We now stood opposite Wombwell's menagerie. This was the star, the Hyperion of the fair--it stood out bright and undaunted as in happier times--it was the last gallant upholder of poor Smithfield's dying splendour. We admit that there was a crowd before this show, but it was not a Bartholomew-fair crowd. There was wanting--that pulling, that pushing, that hallooing, that hooting, that screaming of women, that shrieking of children, that treading on toes, that losing of shoes, that knocking in of hats, that demolishing of bonnets, that crying for help, that squeezing of ribs, that contest between "stream up" and "stream down," which there always was in days of yore. Such, do we remember as the features of a legitimate Bartholomew crowd; whilst from the surrounding shows, there thundered the clanging of gongs, the firing of pistols, the springing of rattles, the bellowing of speaking trumpets, the ringing of bells, the crashing of horns, with fiddles, bag pipes, cymbals, organs, drums, and the hoarse voices of the showmen, all uniting and confusing into one loud, discordant, ceaseless roar--Oh! happy, thrice happy days! To the left of the mighty Wombwell, like some tributary satellite, was a smaller--very much smaller show--a sort of domestic _multum in parvo_--a wee locomotive ark, as it were--into which, on some curious principle of condensation, the ingenious proprietor had compressed a dwarf, an Abyssinian princess with vermilion eyes and snow-white hair, a living skeleton, a remarkably accomplished pig, and several other monstrosities--exclusive of drum, barrel organ, household furniture, and his family. Over the doorway of this accommodative cabin swung an iron dish, in which flared some grease and oakum, that threw a dull flickering light upon the portraiture above the van, which represented, among other things, the ruby-eyed princess combing her silver locks in the presence of company, the dwarf poised in a giant's hand, and the Crichton of pigs engaged in a game of cards. On the steps of this exhibition, dressed in a green velveteen shooting-coat with large moon buttons, and a red shawl wound about his neck, stood the proprietor himself. From top to toe he looked the showman; but the care upon his brow--the spiritless voice in which he reminded the scant mob about him of its being the last night of the fair, and exhorted them not to neglect the golden opportunity of witnessing his pig, dwarf, &c., told us that he, like ourself, was the victim of chagrin and disappointment. There had been a time when his hoarse voice rehearsing his catalogue of prodigies would have been drowned in the clamouring din around him, but now every word, every sentence he uttered, was pitiably distinct.