Part 41

More than two centuries ago, when Clerkenwell was a sort of court-quarter of the town, its most distinguished residents were William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle, and his wife, Margaret Lucas, both of whom are remembered by their literary eccentricities. The Duke, who was a devoted royalist, after his defeat at Marston Moor, retired with his wife to the Continent; and with many privations, owing to pecuniary embarrassments, suffered an exile of eighteen years, chiefly in Antwerp, in a house which belonged to the widow of Rubens. Such was their extremity that they were both forced at one time to pawn their clothes to purchase a dinner. The Duke beguiled his time by writing an eccentric book on horsemanship. During his absence Cromwell's parliament levied upon his estate nearly three-quarters of a million of money. Upon the Restoration, he returned to England, and was created Duke of Newcastle; he then retired to his mansion in Clerkenwell; he died there in 1676, aged eighty-four.

The duchess was a pedantic and voluminous writer, her collected works filling ten printed folios, for she wrote prose and verse in all their varieties. "The whole story," writes Pepys, "of this lady is a romance and all she does is romantic. April 26th, 1667.--Met my Lady Newcastle, with her coach and footman all in velvet, herself, whom I never saw before, as I have heard her often described, for all the town talk is now-a-days of her extravagances, with her velvet cap, her hair about her ears, many black patches because of pimples about her mouth, naked-necked without anything about it, and a black _just-au-corps_. May 1st 1667.--She was in a black coach, adorned with silver instead of gold, and snow-white curtains, and everything black and white. Stayed at home reading the ridiculous history of my Lord Newcastle, wrote by his wife, which shows her to be a mad, conceited, ridiculous woman, and he an asse to suffer her to write what she writes to him and of him." On the 10th of April, 1667, Charles and his Queen came to Clerkenwell, on a visit to the duchess. On the 18th John Evelyn went to make court to the noble pair, who received him with great kindness. Another time he dined at Newcastle House, and was privileged to sit discoursing with her grace in her bedchamber after dinner. She thus describes to a friend her literary employments:--"You will find my works like infinite nature, that hath neither beginning nor end, and as confused as the chaos, wherein is neither method nor order, but all mixed together, without separation, like light and darkness." "But what gives one," says Walpole, "the best idea of her passion for scribbling, was her seldom revising the copies of her works, lest it should disturb her following conceptions. Her servant John was ordered to lie on a truckle-bed in a closet within her grace's bedchamber; and whenever, at any time, she gave the summons, by calling out 'John,' I conceive poor John was to get up, and commit to writing the offspring of his mistress' thoughts. Her grace's folios were usually enriched with gold, and had her coat-of-arms upon them. Hence, Pope, in the _Dunciad_, Book I:--

"Stamp'd with arms, Newcastle shines complete."

In her _Poems and Fancies_, 1653, the copy now in the British Museum, on the margin of one page is the following note in the Duchess' own handwriting:--"Reader, let me intreat you to consider only the fancyes in this my book of poems, and not the language of the numbers, nor rimes, nor fals printing, for if you doe, you will be my condeming judg, which will grive me much." Of this book she says:--

"When I did write this book I took great paines, For I did walk, and thinke, and break my braines; My thoughts run out of breath, then down would lye, And panting with short wind like those that dye; When time had given ease, and lent them strength, Then up would get and run another length; Sometimes I kept my thought with strict dyet, And made them fast with ease, rest, and quiet, That they might run with swifter speed, And by this course new fancies they could breed; But I doe feare they are no so good to please, But now they're out my braine is more at ease."

At page 228 occurs this strange fancy:--

"Life scums the cream of beauty with Time's spoon, And draws the claret wine of blushes soon."

Again, she tells us that--

"The brain is like an oven, hot and dry, Which bakes all sorts of fancies, low and high; The thoughts are wood, which motion sets on fire; The tongue a peele, which draws forth the desire; But thinking much, the brain too hot will grow, And burns it up; if cold, the thoughts are dough."

