```'In gay Vauxhall now saunter beaux and belles,
```And happier cits resort to Sadler's Wells.'=
|THUS sings one of Sylvanus Urban's poets, describing the pleasures of
Spring in the London of George the Second. In the epithet 'happier'--an
epithet probably suggested by the not very profound observation that
the middle classes as a rule took their pleasure less sadly than mere
persons of quality--there is 'the least little touch of spleen.' But the
social distinction implied between the fashionable gardens on the Surrey
side of the water and the more popular place of entertainment from which
the tired dyer and his melting wife are trudging wearily in Hogarth's
'Evening' is practically preserved in the advertisements to be found,
between May and August, in the newspapers of the time. Sadler's Wells is
specific in its attractions,--its burletta or its rope-dancer: Vauxhall,
on the contrary, with a disdainful reticence,--a _superbia quosita
mentis_ befitting the 'genuine and only Jarley,'--shortly sets forth
that its 'Evening Entertainments' will begin on such a date; that the
price of admission is one shilling; and that the doors will open at
five. After this notification it continued, at rare intervals, to repeat
that the gardens were at the service of the public; but made no more
definite sign. Obviously the thing to do was to go. With the help of a
few old pamphlets and descriptions, it is proposed to invite the reader
to make that expedition, and to revive, if it may be, some memory of a
place, the traces of which are strewn broadcast over the literature of
the last century. It is true that Vauxhall Gardens survived to a date
much later than this. But it was Vauxhall 'with a difference,' and
the Vauxhall here intended is Vauxhall in its prime, between 1750 and
1790,--the Vauxhall of Horace Walpole and the 'Connoisseur,'--of Beau
Tibbs and the pawnbroker's widow,--of Fielding's 'Amelia' and Fanny
Burney's 'Evelina.'
In 1750, the customary approach to this earthly paradise was still along
that silent highway of the Thames over which, nearly forty years
before, Sir Roger de Coverley and Mr. Spectator had been rowed by the
wooden-legged waterman who had fought at La Hogue. There was, indeed, a
bridge built or being built at Westminster; but more than half a
century was to elapse before there was another at Vauxhall. This little
preliminary boating-party, especially to the accompaniment of French
horns, must have been one of the delights of the journey, although, if
we are to believe a Gallic poet who addressed a copy of verses upon 'Le
Vauxhall de Londres' to M. de Fontenelle, '_le trajet du fleuve fatal_'
was not without its terrors to would-be visitors. Goldsmith's Mrs.
Tibbs, at all events, had 'a natural aversion to the water,' and when
Mr. Matthew Bramble went, he went by coach for fear of cold, while the
younger and bolder spirits of his party took ship from Ranelagh in 'a
wherry, so light and slender' that, says poetical Miss Lydia Melford,
they looked like 'fairies sailing in a nutshell.' They were four in the
boat, she nevertheless adds, beside the oarsman; and if this paper were
to be illustrated by fancy pictures the artist's attention might be
particularly invited to that very fantastic fairy, Mrs. Tabitha Bramble,
who, we are told, 'with her rumpt gown and petticoat, her scanty curls,
her lappet-head, deep triple ruffles and high stays,' was (in Lady
Griskin's opinion) 'twenty good years behind the fashion.' What the
waterman charged, the fair Lydia does not tell us; but he probably asked
more than usual for so exceptional a cargo. Meanwhile, the old rates
shown in the 'Court and City Registers' of the time are moderate enough.
From Whitehall Stairs, the favourite starting-place, the cost of a pair
of oars was sixpence; from the Temple eightpence. For sculls you paid no
more than half.
When, after passing Lambeth Palace on the left,--and possibly receiving
from neighbouring boats some of those flowers of rhetoric to which
Johnson once so triumphantly retorted,--you reached Vauxhall Stairs,
your experiences were still, in all probability, those of Lydia Melford
and her friends. There would be the same crush of wherries and confusion
of tongues at the landing-place, and the same crowd of mudlarks and
loafers would come rushing into the water to offer their unsolicited
(but not gratuitous) services. Once free of these, a few steps would
bring you to the unimposing entrance of the garden,--a gate or wicket in
the front of an ordinary-looking house. Here you either exhibited
your ticket, or paid your shilling; hurried, not without a throb of
anticipation, down a darkened passage; and then, if you were as young
and unsophisticated as Fanny Bolton in 'Pendennis,' probably uttered
an involuntary exclamation of wonder as, with a sudden sound of muffled
music, the many-lighted inclosure burst upon your view. There seems
to be no doubt as to the surprise, heightened of course by the mean
approach, and the genuine fascination of this first impression. The tall
elms and sycamores, with the coloured lamps braced to the tree-trunks
or twinkling through the leaves, the long ranges of alcoves with their
inviting supper-tables, the brightly-shining temples and pavilions, the
fading vistas and the ever-changing groups of pleasure-seekers, must
have combined to form a whole which fully justified the enthusiasm of
contemporaries, even if it did not, in the florid language of the old
guide-books, exactly 'furnish the pen of a sublime and poetic genius
with inexhaustible scenes of luxuriant fancy.'
