Some of the melancholy duties of this life afford a more subdued, and,
therefore, a more satisfactory pleasure than scores with which duty has
nothing to do, or those of mere enjoyment. If, for instance, the friend,
whose feeds we have helped to eat, whose cellars we have done our part to
empty for the last quarter of a century, should happen to fall ill; if the
doctors shake their heads, and warn us to make haste to his bedside, there
is always a large proportion of honey to be extracted, in obeying the
summons, out of the sting of parting, recounting old reminiscences, and
gossipping about old times, never, alas! to return. But should we neglect
the summons, where would the stings of conscience end?
Impelled by such a sense of duty, we wended our way to the "royal
property," to take a last look at the long-expiring gardens. It was a wet
night--the lamps burnt dimly--the military band played in the minor
key--the waiters stalked about with so silent, melancholy a tread, that we
took their towels for pocket-handkerchiefs; the concert in the open _rain_
went off tamely--dirge-like, in spite of the "Siege of Acre," which was
described in a set of quadrilles, embellished with blue fire and maroons,
and adorned with a dozen double drums, thumped at intervals, like death
notes, in various parts of the doomed gardens. The _divertissement_ was
anything but diverting, when we reflect upon the impending fate of the
"Rotunda," in which it was performed.
No such damp was, however, thrown over the evolutions of "Ducrow's
beautiful horses and equestrian _artistes_," including "the new grand
entrée, and cavalcade of Amazons." They had no sympathy with the decline
and fall of the _Simpsonian_ empire. They were strangers, interlopers,
called in like mutes and feathers, to grace the "funeral show," to give a
more graceful flourish to the final exit. The horses pawed the sawdust,
evidently unconscious that the earth it covered would soon "be let on lease
for building ground;" the riders seemed in the hey-day of their equestrian
triumph. Let them, however, derive from the fate of Vauxhall, a deep, a
fearful lesson!--though we shudder as we write, it shall not be said that
destruction came upon them unawares--that no warning voice had been
raised--that even the squeak of PUNCH was silent! Let them not sneer, and
call us superstitious--we do _not_ give credence to supernatural agency as
a fixed and general principle; but we did believe in Simpson, and stake our
professional reputation upon Widdicomb.
That Vauxhall gardens were under the especial protection of, that they drew
the very breath of their attractiveness from, the ceremonial Simpson, who
can deny? When he flitted from walk to walk, from box to box, and welcomed
everybody to the "royal property," right royally did things go on! Who
would _then_ have dreamt that the illustrious George--he of the
Piazza--would ever be "honoured with instructions to sell;" that his
eulogistic pen would be employed in giving the puff superlative to the
Elysian haunts of quondam fashion--in other words, in painting the lily,
gilding refined gold? But, alas! Simpson, the tutelar deity, has departed
("died," some say, but we don't believe it), and at the moment he made his
last bow, Vauxhall ought to have closed; it was madness--the madness which
will call us, peradventure, superstitious--which kept the gates open when
Simpson's career closed--it was an anomaly, for like Love and Heaven,
Simpson was Vauxhall, and Vauxhall was Simpson!
Let Ducrow reflect upon these things--we dare not speak out--but a tutelar
being watches over, and giveth vitality to his arena--his ring is, he may
rely upon it, a fairy one--while _that_ mysterious being dances and prances
in it, all will go well; his horses will not stumble, never will his clowns
forget a syllable of their antiquated jokes. O! let him then, while
seriously reflecting upon Simpson and the fate of Vauxhall, give good heed
unto the Methuselah, who hath already passed his second centenary in the
circle!
These were our awful reflections while viewing the scenes in the circle,
very properly constructed in the Rotunda. They overpowered us--we dared not
stay to see the fireworks, "in the midst of which Signora Rossini was to
make her terrific ascent and descent on a rope three hundred feet high."
She _might_ have been the sprite of Madame Saqui; in fact, the "Vauxhall
Papers" published in the gardens, put forth a legend, which favours such a
dreadful supposition! We refer our readers to them--they are only sixpence
a-piece.
Of course the gardens were full in spite of the weather; for what must be
the callousness of that man who could let _the_ gardens pass under the
hammer of George Robins, without bidding them an affecting farewell? Good
gracious! We can hardly believe such insensibility does exist. Hasten then,
dear readers, as you would fly to catch the expiring sigh of a fine old
boon companion--hasten to take your parting slice of ham, your last bowl of
arrack, even now while the great auctioneer says "Going."
For your sake, and yours only, Alfred Bunn (whose disinterestedness has
passed into a theatrical proverb), arrests the arm of his friend of the
Auction Mart in its descent. Attend to _his_ bidding. Do not--oh! do not
wait till the vulcan of the Bartholomew-lane smithy lets fall his hammer
upon the anvil of pleasure, to announce that the Royal Property is--"Gone!"
[Illustration: WELCOME TO THE ROYAL PROPERTY.]
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