“‘Oh, madam,’ says he, ‘I spell my name with the Y.’  And laying down his dish, my gentleman made another elegant bow, and was gone in a moment.

“Jocasta hath had no sleep since this mortification, and the stranger’s disappearance.  If balked in anything, she is sure to lose her health and temper; and we, her servants, suffer, as usual, during the angry fits of our Queen.  Can you help us, Mr. Spectator, who know everything, to read this riddle for her, and set at rest all our minds?  We find in her list, Mr. Berty, Mr. Smith, Mr. Pike, Mr. Tyler—­who may be Mr. Bertie, Mr. Smyth, Mr. Pyke, Mr. Tiler, for what we know.  She hath turned away the clerk of her visiting-book, a poor fellow with a great family of children.  Read me this riddle, good Mr. Shortface, and oblige your admirer—­Oedipus.”

“The trumpet coffee-house, Whitehall.

“Mr. Spectator,—­I am a gentleman but little acquainted with the town, though I have had a university education, and passed some years serving my country abroad, where my name is better known than in the coffee-house and St. James’s.

“Two years since my uncle died, leaving me a pretty estate in the county of Kent; and being at Tunbridge Wells last summer, after my mourning was over, and on the look-out, if truth must be told, for some young lady who would share with me the solitude of my great Kentish house, and be kind to my tenantry (for whom a woman can do a great deal more good than the best-intentioned man can), I was greatly fascinated by a young lady of London, who was the toast of all the company at the Wells.  Every one knows Saccharissa’s beauty; and I think, Mr. Spectator, no one better than herself.

“My table-book informs me that I danced no less than seven-and-twenty sets with her at the Assembly.  I treated her to the fiddles twice.  I was admitted on several days to her lodging, and received by her with a great deal of distinction, and, for a time, was entirely her slave.  It was only when I found, from common talk of the company at the Wells, and from narrowly watching one, who I once thought of asking the most sacred question a man can put to a woman, that I became aware how unfit she was to be a country gentleman’s wife; and that this fair creature was but a heartless worldly jilt, playing with affections that she never meant to return, and, indeed, incapable of returning them.  ’Tis admiration such women want, not love that touches them; and I can conceive, in her old age, no more wretched creature than this lady will be, when her beauty hath deserted her, when her admirers have left her, and she hath neither friendship nor religion to console her.