To a volume of the Duchess' plays is prefixed a portrait of her Grace, and this couplet under it:--

"Her beauty's found beyond the skill Of the best paynter to embrace."

There is a story current that the Duke being once, when in a peevish humour, complimented by a friend on the great wisdom of his wife, made answer, "Sir, a very wise woman is a very foolish thing."

Another eccentric inhabitant of Newcastle House was Elizabeth, Duchess of Albemarle, and afterwards of Montague. She was married in 1669 to Christopher Monck, second Duke of Albemarle, then a youth of sixteen, whom her inordinate pride drove to the bottle and other dissipation. After his death, in 1688, at Jamaica, the Duchess, whose vast estate so inflated her vanity as to produce mental aberration, resolved never again to give her hand to any but a sovereign prince. She had many suitors; but true to her resolution, she rejected them all, until Ralph Montague, third Lord and first Duke of that name, achieved the conquest by courting her as _Emperor of China_: and the anecdote has been dramatized by Colley Cibber, in his comedy of _The Double Gallant, or Sick Lady's Cure_. Lord Montague married the lady as "Emperor," but afterwards played the truant, and kept her in such strict confinement that her relations compelled him to produce her in open court, to prove that she was alive. Richard Lord Ross, one of her rejected suitors, addressed to Lord Montague these lines on his match:--

"Insulting rival, never boast Thy conquest lately won: No wonder that her heart was lost,-- Her senses first were gone.

"From one that's under Bedlam's laws What glory can be had? For love of thee was not the cause: It proves that she was mad."

The Duchess survived her second husband nearly thirty years, and at last "died of mere old age," at Newcastle House, August 28th, 1738, aged ninety-six years. Until her decease, she is said to have been constantly served on the knee as a sovereign; besides keeping her word, that she would not stoop to marry anyone but the Emperor of China.

Sources of Laughter.

In a clever paper in the _Saturday Review_ (Oct. 7th, 1865), we find these amusing anecdotical instances of the sources means _movere jocum_:--

"A sustained, deliberate pride would have rather prevented than encouraged that fit of laughter which has preserved to posterity the name of a certain Marquis of Blandford. He, being noted for laughing upon small provocation, was once convulsed for half-an-hour together on seeing somebody fillip a crumb into a blind fiddler's face, the fits returning whenever the "ludicrous idea" recurred to him. An habitual sense of superiority would have prevented this sudden glory at sight of a beggar's helplessness under insult.

"There are personalities which lie so hid under a disguise that they are not readily known for such. The humorist and the cynic have each a knack of investing with human weaknesses things, animate and inanimate, in which plainer minds can see no analogy to human nature. We have known a man of quaint fancies laugh till the tears ran down at seeing a rat peep out of a hole. He caught a touch of humanity in the brute's perplexed air; he guessed at something behind the scenes impervious to our grosser vision. A bird, frumpish and disquieted on a rainy day, suggests to such a man some social image of discontent that makes capital fun for him. He can improve these lower creatures into caricatures of his friends, or of mankind at large. Mr. Formby owned himself unable to help "laughing out loud" in the presence of Egyptian antiquities, with the Memnon at their head; he laughed at an ancient civilization, at the men of the past personified by their works. Saturnine tempers can only laugh at imminent danger or positive calamity; mortal terror is the most ludicrous of all ideas to them. Mr. Trollope represents Lord de Courcy, who had not laughed for many a day, exploding at the notion of his neighbour earl having been all but tossed by a bull: and the joke would have been better still if the bull had had his will. This tendency is frequently to be seen with a defective sympathy, and we believe the things that make men laugh are an excellent clue at once to intellect and temper. Many a man does not betray the tiger that lurks within him till he laughs. There are times when the body craves for laughter as it does for food. This is the laughter which, on some occasion or other, has betrayed us all into a scandalous, unseasonable, remorseful gaiety. After long abstinence from cheerful thought, there are few occasions so sad and solemn as to render this inopportune revolt impossible, unless where grief absorbs the whole soul, and lowers the system to a uniformity of sadness. In fact, as no solemnity can be safe from incongruities, such occasions are not seldom the especial scene of these exposures--of explosions of a wild, perverse hilarity taking the culprit at unawares; and this even while he is aghast at his flagrant insensibility to the demand of the hour.

