The custom of naming the shops after some fact or fancy has been a constant source of amusement to us all through the country, but it reaches the climax of ludicrous perfection here. It is not altogether new, even at home, to meet a saloon or corner grocery with some such fanciful appellation as "The Arbor," "The Abbey," or "The Golden Lion." But this universal baptism without rhyme or reason, and the utter absurdity to which the limitless tropical imagination has led the sponsors of every business house, from a two-foot-square pulque stand, to a gilded emporium of fashion, would make the framer of the Connecticut Blue Laws laugh out in meeting-time. "The Fountain of Love," "The Triumph of Dynamite," "The Flight of Time," "The Tempest of the Soul," are some of those I find in my note-book, taken indiscriminately along the street. "The Tail of the Devil" and "The Little Hell" might have been placed over their respective liquor counters by a temperance lecturer looking toward the eternal fitness of things; but would he consent to "The Spirit of Purity" and "The Balm of Sorrow," over two similar grog-shops a little farther on?
