“I have liv’d long enough: my way of life Is fall’n into the sear and yellow leaf.” SHAKSPEARE. It might be supposed that, now Mr. Tippetson had very clearly relinquished all intention of offering his hand to Clara, and Miss Henderson had appointed Dr. Crack successor to Mr. Markham, no objection or impediment lay in the way of the last-named gentleman to prevent a regular and formal offer of his heart to Clara Rivolta. So for a moment he thought, and but for a moment. Most curiously do actual events seem to amuse themselves by opposing and contradicting human anticipations. One morning when there was no business in Westminster Hall, and when Markham, after a late and lounging breakfast in his chamber, was preparing to saunter to the west, and spend his morning and, if Mr. Martindale pleased, his day with Clara Rivolta, just as he had drawn the brush round his hat, that daily author of ten thousand times ten thousand palpitations, the postman, brought him a letter, on which he recognised the hand-writing of his father; but the young man thought that the writing seemed of an unsteadier hand than usual, and he was alarmed. We have hitherto said little or next to nothing concerning Markham’s father. Our reason for so doing is, that the elder Markham was a linen-draper; and we were very naturally afraid lest any of our readers should for a moment suppose that we knew any thing about such vulgar people. As the subject, however, must be introduced, we hope that our readers will imagine that all the knowledge we have of the linen-draper cast has been derived from some cyclopedia or dictionary of universal knowledge.