Punch (37.1859)

September 17, 1859.] PUNCH, Oil THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

A LAST Visit to vauxhall.

BY A MAN OP PEELING.

parge rosas,puer. Sprinkle me with
rose-leaves, boy, and then bring
me the wine-cup. Let me drown
my sorrow in a bowl of that
which cheers and (pace Gough)
inebriates. So that to sad memory
the hood be that of Lethe, I will
chance the five bob fine for if,
and get drunk to-night as Chloe.

“ An odour not of roses, but of
Thamesian violets. Ha ! mis-
creant, how is this ? No ! Yes!
What stuff is this ? I asked for
wine, boy, and you ’ve brought a
bier! Hence, unreal mockery!
Take away the poisoned chalice,
sirrah! * * * Why—So, being
gone, Jack ’s all alive again.

“But the wine-bottle hath
failed me. Is there then no other
remedy for anguish F Ha! A
lightning-flash of thought. Tool,
why not try the ink-bottle ?
Great men have tried it, why
may not a lesser one ? ‘ Give
sorrow words, the grief that doth
not speak’—goes and does some-
thing dreadful, I forget precisely
what, excepting that ‘ squeak ’
rhymes to it. Perhaps it drinks
Catawbaw ? Ugh ! the thought
is madness.

“ Let me compose myself.
What have I been doing to
occasion this wild rhapsody ? I have been visiting Vauxhall! The
statement may seem maniacal, but—Ghost of Samuel Cowell, ha!
ha! ha! ‘I am not mad.’ Alas, there where 1 have passed the
happiest moments of my life, there have 1 been passing two whole days
of the most miserable. Oh, Seraphina! Seraphina! Oh! There,
where you and I have spent so many ' splendid shillings,’ and the whis-
pering trees have listened to our cooings and our billings: There,
where we’ve consulted the Hermit in his Cave, and seen the Sea King
Neptune emerging from the wave: There, where we have watched the
artistes on the slack rope and the tight; and paid one and sixpence
extra ’cause ’twas called a ‘ Gala Night: ’ There, where on wet even-
ings we have caught such colds and cramps, being tempted out by
promise of ‘ Ten Million Extra Lamps : ’ There, where when exhausted
by the whirling, whizzling waltz, we have sought a cheap refreshment
in the smelling of your salts : There, where slowly strolling down the
dark Italian Walk, my hat hath touched your bonnet in our low-
breathed lover’s talk: There, where big balloons so quick have vanished
from our sight, and so oft we’ve cried o ! 0 ! at the rockets’ skyward
flight: There, I sadly have stood by, and seen the scenes we held so
dear put up to public auction by the ruthless auctioneer: Yes, there,
my Seraphina, I all helpless have looked on, while the voice of Mr.
Driver hath re-echoed ‘Gomg—Gone!’ While the fixtures, and the
figures, and the fittings, great and small, have been sold in lots six
hundred from the Gardens of Vauxhall!

“ Alas ! yes, it is too true. I have seen the ‘ properties ’ cleared off
the ‘Royal property.’ The same eyes that beheld them in all the
brilliant brightness of a Grand Night’s ‘blaze of triumph,’ have seen
them sold off dank and dirty in the plain prosaic daylight. All! what
agonising anguish I suffered at the spectacle! Every falling of the
hammer was a knock down blow to me. When ‘ Lot 1 ’ was put up, I
thought I should have fainted. Yet there was little in the Catalogue
to account for that conjecture. . The brief words ‘ Four stout painted
deal tables'1 do not to unpoetic minds convey much saddening sentiment.
But to me how fraught they were with it ! Eor I thought, O Sera-
piiina ! Twas at one of these ‘ stout tables ’ that we sat when my fond
arm encircled thy slim waist, and I so nearly popped the question
which anoth—but no matter !

“ Lot 51 awakened still more sentimental fancies. The words cling
to my memory, like drunken men to lamp-posts: ‘ One deal painted
table, with turned legs {one of the original tables made for the Gardens
hi 1751!). A table with turned legs in 1751! Is table-turning then of
so antique a date? How many legs must this old table in its time

have seen turned under it! Legs in trousers and in pettic-Oh

neat-ancled Seraphina! Perchance the toes of thy great grandmother
have been squeezed beneath this table. 1751! A hundred years and
incre_, then, hath Vauxhall been in existence. Everything and every-

body now hath a Centenary. Why did we not celebrate the Million-
Extra-Lamp-aud-Vauxhall-Sliee Centenary ?

“ Am not I in dreamland, or in Uncle Tom land? Do we sell our
aged servants when they cease to be of use to us ? Alas! I fear me,
yes. Here is the damning proof of it:—‘ Lot 112. Scenery to Hermitage
and Hermit! Reading this, I fancied that the Hermit would be sold.
The Hermit was not sold Ha! ha! ha ! I was.

“ A few lines further on, the Catalogue still puzzles me :—‘ Lot 119.

