in his apron, or his laced livery, but which has not the power or the leisure, or, perhaps, is too high and mighty to condescend to follow and study him in his privacy.  Ah, my dear, when big and little men come to be measured rightly, and great and small actions to be weighed properly, and people to be stripped of their royal robes, beggars’ rags, generals’ uniforms, seedy out-at-elbowed coats, and the like—­or the contrary say, when souls come to be stripped of their wicked deceiving bodies, and turned out stark naked as they were before they were born—­what a strange startling sight shall we see, and what a pretty figure shall some of us cut!  Fancy how we shall see Pride, with his Stultz clothes and padding pulled off, and dwindled down to a forked radish!  Fancy some Angelic Virtue, whose white raiment is suddenly whisked over his head, showing us cloven feet and a tail!  Fancy Humility, eased of its sad load of cares and want and scorn, walking up to the very highest place of all, and blushing as he takes it!  Fancy,—­but we must not fancy such a scene at all, which would be an outrage on public decency.  Should we be any better than our neighbors?  No, certainly.  And as we can’t be virtuous, let us be decent.  Figleaves are a very decent, becoming wear, and have been now in fashion for four thousand years.  And so, my dear, history is written on fig-leaves.  Would you have anything further?  O fie!

Yes, four thousand years ago that famous tree was planted.  At their very first lie, our first parents made for it, and there it is still the great Humbug Plant, stretching its wide arms, and sheltering beneath its leaves, as broad and green as ever, all the generations of men.  Thus, my dear, coquettes of your fascinating sex cover their persons with figgery, fantastically arranged, and call their masquerading, modesty.  Cowards fig themselves out fiercely as “salvage men,” and make us believe that they are warriors.  Fools look very solemnly out from the dusk of the leaves, and we fancy in the gloom that they are sages.  And many a man sets a great wreath about his pate and struts abroad a hero, whose claims we would all of us laugh at, could we but remove the ornament and see his numskull bare.

And such—­(excuse my sermonizing)—­such is the constitution of mankind, that men have, as it were, entered into a compact among themselves to pursue the fig-leaf system a l’outrance, and to cry down all who oppose it.  Humbug they will have.  Humbugs themselves, they will respect humbugs.  Their daily victuals of life must be seasoned with humbug.  Certain things are there in the world that they will not allow to be called by their right names, and will insist upon our admiring, whether we will or no.  Woe be to the man who would enter too far into the recesses of that magnificent temple where our Goddess is enshrined, peep through the vast embroidered curtains indiscreetly, penetrate the secret of secrets, and expose the Gammon of Gammons!