June 9.
The Season, in London.
Now, during the first fortnight, Kensington Gardens is a place not to be paralleled: for the unfashionable portion of my readers are to know, that this delightful spot, which has been utterly deserted during the last age (of seven years), and could not be named during all that period without incurring the odious imputation of having a taste for trees and turf, has now suddenly started into vogue once more, and you may walk there, even during the “morning” part of a Sunday afternoon, with perfect impunity, always provided you pay a due deference to the decreed hours, and never make your appearance there earlier than twenty minutes before five, or later than half-past six; which is allowing you exactly two hours after breakfast to dress for the Promenade, and an hour after you get home to do the same for dinner: little enough, it must be confessed; but quite as much as the unremitting labour of a life of idleness can afford! Between the above-named hours, on the three first Sundays of this month, and the two last of the preceding, you may (weather willing) gladden your gaze with such a galaxy of beauty and fashion (I beg to be pardoned for the repetition, for fashion is beauty) as no other period or place, Almack’s itself not excepted, can boast: for there is no denying that the fair rulers over this last-named rendezvous of the regular troops of bon ton are somewhat too recherchée in their requirements. The truth is, that though the said rulers will not for a moment hesitate to patronise the above proposition under its simple form, they entirely object to that subtle interpretation of it which their sons and nephews would introduce, and on which interpretation the sole essential difference between the two assemblies depends. In fact, at Almack’s fashion is beauty; but at Kensington Gardens beauty and fashion are one. At any rate, those who have not been present at the latter place during the period above referred to, have not seen the finest sight (with one exception) that England has to offer.
Vauxhall Gardens, which open the first week in this month, are somewhat different from the above, it must be confessed. But they are unique in their way nevertheless. Seen in the darkness of noonday, as one passes by them on the top of the Portsmouth coach, they cut a sorry figure enough. But beneath the full meridian of midnight, what is like them, except some parts of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments? Now, after the first few nights, they begin to be in their glory, and are, on every successive gala, illuminated with “ten thousand additional lamps,” and include all the particular attractions of every preceding gala since the beginning of time!
Now, on fine evenings, the sunshine finds (or rather loses) its way into the galleries of Summer theatres at whole price, and wonders where it has got to.
Now, boarding-school boys, in the purlieus of Paddington and Mile End, employ the whole of the first week in writing home to their distant friends in London a letter of not less than eight lines, announcing that the “ensuing vacation will commence on the —— instant;” and occupy the remaining fortnight in trying to find out the unknown numerals with which the blank has been filled up.
Finally, now, during the first few days, you cannot walk the streets without waiting, at every crossing, for the passage of whole regiments of little boys in leather breeches, and little girls in white aprons, going to church to practise their annual anthem-singing, preparatory to that particular Thursday in this month, which is known all over the world of charity-schools by the name of “walking day;” when their little voices, ten thousand strong, are to utter forth sounds that shall dwell for ever in the hearts of their hearers. Those who have seen this sight, of all the charity children within the bills of mortality assembled beneath the dome of Saint Paul’s, and heard the sounds of thanksgiving and adoration which they utter there, have seen and heard what is perhaps better calculated than anything human ever was, to convey to the imagination a faint notion of what we expect to witness hereafter, when the hosts of heaven shall utter with one voice, hymns of adoration before the footstool of the Most High[209].
Twilight.
How fine to view the Sun’s departing ray
Fling back a lingering lovely after-day;
The moon of summer glides serenely by,
And sheds a light enchantment o’er the sky.
These, sweetly mingling, pour upon the sight
A pencilled shadowing, and a dewy light—
A softened day, a half unconscious night.
Alas! too finely pure on earth to stay,
It faintly spots the hill, and dies away.
Thatcham.
J. W.
The Water Fountain.
It seems seasonable to introduce an [engraving] of a very appropriate ornament of a shop window, which will not surprise any one so much as the proprietor, who, whatever may be thought to the contrary, is wholly unknown to the editor of this work.
As a summer decoration, there is scarcely any thing prettier than this little fountain. Gilt fish on the edge of the lower basin spout jets of water into the upper one, which constantly overflows, and, washing the moss on its stand, falls into its first receiver. These vessels are of glass, and contain live fish; and on the surface of the larger, white waxen swans continue in gentle motion. Vases of flowers and other elegancies are its surrounding accompaniments.
This [representation] exemplifies the rivalry of London tradesmen to attract attention. Their endeavours have not attained the height they are capable of reaching, but the beautiful forms and graceful displays continually submitted to the sight of passengers, evince a disposition which renders our shops the most elegant in Europe.
A Fountain in June, 1826.
In the window of Mr. Farrel, Pastrycook, Lambs-Conduit-Street, London.