four o’clock in the morning
If the Parks be ` the lungs of London , ' we wonder what Greenwich Fair is -- a periodical breaking out , we suppose , a sort of spring-rash : a three days ' fever , which cools the blood for six months afterwards , and at the expiration of which London is restored to its old habits of plodding industry , as suddenly and completely as if nothing had ever happened to disturb them . In our earlier days , we were a constant frequenter of Greenwich Fair , for years . We have proceeded to , and returned from it , in almost every description of vehicle . We can not conscientiously deny the charge of having once made the passage in a spring-van , accompanied by thirteen gentlemen , fourteen ladies , an unlimited number of children , and a barrel of beer ; and we have a vague recollection of having , in later days , found ourself the eighth outside , on the top of a hackney-coach , at something past four o'clock in the morning , with a rather confused idea of our own name , or place of residence . We have grown older since then , and quiet , and steady : liking nothing better than to spend our Easter , and all our other holidays , in some quiet nook , with people of whom we shall never tire ; but we think we still remember something of Greenwich Fair , and of those who resort to it . At all events we will try . The road to Greenwich during the whole of Easter Monday , is in a state of perpetual bustle and noise .