one of the books.'

'Not the Bible, I do hope?' said I fervently.

'No, about the other. He was not quite sure but that, instead of "Gil
Blas," he ought to have selected "Don Quixote." Now really that seems to
me worse than "Gil Blas."

'You mean less excellent,' I rejoined; 'you are too young to appreciate
the full signification of "Don Quixote."'

The scoundrel murmured, 'Do you mean to tell me people read it when they
are old?' But I pretended not to hear him. 'We do not all of us,' I went
on, 'know what is good for us. Sancho Panza's physician----'

'Oh! I know that physician--_well_, papa. I sometimes think, if it had
not been for that physician, perhaps----'

'Hush!' I exclaimed authoritatively; 'let us have no flippancy, I beg.'
And so, with a dead lift as it were, I got rid of him. He left the room
muttering, 'But to read it through--three times, ten times, for all
one's life?' And I was obliged to confess to myself that such a
prolonged course of study, even of 'Don Quixote,' would have been
wearisome.

Rabelais is another article of our literary faith, that is certainly
subscribed to much more often than believed in. In a certain poem of Mr.
Browning's (_I_ call it the Burial of the Book, since the Latin name he
has given it is unpronounceable, even if it were possible to recollect
it), charmingly humorous, and which is also remarkable for impersonating