Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 327: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

268 Pickwick Abroad. his memory retained not the fact of Mrs. Weston’s being a widow: he had a good dinner, and a couple of bottles of strong Burgundy only upon his conscience. ‘“‘Do you intend to remain long in Paris, Mr. Pickwick?’ enquired the lady after another pause. ‘Only as long as it is agreeable to you,” murmured this most extraordi man, the motives of whose actions invariably turned upon so important a pivot. ‘* Lor, Mr. Pickwick!” said the widow, returning in her confusion the pressure of that gentleman’s hand. ‘“ Mrs, Weston—adorable woman,” cried the impassioned hero of these memoirs, falling, as he spoke, upon one knee and a thistle at the same time: “my feelings overpower me,—and I must now seek an explanation. at heart—that enviable heart of your’s—”’ ‘My heart, Mr. Pickwick ?” sighed the lady, gently. ‘‘ Your heart,” reiterated the great man, with a sentimental hiccup which not a little added to the interest of this most affecting scene: “tell me—dear Madam—it is not—oh! no, it cannot be—it is not Siffkin’s ?”’ Mrs. Weston blushed a negative. ‘¢ And it may be Pickwick’s ?” continued the ardent lover. The widow looked an a ive, Hen ow then, may suffer me to hope ?” demanded the venerable tra- veller. Mr. Scuttle’s niece whispered an assent. ‘‘] must make a note of your permission,” said Mr, Pickwick, with that prudence and presence of mind which never deserted him. ‘‘ It can be scarcely necessary,” objected the widow, with a deep blush; ‘and vulgar eyes may se your memoranda,” “ Right—very right,” said Mr. Pic wick, pressing his lips to the fair hand which he held imprisoned within his own, and rising lightly from his suppliant posture and the thistle. “‘I shall reveal my views and wishes to Scuttle in the course of to-morrow, and have no doubt—”’ At this interesting crisis, a profane voice dared to break upon the silence of the evening; and the following song suddenly burst forth to burden the air with its measures :— EVENING. How gorgeously the sun is sinking In fis enamoar’d Thetis’ Jap: He seems the ocean to be drinking, Before he takes his evening nap. Upon the clouds the Moon is riding, Through endlove paths her eoureer guid endless er courser guiding, She trote along the usual road. = The stars above our heads are twinkling, As if they pined at human woe ; Or e’en as if they had an inkling Of ail that’s passing here below. Connie soolks (©) (c@