"This is the laughter often ascribed to Satanic influence. The nerves cannot forego the wonted stimulus, and are malignantly on the watch, as it were, to betray the higher faculties into this unseemly indulgence. Thus John and Charles Wesley, in the early days of their public career, set forth one particular day to sing hymns together in the fields; but, on uplifting the first stave, one of them was suddenly struck with a sense of something ludicrous in their errand, the other caught the infection, and both fell into convulsions of laughter, renewed on every attempt to carry out their first design, till they were fain to give up and own themselves for that time conquered by the Devil. There is a story of Dr. Johnson much to the same purpose. Naturally melancholy, he was yet a great laugher, and thus was an especial victim to the possession we speak of, for no one laughs in depression who has not learnt to laugh in mirth. He was dining with his friend Chambers in the Temple, and at first betrayed so much physical suffering and mental dejection that his companion could not help boring him with remedies. By degrees he rallied, and with the rally came the need of a general reaction. At this point Chambers happened to say that a common friend had been with him that morning making his will. Johnson--or rather his nervous system--seized upon this as the required subject. He raised a ludicrous picture of the "testator" going about boasting of the fact of his will-making to anybody that would listen, down to the innkeeper on the road. Roaring with laughter, he trusted that Chambers had had the conscience not to describe the testator as of sound mind, hoped there was a legacy to himself, and concluded with saying that he would have the will set to verse and a ballad made out of it. Mr. Chambers, not at all relishing this pleasantry, got rid of his guest as soon as he could. But not so did Johnson get rid of his merriment; he rolled in convulsions till he got out of Temple Gate, and then, supporting himself against a post, sent forth peals so loud as, in the silence of the night, to be heard from Temple Bar to Fleet Ditch. We hear of stomach coughs; this was a stomach, or ganglionic, laugh.

"The mistimed laughter of children has often some such source as this, though the sprite that possesses them has rarely the gnomelike essence. A healthy boy, after a certain length of constraint, is sometimes as little responsible for his laughter as the hypochondriac. Mrs. Beecher Stowe, in describing, and even defending, a Puritanical strictness of Sabbath observance, recalls the long family expositions and sermons which alternated in her youth with prolix Meeting services, at all of which the younger members of the household were required to assist in profound stillness of attention. On one of these occasions, on a hot summer afternoon, a heedless grasshopper of enormous dimensions leapt on the sleeve of one of the boys. The tempting diversion was not to be resisted; he slyly secured the animal, and imprisoned a hind leg between his firmly compressed lips. One by one, the youthful congregation became alive to the awkward contortions and futile struggles of the long-legged captive; they knew that to laugh was to be flogged, but after so many sermons the need was imperative, and they laughed, and were flogged accordingly. Different from all these types is the grand frank laugh that finds its place in history and biography, and belongs to master minds. Political and party feeling may raise, in stirring times, any amount of animosity, even in good-natured men; but once bring about a laugh between them, and an answering chord is struck, a tie is established not easily broken. Something of the old rancour is gone for ever. There is a story of Canning and Brougham, after hating and spiting one another through a session, finding themselves suddenly face to face in some remote district in Cumberland, with only a turn-pike gate between them. The situation roused their magnanimity; simultaneously they broke into laughter, and passed each on his separate way, better friends from that time forth.

