r of an hour ago: it originated in admiration
of the little boy who belongs to one of them--that diminutive specimen of
mortality in the three-cornered pink satin hat with black feathers. The
two men in the blue coats and drab trousers, who are walking up and down,
smoking their pipes, are their husbands. The party in the opposite box
are a pretty fair specimen of the generality of the visitors. These are
the father and mother, and old grandmother: a young man and woman, and an
individual addressed by the euphonious title of 'Uncle Bill,' who is
evidently the wit of the party. They have some half-dozen children with
them, but it is scarcely necessary to notice the fact, for that is a
matter of course here. Every woman in 'the gardens,' who has been
married for any length of time, must have had twins on two or three
occasions; it is impossible to account for the extent of juvenile
population in any other way.

Observe the inexpressible delight of the old grandmother, at Uncle Bill's
splendid joke of 'tea for four: bread-and-butter for forty;' and the loud
explosion of mirth which follows his wafering a paper 'pigtail' on the
waiter's collar. The young man is evidently 'keeping company' with Uncle
Bill's niece: and Uncle Bill's hints--such as 'Don't forget me at the
dinner, you know,' 'I shall look out for the cake, Sally,' 'I'll be
godfather to your first--wager it's a boy,' and so forth, are equally
embarrassing to the young people, and delightful to the elder ones. As
to the old grandmother, she is in perfect ecstasies, and does nothing but
laugh herself into fits of coughing, until they have finished the
'gin-and-water warm with,' of which Uncle Bill ordered 'glasses round'
after tea, 'just to keep the night air out, and to do it up comfortable
and riglar arter sitch an as-tonishing hot day!'

It is getting dark, and the people begin to move. The field leading to
town is quite full of them; the little hand-chaises are dragged wearily
along, the children are tired, and amuse themselves and the company
generally by crying, or resort to the much more pleasant expedient of
going to sleep--the mothers begin to wish they were at home
again--sweethearts grow more sentimental than ever, as the time for
parting arrives--the gardens look mournful enough, by the light of the
two lanterns which hang against the trees for the convenience of
smokers--and the waiters who have been running about incessantly for the
last six