An Equestrian picture of the Emperor and Empress of France at a
Hunting Party, with costume of Louis AHE., 12 feet square! Did Louis
the EouPv-teenth, then, wear a costume twelve feet square? Ah,
in those days there were giants. The human race has grown degene-
rate since then. My pegtops only measure a yard and a half across,
and Serapiiina’s Crinoline does not cover above an acre.

“ Again I hear resounding the voice of Mr. Driver. His cry is
for ‘ Three Dozen Blue Vauxhall Supper-plates! 0 Driver, Driver !
You’ll drive me to distraction. Haply ’twas on one of these three
dozen plates that was brought the fatal sandwich which I, as a great
treat, had promised Seraphina. I mind me that my looks were as
cerulean as the plate, when searching madly in my pockets, I found
only twopence ha’penny. The brutal waiter laughed when I told him
I would call and pay him the next morning. And the still more brutal
Bloggins more foully mocked my misery by dashing a half-crown
down, and crying, ‘ Keep the coppers ! ’—Ah! lucre, filthy lucre! Ah!
faithless Seraphina! It was the glitter of that half-crown that
dazzled thy young eyes, and turned aside their love-shafts from me to
that beast Bloggins !

“ Again am I perplexed by the wording of the Catalogue. Were it
a Queen’s Speech, it could not be more mysterious. ‘ Busts of Eminent
Persons’ are announced upon the title-page. Lot 204 I find is ‘A
Plaster Bust of Scott! A ‘ ditto Byron,’ and a ‘ ditto Tennent ’ (who’s
he ?) follow it. Are these the ‘ eminent persons ? ’ What have they
done for Vauxhall, that Vauxhall should note their eminence? Rut
stay, the next three lots are ‘dittos’ of ‘the celebrated M.C., Mr.
Simpson! Mr. Simpson ! Ah, he was eminent indeed, Vauxhall made
him immortal, and he returned the compliment. Rightly then had
Vauxhall a triad of fine busts of him.

“Lot 215 declares itself ‘A Keyboard of Dumb Piano! This key-
board is a lock upon my understanding. What is a dumb piano ?
Some merciful invention of an Anti piano-playing-in-Houses-with-Thin-
Walis Company? Blessings on it, if it be; and on the Genius who
invented it! Oh that the piano next door were a dumb one! The
Misses Strumster live next door, and—they keep a ‘ Ladies’ Seminary.’
Kind reader, drop the tear of pity on my plight!

“ These, reflections overcome me. When next I hear the fatal
hammer ’tis falling on ‘ A small round Composition Table! I wonder if
this table be a help to composition, and if need were would assist to
composition with one’s creditors ? If so, maybe there are some com-
posers who’d he glad of it. I wonder, did the Vauxhall Poets use
this table, when they wrote those Comic Songs which, when sung by
V auxhall vocalists, everybody roared at, and when sung in private
circles, every one was bored by. I think the fun of those sad canticles
consisted in the funny hats in which the singers sang them. I wonder
if these hats were kept in the ‘ three hat-boxes’ in Lot 253, and whether
any of the fun still clings to those receptacles. Quo semel est imbuta
—the Classic truth is trite, and may apply with equal force to hat- j
boxes as wine-casks. $ j

“Among the ‘useful articles’ and ‘miscellaneous effects,’ I look
with anxious hope of buying a barometer. Alas ! my search is fruit-
less.. Vauxhall doubtless had one once; but it no doubt committed
suicide. . No sane-minded barometer could point always to ‘ Much
Rain’ without a suicidal damper being thrown upon its spirits.

“ I count two-and-eighty punch-bowls knocked down by the
hammer. But who shall count the headaches—the ar-racking head-
aches—which have had their birth in them ? Teetotalism, I fear, was not
in feather at Vauxhall. The stock of soda-water glasses amounteth but
to twelve, but. of brandy glasses sold there are more than thirty dozen!

“ Can I believe my eyes ? Is this the Royal Property, and are jokes
here cracked on Royalty ? ''Lot 311. A Transparency of LL.R.IL. P.A!
Shade.of Daniel Lambert! To calL H.R.H. a ‘transparency’!!!
Ho, within there! Call the Headsman. To the Tower with the varlet,
for such treasonable ribaldry!

********

“ And now the last Lot is sold. The last fixture is cleared off. 1
must clear off myself, or they may take me for a fixture. Earewell!

0 ye scenes of many joys, and far more follies! Yet for one brief
moment let me conjure up the past. Let me see thee as thou wast.
OVaux—‘hall of dazzling light.’ But no; tears bedim my eyes. 1
see only the last waiter, as he appeared on the last night. The remains
of the last sandwich still stick between his teeth. The feel of his last fee
is fresh upon his fingers. The last ray of the last lamp sadly flickers
on his forehead. Eeeble as it is, he cannot bear the flare of it. He buries
his wan face in the recesses of his napkin. Spt! The lamp goes out;

0 Vanitas, Vanitas ! O Seraphina, Seraphina ! 0, why was man
created, il ” [Sixteen pages of fine venting are reluctantly cut off.