempt an escape. They were subject to the ordinary laws of war. Their captors were responsible for their detention in imprisonment, and it was their duty to escape from captivity, and to return to the army of the government to which they owed allegiance, if they could do so by any right means. No obligations were on them toward their captors, save those which are binding at all times, even when a state of war suspends such social duties as are merely conventional.

Only he who has been a prisoner of war in a Southern prison in midsummer, or in a Northern prison in the dead of winter, in time of active hostilities outside, can fully realize the heart-longings of a soldier prisoner to find release from his sufferings in confinement, and to be again at his post of duty at the front, or can understand how gladly such a man would find a way, consistent with the right, to escape, at any involved risk. But all can believe that plans of escape were in frequent discussion among the restless Federal prisoners in Columbia, of whom I was one.

A plan proposed to me by a fellow-officer seemed to offer peculiar chances of success, and I gladly joined in it. But as its fuller details were considered, I found that a probable contingency would involve the telling of a lie to an enemy, or a failure of the whole plan. At this my moral sense recoiled; and I expressed my unwillingness to tell a lie, even to regain my personal liberty or to advantage my government by a return to its army. This opened an earnest discussion of the question whether there is such a thing as a "lie of necessity," or a justifiable lie. My friend was a pure-minded man of principle, ready to die for his convictions; and he looked at this question with a sincere desire to know the right, and to conform to it. He argued that a condition of war suspended ordinary social relations between the combatants, and that the obligation of truth-speaking was one of the duties thus suspended. I, on the other hand, felt that a lie was necessarily a sin against G.o.d, and therefore was never justifiable.

My friend asked me whether I would hesitate to kill an enemy who was on guard over me, or whom I met outside, if it were essential to our escape. I replied that I would not hesitate to do so, any more than I would hesitate at it if we were over against each other in battle.

In time of war the soldiers of both sides take the risks of a life-and-death struggle; and now that we were unparoled prisoners it was our duty to escape if we could do so, even at the risk of our lives or of the lives of our captors, and it was their duty to prevent our escape at a similar risk. My friend then asked me on what principle I could justify the taking of a man's life as an enemy, and yet not feel justified in telling him a lie in order to save his life and secure our liberty. How could it be claimed that it was more of a sin to tell a lie to a man who had forfeited his social rights, than to kill him. I confessed that I could not at that time see the reason for the distinction, which my moral sense a.s.sured me was a real one, and I asked time to think of it. Thus it was that I came first to face a question of the ages, Is a lie ever justifiable? under circ.u.mstances that involved more than life to me, and when I had a strong inducement to see the force of reasons in favor of a "lie of necessity."

In my careful study, at that time, of the principles involved in this question, I came upon what seemed to me the conclusion of the whole matter. G.o.d is the author of life. He who gives life has the right to take it again. What G.o.d can do by himself, G.o.d can authorize another to do. Human governments derive their just powers from G.o.d. The powers that be are ordained of G.o.d. A human government acts for G.o.d in the administering of justice, even to the extent of taking life. If a war waged by a human government be righteous, the officers of that government take life, in the prosecution of the war, as G.o.d's agents.

In the case then in question, we who were in prison as Federal officers were representatives of our government, and would be justified in taking the lives of enemies of our government who hindered us as G.o.d's agents in the doing of our duty to G.o.d and to our government.

On the other hand, G.o.d, who can justly take life, cannot lie. A lie is contrary to the very nature of G.o.d. "It is impossible for G.o.d to lie."[1] And if G.o.d cannot lie, G.o.d cannot authorize another to lie.

What is unjustifiable in G.o.d's sight, is without a possibility of justification in the universe. No personal or social emergency can justify a lie, whatever may be its apparent gain, or whatever harm may seem to be involved in a refusal to speak it. Therefore we who were Federal prisoners in war-time could not be justified in doing what was a sin _per se_, and what G.o.d was by his very nature debarred from authorizing or approving. I could see no way of evading this conclusion, and I determinedly refused to seek release from imprisonment at the cost of a sin against G.o.d.

[Footnote 1: Heb. 6: 18]

At this time I had no special familiarity with ethics as a study, and I was unacquainted with the prominence of the question of the "lie of necessity" in that realm of thought. But on my return from army service, with my newly awakened interest in the subject, I came to know how vigorous had been its discussion, and how varied had been the opinions with reference to it, among philosophic thinkers in all the centuries; and I sought to learn for myself what could be known concerning the principles involved in this question, and their practical application to the affairs of human life. And now, after all these years of study and thought, I venture to make my contribution to this phase of Christian ethics, in an exhibit of the facts and principles which have gone to confirm the conviction of my own moral sense, when first I was called to consider this question as a question.

