COVENT GARDEN CONTINUED AND LEICESTER SQUARE.
Bow Street once the Bond Street of London -- Fashions at that
time -- Infamous frolic of Sir Charles Sedley and others --
Wycherly and the Countess of Drogheda -- Tonson the Bookseller
-- Fielding -- Russell Street -- Dryden beaten by hired
ruffians in Rose Street -- His Presidency at Will's
Coffee-House -- Character of that Place -- Addison and Button's
Coffee-House -- Pope, Philips, and Garth -- Armstrong --
Boswell's introduction to Johnson -- The Hummums -- Ghost Story
there -- Covent Garden -- The Church -- Car, Earl of Somerset
-- Butler, Southern, Eastcourt, Sir Robert Strange -- Macklin
-- Curious Dialogue with him when past a century -- Dr. Walcot
-- Covent Garden Market -- Story of Lord Sandwich, Hackman, and
Miss Ray -- Henrietta Street -- Mrs. Clive -- James Street --
Partridge, the almanack-maker -- Mysterious lady -- King Street
-- Arne and his Father -- The four Indian Kings -- Southampton
Row -- Maiden Lane -- Voltaire -- Long Acre and its Mug-Houses
-- Prior's resort there -- Newport Street -- St. Martin's Lane,
and Leicester Square -- Sir Joshua Reynolds -- Hogarth -- Sir
Isaac Newton.
Bow Street was once the Bond Street of London. Mrs. Bracegirdle began
an epilogue of Dryden's with saying--
"I've had to-day a dozen billet-doux
From fops, and wits, and cits, and Bow-street beaux;
Some from Whitehall, but from the Temple more:
A Covent-garden porter brought me four."
Sir Walter Scott says, in a note on the passage, "With a slight
alteration in spelling, a modern poet would have written _Bond Street_
beaux. A billet-doux from Bow Street would now be more alarming than
flattering."[274]
Mrs. Bracegirdle spoke this epilogue at Drury Lane. There was no
Covent Garden theatre then. People of fashion occupied the houses in
Bow Street, and mantuas floated lip and down the pavement. This was
towards the end of the Stuart's reign, and the beginning of the next
century--the times of Dryden, Wycherly, and the Spectator. The beau of
Charles's time is well-known. He wore, when in full flower, a peruke
to imitate the flowing locks of youth, a Spanish hat, clothes of
slashed silk or velvet, the slashes tied with ribands, a coat
resembling a vest rather than the modern coat, and silk stockings,
with roses in his shoes. The Spanish was afterwards changed for the
cocked hat, the flowing peruke for one more compact; the coat began to
stiffen into the modern shape, and when in full dress, the beau wore
his hat under his arm. His grimaces have been described by Dryden--
"His various modes from various fathers follow;
One taught the toss, and one the new French wallow;
His sword-knot this, his cravat that designed;
And this the yard-long snake that twirls behind.
From one the sacred periwig he gained,
Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat profaned.
Another's diving bow he did adore,
Which with a shog casts all the hair before,
Till he, with full decorum, brings it back,
And rises with a water-spaniel shake."[275]
One of these perukes would sometimes cost forty or fifty pounds. The
fair sex at this time waxed and waned through all the varieties of
dishabilles, hoop-petticoats, and stomachers. We must not enter upon
this boundless sphere, especially as we have to treat upon it from
time to time. We shall content ourselves with describing a set of
lady's clothes, advertised as stolen in the year 1709, and which would
appear to have belonged to a belle resolved to strike even Bow Street
with astonishment. They consisted of "a black silk petticoat, with a
red-and-white calico border; cherry-coloured stays, trimmed with blue
and silver; a red and dove-coloured damask gown, flowered with large
trees; a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian; muslin
head-cloths, with crowfoot edging; double ruffles with fine edging; a
black silk furbelowed scarf, and a spotted hood!"[276] It is probable,
however, the lady did not wear all these colours at once.
