The change in the proprietorship of the travelling theatres conducted during so many years by Scowton and Richardson may be regarded as a stage in the history of the people’s amusements. The decline which showmen had noted during the preceding years had not been perceptible to the public, who had crowded the London fairs more densely than ever, and found as many showmen catering for their entertainment as in earlier years. But while the crowds that gazed at Wombwell’s show-cloths, and the parades of Richardson’s theatre and Clarke’s circus, became more dense every year, the showmen found their receipts diminish and their expenses increase. The people had more wants than formerly, and their means of supplying them had not, at the time of the decadence of the London fairs, experienced a corresponding increase. The vast and ever-growing population of the metropolis furnished larger crowds, but the middle-class element had diminished, and continued to diminish; and the showmen found reduced charges to be a necessity, without resulting in the augmented gains which follow a reduction of prices in trade.

Scowton’s theatre was sold by private contract to Julius Haydon, who, after expending a considerable sum upon it, making it rival Richardson’s in size, found the results so little to his advantage that he disposed of the whole concern a year afterwards to the successors of Richardson.

These were the showman’s old friends, John Johnson, to whom he left a legacy of five hundred pounds, and Nelson Lee, who, after the unfortunate speculation with his brother in the Old Kent Road, had travelled for a time with Holloway’s show, then gone to Scotland with Grey’s fantoccini, and, after a turn at Edinburgh with Dodsworth and Stevens’s automatons, had returned to London, and was at the time of Richardson’s death managing Sadler’s Wells theatre for Osbaldiston. When he saw Richardson’s property advertised for sale, he conferred with Johnson on the subject of its purchase by them, which they effected by private contract, Lee resigning his post at Sadler’s Wells to undertake the management.

The new proprietors furnished the theatre with a new front, and provided new dresses for the ballet in Esmeralda, which was then attracting large audiences to the Adelphi. They did not propose to open with this drama, but they thought the ballet would be a success on the parade outside, which managers of travelling theatres find it necessary to make as attractive as possible, the public forming their anticipations of the entertainment to be witnessed inside by what they see outside, as they do of tenting circus performances by the extent and splendour of the parade round the town and neighbourhood which precedes them. I once saw a very pretty harvest-dance of reapers and gleaners on the parade of Richardson’s theatre, and on another occasion a fantastic dance of Indians, who held cocoa-nuts in their hands, and struck them together, assuming every variety of attitude, each dancer sometimes striking his own nuts together, and sometimes his own against those of his vis-À-vis.

They were in time for the Whitsuntide Fair at Greenwich, where the theatre stood at the extreme end of the fair, near the bridge at Deptford Creek. The Esmeralda dance was a great success, and Oscar Byrne, who had arranged the ballet for the Adelphi, visited the theatre, and complimented Lee on the manner in which it was produced. The drama was The Tyrant Doge, and the pantomime, arranged by Lee for the occasion, had local colour given to it, and the local title of One Tree Hill. The season opened very favourably, though both the management and the public experienced considerable annoyance from a party of dissolute young men, of whom the Marquis of Waterford was one, and who threw nuts at the actors, and talked and laughed loudly throughout the performance.

Delamore had succeeded Lewis as stage-manager, scene-shifter, and wardrobe-keeper, a few years before Richardson’s death, and he was retained in that position by the new proprietors. John Douglass and Paul Herring were in the company at this time; also Crowther, who was subsequently engaged at Astley’s, and married Miss Vincent, who was for so many years a popular favourite at the Victoria as the heroine of a series of successful domestic dramas.

Among the minor shows attending the fairs of the southern counties at this period was the portable theatre of Newman and Allen, which, towards the end of the summer, was pitched upon a piece of waste ground at Norwood, and remained there two or three weeks. The fortunes of the company seemed at low ebb, and the small “houses” which they had nightly, with a charge for admission of twopence to front seats, and a penny to the back, did not place the treasury in a very flourishing condition. Small as the company was, they aimed at a higher performance than was usually given in a portable theatre, for on the two occasions that I patronised the canvas temple of Thespis the plays were Virginius and John Bull, considerably cut down, as was to have been expected, the smallness of the company rendering it necessary to excise some of the characters.

Only one performance was given each night, and a farce preceded the play, the interval between the pieces being filled up with a comic song, sung by the low comedy man, and an acrobatic performance by a young lady whose name I learned was Sarah Saunders. Whether she was related to old Abraham Saunders, I do not know; but the tendency of show-folks to make their vocations hereditary renders it very probable. She was the first female acrobat I ever saw, and an actress besides; and the peculiarity of her acrobatic performance was, that she did not don trunks and tights for it, like Madame Stertzenbach and others of her sex at the present day, but did her “flips,” etc., in her ordinary attire, like the little drabs from the back slums of Westminster who may sometimes be seen turning heels over head in St. James’s Park.

When the brief season of the canvas theatre was brought to a close, and the fittings, scenery, properties, etc., had left the village behind a bony horse, it seemed that the proprietors had dissolved the partnership which had existed between them; for a living carriage remained on the ground, the occupants of which were old Newman, who had played the heavy parts, and his nephew, Charles Little, the low comedy man. Whether the old gentleman had realised a competency which satisfied his wants, or had some small pension or annuity, or investment of some kind, never became known; but there the wheeled abode of the two men stood for several years, Newman cultivating a patch of the waste, and producing therefrom all the vegetables they required for their own table, while his nephew perambulated the neighbourhood with a basket, offering for sale tapes and cottons, needles and pins, and other small wares of a similar description. This new vocation seemed more lucrative than that of low comedian and comic singer in a travelling theatre; for Charlie, as he was familiarly called, dressed better every year, and, on the death of his uncle, took to himself a wife, and, abandoning the living carriage, settled in a neighbouring cottage.

From this episode of show-life I must return to Johnson and Lee, who, after visiting Deptford and Camberwell Fairs, took their renovated theatre to Smithfield, where it stood with its back to the George Inn. At Croydon Fair it occupied its usual position between Clarke’s circus and Wombwell’s menagerie; and there a singular and amusing adventure occurred to the clown, who, however, did not find it so amusing himself. The first day being very wet, and the fair in consequence very thinly attended, he thought to divert the tedium of the situation by strolling through the town, and for this purpose put on the uniform over-coat of a policeman, a character then, as now, always diverting in the pantomime. Some short time previously, several robberies had been committed in the town by a thief similarly dressed; and a constable on duty in High Street, seeing a seeming policeman whom he did not know, and who gazed about him as if he was a stranger, took the astonished clown into custody on the charge of personating a constable and loitering about for an unlawful purpose. On being taken to the station-house, the clown made an explanatory statement, and the inspector sent a constable to the theatre to ascertain its truth, testimony to which was given by Lee. The clown was thereupon released from custody, and hurried back to the fair, vowing that he would never promenade in the garb of a policeman again.

In the following year, Johnson and Lee presented a memorial to the Home Office, asking permission to hold a fair in Hyde Park, to celebrate the coronation of the Queen. The Government acceded to the request, and Superintendent Mallalieu was associated with the memorialists in the organisation and management of the undertaking. A tent was pitched in the centre of the ground selected for the purpose, and the three managers attended daily to arrange the plan, classify the shows, stalls, etc., and receive applications for space, which were so numerous that it became necessary to post constables before the tent to maintain order. As each applicant stated the nature of his business, the application was entered in a book kept for the purpose, and a day was named for the allotment of ground. Every foot of space granted for the purpose by the Commissioners of Her Majesty’s Woods and Forests was taken within a week, and every intending exhibitor received a ticket in the following form:—

Every ticket-holder was requested to fit up his show or stall in a becoming manner, and to display as illumination some device suitable to the occasion. The undertaking to this effect was adhered to in a commendable manner, and a very pretty effect was thus produced when the fair was opened, on the 28th of June, and the numerous shows, booths, and stalls were illuminated at night with so many thousands of coloured lamps. As the boom of the first gun announcing the departure of the Queen for Westminster Abbey was heard, Nelson Lee, standing on the parade of his theatre, struck the gong, and all the showmen unfurled their show-cloths, and the keepers of booths and stalls rolled up their canvas fronts, and commenced business.

