Part 13

The broad-shouldered poet of the 'Rosciad' and the 'Apology,' it may be added, was himself one of the constant frequenters of the garden, where he was wont to appear, not in clerical black, as in the pit of Drury Lane, but resplendent in a blue coat, white silk stockings, silver shoe-buckles, and a gold-laced hat.

The 'native notes' of the orchestra, however, could only be comfortably enjoyed in fine weather. When it rained,--and the eighteenth century had no immunity in this respect,--the company, like Mr. Bramble, took shelter in the Rotunda. This was a large circular saloon, entered through a colonnade to the left of the Grand Walk. It was freely furnished with busts, mirrors, sconces, and the like. But its chief glory was its roof, known popularly as 'the Umbrella,' and specially constructed for musical purposes. Profusely ornamented with gilding and festoons, it seems to have presented something of the appearance of a large fluted shell. When the 'new music room,' as it was at first called, was erected, the organ and orchestra it contained fronted the entrance through the colonnade in the Grove. By-and-by these were moved to the left, so as to face a new room which was added to the Rotunda, and ran forward into the garden at the back of the colonnade, parallel to the Grove. This room, supported by elaborate columns, and lighted from two cupolas painted with gods and goddesses, must have added materially to the attractions of the Rotunda, when entered through it. In course of time, the spaces between the side columns were filled with large pictures representing national subjects, from the brush of Hogarth's friend, the history painter, Frank Hayman. In one, Britannia distributed laurels to Lord Granby and other distinguished officers; in another, Clive received the homage of the Nabob; in the third, Neptune rejoiced over Hawke's victory of 1759. But the best known, and the first finished of the group--it was exhibited in 1761--was the surrender of Montreal to Amherst. Whether copies of these still exist we know not; but, to judge from its effect upon Pastor Moritz, this last, at all events, must have had its merits.*

* See the preceding paper, 'A German in England.'

'Among the paintings,' he says, 'one represents the surrender of a besieged city. If you look at this painting with attention for any length of time, it affects you so much that you even shed tears. The expression of the greatest distress, even bordering on despair, on the part of the besieged, the fearful expectation of the uncertain issue, and what the victor will determine concerning those unfortunate people, may all be read so plainly and so naturally in the countenances of the inhabitants who are imploring for mercy, from the hoary head to the suckling whom his mother holds up, that you quite forget yourself, and in the end scarcely believe it to be a painting before you.'

The new room was entered through a Gothic portal or temple, which contained portraits of George the Third and Queen Charlotte, and also formed the starting-point of a semicircular piazza or colonnade that swept round to a similar terminal temple at the end of the arc. Between these two, in the middle of the semicircle, was a higher central structure denominated in old prints the Temple of Cornus. This is said, rather vaguely, to have been 'embellished with rays,' and had above it a large star or sun, which, from the description, would seem to have been illuminated at night. Inside, it was painted with a composition 'in the Chinese taste' representing Vulcan catching Mars and Venus in the historical net, the painter being named (not inappropriately) Risquet. The two pavilions or alcoves immediately adjoining also contained pictures. To the right a lady and gentleman were shown entering Vauxhall; to the left was a presumably emblematic design of 'Friendship on the grass, drinking.' Other boxes fitted for the accommodation of supper-parties, but having no pictorial decorations, extended on either side of the Temple of Cornus.

Of the terminal temples, one, as already stated, served as the porch to the new room; its fellow at the farther end ultimately formed the entrance to a famous and popular entertainment referred to in a former paper, * and known indifferently as the 'Waterworks' or the 'Cascade.'

* See ante,--'The Citizen of the World,' p. 161.

