"The Exhibition Rooms were crowded with the ton; and to be sure a great many fine things were there. Would you had seen them, sir. There were admirals in blue, and generals in red—portraits of my lord this, and my lady that—land scenes, and sea scenes, and hunting scenes, with thips, and woods, and old castles, all amazingly like life. In short, sir, Providence seems to have guided us to the spot, where we saw a picture—the picture, sir—the pattern copy of that there picture, sir—and heavens! such a piece of work—but of that anon—it did the business, sir. No sooner had I perused it through my quizzing-glass, which, I confess, that I had brought with me more for ornament than use—having eyes like a hawk—than I pathetically exclaimed to Lucy—'Behold, my love, the history of our fates!' Lucy said, 'Tuts, Toby Tims,' and gave a giggle; but I went on in solemn gravity, before a circle of seemingly electrified spectators.

"'Spose now, Miss Lucy,' said I, holding her by the finger of her Limerick glove; 'spose now, that I had invited you to take an outside seat on the Hampstead Flying Phoenix with me, to go out to a rural junketing, on May day in the afternoon. Very well—there we find ourselves alive and kicking, forty couple footing it on the green, and choosing, according to our tastes, reels, jigs, minuets, or bumpkins. 'Spose then, that I have handed you down to the bottom of five-and-twenty couple at a country-dance, to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley, Morgiana in Ireland, Petronella, or the Triumph; and, notwithstanding our having sucked a couple of oranges a-piece, we are both quite in a broth of perspiration. Very good—so says I to you, making a genteel bow, 'Do you please to walk aside, and cool yourself in them there green arbours, and I will be with you as quick as directly, with a glass of lemonade or cherry brandy?' So says you to me, dropping a curtsey a la mode, 'With ineffable pleasure, sir;' and away you trip into the shade like a sunbeam.

"'Now, Lucy, my love, take a good look of that picture. That is you, 'spose, seated on the turf, a leetle behind the pillar dedicated to Apollar; and you, blooming like a daffodilly in April, are waiting with great thirst, and not a little impatience, for my promised appearance, from the sign of the Hen and Chickens, with the cordials, and a few biscuits on a salver—when, lo! an old bald-pated, oily-faced, red-nosed Cameronian ranter, whom by your elegant negligee capering you have fairly danced out of his dotard senses, comes pawing up to you like Polito's polar bear, drops on his knees, and before you can avert your nose from a love-speech, embalmed in the fumes of tobacco and purl, the hoary villain has beslobbered your lily-white fingers, and is protesting unalterable affection, at the rate of twelve miles an hour, inclusive of stoppages. Now, Lucy, love, did you ever,—say upon your honour,—did you ever witness such a spectacle of humanity? Tell me now?

"'Very well. Now, love, take a peep down the avenue, and yon is me, yon tight, handsome little figure, with the Spanish cap and cloak, attended by a trusty servant in the same costume, to whom I am pointing where he is to bring the cherry-brandy; when, lo! we perceive the hideous apparition!—and straightway rushing forward, like two tigers on a jackass, we seize the wigless dotard, and, calling for a blanket, the whole respectable company of forty couples and upwards, come crowding to the spot, and lend a willing hand in rotation, four by four, in tossing Malachi, the last of the lovers, till the breath of life is scarcely left in his vile body.

"'Now Lucy,' says I, in conclusion, 'don't you see the confounded absurdity of ever wasting a thought on a broken-down, bandy-legged, beggarly dragoon? Just look at him, with an old taffeta whigmaleerie tied to his back, like Paddy from Cork, with his coat buttoned behind! Isn't he a pretty figure, now, to go a-courting? You would never forsake the like of me—would you now? A spruce, natty little body of a creature—to be the trollop of a spindle-shanked veteran, who, besides having one foot in the grave, and a nose fit for three, might be your great-grandfather?'

"It was a sight, sir, that would have melted the heart of a wheel-barrow. Before the whole assembled exhibition-room, Lucy first looked blue, and then blushed consent. 'Toby,' said she, 'don't mention it, Toby, dear,—I am thine for ever and a day!' Angelic sounds, which at once sent Bottlenose to Coventry. His chance was now weak indeed, quite like Grantham gruel, three groats to a gallon of water. In an ecstacy of passion, sir, I threw my silk handkerchief on the floor, and, kneeling on it with one knee, I raised her gloveless fingers to my lips!

"The whole company clapped their hands, and laughed so heartily in sympathy with my good luck! Oh! sir, had you but seen it—what a sight for sore eyes that was!"

"Then you would indeed be the happy man at last, Mr. Tims," said I. "Did you elope on the instant?"

"Just done, please your honour.—Next morning, according to special agreement, we eloped in a gig; and, writing a penitent letter from the Valentine and Orson at Chelsea, Daddy Mainspring found himself glad to come to terms. Thrice were the banns published; and such a marriage as we had! 'Pon honour, sir, I would you had been present. It was a thing to be remembered till the end of one's life. A deputation of the honourable the corporation of barbers duly attended, puffed out in full fig; and even the old quartermaster, pocketing his disappointment, was, at his own special petition, a forgiven and favoured guest. Seldom has such dancing been seen within the bounds of London; and, with two fiddles, a tambourin, and a clarionet, we made all the roofs ring, till an early hour next morning—and that we did."

"You are a lucky fellow, Mr. Tims," said I.

"And more than that, sir. When old Mainspring kicks, we are to have the counting of his mouldy coppers—so we have the devil's luck and our own; and as for false curls, braids, bandeaux, Macassar oil, cold cream, bear's-grease, tooth-powder, and Dutch toys, show me within the walls of the City a more respectable, tip-topping perfumery depot and wig-warehouse, than that wherein you now sit, and of which I, Tobias Tims, am, with due respect, the honoured master, and your humble servant!"

Blackwood's Magazine.

In addition to the foregoing, (which is one of the happiest pieces in Goldsmith's style that we have read for a long time,) there is in Blackwood's Magazine an article of extraordinary graphic spirit, occupying twenty-two pages. But we will attempt to abridge it for our columns, as well as to give a sprinkling from the Noctes in the same number. All are in the best style of their vigorous masters.

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 339, November 8, 1828

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