Readers.—This was what young Howard would term "the bit of spoof." I am no ninny-hammer to consult an exploded astrologer!] Miserabile dictu! the venerable and senile pundit reports that such an alliance would infallibly plunge us into the peck of troubles, since the sign of your natal month is the meek and innocent Lamb—while mine is the more ferocious Lion!
A very slight familiarity with Natural History, &c., will show you the utter incompatibility of temper between such an uncongenial couple of animals, and the correctness of said astrologer's prediction that it must infallibly be the Lamb who would be whiphanded in the unequal conflict.
In consequence, though I am beating the floor with my head as I write, and moistening the carpet with the copiousness of my lachrymations, I must bid you the final and irrevocable adieu and au revoir, since I am unwilling to act as a selfish. Think of me as "a prince out of thy star," to quote the reference of Shakspeare's character, Polonius, to Hamlet, under precisely similar circumstances. You will please forget me instanter, and accept this as my last solemn so-long, which I utter on the threshold of preparation for the stern and dreaded ordeal of Bar Exam. In frantic haste.
Your ever faithful and broken-hearted Baboo,
Hurry.
P.S.—No answer required.
