Part 10

“But surely I need dwell no longer upon a subject with which you are so much better acquainted; and, indeed, the state of my health, and particularly of my eyes, is such as to render it impossible for me to write more.--I must therefore, however unwillingly, conclude by assuring you that I am, and ever shall be, my dearest Parsons, your most faithful and truly affectionate

“CHARLEMONT.”

In this year, James Barry, the painter of those mighty pictures on the walls of the great room of the Society of Arts, received a severe blow by having his name erased from those of the Royal Academicians by King George III., who believed what had been represented respecting the Professor’s conduct in the Royal Academy.[290]

“BUCKINGHAM STREET, FITZROY SQUARE.

“DEAR SIR,--Permit me to thank you for the satisfaction of having seen that curious monument of English antiquity, St. Stephen’s Chapel, Westminster, when the ancient architecture and painting were discovered by the removal of the modern wainscot, which formed the interior of the House of Commons.

“Notwithstanding this branch of antiquity has never been my particular pursuit, I am highly gratified to see such materials in the general history of art rescued from oblivion by publication, for which, Sir, we are indebted to your zeal and industry, as some of the interesting pictures were effaced soon after their discovery, by ignorant curiosity; in addition to the careless and ruinous manner in which the discovery itself was made, of which circumstances I complained to several persons on the spot, particularly to the Rev. Mr. Brand,[291] Secretary to the Antiquarian Society.

“As the best testimony I can give to the fidelity and ability of your publication, give me leave to subscribe my name for a copy of the work, and to offer such assistance as I can give, in general observations on the arts of design, when St. Stephen’s Chapel was in its splendour.

“I remain, dear Sir, with great regard, your much obliged

“JOHN FLAXMAN.”

The admission of one hundred additional members into the House of Commons, arising from the union with Ireland, obliged Mr. Wyatt to cut away the side-walls of the room internally, in order to make recesses for two extra benches.[292]

1801.

In the autumn of this year I passed a most agreeable day with the Hon. Hussey Delaval,[293] at his house near Parliament Stairs.[294] This learned and communicative gentleman, among whose works that on Colours is generally considered the most interesting, was as friendly to me, as the jealousy of that well-known odd compound of nature, my antagonist, John Carter,[295] who was of our party, would allow; for with that artist’s opinions as to Gothic architecture, Mr. Delaval so entirely coincided, that he employed him to provide the ornamental decorations of his house, which were mostly in putty mixed with sand, and in some instances cast from the decorations of several Gothic structures, particularly Westminster Abbey. This house was originally fire-proof, the floors being of stone or composition, and the window-sashes of cast iron, but since the death of Mr. Delaval, wood has been substituted for the sashes and other parts.

The apartments are ten in number, besides small offices. The lower rooms consist of two halls: in the north wall of the first are three pretty Gothic recesses for seats, for servants or persons in waiting; the second hall is filled with Gothic figures placed upon brackets under canopies. The chimney-piece and other parts of the dining-parlour looking over the Thames, are decorated in a similar manner; the kitchen is on the same floor towards the north. The staircase leading to the first-floor is a truly tasteful little specimen, not equalled by anything at Strawberry Hill, which, by reason of Mr. Bentley’s[296] fancy mouldings interfering so often with parts which are really chaste, must be considered a _mule_ building. The drawing-room and library also look over the water. On the same floor are two bed-chambers towards the west; above which are two attics, with a door opening upon the embattled leads over the drawing-room. Upon these leads we took our wine--attended by female servants only, as Mr. Delaval never would allow a man-servant to enter the house, but with messages--and here enjoyed the glowing, Cuyp-like effect of the sun upon west-country barges laden either with blocks of stone or fresh-cut timber, objects ever picturesque on the water. Mr. Delaval was so pleased with this scenery, and the pencil of my friend G. Arnald, Associate of the Royal Academy, that he bespoke two pictures of him, Views up and down the River, the figures in which, by the order of Mr. Delaval, were painted by his friend G. F. Joseph, A.R.A. They were exhibited at Somerset House.[297]

1802.