A tavern in Bow Street, the Cock, became notorious for a frolic of Sir
Charles Sedley, Lord Buckhurst, and others, frequently mentioned in
the biographies, but too disgusting to be told. There was an account
of it in Pepys' manuscript, but it was obliged to be omitted in the
printing. Anthony à Wood found it out, and first gave it to the
public. It was not commonly dissolute, there was a filthiness in it,
which would have been incredible if told of any other period than that
of the fine gentlemen of the court of Charles. What can be repeated
has been told by Johnson in his life of Sackville, Lord Dorset.
"Sackville, who was then Lord Buckhurst, with Sir Charles
Sedley, and Sir Thomas Ogle, got drunk at the Cock, in Bow
Street, by Covent Garden, and going into the balcony, exposed
themselves to the company in very indecent postures. At last,
as they grew warmer, Sedley stood forth naked, and harangued
the populace in such profane language, that the public
indignation was awakened; the crowd attempted to force the
door, and being repulsed, drove in the performers with stones,
and broke the windows of the house. For this misdemeanour they
were indicted, and Sedley was fined five hundred pounds; what
was the sentence of the others is not known. Sedley employed
Killegrew and another to procure a remission of the King, but
(mark the friendship of the dissolute!) they begged the fine
for themselves, and exacted it to the last groat."
Opposite this tavern lived Wycherly, with his wife, the Countess of
Drogheda. Charles paid him a visit there, before Wycherly knew the
lady; and showed him a kindness which his marriage is said to have
interrupted. The story begins and ends with Bow Street, and, as far as
concerns the lady, is curious.
"Mr. Wycherly," says the biographer, "happened to be ill of a
fever at his lodgings in Bow Street, Covent Garden: during his
sickness, the King did him the honour of a visit: when, finding
his fever indeed abated, but his body extremely weakened, and
his spirits miserably shattered, he commanded him to take a
journey to the south of France, believing that nothing could
contribute more to the restoring his former state of health
than the gentle air of Montpelier during the winter season: at
the same time, the King assured him, that as soon as he was
able to undertake the journey, he would order five hundred
pounds to be paid him to defray the expenses of it.
"Mr. Wycherly accordingly went to France, and returned to
England the latter end of the spring following, with his health
entirely restored. The King received him with the utmost marks
of esteem, and shortly after told him he had a son, who he
resolved should be educated like the son of a king, and that he
could make choice of no man so proper to be his governor as Mr.
Wycherly; and that, for this service, he should have fifteen
hundred pounds a-year allotted to him; the King also added,
that when the time came that his office should cease, he would
take care to make such a provision for him as should set him
above the malice of the world and fortune. These were golden
prospects for Mr. Wycherly, but they were soon by a cross
accident dashed to pieces.
"Soon after this promise of his Majesty's, Mr. Dennis tells us
that Mr. Wycherly went down to Tunbridge, to take either the
benefit of the waters or the diversions of the place, when,
walking one day upon the Wells-walk with his friend, Mr.
Fairbeard, of Gray's Inn, just as he came up to the
bookseller's, the Countess of Drogheda, a young widow, rich,
noble, and beautiful, came up to the bookseller and inquired
for the 'Plain Dealer.' 'Madam,' says Mr. Fairbeard, 'since you
are for the "Plain Dealer," there he is for you,' pushing Mr.
Wycherly towards her. 'Yes,' says Mr. Wycherly, 'this lady can
bear plain-dealing, for she appears to be so accomplished, that
what would be a compliment to others, when said to her would be
plain-dealing.' 'No, truly, sir,' said the lady, 'I am not
without my faults more than the rest of my sex: and yet,
notwithstanding all my faults, I love plain-dealing, and am
never more fond of it than when it tells me of a fault.' 'Then,
Madam,' says Mr. Fairbeard, 'you and the plain dealer seem
designed by heaven for each other.' In short, Mr. Wycherly
accompanied her upon the walks, waited upon her home, visited
her daily at her lodgings whilst she stayed at Tunbridge; and
after she went to London, at her lodgings in Hatton Garden:
where, in a little time, he obtained her consent to marry her.
