contrariwise, as the case may be! This, then, is
another white lie that I hold to on the principle
of opposing virtues and the human reason left
free to choose which seems of largest force and
greatest utility at the moment. And in this
instance if—or rather when—it chances that truth
in its severity or hospitality in its fulness come
into collision together, then I say let truth go
to the wall, and set hospitality on the throne of
the ruler triumphant.

There is also another white lie of small
dimensions, if of grave results, which I hold to
be of the severest purity, quite allowable by
rigid law; and even more than allowable—
commendable. A certain person is discussed in
your presence; the votes go in his or her
favour; the special virtues belonging are
canvassed, measured, and given their full weight
and bulk; and the company is unanimous (for a
wonder!) in not besmirching the clean breast
linen it is handling. Now you do not like the
person under discussion. Never mind whether
you have any solid ground for your dislike or not
—it may be from something you absolutely
know; it may be from something you have been
told and do not know; or it may be from mere
fancy, prejudice, suspicion, and the want of
that mysterious elective affinity which has more
to do with friendship than all the hierarchy of
virtues; whatever the cause there is the result;
you do not like this favourite of many voices,
and you have a private dirt pie of your own,
which you could make into pellets and fling
dexterously abroad, if you would. Are you to
do so? Knowing as you do the greediness of
ill nature, and how the dogs of malice and
uncharitableness will fight over the driest bone
of scandal thrown out to them, is it well to throw
such a bone? to take up that clean breast linen
passing spotless through so many hands, and turn
it here and there to the light, then show the dab
of mud which you yourself have plastered over
it? Here again, too, silence is as expressive as
words, and mere passivity is not all that can
reasonably be required. When you are asked
for your opinion, and refuse to give it—refuse
to endorse one of the many charters of virtue
handed over to you—you have thrown your bone
with as true an aim as if you had called all the
dogs in Christendom to come and dispute over
it—you have started the race of faults as if you
had audibly called out a whole bead-roll of
objections. To sit demurely voiceless, with
eyes cast down or coldly raised, unsmiling,
unsympathetic, as if you were nursing in your
heart a world of hidden sins which you could
detail but will not; is not that playing the
part of the Accuser quite as thoroughly, if
more subtilely, than if you stood boldly forth
and said your say like a man? Yet why should
you say your say if malevolent and deprecatory?
Grant even that you know certain facts which
have a damaging ring when told, are you quite
sure that to tell them would be even truthful?
—we will put kindness and charity out of the field
altogether. How many things do we know
which, barely and baldly narrated, are infamies,
but told with explanations are noblenesses?
The character, not the isolated fact, is the
truest thing in a man, and the explanation,
which is just what cannot be given, is the key
to the rest. I could mention more than one
instance now, were it right or delicate, where
the action nakedly told would condemn without
reprieve, but of which the motive, the explanation,
can never be too much admired. And this
is what is always left out in detailing things
that we know to another's discredit.

I grant you, we ought to bear our witness on
certain occasions against certain falsely favourable
estimates; but these occasions are both definite
and rare; and though I would not have all society
one great hodge-podge of sugar and cream and
almonds, neither would I omit the quassia when
this was necessary, nor stint the syrup when
this was necessary too. For instance, if we
knew that a rogue was to be inducted into a
place of trust—a thief made steward and the
steward's master not a good hand at double
entry—a poltroon given a captaincy, and bidden
to lead his men in a moment of danger—if that
woman with the fair hair and loose lips, looking
out at the corners of her sleepy eyes and flirting
her fan significantly, with Lovelace looking
on, were assigned as little Ella's governess and
moral exemplar—if it was proposed to send
Jacky, destined for the church and the family
living down in Huntingdonshire, to inaugurate
his theological studies under the direction of
Mr. X. Y., whom I, and others of his intimates
know to be a frank atheist and likely to lead
Master Jacky anywhere but to that Huntingdonshire
pulpit—if any of these things, or others
like to them, come under your special notice,
then silence would not be a white lie but one
as black as Erebus, and you would be bound to
bear your witness under pain of dishonour and
shameful complicity. But save in such
exceptional instances as these, silence as to our
dislikes and fancies and suspicions and
unproven traditions, if a lie by negation is of
the nature of an absolute virtue: if a certain
sweet and holy chapter in a letter once written
to a set of people called the Corinthians be
true!

What would the world be like if we all
said out our thoughts? We should be a
set of savages cutting each other's throats,
and brandishing eternal tomahawks over each
other's skulls; there would be no peace
and no love and no happiness left among us;
and for this one questionable virtue of truth
unveiled we should have parted with all the
rest. A. thinks B. a conceited, stuck-up,
insufferable puppy; B. thinks A. a priggish,
solemn, unendurable owl. Shall A. and B.
make clean breasts of it mutually, and tell the
truth without counting the cost, and indeed
without shaming him who shall be nameless?
As it is, being happily men of the world who
know the worth of keeping their own counsel,
they meet at railway boards and in committee-
rooms and at dinner-tables and in ladies'
drawing-rooms tranquilly enough; and A. keeps his