On this Monday afternoon in June the less fervid activities of the Wakes were proceeding as usual in the market-place, overshadowed by the Town Hall—­not the present stone structure with its gold angel, but a brick edifice built on an ashlar basement.  Hobby-horses and revolving swing-boats, propelled, with admirable economy to the proprietors, by privileged boys who took their pay in an occasional ride, competed successfully with the skeleton man, the fat or bearded woman, and Aunt Sally.  The long toy-tents, artfully roofed with a tinted cloth which permitted only a soft, mellow light to illuminate the wares displayed, were crowded with jostling youth and full of the sound of whistles, ‘squarkers,’ and various pipes; and multitudes surrounded the gingerbread, nut, and savoury stalls which lined both sides of the roadway as far as Duck Bank.  In front of the numerous boxing-booths experts of the ‘fancy,’ obviously out of condition, offered to fight all comers, and were not seldom well thrashed by impetuous champions of local fame.  There were no photographic studios and no cocoanut-shies, for these things had not been thought of; and to us moderns the fair, despite its uncontrolled exuberance of revelry, would have seemed strangely quiet, since neither steam-organ nor hooter nor hurdy-gurdy was there to overwhelm the ear with crashing waves of gigantic sound.  But if the special phenomena of a later day were missing from the carnival, others, as astonishing to us as the steam-organ would have been to those uncouth roisterers, were certainly present.  Chief, perhaps, among these was the man who retailed the elixir of youth, the veritable eau de jouvence, to credulous drinkers at sixpence a bottle.  This magician, whose dark mysterious face and glittering eyes indicated a strain of Romany blood, and whose accent proved that he had at any rate lived much in Yorkshire, had a small booth opposite the watch-house under the Town Hall.  On a banner suspended in front of it was painted the legend: 

    THE INCA OF PERU’S
    ELIXER OF YOUTH
    SOLD HERE. 
    ETERNAL YOUTH FOR ALL. 
    DRINK THIS AND YOU WILL NEVER GROW OLD
    AS SUPPLIED TO THE NOBILITY & GENTRY
    SIXPENCE PER BOT. 
    WALK IN, WALK IN, &
    CONSULT THE INCA OF PERU.

The Inca of Peru, dressed in black velveteens, with a brilliant scarf round his neck, stood at the door of his tent, holding an empty glass in one jewelled hand, and with the other twirling a long and silken moustache.  Handsome, graceful, and thoroughly inured to the public gaze, he fronted a small circle of gapers like an actor adroit to make the best of himself, and his tongue wagged fast enough to wag a man’s leg off.  At a casual glance he might have been taken for thirty, but his age was fifty and more—­if you could catch him in the morning before he had put the paint on.