The fair was a great success, the financial results being as satisfactory as its organisation and management. Many of the nobility visited it, and even patronised the amusements, as they had been wont to do at Bartholomew Fair in the seventeenth century, and the first half of the eighteenth. Johnson and Lee’s theatre filled on the opening day in five minutes, and the time occupied by the performances was reduced to fifteen minutes. The drama was The Mysterious Stranger, which, thus contracted, became more mysterious than ever. All the principal avenues were crowded from noon till night, and the demand upon the resources of the refreshment booths was so great that Algar and other principal booth-keepers charged, and had no difficulty in obtaining, a shilling for a pot of beer, and sixpence for a lettuce or a penny loaf, other articles being sold at proportionate rates.

During the fair, the wife of a gingerbread vendor gave birth to a child, which, in commemoration of the occasion was registered by the name of Hyde Park. The stall was, in consequence of this event, allowed to remain several days after the time by which the promoters of the fair had undertaken to have the ground cleared, and it was visited by many ladies, who made presents to the child and its parents. Though the ground had been let at a low rate, a surplus of sixty pounds remained after defraying all expenses, and this sum was awarded to Johnson and Lee; but they did not apply for it, and it was divided among the constables who did police duty in the fair. The services of Johnson and Lee in promoting and organising the fair, and of Superintendent Mallalieu in supervising the arrangements and maintaining order, were so well appreciated by the showmen and the keepers of booths and stalls, that they joined in presenting each with a silver cup, at a dinner which took place at the Champion Tavern, Paddington.

At the ordinary fairs visited during the latter part of this year, Johnson and Lee exhibited a panorama of the coronation, painted by Marshall, which proved very attractive. Enfield Fair being spoiled by wet weather, application was made to the local magistrate for an extra day, which at Croydon was always conceded in such circumstances; but it was refused, the Enfield justice seeming to be of opinion that actors and acrobats were vagabonds who ought to be discouraged by every possible means. Resolved not to be disappointed, Johnson and Lee issued a bill in the name of Jones, a man who sold refreshments in the theatre, announcing that, in consequence of the wet weather having prevented him from clearing his stock of nuts, the proprietors had given him the use of the theatre for an extra day, when the usual performances would be given without charge, but prices ranging from a shilling to three shillings would be charged for nuts to be supplied to the persons admitted.

Haydon’s theatre made its last appearance at Croydon Fair, where great exertions were made to render it as attractive as Johnson and Lee’s, but it was not patronised to near the same extent as the latter; and Johnson and Lee’s offer to purchase the concern being entertained by the proprietor, it from that time ceased to exist, being absorbed into the more popular establishment.

Croydon Fair used, at this time, to be visited by large numbers of persons, not only from the surrounding villages, but even from the metropolis. All the inhabitants of the town prepared for visitors, for everyone who had a relative or acquaintance in Croydon was sure to make the fair an occasion for a visit. Two time-honoured customs were connected with the October fair, everybody commencing fires in their sitting-rooms on the first day of the fair, and dining on roast pork or goose. The latter custom was observed even by those who, having no friends to visit, dined in a booth; and the number of geese and legs of pork to be seen roasting before glowing charcoal fires in grates of immense width, in the rear of the booths, was one of the sights of the fair.

There were two entrances to the fair from the town, one at the gate which gave access at ordinary times to the foot-path across the field, leading to Park Hill; and the other, made for the occasion, farther southward, for the accommodation of those who approached the field from the avenues on the east side of High Street. Each was bordered for a short distance by the standings of itinerant vendors of walnuts, oysters, and fried sausages, beyond which was a long street of gingerbread stalls, terminated, in the one case, by the shows of the exhibitors of wax-work, living curiosities, and pictorial representations of great historical events, and in the other by the smaller and less pretentious drinking-booths. At right angles to these canvas streets, and opening from them near their commencement, was a third, covered over with an awning, and composed of the stalls of the dealers in toys and fancy goods. This was called Bond Street.

Parallel with this avenue, and connecting the further ends of the two streets of gingerbread stalls, was one broader than the others, bordered on the side from which it was approached with gingerbread stalls, and on the further side with the principal shows and booths. First in order, on the latter side, stood Clarke’s circus, with the proprietor on the steps, in a scarlet coat and white breeches, smacking a whip, and shouting, “This way for the riders! the riders!” Three or four spotted and cream-coloured horses, gaily caparisoned, stood on the platform, and a clown cracked his “wheeze” with a couple of young fellows in tights and trunks, in their intervals of repose from acrobatic feats of the ordinary character.

Next to the circus stood a portable theatre, usually Scowton’s, in rivalry with the neighbouring show of the famous Richardson, which was always the largest, and was worked by the strongest company. On the exterior platforms of both, practical jokes were played upon the pantaloon by the harlequin and the clown; young ladies in short muslin skirts danced to the lively strains of the orchestra, and broad-sword combats were fought in the approved one! two! three! over and under style. Next to Richardson’s show stood the menagerie of Wombwell or Atkins, where a broad array of pictorial canvas attracted a wondering crowd, and the brazen instruments of musicians, attired in uniforms copied from those of the royal “beef-eaters,” brayed and blared from noon till night.

Then came the principal booths, wherein eating and drinking was the order of the day, and dancing that of the night. The largest and best appointed of these was the Crown and Anchor, well known to fair-goers for half a century, the name of Algar being “familiar in their mouths as household words,” as that of an experienced caterer for their entertainment. There was a tolerable quadrille band in attendance from eve till midnight, and, in the best days of the fair, the sons and daughters of the shopkeepers of the town and the farmers of the surrounding neighbourhood mingled in the dance in the “assembly room” of Algar’s booth without fear of scandal or loss of caste. There was dancing in the other booths, but they were smaller, the music and the lighting were inferior, and the company less select. Among those that stood in a line with Algar’s were the Fives Court, kept by an ex-pugilist, and patronised chiefly by gentlemen of the “fancy;” and the gipsies’ booth, which had no other sign than the ancient one of a green bough, and was resorted to for the novelty of being waited upon by dark-eyed and dusky-complexioned Romanies, wearing bright-coloured silk handkerchiefs over their shoulders, and long gold pendants in their ears.Within the area enclosed by these avenues were swings and round-abouts, while the “knock ’em downs,” the “three shies a penny” fellows, the predecessors of the Aunt Sallies of a later day, occupied the vacant spaces on the skirts of the pleasure fair, wherever the ground was not covered, on the first day, with horses, sheep, and cattle.

