esign?

_Truth_. On the contrary, I hastened to the poor and needy, whom I fully
acquainted with the various wrongs and oppressions which they underwent at
the hands of the powerful and the rich. And here, for the first time, I
found myself welcome. All listened with gratitude and assent, and none made
any endeavour to stone me or imprison me, as those other unprincipled
persons had done.

_Jupiter_. That was indeed satisfactory, daughter. But when you proceeded
to point out to these plebeians how much of their misery arose from their
own idleness, and ignorance, and dissoluteness, and abasement before those
higher in station, and jealousy of the best among themselves--what said
they to that?

_Truth_. They expressed themselves desirous of killing me, and indeed
would have done so if my capital enemies, the priests, had not been
beforehand with them.

_Jupiter_. What did they?

_Truth_. Burned me.

_Jupiter_. Burned you?

_Truth_. Burned me in the
market-place. And, but for my peculiar property of reviving from my ashes,
I should not be here now. Upon reconsolidating myself, I felt in such a
heat that I was fain to repair to the bottom of the nearest well. Finding
myself more comfortable there than I had ever yet been on earth, I have
come to ask permission to remain.

_Jupiter_. It does not appear to me, daughter, that the mission you have
undertaken on behalf of mankind can be efficiently discharged at the bottom
of a well.

_Truth_. No, father, nor in the middle of a fire either.

_Jupiter_. I fear that you are too plain and downright in your dealings
with men, and deter where you ought to allure.

_Truth_. I were not Truth, else, but Flattery. My nature is a mirror's--to
exhibit reality with plainness and faithfulness.

_Jupiter_. It is no less the nature of man to shatter every mirror that
does not exhibit to him what he wishes to behold.

_Truth_. Let me, therefore, return to my well, and let him who wishes to
behold me, if such there be, repair to the brink and look down.

_Jupiter_. No, daughter, you shall not return to your well. I have already
perceived that you are not of yourself sufficient for the office I have
assigned to you, and I am about to provide you with two auxiliaries. You
are Truth. Tell me how this one appears to you.

_Truth_. Oh, father, the beautiful nymph! how mature, and yet how comely!
how good-humoured, yet how gentle and grave! Her robe is closely zoned; her
upraised