Sir C. [With his hand on his pulse.] No, not the slightest effect. Lady C. I beg you won't say that, Sir Charles. Sir C. Might I ask, madam—we are neighbours, I believe? Lady C. My house is close to yours-a mere cottage, but I remain there with pleasure, as it was there I lost my poor husband. Sir C. I understand, the pleasures of memory;—and have we bachelors suffered for any length of time the disgrace of your widowhood? Lady C. Sir! Sir C. I say, madam, is it long that you have enjoyed your misfortune? Lady C. Oh, a considerable period. Sir C. A good match, the lamented Clutterbuck? Lady C. Ah-h, sir, I have been wedded twice. My first, poor Ironbrace, wooed me from a flourishing business in town. Sir C. Musical? Lady C. No, millinery; he was an ironfounder,—not handsome, but Sir C. Good? Lady C. No, sir, wealthy; while I had nothing to offer him, as dowry, but my virtue. Sir C. Ah! little enough! Lady C. Sir! Sir C. I simply remarked, that in this money-making age, mere virtue-unfortunately-but pray proceed. Lady C. Three months after marriage, news reached me of his death. I immediately quitted London with what fortune I possessed, to hide my tears at a watering place, where I met Sir Stephen Clutterbuck, a little wizen old gentleman, who wore powder; but one couldn't look upon that as a physical objection, you know, sir Sir C. On the contrary, madam. Lady C. He offered me his hand and heart--a heart of fiveand-fifty is rather— Sir C. Tough! Lady C. A hand of half a century seemed to me a- Sir C. A paw-I catch the idea! well, you sighed, thought of your unprotected state, and took the heart and the Lady C. Exactly; besides, he kept his carriage, and his family was good-his name a pretty one-you think Clutterbuck a pretty one, don't you, sir? Sir C. Distingue, madam. Lady C. When, what, sir, do you think I discovered, a week after our marriage? That he hadn't a sixpence. Sir C. Just now, you said he had a carriage. Lady C. So he had but no horses-'twas only jobbed. Lady C. He soothed my indignation-for he had a good heart withal-by making me the only atonement in his power. Sir C. I see -he left the country. Lady C. No, he died. Sir C. That was rather handsome of him. Lady C. Yes. However, notwithstanding his behaviour, I mourned him the regular time. Sir C. It does honour to your head and heart, madam. Lady C. [She rises.] But in your delightful conversation, I forgot the object of my visit. Sir C. [Puts chairs up.] Your pardon: my steward will give you a check for twenty guineas. Lady C. You are generosity itself. Sir C. Not at all. Lady C. Good morning, Sir Charles. Sir C. Permit me; delighted to have made the accquaintance of so lovely a neighbour-farewell. Rather an odd woman, that, and rather amusing for a short time-but stay -dear me, I forgot to propose to her.-[Runs up.] Hollo! [Calls] I beg pardon, madam-yes-you-madam!-one moment if you please-She's coming-positively, she amused me so, that she drove the idea of marriage out of my head. Re-enter LADY CLUTTERBUCK. Lady C. Sir Charles. Sir C. I beg ten thousand pardons. If you'll allow me I'll close the door. I omitted to mention a small matter-a-ayou-you-are positively very good looking still. Lady C. [Looks astonished.] Oh, Sir Charles! Sir C. I never pay compliments; but of all the women I ever adored, (that is, the days when I did adore,) out of about two hundred, I may say, who have possessed my heart, there were several who could not in justice compare with you. Lady C. You are very polite, I'm sure, Sir Charles. Sir C. Do me the favour to look at me-observe me critically-how old am I? Lady C. Dear me, how odd !-I should say about seven or eight and twenty. Sir C. Lady Clutterbuck, do you remember the comet of 1811 ? Lady C. The comet! Sir C. You cannot be old enough,-don't answer, perhaps the question is indelicate ;-but if that comet still existed, we should be precisely of the same age. Lady C. You and I, Sir Charles? Sir C. No, madam; I and the comet. Lady C. Let me see. [Counts fingers.] 1811, 1812, 1813, 1814, Sir C. Don't trouble yourself, I am thirty-three. Lady C. Is this what you called me back to tell me, Sir Charles? Sir C. It was, madam. Lady C. Oh! Sir C. Madam, I am by nature melancholy. Lady C. You? Why you have been saying all manner of funny things to me, this half hour. Sir C. You are mistaken: they were melancholy truths, positively. Why, 'twas only last week I made my will, left all my property amongst some friends, who are now on a visit here, before I carried out a fancy I had entertained for some time of hanging myself on a tree! Lady C. Hanging yourself on a tree! Sir C. Or throwing myself into the river: I've a window here convenient-the water flows to the wall. Lady C. Oh, you are joking! Sir C. But since I have seen you my mind is changed: I have taken up another fancy, one in which you can assist me. Lady C. [Aside.] What does he mean?