Part 2

In 1816 he succeeded William Alexander as Keeper of the Prints, and it is probable that he soon afterwards took up his residence at No. 22 University Street.[1] He was living here in 1828, when he published, through Henry Colburn, of New Burlington Street, “_Nollekens and his Times_: comprehending a Life of that celebrated Sculptor; and Memoirs of Several Contemporary Artists, from the time of Roubiliac, Hogarth, and Reynolds, to that of Fuseli, Flaxman, and Blake.” This, his most ambitious work, must be noticed more particularly because of its bearing on Smith’s life and character. Mr. Gosse, who has edited it, with the addition of a graceful essay on Georgian Sculpture, describes it as “perhaps the most candid biography ever published in the English language.” In its pages Smith exposes the domestic privacies and miserly habits of the sculptor and his wife. There are pages of sordid gossip which a dismissed charwoman might probably have found unacceptable to her cronies and supporters. Yet the book cannot be described as venomous. It is cheerily and unscrupulously candid, and this even in the matter of the author’s own disappointment. Nollekens, he assures us, had again and again given him reason to believe that he would be handsomely remembered in his will. “That you may depend upon, Tom,” were his words. It is easy to see that Smith may have come to expect this as the bright event of his later years. His Museum appointment had lifted him out of drudgery, and the promised legacy may have presented itself to him as the final deliverance from care. Nollekens had been kind to him as a boy, and had remained his friend through life. He was a widower, childless, and enormously rich. No artist had known better how to make art profitable. His purchases of antiques in Rome had been most prudent; so, also, his investments. As a sculptor of portrait busts he stood alone, and in his long working life he had “chopped out” the heads of many hundreds of wealthy and illustrious persons. When he died in April 1823, no one was surprised that his estate was declared to be of the value of £300,000. But very little of it went to “Tom,” who, to his intense chagrin, received a bare hundred pounds as one of the three executors.

Five years later, Smith brought out his hit-back biography. Its general veracity cannot be doubted. It is a veracity sharpened, not deflected, by malice. But it is clear that Smith found other satisfactions in writing the book than that of exposing the weaknesses of his old friend. He enjoyed the long and minute chronicle of life in Mortimer Street and in the studios and galleries he had frequented. Nollekens comes and goes in a world of gossip about London, art, and people. True, at any moment a mischievous gust may blow aside the veils to show us Mrs. Nollekens, in second-hand finery, beating down the price of a new broom or a chicken with cunning affability, or the sculptor pocketing nutmegs at the Royal Academy dinners to be added to the Mortimer Street larder. If you protest against these and worse freedoms, you are grateful for the hundred little touches of locality and custom that accompany them. The daily life of the eighteenth century is before you: the parlour, the street, the print shop.

Of Smith’s reign in the Print Room not much can be gathered. He was much liked and respected by those who consulted him in his department. We are told that he was kind to young artists of promise, and gently candid to those of no promise. His recollections and anecdotes were the delight of his visitors, one of whom has left us a racy specimen of his flow of humour and gossip. I refer to the following passage of Boswellian reminiscence, appended to the second and third edition, of the RAINY DAY.

