ch dangled
a skeleton, and peacock's feathers. In my opinion the peacock's feathers
would have been sufficient for the purpose of the Club: the only object
I had in going to the dinner was to help to prove that these stupid
superstitions should be killed by ridicule. I detest Humbug, and
Superstition is but another name for Humbug. I am a believer in
cremation, but that is no reason why I should hold up to ridicule the
clumsier and more unhealthy churchyard burials about which so much
sentiment exists.

It was amusing to note my absent superstitious friends' excuses for
their non-appearance. One declined because he had an important
engagement that he could not possibly put off on any account. Late on
the evening of the dinner I heard this same gentleman grumbling because
no one had turned up at his club to play a game of billiards with him!
Another had fallen asleep and did not wake in time, and a third had been
unlucky with his speculations of late, which he attributed to having
seen the new moon through glass, and therefore he declined to tempt the
fates further. Mr. George R. Sims, the well-known "Dagonet," betrayed
sheer fright, as the following letter will testify:

"MY DEAR SIR,--At the last moment my courage fails me, and I return
the dinner ticket you have so kindly sent me.

"If I had only myself to think of, I would gladly come and defy the
fates, and do all that the members are pleased to do except wear
the green necktie suggested by my friend Mr. Sala (that would not
suit my complexion). But I have others to think of--dogs and cats
and horses--who if anything happened to me would be alone in the
world.

"For their sakes I must not run the risks that a faithful carrying
out of your programme implies.

"Trusting that nothing very terrible will happen to any of you in
after life,

"Believe me,
"Sincerely yours,
"(Signed) GEO. R. SIMS."

I confess my real and only reason was to protest. In England
superstition is harmlessly idiotic, but elsewhere it is cruel and
brutal, and a committee should be formed to try the lunatics--everyday
men of the world--who suffer from it, for there is no doubt that they
and their families are made miserable through superstitious belief.
Nothing kills like ridicule, and it is the Club's object by this mea