e to time collision between
the two. It is my impression that the actor sometimes retired with
four of his five wits halting. But he was brilliant even when he
mentally staggered. Neither antagonist convinced the other, and after
a while they grew wearied of traveling over one another's minds.

It fell out on a day that the actor made a fine speech before a large
gathering, and mindful of stage effect he introduced a telling
allusion to an all-wise and omnipotent Providence. For this he was, to
use his own phrase, 'soundly spanked' by all his friends; that is, he
was mocked at, jeered, ridiculed. To what end, they said, was one an
agnostic if he weakly yielded his position to the exigencies of an
after-dinner speech. The Bibliotaph alone took pains to analyze his
late antagonist's position. He wrote to the actor congratulating him
upon his success. 'I wondered a little at this, remembering how
inconsiderable has been your practice; and I infer that it has been
inconsiderable, for I am aware how seldom an actor can be persuaded to
make a speech. I, too, was at first shocked when I heard that you had
made a respectful allusion to Deity; but I presently took comfort,
_remembering that your gods, like your grease-paints, are purely
professional_.'

He was always capital in these teasing moods. To be sure, he buffeted
one about tremendously, but his claws were sheathed, and there was a
contagiousness in his frolicsome humor. Moreover one learned to look
upon one's self in the light of a public benefactor. To submit to be
knocked about by the Bibliotaph was in a modest way to contribute to
the gayety of nations. If one was not absolutely happy one's self,
there was a chastened comfort in beholding the happiness of the
on-lookers.

A small author wrote a small book, so small that it could be read in
less time than it takes to cover an umbrella, that is, 'while you
wait.' The Bibliotaph had Brobdingnagian joy of this book. He sat and
read it to himself in the author's presence, and particularly
diminutive that book appeared as its light cloth cover was outlined
against the Bibliotaph's ample black waistcoat. From time to time he
would vent 'a series of small private laughs,' especially if he was on
the point of announcing some fresh illustration of the fallibility of
inexperienced writers. Finally the uncomfortable author said, 'Don't
sit there and pick out the mistakes.' To which the Bibliotaph
triumphantly replied, 'What