“‘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.