and the feats and eccentricities of the arena at Astley’s amphitheatre had always a peculiar charm. “The terrible Fitzball,” the English Dumas, in quantity, not quality, of melodrama, Gomersal, one of the chief equestrians, and Widdicomb, the master of the ring at Astley’s, were three of his favourite heroes. Ducrow, manager of Astley’s, the most daring and graceful of equestrians, and the fair Miss Woolford, the star of his troupe, had charms irresistible for all lovers of the circus. In Aytoun’s enthusiasm I fully shared. Mine found expression in “The Courtship of our Cid,” Aytoun’s in “Don Fernando Gomersalez,” in which I recognise many of my own lines, but of which the conception and the best part of the verses were his. Years afterwards his delight in the glories of the ring broke out in the following passage in a too-good-to-be-forgotten article in ‘Blackwood,’ which, to those who may never hope to see in any circus anything so inspiring, so full of an imaginative glamour, may give some idea of the nightly scenes in the halcyon days of Astley’s:—

     “We delight to see, at never-failing Astley’s, the revived glories of British prowess—Wellington in

     the midst of his staff, smiling benignantly on the facetious pleasantries of a Fitzroy Somerset—Sergeant M’Craw of the Forty-Second delighting the

      élite

     of Brussels by the performance of the reel of Tullochgorum at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball—the charge of the Scots Greys—the single-handed combat of Marshal Ney and the infuriated Life-Guardsman Shaw—and the final retreat of Napoleon amidst a volley of Roman candles and the flames of an arsenicated Hougomont. Nor is our gratification less to discern, after the subsiding of the showers of sawdust so gracefully scattered by that groom in the doeskin integuments, the stately form of Widdicomb, cased in martial apparel, advancing towards the centre of the ring, and commanding—with imperious gesture, and some slight flagellation in return for dubious compliment—the double-jointed clown to assist the Signora Cavalcanti to her seat upon the celebrated Arabian. How lovely looks the lady, as she vaults to her feet upon the breadth of the yielding saddle! With what inimitable grace does she whirl these tiny banners around her head, as winningly as a Titania performing the sword exercise! How coyly does she dispose her garments and floating drapery to hide the too-maddening symmetry of her limbs! Gods! She is transformed all at once into an Amazon—the fawn-like timidity of her first demeanour is gone. Bold and beautiful flushes her cheek with 

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