Captain William Baillie[207] was also an amateur in art; he suffered
from an asthma, which often stood his friend by allowing a lengthened fit
of coughing to stop a sentence whenever he found himself in want of words
to complete it. When not engaged in his duties as a commissioner of the
Stamp Office, he for years amused himself in what he called _etching_;
but in what Rembrandt, as well as every true artist, would call
scratching. He could not draw, nor had he an eye for effect. To prove
this assertion, I will “_end him at a blow_,” by bringing to my informed
reader’s recollection the captain’s execrable plate, which he considered
to be an improvement upon Rembrandt’s “Three Trees.” Mr. West classed
him amongst the conceited men.--“Sir,” said the venerable President,
“when I requested him to show me a fine impression of Rembrandt’s Hundred
Guilder print, he placed one of his own _restored_ impressions before
me, with as much confidence as my little friend Edwards[208] attempts to
teach Perspective in the Royal Academy.” Captain Baillie commonly wore a
camlet coat, and walked so slowly and with such measured steps, that he
appeared like a man heavily laden with jack-boots and Munchausen spurs;
and whenever he entered an auction-room, he generally permitted his cough
to announce his arrival.
Mr. Baker,[209] an opulent dealer in lace, was nightly to be found
bidding for the choicest impressions, which he seldom allowed any
antagonist, however powerful, to carry away. He was well-proportioned,
and though sometimes singular in his manner, and too negligent in his
dress, was a most honourable man.
Mr. Woodhouse, of Tokenhouse Yard, was also a bidder for fine things;
he did not possess so much of the milk of human kindness as Mr. Baker;
indeed, his manners were at times a little repulsive, although he had
been many years principal cashier in Sir George Prescott’s banking-house.
He was an extensive collector of Cipriani’s drawings.[210]
Mr. Musgrave,[211] of Norfolk Street, frequently attended auctions of
prints, but particularly those of pictures; he was an accomplished
gentleman in his address, and most feelingly benevolent in his actions.
His figure was short, his features pleasing, and he seldom went abroad
without a rose in his button-hole. When I state that no man could have
had fewer enemies, I think even the descendants of “Vinegar Tom”[212]
will never haunt my bedside.
There was another truly polite and kind-hearted attendant at Hutchins’s
sales, Mr. Pitt, of Westminster. The manners of this gentleman were
precise, and he wore a large five-story white wig.
The next collector at this period was Mr. Wodhull,[213] the translator of
Euripides. He was very thin, with a long nose and thick lips; of manners
perfectly gentlemanly. The great singularity of his appearance arose,
perhaps, from his closing his coat from the first button, immediately
under his chin, to the last, nearly extending to the bottom of his
deep-flap waistcoat-pockets. He seldom spoke, nor would he exceed one
sixpence beyond the sum which he had put down in his catalogue, to give
for the articles he intended to bid for; and though he frequently went
away without purchasing a single lot, or even speaking to any one during
the whole evening, he always took off his hat, and bowed low to the
company before he left the auction-room.
Mr. Rawle, an accoutrement-maker, then living in the Strand, was a
visitor: he was the friend of Captain Grose, and the executor of
Thomas Worlidge,[214] the etcher. In his early days he had collected
many curious and valuable articles. His cabinets contained numerous
interesting portraits in miniature of Elizabethan characters. He was
a professed Commonwealth man, and possessed many of the Protector’s,
or, according to some writers, the usurper’s letters. He also prided
himself upon having the leathern doublet, sword, and hat in which
Oliver dissolved the Parliament, and showed a helmet that he could
incontrovertibly prove had belonged to him. He likewise frequently
expatiated for a considerable time upon a magnificent wig, which he said
had been worn by that Merry Monarch, King Charles the Second.[215] This
singular character never would allow more than a halfpenny-worth of
vegetables to be put upon his table, though they were ever so cheap; and
when they were above his price, he went without.[216]
Another singular character of the name of Beauvais, who at one time had
flourished at Tunbridge Wells as a miniature-painter,[217] attended the
evening auctions. This man, who was short and rather lumpy in stature,
indeed nearly as wide as he was high, was a native of France, and through
sheer idleness became so filthily dirty in his person and dress, that
few of the company would sit by him. Yet I have seen him in a black suit
with his sword and bag, in the evening of the day on which he had been
at Court, where for years he was a constant attendant. This “Sack of
Sand,” as Suett the actor generally called him, sat at the lower end of
the table; and as he very seldom made purchases, few persons ventured to
converse with him. He frequently much annoyed Hutchins by the loudest of
all snoring; and now and then Doctor Wolcot would ask him a question,
in order to indulge in a laugh at his mode of uttering an answer, which
Peter Pindar declared to be more like the gobbling of a turkey-cock than
anything human. He lived in a two-pair-of-stairs back room in St. James’s
Market; and, after his death, Hutchins sold his furniture. I recollect
his spinet, music-stool, and a few dog’s-eared sheets of lessons sold for
three-and-sixpence.
