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Marie Corelli, with best wishes. September 12th, 1897. Horncastle.

"There now," he exclaimed, "Miss Corelli, the famous novelist, wrote that for me the other day when she was in Horncastle. I thought you would like to see her handwriting. I've lots of interesting things I could show you at my house if you like. I've got letters from other great people. I've got Robert Burns's—Bobbie Burns I calls him—snuff-*box, for which I have been offered £200 and refused it. I'm a poet, too, and have composed a lot of original poems. I can sing a song with any man. I'm a ventriloquist also, and have given entertainments lasting two hours. I'm the oldest cricketer in England; but I won't detain you longer now. I could go on for an hour or more all about myself, but I daresay you are tired with driving. Here is my name and address," handing us at the same time a rather dirty card. "Now, if you would allow me, I should be pleased to show you round our town at any time, and point out all the interesting things therein, for it is a very interesting old place."

Manifestly we had come upon a character, curious above the general run of characters; the man interested us, we felt glad to have met him, and thereupon arranged that he should show us over the town in half an hour's time. So he departed with a smile promising to meet us in the hotel yard in half an hour. Then we sought the ostler and asked him