It is about two years since I was one of that strange and busy mob of some five hundred people who were assembled on the platform in the Euston-Square station a few minutes previous to the starting of the morning mail-train for Birmingham. To the unoccupied observer the scene might have been an amusing one; the little domestic incidents of leave-taking and embracing, the careful looking after luggage and parcels, the watchful anxieties for a lost cloak or a stray carpet-bag, blending with the affectionate farewells of parting, are all curious, while the studious preparation for comfort of the old gentleman in the coupÉ oddly contrast with similar arrangements on a more limited scale by the poor soldier’s wife in the third-class carriage.

Small as the segment of humanity is, it is a type of the great world to which it belongs.

I sauntered carelessly along the boarded terrace, investigating, by the light of the guard’s lantern, the inmates of the different carriages, and, calling to my assistance my tact as a physiognomist as to what party I should select for my fellow-passengers,—“Not in there, assuredly,” said I to myself, as I saw the aquiline noses and dark eyes of two Hamburgh Jews; “nor here, either,—I cannot stand a day in a nursery; nor will this party suit me, that old gentleman is snoring already;” and so I walked on until at last I bethought me of an empty carriage, as at least possessing negative benefits, since positive ones were denied me. Scarcely had the churlish determination seized me, when the glare of the light fell upon the side of a bonnet of white lace, through whose transparent texture a singularly lovely profile could be seen. Features purely Greek in their character, tinged with a most delicate color, were defined by a dark mass of hair, worn in a deep band along the cheek almost to the chin. There was a sweetness, a look of guileless innocence, in the character of the face which, even by the flitting light of the lantern, struck me strongly. I made the guard halt, and peeped into the carriage as if seeking for a friend. By the uncertain flickering, I could detect the figure of a man, apparently a young one, by the lady’s side; the carriage had no other traveller. “This will do,” thought I, as I opened the door, and took my place on the opposite side.

Every traveller knows that locomotion must precede conversation; the veriest commonplace cannot be hazarded till the piston is in motion or the paddles are flapping. The word “Go on” is as much for the passengers as the vehicle, and the train and the tongues are set in movement together; as for myself, I have been long upon the road, and might travesty the words of our native poet, and say,—

I have therefore cultivated, and I trust with some success, the tact of divining the characters, condition, and rank of fellow-travellers,—the speculation on whose peculiarities has often served to wile away the tediousness of many a wearisome road and many an uninteresting journey.

The little lamp which hung aloft gave me but slight opportunity of prosecuting my favorite study on this occasion. All that I could trace was the outline of a young and delicately formed girl, enveloped in a cashmere shawl,—a slight and inadequate muffling for the road at such a season. The gentleman at her side was attired in what seemed a dress-coat, nor was he provided with any other defence against the cold of the morning.

Scarcely had I ascertained these two facts, when the lamp flared, flickered, and went out, leaving me to speculate on these vague but yet remarkable traits in the couple before me. “What can they be?” “Who are they?” “Where do they come from?” “Where are they going?” were all questions which naturally presented themselves to me in turn; yet every inquiry resolved itself into the one, “Why has she not a cloak, why has not he got a Petersham?” Long and patiently did I discuss these points with myself, and framed numerous hypotheses to account for the circumstances,—but still with comparatively little satisfaction, as objections presented themselves to each conclusion; and although, in turn, I had made him a runaway clerk from Coutts’s, a Liverpool actor, a member of the swell-mob, and a bagman, yet I could not, for the life of me, include her in the category of such an individual’s companions. Neither spoke, so that from their voices, that best of all tests, nothing could be learned.

