There were fewer audience than performers, and those made up of
fellows evidently not in the habit of shirt-wearing; of women there
were very few-- of ladies none; the fireworks were bad and brief, and
the waterworks the most absurd affair I ever beheld; the thing was
overdone. To the people who would like to go to Vauxhall in fine
weather, second-rate Italian singing and broken down English prima
donnas are no inducement, a bad ballet in a booth has no attraction,
and an attempt at variety mars the whole affair. Vauxhall is a
delightful place to go to in fine weather with a pleasant party; give
us space to walk, light up that space, and shelter us from the
elements, set the military bands to play popular airs, and we ask no
more for our four or five shillings, or whatever it is; but the moment
tumbling is established in various parts of the garden, and the whole
thing is made a sort of Bartholomew Fair, the object of breathing a
little fresher air, and hearing ourselves talk is ended; crowds of
raffs in boots and white neckcloths attended by their dowdy damsels
and waddling wives, rush from one place to another, helter skelter,
knocking over the few quiet people to whom the "sights" are a novelty;
turning what in the days of the late Lady Castlereagh, the present
Duchess of Bedford, the first Duchess of Devonshire, and the last
Duchess of Gordon (but one) was a delightful reunion of fashion, into
a tea-garden (without tea) or a bear-garden--not without
bears.--_Sharpe's Magazine_.
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