At midnight on the 1st the fair was opened by the ceremony of carrying an enormous key through it, and the booth-keepers were then allowed to serve any customers who might offer. By daylight next morning the roads leading to the fair-field were thronged with sheep and cattle, thousands of which, with scores of horses, changed owners before sunset. There was little movement in the long avenues of shows, booths, and stalls, until near noon, when nursery maids led their charges through Bond Street, and mothers took their younger children there to buy toys. About mid-day the showmen unfurled their pictures, which appealed so strongly to the imaginations of the spectators, the bands of the larger shows began to play, and clowns and acrobats, dancers and jugglers, appeared upon the exterior platforms. From this time till sunset the throng of visitors increased rapidly, and on fine days the crowd before the principal shows was so dense as to offer considerable impediment to locomotion.When darkness began to descend upon the field, lamps flared and flickered on the fronts of the shows, smaller lights glimmered along the toy and gingerbread stalls, and thousands of tiny lamps, blue, and amber, and green, and ruby, arranged in the form of crowns, stars, anchors, feathers, etc., illuminated the booths. Then the showmen beat their gongs with redoubled vigour, and bawled through speaking-trumpets till they were hoarse; the bands brayed and blared louder than before; and the sounds of harps and violins showed that dancing had commenced in the booths.

In those days it sometimes happened that two circuses attended the fair, when the larger of the two was pitched in a field on the west side of the road, and bounded on the south side by Mint Walk, one of the avenues by which the fair was approached from High Street. In a circus thus located—I think it was Clarke’s—Miss Woolford, afterwards the second wife of the great equestrian, Andrew Ducrow, exhibited her grace and agility on the tight-rope in a blaze of fireworks, in emulation of the celebrated Madame Saqui’s performance at Vauxhall Gardens. The equestrian profession still numbers Ducrows in its ranks, two young men of that name belonging at the present time to Newsome’s circus company; but I have not met with the name of Woolford since 1842, when a young lady of that name, and then about twelve or thirteen years of age, danced on the tight-rope in a small show pitched at the back of the town-hall at Croydon, during the July Fair.

The October fair at Croydon closed the season of the shows which confined their perambulations to a distance of fifty miles from the metropolis, where, or in the provincial towns possessing theatres, the actors, clowns, acrobats, etc., obtained engagements for the pantomime season. This year, the entire company of Johnson and Lee’s theatre was engaged for the Marylebone.

In 1839, this theatre, with John Douglass and Paul Herring still in the company, stood next to Hilton’s menagerie at Greenwich, where the season commenced with most of the shows which made London their winter quarters. It was about this time that James Lee, who was then manager of Hilton’s menagerie, suggested the certain attractiveness of the exhibition by a young woman of the performances with lions and tigers which had been found so productive to the treasuries of the Sangers, Batty, and Howes and Cushing, when exhibited by a man. It was proposed to bring out as a “lion queen” the daughter of Hilton’s brother Joseph, a circus proprietor; and the young lady, being familiar with her uncle’s lions, did not shrink from the distinction. She made her first public appearance with the lions at Stepney Fair, and the performance proved so attractive that the example was contagious. Edmunds had at this time a fine group of lions, tigers, and leopards, and a young woman named Chapman (now Mrs. George Sanger) volunteered to perform with them, as a rival to Miss Hilton.

Miss Chapman, who had the honour of appearing before the royal family at Windsor Castle, had not long been before the public when a third “lion queen” appeared in Wombwell’s menagerie in the person of Helen Blight, the daughter of a musician in the band. The career of this poor girl was as brief as its termination was shocking. She was performing with the animals at Greenwich Fair, when a tiger exhibited some sullenness or waywardness, for which she very imprudently struck it with a riding-whip which she carried. With a terrible roar, the infuriated beast sprang upon her, seized her by the throat, and killed her before she could be rescued. This melancholy affair led to the prohibition of such performances by women; but the leading menageries have continued to have “lion kings” attached to them to the present day.

It was in this year that the war against the shows was renewed by the authorities of the City of London, who doubled the charges hitherto made for space in Smithfield, Wombwell, for instance, having his rent raised from forty to eighty pounds, Clarke’s from twenty-five to fifty, and others in the same proportion. After the fair, the London City Missions Society presented a memorial to the Corporation, praying for the suppression of the fair, and the City Lands Committee was instructed by the Court of Aldermen to consider whether, and by what means, its suppression could be legally accomplished. The committee referred the question to the solicitor of the City, who was requested to report to the Markets Committee “as to the right of the Corporation of London to suppress Bartholomew Fair, or otherwise to remove the nuisances and obstructions to trade to which it gives rise.”

The solicitor accordingly examined the archives in the town-clerk’s office, as well as books in the City Library and the British Museum, for the purpose of tracing the history of the fair, and of other fairs which formerly existed in the metropolis, and the right to hold which was likewise founded upon charters, and which had been abolished or fallen into disuse. His researches led him to the conclusion that “the right to hold both fairs having been granted for the purpose of promoting the interests of trade, it is quite clear that no prescriptive right can be set up to commit any nuisance incompatible with the purposes for which they were established; if, therefore, the Corporation should be satisfied that the interests of the public can be no otherwise protected than by confining the fair to its original objects and purposes, they may undoubtedly do so, and this would in fact, be equivalent to its entire suppression.”

This course was, however, that which had been adopted, without success, in 1735, and the legal adviser of the Corporation could not avoid seeing that “it is at all times difficult, by law, to put down the ancient customs and practices of the multitude.” Both May Fair and Lady Fair had been suppressed without the intervention of Parliament, however, and it seemed probable that “old Bartlemy” would be extinguished before long by natural decay, and that the best course would be to provide for its due regulation during its decline.

“When we consider,” said the report, “the improved condition and conduct of the working classes in the metropolis, and reflect upon the irrefragable proofs continually before us, that the humbler orders are fast changing their habits, and substituting country excursions by railroad and steamboat, and other innocent recreations, for vicious amusements of the description which prevailed in Bartholomew Fair, it is, perhaps, not too much to conclude that it is unnecessary for the Corporation to apply to Parliament to abate the nuisance; but that, if they proceed to lay down and enforce the observance of judicious regulations in the fair, and to limit its duration and extent, it may be permitted to continue, in the confident belief that many years will not elapse ere the Corporation may omit to proclaim the fair, and thus suppress it altogether, without exciting any of those feelings of discontent and disapprobation with which its compulsory abolition would probably be now attended.”

When this report was submitted to the Court of Common Council, in July, 1840, considerable diversity of opinion was found to prevail as to the course which should be adopted. The majority either adopted the view of the London City Missions Society, or the more moderate sentiments of the reporter, Mr. Charles Pearson; but the principles therein enunciated did not pass without challenge. Mr. Anderton was “decidedly opposed to the canting and Methodistical grounds for interfering with one of the only amusements now remaining to the poor inhabitants of London.” Mr. Wells thought that the fair, under proper regulations for the prevention of disorder, would be innoxious, and that the gaming-houses of the metropolis were a fitter subject for suppression. Mr. Taylor regarded the objections to the fair as “the wild chimeras of fanaticism.” But after a long discussion, the report was adopted by forty-three votes against fourteen. The Market Committee declined, however, to limit the fair to two days, or to exclude shows entirely, though they resolved to again raise the rents of the shows that were admitted, to permit no disturbance of the pavement, to continue the exclusion of swings and roundabouts, and to admit no theatres for dramatic performances.

The policy resolved upon was, therefore, simply one of vexation and annoyance, and contributed nothing to the promotion of morality and order. Johnson and Lee’s theatre, Clarke’s circus, Frazer’s acrobatic entertainment, Laskey’s giant and giantess, and Crockett’s and Reader’s exhibitions of living curiosities, were refused space in Smithfield; and the only shows admitted were the menageries of Wombwell, Hilton, and Wright, and Grove’s theatre of arts. Why the performances of lions and tigers should be regarded with more favour than those of horses, Miss Clarke on the tight-rope be considered a more demoralising spectacle then Miss Hilton or Miss Chapman in a cage of wild beasts, and the serpents and crocodile in Crockett’s caravan more suggestive of immoral ideas than the monkeys in the menageries, is a problem which does not admit of easy solution, and which only an aldermanic mind could have framed.