Wearied by my doubts, and worried by the interruption to my sleep the early rising necessitated, I fell soon into a sound doze, lulled by the soothing “strains” a locomotive so eminently is endowed with. The tremulous quavering of the carriage, the dull roll of the heavy wheels, the convulsive beating and heaving of the black monster itself, gave the tone to my sleeping thoughts, and my dreams were of the darkest. I thought that, in a gloomy silence, we were journeying over a wild and trackless plain, with no sight nor sound of man, save such as accompanied our sad procession; that dead and leafless trees were grouped about, and roofless dwellings and blackened walls marked the dreary earth; dark sluggish streams stole heavily past, with noisome weeds upon their surface; while along the sedgy banks sat leprous and glossy reptiles, glaring with round eyes upon us. Suddenly it seemed as if our speed increased; the earth and sky flew faster past, and objects became dim and indistinct; a misty maze of dark plain and clouded heaven were all I could discern; while straight in front, by the lurid glare of a fire fitted round and about two dark shapes danced a wild goblin measure, tossing their black limbs with frantic gesture, while they brandished in their hands bars of seething iron; one, larger and more dreadful than the other, sung in a “rauque” voice, that sounded like the clank of machinery, a rude song, beating time to the tune with his iron bar. The monotonous measure of the chant, which seldom varied in its note, sank deep into my chilled heart; and I think I hear still

THE SONG OF THE STOKER.

“Bang, bang, bang!” said I, aloud, repeating this infernal “refrain,” and with an energy that made my two fellow-travellers burst out laughing. This awakened me from my sleep, and enabled me to throw off the fearful incubus which rested on my bosom; so strongly, however, was the image of my dream, so vivid the picture my mind had conjured up, and, stranger than all, so perfect was the memory of the demoniac song, that I could not help relating the whole vision, and repeating for my companions the words, as I have here done for the reader. As I proceeded in my narrative, I had ample time to observe the couple before me. The lady—for it is but suitable to begin with her—was young, she could scarcely have been more than twenty, and looked by the broad daylight even handsomer than by the glare of the guard’s lantern; she was slight, but, as well as I could observe, her figure was very gracefully formed, and with a decided air of elegance detectable even in the ease and repose of her attitude. Her dress was of pale blue silk, around the collar of which she wore a profusion of rich lace, of what peculiar loom I am, unhappily, unable to say; nor would I allude to the circumstance, save that it formed one of the most embarrassing problems in my efforts at divining her rank and condition. Never was there such a travelling-costume; and although it suited perfectly the frail and delicate beauty of the wearer, it ill accorded with the dingy “conveniency” in which we journeyed. Even to her shoes and stockings (for I noticed these,—the feet were perfect) and gloves,—all the details of her dress had a freshness and propriety one rarely or ever sees encountering the wear and tear of the road. The young gentleman at her side—for he, too, was scarcely more than five-and-twenty, at most—was also attired in a costume as little like that of a traveller; a dress-coat and evening waistcoat, over which a profusion of chains were festooned in that mode so popular in our day, showed that he certainly, in arranging his costume, had other thoughts than of wasting such attractions on the desert air of a railroad journey. He was a good-looking young fellow, with that mixture of frankness and careless ease the youth of England so eminently possess, in contradistinction to the young men of other countries; his manner and voice both attested that he belonged to a good class, and the general courtesy of his demeanor showed one who had lived in society. While he evinced an evident desire to enter into conversation and amuse his companion, there was still an appearance of agitation and incertitude about him which showed that his mind was wandering very far from the topic before him. More than once he checked himself, in the course of some casual merriment, and became suddenly grave,—while from time to time he whispered to the young lady, with an appearance of anxiety and eagerness all his endeavors could not effectually conceal. She, too, seemed agitated,—but, I thought, less so than he; it might be, however, that from the habitual quietude of her manner, the traits of emotion were less detectable by a stranger. We had not journeyed far, when several new travellers entered the carriage, and thus broke up the little intercourse which had begun to be established between us. The new arrivals were amusing enough in their way,—there was a hearty old Quaker from Leeds, who was full of a dinner-party he had been at with Feargus O’Connor, the day before; there was an interesting young fellow who had obtained a fellowship at Cambridge, and was going down to visit his family; and lastly, a loud-talking, load-laughing member of the tail, in the highest possible spirits at the prospect of Irish politics, and exulting in the festivities he was about to witness at Derrynane Abbey, whither he was then proceeding with some other DanaÏdes, to visit what Tom Steele calls “his august leader.” My young friends, however, partook little in the amusement the newly arrived travellers afforded; they neither relished the broad, quaint common-sense of the Quaker, the conversational cleverness of the Cambridge man, or the pungent though somewhat coarse drollery of the “Emeralder.” They sat either totally silent or conversing in a low, indistinct murmur, with their heads turned towards each other. The Quaker left us at Warwick, the “Fellow” took his leave soon after, and the O’Somebody was left behind at a station; the last thing I heard of him, being his frantic shouting as the train moved off, while he was endeavoring to swallow a glass of hot brandy and water. We were alone then once more; but somehow the interval which had occurred had chilled the warm current of our intercourse; perhaps, too, the effects of a long day’s journey were telling on us all, and we felt that indisposition to converse which steals over even the most habitual traveller towards the close of a day on the road. Partly from these causes, and more strongly still from my dislike to obtrude conversation upon those whose minds were evidently preoccupied, I too lay back in my seat and indulged my own reflections in silence. I had sat for some time thus, I know not exactly how long, when the voice of the young lady struck on my ear; it was one of those sweet, tinkling silver sounds which somehow when heard, however slightly, have the effect at once to dissipate the dull routine of one’s own thoughts, and suggest others more relative to the speaker.