Some of the earlier references to this, or to its earliest form, are more or less contemptuous, as the 'World,' the 'Connoisseur,' and the 'Gray's Inn Journal' all speak of it slightingly as the 'Tin Cascade.' But, as time went on, it must have been greatly improved. Here is Moritz's description of it in 1782: 'Lateish in the evening [i.e. about nine o'clock], we were entertained with a sight, that is indeed singularly curious and interesting. In a particular part of the garden, a curtain was drawn up, and by means of some mechanism, of extraordinary ingenuity, the eye and the ear are so completely deceived, that it is not easy to persuade one's-self it is a deception; and that one does not actually see and hear a natural waterfall from an high rock.' The next sentence adds a characteristic detail: 'As every one was flocking to this scene in crowds, there arose all at once, a loud cry of "Take care of your pockets." This informed us, but too clearly, that there were some pick-pockets among the crowd, who had already made some fortunate strokes.' Ten years later still, many other details and effects must have been added, since the descriptions speak of representations of trees blown by the wind, of thatches torn off, of wagons and troops of soldiers crossing bridges, etc. By this time, in fact, it was a monster 'moving picture,' of the kind which Pinchbeck and Fawkes were in the habit of exhibiting at Bartholomew Fair. But in Goldsmith's day it was still in the elementary stage described by Sylvanus Urban in August, 1765, that is to say, it exhibited 'a beautiful landscape in perspective, with a miller's house, a water-mill, and a cascade.' At the proper moment this last presented the exact appearance of water flowing down a declivity, rising up in a foam at the bottom, and then gliding away.

Beyond the terminal temple which served as the approach to the water-works a sweep of pavilions led back to the Grand Walk. In the last of these was a picture of Gay's 'Black-Eyed Susan,' taken apparently at that affecting moment when, returning to shore from her faithful William, she 'waved her lily hand.' A little higher the Grand Walk was intersected at right angles by the Grand Cross Walk, which, as already stated, traversed the gardens. To the right this was terminated by the Druid's Walk and a statue of Apollo; to the left, by one of the 'favourite illusions of the place, a large painting representing ruins and running water. In this part of the garden, as far as it is possible to make it out from the descriptions, extending on the left towards the bottom, were, on one side, a Wilderness, on the other Rural Downs 'with several little eminences... after the manner of a Roman camp.' These were 'covered with turf, and pleasingly interspersed with cypress, fir, yew, cedar, and tulip trees.' On one of these heights, the attentive spectator soon discovered, like Pastor Moritz, the statue (in lead) of Milton which the guide-books attribute to Roubiliac. At night this statue was lighted with lamps. From the downs, say the old guide-books, you had a good view of Lambeth, Westminster, and St. Paul's. It was in this part of the garden also, from some of the bushes of the Roman camp, that proceeded the subterranean entertainment known as the 'Fairy Music.' But this 'lodging on the eold ground,'--to quote the old Caroline song,--was found 'prejudicial to the instruments,' probably also to the instrumentalists, and it was eventually discontinued.

If, turning your back upon the picture of ruins and running water, you followed the Cross Walk behind the pavilions which formed the north side of the Grove, you came upon the South Walk, which ran parallel to the Grand Walk. The speciality of this promenade was its 'three splendid triumphal arches.' The vista through these arches was, at first, closed by a pictorial representation of the Ruins of Palmyra. But the simulated ruins themselves grew ruinous, and finally made way for 'a noble view of architecture designed by Sand by [no doubt the brother of Hogarth's opponent], and painted by Mortimer.' At night the same painter's work was exhibited in the form of an illuminated transparency. Where the South Walk ran parallel to the right side of the Grove was a further range of pavilions, part of which formed a semicircle shaded in front by lofty trees. In the centre of this semicircle stood, for some time, the cynosure of Vauxhall, L. F. Roubiliac's statue of Handel, rather less than life-size, in the character of Orpheus playing on his lyre. It was, however, frequently moved; and its different positions are a source of considerable mystification to the student of the old prints of the place. In 1774, according to Smith's 'Nollekens,' it had its habitat 'under an inclosed lofty arch, surmounted by a figure [of Saint Cecilia] playing the violoncello, attended by two boys; and it was then screened from the weather by a curtain, which was drawn up when the visitors arrived.' In Canaletto's view of six years later it is disporting itself in the open, as above described; but after the new Gothic orchestra was erected, it seems to have returned to its original retreat, and later still had found an asylum in a new supper-room which was added to the Rotunda. Rartolozzi is credited with a fine engraving of this statue, which was reputed to be the first original work Roubiliac carved in England. It did not always remain at Vauxhall, and ultimately passed into the keeping of the descendants of the proprietor of the garden, where, at present, we need no further follow its fortunes. *

* For some supplementary particulars respecting this statue, see 'Eighteenth Century Vignettes,' 2nd series, 1894, pp. 53-4.