How often do we find peculiar attachments and propensities in the minds of persons of reported good understanding. Within my time, many men have indulged most ridiculously in their eccentricities. I have known one who had made a pretty large fortune in business, get up at four o’clock in the morning and walk the streets to pick up horseshoes which had been slipped in the course of the night, with no other motive than to see how many he could accumulate in a year. I also remember a rich soap-boiler who never missed an opportunity of pocketing nails, pieces of iron hoops, and bits of leather, in his daily walks; and these he would spread upon a large walnut-tree three-flapped dining-table, with a similar view to that of the above-mentioned gentleman. This wealthy citizen would often put on a red woollen cap, in shape like those worn by slaughter-house men, and a waggoner’s frock, in order to stoke his own furnace; after which, he would dress, get into his coach, and, attended by tall servants in bright blue liveries, drive to his villa, where his hungry friends were waiting his arrival.

The allusion to these peculiarities, which certainly are harmless, will serve by way of prelude to a more extraordinary one. The late Duke of Roxburgh,[298] whose wonderful library will ever be spoken of with the highest delight by bibliomaniacs, had an attachment to the portraits of malefactors as closely as Rowland Hill to his petted toad. I made many drawings of such characters for his Grace during their trials or confinement; that which I made this year, was of Governor Wall, whose trial produced much discussion.[299] Having been deprived of admission at the Old Bailey on the day of his trial, I went to the Duke, and he immediately wrote to a nobleman high in power, for an order to admit me to see the unfortunate criminal in the condemned cell, which application was firmly, and, in my humble opinion, very properly, refused. I walked home, where I found Isaac Solomon waiting to show me some of his improved black-lead pencils. Isaac, upon hearing me relate to my family the disappointment I had experienced, assured me that he could procure me a sight of the Governor, if I would only accompany him in the evening to Hatton Garden, and smoke a pipe with Dr. Forde, the Ordinary of Newgate,[300] with whom he said he was particularly intimate. Away we trudged; and, upon entering the club-room of a public-house, we found the said Doctor most pompously seated in a superb masonic chair, under a stately crimson canopy placed between the windows. The room was clouded with smoke, whiffed to the ceiling, which gave me a better idea of what I had heard of the Black Hole of Calcutta than any place I had seen. There were present at least a hundred associates of every denomination; of this number, my Jew, being a favoured man, was admitted to a whispering audience with the Doctor, which soon produced my introduction to him.

“Man’s life is all a mist, and in the dark our fortunes meet us.” Standing beneath a masonic lustre, the Doctor immediately recognised me as a friend of John Ireland, but more particularly of his older crony, Atkinson Bush; he requested me to take a pipe, to me a most detestable preliminary. He then whispered, “Meet me at the felon’s door at the break of day.” There I punctually applied, but, notwithstanding the order of the Doctor, I found it absolutely necessary, to protect myself from an increasing mob, to show the turnkey half-a-crown, who soon closed his hand and let me in. I was then introduced to a most diabolical-looking little wretch, denominated “the Yeoman of the Halter,” Jack Ketch’s head man. The Doctor soon arrived in his canonicals, and with his head as stiffly erect as a sheriff’s coachman when he is going to Court, with an enormous nosegay under his chin, gravely uttered, “Come this way, Mr. Smith.”

As we crossed the Press-yard a cock crew; and the solitary clanking of a restless chain was dreadfully horrible. The prisoners had not risen. Upon our entering a stone-cold room, a most sickly stench of green twigs, with which an old round-shouldered, goggle-eyed man was endeavouring to kindle a fire, annoyed me almost as much as the canaster fumigation of the Doctor’s Hatton Garden friends.

