of every farce, danced and sung round in every music-hall, yelled at by gallery, guffawed at by stalls.  It is the stock-in-trade of every comic journal.  Could any god, even a Mumbo Jumbo, so treated, hold its place among its votaries?  Every term of endearment has become a catchword, every caress mocks us from the hoardings.  Every tender speech we make recalls to us even while we are uttering it a hundred parodies.  Every possible situation has been spoilt for us in advance by the American humorist.”

“I have sat out a good many parodies of ‘Hamlet,’” said the Minor Poet, “but the play still interests me.  I remember a walking tour I once took in Bavaria.  In some places the waysides are lined with crucifixes that are either comic or repulsive.  There is a firm that turns them out by machinery.  Yet, to the peasants who pass by, the Christ is still beautiful.  You can belittle only what is already contemptible.”

“Patriotism is a great virtue,” replied the Philosopher:  “the Jingoes have made it ridiculous.”

“On the contrary,” said the Minor Poet, “they have taught us to distinguish between the true and the false.  So it is with love.  The more it is cheapened, ridiculed, employed for market purposes, the less the inclination to affect it—­to be in love with love, as Heine admitted he was, for its own sake.”

“Is the necessity to love born in us,” said the Girton Girl, “or do we practise to acquire it because it is the fashion—­make up our mind to love, as boys learn to smoke, because every other fellow does it, and we do not like to be peculiar?”

“The majority of men and women,” said the Minor Poet, “are incapable of love.  With most it is a mere animal passion, with others a mild affection.”

“We talk about love,” said the Philosopher, “as though it were a known quantity.  After all, to say that a man loves is like saying that he paints or plays the violin; it conveys no meaning until we have witnessed his performance.  Yet to hear the subject discussed, one might imagine the love of a Dante or a society Johnny, of a Cleopatra or a Georges Sand, to be precisely the same thing.”

“It was always poor Susan’s trouble,” said the Woman of the World; “she could never be persuaded that Jim really loved her.  It was very sad, because I am sure he was devoted to her, in his way.  But he could not do the sort of things she wanted him to do; she was so romantic.  He did try.  He used to go to all the poetical plays and study them.  But he hadn’t the knack of it and he was naturally clumsy.  He would rush into the room and fling himself on his knees before her, never noticing the dog, so that, instead of pouring out his heart as he had intended, he would have to start off with, ’So awfully sorry!  Hope I haven’t hurt the little beast?’ Which was enough to put anybody out.”

“Young girls are so foolish,” said the Old Maid; “they run after what glitters, and do not see the gold until it is too late.  At first they are all eyes and no heart.”