II.

ETHNIC CONCEPTIONS.

The habit of lying is more or less common among primitive peoples, as it is among those of higher cultivation; but it is of interest to note that widely, even among them, the standard of truthfulness as a duty is recognized as the correct standard, and lying is, in theory at least, a sin. The highest conception of right observable among primitive peoples, and not the average conformity to that standard in practice, is the true measure of right in the minds of such peoples.

If we were to look at the practices of such men in times of temptation, we might be ready to say sweepingly with the Psalmist, in his impulsiveness, "I said in my haste, All men are liars!"[1] But if we fixed our minds on the loftiest conception of truthfulness as an invariable duty, recognized by races of men who are notorious as liars, we should see how much easier it is to have a right standard than to conform to it.

[Footnote 1: Psa. 116: II.]

A careful observer of the people of India, who was long a resident among them,[1] says: "More systematic, more determined, liars, than the people of the East, cannot, in my opinion, be found in the world.

They often utter falsehoods without any apparent reason; and even when truth would be an advantage, they will not tell it.... Yet, strange to say, some of their works and sayings represent a falsehood as almost the unpardonable sin. Take the following for an example: 'The sin of killing a Brahman is as great as that of killing a hundred cows; and the sin of killing a hundred cows is as great as that of killing a woman; the sin of killing a hundred women is as great as that of killing a child in the womb; and the sin of killing a hundred [children] in the womb is as great as that of telling a lie.'"

[Footnote 1: Joseph Roberts, in his _Oriental Ill.u.s.trations_, p. 580.]

The Mahabharata is one of the great epics of ancient India. It contains a history of a war between two rival families, or peoples, and its text includes teachings with reference to "everything that it concerned a cultivated Hindoo to know." The heroes in this recorded war, between the Pandavas and the Kauravas, are in the habit of lying without stint; yet there is evidence that they recognized the sin of lying even to an enemy in time of war, and when a decisive advantage might be gained by it. At a point in the combat when Yudhishthira, a leader of the Pandavas, was in extremity in his battling with Drona, a leader of the Kauravas, the divine Krishna told Yudhishthira that, if he would tell Drona (for in these mythical contests the combatants were usually within speaking distance of each other) that his loved "son Aswatthanea was dead, the old warrior would immediately lay down his arms and become an easy prey." But Yudhishthira "had never been known to tell a falsehood," and in this instance he "utterly refused to tell a lie, even to secure the death of so powerful an enemy." [1]

Although it came about that Drona was, as a matter of fact, defeated by treachery, the sin of lying, even in time of war, and to an enemy, is clearly brought out as a recognized principle of both theory and action among the ancient Hindoos.

[Footnote 1: See Wheeler's _History of India_, I., 321.]

There is a famous pa.s.sion-play popular in Southern India and Ceylon, which ill.u.s.trates the Hindoo ideal of truthfulness at every risk or cost. Viswamitra, the tempter and accuser as represented in the Vedas, appears in the council of the G.o.ds, face to face with Indra. The question is raised by Indra, who is the most virtuous sovereign on earth. He asks, "What chief of mortals is there, who has never told a lie?" Harischandra, king of Ayodiah (Oude) is named as such a man. Viswamitra denies it. It is agreed (as in the testing of Job, according to the Bible story) that Viswamitra may employ any means whatsoever for the inducing of Harischandra to lie, unhindered by Indra or any other G.o.d. If he succeeds in his effort, he shall secure to himself all the merit of the good deeds of Harischandra; but if Harischandra cannot be induced to lie, Viswamitra must add half his merit to that of Harischandra.[1]

[Footnote 1: Arichandra, the Martyr of Truth: A Tamil Drama translated into English by Muta Coomara Swamy; cited in Conway's _Demonology and Devil Lore_, II., 35-43.]

First, Viswamitra induces Harischandra to become the custodian of a fabulous treasure, with a promise to deliver it up when called for. Then he brings him into such a strait that he must give up to Viswamitra all his possessions, including that treasure and his kingdom, in order to retain his personal virtue. After this, Viswamitra demands the return by Harischandra of the gold which has been already surrendered, claiming that its surrender was not according to the contract. In this emergency Viswamitra suggests, that if Harischandra will only deny that he owes this amount to his enemy the debt shall at once be canceled. "Such a declaration I can never make," says Harischandra. "I owe thee the gold, and pay it I will."

