about the lovely gardens, bewildered by the
blaze of light, and lost in admiration and
silent astonishment at all we see. We are
rather frightened, to tell the truth, of a
stern-looking gentleman, with nothing on
him, who is riding in a chariot drawn by
four horses, in the midst of a lake. The
water is rushing out of the nostrils of his
steeds, and ascending high into the air from
the point of the fork on which he leans.
We are told that his name is Neptune, and
I cannot help thinking he must find it very
cold in winter. By-and-bye we are taken to
see the fairies who belong to the place, and I
must say I thought their dancing, in and out
of garlands, and round about rose bushes,
very superior to that of us mortal little folk.
But all this is as nothing to the terrific
splendour which is to come! I am taken
to a portion of the gardens which is
fearfully dark after the blaze of light I have
just left. I am placed in a seat in a lofty
gallery, and, scarcely daring to breathe,
I hold my companion tightly. All at
once a blue light illumines an immense
palace, on the terrace of which some white
people, with no more clothes on them than
Neptune, fight with big clubs. Everything
is dark again, when suddenly the palace
crackles out all over fire, with a lot of
bangs, and I find myself with my head,
under the seat. From this place of refuge
I am at length coaxed, and then I am
overwhelmed with wonder at what I see. Suns,
moons, and stars are flying about in every
direction, while up above clusters of jewels
are falling from the sky. Then, from a lofty
tower on the palace another fairy appears,
and she glides down towards us, surrounded
by fiery serpents. I close my eyes in fear,
and the next thing I remember is being
confusedly lifted into the coach, from which I
catch a glimpse of the lord chamberlain,
who bows to us as we drive off.

Good reader, pray forgive me for
relating these my first impressions of garden
life, for I love to recal the mysterious pleasure
I then experienced, and which can
never come again. As I grew in years, so
did I steadfastly haunt the royal property
of Vauxhall, watching with grief its
gradual decay. On the very last night it was
open, I made a pilgrimage to the spot,
which to me brought back bright memories
of a happy past. How changed was everything!
There were no longer lords and
ladies, princes and princesses. The fairies
were awkward, ill-favoured people,
tinselled and painted, and the elegant throng
which I could remember had degenerated
to a coarse and vulgar crowd. Enough! I
will now turn to the gardens of to-day.

The gardens of to-day! Is there one
where in soft summer-time such an
innocent gathering as that which I have
brought back from the distant pathways of
memory could be witnessed? Where have
they all gone to, the gentlemen in evening
dress, the ladies in almost ball costume,
and the children bright, piquant, and
resplendent—lilliputian triumphs from the
hands of cunning dressers? To assert that
our more respectable classes entirely hold
aloof from our open-air resorts would
scarcely be truthful, but those who find
their way to such places as we possess for
recreation mostly do so from ignorance of
the society they will meet. For instance,
our provincial visitors are sometimes led
innocently astray, their minds full of the
ancient glories of Vauxhall. Alas! how
soon are they undeceived, and how quickly
a trespassing paterfamilias gathers around
him his flock, and flies from the eddying
movement of vice that circles round the
central platform of our modern Ranelaghs.
It is not, perhaps, quite unusual to meet
with the Honourable Jack Hardcastle, as
in the olden days; but the Lady Bettys
have all disappeared, and have given room
to ladies of quite another class. Ladies!
Save the mark! Not but what the
milliner has done her work, and lavishly too:
and for the matter of that, the dyer and
colourman have also brought their arts to
bear. But the powder that used to frost the
hair of the stately dames who, in the last
century, walked a minuet at the Royal
Property, is now used to soften features that
have become hardened and vicious with a
feverish life of dissipation. The gentlemen
who form the escort of these hard-eyed
pleasure seekers have flushed faces and loud,
thick voices, and the refined and courtly
bearing which distinguished the cavaliers
of the great Vauxhall period has vanished.

Times have very much changed since the
proprietors of Ranelagh issued the following
advertisement in 1767: "The nobility and
gentry are earnestly requested to order their
coachmen to keep the right of the road
from town, and also down the avenue, and
not to order their carriages up to the
respective doors until they are ready to go
away, as the coaches cannot be suffered to
stand at the doors, but must, if their
company is not ready, move off." I do not for
one moment mean to suggest that
anything like disorder reigns amongst the
fiery Ruperts who charge in the rear of