The men in that far country were liars; every one.  Their mere howdy-do was a lie, because they didn’t care how you did, except they were undertakers.  To the ordinary inquirer you lied in return; for you made no conscientious diagnosis of your case, but answered at random, and usually missed it considerably.  You lied to the undertaker, and said your health was failing—­a wholly commendable lie, since it cost you nothing and pleased the other man.  If a stranger called and interrupted you, you said with your hearty tongue, “I’m glad to see you,” and said with your heartier soul, “I wish you were with the cannibals and it was dinner-time.”  When he went, you said regretfully, “Must you go?” and followed it with a “Call again”; but you did no harm, for you did not deceive anybody nor inflict any hurt, whereas the truth would have made you both unhappy.

I think that all this courteous lying is a sweet and loving art, and should be cultivated.  The highest perfection of politeness is only a beautiful edifice, built, from the base to the dome, of graceful and gilded forms of charitable and unselfish lying.

What I bemoan is the growing prevalence of the brutal truth.  Let us do what we can to eradicate it.  An injurious truth has no merit over an injurious lie.  Neither should ever be uttered.  The man who speaks an injurious truth, lest his soul be not saved if he do otherwise, should reflect that that sort of a soul is not strictly worth saving.  The man who tells a lie to help a poor devil out of trouble is one of whom the angels doubtless say, “Lo, here is an heroic soul who casts his own welfare into jeopardy to succor his neighbor’s; let us exalt this magnanimous liar.”

An injurious lie is an uncommendable thing; and so, also, and in the same degree, is an injurious truth—­a fact which is recognized by the law of libel.

Among other common lies, we have the silent lie, the deception which one conveys by simply keeping still and concealing the truth.  Many obstinate truth-mongers indulge in this dissipation, imagining that if they speak no lie, they lie not at all.  In that far country where I once lived, there was a lovely spirit, a lady whose impulses were always high and pure, and whose character answered to them.  One day I was there at dinner, and remarked, in a general way, that we are all liars.  She was amazed, and said, “Not all!” It was before “Pinafore’s” time so I did not make the response which would naturally follow in our day, but frankly said, “Yes, all—­we are all liars; there are no exceptions.”  She looked almost offended, and said, “Why, do you include me?” “Certainly,” I said, “I think you even rank as an expert.”  She said, “’Sh!—­’sh! the children!”