“Had you not better ask him?” said she; “I am sure he can tell you.” The youth apparently demurred, while she insisted the more, and at length, as if yielding to her entreaty, he suddenly turned towards me and said, “I am a perfect stranger here, and would feel obliged if you could inform me which is the best hotel in Liverpool.” He made a slight pause and added, “I mean a quiet family hotel.”

“I rarely stop in the town myself,” replied I; “but when I do, to breakfast or dine, I take the Adelphi. I ‘m sure you will find it very comfortable.”

They again conversed for a few moments together; and the young man, with an appearance of some hesitation, said, “Do you mean to go there now, sir?”

“Yes,” said I, “my intention is to take a hasty dinner before I start in the steamer for Ireland; I see by my watch I shall have ample time to do so, as we shall arrive full half an hour before our time.”

Another pause, and another little discussion ensued, the only words of which I could catch from the young lady being, “I’m certain he will have no objection.” Conceiving that these referred to myself, and guessing at their probable import, I immediately said, “If you will allow me to be your guide, I shall feel most happy to show you the way; we can obtain a carriage at the station, and proceed thither at once.”

I was right in my surmise—both parties were profuse in their acknowledgments—the young man avowing that it was the very request he was about to make when I anticipated him. We arrived in due time at the station, and, having assisted my new acquaintances to alight, I found little difficulty in placing them in a carriage, for luggage they had none, neither portmanteau nor carpet-bag—not even a dressing-case—a circumstance at which, however, I might have endeavored to avoid expressing my wonder, they seemed to feel required an explanation at their hands; both looked confused and abashed, nor was it until by busying myself in the details of my own baggage, that I was enabled to relieve them from the embarrassment the circumstance occasioned.

“Here we are,” said I: “this is the Adelphi,” as we stopped at that comfortable and hospitable portal, through which the fumes of brown gravy and ox-tail float with a savory odor as pleasant to him who enters with dinner intentions as it is tantalizing to the listless wanderer without.

The lady thanked me with a smile, as I handed her into the house, and a very sweet smile too, and one I could have fancied the young man would have felt a little jealous of, if I had not seen the ten times more fascinating one she bestowed on him.

The young man acknowledged my slight service with thanks, and made a half gesture to shake hands at parting, which, though a failure, I rather liked, as evidencing, even in its awkwardness, a kindness of disposition—for so it is. Gratitude smacks poorly when expressed in trim and measured phrase; it seems not the natural coinage of the heart when the impression betrays too clearly the mint of the mind.

“Good-bye,” said I, as I watched their retiring figures up the wide staircase. “She is devilish pretty; and what a good figure! I did not think any other than a French woman could adjust her shawl in that fashion.” And with these very soothing reflections I betook myself to the coffee-room, and soon was deep in discussing the distinctive merits of mulligatawny, mock-turtle, or mutton chops, or listening to that everlasting paean every waiter in England sings in praise of the “joint.”

