n, here's a
young gentleman that never heard tell of our old friend Love-the-log."

A shrill peal of laughter greeted this sally.

"Why, Faithful was a young gentleman, sir," explained the woman
civilly enough, "who preferred his supper hot."

"Oh, Madam Wanton, my dear, my dear!" cried a long-nosed woman nearly
helpless with amusement.

I saw Superstition gazing darkly at me. He shook his head as I was
about to reply, so I changed my retort. "Who, then, was Mr.
Christian?" I enquired simply.

At that the house shook with the roar of laughter that went up.

X

... _Large draughts of intellectual day._

--RICHARD CRASHAW.

"Believe me, neighbours," said Malice softly, when this uproar was a
little abated, "there is nought so strange in the question. It meaneth
only that this young gentleman hath not enjoyed the pleasure of your
company before. Will it amaze you to learn, my friends, that Christian
is like to be immortal only because you _talk_ him out of the grave?
One brief epitaph, gentlemen, would let him rot."

"Nay, but I'll tell the gentleman who Christian was, and with
pleasure," cried a lucid, rather sallow little man that had sat
quietly smiling and listening. "My name, let me tell you, is Atheist,
sir; and Christian was formerly a very near neighbour of an old friend
of my family's--Mr. Sceptic. They lived, sir--at least in those
days--opposite to one another."

"He is a great talker," whispered Reverie in my ear. But the company
evidently found his talk to their taste. They sat as still and
attentive around him, as though before an extemporary preacher.

"Well, sir," continued Atheist, "being, in a sense, neighbours,
Christian in his youth would often confide in my friend; though,
assuredly, Sceptic never sought his confidences. And it seemeth he
began to be perturbed and troubled over the discovery that it is
impossible--at least in this plain world--to eat your cake, yet have
it. And by some ill chance he happened at this time on a mouldy old
folio in my friend's house that had been the property of his maternal
grandmother--the subtlest old tome you ever set eyes on, though
somewhat too dark and extravagant and heady for a sober man of the
world like me. 'Twas called the Bible, sir--a collection of legends
and fables of all times, tongues, and countries threaded together,
mighty ingeniously I grant, and in as plausible a style as any I
know, if a little lax and flowery in part