This he did, by his father's command, without acquainting the
King; for it was reasonably supposed, that the lady's having a
great independent estate, and noble and powerful relations, the
acquainting the King with the intended match would be the
likeliest way to prevent it. As soon as the news was known at
court, it was looked upon as an affront to the King, and a
contempt of his Majesty's orders; and Mr. Wycherly's conduct
after marrying made the resentment fall heavier upon him: for
being conscious he had given offence, and seldom going near the
court, his absence was construed into ingratitude.
"The Countess, though a splendid wife, was not formed to make a
husband happy; she was in her nature extremely jealous; and
indulged in it to such a degree, that she could not endure her
husband should be one moment out of her sight. Their lodgings
were in Bow Street, Covent Garden, over against the Cock
Tavern, whither, if Mr. Wycherly at any time went, he was
obliged to leave the windows open, that his lady might see
there was no woman in the company."[277]
"The Countess," says another writer, "made him some amends by dying in
a reasonable time." His title to her fortune, however, was disputed,
and his circumstances, though he had property, were always
constrained. He was rich enough however to marry a young woman a few
days before he died, in order to disappoint a troublesome heir. In his
old age he became acquainted with Pope, then a youth, who vexed him by
taking him at his word, when asked to correct his poetry. Wycherly
showed a candid horror at growing old, natural enough to a man who had
been one of the gayest of the gay, very handsome, and a "Captain." He
was captain in the regiment of which Buckingham was colonel. We have
mentioned the Duchess of Cleveland's visits to him when a student in
the Temple. Wycherly is the greatest of all our comic dramatists for
truth of detection in what is ill, as Congreve is the greatest painter
of artificial life, and Farquhar and Hoadley the best discoverers of
what is pleasant and good-humoured. When the profligacy of writers
like Wycherly is spoken of, we should not forget that much of it is
not only confined to certain characters, but that the detection of
these characters leaves an impression on the mind highly favourable to
genuine morals. A modern critic, as excellent in his remarks on the
drama as the one quoted at the conclusion of our last chapter is upon
the stage, says on this point, speaking of the comedy of the "Plain
Dealer,"--"The character of Manly is violent, repulsive, and uncouth,
which is a fault, though one that seems to have been intended for the
sake of contrast; for the portrait of consummate, artful hypocrisy in
Olivia, is, perhaps, rendered more striking by it. The indignation
excited against this odious and pernicious quality by the masterly
exposure to which it is here subjected, is 'a discipline of humanity.'
No one can read this play attentively without being the better for it
as long as he lives. It penetrates to the core; it shows the
immorality and hateful effects of duplicity, by showing it fixing its
harpy fangs in the heart of an honest and worthy man. It is worth ten
volumes of sermons. The scenes between Manly, after his return,
Olivia, Plausible, and Norel, are instructive examples of unblushing
impudence, of shallow pretensions to principle, and of the most
mortifying reflections on his own situation, and bitter sense of
female injustice and ingratitude on the part of Manly. The devil of
hypocrisy and hardened assurance seems worked up to the highest pitch
of conceivable effrontery in Olivia, when, after confiding to her
cousin the story of her infamy, she, in a moment, turns round upon her
for some sudden purpose, and affecting not to know the meaning of the
other's allusions to what she had just told her, reproaches her with
forging insinuations to the prejudice of her character, and in
violation of their friendship. 'Go! you're a censorious woman.' This
is more trying to the patience than anything in the Tartuffe."
Tonson, the great bookseller of his time, had a private house in Bow
Street. Rowe, in an amusing parody of Horace's dialogue with Lydia,
has left an account of old Jacob's visitors here, and of his style of
language.
