ich we both
had heard, and I was pressed to answer her.

"Then she came to the question, which I knew was awaiting me, and asked
how I SPELT my name? 'Madam,' says I, turning on my heel, 'I spell it
with a Y.' And so I left her, wondering at the light-heartedness of the
town-people, who forget and make friends so easily, and resolved to look
elsewhere for a partner for your constant reader,

"CYMON WYLDOATS."

"You know my real name, Mr. Spectator, in which there is no such a
letter as HUPSILON. But if the lady, whom I have called Saccharissa,
wonders that I appear no more at the tea-tables, she is hereby
respectfully informed the reason Y."

The above is a parable, whereof the writer will now expound the meaning.
Jocasta was no other than Miss Esmond, Maid of Honor to her Majesty.
She had told Mr. Esmond this little story of having met a gentleman
somewhere, and forgetting his name, when the gentleman, with no such
malicious intentions as those of "Cymon" in the above fable, made the
answer simply as above; and we all laughed to think how little Mistress
Jocasta-Beatrix had profited by her artifice and precautions.

As for Cymon, he was intended to represent yours and her very humble
servant, the writer of the apologue and of this story, which we had
printed on a "Spectator" paper at Mr. Steele's office, exactly as
those famous journals were printed, and which was laid on the table
at breakfast in place of the real newspaper. Mistress Jocasta, who had
plenty of wit, could not live without her Spectator to her tea; and
this sham Spectator was intended to convey to the young woman that
she herself was a flirt, and that Cymon was a gentleman of honor and
resolution, seeing all her faults, and determined to break the chains
once and for ever.

For though enough hath been said about this love-business
already--enough, at least, to prove to the writer's heirs what a silly
fond fool their old grandfather was, who would like them to consider him
as a very wise old gentleman; yet not near all has been told concerning
this matter, which, if it were allowed to take in Esmond's journal the
space it occupied in his time, would weary his kinsmen and women of a
hundred years' time beyond all endurance; and form such a diary of folly
and drivelling, raptures and rage, as no man of ordinary vanity would
like to leave behind him.

The truth is, that, whether she laughed at him or encouraged him;
whether she smiled or was cold