“His two old friends, Mr. Packer, who had been a partner in Combe’s brewery, and Colonel Phillips, who had accompanied Captain Cooke in one of his voyages round the world, were constant attendants in the Print Room, and contributed towards the general amusement. Of the former of these gentlemen, who died in 1828, at the advanced age of ninety, Mr. Smith used to tell a remarkable story, which we are rather surprised not to find recorded in his Reminiscences. It was our fortune to be the first to communicate to Mr. Smith the fact of his old friend’s decease, and that he had bequeathed to him a legacy of £100. ‘Ah, Sir!’ he said, in a very solemn manner, after a long pause, ‘poor fellow, he pined to death on account of a rash promise of marriage he had made.’ We humbly ventured to express our doubts, having seen him not long before looking not only very un-Romeo like, but very hale and hearty; and besides, we begged to suggest that other reasons might be given for the decease of a respectable gentleman of ninety. ‘No, Sir,’ said Mr. Smith; ‘what I tell you is the fact, and _sit ye down, and I’ll tell ye the whole story_. Many years ago, when Mr. Packer was a young man employed in the brew-house in which he afterwards became a partner, he courted, and promised marriage to, a worthy young woman in his own sphere of life. But, as his circumstances improved, he raised his ideas, and, not to make a long story of it, married another woman with a good deal of money. The injured fair one was indignant, but, as she had no written promise to show, was, after some violent scenes, obliged to put up with a verbal assurance that she should be the next Mrs. Packer. After a few years the first Mrs. P. died, and she then claimed the fulfilment of his promise, but was again deceived in the same way, and obliged to put up with a similar pledge. A _second_ time he became a widower, and a _third_ time he deceived his unfortunate _first_ love, who, indignant and furious beyond measure, threatened all sorts of violent proceedings. To pacify her, Mr. P. gave her a written promise that, if a widower, he would marry her when he attained the age of one hundred years! Now he had lost his last wife some time since, and every time he came to see me at the Museum, he fretted and fumed because he should be obliged to marry that awful woman at last. This could not go on long, and, as you tell me, he has just dropped off. If it hadn’t been for this, he would have lived as long as Old Parr. And now,’ finished Mr. Smith, with the utmost solemnity, ‘let this be a warning to you. Don’t make rash promises to women; but if you will do so, _don’t make them in writing_.’”

Had John Thomas Smith been granted the scriptural span of life, he might have read the _Pickwick Papers_. But the implacable call came in March 1833, and he left various enterprises unfinished. He had collected the materials for a gossipping history of Covent Garden; these have never been edited. The well-known _Antiquarian Rambles in the Streets of London_, published in 1846, originated in Smith’s notes, but four-fifths of the book was certainly written by its editor, Dr. Charles Mackay.

The book from which Smith has his sobriquet was published in 1845. _A Book for a Rainy Day_ places its author in that line of London’s watchful lovers which began with John Stow and has not ended with Sir Walter Besant. Now, when London’s streets are changing as they have not changed since the Great Fire, he lies in that bare field of the dead behind the Bayswater Road, where, on the grave of a greater writer, you read the words, “Alas! poor Yorick.”

W. W.

A BOOK FOR A RAINY DAY

The Reader is requested to keep in mind that those events which I relate of myself when “mewling in my nurse’s arms,” and until my fourth year, were communicated to me by my parents, and that my statements from that period are mostly from my own memory;--Miranda proved to Prospero that she recollected an event in her fourth year.

1766.

My father informed me, that in the evening of the 23rd of June 1766, which must have been much about the time when Marylebone Gardens echoed the melodious notes of Tommy Lowe,[2] and whilst there was _The Devil to Pay_ at Richmond with Mr. and Mrs. Love,[3] my mother, on returning from a visit to her brother, Mr. Edward Tarr,[4] became so seriously indisposed, that she most strenuously requested him to allow her to return home in a hackney coach, whilst he went to Jermyn Street for Dr. Hunter.[5] Upon that gentleman’s arrival at my father’s door, No. 7, in Great Portland Street,[6] Marylebone, he assisted the nurse in conveying my mother and myself to her chamber. Although I dare not presume to suppose that the vehicle in which I was born had been the equipage of the great John Duke of Marlborough, or Sarah his Duchess, at all events I probably may be correct in the conjecture that the hack was in some degree similar to those introduced by Kip, in his Plates for Strype’s edition of Stowe.[7]

Hackney chairs were then so numerous, that their stands extended round Covent Garden, and often down the adjacent streets;[8] these vehicles frequently enabled physicians to approach their patients in a warm state. The forms of those to which I allude are also given in Kip’s prints above mentioned; and who knows but that they, in their turn, have conveyed Voltaire from the theatre to his lodging in Maiden Lane?[9]

