I found Magdalen in the garden. "Heavens, Mr. Stubbs!" said she, as in my new uniform I appeared before her, "I really did never—such a handsome officer—expect to see you;" and she made as if she would blush, and began to tremble violently. I led her to a garden seat. I seized her hand—it was not withdrawn. I pressed it;—I thought the pressure was returned. I flung myself on my knees, and then I poured into her ear a little speech which I had made on the top of the coach. "Divine Miss Crutty," said I; "idol of my soul! It was but to catch one glimpse of you that I passed through this garden. I never intended to breathe the secret passion (oh, no! of course not) which was wearing my life away. You know my unfortunate pre-engagement,—it is broken, and _for ever_! I am free!—free, but to be your slave,—your humblest, fondest, truest slave:" and so on.....
"O, Mr. Stubbs," said she, as I imprinted a kiss upon her cheek, "I can't refuse you; but I fear you are a sad, naughty man...."
Absorbed in the delicious reverie which was caused by the dear creature's confusion, we were both silent for a while, and should have remained so for hours, perhaps, so lost were we in happiness, had I not been suddenly roused by a voice exclaiming from behind us,
"_Don't cry, Mary; he is a swindling, sneaking scoundrel, and you are well rid of him!_"
I turned round! O, Heaven! there stood Mary, weeping on Doctor Bates's arm, while that miserable apothecary was looking at me with the utmost scorn. The gardener who had let me in had told them of my arrival, and now stood grinning behind them. "Imperence!" was my Magdalen's only exclamation, as she flounced by with the utmost self-possession, while I, glancing daggers at _the spies_, followed her. We retired to the parlour, where she repeated to me the strongest assurances of her love.
I thought I was a made man. Alas! I was only an APRIL FOOL!
[Sidenote: _State of the_ _Weather._ —— Hocus Pocus look for RAIN. [Illustration] Hoaxem Folksem FINE again! [Illustration] Would you know the WET from DRY, "_Buy, Buy, Buy_." It's like to CHANGE when cats do cry. ]
That very merry pleasant month of May Is made for Music, as the poets say; Whether in shady groves we seek retreat, Or view the Concert bills in Regent-street, 'Twould seem as though the world was gone a-singing— Green bowers and Opera boxes all are ringing With strains of melody that pour upon us, From thrushes, nightingales, and prima Donnas. The little birds sing treeos in each nook, And turn over the leaves for want of book; While operas, scored for twenty kettle-drums By Costa, sent to pot our tympanums. But what harmonious armies now besiege The ears and pockets of each simple liege: Jew German minstrels, in Whitechapel born, Brazen performers on a brazen horn, And he who, having nothing to put in His empty mouth, plays tunes upon his chin. Forsaking soap, my washerwoman's daughters Practise soprano, "o'er the dark blue waters," On drying days supreme their glory shines, And soars aloft, to C above the lines. But far and wide they solo, catch, and glee 'em At EAGLE, CONDUIT, STINGO, _Call-an-seum_, Where unknown throngs from unknown regions go, For gin, tobacco, and "The Chough and Crow," And MELODISTS', where shopmen, quite sublime, In counter-tenor murder tune and time, And while for pleasure, perhaps, abroad they roam, A little concert waits for them at home.