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.