"No honest laugher knows anything about his own laugh, which is fortunate, as it is apt to be the most grotesque part of a man, especially if he is anything of an original. Character, humour, oddity, all expatiate in it, and the features and voice have to accommodate themselves to the occasion as they can. There is Prince Hal's laugh, "till his face is like a wet cloak ill laid up;" there is the laugh we see in Dutch pictures, where every wrinkle of the old face seems to be in motion; there is the convulsive laugh, in which arms and legs join; there is the whinny, the ventral laugh, Dr. Johnson's laugh like a rhinoceros, Dominie Sampson's laugh lapsing without any immediate stage into dead gravity, and the ideal social laugh--the delighted and delighting chuckle which ushers in a joke, and the cordial triumphant laugh which sounds its praises. We say nothing of all the laughs--and how many there are!--which have no mirth in them; nor of the "ha ha!" of melodrama, and the ringing laugh of the novel, as being each unfamiliar to our waking ears. Whatever the laugh, if it be genuine and comes from decent people, it is as attractive as the Piper of Hamelin. It is impossible not to want to know what a hearty laugh is about. Some of the sparkle of life is near, and we long to share it. The gift of laughter is one of the compensating powers of the world. A nation that laughs is so far prosperous. It may not have material wealth, but it has the poetry of prosperity. When Lady Duff Gordon laments that she never hears a hearty laugh in Egypt, and when Mr. Palgrave, on the contrary, makes the Arabs proper a laughing people, we place Arabia, for this reason, higher among the countries than its old neighbour. And it is the same with homes. Wherever there is pleasant laughter, there inestimable memories are being stored up, and such free play given to nerve and brain, that whatever thought and power the family circle is capable of will have a fair chance of due expansion."

_CONVIVIAL ECCENTRICITIES._

Busby's Folly and Bull Feather Hall.

At Busby's Folly, a bowling-green and house of public entertainment, upon the site of the Belvidere Tavern, Pentonville, there met on the 2nd of May, 1644, a fraternity of Odd Fellows, members of the Society of Bull Feathers Hall, who claimed, among other things, the toll of all the gravel carried up Highgate Hill. A rare tract, entitled, _Bull Feather Hall, or the Antiquity of Horns amply shown_, 1664, relates the manner of going from Busby's Folly to Highgate:--"On Monday, being the 2nd of May, some part of the fraternity met at Busby's Folly, in Islington, where, after they had set all things in order, they thus marched out, _ordine quisque suo_:--First, a set of trumpets, then the controller, or captain of the pioneers, with thirty or forty following him with pickaxes and spades to level the hill, and baskets withal to carry gravel. After them another set of trumpeters, and also four that did wind the horn; after them, the standard, _alias_ an exceeding large pair of horns fixed on a pole, which three men carried, with pennants on each tip, the Master of the Ceremonies attending it, with other officers. Men followed the flag, with the arms of the society, with horned beasts drawn thereon, and this motto:--

'To have, and not to use the same, Is not their glory, but their shame.'

"After this came the mace-bearer, then the herauld-at-arms, with the arms of the society. The coat I cannot rightly blazon, but I remember the supporters were on one side, a woman with a whip in her hand, besides that of her tongue, with a menacing look, and underneath the motto, _Ut volo, sic jubeo_; on the other side, a man in a woeful plight, and underneath him, _Patientia patimur_." In this order they marched, attended by multitudes of people. This club, as the tract informs us, used to meet in Chequer Yard, in Whitechapel, their president being arrayed in a crimson satin gown and a furred cap, surmounted by a pair of antlers; and on a cushion lay a cornuted sceptre and crown; the brethren drank out of horn cups, and were sworn on admission, upon a blank horn-book. They met twice a-week, "to solace themselves with harmless merriment and promote good fellowship among their neighbours."

Busby's Folly was afterwards called "Penny's Folly." Here Zucker, a high German, who had performed before their Majesties and the Royal Family, exhibited his Learned Little Horse from Cowland, who was to be seen looking out of the windows up two pair of stairs every evening before the performance began. Curious deceptions, "Comus's philosophical performances," and the musical glasses, were also exhibited here.

Old Islington Taverns.

Less than half a century ago, the Old Red Lion Tavern, in St. John Street Road, the existence of which dates as far back as 1415, stood almost alone: it is shown in the centre distance of Hogarth's picture of _Evening_. Several eminent persons frequented this house: among others, Thomson, the author of _The Seasons_, Dr. Johnson, and Oliver Goldsmith. In a room here Thomas Paine wrote his infamous book, _The Rights of Man_, which Burke and Bishop Watson demolished. The parlour is hung with choice impressions of Hogarth's plates. The house has been almost entirely rebuilt.