In all the luxury of my own little table, with my own little salt-cellar, my own cruet-stand, my beer-glass, and its younger brother for wine, I sat awaiting the arrival of my fare, and puzzling my brain as to the unknown travellers. Now, had they been but clothed in the ordinary fashion of the road,—if the lady had worn a plaid cloak and a beaver bonnet,—if the gentleman had a brown Taglioui and a cloth cap, with a cigar-case peeping out of his breast-pocket, like everybody else in this smoky world,—had they but the ordinary allowance of trunks and boxes,—I should have been coolly conning over the leading article of the “Times,” or enjoying the spicy leader in the last “Examiner;” but, no,—they had shrouded themselves in a mystery, though not in garments; and the result was that I, gifted with that inquiring spirit which Paul Pry informs us is the characteristic of the age, actually tortured myself into a fever as to who and what they might be,—the origin, the course, and the probable termination of their present adventure,—for an adventure I determined it must be. “People do such odd things nowadays,” said I, “there’s no knowing what the deuce they may be at. I wish I even knew their names, for I am certain I shall read to-morrow or the next day in the second column of the ‘Times,’ ‘Why will not W. P. and C. P. return to their afflicted friends? Write at least,—write to your bereaved parents, No. 12 Russell Square;’ or, ‘If F. M. S. will not inform her mother whither she has gone, the deaths of more than two of the family will be the consequence.’” Now, could I only find out their names, I could relieve so much family apprehension—Here comes the soup, however,—admirable relief to a worried brain! how every mouthful swamps reflection!—even the platitude of the waiter’s face is, as the Methodists say, “a blessed privilege,” so agreeably does it divest the mind of a thought the more, and suggest that pleasant vacuity so essential to the hour of dinner. The tureen was gone, and then came one of those strange intervals which all taverns bestow, as if to test the extent of endurance and patience of their guests.

My thoughts turned at once to their old track. “I have it,” said I, as a bloody-minded suggestion shot through my brain. “This is an affair of charcoal and oxalic acid, this is some damnable device of arsenic or sugar-of-lead,—these young wretches have come down here to poison themselves, and be smothered in that mode latterly introduced among us. There will be a double-locked door and smell of carbonic gas through the key-hole in the morning. I have it all before me, even to the maudlin letter, with its twenty-one verses of maudlin poetry at the foot of it. I think I hear the coroner’s charge, and see the three shillings and eightpence halfpenny produced before the jury, that were found in the youth’s possession, together with a small key and a bill for a luncheon at Birmingham. By Jove, I will prevent it, though; I will spoil their fun this time; if they will have physic, let them have something just as nauseous, but not so injurious. My own notion is a basin of this soup and a slice of the ‘joint,’ and here it comes;” and thus my meditations were again destined to be cut short, and revery give way to reality.

I was just helping myself to my second slice of mutton, when the young man entered the coffee-room, and walked towards me. At first his manner evinced hesitation and indecision, and he turned to the fireplace, as if with some change of purpose; then, as if suddenly summoning his resolution, he came up to the table at which I sat, and said,—

“Will you favor me with five minutes of your time?”

“By all means,” said I; “sit down here, and I’m your man; you must excuse me, though, if I proceed with my dinner, as I see it is past six o’clock, and the packet sails at seven.”

“Pray, proceed,” replied he; “your doing so will in part excuse the liberty I take in obtruding myself upon you.”

He paused, and although I waited for him to resume, he appeared in no humor to do so, but seemed more confused than before.

“Hang it,” said he at length, “I am a very bungling negotiator, and never in my life could manage a matter of any difficulty.”

“Take a glass of sherry,” said I; “try if that may not assist to recall your faculties.”

“No, no,” cried he; “I have taken a bottle of it already, and, by Jove, I rather think my head is only the more addled. Do you know that I am in a most confounded scrape. I have run away with that young lady; we were at an evening-party last night together, and came straight away from the supper-table to the train.”

“Indeed!” said I, laying down my knife and fork, not a little gratified that I was at length to learn the secret that had so long teased me. “And so you have run away with her!”

“Yes; it was no sudden thought, however,—at least, it was an old attachment; I have known her these two months.”

“Oh! oh!” said I; “then there was prudence in the affair.”

“Perhaps you will say so,” said he, quickly, “when I tell you she has £30,000 in the Funds, and something like £1700 a year besides,—not that I care a straw for the money, but, in the eye of the world, that kind of thing has its Éclat.”

