for instance, Number Five, by the incident of her burning the diamond,—­I hope they will keep quiet about it.  Number Five does n’t want to be pointed out in the street as the extravagant person who makes use of such expensive fuel, for the story would soon grow to a statement that she always uses diamonds, instead of cheaper forms of carbon, to heat her coffee with.  So with other members of the circle.  The “Cracked Teacup,” Number Seven, would not, perhaps, be pleased to recognize himself under that title.  I repeat it, therefore, Do not try to identify the individual Teacups.  You will not get them right; or, if you do, you may too probably make trouble.  How is it possible that I can keep up my freedom of intercourse with you all if you insist on bellowing my “asides” through a speaking-trumpet?  Besides, you cannot have failed to see that there are strong symptoms of the springing up of delicate relations between some of our number.  I told you how it would be.  It did not require a prophet to foresee that the saucy intruder who, as Mr. Willis wrote, and the dear dead girls used to sing, in our young days,

        “Taketh every form of air,
     And every shape of earth,
     And comes unbidden everywhere,
     Like thought’s mysterious birth,”

would pop his little curly head up between one or more pairs of Teacups.  If you will stop these questions, then, I will go on with my reports of what was said and done at our meetings over the teacups.

Of all things beautiful in this fair world, there is nothing so enchanting to look upon, to dream about, as the first opening of the flower of young love.  How closely the calyx has hidden the glowing leaves in its quiet green mantle!  Side by side, two buds have been tossing jauntily in the breeze, often brought very near to each other, sometimes touching for a moment, with a secret thrill in their close-folded heart-leaves, it may be, but still the cool green sepals shutting tight over the burning secret within.  All at once a morning ray touches one of the two buds, and the point of a blushing petal betrays the imprisoned and swelling blossom.

—­Oh, no, I did not promise a love-story.  There may be a little sentiment now and then, but these papers are devoted chiefly to the opinions, prejudices, fancies, whims, of myself, The Dictator, and others of The Teacups who have talked or written for the general benefit of the company.

Here are some of the remarks I made the other evening on the subject of Intellectual Over-Feeding and its consequence, Mental Dyspepsia.  There is something positively appalling in the amount of printed matter yearly, monthly, weekly, daily, secreted by that great gland of the civilized organism, the press.  I need not dilate upon this point, for it is brought home to every one of you who ever looks into a bookstore or a public library.  So large is the variety of literary products continually coming forward, forced upon the attention of the reader by stimulating and suggestive titles, commended to his notice by famous names, recasting old subjects and developing and illustrating new ones, that the mind is liable to be urged into a kind of unnatural hunger, leading to a repletion which is often followed by disgust and disturbed nervous conditions as its natural consequence.