symperthy," he sez; "I'm in the same tender sittyvashun," sez he. "Ow can I help yer."

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"Why," I sez, "I wants yer to put down everythink I tells yer in ornimental ritin', and rool the lines. Say as I feels my 'art shrinkin' to nuthin', as if it vos bein' biled, an’ ennythink else yer think of, an' I'll give yer thrippence a piece for every idea as yer can rite to her."

"Rite to who?" sez 'e.

"Also the cognomen of my idol," sez 'e, an' then he rit me the follerin' note:

Beloved yet buteful unknown! Wen the mornin' brakes my awaken'd soul will wing its flite to yer lattiss and chirrup, "Git hup!" and at eve we'll sit beneeth the archin' vines, and wunder wy yer fathur eats 'is heart in solitood, and skatters yer buty to the winds. Ah! Elizurbuth, werfore art thou Betsi? Is this a dagger wich I see before me? and wot's in a name? Yourn, as you uses 'im, JOSEF.

N. B. All letters to be prepade.

"Wot is the price o' that?" I sez.

"Eightpence" 'e sez, "leastways if yer have it rit like printin'. The quotashuns from the poets is tuppense a piece, and the ritin' tuppense.'

But when I got to the postoffice I see a complete letter riter for sale for both sexes, with forms of address for members o' Parliment, marchints, ambassadurs and lawyers, an' a reddy rekner, on the prinseeples of sound merrality, and I bought it.

The very next day I gits a letter from 'er as fine as if it 'ad been copied out of a letter riter, only I knew as no one else but me wos up to sich a dodge. This vos it:

LETTER 23.—To a lover on rejectin' 'is soot.

Deer Cur, if in the freedom o' konversashun enjined by the konvershunalities o' societe I 'ave led yer to believ as the detachment you express is resiprokled, I ask yer pardun, for candy compels me to acknowledge that the utmost solicitations of ingenooity will avail you nought, as my art is anuther's, an' my Fathur, who is a retired merchint of wealthy habits (here put okkipation of Fathur, if any) could ill sustain the bereevement of wun he 'as trained with peculiar care. Madenly modisty prevents me from addin' more.

I am, Cur, with full 'steem, yours

ELIZURBUTH CHIGLEY.

D'reckly I got this I sent the follerin', wich I red out 'o the buk, and improved with bits of my own:

From a modist but unfortunate young gentleman.

Dear Elizurbuth, My Art is a wolkaner, My feelings is wirlpools, My dawg is dead, Woices seems to whisper, "Chigley" in the silent night, Yer silflike form flotes before me in vishuns like a thing of hair, and I have no peas in my bed.

Yer obedynt servint,

The next vun was from her, as follers:

JOSEF SPROUTS.

LETTER 25.-To the same on the same from the same.

Cur,-Forgit yer unhappy passion. Try to soothe yer disturbances by furrin travel, and in the eternal buty of the city of the Cæsars obliviate my transyent charms. For u a honrible path is hopen. To deny that I am hindifferent to yuer menny exsellent quality's of 'ed and 'art would be mere affection. I 'ave watched yure career, and shall continny to do so wen the rewards of a lofty ambition shall be yourn.

(Here sine name.)

Address Coke-shed, Ash-lane, Spitalfields.

ELIZURBETH CHIGLEY.

I see this sort o' game vos no go, and I mite ha' gone on like this for hever. Besides, I vos tired o' starvin' myself, so I begun a noo move in the follerin' tarms:

Miss, This is to give notis that I vill neither eat nor drink anythink till yer've promised to be mian. Therefor, if yer holds hout hobstinit, you'll 'ave to appere on the hinkwest, and likewise be awaked at nite by the ghost of yer humble servunt, JOSEF SPROUTS.

D'rekly I'd posted that I went an' lade in about a pound o' stake an' some hevvy, and felt konsiderably refresh'd. In four days' time I went to her father's orfis to make a larst appeal, and found her weighin' out a sack o' coke.

D'rekly I see 'er I pulls a horful long fase, as if I vos gnawed to piecis, an' I sez sollumly:

“Is you name Chigley?” sez I

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Rayther," sez she.

"An' mian," sez I, "is Sprouts. Do yer still luv my 'ated rifle?"

"Yes," she says, "I vusshups 'im."

"Wot's 'is fitin' weight?" I sez.