-me! Sir C. You! listen: I have a house in town-estates in the three kingdoms, and one for a freak in the Isle of Man—I've a shooting box on the banks of the Mississippi; three carriages —a—with horses-£12,000 a-year, and I offer you my hand. Lady C. Your hand to me! Sir C. I am, as I have told you, only thirty-three; and according to the highest female authorities, this cannot be designated a paw-[Holds out his hand,]-will you accept it? Lady C. Sir Charles, you amaze me! is this intended for a declaration of love? Sir C. Quite the contrary—it is a proposal of marriage. Sir C. Excuse me, I have had so much love-making in my time, I am sick of it-there's nothing in it-the same thing over and over again—I prefer coming to the point at once: will you have me, you will do me a favour, and I shall be able to say, I have a charming wife; if you refuse me it will be precisely the-I shall then simply say, I have a charming neighbour.-Turn it over in your mind, my dear lady-excuse my memory, give it your serious reflection; and pray don't allow my violent arguments to alarm you into matrimony. Lady C. Asleep! the wretch! I'll awake him-hem! Sir Charles! [Shakes chair.] Sir C. [Starting.] Eh-what-oh, is it you, my dear madam? -you destroyed the most delicious dream-I was dreaming of you. [Comes down.] Lady C. Oh! you refused me. Lady C. But dreams go by contraries, you know, Sir Charles. Sir C. Alas, yes. Lady C. What! Sir C. I meant, it was agitating-I was wretched !—but still it was something to be that-it was a sign of existence. Lady C: Yes, Sir Charles, I awoke you to say— Sir C. What? Lady C. That the ten minutes are past. Sir C. What ten minutes?-eh-oh-ah-beg pardon; of course, I remember my proposal. Lady C. I have considered, and— Sir C. You refuse me-well Lady C. I accept. Sir C. Aha, good! Lady C. That surprises you, I believe. Sir C. Not in the least. We'll fix the happy day as soon as you please. SEEN AT THE TIME. A STORY A LA MODE. I AM a native of Ireland, and am fifty-three years of age; my profession is that of a clergyman of the Established Church. I am a plain and simple man in my customs, and in my creed a lover of the truth, no matter where it is sought or upon what it is based. This statement will, I trust, absolve me from a superstitious belief, and free me from the necessity of endeavouring to explain one of those mysterious incidents on which learning can throw no light, and as to the cause of which Nature is still silent. On the 10th of September, 1853, I was travelling on the Great Northern Railway to a small town in Yorkshire. The weather was miserably cold and wet, and the rain streamed down the glass of the carriage windows like a flood of tears. We had left the King's Cross Terminus at 45 minutes past 8 P.M., and it was now much past midnight. I sat listlessly with my watch in my hand, mentally calculating how long it would be ere my journey would be at an end and my mission fulfilled. I have stated that I am a minister of the Church of England; and, amongst the sacred duties of my office, I am sometimes called upon to perform even a sadder one than that of attending the dying bed-I allude to that of bearing the tidings to the unconscious survivors. It was upon one of these mournful missions that I was then bound-the more mournful, perhaps, from the knowledge which I had that the relatives were expecting the deceased himself instead of his sad messenger. The deceased had unexpectedly been stricken with fever, and I had been summoned suddenly to attend his last moments. To my astonishment, I had recognized in his features those of an old college chum and schoolmate; and in compliance with his latest request, I was hastening to apprise his family of the melancholy event-hoping that I might be able to add words of divine comfort and support; and that God would be pleased to make me the humble instrument of leading them, in their first lonely hour of bereavement, to the resignation which had soothed the last hours of the departed. My journey at length came to an end, and I stood upon the little station at Marketsbury. The guard had remounted his solitary seat; the farewell shriek of the engine had died away in the damp night air. I had watched the red, round, fiery bull's-eye at the back of the last carriage disappear behind a bend in the road; and the train had resumed its course through the chilly wind and the lonesome night, when, upon glancing round, I found I was the only passenger that had alighted at Marketsbury. The station looked gloomy enough at that hour, as I was conducted by the porter through the little office to a door at the further end of it; and still more miserable did it appear when the door had closed behind me, and I found myself on a dark and desolate heath at halfpast two o'clock on a cold and rainy morning. The town of Marketsbury presented anything but a cheering appearance a dozen or two of gas-lamps, weak and watery in the distance, being the only indication I had of its existence. A large barren common was before me, facing the road on which I stood; and whether I should turn to the right hand |