The prisoner entered. He was death’s counterfeit, tall, shrivelled, and pale; and his soul shot so piercingly through the port-holes of his head that the first glance of him nearly petrified me. I said in my heart, putting my pencil in my pocket, God forbid that I should disturb thy last moments! His hands were clasped, and he was truly penitent. After the Yeoman had requested him to stand up, “he pinioned him,” as the Newgate phrase is, and tied the cord with so little feeling, that the Governor, who had not given the wretch the accustomed fee, observed, “You have tied me very tight;” upon which Dr. Forde ordered him to slacken the cord, which he did, but not without muttering. “Thank you, Sir,” said the Governor to the Doctor, “it is of little moment.” He then observed to the attendant, who had brought in an immense iron shovelful of coals to throw on the fire, “Ay, in one hour that will be a blazing fire;” then, turning to the Doctor, questioned him: “Do tell me, Sir: I am informed I shall go down with great force; is it so?” After the construction and action of the machine had been explained, the Doctor questioned the Governor as to what kind of men he had at Goree. “Sir,” he answered, “they sent me the very riffraff.” The poor soul then joined the Doctor in prayer; and never did I witness more contrition at any condemned sermon than he then evinced.

The sheriff arrived, attended by his officers, to receive the prisoner from the keeper. A new hat was then partly flattened on his head; for, owing to its being too small in the crown, it stood many inches too high behind. As we were crossing the Press-yard, the dreadful execrations of some of the felons so shook his frame, that he observed, “the clock had struck;” and, quickening his pace, he soon arrived at the room where the sheriff was to give a receipt for his body, according to the usual custom. Owing, however, to some informality in the wording of this receipt, he was not brought out so soon as the multitude expected; and it was this delay which occasioned a partial exultation from those who betted as to a reprieve, and not from any pleasure in seeing him executed. For the honour of England, I may say we are not so revengeful as some of our Continental neighbours have been; as Mrs. Cosway[301] assured me that she was in the room with David, then esteemed the first painter in Paris, at the time that he and Robespierre were in power; and that when the Reporter, from the guillotine, came in to announce eighty as the number of persons executed that morning, David, in the greatest possible rage, exclaimed, “No more!”

After the execution, as soon as I was permitted to leave the prison, I found the Yeoman selling the rope with which the malefactor had been suspended, at a shilling an inch; and no sooner had I entered Newgate Street, than a lath of a fellow, past threescore years and ten, who had just arrived from the purlieus of Black Boy Alley,[302] woe-begone as _Romeo’s_ apothecary, exclaimed,--“Here’s the identical rope at sixpence an inch.” A group of tatterdemalions soon collected round him, most vehemently expressing their eagerness to possess bits of the cord. It was pretty obvious, however, that the real business of this agent was to induce the Epping butter-men to squeeze in with their canvas bags, which contained their morning receipts in Newgate market.[303] A little further on, at the north-east corner of Warwick Lane, stood “Rosy Emma,” exuberant in talk, and hissing-hot from Pie Corner,[304] where she had taken her morning dose of gin and bitters; and as she had not waited to make her toilet, was consequently a lump of heat.

“Now, my readers, I have been told, Love wounds by heat, and Death by cold; Of size she would a barrow fill, But more inclining to sit still.”

Possibly she might have been a descendant of Orator Henley, and I make no doubt at one time passionately admired by her Henry. I can safely declare, however, that her cheeks were purple, her nose of poppy-red or cochineal.

“The lady was pretty well in case, But then she’d humour in her face; Her skin was so bepimpled o’er, There was not room for any more.”

Her eyes reminded me of Sheridan’s remark on those of Dr. Arne, “Like two oysters on an oval plate of stewed beet-root.”[305] I regretted most exceedingly, while she was cutting her rope and twisting her mouth, that most of her once-famed ivories had absconded; but it gave me inexpressible delight to see that her lips were not at all chapped. If Emma’s lips had been ever so deeply cracked, she could not have benefited by my friend “Social Day” Coxe’s[306] Conservatoria, as it was not then sold.

