dwarf, no giant, no fire-eater, no exhibition of any kind. There was a large round-about of wooden horses for boys, and a few swings, none of them half filled. The landlord of "the Struggler" could not struggle his stand into notice. In vain he chalked up "Hagger's entire, two-pence a bottle:" this was gingerbeer; if it was not brisker than the demand for it, it was made " poor indeed;" he had little aid, but unsold "Lemmun aid, one penny a glass." Yet the publichouses in Greenwich were filling fast, and the fiddles squeaked from several first-floor windows. It was now nearly two o'clock, and the stage-coaches from London, thoroughly filled inside and out, drove rapidly in: these, and the flocking down of foot passengers, gave sign of great visitation. One object I cannot pass by, for it forcibly contrasted in me mind with the joyous disposition of the day. It was a poor blackbird in a cage, from the first-floor window of a house in Melville-place. The cage was high and square; its bars were of a dark brown bamboo; the top and bottom were of the same dolorous colour; between the bars were strong iron wires; the bird himself sat dull and mute; I passed the house several times; not a single note did he give forth. A few hours before I had heard his fellows in the thickets whistling in full throat; and here was he, in endless thrall, without a bit of green to cheer him, or even the decent jailery of a light wicker cage. I looked at him, and thought of the Lollards at Lambeth, of Thomas Delaune in Newgate, of Prynne in the Gatehouse, and Laud in the Tower: -all these were offenders; yet wherein had this poor bird offended that he should be like them, and be forced to keep Whitsuntide in prison? I wished him a holiday, and would have given him one to the end of his life, had I known how. After dining and taking tea at the "Yorkshire Grey," I returned to the park, through the Greenwich gate, near the hospital. The scene here was very vely. Great numbers were seated on the grass, some refreshing themselves, others were lookers at the large company of walkers. Surrounded by a goodly number was a man who stood to exhibit the wonders of a single-folded sheet of writing paper to the sight of all except himself; he was blind. By a motion of his hand he changed it into various forms. "Here," said he, "is a garden-chair for your seat-this is a flight of stairs to your chamber-here is a flower-stand for your mantle-piece ;" and so he went on; presenting, in rapid succession, the wellshaped representation of more than thirty forms of different utensils or conveniences: at the conclusion, he was well rewarded for his ingenuity. Further on was a larger group; from the centre whereof came forth sounds unlike those heard by him who wrote "Orpheus play'd so well, he moved old Nick, But thou mov'st nothing but thy fiddlestick." This player so "imitated Orpheus," that he moved the very bowels, uneasiness seemed to seize on all who heard his discords. He was seated on the grass, in the garb of a sailor. At his right hand lay a square board, whereon was painted 66 a tale of woe," in letters that disdained the printer's art; at the top, a little box, with a glass cover, discovered that it was "plus" of what himself was "minus ;" its inscription described its contents"These bones was taken out of my leg." I could not withstand his claim to support. He was effecting the destruction of "Sweet Poll of Plymouth," for which I gave him a trifle more than his "fair" audience usually bestowed, perhaps. He instantly begged I would name my "favourite ;" I desired to be acquainted with his; he said he could not "deny nothing to so noble a benefactor," and he immediately began to murder "Blackeyed Susan." If the man at the wall of the Fishmongers' almshouses were dead, he would be the worst player in England. There were several parties playing at "Kiss in the ring," an innocent merriment in the country; here it was certainly not merriment. On the hill the runners were abundant, and the far greater number were, in appearance and manners, devoid of that vulgarity and grossness from whence it might be inferred that the sport was any way improper; nor did I observe, during a stay of several hours, the least indication of its being otherwise than a cheerful amusement. One of the prettiest sights was a game at 66 Thread my needle," played by about a dozen lasses, with a grace and glee that reminded me of Angelica's nymphs. I indulged a hope that the hilarity of rurai pastimes might yet be preserved. There was no drinking in the park. It lost its visitants fast while the sun was going down. Many were arrested in their progress to the gate by the sight of the boys belonging to the college, who were at their evening play within their own grounds, and who, before they retired for the night, sung "God save the King," and "Rule Britannia," in full chorus, with fine effect. The fair, or at least such part of it as was suffered to be continued, was held in the open space on the right hand of the street leading from Greenwich to the Creek bridge. "The Crown and Anchor" booth was the great attraction, as indeed well it might. It was a tent, three hundred and twenty-three feet long, and sixty feet wide. Seventy feet of this, at the entrance, was occupied by seats for persons who chose to take refreshment, and by a large space from whence the viands were delivered. The remaining two hundred and fifty feet formed the "Assembly room," wherein were boarded floors for four rows of dancers throughout this extensive length; on each side were seats and tables. The price of admission to the assembly was one shilling. The check ticket was a card, whereon was printed, VAUXHALL. This room was thoroughly lighted up by depending branches from the roofs handsomely formed; and by stars and festoons, and the letters G. R. and other devices, bearing illumination lamps. It was more completely filled with dancers and spectators, than were convenient to either. Neither the company nor the scene can be well described. The orchestra, elevated across the middle of the tent, consisting of two harps, three violins, a bass viol, two clarionets, and a flute, played airs from "Der Freischütz,” and other popular tunes. Save the crowd, there was no confusion; save in the quality of the dancers and dancing, there was no observable difference between this and other large assemblies; except, indeed, that there was no master of the ceremonies, nor any difficulty in obtaining or declining partners. It was neither a dancing school, nor a school of morals; but the