“So it has,” said I, “and a very pretty Éclat it is, and one that, somehow or another, preserves its attractions much longer than most surprises; but I do not see the scrape, after all.”

“I am coming to that,” said he, glancing timidly around the room. “The affair occurred this wise: we were at an evening-party,—a kind of dÉjeÛnÉ, it was, on the Thames,—Charlotte came with her aunt,—a shrewish old damsel, that has no love for me; in fact, she very soon saw my game, and resolved to thwart it. Well, of course I was obliged to be most circumspect, and did not venture to approach her, not even to ask her to dance, the whole evening. As it grew late, however, I either became more courageous or less cautious, and I did ask her for a waltz. The old lady bristled up at once, and asked for her shawl. Charlotte accepted my invitation, and said she would certainly not retire so early; and I, to cut the matter short, led her to the top of the room. We waltzed together, and then had a ‘gallop,’ and after that some champagne, and then another waltz; for Charlotte was resolved to give the old lady a lesson,—she has spirit for anything! Well, it was growing late by this time, and we went in search of the aunt at last; but, by Jove! she was not to be found. We hunted everywhere for her, looked well in every corner of the supper-room, where it was most likely we should discover her; and at length, to our mutual horror and dismay, we learned that she had ordered the carriage up a full hour before, and gone off, declaring that she would send Charlotte’s father to fetch her home, as she herself possessed no influence over her. Here was a pretty business,—the old gentleman being, as Charlotte often told me, the most choleric man in England. He had killed two brother officers in duels, and narrowly escaped being hanged at Maidstone for shooting a waiter who delayed bringing him the water to shave,—a pleasant old boy to encounter on such an occasion at this!

“‘He will certainly shoot me,—he will shoot you,—he will kill us both!’ were the only words she could utter; and my blood actually froze at the prospect before us. You may smile if you like; but let me tell you that an outraged father, with a pair of patent revolving pistols, is no laughing matter. There was nothing for it, then, but to ‘bolt.’ She saw that as soon as I did; and although she endeavored to persuade me to suffer her to return home alone, that, you know, I never could think of; and so, after some little demurrings, some tears, and some resistance, we got to the Euston-Square station, just as the train was going. You may easily think that neither of us had much time for preparation. As for myself, I have come away with a ten-pound note in my purse,—not a shilling more have I in my possession; and here we are now, half of that sum spent already, and how we are to get on to the North, I cannot for the life of me conceive.”

“Oh! that’s it,” said I, peering at him shrewdly from under my eyelids.

“Yes, that ‘s it; don’t you think it is bad enough?” and he spoke the words with a reckless frankness that satisfied all my scruples. “I ought to tell you,” said he, “that my name is Blunden; I am lieutenant in the Buffs, on leave; and now that you know my secret, will you lend me twenty pounds? which perhaps, may be enough to carry us forward,—at least, it will do, until it will be safe for me to write for money.”

“But what would bring you to the North?” said I; “why not put yourselves on board the mail-packet this evening, and come to Dublin? We will marry you there just as cheaply; pursuit of you will be just as difficult; and I ‘d venture to say, you might choose a worse land for the honeymoon.”

“But I have no money,” said he; “you forgot that.”

“For the matter of money,” said I, “make your mind easy. If the young lady is going away with her own consent,—if, indeed, she is as anxious to get married as you are,—make me the banker, and I ‘ll give her away, be the bridesmaid, or anything else you please.”

“You are a trump,” said he, helping himself to another glass of my sherry; and then filling out a third, which emptied the bottle, he slapped me on the shoulder, and said, “Here ‘s your health; now come upstairs.”

“Stop a moment,” said I, “I must see her alone,—there must be no tampering with the evidence.”

He hesitated for a second, and surveyed me from head to foot; and whether it was the number of my double chins or the rotundity of my waistcoat divested his mind of any jealous scruples, but he smiled coolly, and said, “So you shall, old buck,—we will never quarrel about that.”

Upstairs we went accordingly, and into a handsome drawing-room on the first floor, at one end of which, with her head buried in her hands, the young lady was sitting.

“Charlotte,” said he, “this gentleman is kind enough to take an interest in our fortunes, but he desires a few words with you alone.”