The suburban fairs were declining so much at this time that Johnson and Lee were deterred by their diminished receipts at Greenwich and Deptford from visiting Ealing, Camberwell, and Enfield; and, on being excluded from Smithfield, proceeded to Chatham, whence they moved to Croydon. The decadence was still more manifest in the following year, and at Enfield an attempt was made by the magistrate to prevent them from opening on the third day, the more officious than learned administrator of the law being ignorant of the fact that, though the fair had for many years been held on two days only, the charter by which it was held allowed three days. Lee had taken care to obtain a copy of the charter, and on the superintendent of police going to the theatre with the magistrate’s order for its immediate removal, he positively refused obedience to the mandate, and produced the charter. The superintendent thereupon apologised, and returned to the magistrate with the news of his discomfiture.

At Bartholomew Fair, Wombwell’s was the only show of any consequence. His collection had at this time grown to be, not only the largest and best travelling, but equal, and in some respects superior, to any in the world. He had twelve lions, besides lionesses and cubs, and eight tigers, a tigress, and cubs, in addition to a puma, a jaguar, a black tiger, several leopards, an ocelot, a serval, and a pair of genets. There were also striped and spotted hyenas, wolves, jackals, coati-mondies, racoons, a polar bear, a sloth bear, black and brown bears, a honey bear, and a couple of porcupines. The hoofed classes were represented by three elephants, a fine one-horned rhinoceros, a pair of gnus, a white antelope, a Brahmin cow, an axis deer, and three giraffes, which had lately been brought from Abyssinia by M. Riboulet, a French traveller, and were the first of their kind ever exhibited in the fair.

Croydon Fair was disturbed this year by a fight between the youths of the East India Company’s military college at Addiscombe, about a mile from the town, and the members of Johnson and Lee’s company. The fracas originated with an insulting remark made by one of the cadets, as they were generally called, to a young lady of the theatrical company, promenading at the time on the parade. The insult was promptly resented by a male member of the troupe, who hurled the offender down the steps. A dozen of his companions immediately rushed up the steps, and assailed the champion, who was supported by the rest of the company; and the consequence was a sharp scrimmage, ending in the arrival of several constables, and the removal to the station-house of as many of the cadets as could not escape by flight. Next morning they were taken before the magistrates, and, being proved to have been the aggressors, they were fined; and from that time the military aspirants of Addiscombe were forbidden to enter the town during the three days of the fair.

Charles Freer was the leading actor of the company at this time, and the principal lady was Mrs. Hugh Campbell, whom I remember seeing a year or two afterwards at the Gravesend theatre. She was subsequently engaged, as was Freer also, at the Pavilion. Her successor on the Richardsonian boards was Mrs. Yates, who was afterwards engaged at the Standard.

The harlequin was a nervous, eccentric, one-eyed young man named Charles Shaw, who was dismissed from the company towards the close of the season on account of his freaks reaching a pitch which at times raised a doubt as to his sanity, besides threatening detriment to the interests of the theatre. When the time approached at which the campaign of 1842 was to be commenced, it was found necessary to advertise for a harlequin; and the announcement of the want produced a response from Charles Wilson, who stated that he had been engaged through the preceding pantomime season at the Birmingham theatre. This gentleman seeming eligible, he was engaged, but was not seen by Lee, or any of the company, until he presented himself at the theatre on Easter Sunday, at Greenwich. Lee was immediately struck with the new harlequin’s remarkable resemblance to the old one, which extended to every feature but the eyes; these were the same colour as Shaw’s, but he had two, while Shaw had lost one. On the second day of the fair, however, it was discovered that the eye which had thus long puzzled every one as to his identity was a glass one; and on his being charged with being Shaw, he acknowledged the deception, observing that he had felt sure that he would not be re-engaged if he applied in his proper name. The deception was pardoned, and Shaw’s subsequent freaks seem to have been fewer, and of a milder character.

The effects of the policy resolved upon by the City authorities in 1840 became more perceptible every year. In 1842, only one of the few shows that appeared in Smithfield issued a bill, which, as a curiosity, being the last ever issued for Bartholomew Fair, I subjoin:—

Extraordinary Phenomenon!!!
The greatest wonder in the world
Now Exhibiting Alive,
At the Globe Coffee House, No. 30, King Street,
Smithfield,
A Female Child with Two Perfect Heads,

Named Elizabeth Bedbury, Daughter of Daniel and Jane Bedbury, Born at Wandsworth, Surrey, April 17th, 1842. The public is respectfully informed that the Child is now Living; and hundreds of persons has been to see it, and declares that it is the most Wonderful Phenomenon of Nature they’d ever seen.

Admission 1d. Each.
No Deception; if dissatisfied, the Money Returned.

Nelson Lee played a trick at Croydon Fair this year which can only be defended on the principle that “all is fair at fair time.” Finding that the Bosjesmans were being exhibited in the town, and were attracting great numbers of persons to their “receptions,” he hung out, on the second day of the fair, a show-cloth with the announcement, in large black letters, “Arrival of the Real Bosjesmen.” to represent the strange specimens of humanity which had lately been discovered in South Africa, and their appearance on the parade in an antic dance produced a rush to witness the further representations of the manners and sports of savage life to be seen inside.

A startling event occurred on the following morning. One of Wombwell’s elephants escaped from confinement, and at the early hour of three in the morning was seen, to the amazement and alarm of old Winter, the watchman, walking in a leisurely manner down High Street. He was in the habit of being taken every morning by his keeper to bathe in Scarbrook pond, a small piece of water skirted by a lane connecting the modern and now principal portion of the town with the Old Town; and on such occasions he was regaled with a bun at a confectioner’s shop at the corner which he had to turn out of High Street, near the Green Dragon. While a constable ran to the George the Fourth, where some of Wombwell’s employÉs were known to be located, the elephant reached the confectioner’s shop, and, finding it closed, butted the shutters with his enormous head, and, amidst a crash of wood and glass, proceeded to help himself to the delicacies inside. On the arrival of his keeper, the docile beast submitted himself to his guidance, and was led back to his stable; but Wombwell had to pay the confectioner seven or eight pounds for the damage done to the shop window and shutters.Johnson and Lee commenced the season of 1843 with several members of the Pavilion company in their fair corps; but they attended fewer fairs than in any previous year, and in 1844 their theatre appeared only at Greenwich, Enfield, and Croydon. In the following year, it was burned, while standing in a field at Dartford, and the proprietors, not being insured, suffered a loss of seventeen hundred pounds. Nothing was saved but the parade waggon, which was dragged away before the flames reached it, and, with the scene waggon and other effects which had been bought of Haydon in 1838, formed the nucleus of the new theatre with which the proprietors opened the fair campaign of 1847. Henry Howard joined the travelling company in that year at Ealing Fair, on the closing of the Standard.