moralist might draw conclusions which would here, and at this time, be out of place. There were at least 2,000 persons in this booth at one time. In the fair were about twenty other dancing booths; yet none of them comparable in extent to the "Crown and Anchor." In one only was a price demanded for admission; the tickets to the "Albion Assembly" were sixpence. Most of these booths had names; for instance, "The Royal Standard;" "The Lads of the Village," "The Black Boy and Cat Tavern," "The Moon-rakers," &c. At eleven o'clock, stages from Greenwich to London were in full request. One of them obtained 4s. each for inside, and 2s. 6d. for outside passengers; the average price was 3e. inside, and 28. outside; and though the footpaths were crowded with passengers, yet all the inns in Greenwich and on the road were thoroughly filled. Certainly, the greater part of the visitors were mere spectators of the scene. NIGHT The late Henry Kirke White, in a frag ment of a poem on "Time," beautifully imagines the slumbers of the sorrowful Reader, bear with its melancholy tone. A summer's day is not less lovely for a passing cloud. Behold the world Rests, and her tired inhabitants have paused His griefs unshared. The mother tends no more Crowning with Hope's bland wreath his shuddering nurse, Of Nature utters audibly within The general moral ;-tells us that repose, THE SLUICE-HOUSE. Ye who with rod and line aspire to catch Yet still so call'd, come hither to the Sluice-house. Resort, and even barbel have been found. Here too doth sometimes prey the rav'ning shark Of streams like this, that is to say, a jack. If fortune aid ye, ye perchance shall find Upon an average within one day, At least a fish, or two; if ye do not, Most glorious nibbles: come then, haste ye here, From Canonbury tower onward by the New River,is a pleasant summer afternoon's walk. Highbury barn, or, as it is now called, Highbury tavern, is the first place of uote beyond Canonbury. It was anciently a barn belonging to the ecclesiastics of Clerkenwell; though it is at present only known to the inhabitants of that suburb, by its capacity for filling them with good things in return for the money they spend there. The "barn" itself is the assemblyroom, whereon the old roof still remains. This house has stood in the way of all passengers to the Sluice-house, and turned many from their firm-set purpose of fishing in the waters near it. Every man who carries a rod and line is not an Isaac Walton, whom neither blandishment nor obstacle could swerve from his mighty end, when he went forth to kill fish. He was the great progenitor of all That war upon the tenants of the stream, He neither stumbled, stopt, nor had a fall When he essay'd to war on dace, bleak, bream, Stone-loach or pike, or other fish, I deem. The Sluice-house is a small wooden building, distant about half a mile beyond Highbury, just before the river angles off towards Newington. With London anglers it has always been a house of celebrity, because it is the nearest spot wherein they have hope of tolerable sport. Within it is now placed a machine for forcing water into the pipes that supply the inhabitants of Holloway, and other parts adjacent. Just beyond is the Eel-pie house, which many who angle thereabouts mistake for the Sluice-house. To instruct the uninformed, and to gratify the eye of some who remember the spot they frequented in their youth, the preceding view, taken in May 1825, has been engraved. If the artist had been also a portrait painter, it would have been well to have secured a sketch of the present keeper of the Sluice-house; his manly mien, and mild expressive face, are worthy of the pencil: if there be truth in physiognomy, he is an honest, good. hearted man. His dame, who tenders Barcelona nuts and oranges at the Sluicehouse door for sale, with fishing-lines from two-pence to six-perce, and rods at a penny each, is somewhat stricken in years, and wholly innocent of the metropolis and its manners. She seems of the times Gordon meeting a gentleman in the streets of Cambridge who had recently "When our fathers pluck'd the blackberry received the honour of knighthood, Jemmy And sipp'd the silver tide." An etching of the eccentric individual, from whence the present engraving is taken, was transmitted by a respectable "Cantab," for insertion in the EveryDay Book, with the few particulars ensuing: James Gordon was once a respectable solicitor in Cambridge, till "love and .iquor" "Robb'd him of that which once enriched him, And made him poor indeed!" He is well known to many resident and non-resident sons of alma mater, as a déclamateur and for ready wit and re approached him, and looking him full in the face, exclaimed, "The king, by merely laying sword on, Could make a knight of Jemmy Gordon." At a late assize at Cambridge, a man named Pilgrim was convicted of horsestealing, and sentenced to transportation. Gordon seeing the prosecutor in the street, loudly vociferated to him, "You, sir, have done what the pope of Rome cannot do; you have put a stop to Pilgrim's Progress!" Gordon was met one day by a person of rather indifferent character, who pitied Jemmy's forlorn condition, (he being without shoes and stockings,) and said, "Gordon, if you will call at my house, I will give you a pair of shoes." Jemmy, assu ning a contemptuous air, replied, "No, sir! excuse me, I would not stand in your shoes for all the world!" Some months ago, Jemmy had the misfortune to fall from a hay-loft, wherein he had retired for the night, and broke his thigh; since then he has reposed in a workhouse. No man's life is more calculated "To adorn a moral, and to point a tale." N. These brief memoranda suffice to memorialize a peculiar individual. James Gordon at ore time possessed "fame, wealth, and honours :" now-his "fame" is a hapless notoriety; all the "wealth" that remains to him is a form that might have been less careworn had he been less careless; his honour is "air-thin air," "his gibes, his jests, his fiashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table in a roar," no longer enliven the plenteous banquet : "Deserted in his utmost need By men his former bounty fed," the bitter morsel for his life's support is parish dole. "The gayest of the gay" is forgotten in his age-in the darkness of life; when reflection on what was, cannot better what is. Brilliant circles of acquaintance sparkle with frivolity, but friendship has no place within them. The prudence of sensuality is selfishness. Tall..... Short Long a painter a publican ...a printer ..a tailor a shopkeeper |