That sedans were of ancient use I make no doubt, as I find one introduced in Sir George Staunton’s Embassy to China.[10] Pliny has stated that his uncle was much accustomed to be carried abroad in a chair.[11] My parents, after a fireside debate, agreed that I should have two Christian names: John, after my grandfather, a Shropshire clothier, whose bust, modelled by my father, was one of the first publicly exhibited by the Associated Artists in 1763, before the establishment of the Royal Academy;[12] and Thomas, to the honour of our family, in remembrance of my great-uncle, Admiral Smith, better known under the appellation of “Tom of Ten Thousand,”[13] of whom I have a spirited half-length portrait, painted by the celebrated Richard Wilson, the landscape painter, previous to his visiting Rome, when he resided in the apartments on the north side of Covent Garden, which had been occupied first by Sir Peter Lely, and afterwards by Sir Godfrey Kneller.[14] From this picture there is an excellent engraving in mezzotinto, by Faber.

I have heard my mother relate, that when at Greenwich this year for the benefit of her health, an aged pie and cheesecake woman lived there, who was accompanied through the town by a goose, who regularly stopped at her customer’s door, and commenced a loud cackling; but that whenever the words “Not to-day” were uttered, off it waddled to the next house, and so on till the business of the day was ended. My mother also remarked, that when ladies walked out, they carried nosegays in their hands, and wore three immense lace ruffle cuffs on each elbow.[15]

In the month of March, this year, died Mary Mogg, at Oakingham, the woman who gave rise to Gay’s celebrated ballad of “Molly Mogg.”[16]

In all ages there has been a fashion in amusements, as well as in dress: grottoes, which were numerous round London, appear by the advertisements to have been places of great resort, but above all Finch’s, in St. George’s Fields, was the favourite. The following is a copy of one of the musical announcements:--

“6th of May, 1766.

“MR. HOUGHTON AND MR. MITCHELL’S NIGHT.

“AT FINCH’S GROTTO Garden, This Day, will be performed a Concert of VOCAL and INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC. SINGING as usual.

“N.B. For that Night only, the Band will be enlarged. Tickets to be had at the Bar of the Gardens. Admittance One Shilling.”[17]

1767.

Being frequently thrown into my cradle by the servant, as a cross little brat, the care of my tender mother induced her to purchase one of Mr. Burchell’s anodyne necklaces, so strongly recommended by two eminent physicians, Dr. Tanner, the inventor, and Dr. Chamberlen, to whom he had communicated the prescription; and it was agreed by most of my mother’s gossiping friends, that the effluvia arising from it when warm acted in so friendly a manner, that my fevered gums were considerably relieved.[18]

Go-carts, the old appendages of our nurseries, continuing in use, I was occasionally placed in one; and as its advantages have been noticed in my work entitled _Nollekens and his Times_, I shall now only refer the reader for its form to Number 186 of “Rembrandt’s Etchings;”[19] that being similar, as my father informed me, to those used in London in my infantine days.[20]

The cradle having of late years been in a great degree superseded by what is called a cot,[21] and its shape not being remarkable, I shall for a moment beg leave to deal in a foreign market, in order to gratify the indefatigable organ of inquisitiveness of some of my readers, who may wish to know in what sort of cradle Stratford’s sweet Willy slumbered. Possibly it might in some respects have accorded with the representation of one in a small plate by Israel Von Meckenen,[22] and this conjecture is not improbable, as that plate was engraved about the sixteenth century; and it is well known that in most articles of furniture, as well as dress, we had long borrowed from our continental neighbours, whether good, bad, or indifferent. It gives me great pleasure to observe that, owing to the vast improvements made by our draughtsmen for English upholsterers, in every article of domestic decorative furniture, England has now little occasion to borrow from other nations.

Nancy Dawson, the famous hornpipe dancer, died this year, May 27th, at Hampstead; she was buried behind the Foundling Hospital, in the ground belonging to St. George the Martyr, where there is a tombstone to her memory, simply stating, “Here lies Nancy Dawson.” Every verse of a song in praise of her, declares the poet to be dying for Nancy Dawson; and its tune, which many of my readers must recollect, is, in my opinion, as lively as that of “Sir Roger de Coverley.” I have been informed that Nancy, when a girl, set up the skittles at a tavern in High Street, Marylebone.[23] Sir William Musgrave, in his _Adversaria_ (No. 5719), in the British Museum, says that “Nancy Dawson was the wife of a publican near Kelso, on the borders of Scotland.”[24]

1768.