The general disposition of the gardens was extremely simple and, in Miss
Burney's opinion, even 'formal.' Opposite you, as you entered, was the
Grand Walk, extending the entire length of the inclosure for a distance
of 900 feet, and terminated, at the farther end, by a gilded statue
of Aurora, apparently 'tip-toe on the mountain tops.' For this was
afterwards substituted 'a Grand Gothic obelisk,' at the corners of which
were painted a number of slaves chained, and over them the inscription:=
`````Spectator
`````Fastidiosus
`````Sibi Molestus=
Beyond the end of this walk was a sunk-fence or _ha-ha_ which separated
the gardens from the hayfields then adjoining it. Parallel to the Grand
Walk ran the South Walk with its triumphal arches; next to this again
was the covered alley known indifferently as the Druid's or Lovers'
Walk, made rather for 'whispering lovers' than for 'talking age;' and
last came a fourth walk open at the top. Other walks, the chief of which
was the Cross Walk, traversed the garden from side to side; and in the
quadrangle formed by the Grand Walk, the Cross Walk, the South Walk,
and the remaining side of the grounds, was a space of about five acres.
This, which lay to the right of the entrance, was known as the Grove.
The chief feature of the Grove was its open-air orchestra, at first
no more than a modest structure bearing the unambitious title of the
'rustic music-house.' But about 1758, this made way for a much more
ornate building 'in the Gothic manner,' having, like its predecessor,
pavilions beneath for the accommodation of supper-parties. Above, it
contained a magnificent organ, in front of which, encircling an open
space for the singers, were ranged the seats and desks of the musicians.
This second orchestra, which was lavishly ornamented with niches and
carvings, was surmounted by the ostrich plumes of the Prince of Wales.
The decorations were modelled in a composition said to be known only to
the 'ingenious architect,' a carpenter named Maidman, and the whole was
painted 'white and bloom colour.' Immediately behind the orchestra was a
building described as 'a Turkish tent,' with a carved blue and gold dome
supported on eight internal Ionic, and twelve external Doric columns.
This was profusely embellished, both within and without, by rich
festoons of flowers. A good idea of the orchestra in its renovated form
may be gathered from a little plate by Wale, in which the supper-tables
are shown laid out in front. These for a long time were covered with red
baize, an arrangement that added greatly to the general effect, which
was further enhanced by arches of coloured lamps and other contrivances.
There is a tinted design by Rowlandson--one indeed of his most popular
efforts--depicting a motley group in front of the orchestra during
the performance of Mrs. Weichsell, and numbering among the crowd of
listeners the Prince of Wales, 'Perdita,' the Duchess of Devonshire,
Lady Duncannon, and other distinguished personages. In a supper-box at
the side are Johnson, Boswell, Goldsmith, and Mrs. Thrale.
The musical performances in the orchestra generally began at six.
At first they were wholly instrumental, and confined to 'sonatas and
concertos.' In time, however, songs were added to the programme; and
later still these were diversified by catches and glees, which generally
came in the middle and at the end of the sixteen pieces to which the
entertainment was restricted. Before the introduction of glees and
catches, it was the practice to wind up with a duet or trio, accompanied
by a chorus. In the old Vauxhall song-books may be studied the species
of lyric which was trilled or quavered nightly from the Gothic aviary
in the Grove. There is not much variety in these hymns to 'Jem of
Aberdovey' or 'Kate of Aberdare, and the prevailing tone is abjectly
sentimental. A favourite form was the 'Rondeau,' a much more rudimentary
production than the little French plaything now known by that name, and
characterized chiefly by its immoderate use of the refrain.=
````'Tarry awhile with me, my Love,
````O tarry awhile with me.'=
This is the artless burden of one of the 'celebrated Roundelays' sung at
Vauxhall by the celebrated Mrs. Bland (_blandior Orpheo!_) to the music
of the equally celebrated Mr. James Hook; and the 'young Shepherd by
Love sore opprest, When the Maid of his heart he fondly addrest,' can
scarcely be acquitted of needless iteration. But the music was often of
a much higher kind, and the beautiful Shakespearean songs of Dr. Arne,
'When daisies pied,' and 'Where the bee sucks,' or 'Water parted' from
the same composer's Opera of 'Artaxerxes,' alternated occasionally with
the more popular ditties which delighted the average listener. Hook (the
father of Theodore Hook), who was organist for upward of forty years,
and Arne, who often conducted, were the most assiduous composers.