Emma in her tender blossom, I understand, assisted her mother in selling rice-milk and furmety to the early frequenters of Honey Lane market; and in the days of her full bloom, new-milk whey in White Conduit Fields, and at the Elephant and Castle. She must have been, as to her outward charms, during her highest flattery, little inferior to the beautiful Emma Lyon;[307] but in her last stage, perhaps not altogether unlike the heroine so voluptuously portrayed by my late highly talented friend, the Rev. George Huddesford, in his poem entitled “The Barber’s Nuptials.”[308] Rosy Emma, for so she was still called, was the reputed spouse of the Yeoman of the Halter, and the cord she was selling as the identical noose was for her own benefit. This was, according to the delightful writer, Charles Lamb,

“For honest ends, a most dishonest seeming.”[309]

Now, as fame and beauty ever carry influence, Emma’s sale was rapid; had she been as lamentable as a Lincolnshire goose after plucking-time, “Misery’s Darling,” or like Alecto when at the entrance of Pandemonium, she would have had a sorry sale.[310] This money-trapping trick, steady John, the waiter at the Chapter Coffee-house, assured me was invariably put in practice whenever superior persons or notorious culprits had been executed. Then to breakfast, but with little or no appetite; however, after selecting one of Isaac Solomon’s H.B.’s, I made a whole-length portrait of the late Governor by recollection, which Dr. Buchan, the flying physician of the “Chapter”[311] frequenters, and several of the Pater-Noster vendors of his _Domestic Medicine_, considered a likeness; at all events, it was admitted into the portfolio of the Duke, with the following acknowledgment written on the back: “Drawn by memory.”

1803.

About this time, in order to see human nature off her guard, I agreed with a good-tempered friend of mine, one of Richard Wilson’s scholars, to perambulate Bartholomew Fair, which we did in the evening, after taking pretty good care to leave our watches at home. Our first visit was to a show of wild beasts, where, upon paying an additional penny, we saw the menagerie-feeder place his head within a lion’s mouth.

Our attention was then arrested by an immense baboon, called _General Jacko_, who was distributing his signatures as fast as he could dip his pen in the ink, to those who enabled him to fill his enormous craw with plums, raisins, and figs. The next object which attracted our notice was a magnificent man, standing, as we were told, six feet six inches and a half, independent of the heels of his shoes. The gorgeous splendour of his Oriental dress was rendered more conspicuous by an immense plume of white feathers, which were like the noddings of an undertaker’s horse, increased in their wavy and graceful motion by the movements of the wearer’s head.

As this extraordinary man was to perform some wonderful feats of strength, we joined the motley throng of spectators at the charge of “only threepence each,” that being vociferated by Flockton’s[312] successor as the price of the evening admittance.

After he had gone through his various exhibitions of holding great weights at arm’s-length, etc., the all-bespangled master of the show stepped forward, and stated to the audience that if any four or five of the present company would give, by way of encouraging the “Young Hercules,” _alias_ the “Patagonian Samson,” sixpence apiece, he would carry them all together round the booth, in the form of a pyramid.

With this proposition my companion and myself closed; and after two other persons had advanced, the fine fellow threw off his velvet cap surmounted by its princely crest, stripped himself of his other gewgaws, and walked most majestically, in a flesh-coloured elastic dress, to the centre of the amphitheatre, when four chairs were placed round him, by which my friend and I ascended, and, after throwing our legs across his lusty shoulders, were further requested to embrace each other, which we no sooner did, cheek-by-jowl, than a tall skeleton of a man, instead of standing upon a small wooden ledge fastened to Samson’s girdle, in an instant leaped on his back, with the agility of a boy who pitches himself upon a post too high to clear, and threw a leg over each of our shoulders; as for the other chap (for we could only muster four), the Patagonian took him up in his arms. Then, after _Mr. Merryman_ had removed the chairs, as he had not his full complement, Samson performed his task with an ease of step most stately, without either the beat of a drum, or the waving of a flag.

