how he again essays either the lyre or the pallet.

"_Postscript._ The adorable Penelope, long enrolled among the
Goddesses for her beauty and virtues, gives Nectar and Ambrosia,
which mortals call tea and cake, at the Public Rooms, near the
Sacred Spring, on Thursday evening, at eight o'clock, when the Muses
never fail to attend. The stranger's presence is requested to
participate in the delights of the evening.

"_Second Postscript._ A shepherd, ambitiously aiming at more
accommodation than his narrow cot affords, leaves it in a day or
two.

'Assuredly the thing is to be hired.'

_As You Like It._

"_Postscript third._ Our Iris, whom mortals know as Trotting Nelly
in her tartan cloak, will bring us the stranger's answer to our
celestial summons."

This letter was written in a delicate Italian hand, garnished with fine
hair-strokes and dashes, which were sometimes so dexterously thrown off
as to represent lyres, pallets, vases, and other appropriate
decorations, suited to the tenor of the contents.

The third epistle was a complete contrast to the other two. It was
written in a coarse, irregular, schoolboy half-text, which, however,
seemed to have cost the writer as much pains as if it had been a
specimen of the most exquisite caligraphy. And these were the
contents:--

"SUR--Jack Moobray has betted with me that the samon you killed on
Saturday last weyd ni to eiteen pounds,--I say nyer sixteen.--So you
being a spurtsman, 'tis refer'd.--So hope you will come or send
me't; do not doubt you will be on honour. The bet is a dozen of
claret, to be drank at the hotel by our own sett, on Monday next;
and we beg you will make one; and Moobray hopes you will come
down.--Being, sir, your most humbel servant,--Bingo Binks Baronet,
and of Block-hall.

"_Postscript._ Have sent some loops of Indian gout, also some black
hakkels of my groom's dressing; hope they will prove killing, as
suiting river and season."

No answer was received to any of these invitations for more than three
days; which, while it secretly rather added to than diminished the
curiosity of the Wellers concerning the Unknown, occasioned much railing
in public against him, as ill-mannered and rude.

Meantime, Francis Tyrrel, to his great surprise, began to find, like the
philosophers, that he was never less alone than when alone. In the most