“Mrs. Honeydew—­Martha,” said Hardingham in a low querulous tone, “I fancy I’m going to have a fit of the gout, or a bilious fever.”

“Fancy, indeed, sir; why, I never saw you looking haler.”

“Ay, Ay, so much the worse; a fit of apoplexy then maybe.”

“Lauk, lauk! sir; a fit of the blue devils more likely.  How can you talk so?  A fit of perplexity!  Dear, dear! how some men do go on to be sure;” pouring the steaming water upon the tea.

“You are a kind comforter, Martha; nobody ever raises my spirits like you.  Get me my little leathern trunk.”

“Why, then, that I won’t;” getting it down from a closet-shelf as she spoke.  “I wish it was burnt with all my heart, that I do; making you so lammancholy as it always do.”

And well might this trunk make Mr. Hardingham melancholy, for it was the receptacle of letters and little gifts of a lady who had jilted him in early life; and upon whom he had often vowed vengeance.  She was yet unmarried; but—­no—­her once devoted admirer was resolved to follow the lady’s advice, and place his “affections upon a worthier object than Caroline Dalton;” and, thought he to himself, she shall at last see that I have found one; nor shall wild Tom, my graceless nephew, who lives upon my fortune, ever more touch one penny of it.  The postman rapped, and in a few minutes his housekeeper appeared with many apologies for bringing to him her own newspaper, but perhaps in it he might be able to find the names of some of the new novels that he wished to have.

“Martha Honeydew,” cried Hardingham with a smile, the first he had sported that week, “I am, as you know, a man of but few words, and straight-forward in my dealings; say that you can fancy me, and I’ll marry you tomorrow.”

Mrs. Honeydew’s reply will be surmised; Caroline Dalton saw who was preferred before her, and the bachelor’s revenge ruined wild Tom; for Hardingham settled all his property upon his wife, and a pretty life the amiable creature led him.

M.L.B.

* * * * *

RETROSPECTIVE GLEANINGS.

* * * * *

LETTER OF LORD STRAFFORD.

(For the Mirror.)

The following is literally copied from an original autograph of the unfortunate Lord Strafford, and may prove interesting to your numerous readers.

C.J.T.

“Sweete Harte.—­It is longe since I writt unto you, for I am here in such a troubel as gives mee little or noe respett.  The chardge is now cum in, and I am now abel I prayse God, to telle you that I conceaue there is nothing capitall, and for the reste I knowe at the worste his maty will pardonne all without hurting my fortune, and then wee shall be happie by God’s grace.  Therefore comfortt yourself, for I trust these cloudes will away and thate wee shall have faire weathere afterwarde.