Illustrata' of Wilkinson. The greater part of the literary memories of Vauxhall Gardens cluster round these gaily painted boxes from which, at some moment of their careers, most of the notabilities of the day had taken their view of 'many-coloured life.' Churchill we have already seen there in his habit as he lived; and Collins is said to have divided his attentions between Vauxhall and the play-houses. Goldsmith and Reynolds, we know, were frequent visitors; Johnson, according to Dr. Maxwell (and in spite of Rowlandson), was more partial to Ranolagh. It is in Vauxhall's 'proud alcoves' that Fielding places one of the scenes of 'Amelia;' prefacing it with a handsome compliment to the extreme 'elegance' and 'beauty' of the place. The account of the rudeness which his heroine and her party suffered from Captain Trent and his companions is scarcely separable from its context, although it conveys a graphic idea, confirmed by other records, of the annoyances to which the more peaceable visitors were occasionally exposed at the hands of the Georgian man-about-town. But there is a pen-and-ink picture in Colman and Thornton's 'Connoisseur' which, although mainly levelled at the exorbitant prices of provisions, may be taken to depict pretty accurately the humours of an ordinary middle-class family at Vauxhall. Mr. Rose, a tradesman, his wife, and his two daughters, make the turn of the place, and then sit down to supper. 'Do let us have a chick, papa,' says one of the young ladies. Papa replies that 'they are half a crown apiece, and no bigger than a sparrow.' Thereupon he is very properly rebuked by his wife for his stinginess. 'When one is out upon pleasure,' she says, 'I love to appear like somebody; and what signifies a few shillings once and away, when a body is about it?' So the chick is ordered, and brought. And then ensues a dialogue between the cit and the waiter, in which the former, from the price of the sample before him, ironically estimates the price of an entire Vauxhall ham to be about £24, and after being decorated by his wife with a coloured handkerchief by way of bib, proceeds to eat, saying at every mouthful, 'There goes twopence, there goes threepence, there goes a groat.' Beef and cheese-cakes, which are also freely commented upon, follow, and finally Mr. Rose calls for a bottle of port, the size of which does not escape invidious comparison with the more generous vessels of the Jerusalem Coffee House, although the contents have the effect of soothing the critic into the unwonted extravagance of a second pint. Then, after the old lady has observed upon the rudeness of the gentlemen, who stare her out of countenance with their spy-glasses, and the younger girl is speculating whether, if she | buys the words of the last new song, she can carry home the tune, arrives the reckoning, which is exactly thirteen shillings and twopence. The last glimpse we get of the little party shows them leaving the gardens in a shower, Madam with