Among the female singers were many vocal celebrities of the last
century,--Mrs. Vincent and Miss Brent (of whom Goldsmith writes in 'The
Bee' and 'The Citizen of the World'); the before-named Mrs. Weichsell,
fair mother of the fairer Mrs. Billington; Mrs. Mountain; and for men,
Lowe, Denman, Vernon, the 'great Dignum,' and the famous tenor Beard,
whose name, together with that of one of his gentler colleagues,
survives in Churchill's hectoring couplets:=
```'Where tyrants rule, and slaves with joy obey,
```Let slavish minstrels pour th' enervate lay;
```To Britons far more noble pleasures spring,
```In native notes whilst Beard and Vincent sing.'=
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.
From the use of the plural 'walks,' it may be that the prohibition
also included the numerous wildernesses which occupied the north of the
inclosure,--wildernesses so intricate that, even in the prehistoric era
of the place, the most experienced mothers--to use the expressive words
of Tom Brown 'of facetious memory'--often 'lost themselves in looking
for their daughters.' And this brings us to the final item in our
catalogue, the walk which bounded the garden on the north, closing and
terminating the four great promenades that traversed it from top to
bottom. This, shaded like the rest by trees, had at each end one of the
favourite 'scenes.' That to the east was a view in a Chinese garden;
that to west, a building with a scaffold and a ladder before it, which
at a distance 'often deceived the eye very agreeably.' History has
neglected the artist of these ingenious performances. But Hayman had
begun with stage decoration, and may perhaps have executed them. Or
they may have been from the brush of George Lambert, the well-known
scene-painter of Covent Garden, who, like Hayman, was a friend of
Hogarth, and is reported to have borne his part in the beautifying of
the place.
In the foregoing sketch we have endeavoured to revive some specific idea
of the aspect of a forgotten place of amusement, rather than to produce
that indefinite patchwork of anecdote which, with a judicious sprinkling
of shoe buckles and periwigs, of hoops and gipsy-hats, so often does
duty for 'a picture of the time.' But a last word must certainly be
devoted to the proprietor and presiding spirit, Jonathan Tyers. Little
seems to be known of him before he acquired the site of the old Spring
Garden of the 'Spectator' in March, 1728, from one Elizabeth Masters, of
London, upon a thirty years' lease. Even then it must have had many of
the appurtenances of a public resort, for the deed enumerates a Ham-room
and a Milk-house, and there were already primitive alcoves in the shape
of tiled arbours entitled Royal George, Ship, Eagle, Phoenix, Checker,
and the like. Nay, there were already lofty trees which dated from the
seventeenth century and the days of an earlier possessor, the Sir Samuel
Morland of Pepys's Diary. The rent whieh Tyers paid was £250. He
added music; then by degrees the orchestra and organ, the statues, the
pictures, and the other adornments. He opened the garden in June, 1732,
with illuminations and a _Ridotto al' fresco_, at which Frederick,
Prince of Wales, was present; and the company, numbering four hundred,
wore masks, dominoes, and lawyers' gowns. Order was kept by a detachment
of footguards, and the admission ticket was designed by Jack Laguerre,
son of the Louis whose muscular saints sprawl, in Pope's verse, upon the
ceilings of 'Timon's Villa.' Payment was subsequently made at the gate;
but in 1738, apparently with a view to render the attendance somewhat
more select, a thousand silver season tickets were issued. In 1752 Tyers
purchased part of the estate out and out, and a few years afterwards
acquired the remainder. To the last day of his life he retained the
keenest interest in the place, and only a few hours before his death
caused himself to be carried into the gardens to take a parting look
at them. At his country-seat of Denbies near Dorking in Surrey, he had
another private garden, in the embellishment of which he must have found
an outlet for some otherwise obstructed eccentricity, since it contained
a representation of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, where, in an
alcove, had been depicted, in two compartments, the ends of the infidel
and the Christian. According to the 'Gentleman's Magazine,' Tyers passed
through the Valley himself in July, 1767. His descendants long continued
to manage Vauxhall Gardens. Perhaps the most notable of these was his
eldest son Tom, the friend and biographer of Johnson, and the 'Tom
Restless' of the 'Idler.'