THE real Queen of Bohemia is Truth. She is worshiped by our literati, admired by our penny-a-liners, imitated by our artists, and praised by me. Yes, Truth has the great prerogative to be praised by me, for my specialty is morals. On previous occasions I have lectured on Virtue. My success was greater than desirable. With some friends the progress on the path of virtue was too rapid, according to my taste-some short-winded members of the congregation that wanted to keep up with the race and could not have seriously injured their constitutions. But if our worthy Sire will take all responsibility on his own venerable head, I am ready to cause another stampede; only I will use the precaution to discuss Virtue not in her totality, but to divide the object, wh medical men call dosi refracta, in wh form Virtue is less dangerous. The object of our present contemplat is the beauties of Truth. Truth, also cal veracity, in spelling matches sometin voracity, which means another virtue, v called Veritas by the Romans, and v worshiped in a temple near the Via App This temple does not front the stre Truth frequently is hidden. The entran to the temple of Truth is through an a jacent saloon, from which circumstance t Latin saying, In vino veritas, derives origin. Once I had to see a friend in th saloon. By some queer coincidence all friends develop a most remarkable thi for Truth. On this occasion I was int duced to the high priest of the godde who, after having bestowed his blessi and distributed spiritual comfort around him, invited me to a private vival in the innermost recesses of the sa tuary. Here Truth stood on a pedest without any other garment but a lookingglass in her hand. "Is this Carrara marble?" I asked the holy man. "No," he said, "it is papier-maché, and hollow inside; but does she not look like Carrara marble?" "This statue," the holy man continued, "has been created at a great expense by the great Greek sculptor Phidias, after a photograph taken by our special artist, Bradley Rulofson. There was but little difficulty for the sculptor, but a world of trouble for the photographer. I never have seen a deity so particular about retouching. This peculiarity, and the circumstance of her eyes being so intensely fixed on that looking-glass, is probably the reason why the Romans consider Truth a female deity. No male deity could fix his eyes for such a length of time on a looking-glass, not even when shaving. It probably has not escaped your experienced eye that Truth is naked. Now, to you and me that matters very little; many a time we have seen and have heard naked Truth; but we have to con sider that ladies, although but rarely, worship in this temple. We therefore every morning dress Truth after the latest fashion, the garments being made out of the daily papers. It now devolves upon me to take your oath that you will never divulge, always conceal, and never reveal anything that you have seen or heard in this sanctuary." With these words the holy man produced a copy of Baron Münchhausen's Travels. I kissed the sacred book and swore a Custom-House oath that I will remember to the end of my days. But, as we are here amongst friends whose capacity to keep secrets is proverbial, I will tell you all about it: Truth has very little charms; all my lady acquaintances are much prettier. Truth is plain, and, strange to say, she calls herself frequently plain Truth. But she does not mean it. It now devolves upon me to draw some moral and to admonish this congregation. |