not unusually full, and there was no
sign of that sad, sad, increase of drunkenness.
We presently emerged into the
Hackney-road, and became satisfied, owing
to the number of cricketers all moving in
one direction, that Hackney-road must be
our right road. Presently, passing over a
pretty bridge across an ugly canal, we were
in the scene of the Drunkery—the Park.

The first impressions of Victoria Park
are not striking. It is large and rather
barren. Dismal and mangy tracts of land
surround it, belonging (as we afterwards
found) to the Woods and Forests, and to
be let for building purposes. Not attractive
to builders, however, as it would seem.
The sun was very hot, and there was a
deal of dust, and the north-east wind
was sharp. On further acquaintance,
Victoria Park improves. Closer inspection
discerns pleasant gardens, and shady
shrubberies laid out with taste, and kept
with great neatness. Wherever a seat can
be put under the shade of a tree, there a seat
will be found; wherever there is a chance
for a pleasant little resting place among the
green shrubs, there such a resting place
is contrived. It cannot be said that the
gardens of Victoria Park are equal to those
of Hyde Park; but they are very pretty, for
all that, and no doubt give as much
pleasure to their visitors. On holidays, it is
fashionable to visit Victoria Park, in
numbers quite extraordinary. Nor is it found,
though the great mass of the visitors is
of the poorer class, and though the park
is surrounded by public-houses, that this
leads to any particularly disorderly
conduct, or that the people are less careful of
the shrubs and flowers, here, than elsewhere.
The park—or at least the ornamental
portion—is not very full, however,
this Saturday afternoon. Monday, or even
Tuesday, is a greater day than Saturday.
The old custom of keeping St. Monday has
not, in these parts, yet been quite superseded
by the more modern and more
humanising institution of St. Saturday. Still,
there is a very respectable number of
half-holiday makers, who show no outward signs
of that evil condition, which, according to
the Lord Mayor, should be normal to them.

Turning a corner, we came unexpectedly
upon a pretty scene: new to us,
although something like it may be seen on
the Serpentine. A long lake, or piece of
ornamental water, covered with the glancing
white sails of model yachts, its banks
covered by an eager busy crowd of
north-east London yachtsmen. From the little
boat sold at the conventional toy-shop, and
which capsizes with singular readiness, up
to the complete model, six feet or more in
length, which makes its way along as if it
were smartly handled by pigmy mariners,
every sort of boat is to be seen on this
miniature Southampton water. Artful
arrangements of tillers enable the larger
models to sail where they will, and even
assisted by cunning sticks on shore, to go
about when the land is too nearly made.
The latest fashions in sails may here be
seen. Fashionable square topsails,
spinnakers, balloon jibs, and what not; and, like
their larger sisters of the rivers and seas,
some of these little vessels carry a Mont
Blanc of canvas, to a Chamounix-châlet of
hull. As we watch the proprietors tenderly
setting the sails of their little craft, anxiously
adjusting the tillers, proudly launching their
humble Cambrias and Julias, or eagerly,
with long stick in hand, following their
course down the lake, it strikes us that this
is surely an innocent amusement, and one
not specially calculated to lead to an
immoderate consumption of strong drink.

Further on, and past Miss Burdett
Coutts's beautiful drinking fountain, which
appears highly popular, is an arid waste
and a stony. Here, swings and rond-
abouts are set up, somewhat—O name it
not in Finsbury!—after the manner of a
Fair, and giddiness is dispensed to those
who like it at so much a whirl. Business
is slack to-day, however.

If the half-holiday makers be not
discoverable in great numbers anywhere else,
there are plenty of them on the cricket-
ground, which is absolutely covered with
players. Balls fly about in a showery
manner terrifying to the nervous or
short-sighted spectator; and the cries of "Thank
you, sir!"  "Ball, please!" and the like,
would do honour to the Playing Fields at
Eton, or Parker's Piece at Cambridge, on a
busy day. Sixteen matches go on here
simultaneously, on Saturday afternoons:
regular matches, be it understood, without
reference to scratch games and desultory
practice. He must be a wise batsman in
Victoria Park who knows his own ball;
and, if he be so minded, a man fielding
may catch (irrespective of the immediate
interests of his side) as many balls as Ramo
Samee. As we make our way cautiously,
along a ridge or high ground that divides
this battle-field, we have just time to note
that the taste in flannel shirts and caps is
florid in this part of the world, combinations
of scarlet and light blue being most in