There was a time when if a man ventured to wonder how Vauxhall-gardens
would look by day, he was hailed with a shout of derision at the
absurdity of the idea. Vauxhall by daylight! A porter-pot without
porter, the House of Commons without the Speaker, a gas-lamp without
the gas—pooh, nonsense, the thing was not to be thought of. It was
rumoured, too, in those times, that Vauxhall-gardens by day, were the
scene of secret and hidden experiments; that there, carvers were
exercised in the mystic art of cutting a moderate-sized ham into slices
thin enough to pave the whole of the grounds; that beneath the shade of
the tall trees, studious men were constantly engaged in chemical
experiments, with the view of discovering how much water a bowl of
negus could possibly bear; and that in some retired nooks, appropriated
to the study of ornithology, other sage and learned men were, by a
process known only to themselves, incessantly employed in reducing
fowls to a mere combination of skin and bone.
Vague rumours of this kind, together with many others of a similar
nature, cast over Vauxhall-gardens an air of deep mystery; and as there
is a great deal in the mysterious, there is no doubt that to a good
many people, at all events, the pleasure they afforded was not a little
enhanced by this very circumstance.
Of this class of people we confess to having made one. We loved to
wander among these illuminated groves, thinking of the patient and
laborious researches which had been carried on there during the day,
and witnessing their results in the suppers which were served up
beneath the light of lamps and to the sound of music at night. The
temples and saloons and cosmoramas and fountains glittered and sparkled
before our eyes; the beauty of the lady singers and the elegant
deportment of the gentlemen, captivated our hearts; a few hundred
thousand of additional lamps dazzled our senses; a bowl or two of punch
bewildered our brains; and we were happy.
In an evil hour, the proprietors of Vauxhall-gardens took to opening
them by day. We regretted this, as rudely and harshly disturbing that
veil of mystery which had hung about the property for many years, and
which none but the noonday sun, and the late Mr. Simpson, had ever
penetrated. We shrunk from going; at this moment we scarcely know why.
Perhaps a morbid consciousness of approaching disappointment—perhaps a
fatal presentiment—perhaps the weather; whatever it was, we did _not_
go until the second or third announcement of a race between two
balloons tempted us, and we went.
We paid our shilling at the gate, and then we saw for the first time,
that the entrance, if there had been any magic about it at all, was now
decidedly disenchanted, being, in fact, nothing more nor less than a
combination of very roughly-painted boards and sawdust. We glanced at
the orchestra and supper-room as we hurried past—we just recognised
them, and that was all. We bent our steps to the firework-ground;
there, at least, we should not be disappointed. We reached it, and
stood rooted to the spot with mortification and astonishment. _That_
the Moorish tower—that wooden shed with a door in the centre, and daubs
of crimson and yellow all round, like a gigantic watch-case! _That_ the
place where night after night we had beheld the undaunted Mr. Blackmore
make his terrific ascent, surrounded by flames of fire, and peals of
artillery, and where the white garments of Madame Somebody (we forget
even her name now), who nobly devoted her life to the manufacture of
fireworks, had so often been seen fluttering in the wind, as she called
up a red, blue, or party-coloured light to illumine her temple! _That_
the—but at this moment the bell rung; the people scampered away,
pell-mell, to the spot from whence the sound proceeded; and we, from
the mere force of habit, found ourself running among the first, as if
for very life.
It was for the concert in the orchestra. A small party of dismal men in
cocked hats were ‘executing’ the overture to _Tancredi_, and a numerous
assemblage of ladies and gentlemen, with their families, had rushed
from their half-emptied stout mugs in the supper boxes, and crowded to
the spot. Intense was the low murmur of admiration when a particularly
small gentleman, in a dress coat, led on a particularly tall lady in a
blue sarcenet pelisse and bonnet of the same, ornamented with large
white feathers, and forthwith commenced a plaintive duet.
We knew the small gentleman well; we had seen a lithographed semblance
of him, on many a piece of music, with his mouth wide open as if in the
act of singing; a wine-glass in his hand; and a table with two
decanters and four pine-apples on it in the background. The tall lady,
too, we had gazed on, lost in raptures of admiration, many and many a
time—how different people _do_ look by daylight, and without punch, to
be sure! It was a beautiful duet: first the small gentleman asked a
question, and then the tall lady answered it; then the small gentleman
and the tall lady sang together most melodiously; then the small
gentleman went through a little piece of vehemence by himself, and got
very tenor indeed, in the excitement of his feelings, to which the tall
lady responded in a similar manner; then the small gentleman had a
shake or two, after which the tall lady had the same, and then they
both merged imperceptibly into the original air: and the band wound
themselves up to a pitch of fury, and the small gentleman handed the
tall lady out, and the applause was rapturous.
The comic singer, however, was the especial favourite; we really
thought that a gentleman, with his dinner in a pocket-handkerchief, who
stood near us, would have fainted with excess of joy. A marvellously
facetious gentleman that comic singer is; his distinguishing
characteristics are, a wig approaching to the flaxen, and an aged
countenance, and he bears the name of one of the English counties, if
we recollect right. He sang a very good song about the seven ages, the
first half-hour of which afforded the assembly the purest delight; of
the rest we can make no report, as we did not stay to hear any more.
