My earliest recollection of Vauxhall-gardens extends back nearly twenty years prior to their decadency,—to the time when the high price charged for admission kept the company frequenting them select; when on certain grand occasions Braham and Pasta sang, and Taglioni danced there, and Paganini made his violin speak and sing by turns in the crowded little theatre; when Madame Saqui disported on the tight rope in a shower of fireworks, and later on when Fitzball's inane song of “My pretty Jane, my dearest Jane, ah! never look so shy” used to be rapturously encored nightly. How cosy the suppers in the little boxes round about the orchestra then seemed, and how nectar-like even the hot punch tasted on those sultry July nights five and fifty years ago!

I remember one dismal evening at Vauxhall when some venturesome acrobat—a part of whose programme was tosimulate hanging himself—remained suspended high up in the air perfectly motionless for several minutes, until loud shouts arose among the alarmed spectators of “Cut him down!” A couple of long ladders were raised and the poor posture-master was laid in his silks and spangles on the gravelled space, while a stirgeon's lancet was applied to his jugular vein. Only a drop or two of blood oozed out, however, for the unhappy mountebank had hanged himself effectually. I also remember witnessing the ascent of Green's great balloon from the gardens in the gloomy month of November, 1836, when the aeronaut and his two companions—Messrs.