During the latter part of their career as proprietors of a travelling theatre, the successors of Richardson found it more profitable to conduct their business on the system, since adopted by Newsome and Hengler with their circuses, of locating the theatre for two or three weeks at a time in some considerable town, than to wander from fair to fair, staying at each place only three or four days. At the present day, the circuses just named draw good houses, as a rule, for three months; but a quarter of a century ago this was not thought practicable, and in 1849, when Johnson and Lee erected their theatre at Croydon (in the Fair Field, but some time before the fair), they did not deem it expedient to extend their stay beyond three weeks. The company was drawn chiefly from the minor theatres of the metropolis, and included Leander Melville, Billington, Seaman, Phillips, Mrs. Barnett, Mrs. Campbell, and Miss Slater. The Stranger was selected for the first night, and drew a good audience, as it invariably does, wherever it is played. Under the able and judicious management of Nelson Lee, and with a change of performances every night, good business was done to the last. The experiment was repeated with equal success at Uxbridge and Reading.

Another step towards the extinction of Bartholomew Fair was taken this year by the exclusion from Smithfield of shows of every description; a step which would have been at least consistent, if the civic authorities had not made arrangements for the standing of shows of all kinds on a large piece of ground adjoining the New North Road, called Britannia Fields, near the site of the Britannia theatre. If the suppression of the fair had been sought on the ground of its interference with the trade and traffic of the city, this step would have been intelligible; but the moral grounds upon which it was urged served to cover with ridicule the removal of what was alleged to be a hot-bed of vice from Smithfield to Hoxton. What right had the corporation to demoralise the dwellers in one part of the metropolis, in order to preserve from further contamination the inhabitants of another part?

Bartholomew Fair was reduced by this step to a dozen stalls, and from that time may be considered as practically extinct. In Britannia Fields, what was called New Bartholomew Fair was attended by the shows which of late years had resorted to Smithfield and one or two others, among which was Reed’s theatre, the prices of admission to which ranged from sixpence to two shillings. The performances consisted of The Scottish Chieftain, in which Saker played Ronald, the principal character, and a pantomime called Harlequin Rambler. Among the minor shows was that of Hales and his sister, the Norfolk giant and giantess, who issued a bill containing the following effusion of the Muse that inspired the poet of Mrs. Jarley’s wax-work:—

“Miss Hales and her Brother are here to be seen,
O come let us visit the sweet lovely Queen;
Behold she is handsome—in manners polite—
Both she and her brother near eight feet in height!
I have seen all the tallest in towns far and near,
But never their equal to me did appear!
All England and Scotland, and Ireland declare,
Their like was ne’er seen yet in them anywhere.
“Here’s the smallest of women creation can show,
Complete in proportion from top to the toe;
And a Lady of rank from New Zealand secured,
Escap’d from the murder her husband endured!
And a fine youthful female presented to sight,
All spangled and spotted with brown and with white;
Large Crocodiles here, and a Boa behold,
With a fine Anaconda all glistening with gold.
“Here’s a silver-haired Lady, with skin white as snow,
Whose eyes are like rubies that roll to and fro!
You will find her a species different from all,
The black and the whites, or the low and the tall!
But to sing all her beauties I need not begin,
Nor the fine azure veins that appear through her skin;
For these, mind, no poet or painter can show,
But when you behold her, O then you may know!
“Exhibitions like this may to us be of use—
What a contrast of creatures this world can produce!
See the tallest and smallest before us in state.
What a prodigy rare and phenomena great!
From such wonders eccentric presented to view
We now may our study of nature pursue;
And philosophy truly may draw from it then,
That Temp’rance produces the tallest of men.”

Hales made enough money by the exhibition of himself to purchase the lease and goodwill of a public-house in Drury Lane, where he lived several years. Many persons visited the house purposely to see him, but he never appeared in the bar before eleven o’clock, and was careful to avoid making himself too cheap. I saw him once, in crossing the street towards his house, stoop to raise in his arms a little girl, suggesting to my mind the giant and fairy of a pantomime.

In pursuance of the policy indicated in the report of 1840, Bartholomew Fair, now represented by a few stalls, was proclaimed in 1850 by deputy; and this course was followed until 1855, when not a single stall-keeper applied for space, and the ceremony of proclaiming the fair was omitted altogether. The new fair in Britannia Fields was held only two or three years, that concession to the showmen and to the fair-going portion of the public having been designed only for the purpose of facilitating the extinction of the old fair in Smithfield.

Greenwich Fair was the scene in 1850 of an outrageous and dastardly attack on Johnson and Lee’s theatre by a body of soldiers from Woolwich. It seems to have originated in a practical joke played by a soldier upon a young man in the crowd before the theatre, and which, being resented, was followed by an assault. On the latter retreating up the steps of the parade waggon, followed by his assailant, Nelson Lee interposed for his protection, and was himself assaulted by the soldier, who was thereupon ejected. A number of soldiers, witnessing the discomfiture of their comrade, immediately rushed up the steps, and began an indiscriminate attack upon everybody on the parade. The company, finding themselves over-matched, took refuge in the interior, or jumped off the parade, and fled as if for their lives.

An actor named Chappell stood by Nelson Lee after the rest had fled, but he joined in the stampede ultimately, and the proprietor of the theatre was left alone, defending himself and property against a swarm of foes. The story told long afterwards of the harlequin of the company was, that he ran without pause to the railway station, and jumped into a train just starting for London. He then ran from London Bridge to Shoreditch, and rushing, exhausted and excited, into a public-house adjoining the City of London theatre, gasped, “Blood—soldiers—Mr. Lee—frightful affair—three pen’orth o’ brandy!”

The soldiers, having driven their opponents off the field, began destroying the front of the theatre, and smashing the lamps, which, fortunately, were not lighted. If they had been burning, the result would probably have been a terrific conflagration, which might have swept the fair, and destroyed many thousands of pounds’ worth of property. Nelson Lee, resisting with all his might the destruction of his property, had a rope made fast round his body, and was about to be hoisted to the top of the front, when a dozen constables arrived, and the assailants immediately abandoned the field, and, leaping off the parade, mixed with the crowd. Many of them were captured, however, and, being taken before a magistrate, were committed for trial at the ensuing Old Bailey sessions. Johnson and Lee withdrew from the prosecution, however, expecting that their forbearance would be rewarded by pecuniary compensation for the destruction of their property, which the Recorder had suggested should be given by the officers of the regiment to which the offenders belonged; but, on application being made to the officers, they informed Lee that there were no regimental funds available for the purpose, and I believe not a penny was ever received by Johnson and Lee by way of compensation.

During the Whitsuntide Fair, the soldiers were confined to their barracks; but, as many of them were in the habit of visiting the theatre with their friends, this measure diminished the receipts, and thus added loss to loss. Johnson and Lee attended no other fairs that year, but removed the theatre to Croydon, where they erected it in a field adjoining the Addiscombe Road, near the Brighton and South-Eastern railway stations. Henry Howard and Mrs. Campbell played the leading characters here, and afterwards at Hertford and Uxbridge.

Wombwell died this year in his living carriage at Richmond, at the age of seventy-three. He was buried in Highgate cemetery, his coffin being made of oak from the timbers of the Royal George, which sank off Spithead in 1782. As his executors were instructed by his will to have no nails used in its construction, it was put together on the dove-tailing system. The menagerie was divided in accordance with his will into three parts, which were bequeathed respectively to his widow, a niece named Edmunds, and another relative named Day.

The expectation of such results as attended the Hyde Park Fair of 1838 from the concourse of people flocking into the metropolis during the summer of 1851, when the first great international exhibition was held, caused arrangements to be made for a “world’s fair” on a large scale, to be held during the same time at Bayswater. A committee was formed for its organisation and management, consisting of Johnson and Lee, Algar, Mussett, Mills, Trebeck, and Young. Algar was the proprietor of the Crown and Anchor refreshment and dancing booth, well-known to the frequenters of Greenwich and Croydon Fairs; Mussett and Mills were almost as well known as leading names among the stall-keepers attending the great fairs; Trebeck was a toy-dealer in Sun Street, Bishopsgate.

