always appeared to me that the female is
intended, in the fitness of things and by the
great laws of harmony and order, to be the
victim. I assuaged the pain, that this necessity
cost me, however, by determining that
the good soul should bespeak her favourite
supper of scolloped oysters, and partake of it
with me on my return from the theatre,
when, some little talent for description which
partial friends allow me to possess, should
afford her an equivalent, or nearly so, for her
loss of the actual performance.

I sauntered down the platform, taking a
cursory glance into the carriages as I
passed, and happened to make choice of one
which was divided into two compartments.
There was a young lady in one of them, and,
being married myself, and therefore attached
to female society, that circumstance may,
perhaps, have weighed with me in my choice.
I am naturally of a sentimental disposition,
and her youthful appearance, combined with
other graces, reminding me of what my
dearest Julia used to be like, years and years
ago, I was disappointed, not to say annoyed,
when two other passengers entered and put a
stop to a tête-à-tête which I had anticipated
would be agreeable. The first of these
intruders was a florid young person, distressingly
full of animal spirits, although attired in deep
mourning, and resembling altogether in
appearance and manner the commercial traveller.
The second was an old gentleman, who was
pitched into our compartment almost head
foremost just as the train was starting, with
his white hair standing as erect upon his
head as though it had been electrified: a
peculiarity, however, which was not owing to the
terror of haste, but—as he was kind enough
to inform me, when he perceived that I could
not take my eyes off it—one that was habitual
to it.

"Dear me!" cried the old gentleman,
"I have had no time to get a paper;
I can't possibly get on without something to
read; I must have my mind employed!
Have you got a paper?" added he, turning
sharply towards me.

"I have a Punch, sir," said I, "of last
week, but you must please not to tear it, as I
am taking it up to my little boy in town that
he may colour the pictures."

"Who wants to tear your paper?" cried
the old gentleman, angrily. "Who wants to
look at your last week's Punch? I see you
have two books, sir," said he, looking at the
commercial traveller, "will you lend me one
of them?"

"Both, if you like," answered the young
man, smiling; "but I am afraid they will not
greatly interest you—they only contain
samples of goods belonging to the house for
which I travel."

The old gentleman looked at the young lady
inquisitively.

"And I, sir," said she, in reply to his
glance, and with a silvery laugh, "have
nothing to offer you, except this little work
on crochet."

With an impatient gesture and a
monosyllabic expression the old gentleman pulled
the window down and thrust his head out—
and that to such a distance that if we had
been near a bridge at the moment, it would
have been taken off, to a certainty.

I could not help saying so to him; he
drew himself in again with considerable
rapidity, while his hair, which had been
streaming comet-like in the wind, reassumed
its perpendicular attitude as readily as the
crest of a cockatoo.

"Sir," said he, "you alarm me. I have only
just been hearing of a most terrible railway
accident upon this very line; to dispel the
impression of which, from my mind, was the
cause of my anxiety to procure something to
read."

"Suppose you tell it us, sir," observed the
young lady; "any weight upon the mind is
best communicated."

She said this with a nice little sigh, as
though she were herself a sufferer from
having no loving ear into which to pour her
griefs. (Her likeness to dearest Julia, in her
best days, was certainly very striking. It
seemed to grow upon me.)

"If I tell you my tale," said the old
gentleman, "which is a very short one, you must
all promise, on your parts, to tell one also."

"Oh, yes," said the young man, cheerfully,
as though he thought it would be capital fun.

"Oh, yes," said the young lady, as if there
could be no doubt about that matter, surely.

And, "Oh, yes," I chimed in rather remorsefully,
because I knew that I had not a story
to tell.

"The reason why I was so late in getting
into the carriage," commenced the old
gentleman," was an interesting conversation in
which I was engaged with the stoker, I am
very sorry to say, of this very train. Seeing a
knot of persons collected round him, and
being naturally curious, I joined them in
listening to a graphic account he was giving
of an accident which occurred last week at
this end of the line, and in which he was, in
some sort, an actor. He ran his engine, that
is to say, over a respectable gentleman in the
neighbourhood of Weston-super-mare—or, as
he termed it, super-mayor—and of course
killed him. There was nothing remarkable
in the circumstances themselves, but the
homely expressions and dramatic manner of
the narrator were so striking that I cannot
get rid of the impression they produced upon
me. 'I seed the old gentleman upon the
line,' said he, 'walking along, about a mile
and a-half a-head, with his hands in his
pockets, quite comfortable, and I dare say
thinkin' o' nothing like—certainly, not of me,
behind him, coming along with a couple of
thousand ton at forty mile an hour. So I
whistles away merrily........' 'Good
heavens!' cried I, interrupting him, 'do you