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.]