The undertaking was as complete a failure, however, as the fair of 1838 had been a success. The ground was in bad condition, and its softness was a difficulty at the commencement. Mrs. Wombwell’s elephant waggon stuck in the mud, and had to be left there until the next day; and the elephant extricated himself with difficulty by lifting one leg at a time, and stepping upon trusses of straw laid down to give him a firm footing. Edmunds would not venture to the ground which he had taken for his menagerie, but arranged his caravans at the entrance of the field. The weather was cold and cheerless when the fair was opened, and the railway companies had not begun running trains at low fares. When the fine weather and the excursion trains did come, the fair had come to be regarded as a failure, and it never recovered from the chill and blight of its commencement.

Johnson and Lee’s theatre appeared at Greenwich Fair for the last time in 1852, and proceeded thence to Uxbridge, where the company was joined by James Robson, afterwards so famous as a comedian at the Olympic. In the following year, the property was sold by auction, and, as a memorial of an event which has seldom occurred, and will never occur again, I subjoin the advertisement:—

“Notice.—To Carmen, Builders, Proprietors of Tea Gardens, Exhibitors, Van Proprietors, Travelling Equestrians, Providers of Illuminations, &c.—The Travelling Theatrical Property known as Richardson’s Theatre, comprising Covered Vans and Parade Waggons, Scenery, Wings, Stage Front, Orchestra, with a double stock of beautiful scenery, waterproof covering, draperies, massive chandeliers, a great quantity of baize, flags, &c. Large coat of arms, variegated lamps and devices, eight capital 6-inch wheels, parade waggons, with two large flaps to each, two capital excursion vans, trucks, double stock of new scenery, shifting flies, fourteen long forms, large stock of book-cloths and baize of large dimensions, battened dancing-boards, erection of booths, handsome imitation stone front, two capital money-takers’ boxes, with fittings up, handsome ornamental urns, large figures on pedestals, four guns and carriages, handsome pilasters, machinery, flooring throughout the building, with numerous scenery and stage devices, and every other article connected with the stage, a quantity of quartering, iron, old wheels, &c., &c., &c. Which will be sold by auction by Mr. Lloyd, on the premises, Richardson’s Cottage, Horsemonger-lane, Boro’. May be viewed, and catalogues had on the premises, and of the Auctioneers, 5, Hatfield-street, Blackfriars-road.”

The property was completely dispersed; the timber and wood-work being purchased by builders, the waggons by wheelwrights, the canvas and tilt-cloths by farmers, and the green baize, curtains, fittings, etc., by Jew dealers. There is not the shadow of a pretence, therefore, for the use of the name, “Richardson’s theatre,” by any showman of the present day.

The shows travelling after the sale and dispersion of Johnson and Lee’s were, exclusive of menageries and exhibitions, Abbott’s theatre, Jackman’s theatre, and Fossett’s circus. I am not sure that Reed’s theatre was still in existence. Abbott’s theatre was at the Easter fair at Greenwich in 1852, when Charlie Keith, since famous all over Europe as “the roving English clown,” was fulfilling his first engagement in it as an acrobat. Robson, the comedian, was at the same time performing in Jackman’s theatre, from which he transferred his services to Johnson and Lee’s.

Fossett’s circus was pitched that summer at Primrose Hill for a few days, when one of the irregular fairs which are occasionally held in the neighbourhood of London was held. It is a small concern, with only two or three horses. Miss Fossett, the proprietor’s daughter, is a tight-rope performer, in which capacity she appeared a few years ago in Talliott’s circus, when the company and stud appeared one winter in a temporary building at the rear of some small houses in New Street, Lambeth Walk. James Talliott, to whom the houses belong, was then well known to the frequenters of the London music-halls, and may be remembered as a trapeze performer in conjunction with Burnett, who called himself Burnetti, but was known among the professional fraternity as Bruiser. He afterwards performed singly at the Strand Music-hall, now the Gaiety Theatre, and other places of amusement in the metropolis, and has since owned a small circus, with which he travels during the summer within a circle of a dozen miles from London.

Hilton’s menagerie had at this time passed into the possession of Manders, and the lion-tamer of the show was an Irishman named James Strand, who had formerly kept a gingerbread-stall, and had been engaged to perform with the beasts when those attractive exhibitions had been threatened with temporary suspension by the abruptness with which his predecessor, Newsome—a brother, I believe, to the circus-proprietor of that name—had terminated his engagement. Strand’s qualifications for the profession were not equal to his own estimate of them, however, and Manders had to look out for his successor.

One day, when the menagerie was at Greenwich Fair, a powerful-looking negro accosted one of the musicians, saying that he was a sailor just returned from a voyage, and would like a berth in the show. The musician communicated the man’s wish to Manders, and the negro was invited to enter the show. His appearance and confident manner impressed the showman favourably, and, on his being allowed to enter the lion’s cage, at his own request, he displayed so much address and ability to control the animals that he was engaged at once, and “the gingerbread king,” as Strand was called, was informed that his services could, for the future, be dispensed with. This remarkable black man was the famous Macomo, who for several years afterwards travelled with the menagerie, exhibiting in his performances with lions and tigers as much daring as Van Amburgh, and as much coolness as Crockett.

One of the finest tigers ever imported into this country, and said to be the identical beast that escaped from Mr. Jamrach’s premises in St. George’s Street (better known by its old name of Ratcliffe Highway), and killed a boy before it was recaptured, was purchased by Manders, and placed in a cage with another tiger. The two beasts soon began fighting furiously, upon which Macomo entered the cage, armed only with a riding-whip, and attempted to separate them. His efforts caused both the tigers to turn their fury upon him, and they severely lacerated him; but, covered with blood as he was, he continued the struggle for supremacy until the beasts cowered before him, and he was able, with the assistance of the keepers, to separate them.

It is worthy of remark, in connection with the causes of accidents with lions and tigers, that Macomo, like Crockett, was a strictly sober man, never touching intoxicating liquors of any kind. “It’s the drink,” said the ex-lion king, who was interviewed by the special commissioner of a London morning journal two years ago; “It’s the drink that plays the mischief with us fellows. There are plenty of people always ready to treat the daring fellow that plays with the lions as if they were kittens; and so he gets reckless, lets the dangerous animal—on which, if he were sober, he would know he must always keep his eye—get dodging round behind him; or hits a beast in which he ought to know that a blow rouses the sleeping devil; or makes a stagger, and goes down, and then they set upon him.”

Macomo’s fight with the two tigers was not the only occasion on which he received injuries, the scars of which he bore upon him to the day of his death, which, contrary to the expectation of every one who witnessed his performances, was a peaceful one. He died a natural death in 1870, when he was succeeded by an Irishman named Macarthy, who had previously been attached in a similar capacity to the circus of Messrs. Bell and Myers. While performing, in 1862, with the lions belonging to that establishment, he had had his left arm so severely mangled by one of the beasts that amputation became necessary. This circumstance seems to have added to the Éclat of his performances; but he had neither the nerve of Macomo, nor his resolution to abstain from stimulants. Unlike his predecessor, he frequently turned his back upon the lions, though he had frequently been cautioned against the danger he thereby incurred; and it was believed that his disregard of the warning was one of the causes of the terrible encounter which terminated his existence.

