That Vauxhall gardens were under the especial protection of, that they drew the very breath of their attractiveness from, the ceremonial Simpson, who can deny? When he flitted from walk to walk, from box to box, and welcomed everybody to the "royal property," right royally did things go on! Who would _then_ have dreamt that the illustrious George--he of the Piazza--would ever be "honoured with instructions to sell;" that his eulogistic pen would be employed in giving the puff superlative to the Elysian haunts of quondam fashion--in other words, in painting the lily, gilding refined gold? But, alas! Simpson, the tutelar deity, has departed ("died," some say, but we don't believe it), and at the moment he made his last bow, Vauxhall ought to have closed; it was madness--the madness which will call us, peradventure, superstitious--which kept the gates open when Simpson's career closed--it was an anomaly, for like Love and Heaven, Simpson was Vauxhall, and Vauxhall was Simpson! Let Ducrow reflect upon these things--we dare not speak out--but a tutelar being watches over, and giveth vitality to his arena--his ring is, he may rely upon it, a fairy one--while _that_ mysterious being dances and prances in it, all will go well; his horses will not stumble, never will his clowns forget a syllable of their antiquated jokes. O! let him then, while seriously reflecting upon Simpson and the fate of Vauxhall, give good heed unto the Methuselah, who hath already passed his second centenary in the circle! These were our awful reflections while viewing the scenes in the circle, very properly constructed in the Rotunda. They overpowered us--we dared not stay to see the fireworks, "in the midst of which Signora Rossini was to make her terrific ascent and descent on a rope three hundred feet high." She _might_ have been the sprite of Madame Saqui; in fact, the "Vauxhall Papers" published in the gardens, put forth a legend, which favours such a dreadful supposition! We refer our readers to them--they are only sixpence a-piece. Of course the gardens were full in spite of the weather; for what must be the callousness of that man who could let _the_ gardens pass under the hammer of George Robins, without bidding them an affecting farewell? Good gracious! We can hardly believe such insensibility does exist. Hasten then, dear readers, as you would fly to catch the expiring sigh of a fine old boon companion--hasten to take your parting slice of ham, your last bowl of arrack, even now while the great auctioneer says "Going." For your sake, and yours only, Alfred Bunn (whose disinterestedness has passed into a theatrical proverb), arrests the arm of his friend of the Auction Mart in its descent. Attend to _his_ bidding. Do not--oh! do not wait till the vulcan of the Bartholomew-lane smithy lets fall his hammer upon the anvil of pleasure, to announce that the Royal Property is--"Gone!" [Illustration: WELCOME TO THE ROYAL PROPERTY.]