Mr. Matthew Mitchell,[218] the banker, frequently joined these parties,
and seldom went away without a purchase of prints under his arm. He was
extremely well-proportioned, and walked in what I have often heard the
ladies of the _old school_ style a portly manner. He was remarkable
for a width of chin, which was full as large as Titus Oates’s, and a
set of large white teeth. His features altogether, however, bespoke a
good-natured and liberal man. This gentleman was very kind to me when
I was a boy, and I never hear his name mentioned but with unspeakable
pleasure.
[Illustration: CHRISTIE’S AS “RAINY DAY” SMITH KNEW IT]
Mr. Mitchell had a most serious antipathy to a kitten. He could sit in
a room without experiencing the least emotion from a cat; but directly
he perceived a kitten, his flesh shook on his bones, like a snail in
vinegar. I once relieved him from one of these paroxysms, by taking a
kitten out of the room; on my return he thanked me, and declared his
feelings to be insupportable upon such an occasion. Long subsequently I
asked him whether he could in any way account for this agitation. He said
he could not, adding that he experienced no such sensations upon seeing
a full-grown cat; but that a kitten, after he had looked at it for a
minute or two, in his imagination grew to the size of an overpowering
elephant.
At this period Hogarth’s prints were in such high request, that whenever
anything remarkable appeared, it was stoutly contested: for Mr. Packer,
of Combe’s Brewhouse, was one of the most enterprising of the Hogarth
collectors. This gentleman, though his manners sometimes appeared blunt,
was highly respected by all who really knew him: it was at this time he
became my friend.[219]
He was tall, of good proportion, and well-favoured. He had his
peculiarities in dress, particularly as to his hat, which was an
undoubted original. Mr. Packer’s opponents in Hogarth prints were two
persons, one of the name of Vincent, a tall, half-starved-looking man,
who walked with a high gilt chased-headed cane (he had been a chaser of
milk-pots, watch-cases, and heads of canes, and he always walked with
this cane as a show-article), and the other of the name of Powell, better
known under the appellation of “_Old black wig_.”
Henderson, the player,[220] who was also a collector of Hogarth’s works,
seldom made his appearance on these boards--John Ireland being his
deputy-manager.[221]
I must not omit to mention another singular but most honourable
character, of the name of Heywood, nicknamed “Old Iron Wig.” His dress
was precise, and manner of walking rather stiff. He was an extensive
purchaser of every kind of article in art, particularly Rowlandson’s
drawings; for this purpose he employed the merry and friendly Mr.
Seguier,[222] the picture-dealer, a schoolfellow of my father’s, to bid
for him.
I shall now close this list by observing that my early friend and
fellow-pupil, Rowlandson, who has frequently made drawings of Hutchins
and his print-auctions, has produced a most spirited etching, in which
not only many of the above-described characters are introduced, but also
most of the printsellers of the day. There is another, though it must
be owned very indifferent, plate, containing what the publisher called
“Portraits of Printsellers,” from a monotonous drawing by the late
Silvester Harding, whose manner of delineation made persons appear to
be all of one family, particularly his sleepy-eyed and gaudily-coloured
drawings of ladies.
1787.
At this time my mimic powers induced Delpini the clown,[223] who had
often been amused with several of my imitations of public characters,
to mention me to Mr. John Palmer,[224] who, after listening to my
specimens, promised me an engagement at the Royalty Theatre, which was
then erecting; but as that gentleman was too sanguine, and failed in
procuring a licence, I, as well as many other strutting heroes, was
disappointed.
After this my friends advised me to resume the arts; and, with the usual
confidence of an unskilful beginner, I at once presumed to style myself
“drawing-master.” However, my slender abilities, or rather industry,
were noticed by my kind patrons, who soon recommended me to pupils, and
by that pursuit I was enabled, with some increase of talent, to support
myself for several years. It is rather extraordinary that mimicry with
me was not confined to the voice, for I could in many instances throw
my features into a resemblance of the person whose voice I imitated.
Indeed, so ridiculous were several of these gesticulations, that I
remember diverting one of my companions by endeavouring to look like the
various lion-headed knockers as we passed through a long street. Skilful,
however, as I was declared to be in some of my attempts, I could not in
any way manage the dolphin knockers in Dean Street, Fetter Lane. Their
ancient and fish-like appearance was certainly many fathoms beyond my
depth; and as much by reason of my being destitute of gills, and the nose
of that finny tribe, extending nearly in width to its tremendous mouth, I
was obliged to give up the attempt.