Macarthy was bitten on two occasions while performing with Manders’s lions, prior to the disaster at Bolton. The first time was while performing at Edinburgh, when one of the beasts made a snap at his remaining arm, but only slightly grazed it. The second occasion was a few days before the fatal accident occurred, when one of the Lions bit him slightly on the wrist. He lost his life in representing a so-called “lion hunt,” an exhibition which was introduced by Macomo, and consists in chasing the animals about the cage, the performer being armed with a sword and pistols, and throwing into the mimic sport as much semblance of reality as the circumstances allow. The exhibition is acknowledged by lion-tamers themselves to be a dangerous one, and it should never be attempted with any but young animals. For their ordinary performances, most lion-tamers prefer full-grown animals, as being better trained; but a full-grown lion does not like to be driven and hustled about, as the animals are in the so-called “lion hunt,” and when such are used for this exhibition they are frequently changed.

Macarthy was driving the animals from one end of the cage to the other when one of them ran against his legs, and threw him down. He soon regained his feet, however, and drove the animals into a corner. Whilst stamping his feet upon the floor, to make the animals run past him, one of them crept stealthily out from the group, and sprang upon him, seizing him by the right hip and throwing him down upon his side. For a moment the spectators imagined that this was part of the performance, but Macarthy’s agonised features soon convinced them of the terrible reality of the scene before them. As he struggled to rise, three other lions sprang upon him, one of them seizing his arm, from which he immediately dropped the sword.

The keepers now hurried to the unfortunate man’s assistance, some of them endeavouring to beat off the infuriated lions, while others inserted a partition between the bars of the cage, with a view to driving the animals behind it. This was a task of considerable difficulty, however, for as one beast was obliged to relinquish its hold of the unfortunate man, another rushed into its place. Heated irons were then brought, and by their aid, and the discharge of fire-arms, four of the lions were driven behind the partition. Macarthy was lying in the centre of the cage, still being torn by the lion that had first attacked him. A second partition was attempted to be inserted, but was found to be too large; and then one of the keepers drew the first one out a little, with the view of driving the fifth lion among the rest. More blank cartridges were fired, without effect, and it was not until the hot irons were applied to the nose of the infuriated brute that it loosed its hold, and ran behind the partition.

Even then, before the opening could be closed, the lion ran out again, seized the dead or dying man by one of his feet and dragged him into the corner, where four of the beasts again fell upon him with unsatiated thirst of blood. The terrible scene had now been going on for a quarter of an hour, and, even when all the animals were at length secured, it was found that they were next the entrance of the cage, the opposite end of which had to be broken open before the mangled corpse of the lion-tamer could be lifted out.

As lion-tamers are well paid, and this was only the second fatal accident in the course of half a century, it is not surprising that, as soon as the catastrophe became known, there were several candidates for the vacancy created by Macarthy’s death. Mrs. Manders had resolved to discontinue the exhibition, however, and the applicants for the situation received an intimation to that effect.

Mrs. Wombwell retired from the menagerie business in 1866, and was succeeded in the proprietorship by Fairgrieve, who had married her niece.

Fairgrieve retired from the occupation in the spring of 1872, when his fine collection of animals was sold by auction at Edinburgh. As the public sale of a menagerie is a rare event, and Mr. Jamrach and Mr. Rice do not publish prices current, the reader may be glad to learn the prices realised.

The first lot was a racoon—“a very pleasant, playful pet,” the auctioneer said—which was knocked down to the Earl of Roseberry for one pound. Mr. Bell Lamonby, another private collector, became the possessor of a pair of agoutis; which he was assured were “sharp, active little animals, and could sing like canaries,” for an equally moderate sum. Then came a strange-looking and ferocious animal called the Tasmanian devil, of which there is a specimen in the gardens of the Zoological Society, and which the auctioneer assured his hearers was as strong in the jaw as a hyena, but not to be recommended for purchase as a domestic pet. Bids were slow, and even the prospect of purchasing the devil for three pounds did not render buyers enthusiastic; so that Mrs. Day bought the animal for five shillings more.

Then came the baboons and monkeys. The Diana monkey, a white and rose-breasted little animal, was purchased by Dr. Mackendrick for seven pounds; while the Capuchin monkey, full of intelligence, and belonging to a kind fancied by Italian organ-grinders, was knocked down to Mr. Rice for thirty shillings. Mr. Jamrach purchased the drill, “a playful little drawing-room pet, worth twenty pounds to put on the kitchen shelf to look at,” for five guineas; and Mr. Rice paid thirty pounds for a male mandrill, five for a female of the same species, eighteen guineas for a pair of Anubis baboons, and fifteen pounds for five dog-faced baboons.

Passing on to the bird carriage, the first specimen submitted to competition was the black vulture, one of the largest birds of the species, and in excellent plumage. Mr. Rice bought this bird for three pounds ten shillings, and the condor, which had been forty years in the show, for fifteen pounds. Next came the emu, “a very suitable bird for a gentleman’s park, and a nice show thing for the ladies in the morning, after breakfast,” which Mrs. Day secured for her collection at seven pounds. Mr. Jamrach gave thirteen pounds for the pair of pelicans, bought at the sale of the Knowsley collection, and which had been trained to run races. The fine collection of parrots, macaws, and cockatoos was dispersed among a number of local fanciers of ornithological beauties.

Proceeding to the larger mammals, the auctioneer knocked down a male nylghau to Mr. Van Amburgh, the great American menagerist, for twenty-six pounds, and a female of the same species to the proprietor of the Manchester Zoological Gardens for ten guineas; while Mr. Jamrach secured a llama for fifteen pounds, and Mr. Rice a young kangaroo for twelve pounds. Professor Edwards, who had come over from Paris to pick up a few good specimens for the Jardin des Plantes, purchased the white bear, “young, healthy, and lively as a trout,” for forty pounds, and a jackal for three pounds. A Thibet bear and three performing leopards were knocked down to Mr. Jamrach for five guineas and sixty pounds respectively. Another leopard, advanced in years, realised only six guineas. Mr. Van Amburgh secured the spotted hyena for fifteen pounds; while a performing striped hyena brought only five shillings above three pounds. Among objects of minor interest, a pair of wolves were sold for two guineas, an ocelot for six pounds ten shillings, three porcupines for ten pounds more, a wombat for seven pounds, a Malabar squirrel for five pounds, and a pair of boa constrictors for twelve pounds.

The large carnivora excited much attention, and fair prices were realised, though in some instances they were less than was expected. Mr. Rice gave a hundred and eighty-five pounds for the famous lion with which Signor Lorenzo used to represent the well-known story of Androcles, two other lions for a hundred and forty pounds each, two young ones for ninety pounds each, and a lioness for eighty pounds. A black-maned lion, said to be the largest and handsomest lion in Britain, was sold to Mr. Jackson, for the Bristol Zoological Gardens, for two hundred and seventy pounds; and his mate, in the interesting condition of approaching maternity, to Mr. Jennison, of the Belle Vue Gardens, Manchester, for a hundred guineas. Mr. Jamrach gave two hundred pounds for a fine lion, and a hundred and fifty-five pounds for the magnificent tigress that used to figure conspicuously in the performances of Signor Lorenzo.