I have often thought that if George Cruikshank, or my older friend Rowlandson, had been present at this scene of a pyramid burlesqued, their playful pencils would have been in running motion, and I should have been considerably out-distanced had I then offered the following additional description of our clustered appearance. Picture to yourself, reader, two cheesemonger, ruddy-looking men, like my friend and myself, as the sidesmen of Hercules, and the tall, vegetable-eating scarecrow kind of fellow, who made but one leap to grasp us like the bird-killing spider, and then our fourth loving associate, the heavy dumpling in front, whose chaps, I will answer for it, relished many an inch thick steak from the once far-famed Honey Lane market,[313] all supported with the greatest ease by this envied and caressed _Pride_ of the _Fair_, to whose powers the frequenters of Sadler’s Wells also bore many a testimony.

In the year 1804, Antonio Benedictus Van Assen engraved a whole-length portrait of this Patagonian Samson, at the foot of which his name was thus announced, “_Giovanni Baptista Belzoni_.” This animated production was executed at the expense of the friendly Mr. James Parry, the justly celebrated gem and seal engraver, of Wells Street, Oxford Street.

After the close of Bartholomew Fair, this Patagonian was seen at that of Edmonton, exhibiting in a field behind the Bell Inn, immortalised by Cowper in his “Johnny Gilpin;” and I have been assured that, so late as 1810, at Edinburgh, he was, during his exhibition in Valentine and Orson, soundly hissed for not handling his friend the bear, at the time of her death, in an affectionate manner. Several years rolled on, and he was nearly forgotten in England, until the year 1820, and then many people recognised in the Egyptian traveller Belzoni the person who had figured away at fairs, as I have stated. The following anecdotes, in private circulation, of this extraordinary man may not be considered wholly uninteresting.

He was a native of Padua, and educated in order to become a profound monk; but, during the frenzy of war, being noticed by the French army, in consequence of his commanding figure, to be admirably well calculated for a fugleman, prudently avoided seizure for so deadly a service, by getting together what few things time would permit him, and so left Rome. I should have stated to the reader that, upon his arrival in London in the year 1803, he walked into Smithfield during Bartholomew Fair time, where he was seen by the master of a show, who, it is said, thus questioned his _Merry Andrew_:--“Do you see that tall-looking fellow in the midst of the crowd? he is looking about him over the heads of the people as if he walked upon stilts; go and see if he’s worth our money, and ask him if he wants a job.” Away scrambled Mr. _Merryman_ down the monkey’s post, and, “as quick as lightning,” conducted the stranger to his master, who, being satisfied of his personal attractions, immediately engaged, plumed, painted, and put him up.

The reader will readily conceive that a man like Belzoni, seriously educated for the duties of the Church, and accustomed to associate with people of good manners, could with no little reluctance endure the vulgar society his pecuniary circumstances alone compelled him to associate with. However, after the expiration of nine years, in the course of which time he had married and saved money, he and his wife were enabled to visit Portugal, Spain, and Malta, from which place they embarked for Egypt. Fortunately for Belzoni, the wife he had chosen more than equally shared his numerous dangers, by spiritedly joining in all his enterprises, which some of my readers will recollect are most delightfully described by herself in what she styles “A Trifling Account,” printed at the end of her husband’s _Travels in Egypt, Nubia_, etc.[314]

As most of my readers have perused this work, I shall only state that, shortly after the arrival of Belzoni and his wife in England, my friend Dr. Richardson,[315] the traveller, who had been kind to them in every possible way when in Egypt, introduced me to them when they lodged in Downing Street, Westminster. Here I not only had great pleasure in seeing my steady supporter again, but enjoyed most pleasantly the conversation I had with his enterprising partner, whose sensible and intrepid cast of features well accorded with her artless, unsophisticated, and interesting “Trifling Account,” to which I have alluded.