The whole world exaggerates. It exaggerates everything，from the yearly number of bicycles sold to the yearly numberof heathens converted—into the hope of salvation and morewhiskey. Exaggeration is the basis of our trade， the fallowfieldof our art and literature， the groundwork of our social life，the foundation of our political existence. As schoolboys， weexaggerate our fights and our marks and our fathers’ debts. Asmen， we exaggerate our wares， we exaggerate our feelings， weexaggerate our incomes—except to the tax-collector， and tohim we exaggerate our “outgoings”； we exaggerate our virtues；we even exaggerate our vices， and， being in reality the mildestof men， pretend we are dare-devil scamps.
We have sunk so low now that we try to act our exaggerations，and to live up to our lies. We call it “keeping up appearances；”
and no more bitter phrase could， perhaps， have been inventedto describe our childish folly.
If we possess a hundred pounds a year， do we not call ittwo？ Our larder may be low and our grates be chill， but we arehappy if the “world” （six acquaintances and a prying neighbor）gives us credit for one hundred and fifty. And， when we havefive hundred， we talk of a thousand， and the all-importantand beloved “world” （sixteen friends now， and two of themcarriage-folks！） agree that we really must be spending sevenhundred， or at all events， running into debt up to that figure；but the butcher and baker， who have gone into the matter withthe housemaid， know better.
After awhile， having learned the trick， we launch out boldlyand spend like Indian Princes—or rather seem to spend； forwe know， by this time， how to purchase the seeming withthe seeming， how to buy the appearance of wealth with theappearance of cash. And the dear old world—Beelzebub blessit！ for it is his own child， sure enough； there is no mistakingthe likeness， it has all his funny little ways—gathers round，applauding and laughing at the lie， and sharing in the cheat，and gloating over the thought of the blow that it knows mustsooner or later fall on us from the Thor-like hammer of Truth.
And all goes merry as a witches’ frolic—until the graymorning dawns.
Truth and fact are old-fashioned and out-of-date， my friends，fit only for the dull and vulgar to live by. Appearance， notreality， is what the clever dog grasps at in these clever days.
We spurn the dull-brown solid earth； we build our livesand homes in the fair-seeming rainbow-land of shadow andchimera.
To ourselves， sleeping and waking there， behind the rainbow，there is no beauty in the house； only a chill damp mist in everyroom， and， over all， a haunting fear of the hour when the gildedclouds will melt away， and let us fall—somewhat heavily， nodoubt—upon the hard world underneath.
But， there！ of what matter is our misery， our terror？ To thestranger， our home appears fair and bright. The workers in thefields below look up and envy us our abode of glory and delight！
If they think it pleasant， surely we should be content. Have wenot been taught to live for others and not for ourselves， and arewe not acting up bravely to the teaching—in this most curiousmethod？
Ah！ yes， we are self-sacrificing enough， and loyal enoughin our devotion to this new-crowned king， the child of PrinceImposture and Princess Pretense. Never before was despotso blindly worshiped！ Never had earthly sovereign yet suchworld-wide sway！
Man， if he would live， must worship. He looks around， andwhat to him， within the vision of his life， is the greatest and thebest， that he falls down to and does reverence to. To him whoseeyes have opened on the nineteenth century， what noblerimage can the universe produce than the figure of Falsehood instolen robes？ It is cunning and brazen and hollow-hearted， andit realizes his souls ideal， and he falls and kisses its feet， andclings to its skinny knees， swearing fealty to it for evermore！
Ah！ he is a mighty monarch， bladder-bodied King Humbug！
Come， let us build up temples of hewn shadows wherein wemay adore him， safe from the light. Let us raise him aloft uponour Brummagem shields. Long live our coward， falseheartedchief！—fit leader for such soldiers as we！ Long live the Lordof-Lies， anointed！ Long live poor King Appearances， to whomall mankind bows the knee！
But we must hold him aloft very carefully， oh， my brotherwarriors！ He needs much “keeping up.” He has no bones andsinews of his own， the poor old flimsy fellow！ If we take ourhands from him， he will fall a heap of worn-out rags， and theangry wind will whirl him away， and leave us forlorn. Oh，let us spend our lives keeping him up， and serving him， andmaking him great—that is， evermore puffed out with air andnothingness—until he burst， and we along with him！
Burst one day he must， as it is in the nature of bubbles toburst， especially when they grow big. Meanwhile， he still reignsover us， and the world grows more and more a world of pretenseand exaggeration and lies； and he who pretends and exaggeratesand lies the most successfully， is the greatest of us all.
The world is a gingerbread fair， and we all stand outside ourbooths and point to the gorgeous-colored pictures， and beat thebig drum and brag. Brag！ brag！ Life is one great game of brag！
“Buy my soap， oh ye people， and ye will never look old， andthe hair will grow again on your bald places， and ye will neverbe poor or unhappy again； and mine is the only true soap. Oh，beware of spurious imitations！”
“Buy my lotion， all ye that suffer from pains in the head， orthe stomach， or the feet， or that have broken arms， or brokenhearts， or objectionable mothers-in-law； and drink one bottle aday， and all your troubles will be ended.”
“Come to my church， all ye that want to go to Heaven， andbuy my penny weekly guide， and pay my pew-rates； and， prayye， have nothing to do with my misguided brother over theroad. This is the only safe way！”