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"Then why not let me see it at once?"

"Well, as you appear to be somewhat anxious about it, there it is; but read the poetry first."

The reverend gentleman adjusted his spectacles, and assuming the expression of a stern critic commenced.

"'Tol de rol,'— what's this?" said he, on arriving at the chorus. "'Tol,' eh? 'Tol de rol,' what? 'Tol de rol, lol de rol, lol de rol, diddle lol,'—why what's the meaning of all this?"

Sylvester couldn't answer him. He was so convulsed with laughter that he went round and round the room, holding his sides, while Aunt Eleanor perspired with the utmost freedom as she twisted and tortured herself on the couch.

"Well," resumed the reverend gentleman, whose gravity was still imperturbable, "let's try again: we may perhaps make something of it by-and-bye. It's some foreign language, I presume! 'Tol de rol'—no—'looral-li-day!' I can make nothing of it. Well, we'll pass that for the present. Let's go on. Here we are again," he added, having got to the end of the second verse; "here's some more 'tol de rol.' I can't understand it;—what on earth are you laughing at!" he exclaimed, as Sylvester burst into a roar.

"'Tol de rol's' the chorus," cried Sylvester.

"The chorus! Oh, I see: 'Tol de rol, lol de rol'—exactly."

Aunt Eleanor, being utterly unable to endure it, left the room.

"Well, and whose composition is this?" inquired the reverend gentleman.

"Read the note," said Sylvester: "read that now."

The reverend gentleman calmly proceeded to do so, but when he came to the name, he was filled at once with indignation and amazement.

"What!" he exclaimed; "is it possible that you are in communication with this man. Why, he's a heretic; he never comes to church, nor does he go to any other place of worship. It surely cannot be possible that you associate with such a man as this."

"I know nothing of the man," said Sylvester, whose convulsions were by this time subdued.

"But he here says that he sends this according to promise."

"And what he means by that I can't imagine. I never received a promise from him."

"Why, the impudent fellow! Stop a minute; here's a postcript—'I shall be at the Crumpet to-night about nine:' why he writes as if he expected you to meet him. Well, of all the effrontery I ever heard or read of: but I'll see about it—I'll see about this; I've long wished for an opportunity of speaking to this man, and this is one which I'll certainly embrace."

"But he's insane, I understand."

"Insane! Not he. No, no, no, he's not insane. I know him well—alas: too well I know him. But however he could have had the unblushing impudence to write to you I can't conceive. But I'll see him on the subject. Do not name this my intention to your aunt, or she'll probably persuade me to have nothing to do with him; but I really do