At the age when most children place things on their heads and cry “Hot pies!” I displayed a black pudding upon mine, which my mother, careful soul, had provided for its protection in case I should fall. This is another article mentioned in _Nollekens and his Times_; and having there stated that Rubens, in a picture at Blenheim, had painted one on the head of a son of his, walking with his wife Elenor,[25] and as the mothers of future days may wish to know its shape, I beg to inform them that there is an engraving of it by MacArdell. But as the receipt for a pet pudding would be of little use to the maker were one ingredient omitted, it would be equally difficult to produce a similar black pudding to mine, were I not to state that it was made of a long narrow piece of black silk or satin, padded with wadding, and then formed to the head according to the taste of the parent, or similar to that of little Rubens.[26]

In this year the Royal Academy was founded, consisting of members who had agreed to withdraw themselves from various clubs, not only in order to be more select as to talent, but perfectly correct as to gentlemanly conduct. It would have been a valuable acquisition to the History of the Fine Arts in England, had Mr. Howard favoured us with the Rise and Progress of the Royal Academy.[27]

Perhaps no one could have been more talked of than Mr. Wilkes, particularly on May 10th, when a riot took place on account of his imprisonment.[28] His popularity was carried to so great an extent, that his friends in all classes displayed some article on which his effigy was portrayed, such as salad or punch bowls, ale or milk jugs, plate, dishes, and even heads of canes. The squib engravings of him, published from the commencement of his notoriety to his silent state when Chamberlain of London, would extend to several volumes. Hogarth’s portrait of him, which by the collectors was considered a caricature, my father recommended as the best likeness.

The following memoranda respecting Henry Fuseli, R.A., are extracted from the Mitchell Manuscripts in the British Museum. The letter is from Mr. Murdock, of Hampstead, to a friend at Berlin, dated Hampstead, 12th June 1764:--

“I like Fuseli very much; he comes out to see us at times, and is just now gone from this with your letter to A. Ramsay, and another from me. He is of himself disposed to all possible economy; but to be decently lodged and fed, in a decent family, cannot be for less than three shillings a day, which he pays. He might, according to Miller’s wish, live a little cheaper; but then he must have been lodged in some garret, where nobody could have found their way, and must have been thrown into ale-houses and eating-houses, with company every way unsuitable, or, indeed, insupportable to a stranger of any taste; especially as the common people are of late brutalised.

“Some time hence, I hope, he may do something for himself; his talent at grouping figures, and his faculty of execution, being really surprising.”

In the same volume, in a letter dated Hampstead, 12th Jan. 1768, the same writer says to the same friend--

“Fuseli goes to Italy next spring, by the advice of Reynolds (our Apelles), who has a high opinion of his genius, and sees what is wanting to make him a first-rate.”[29]

In another, dated Hampstead, 13th December 1768: “Fuseli is still here; but proposes to set out for Italy as soon as his friends can secure to him fifty pounds yearly, for a few years. Dr. Armstrong,[30] who admires his genius, has taxed himself at ten pounds, and has taken us in for as much more; and indeed it were shameful that such talents should be sunk for want of a little pecuniary aid.”

The ladies this year wore half a flat hat as an eye-shade.

1769.