Tonson got rich, but he was penurious; and his want of generosity
towards Dryden (to say the least of it) has done him no honour with
posterity. It may be said that he cared little for posterity or for
anything else, provided he got his money; but a man who cares for
money (unless he is a pure miser) only cares for power and
consideration in another shape; and no man chooses to be disliked by
his fellow-creatures, living, or to come. In the correspondence
between Tonson and Dryden, we see the usual painful picture (when the
bookseller is of this description) of the tradesman taking all the
advantages, and the author made to suffer for being a gentleman and a
man of delicacy. This is the common, and, perhaps, the natural order
of things, till society see better throughout; though there have been,
and still are, some handsome exceptions, as in the instances of
Dodsley, the late Mr. Johnson, and others. The bookseller generally
behaves well, in proportion to his intelligence; nothing being so
eager to catch all petty advantages as the consciousness of having no
other ground to go upon. It may be answered that Dryden's patience
with Tonson sometimes got exhausted, and he became "captious and
irritable:" and it is always to be remembered that the bookseller need
not pretend to be anything more than a tradesman seeking his allowed
profits; but he should not on every occasion retreat into the
strongholds of trade, and yet claim the merit of acting otherwise; and
Tonson, who undertook to be the familiar friend of Rowe and Congreve,
ought not to have been able to insult the man whom they both
respected, because he was not so well off as they. The following
passage of mingled amusement and painfulness is out of Sir Walter
Scott:--
"Dryden," says Sir Walter, in his life of the poet, "seems to
have been particularly affronted at a presumptuous plan of that
publisher (a keen whig, and Secretary to the Kit-Cat Club) to
drive him into inscribing the translation of 'Virgil' to King
William. With this view Tonson had an especial care to make the
engraver aggravate the nose of Eneas in the plates into a
sufficient resemblance of the hooked promontory of the
Deliverer's countenance, and foreseeing Dryden's repugnance to
his favourite plan, he had recourse, it would seem, to more
unjustifiable means to further it; for the poet expresses
himself as convinced that, through Tonson's means, his
correspondence with his sons, then at Rome, was intercepted. I
suppose Jacob, having fairly laid siege to his author's
conscience, had no scruple to intercept all foreign supplies,
which might have confirmed him in his pertinacity. But Dryden,
although thus closely beleagured, held fast his integrity; and
no prospect of personal advantage, or importunity on the part
of Tonson, could induce him to take a step inconsistent with
his religious and political sentiments. It was probably during
the course of these bickerings with his publisher, that Dryden,
incensed at some refusal of accommodation on the part of
Tonson, sent him three well-known coarse and forcible
satirical lines descriptive of his personal appearance:--
'With leering looks, bull-faced, and freckled fair,
With two left legs, and Judas-coloured hair,
And frouzy pores, that taint the ambient air.'
"'Tell the dog,' said the poet to the messenger, 'that he who
wrote these can write more.' But Tonson, perfectly satisfied
with this single triplet, hastened to comply with the author's
request, without requiring any further specimen of his poetical
powers. It would seem, on the other hand, that when Dryden
neglected his stipulated labour, Tonson possessed powers of
animadversion, which, though exercised in plain prose, were not
a little dreaded by the poet. Lord Bolingbroke, already a
votary of the Muses, and admitted to visit their high-priest,
was wont to relate, that one day he heard another person enter
the house. 'This,' said Dryden, 'is Tonson; you will take care
not to depart before he goes away, for I have not completed the
sheet which I promised him; and if you leave me unprotected, I
shall suffer all the rudeness to which his resentment can
prompt his tongue.'"[278]
Fielding lived some time in Bow Street, probably during his
magistracy.
We turn out of Bow Street into Russell Street, so called from the
noble family of that name, who possess great property in this quarter.
It is pleasant to think that the name is accordant with the reputation
of the place, for we are more than ever in the thick of wits and men
of letters, especially of a race which was long peculiar to this
country, literary politicians. At the north-east corner of the two
streets was the famous Will's coffee-house, formerly the Rose, where
Dryden presided over the literature of the town; and on the other side
of the way, on a part of the site of the present Hummums, stood
Button's coffee-house, no less celebrated as the resort of the wits
and poets of the time of Queen Anne.