Mr. Rice, who was the largest purchaser, bought the gnu for eighty-five pounds, and the zebra for fifty pounds. The camels and dromedaries, bought principally for travelling menageries, realised from fourteen to thirty pounds each, with the exception of a young one, bought by Dr. Mackendrick for nine pounds ten shillings. Menagerists restrict the word “camel” to the two-humped or Bactrian variety, and call the one-humped kind dromedaries; but the dromedary, according to naturalists, is a small variety of the Syrian camel, bearing the same relation to the latter as a pony does to a horse. The dromedaries of Mr. Fairgrieve’s collection were, on the contrary, taller than the Bactrian camels.There was a spirited competition for the two elephants, ending in the magnificent full-tusked male, seven feet six inches in height, being knocked down to Mr. Jennison for six hundred and eighty pounds, and the female, famous for her musical performances, to Mr. Rice for a hundred and forty-five pounds. The former animal was described as the largest and cleverest performing elephant ever exhibited. In stature he is exceeded, it is said, by the elephant kept by the Emperor of Russia at the gardens of Tsarski-Seloe; but, while the performances of that beast have been confined to the occasional killing of a keeper, the animal now in the Belle Vue Gardens at Manchester, besides performing many tricks evincing great docility and intelligence, was accustomed to draw the band carriage, would pull a loaded waggon up a hill, and had for the last eighteen months preceding the sale placed all the vans of the menagerie in position, with the assistance of a couple of men. The entire proceeds of the sale were a little under three thousand pounds.

I do not remember ever visiting a travelling menagerie that afforded me greater pleasure than one of the smaller class which I saw some thirty years ago at Mitcham Fair, and subsequently at Camberwell Fair. There were no lions or tigers in the collection, but it included four performing leopards, a tame hyena, and a wolf that seemed equally tame, if such an inference could be drawn from the presence of a lamb in its cage. The showman, who wore neither spangled trunks, nor a coat of chain-mail, but corduroy breeches and a sleeved vest of cat’s skin, entered the leopard’s cage, with a riding whip in one hand and a hoop in the other. The animals leaped over the whip, through the hoop, and over the man’s back, exhibiting throughout the performance as much docility as dogs or cats. The whip was used merely as part of the “properties.” The man afterwards entered the cage of the hyena, which rubbed its head against him, after the manner of a cat, and allowed him to open its mouth. The hyena has the reputation of being untameable; but, in addition to this instance to the contrary, Bishop Heber had a hyena at Calcutta which followed him about like a dog.

Tigers are little used as performing animals, partly perhaps from being less easily procured, but also, I believe, from greater distrust of them on the part of brute-tamers. There was a splendid tigress in Fairgrieve’s menagerie, however, with which Signor Lorenzo used to do a wonderful performance; and I saw, some five-and-thirty years ago, in a show pitched upon a piece of waste ground at Norwood, a tiger that played a prominent part in a sensational drama, the interest of which was evolved from the hair-breadth escapes of a British traveller in the wilds of Africa. The author did not seem to have been aware that there are no tigers in that part of the world, the animals so called by the Cape colonists being leopards; but, as the old woman who took money replied to my remonstrance that one tiger could not, without an outrage upon Lindley Murray, be called performing animals, “what can you expect for a penny?”

The old showmen are now virtually extinct, and the London fairs have all ceased to exist. “Old Bartlemy” died hard, but its time must soon have come, in the natural order of things. Its extinction was followed closely by that of all the other fairs formerly held in the suburbs of the metropolis. Camberwell Fair was abolished in 1856, and the Greenwich Fairs in the following year. I cannot better express my opinion as to the causes which have led to the decline of fairs generally, but especially of those held within half an hour’s journey from the metropolis, and the suppression of most of those formerly held within a shorter distance, than by quoting a brief dialogue between a showman and an acrobat in ‘Bob Lumley’s Secret,’ a story which appeared anonymously a few years ago in a popular periodical:—

“‘Fairs is nearly worked out, Joe,’ said the red-faced individual, speaking between the whiffs of blue smoke from his dhudeen. ‘Why, I can remember the time when my old man used to take more money away from this fair with the Russian giant, and the Polish dwarf, and the Circassian lady, than I can make now in a month. Them was the times, when old Adam Lee, the Romany, used to come to this fair with his coat buttons made of guineas, and his waistcoat buttons of seven-shilling pieces. Ah, you may laugh, Joey Alberto; but I have heard my old man speak of it many’s the time.’

“‘There’s good fairs now down in the shires,’ observed the younger man; ‘but this town is too near the big village.’

“‘That’s it!’ exclaimed the showman. ‘It’s all along o’ them blessed railways. They brings down lots o’ people, it is true; but, lor’! they don’t spend half the money the yokels used to in former times.’

“‘Besides which,’ rejoined he of the spangled trunks, ‘the people about here can run up to London and back for a shilling any day in the week, all the year round, and see all the living curiosities in the Zoo, and the stuffed ones in the Museum, and go in the evening to a theatre or a music-hall.’”

The fair referred to was the October fair at Croydon; and I may add that views similar to those which I have put into the mouths of the acrobat and the showman were expressed to me in 1846 by a showman named Gregory, who exhibited various natural curiosities and well-contrived mechanical representations of the falls of Niagara and a storm at sea. He had just received from the printer five thousand bills, which he carefully stowed away.

“This fair don’t pay for bills,” said he. “I want these for Canterbury Fair, where there’s more money to be taken in one day than in this field in three.”

“Which do you reckon the best fair in your circuit?” I inquired.

“Sandwich,” he replied. “That’s a good distance from London, you see, and though it’s a smaller town than this, there’s plenty of money in it. This is too near London, now the rail enables people to go there and back for a shilling, see all the sights and amusements, and get back home the same night.”

The fairs within half an hour’s journey from London which are still held are in a state of visible decadence. I walked through Kingston Fair last year, about three o’clock in the afternoon, at which time Croydon Fair would, even twenty or thirty years ago, have been crowded. The weather was unusually fine, the sun shining with unwonted brilliance for the season, and the ground in better condition for walking than I had ever seen the field at Croydon on the 2nd of October. Yet there were fewer people walking through the fair than I had seen in the market-place. The gingerbread vendors and other stall-keepers looked as if they were weary of soliciting custom in vain; the swings and the roundabouts stood idle; some of the showmen had not thought the aspect of the field sufficiently promising to be encouraged to unfurl their pictorial announcements, and those who had done so failed to attract visitors.

Day’s menagerie was there, and was the principal show in the fair; but the few persons who paused to gaze at the pictures passed on without entering, and even the beasts within were so impressed with the pervading listlessness and inactivity that I did not hear a sound from the cages as I walked round to the rear of the show to observe its extent. There was no braying of brass bands, no beating of gongs or bawling through speaking-trumpets. One forlorn showman ground discordant sounds from a barrel-organ with an air of desperation, and another feebly clashed a pair of cymbals; but these were all the attempts made to attract attention, and they were made in vain.

This was on Saturday afternoon, too, when a large number of the working classes are liberated who could not formerly have attended the fair at that time without taking a holiday. There was a good attendance in the evening, I heard; but, however well the shows and stalls may be patronised after six o’clock, it is obvious that their receipts must be less than half what they amounted to in the days when they were thronged from noon till night.

Fairs are becoming extinct because, with the progress of the nation, they have ceased to possess any value in its social economy, either as marts of trade or a means of popular amusement. All the large towns now possess music-halls, and many of them have a theatre; the most populous have two or three. The circuses of Newsome and Hengler are located for three months at a time in permanent buildings in the larger towns, and the travelling circuses visit in turn every town in the kingdom. Bristol and Manchester have Zoological Gardens, and Brighton has its interesting Aquarium. The railways connect all the smaller towns, and most of the villages, with the larger ones, in which amusements may be found superior to any ever presented by the old showmen. What need, then, of fairs and shows? The nation has outgrown them, and fairs are as dead as the generations which they have delighted, and the last showman will soon be as great a curiosity as the dodo.