A traitor is a betrayer - one who practices injury, while

In the fierce and uncompromising words of Lysander Spooner, the radical philosopher and defender of liberty, we hear a truth as sharp as the edge of a sword: “A traitor is a betrayer — one who practices injury, while professing friendship. Benedict Arnold was a traitor, solely because, while professing friendship for the American cause, he attempted to injure it. An open enemy, however criminal in other respects, is no traitor.” These words, carved from the iron of moral reasoning, strike at the very heart of what it means to betray — to wear the mask of loyalty while wielding the dagger of deceit. Spooner, ever the lover of justice and reason, reveals to us that treachery is not born from hatred, but from the corruption of friendship. For the wound of an enemy can be endured, but the wound of a friend cuts to the soul.

The origin of this quote lies in Spooner’s writings on justice and moral philosophy, in which he sought to define the nature of law, crime, and loyalty not by power or convention, but by principle. Living in the nineteenth century — an age of revolution, slavery, and fierce debates over the rights of man — Spooner was no stranger to hypocrisy cloaked in patriotism. He saw how nations, churches, and men professed virtue while committing acts of injury. His reflection on Benedict Arnold, the infamous figure of American history, was not merely an historical judgment, but a timeless parable: that treason is not about changing sides, but about betraying trust. For the true crime of a traitor lies not in the defiance of an enemy’s cause, but in the destruction of the bond that once held him to his own.

To call Benedict Arnold a traitor is to recall one of the darkest stains on the American Revolution. Once a brilliant general and hero of early battles, Arnold was trusted by George Washington himself — a man of courage, daring, and apparent loyalty. Yet greed and resentment took root in his heart. Feeling unappreciated, he entered into secret correspondence with the British, plotting to surrender the fortress of West Point in exchange for gold and favor. When his treachery was discovered, his name became a curse, a symbol of betrayal itself. Spooner’s words remind us why: Arnold did not betray as an enemy, but as one who pretended friendship. While others fought and bled for freedom, he plotted its undoing from within. That is the nature of treason — the pretense of loyalty used as a weapon.

By contrast, an open enemy, as Spooner declares, “however criminal in other respects, is no traitor.” The open enemy fights beneath his own banner; his sword gleams in the light of day. You can see him coming. He may bring destruction, but he does not bring deception. Even in war, there is a certain honor in the foe who declares himself plainly. But the betrayer, cloaked in affection and false allegiance, destroys from within. The enemy’s blade wounds the body, but the traitor’s smile kills the heart. Thus, Spooner elevates truth above allegiance, and integrity above pretense. It is not one’s opposition that defiles them, but their deceit.

The ancients knew this too. Recall Julius Caesar, who fell not by the swords of foreign invaders, but by those of his friends. Among them stood Brutus, his most beloved companion, whose dagger pierced deepest. “Et tu, Brute?” Caesar gasped, not in anger, but in despair. That cry — the lament of one betrayed by love — has echoed through the centuries. Rome was filled with enemies, but none wounded her as did the friends who betrayed her under the guise of loyalty. In that moment, the empire learned what Spooner would later teach: that the worst villain is not the declared foe, but the false friend.

Yet Spooner’s lesson reaches beyond politics and warfare; it pierces into the realm of human relationships. In every life, there are those who speak kindly while plotting harm, who cloak envy in the robes of affection, who smile even as they prepare to wound. These are the traitors of the heart, and they are more dangerous than any declared adversary. The wise must learn, as Spooner did, to discern words from deeds, and professions of friendship from the proof of it. True loyalty is not proclaimed loudly — it is lived quietly, through constancy, honesty, and sacrifice.

So, my child, take this teaching of Lysander Spooner as both shield and compass. Beware not the enemy who opposes you openly, but the companion whose praise hides poison. Test friendship not by words, but by deeds; not by promises, but by truth. Let your own loyalty be pure — never feigned, never self-serving. If you must oppose, oppose openly; if you must love, love sincerely. For to betray another’s trust is to betray your own soul, and to practice injury under the name of friendship is to commit the gravest sin against both man and honor.

In the end, Spooner’s wisdom burns bright as a torch for all ages: that friendship is sacred, and that betrayal is the corruption of that sacredness. Better to face a thousand foes than one false friend. Better to lose in honesty than to triumph in treachery. For while the open enemy may destroy what you possess, the traitor destroys what you are. And he who keeps his honor, even among his enemies, remains unconquered — for the pure in heart can never be betrayed by themselves.