Dryden is identified with the neighbourhood of Covent Garden. He
presided in the chair at Russell Street; his plays came out in the
theatre at the other end of it; he lived in Gerrard Street, which is
not far off; and, alas! for the anti-climax! he was beaten by hired
bravos in Rose Street, now called Rose Alley. Great men come down to
posterity with their proper aspects of calmness and dignity; and we do
not easily fancy that they received anything from their contemporaries
but the grateful homage which is paid them by ourselves. "But the life
of a wit," says Steele, "is a warfare upon earth." Sir Walter Scott,
speaking of the beautiful description given by Dryden of the Attic
nights he enjoyed with Sir Charles Sedley and others, observes, "He
had not yet experienced the disadvantages attendant on such society,
or learned how soon literary eminence becomes the object of
detraction, of envy, of injury, even from those who can best feel its
merit, if they are discouraged by dissipated habits from emulating its
flight, or hardened by perverted feeling against loving its
possessors."[279]
The outrage perpetrated upon the sacred shoulders of the poet was the
work of Lord Rochester, and originated in a mistake not creditable to
that would-be great man and dastardly debauchee. The following is Sir
Walter's account of the matter.
"The 'Essay on Satire' (by Lord Mulgrave, afterwards Duke of
Buckinghamshire), though written, as appears from the
title-page of the last edition, in 1675, was not made public
until 1679, with this observation:--I have sent you herewith a
libel, in which my own share is not the least. The king having
perused it, is no way dissatisfied with his. The author is
apparently Mr. Dr[yden], his patron Lord M[ulgrave], having a
panegyric in the midst. From hence it is evident that Dryden
obtained the reputation of being the author; in consequence of
which, Rochester meditated the base and cowardly revenge which
he afterwards executed; and he thus coolly expressed his
intention in another of his letters:--'You write me word that I
am out of favour with a certain poet, whom I have admired for
the disproportion of him and his attributes. He is a rarity
which I cannot but be fond of, as one would be of a hog that
could fiddle, or a singing owl. If he falls on me at the blunt,
which is his very good weapon in wit, I will forgive him if you
please, and _leave the repartee to black Will with a cudgel_.'
"In pursuance of this infamous resolution, upon the night of
the 18th December, 1679, Dryden was waylaid by hired ruffians,
and severely beaten, as he passed through Rose Street, Covent
Garden, returning from Will's coffee-house to his own house in
Gerrard Street. A reward of fifty pounds was in vain offered in
the 'London Gazette' and other newspapers, for the discoverers
of the perpetrators of this outrage. The town was, however, at
no loss to pitch upon Rochester as the employer of the bravos,
with whom the public suspicion joined the Duchess of
Portsmouth, equally concerned in the supposed affront thus
avenged. In our time, were a nobleman to have recourse to hired
bravos to avenge his personal quarrels against any one, more
especially a person holding the rank of a gentleman, he might
lay his account with being hunted out of society. But in the
age of Charles, the ancient high and chivalrous sense of honour
was esteemed Quixotic, and the civil war had left traces of
ferocity in the manners and sentiments of the people.
Encounters, where the assailants took all advantages of number
and weapons, were as frequent, and held as honourable, as
regular duels. Some of these approached closely to
assassination; as in the famous case of Sir John Coventry, who
was waylaid and had his nose slit by some young men of rank,
for a reflection upon the King's theatrical amours. This
occasioned the famous statute against maiming and wounding,
called the Coventry Act, an Act highly necessary, for so far
did our ancestors' ideas of manly forbearance differ from ours,
that Killegrew introduces the hero of one of his comedies, a
cavalier, and the fine gentleman of the piece, lying in wait
for, and slashing the face of a poor courtezan, who had cheated
him.
"It will certainly be admitted, that a man, surprised in the
dark, and beaten by ruffians, loses no honour by such a
misfortune. But if Dryden had received the same discipline from
Rochester's own hand, without resenting it, his drubbing could
not have been more frequently made a matter of reproach to him:
a sign, surely, of the penury of subjects for satire in his
life and character, since an accident, which might have
happened to the greatest hero that ever lived, was resorted to
as an imputation on his honour. The Rose Alley ambuscade became
almost proverbial; and even Mulgrave, the real author of the
satire, and upon whose shoulders the blows ought in justice to
have descended, mentions the circumstance in his 'Art of
Poetry,' with a cold and self-sufficient sneer:--
'Though praised and punished for another's rhymes,
His own deserve as great applause _sometimes_.'