As already stated, each of the four sides of the quadrangle which enclosed the Grove was occupied by pavilions, alcoves, or booths fitted up for the accommodation of supper-parties. These were of varying importance, since we are expressly informed, in 'The Citizen of the World,' that some were more 'genteel' than others, and that those in that 'very focus of public view' affected by Goldsmith's Beau and his lady, were appropriated more or less by persons of position. The one that fronted the Orchestra was larger than the rest, having been specially built for Frederick, Prince of Wales. It was decorated by Hayman with paintings from 'The Tempest,' 'King Lear,' 'Macbeth,' and 'Henry the Fifth,' and had behind it a handsome drawing-room.

The mention of the decorations in the Prince of Wales's pavilion recalls one of the historical attractions of the gardens,--the pictures in the other supper-boxes. At night-time each of these was 'enlightened to the front with globes;' and a story, which has always seemed to us a little indefinite, traces the first suggestion of them to Hogarth. But one of the earliest and most trustworthy of the guides--the 'Sketch of the Spring Gardens, Vauxhall: In a Letter to a Noble Lord'--implies that Hayman was the true originator in this matter. It is certain, however, that Hogarth contributed specimens of his own works to the cause, and that others were copied. According to his first annotator, Nichols, Dayman reproduced the 'Four Times of the Day' for Vauxhall; and in 1782 two of these, 'Evening' and 'Night,' were still there, and must have been seen by Moritz; while in the portico of the Rotunda was an unquestioned picture from Hogarth's own brush, Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn,--names which, it was popularly whispered, but thinly veiled the likenesses of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and his mistress, Anne Vane, not to be confused with the notorious 'Lady of Quality' of the same surname in Smollet's 'Peregrine Pickle.' Another work claimed as Hogarth's when, years after, obscured by dirt and slashed by sandwich knives, the relics of the little gallery came to the hammer, was Harper and Mrs. Clive (then Miss Raftor) as 'Jobson the Cobbler' and his wife 'Nell' in Coffey's farce of 'The Devil to pay; or, the Wives Metamorphosed;' but this, as well as a nautical _genre_ picture called 'The Wap-ping Landlady,' is plainly attributed to Hayman in the contemporary prints of Sayer. It is probable also that Hayman had the chief hand in 'Mademoiselle Catherina,' a diminutive lady whose history has escaped the chroniclers, and 'Building Houses with Cards,' although the two children in the latter have certainly a look of his more illustrious contemporary. But, on the whole, it may be concluded that there was little of Hogarth's original work among the sea-fights, popular games (e.g. the time-honoured pastimes of 'Bob Cherry' and 'Hot Cockles'), and other engaging compositions which delighted the simple soul of the pawnbroker's widow and disgusted the eclectic Mr. Tibbs, full of Grisoni and the grand contorno. Hogarth's picture in the Rotunda portico, coupled with his permission to reproduce his other works, would, however, be ground enough to justify the gold ticket _In perpetuam Beneficii memoriam_ with which he was presented by the grateful proprietor. This ticket, which admitted 'a coachful,' that is, six persons, was, in 1808, in the possession of Mrs. Hogarth's cousin, Mary Lewis, in whose arms the painter died. It had passed to fresh hands in 1825, when, with other silver passes, all said to be struck from Hogarth's designs, and including among the rest that of George Carey, the author of many Vauxhall songs, it was engraved for the 'Londina Illustrata' of Wilkinson.

