actions; and we must agree, that it would be wrong. to contribute to maintain a state of things in which lawless banditti levy ransoms upon peaceable citizens. But these considerations, if acted on, would prevent our making the Promise. And if, notwithstanding. these considerations, we have made the promise, we must consider how far it is likely that to keep our word, rather than to break it, would make us the supporters of such a habit of extortion. Is it probable that the banditti will give up their practice, simply because their captives, liberated on such promises, do not perform them? Is it not likely that, their power remaining, such disappointments would induce them to seek some more effectual mode of extortion ? Do we not, by making and adhering to such contracts, prevent their adding murder to robbery ? And is not the most proper and hopeful course for suppressing such robbery, to call for, and, if required, to assist, the vigorous administration of the laws against robbers, which exist in every State? Till that can be done, may it not tend to preserve, from extreme cruelties, those who fall into the hands of the robbers, that they should have some confidence in the payment of the ransom agreed upon? Even on the balance of probable advantage, it would seem that such a promise is to be kept.

But on our principles, we should not look to these results so much as to our moral culture. By keeping this promise, we cherish and exemplify our regard for truth. What moral quality do we cultivate by breaking it? If it be replied, that we thus cultivate a regard for consequences; we reply, that consequences, when both their existence, and their moral character, are so doubtful, are not the main objects for our regard. The consequences which take the shape of strict veracity in ourselves, and the consequent confidence of others in us, are proper objects of moral action The consequences which take the

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shape of possible inconvenience produced to robbers by our own untruthfulness, are not proper objects for us to aim at.

391. It may be asked, whether, in order to avoid thus contributing to robbers, we ought to refuse to make the promise; and whether, thus, we ought to incur violence, or even death. This is included in the general question, what we ought to do in cases of extreme necessity, when the adherence to the usual Rules of Duty brings with it danger of life, limb, and the like terrible consequences. And to such questions perhaps no general answer can be given. They are commonly put in this form: Whether in such cases of necessity it be allowable to violate Duty: and in this form something may be said respecting them hereafter.

392. If it be said, that the Law denies the validity of such engagements, by annulling Contracts made under duress; we reply, that even the Law requires that men should not allege light fears, as reasons for the nullity of a Contract. The Law makes Duress nothing less than the fear of loss of life or limb (161); and thus shows that it expects that men will show some firmness, in refusing to be parties to illegal acts. It is true, that the Law would annul a Contract made under the circumstances which we have described. It would also punish the robbers, if they were brought under its administration. But then we must recollect that Duty does not necessarily confirm the advantages to which the administration of the Law would entitle us; while Duty does necessarily confirm our obligations, and extend them, so as to give them a moral meaning. Duty interprets informal obligations, so as to make them evidence of internal principles. Duty requires the performance of promises, so as to make them evidence of a Spirit of Truthfulness.

393. Lies stand nearly on the same footing as

promises; for a Lie is a violation of the general understanding among mankind, which the use of lan guage implies, as we have already said (313). And as has already been stated, that is a Lie which violates this mutual understanding, and nothing else. Hence the term Lie is not applicable, when no mutual understanding is violated. Such is the case in Parables, Fables, Tales avowedly fictitious, or nortoriously so, according to the literary habits of the time; as Novels, Dramas, Poems. A person, the most careful of his moral culture, may employ himself in such fictions. Yet there are provinces of literature in which the most rigorous attention to Truth is a Duty, as in History and Personal Narratives.

394. There are various understood Conventions in society, according to which words, spoken or written under particular circumstances, have a meaning different from that which the general laws of language would give them. I have already noticed such phrases as, I am your obedient servant, at the foot of a letter; which, though not literally true, is not to be called a Lie. The Convention is here so established, that no one is for a moment misled by it. In the same way, if, when I wish not to be interrupted by visitors, I write upon my door, Not at home, and if there be a common understanding to that effect; this is no more a lie than if I were to write, Not to be seen.

395. But if I put the same words in the mouth of a Servant, and if the Convention be not regularly established in all classes of society, the Case is dif ferent. It is a violation of Duty in me to make the Servant tell a lie: it is an offence against his moral culture (312). He may understand the Convention to be so fully established in the class with which my intercourse lies, that the words, though not literally true, convey no false belief. In this case, he may use them, and I may direct him to use them, blamelessly. But it is my Duty to ascertain that he does

thus understand the words, as a conventional form; and in order to give them this character, he should not be allowed to deviate from the form, or to add any false circumstance; as, that his master has just gone out, or the like.

396. The view that we have taken, of the nature of a Lie, suggests an answer to some of the excuses sometimes offered for lies. For instance, some men tell lies in order to preserve a secret which they wish not to be known; and allege, in their justification, that the Questioner has no Right to know the truth. To such a plea we reply, that the Questioner has a right not to be told a lie, for all men have such a Right. By answering his question at all, I give him a Right to a true answer. If I take my stand on the ground that he has no Right to an answer, I must give him no answer. I may tell him that he has no

Right to an answer.

But it may be said, that to do this will in many cases be to disclose the secret which we wish to conceal. For instance, the author of an anonymous work, who wishes to remain unknown as the author, but is suspected, is asked whether he wrote the work. To refuse to reply, would be to acknowledge it. Such authors have held, that in such a case, they may deny the authorship. They urge, that the Questioner has no right to know that the Author has a Right to remain concealed, and has no means of doing so but by such a denial. But this defence is wrong. The author has no moral Right to remain concealed at the expense of telling a Lie: that is, it is not right in him thus to protect himself. But on the other hand, he is not bound to answer. Nor need he directly refuse to do so. He may evade the question, or turn off the subject. There is nothing to prevent his saying, "How can you ask such a question ?" or anything of the like kind, which may remove the expectation of an answer. If he cannot secure his object in this or

some similar way, it is to be recollected that he has drawn the inconvenience upon himself, by first writing an anonymous work, and then engaging in conversation on such terms, that he cannot escape answering questions about the authorship of the work. He has no Right, moral or other, to insist that these two employments may be pursued jointly without inconvenience. Familiar conversation is a play of reciprocal insight and reciprocal guidance of thought; and such weapons, a man may very rightly use, to guard his secret. But he may not assume that it must be guarded at any rate, by means right or wrong; by declarations true or false. On the other hand, he may seek, as widely as he chooses, for some turn of conversation by which he may baffle curiosity without violating truth. To discover such a turn, is a matter of skill, self-command, and invention. If he fail and be detected, he may receive some vexation or inconvenience; but if he succeed at the expense of truth, he receives a moral stain.

397. The like considerations apply in a case often discussed among moralists. A man is pursued by murderers who seek his life, and I conceal him. They ask me if I know where he is. Am I to say that I do not know? In this case, it is evident that I may blamelessly refuse to answer the question; but in this, as in the other case, not to answer, may be to speak plainly. I may also represent to the pursuers the wickedness of their purpose; I may call in the aid of the law. These latter courses are blameless.

But suppose that these resources fail, that the pursuers turn their fury upon me, and that they threaten to kill me, except I disclose to them the hiding-place of their victim. We have here a new case; the prospect of my own death if I do not make myself accessory to a murder, for, to give up the man to his murderers, would be to be accessory to his death. This