To which is added in a note, 'A libel for which he was both
applauded and wounded, though entirely ignorant of the whole
matter.' This flat and conceited couplet, and note, the noble
author judged it proper to omit in the corrected edition of his
poem. Otway alone, no longer the friend of Rochester, and,
perhaps, no longer the enemy of Dryden, has spoken of the
author of this dastardly outrage with the contempt it
deserved:--
'Poets in honour of the truth should write,
With the same spirit brave men for it fight;
And though against him causeless hatreds rise,
And daily where he goes of late, he spies
The scowls of sudden and revengeful eyes;
'Tis what he knows with much contempt to bear.
And serves a cause too good to let him fear,
He fears no poison from incensed drab,
No ruffian's five-foot sword, nor rascal's stab;
Nor any other snares of mischief laid,
_Not a Rose-alley cudgel ambuscade_;
From any private cause where malice reigns,
Or general pique all blockheads have to brains.'"[280]
We dismiss this specimen of the times, that we may enjoy the look of
Dryden as posterity sees it,--that is to say, as that of the first
poet of his class, presiding over the tastes and aspirations of the
town. Milton sat in his suburban bower, equally removed from outrage
and compliment, and contemplating a still greater futurity. In the
following passage from the 'Country and City Mouse,' by Prior and
Montagu, Dryden, it is true, is spoken of with hostility, but his
acknowledged predominance shines through it. Prior's instinct misgave
him in writing against his natural master.
"Then on they jogg'd; and since an hour of talk
Might cut a banter on the tedious walk,
As I remember, said the sober mouse,
I've heard much talk of the Wits' Coffee-house;
Thither, says Brindle, thou shalt go and see
Priests supping coffee, sparks and poets tea;
Here rugged frieze, there quality well drest,
These baffling the grand Senior, those the Test,
And there shrewd guesses made, and reasons given,
That human laws were never made in heaven;
But, above all, what shall oblige thy sight,
And fill thy eye-balls with a vast delight,
Is the poetic judge of sacred wit,
Who does i' th' darkness of his glory sit;
And as the moon who first receives the light,
With which she makes these nether regions bright,
So does he shine, reflecting from afar
The rays he borrowed from a better star;
For rules, which from Corneille and Rapin flow,
Admired by all the scribbling herd below,
From French tradition while he does dispense
Unerring truths, 'tis schism, a damned offence,
To question his, or trust your private sense."[281]
Will's Coffee-house was at the western corner of Bow Street. It first
had the title of the Red Cow, then of the Rose; and we believe is the
same house alluded to in the pleasant story in the second number of
the 'Tatler:'--
"Supper and friends expect we at the Rose."
The Rose, however, was a common sign for houses of public
entertainment. The company, of which our poet was the arbiter, sat
up-stairs in what was then called the dining, but now the
drawing-room; and there was a balcony, to which his chair was removed
in summer from its prescriptive corner by the fire-side in winter.
"The appeal," says Malcolm, "was made to him upon every literary
dispute. The company did not sit in boxes, as at present, but at
various tables which were dispersed through the room. Smoking was
permitted in the public room: it was then so much in vogue that it
does not seem to have been considered a nuisance. Here, as in other
similar places of meeting, the visitors divided themselves into
parties; and we are told by Ward, that the young beaux and wits, who
seldom approached the principal table, thought it a great honour to
have a pinch out of Dryden's snuff-box."[282]
A lively specimen of a scene with Dryden in this coffee-house has been
afforded us by Dean Lockier. "I was about seventeen when I first came
up to town," says the Dean, "an odd-looking boy, with short rough
hair, and that sort of awkwardness which one always brings up at first
out of the country with one. However, in spite of my bashfulness and
appearance, I used, now and then, to thrust myself into Will's, to
have the pleasure of seeing the most celebrated wits of that time, who
then resorted thither. The second time that ever I was there, Mr.