I waved my hand to him to prevent his making any further explanation, and as a signal to withdraw; he took the hint and left the room.

Now, thought I, this is the second act of the drama; what the deuce am I to do here? In the first place, some might deem it my duty to admonish the young damsel on the impropriety of the step, to draw an afflicting picture of her family, to make her weep bitter tears, and end by persuading her to take a first-class ticket in the up-train. This would be the grand parento-moral line; and I shame to confess it, it was never my forte. Secondly, I might pursue the inquiry suggested by myself, and ascertain her real sentiments. This might be called the amico-auxiliary line. Or, lastly, I might try a little, what might be done on my own score, and not see £30,000 and £1700 a year squandered by a cigar-smoking lieutenant in the Buffs. As there may be different opinions about this line, I shall not give it a name. Suffice it to say, that, notwithstanding a sly peep at as pretty a throat and as well rounded an instep as ever tempted a “government Mercury,” I was true to my trust, and opened the negotiation on the honest footing.

“Do you love him, my little darling?” said I; for somehow consolation always struck me as own-brother to love-making. It is like indorsing a bill for a friend, which, though he tells you he ‘ll meet, you always feel responsible for the money.

She turned upon me an arch look. By St. Patrick, I half regretted I had not tried number three, as in the sweetest imaginable voice she said,—

“Do you doubt it?”

“I wish I could,” thought I to myself. No matter, it was too late for regrets; and so I ascertained, in a very few minutes, that she corroborated every portion of the statement, and was as deeply interested in the success of the adventure as himself.

“That will do,” said I. “He is a lucky fellow,—I always heard the Buffs were;” and with that I descended to the coffee-room, where the young man awaited me with the greatest anxiety.

“Are you satisfied?” cried he, as I entered the room.

“Perfectly,” was my answer. “And now let us lose no more time; it wants but a quarter to seven, and we must be on board in ten minutes.”

As I have already remarked, my fellow-travellers were not burdened with luggage, so there was little difficulty in expediting their departure; and in half an hour from that time we were gliding down the Mersey, and gazing on the spangled lamps which glittered over that great city of soap, sugar, and sassafras, train-oil, timber, and tallow. The young lady soon went below, as the night was chilly; but Blunden and myself walked the deck until near twelve o’clock, chatting over whatever came uppermost, and giving me an opportunity to perceive that, without possessing any remarkable ability or cleverness, he was one of those offhand, candid, clear-headed young fellows, who, when trained in the admirable discipline of the mess, become the excellent specimens of well-conducted, well-mannered gentlemen our army abounds with.

We arrived in due course in Dublin. I took my friends up to Morrison’s, drove with them after breakfast to a fashionable milliner’s, where the young lady, with an admirable taste, selected such articles of dress as she cared for, and I then saw them duly married. I do not mean to say that the ceremony was performed by a bishop, or that a royal duke gave her away; neither can I state that the train of carriages comprised the equipages of the leading nobility. I only vouch for the fact that a little man, with a black eye and a sinister countenance, read a ceremony of his own composing, and made them write their names in a great book, and pay thirty shillings for his services; after which I put a fifty-pound note into Blunden’s hand, saluted the bride, and, wishing them every health and happiness, took my leave.

They started at once with four posters for the North, intending to cross over to Scotland. My engagements induced me to leave town for Cork, and in less than a fortnight I found at my club a letter from Blunden, enclosing the fifty pounds, with a thousand thanks for my prompt kindness, and innumerable affectionate reminiscences from Madame. They were as happy as—confound it, every one is happy for a week or a fortnight; so I crushed the letter, pitched it into the fire, was rather pleased with myself for what I had done, and thought no more of the whole transaction.

Here then my tale should have an end, and the moral is obvious. Indeed, I am not certain but some may prefer it to that which the succeeding portion conveys, thinking that the codicil revokes the body of the testament. However that may be, here goes for it.

It was about a year after this adventure that I made one of a party of six travelling up to London by the “Grand Junction.” The company were chatty, pleasant folk, and the conversation, as often happens among utter strangers, became anecdotic; many good stories were told in turn, and many pleasant comments made on them, when at length it occurred to me to mention the somewhat singular rencontre I have already narrated as having happened to myself.