When first I saw these knockers, which were all of solid brass, seventeen
of the doors of the four-and-twenty houses in Dean Street were adorned
with them, and the good housewives’ care was to keep them as bright as
the chimney-sweeper’s ladle on May-day. As my mind from my earliest
remembrance was of an inquisitive nature, my curiosity urged me to learn
why this street, above all others, was thus adorned; and my inquiry was,
as I then thought, at once answered satisfactorily.
This ground and the houses upon it belong to the Fishmongers’ Company,
was the answer returned by one of the oldest inhabitants; and the
heraldic reader will recollect that the arms of that worshipful and
ancient body are dolphins. Not being satisfied with this assertion,
however, I went to Fishmongers’ Hall, and was there assured that the
Company never had any property in Dean Street, Fetter Lane. On the 17th
of May, 1829, I visited this street in order to see how many of my
brazen-faced acquaintances exposed themselves, and I found that Dean
Street was nearly as deficient in its dolphin knockers as a churchyard is
of its earliest tombstones, for out of seventeen only three remained.[225]
In the commencement of this year I took lodgings in Gerrard Street, and
acquiesced in the regulations of my landlady; one of the principal of
which was, that I never was to expect to be let in after twelve o’clock,
unless the servant was apprised of my staying out later, and then she
was to be permitted to sit up for me. Being in my twenty-first year, of
a lively disposition, and moreover fond of theatrical representations,
I did not at all times “remember twelve”; for although Mrs. Siddons
sounded it so emphatically upon my ear, I could never quit the theatre
till half an hour after. My finances at this period being sometimes too
slender to afford an additional lodging for the night, and not often
venturing to expose myself to insult, or the artful and designing, by
perambulating the city, unless the moon invited me, I fortunately hit
upon the following expedient, which not only sheltered me from rain,
but afforded me a seat by the fireside. I either used to go to the
watch-house of St. Paul, Covent Garden, or that of St. Anne, Soho; so,
having made myself free of both by agreeing with the watch-house keeper
to stand the expense of two pots of porter upon every nocturnal visit, I
was enabled to see what is called “life and human nature.”
[Illustration: A LONDON WATCH HOUSE]
One of the curious scenes witnessed upon a more recent occasion afforded
me no small amusement. Sir Harry Dinsdale, usually called Dimsdale, a
short, feeble little man, was brought in to St. Anne’s watch-house,
charged by two colossal guardians of the night with conduct most unruly.
“What have you, Sir Harry, to say to all this?” asked the Dogberry of
St. Anne. The knight, who had been roughly handled, commenced like a
true orator, in a low tone of voice, “May it please ye, my magistrate,
I am not drunk; it is _languor_. A parcel of the bloods of the Garden
have treated me cruelly, because I would not treat them. This day, Sir,
I was sent for by Mr. Sheridan to make my speech upon the table at the
Shakspeare Tavern, in _Common_ Garden; he wrote the speech for me, and
always gives me half a guinea, when he sends for me to the tavern. You
see I didn’t go in my Royal robes; I only put ’um on when I stand to be
member.” Constable--“Well, but Sir Harry, why are you brought here?” One
of the watchmen then observed, “That though Sir Harry was but a little
_shambling_ fellow, he was so _upstroppolus_ and kicked him about at such
a rate, that it was as much as he and his comrade could do to bring him
along.” As there was no one to support the charge, Sir Harry was advised
to go home, which, however, he swore he would not do at midnight without
an escort. “Do you know,” said he, “there’s a parcel of _raps_ now on the
outside waiting for me.”
The constable of the night gave orders for him to be protected to the
public-house opposite the west end of St. Giles’s Church, where he then
lodged. Sir Harry hearing a noise in the street, muttered, “I shall catch
it; I know I shall.” “See the conquering hero comes” (_cries without_).
“Ay, they always use that tune when I gain my election at Garrett.”
Although many of my readers may recollect Sir Harry Dinsdale, yet it
may be well for the information of others to state who and what he was.
Before I commence his history, however, I should observe that the death
of Sir Jeffery Dunstan, a dealer in old wigs, who had been for many years
returned member for Garrett, first gave popularity to Harry Dinsdale,
who, from the moment he stood as candidate, received mock knighthood,
and was ever after known under the appellation of “Sir Harry.”[226]
There are several portraits of this singular little object, by some
called “Honeyjuice,” as well as of his more whimsical predecessor, Sir
Jeffery Dunstan, better known as “Old Wigs.” Sir Harry exercised the
itinerant trade of a muffinman in the afternoon; he had a little bell,
which he held to his ear, smiling ironically at its tingling. His cry
was “Muffins! muffins! ladies come buy _me_! pretty, handsome, blooming,
smiling maids.” Flaxman the sculptor, and Mrs. Mathew, of blue-stocking
memory, equipped him as a hardware man, and as such I made two etchings
of him.
[Illustration: SIR HARRY DINSDALE