Dryden was speaking of his own things, as he frequently did,
especially of such as had been lately published. 'If anything of mine
is good,' says he, ''tis "Mac-Flecno;" and I value myself the more
upon it, because it is the first piece of ridicule written in
heroics.' On hearing this I plucked up my spirit so far as to say, in
a voice but just loud enough to be heard, 'that "Mac-Flecno" was a
very fine poem, but that I had not imagined it to be the first that
was ever writ that way.' On this, Dryden turned short upon me, as
surprised at my interposing; asked me how long 'I had been a dealer in
poetry; and added, with a smile, 'Pray, sir, what is it that you did
imagine to have been writ so before?'--I named Boileau's 'Lutrin,' and
Tassoni's 'Secchia Rapita,' which I had read, and knew Dryden had
borrowed some strokes from each. ''Tis true,' said Dryden, 'I had
forgot them.' A little after, Dryden went out, and in going, spoke to
me again, and desired me to come and see him the next day. I was
highly delighted with the invitation; went to see him accordingly;
and was well acquainted with him after, as long as he lived."[283]
Dryden's mixture of simplicity, good-nature, and good opinion of
himself, is here seen in a very agreeable manner. It must not be
omitted, that it was to this house Pope was taken when a boy, by his
own desire, on purpose to get a sight of the great man; which he did.
According to Pope, he was plump, with a fresh colour and a down look,
and not very conversable. It appears, however, that what he did say
was much to the purpose; and a contemporary mentions his conversation
on that account as one of the few things for which the town was
desirable. He was a temperate man; though, for the last ten years of
his life, Davies informs us that he drank with Addison a great deal
more than he used to do, "probably so far as to hasten his end."
It is curious, considering his peculiar sort of reputation with
posterity, that Addison's name should be found so connected in his own
time with this species of irregularity. The same cause is supposed to
have hastened his own end; and it is related by Pope, that he was
obliged to avoid the Russell Street Coffee-house, and the bad hours of
Addison, otherwise they might have hastened his.
Will's Coffee-house was the great emporium of libels and scandal. The
channels that have since abounded for the dregs of literature had
scarcely then begun to exist; and, instead of purveying for periodical
publications, the retailers of obloquy attended among the minor wits
of this place, and distributed the last new lampoon in manuscript.
There was a drunken fellow of that time, named Julian, who acquired an
infamous celebrity in this way. Sir Walter Scott, in his edition of
Dryden, has given the following account of him and his vocation.
"The extremity of license in manners necessarily leads to equal
license in personal satire, and there never was an age in which
both were carried to such excess as in that of Charles II.
These personal and scandalous libels acquired the name of
lampoons, from the established burden formerly sung to them:--
'Lampone lampone, camerada lampone,'
"Dryden suffered under these violent and invisible assaults, as
much as any of his age; to which his own words in several
places of his writing, and also the existence of many of the
pasquils themselves in the Luttrel Collection, bear ample
witness. In many of his prologues and epilogues, he alludes to
this rage for personal satire, and to the employment which it
found for the half and three-quarter wits and courtiers of the
time!
'Yet these are pearls to your lampooning rhymes;
Ye abuse yourselves more dully than the times;
Scandal, the glory of the English nation,
Is worn to rags, and scribbled out of fashion:
Such harmless thrusts, as if, like fencers wise,
They had agreed their play before their prize.
Faith, they may hang their harp upon the willows;
'Tis just like children when they box their pillows.'
"Upon the general practice of writing lampoons, and the
necessity of finding some mode of dispersing them, which should
diffuse the scandal widely while the authors remained
concealed, was founded the self-erected office of Julian,
Secretary, as he calls himself, to the Muses. This person
attended Will's, the Wits' Coffee-house, as it was called; and
dispersed among the crowds who frequented that place of gay
resort copies of the lampoons which had been privately
communicated to him by their authors. 'He is described,' says
Mr. Malone, 'as a very drunken fellow, and at one time was
confined for a libel.' Several satires were written, in the
form of addresses to him as well as the following. There is one
among the 'State Poems,' beginning--
'Julian, in verse, to ease thy wants I write,
Not moved by envy, malice or by spite,
Or pleased with the empty names of wit and sense,
But merely to supply thy want of pence:
This did inspire my muse, when out at heel, She saw her needy
secretary reel;
Grieved that a man, so useful to the age,
Should foot it in so mean an equipage;
A crying scandal that the fees of sense
Should not be able to support the expense
Of a poor scribe, who never thought of wants,
When able to procure a cup of Nantz.'
