These particulars were calculated to excite SWEZEY in the highest degree. He wrote a letter on the subject to the _Chanticleer_, a newspaper in Troy, Ill., of which he was a correspondent, and it was copied, with zinco-type illustrations, into all the journals of the habitable globe, and came back to England like the fabled boomerang. Meanwhile SWEZEY was cruising about, in town and country, looking out for persons wearing silver gridirons. He never found any, and the more he inquired, the more puzzled he became. He was informed that a treatise on the subject existed, but neither at the British Museum, nor at any of the newspaper offices, could he obtain an example of this rare work, which people asserted that they had seen and read. Finally SWEZEY made the acquaintance of a lady who was rumoured darkly to be learned in the matter. To her he poured forth expressions of his consuming desire to be initiated, and to sacrifice at the shrine. "There is not any shrine," said his acquaintance. [Illustration: "Then what in the universe is it all about?"] "Well, I guess I want bad to be a Soul--an honorary one, of course--a temporary member." "There are conditions," said the Priestess. "If there's a subscription"----SWEZEY began. "There is not any subscription." "If there's an oath"---- "There is not any oath." "Well what are the conditions, anyhow?" "Are you extremely beautiful?" Among the faults of SWEZEY, personal vanity was not reckoned. He shook his head sadly, at the same time intimating that he guessed no one would turn round in Broadway to look at the prettiest Englishwoman alive. Afterwards, he reflected that this was hardly the right thing to have said. "Are you extremely diverting?" SWEZEY admitted that gaiety was not his forte. Still, he pined for information. "What does the Society _do_?" he asked. "There is not any Society." "Then why do they call themselves Souls?" "But they don't call themselves anything whatever." "Then why are they called Souls?" "Because they----but no! That is the Mystery which cannot be divulged to the profane." "Then what in the universe is it all about?" asked SWEZEY; but this was a problem to which no answer was vouchsafed. SWEZEY is still going around, and still asking questions. But he has moments of despondency, in which he is inclined to allow that the poor islanders possess, after all, something akin to that boasted inheritance of his native land, the Great American Joke. "Guess they've played it on me," is the burden of his most secret meditations. * * * * * THE INFANT'S GUIDE TO KNOWLEDGE. (_Revised to date by Mr. Punch._) _Question._ What is an Infant? _Answer._ A guileless child who has not yet reached twenty-one years of age. _Q._ What is a year? _A._ An unknown quantity to a lady after forty. And this reply is distinctly smart. _Q._ What is "smartness"? _A._ The art of appearing to belong to a good set.