From this time forward the efforts of Viswamitra are directed to the inducing of Harischandra to say that he is not in debt to his adversary; but in every trial Harischandra refuses to tell a lie.

His only son dies in the desert. He and his wife are in poverty and sorrow; while all the time he is told that his kingdom and his treasures shall be restored to him, if he will tell only one lie. At last his wife is condemned to death on a false accusation, and he is appointed, by the sovereign of the land where she and he have been sold as slaves, to be her executioner. She calls on him to do his duty, and strike off her head. Just then Viswamitra appears to him, saying: "Wicked man, spare her! Tell a lie even now, and be restored to your former state!"

Harischandra's answer is: "Even though thou didst offer to me the throne of Indra, I would not tell a lie." And to his wife, Chandravati, he says encouragingly: "This keen saber will do its duty.

Thou dead, thy husband dies too--this selfsame sword shall pierce my breast.... Yes, let all men perish, let all G.o.ds cease to exist, let the stars that shine above grow dim, let all seas be dried up, let all mountains be leveled to the ground, let wars rage, blood flow in streams, let millions of millions of Harischandras be thus persecuted; yet let truth be maintained, let truth ride victorious over all, let truth be the light,--truth alone the lasting solace of mortals and immortals."

As Harischandra strikes at the neck of Chandravati, "the sword, instead of harming her, is transformed into a necklace of pearls, which winds itself around her. The G.o.ds of heaven, all sages, and all kings, appear suddenly to the view of Harischandra," and Siva, the first of the G.o.ds, commends him for his fidelity to truth, and tells him that his dead son shall be brought again to life, and his kingdom and treasures and honors shall be restored to him. And thus the story of Harischandra stands as a rebuke to the Christian philosopher who could suppose that G.o.d, or the G.o.ds, would co-work with a man who acted on the supposition that there is such an anomaly in the universe as "a lie of necessity."

The old Scandinavian heroes were valiant in war, but they held that a lie was not justifiable under any pressure of an emergency. Their Valhalla heaven was the home of those who had fought bravely; but there was no place for liars in it. A fine ill.u.s.tration of their conception of the unvarying duty of truthfulness is given in the saga of Fridthjof. Fridthjof, heroic son of Thorstein, loved Ingeborg, daughter of his father's friend, King Bele. Ingeborg's brother Helge, successor to his father's throne, opposed the match, and shut her up within the sacred enclosure of the G.o.d Balder. Fridthjof ventured within the forbidden ground, in order to pledge to her his manly troth. The lovers were pure in purpose and in act, but, if their interview were known, they would both be permanently harmed in reputation and in standing. A rumor of their secret meeting was circulated, and Fridthjof was summoned before the council of heroes to answer to the charge. If ever a lie were justifiable, it would seem to be when a pure woman's honor was at stake, and when a hero's happiness and power for good pivoted on it. Fridthjof tells to Ingeborg the story of his sore temptation when, in the presence of the council, Helge challenges his course.

"'Say, Fridthjof, Balder's peace hast thou not broken, Not seen my sister in his house while Day Concealed himself, abashed, before your meeting? Speak! yea or nay!' Then echoed from the ring Of crowded warriors, 'Say but nay, say nay! Thy simple word we'll trust; we'll court for thee,--Thou, Thorstein's son, art good as any king's. Say nay! say nay! and thine is Ingeborg!' 'The happiness,' I answered, 'of my life On one word hangs; but fear not therefore, Helge! I would not lie to gain the joys of Valhal, Much less this earth's delights. I've seen thy sister, Have spoken with her in the temple's night, But have not therefore broken Balder's peace!' More none would hear. A murmur of deep horror The diet traversed; they who nearest stood Drew back, as I had with the plague been smitten."[1]

[Footnote 1: Anderson's _Viking Tales of the North_, p. 223.]

And so, because Fridthjof would not lie, he lost his bride and became a wanderer from his land, and Ingeborg became the wife of another; and this record is to this day told to the honor of Fridthjof, in accordance with the standard of the North in the matter of truth-telling.

In ancient Persia, the same high standard prevailed. Herodotus says of the Persians: "The most disgraceful thing in the world, they think, is to tell a lie; the next worse, to owe a debt; because, among other reasons, the debtor is obliged to tell lies."[1] "Their sons are carefully instructed, from their fifth to their twentieth year, in three things alone,--to ride, to draw the bow, and to speak the truth."[2] Here the one duty in the realm of morals is truth-telling.