The greater part of the literary memories of Vauxhall Gardens cluster round these gaily painted boxes from which, at some moment of their careers, most of the notabilities of the day had taken their view of 'many-coloured life.' Churchill we have already seen there in his habit as he lived; and Collins is said to have divided his attentions between Vauxhall and the play-houses. Goldsmith and Reynolds, we know, were frequent visitors; Johnson, according to Dr. Maxwell (and in spite of Rowlandson), was more partial to Ranolagh. It is in Vauxhall's 'proud alcoves' that Fielding places one of the scenes of 'Amelia;' prefacing it with a handsome compliment to the extreme 'elegance' and 'beauty' of the place. The account of the rudeness which his heroine and her party suffered from Captain Trent and his companions is scarcely separable from its context, although it conveys a graphic idea, confirmed by other records, of the annoyances to which the more peaceable visitors were occasionally exposed at the hands of the Georgian man-about-town. But there is a pen-and-ink picture in Colman and Thornton's 'Connoisseur' which, although mainly levelled at the exorbitant prices of provisions, may be taken to depict pretty accurately the humours of an ordinary middle-class family at Vauxhall. Mr. Rose, a tradesman, his wife, and his two daughters, make the turn of the place, and then sit down to supper. 'Do let us have a chick, papa,' says one of the young ladies. Papa replies that 'they are half a crown apiece, and no bigger than a sparrow.' Thereupon he is very properly rebuked by his wife for his stinginess. 'When one is out upon pleasure,' she says, 'I love to appear like somebody; and what signifies a few shillings once and away, when a body is about it?' So the chick is ordered, and brought. And then ensues a dialogue between the cit and the waiter, in which the former, from the price of the sample before him, ironically estimates the price of an entire Vauxhall ham to be about £24, and after being decorated by his wife with a coloured handkerchief by way of bib, proceeds to eat, saying at every mouthful, 'There goes twopence, there goes threepence, there goes a groat.' Beef and cheese-cakes, which are also freely commented upon, follow, and finally Mr. Rose calls for a bottle of port, the size of which does not escape invidious comparison with the more generous vessels of the Jerusalem Coffee House, although the contents have the effect of soothing the critic into the unwonted extravagance of a second pint. Then, after the old lady has observed upon the rudeness of the gentlemen, who stare her out of countenance with their spy-glasses, and the younger girl is speculating whether, if she | buys the words of the last new song, she can carry home the tune, arrives the reckoning, which is exactly thirteen shillings and twopence. The last glimpse we get of the little party shows them leaving the gardens in a shower, Madam with her upper petticoat thrown over her head, her daughters with turned-up skirts, and Paterfamilias with his flapped hat tied round with a pocket handkerchief, his coat buttoned to save his lace waistcoat, and his wife's cardinal spread wrong side out over his shoulders to save his coat. Thus they sally out to their hack--he lamenting half humorously, half ruefully, that he might have spent his evening at Sot's Hole for fourpence halfpenny, whereas Vauxhall, with the coach hire, will have cost him 'almost a pound.' In the 'Wits' Magazine' for 784, you may see the whole group depicted to the life after the broad, ungentle fashion of the time.