Lord North, in a letter addressed to Sir Eardley Wilmot from Downing Street, bearing date this year, April 1st, says--

“My friend Colonel Luttrell having informed me that many persons depending upon the Court of Common Pleas are freeholders of Middlesex, etc., not having the honour of being acquainted with you himself, desires me to apply to you for your interest with your friends in his behalf. It is manifest how much it is for the honour of Parliament, and the quiet of this country in future times, that Mr. Wilkes should have an antagonist at the next Brentford election; and that his antagonist should meet with a respectable support. The state of the country has been examined, and there is the greatest reason to believe that the Colonel will have a very considerable show of legal votes, nay, even a majority, if his friends are not deterred from appearing at the poll. It is the game of Mr. Wilkes and his friends to increase those alarms, but they cannot frighten the _candidate_ from his purpose; and I am very confident that the voters will run no risk. I hope, therefore, you will excuse this application. There is nothing, I imagine, that every true friend of this country must wish more than to see Mr. Wilkes disappointed in his projects; and nothing, I am convinced, will defeat them more effectually, than to fill up the vacant seat for Middlesex, especially if it can be done for a fair majority of legal votes.

“I am, Sir, with the greatest truth and respect, your most faithful, humble servant,

“NORTH.”

The Judge, in his answer, dated on the following day, observed, “It would be highly improper for me to interfere in any shape in that election.” (See the Wilmot Letters, in the British Museum.)[31]

This year ladies continued to walk with fans in their hands.

1770.

Most of the citizens who had saved money were very fond of retiring to some country-house, at a short distance from the Metropolis, and more particularly to Islington, that being a selected and favourite spot. Charles Bretherton, Jun., made an etching, from a drawing by Mr. Bunbury,[32] of a Londoner, of the above description, whose waistcoat-pockets were large enough to convey a couple of fowls from a City feast home to his family. The print is entitled, “The Delights of Islington,” and bears the following inscription at the top:--

WHEREAS my new Pagoda has been clandestinely carried off, and a new pair of Dolphins taken from the top of the Gazebo, by some Bloodthirsty Villains; and whereas a great deal timber has been cut down and carried away from the Old Grove, that was planted last Spring, and Pluto and Proserpine thrown into my Basin: from henceforth, Steel Traps and spring guns will be constantly set for the better extirpation of such a nest of villains,

By me, JEREMIAH SAGO.

On a garden notice-board, in another print, also after Bunbury, published at the same time, is inscribed,

THE NEW PARADISE.

No Gentlemen or Ladies to be admitted with nails in their shoes.[33]

For the information of the collectors of Bunbury’s prints, I beg to state that there is in Mrs. Banks’s collection of visiting cards, etc., in the British Museum, a small etching said to have been his very first attempt when at Westminster School. It represents a fellow riding a hog, brandishing a birch-broom by way of a baster, with another at a short distance, hallooing.

As Mr. Walpole is silent as to Jonathan Richardson’s place of interment, the biographical collector will find the following inscription in the burial-ground behind the Foundling Hospital, belonging to the parish of St. George the Martyr:--

Elizabeth Richardson, Died 24th Dec. 1767, Aged 74 years. Jonathan Richardson, Died 10th June, 1771, Aged 77; both of this parish.[34]

1771.

The gaiety during the merry month of May was to me most delightful; my feet, though I knew nothing of the positions, kept pace with those of the blooming milkmaids, who danced round their garlands of massive plate, hired from the silversmiths to the amount of several hundreds of pounds, for the purpose of placing round an obelisk, covered with silk fixed upon a chairman’s horse. The most showy flowers of the season were arranged so as to fill up the openings between the dishes, plates, butter-boats, cream-jugs, and tankards. This obelisk was carried by two chairmen in gold-laced hats, six or more handsome milkmaids in pink and blue gowns, drawn through the pocket-holes, for they had one on either side: yellow or scarlet petticoats, neatly quilted, high-heeled shoes, mob-caps, with lappets of lace resting on their shoulders; nosegays in their bosoms, and flat Woffington hats, covered with ribbons of every colour. But what crowned the whole of the display was a magnificent silver tea-urn which surmounted the obelisk, the stand of which was profusely decorated with scarlet tulips. A smart, slender fellow of a fiddler, commonly wearing a sky-blue coat, with his hat profusely covered with ribbons, attended; and the master of the group was accompanied by a constable, to protect the plate from too close a pressure of the crowd, when the maids danced before the doors of his customers.[35]