Opposite the Red Lion, and surrounded by pens for holding cattle on their way to Smithfield, was an old building, called "Goose Farm:" it was let in suites of rooms; here lived Cawse, the painter; and in another suite, the mother and sister of Charles and Thomas Dibdin: the mother, a short and squab figure, came on among villagers and mobs at Sadler's Wells Theatre; but, failing to get engaged, she died in Clerkenwell Poorhouse. Vincent de Cleve, nicknamed Polly de Cleve, for his prying qualities, who was treasurer of Sadler's Wells for many years, occupied the second-floor rooms above the Dibdins. "Goose Yard," on the west of the road, serves to determine the site of the old farmhouse.

The public-house facing the iron gates leading to Sadler's Wells Theatre, with the sign of "The Clown," in honour of Grimaldi, who frequented the house, was, in his day, known as the King of Prussia, prior to which its sign had been that of the Queen of Hungary. It is to this tavern, or rather to an old one, upon the same site, that Goldsmith alludes in his _Essay on the Versitility of Popular Favour_. "An alehouse-keeper," says he, "near Islington, who had long lived at the sign of the French King, upon the commencement of the late war with France, pulled down his own sign, and put up that of the Queen of Hungary. Under the influence of her red race and golden sceptre, he continued to sell ale till she was no longer the favourite of his customers; he changed her, therefore, some time ago for the King of Prussia, which may probably change in turn for the man that shall be set up for vulgar admiration." The oldest sign by which this house has been distinguished was that of the Turk's Head.

At the Golden Ball, near Sadler's Wells, were sold by auction, in 1732, "The valuable curiosities, living creatures, &c., collected by the ingenious Mons. Boyle, of Islington;" including "a most strange living creature bearing a near resemblance of the human shape; he can utter some few sentences and give pertinant answers to many questions. There is likewise an Oriental oystershell of a prodigious weight and size, it measures from one extreme part to the other above three feet two inches over. The other curiosity is called the Philosopher's Stone, and is about the size of a pullet's egg, the colour of it is blue, and more beautiful than that of the ultramarine, which together with being finely polished is a most delightful entertainment to the eye. This unparalleled curiosity was clandestinely stolen out of the late Great Mogul's closet; this irreparable loss had so great an effect upon him that in a few months after he pined himself to death: there is a peculiar virtue in this precious stone, that principally relates to the fair sex, and will effectually signify, in the variation of its colour, by touching it, whether any of them have lost their virginity."

Of the Rising Sun, in the Islington Road, in _Mist's Journal_, February 9th, 1726, we read that for the ensuing Shrove Tuesday "will be a fine hog, barbyqu'd--_i.e._ roasted whole, with spice, and basted with Madeira wine, at the house where the ox was roasted whole at Christmas last."

In the Islington Road, too, near to Sadler's Wells, was Stokes's Amphitheatre, a low place, though resorted to by the nobility and gentry. It was devoted to bull and bear-baiting, dog-fighting, boxing, and sword-fighting; and in these terrible encounters, with naked swords, not blunted, women engaged each other to "a trial of skill;" they fought _à la mode_, in close fighting jackets, short petticoats, Holland drawers, white thread stockings and pumps; the stakes were from 10_l._ to 20_l._ Then we read of a day's diversion--a mad bull, dressed up with fireworks, to be baited; cudgel-playing for a silver cup, wrestling for a pair of leather breeches, &c.; a noble, large, and savage, incomparable Russian bear, baited to death by dogs; a bull, illuminated with fireworks turned loose; eating one hundred farthing pies, and drinking half a gallon of October beer, in less than eight minutes, &c.[45]

[45] Selected and abridged from Pinks's _History of Clerkenwell_, 1865.

The Oyster and Parched-Pea Club.