n
the land, and valuable information is pasted up in the streetcars so
that he who rides may read.

"And Ignorance--beautiful, divine Ignorance--is forsaken by a
generation that clamours for the truth. And what value, pray, has this
Truth that we should lust after it?"

He glanced up, in an inquiring fashion. Mr. Jukesbury, meeting his
eye, smiled and shook his head and said "Fie, fie!" very placidly.

To do him justice, he had not the least idea what Kennaston was
talking about.

"I am aware," the poet continued, with an air of generosity, "that
many pleasant things have been said of it. In fact, our decade has
turned its back relentlessly upon the decayed, and we no longer read
the lament over the lost art of lying issued many magazines ago by
a once prominent British author. Still, without advancing any Wilde
theories, one may fairly claim that truth is a jewel--a jewel with
many facets, differing in appearance from each point of view.

"And while 'Tell the truth and shame the Devil' is a very pretty
sentiment, it need not necessarily mean anything. The Devil, if there
be a personal devil--and it has been pointed out, with some show of
reason, that an impersonal one could scarcely carry out such enormous
contracts--would, in all probability, rather approve than otherwise of
indiscriminate truth-telling. Irritation is the root of all evil; and
there is nothing more irritating than to hear the truth about one's
self. It is bad enough, in all conscience, to be insulted, but the
truth of an insult is the barb that prevents its retraction. 'Truth
hurts' has all the pathos of understatement. It not only hurts, but
infuriates. It has no more right to go naked in public than any one
else. Indeed, it has less right; for truth-telling is natural to
mankind--as is shown by its prevalence among the younger sort, such as
children and cynics--and, as Shakespeare long ago forgot to tell us, a
touch of nature makes the whole world embarrassed."

At this point Mrs. Haggage sniffed. She considered he was growing
improper. She distrusted Nature.

"Truth-telling, then, may safely be regarded as an unamiable
indiscretion. In art, the bare truth must, in common gallantry, be
awarded a print petticoat or one of canvas, as the case may be, to
hide her nakedness; and in life, it is a disastrous virtue that we
have united to commend and avoid. Nor is the decision an unwise one;
for man is a gregarious animal, knowing that friendship