That the cost of the refreshments was a fertile topic of discussion is, to cite but one of many witnesses, confirmed by Miss Burney in 'Evelina;' and the popular legend that an expert Vauxhall carver could cover the entire garden (about eleven acres) with slices from one ham, may be accepted as corroborative evidence. Old frequenters, indeed, pretended to remember the particular angle at which the plates had to be carried to prevent their leaf-like contents from becoming the plaything of the winds. But the above picture from the 'Connoisseur,' it must be noted, is a picture of the occasional visitor,--the visitor who made but one annual visit, which was the event of the year. The main supporters of the place were the persons of quality, of whom Walpole gossips so delightfully in his correspondence; and it is to his pages that one must go for a faithful representation of High Life at Vauxhall. In one of his letters to George Montagu, he describes, with his inimitable air of a fine gentleman on a frolic, a party of pleasure at which he has assisted, and which (he considers) exhibits 'the manners of the age.' He tells how he receives a card from Lady Caroline Petersham (the Duke of Grafton's daughter) to go with her to Vauxhall. Thereupon he repairs to her house, and finds 'her and the little Ashe, or the Pollard Ashe, as they call her,' having 'just finished their last layer of red, and looking as handsome as crimson can make them.' Others of the company are the Duke of Kingston, Lord March of Thackeray's 'Virginians,' Mr. Whitehed, 'a pretty Miss Beauclcre, and a very foolish Miss Sparre.' As they 'sail up the Mall,' they encounter cross-grained Lord Petersham (my lady's husband), 'as sulky as a ghost that nobody will speak to first,' and who declines to accompany his wife and her friends. So they march to their barge, which has 'a boat of French horns attending,' and 'little Ashe' sings. After parading up and down the river, they 'debark' at Vauxhall, where at the outset they narrowly escape the excitement of a duel. For a certain Mrs. Lloyd of Spring Gardens (afterwards married to Lord Haddington), seeing Miss Beauclerc and her companion following Lady Petersham, says audibly, 'Poor girls, I am sorry to see them in such bad company,' a remark which 'the foolish Miss Sparre' (she is but fifteen), for the fun of seeing a duel, endeavours to make Lord March resent. But my Lord, who is 'very lively and agreeable,' laughs her out of 'this charming frolic with a great deal of humour.' 'At last,' says Walpole,--and here we may surrender the story to him entirely,--'we assembled in our booth, Lady Caroline in the front, with the vizor of her hat erect, and looking gloriously jolly and handsome. She had fetched my brother Orford from the next box, where he was enjoying himself with his _petite partie_, to help us to mince chickens. We minced seven chickens into a china dish, which Lady Caroline stewed over a lamp, with three pats of butter and a flagon of water, stirring, and rattling, and laughing, and we every minute expecting to have the dish fly about our ears. She had brought Betty [Neale] the fruit girl, with hampers of strawberries and cherries from Rogers's, and made her wait upon us, and then made her sup by us at a little table. The conversation was no less lively than the whole transaction. There was a Mr. O'Brien arrived from Ireland, who would get the Duchess of Manchester from Mr. Hussey if she were still at liberty. I took up the biggest hautboy in the dish, and said to Lady Caroline, "Madam, Miss A he desires you would eat this O'Brien strawberry;" she replied immediately.

"I won't, you hussey." You may imagine the laugh this reply occasioned. After the tempest was a little calmed, the Pollard said, "Now, how anybody would spoil this story that was to repeat it and say, I won't, you jade!" In short, the whole air of our party was sufficient, as you will easily imagine, to take up the whole attention of the garden; so much so, that from eleven o'clock till half an hour after one we had the whole concourse round our booth; at last they came into the little gardens of each booth on the sides of ours, till Harry Vane took up a bumper and was proceeding to treat them with still greater freedom. It was three o'clock before we got home.'

Whether this 'frisk' in good society included the passage of the Dark Walk, the chronicler has not related. But the Dark Walk, also known as the 'Druid's,' or 'Lovers' Walk,' is almost the only feature of the gardens which now needs to be described. Its position has already been roughly indicated. It was formed by tall overarching trees meeting at the top, in which, in the place's palmiest days, blackbirds, thrushes, and nightingales made their nests. A visit to this _selva oscura_ was the prime ambition of the more inquiring visitor to Vauxhall, either upon the simple ground put forward by the elder Miss Rose in the 'Connoisseur' that it was '_solentary_,' or upon the more specious excuse, advanced by the generality, that the music of the Orchestra sounded better through the thick foliage of the trees. But the pretexts for seeking these attractive shades were probably as inexhaustible as Dean Aldrich's reasons for drinking, the last of which was 'any other reason.' In Miss Burney's 'Evelina,' that delightful heroine is decoyed into the Dark Walk by her vulgar friends, the Branghtons.

There she is insulted by a gang of rakes, and is rescued by Sir Clement Willoughby, who, apparently under the influence of the genius of the place, proceeds, after certain impertinences, to make her a spasmodic declaration, plentifully punctuated with dashes in this wise,--'O Miss Anville,--loveliest of women,--forgive me,--my--I beseech you forgive me;--if I have offended--if I have hurt you,--I could kill myself at the thought!' etc. Thus this 'most impetuous of men;' and thus did they make love in Vauxhall's 'green retreats' 'when George was king.' Nor love alone, apparently; for if the old descriptions are strictly accurate in representing some of its frequenters as yelling 'in sounds fully as terrific as the imagined horrors of Cavalcanti's bloodhounds,' there must have been a considerable amount of more than questionable horse-play besides; and the licensing magistrates who, in 1763, bound the proprietors to do away with the 'dark walks,' and to appoint proper watchmen, were no doubt well advised.