We walked about, and met with a disappointment at every turn; our
favourite views were mere patches of paint; the fountain that had
sparkled so showily by lamp-light, presented very much the appearance
of a water-pipe that had burst; all the ornaments were dingy, and all
the walks gloomy. There was a spectral attempt at rope-dancing in the
little open theatre. The sun shone upon the spangled dresses of the
performers, and their evolutions were about as inspiriting and
appropriate as a country-dance in a family vault. So we retraced our
steps to the firework-ground, and mingled with the little crowd of
people who were contemplating Mr. Green.
Some half-dozen men were restraining the impetuosity of one of the
balloons, which was completely filled, and had the car already
attached; and as rumours had gone abroad that a Lord was ‘going up,’
the crowd were more than usually anxious and talkative. There was one
little man in faded black, with a dirty face and a rusty black
neckerchief with a red border, tied in a narrow wisp round his neck,
who entered into conversation with everybody, and had something to say
upon every remark that was made within his hearing. He was standing
with his arms folded, staring up at the balloon, and every now and then
vented his feelings of reverence for the aëronaut, by saying, as he
looked round to catch somebody’s eye, ‘He’s a rum ’un is Green; think
o’ this here being up’ards of his two hundredth ascent; ecod, the man
as is ekal to Green never had the toothache yet, nor won’t have within
this hundred year, and that’s all about it. When you meets with real
talent, and native, too, encourage it, that’s what I say;’ and when he
had delivered himself to this effect, he would fold his arms with more
determination than ever, and stare at the balloon with a sort of
admiring defiance of any other man alive, beyond himself and Green,
that impressed the crowd with the opinion that he was an oracle.
‘Ah, you’re very right, sir,’ said another gentleman, with his wife,
and children, and mother, and wife’s sister, and a host of female
friends, in all the gentility of white pocket-handkerchiefs, frills,
and spencers, ‘Mr. Green is a steady hand, sir, and there’s no fear
about him.’
‘Fear!’ said the little man: ‘isn’t it a lovely thing to see him and
his wife a going up in one balloon, and his own son and _his_ wife a
jostling up against them in another, and all of them going twenty or
thirty mile in three hours or so, and then coming back in pochayses? I
don’t know where this here science is to stop, mind you; that’s what
bothers me.’
Here there was a considerable talking among the females in the
spencers.
‘What’s the ladies a laughing at, sir?’ inquired the little man,
condescendingly.
‘It’s only my sister Mary,’ said one of the girls, ‘as says she hopes
his lordship won’t be frightened when he’s in the car, and want to come
out again.’
‘Make yourself easy about that there, my dear,’ replied the little man.
‘If he was so much as to move a inch without leave, Green would jist
fetch him a crack over the head with the telescope, as would send him
into the bottom of the basket in no time, and stun him till they come
down again.’
‘Would he, though?’ inquired the other man.
‘Yes, would he,’ replied the little one, ‘and think nothing of it,
neither, if he was the king himself. Green’s presence of mind is
wonderful.’
Just at this moment all eyes were directed to the preparations which
were being made for starting. The car was attached to the second
balloon, the two were brought pretty close together, and a military
band commenced playing, with a zeal and fervour which would render the
most timid man in existence but too happy to accept any means of
quitting that particular spot of earth on which they were stationed.
Then Mr. Green, sen., and his noble companion entered one car, and Mr.
Green, jun., and _his_ companion the other; and then the balloons went
up, and the aërial travellers stood up, and the crowd outside roared
with delight, and the two gentlemen who had never ascended before,
tried to wave their flags, as if they were not nervous, but held on
very fast all the while; and the balloons were wafted gently away, our
little friend solemnly protesting, long after they were reduced to mere
specks in the air, that he could still distinguish the white hat of Mr.
Green. The gardens disgorged their multitudes, boys ran up and down
screaming ‘bal-loon;’ and in all the crowded thoroughfares people
rushed out of their shops into the middle of the road, and having
stared up in the air at two little black objects till they almost
dislocated their necks, walked slowly in again, perfectly satisfied.
The next day there was a grand account of the ascent in the morning
papers, and the public were informed how it was the finest day but four
in Mr. Green’s remembrance; how they retained sight of the earth till
they lost it behind the clouds; and how the reflection of the balloon
on the undulating masses of vapour was gorgeously picturesque; together
with a little science about the refraction of the sun’s rays, and some
mysterious hints respecting atmospheric heat and eddying currents of
air.
There was also an interesting account how a man in a boat was
distinctly heard by Mr. Green, jun., to exclaim, ‘My eye!’ which Mr.
Green, jun., attributed to his voice rising to the balloon, and the
sound being thrown back from its surface into the car; and the whole
concluded with a slight allusion to another ascent next Wednesday, all
of which was very instructive and very amusing, as our readers will see
if they look to the papers. If we have forgotten to mention the date,
they have only to wait till next summer, and take the account of the
first ascent, and it will answer the purpose equally well.