"He'sa purfesshunel persona haredressur," sez she

"Is there no 'ope?" sez I.

"How much do yer git a weke?” sez she.

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Five-an'-twenty shillin's in the season," sez I. "No hope wotever," says she.

"Thank you kindly, Miss Chigley," I sez.

"I will not

keep you any longer. I am goin' to 'op the twig. I am slowly wastin' away with 'unger. I weighed twelve stun

three days ago; I now ways four. Good-bi, and exsept the blessin' of a 'ungry 'art."

I had 'ardly got a dozzen steps away wen she kum runnin' arfter me, and throo 'erself on my veskit, and sez she:

"Josef, beluvid Josef, if you luv me better than vittles, yer 'art indeed is troo. I was only tryin' yer. I am yoorn, thian forever; come hin, and pour out the story o' yer love, an' have some herrin'."

'Will yer be a mother to my puypeys?" I sez.

"I vill, I vill," sez she, an' then our noses met, an' then our lips, an' it vos settled.

"May I wait upon yer father?" sez I.

'He's hout coal vippin'," sez she; but in the evenin' I give 'im a quarten o' rum an' got his consent.

We wos tied up that very day three weeks. The colevipper spared no expense in fittin' out 'is child. The trooso was dun hup in a sak in the washhouse, and there vos everythink the hye could desire. Three yards of ile-cloth for table-kivers, an' three pairs o' noo stockkins and three darned, a shawl, a female pare o' bluchers for market-days, two nitecaps and a sta'-bone, a kuart pot with a false bottom for bizness, and a full-sized one for pleshur, an' two pare of yaller boots, and Bonnycastle's Algebry for readin' on wet days.

D'rekly we got bak from church, I rushed horff madly up vun street and down anuther in the 'appiness of my 'art. I felt abuv everythink. I floted along like a bladder. I felt a longin' to do sumthin' unnatural, unkommon, danjerus, so I went to wash myself and to be shaved. Alfonser de Makussur was reedin' Lord Bakun's "Don Jooin" wen I rushed in.

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Hooray! hooray!

I sez, "I've wun 'er, she's mian.” "Moderit yer transports," sez 'e; "who's yourn?" Betsi," I sez, "Betsi.

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"Wot Betsy?

says 'e.

"Betsy Chigley," I sez, "the coal-vipper child."

"It's false," 'e skremed, "thou wiper, thou sarpint. She is not thian. I 'ave 'ad vowels of luv from her own raven lips. I'ave given 'er two pots o' permatum and a pair of sizzers. She is mian by hevery humeing tie."

It wos too troo. My Betsi wos 'is Betsi, and 'is'n as wos wos mian as is.

'E sharpened a razur with emfersis, wile a dark frown lit 'is butiful 'ead of 'air.

"Did you say you wonted shavin'?" 'e sed, tryin' to look karm, with a terribl' roll of 'is rite hyeball.

"No," I sed;" forgiv' me; it wos a parsin' weekniss. I am better now. I wish to be just," I sez; "I think I owes yer eightpense; aksept a shilling, an' wen yer look at the od fourpense, think sumtimes of Josef Sprouts. Farewel."

"I will not touch your filthy gold," he said, puttin' it hin 'is veskit pockit; "I will chace thee till deth."

I flew to 'er father's manshun, and he pursood. Neddi's granfather was harnissed to a noo barrer at the dore, vaitin' to take hus to Witechapil, were we wos to spend the 'unny

moon.

Betsi 'ad fin'shed kleenin' 'erself, an' all vos reddy wen we got there.

Unmanly woman! "skremed De Makassur, "wot is the kause of this rejekshun?"

'You was too reg'lar at meels," sed Betsi.

"Listen," 'e sez, "I 'ad tak'n a superior shavin'-shop, and I shall 'ave to forfit the depozzit. May the cuss of a blighted bein', a 'airdressur's kuss, fall upon yer 'ed, and make yer bawld before yer time. Ma' the orty tyrant as 'ave stolin yer whip yer with unkindness worse than yer father whips his coals. May yer 'ave no children, an' ven they're vaksinated ma' it nevvur take. Ma' yer 'ave no joy in wakin', and may yer dreems always be harnted by the memmury of Makassur's cuss."

Arter that the trooso vos put in the barrer, the naburs cheered, the coal-wippur giv' us 'is blessin', an' we druv off.