“Strange enough,” said I, “the last time I journeyed along this line, nearly this time last year, a very remarkable occurrence took place. I happened to fall in with a young officer of the Buffs, eloping with an exceedingly pretty girl; she had a large fortune, and was in every respect a great ‘catch;’ he ran away with her from an evening party, and never remembered, until he arrived at Liverpool, that he had no money for the journey. In this dilemma, the young fellow, rather spooney about the whole thing, I think would have gone quietly back by the next train, but, by Jove, I could n’t satisfy my conscience that so lovely a girl should be treated in such a manner. I rallied his courage; took him over to Ireland in the packet, and got them married the next morning.”

“Have I caught you at last, you old, meddling scoundrel!” cried a voice, hoarse and discordant with passion, from the opposite side; and at the same instant a short, thickset old man, with shoulders like a Hercules, sprung at me. With one hand he clutched me by the throat, and with the other he pummelled my head against the panel of the conveyance, and with such violence that many people in the next carriage averred that they thought we had run into the down train. So sudden was the old wretch’s attack, and so infuriate withal, it took the united force of the other passengers to detach him from my neck; and even then, as they drew him off, he kicked at me like a demon. Never has it been my lot to witness such an outbreak of wrath; and, indeed, were I to judge from the symptoms it occasioned, the old fellow had better not repeat it, or assuredly apoplexy would follow.

“That villain,—that old ruffian,” said he, glaring at me with flashing eyeballs, while he menaced me with his closed fist,—“that cursed, meddling scoundrel is the cause of the greatest calamity of my life.”

“Are you her father, then?” articulated I, faintly, for a misgiving came over me that my boasted benevolence might prove a mistake. “Are you her father?” The words were not out, when he dashed at me once more, and were it not for the watchfulness of the others, inevitably had finished me.

“I’ve heard of you, my old buck,” said I, affecting a degree of ease and security my heart sadly belied. “I ‘ve heard of your dreadful temper already,—I know you can’t control yourself. I know all about the waiter at Maidstone. By Jove, they did not wrong you; and I am not surprised at your poor daughter leaving you—” But he would not suffer me to conclude; and once more his wrath boiled over, and all the efforts of the others were barely sufficient to calm him into a semblance of reason.

There would be an end to my narrative if I endeavored to convey to my reader the scene which followed, or recount the various outbreaks of passion which ever and anon interrupted the old man, and induced him to diverge into sundry little by-ways of lamentation over his misfortune, and curses upon my meddling interference. Indeed his whole narrative was conducted more in the staccato style of an Italian opera father than in the homely wrath of an English parent; the wind-up of these dissertations being always to the one purpose, as with a look of scowling passion directed towards me, he said, “Only wait till we reach the station, and see if I won’t do for you.”

His tale, in few words, amounted to this. He was the Squire Blunden,—the father of the lieutenant in the “Buffs.” The youth had formed an attachment to a lady whom he had accidentally met in a Margate steamer. The circumstances of her family and fortune were communicated to him in confidence by herself; and although she expressed her conviction of the utter impossibility of obtaining her father’s consent to an untitled match, she as resolutely refused to elope with him. The result, however, was as we have seen; she did elope,—was married,—they made a wedding tour in the Highlands, and returned to Blunden Hall two months after, where the old gentleman welcomed them with affection and forgiveness. About a fortnight after their return, it was deemed necessary to make inquiry as to the circumstances of her estate and funded property, when the young lady fell upon her knees, wept bitterly, said she had not a sixpence,—that the whole thing was a “ruse;” that she had paid five pounds for a choleric father, three ten for an aunt warranted to wear “satin;” in fact, that she had been twice married before, and had heavy misgivings that the husbands were still living.

There was nothing left for it but compromise. “I gave her,” said he, “five hundred pounds to go to the devil, and I registered, the same day, a solemn oath that if ever I met this same Tramp, he should carry the impress of my knuckles on his face to the day of his death.”

The train reached Harrow as the old gentleman spoke. I waited until it was again in motion, and, flinging wide the door, I sprang out, and from that day to this have strictly avoided forming acquaintance with a white lace bonnet, even at a distance, or ever befriending a lieutenant in the Buffs.