"Another, called a 'Consoling Epistle to Julian,' is said to
have been written by the Duke of Buckingham.
"From a passage in one of the letters from the 'Dead to the
Living,' we learn, that after Julian's death, and the madness
of his successor, called Summerton, lampoon felt a sensible
decay; and there was no more that 'brisk spirit of verse, that
used to watch the follies and vices of the men and women of
figure, that they could not start new ones faster than lampoons
exposed them."[284]
These "brisk spirits" have still their descendants, and always will
have till their betters cease to set the example of railing, or to
encourage it. There is a difference, indeed, between the lampoons of
such men and those of Dryden, or the literary personalities to which
some ingenious minds will give way, before they well know what they
are about, out of mere emulation, perhaps, of the names of Pope and
Boileau. But it is not to be expected that the others will stop where
they do, or refine with the progress of their years and knowledge. The
most generous sometimes find it difficult to leave off saying
ill-natured things of one another, out of shame of yielding, or the
habit of indulging their irritability. They endeavour to reconcile
themselves to it by trying to think that the abuse has a utility; but
when they come to this point, the doubt is a proof that they ought to
forego it, and help to teach the world better. Honest contention,
however, is one thing, and scandal is another. The dealer in the
latter has always a petty mind and inferior understanding, most likely
accompanied with conscious unworthiness; the great secret of the love
of scandal lying in the wish to level others with the calumniators.
"Will's continued to be the resort of the wits at least till
1710," says Mr. Malcolm. "Probably Addison established his
servant [Button] in a new house about 1712, and his fame after
the production of 'Cato,' drew many of the Whigs thither."[285]
"Addison," says Pope, "passed each day alike; and much in the
manner that Dryden did. Dryden employed his mornings in
writing, dined _en famille_, and then went to Will's: only he
came home earlier a'nights." And again: "Addison usually
studied all the morning; then met his party at Button's; dined,
and staid there five or six hours; and sometimes far into the
night. I was of the company for about a year, but found it too
much for me: it hurt my health, and so I quitted it."[286]
Button had been a servant of the Countess of Warwick, whom Addison
married. It is said that when the latter was dissatisfied with the
Countess (we believe during the period of his courtship), he used to
withdraw the company from her servant's coffee-house. Unfortunately it
is as easy to believe a petty story of Addison as a careless one of
Steele. Addison, intellectually a great man, was complexionally a
little one. He was timid, bashful, and reserved, and instinctively
sought success by private channels and disingenous measures.
Under the influence of these eminent persons, Button's became the
head-quarters of the Whig literati, as Will's had been that of the
Tory. Steele, however, dated his poetical papers in the 'Tatler' from
Will's, as the old haunt of the town muse. Perhaps the Whiggery of
Button's was one of the reasons why Pope left off going there, as he
did not wish to identify himself with either party. Ambrose Philips is
said to have hung up a rod at that coffee-house, as an intimation of
what Pope should receive at his hands, in case the satirist chose to
hazard it. A similar threat is related of Cibber. The behaviour of
both has been cried out against as unhandsome, considering the little
person and bodily infirmities of the illustrious offender: but as the
threateners were so much his inferiors in wit, and he exercised his
great powers at their expense, it might not be difficult to show that
their conduct was as good as his. Why attack a man, if he is to be
allowed no equality of retaliation? The truth is, that personal satire
is itself an unhandsome thing, and a childish one, and there will be
no end to childish retorts, till the more grown understandings reform.
Pope accused Philips of pilfering his pastorals, and of "turning a
Persian tale for half-a-crown;" the one an offence not very likely,
unless, indeed, all common-places may be said to be stolen; the other
no offence at all, though it might have been a misfortune. These
littlenesses in great men are a part of the childhood of society. They
show us how young it still is, and what a parcel of wrangling
schoolboys (in that respect) a future period may consider us.
One of the most agreeable memories connected with Button's is that of
Garth, a man whom, for the sprightliness and generosity of his nature,
it is a pleasure to name. He was one of the most amiable and
intelligent of a most amiable and intelligent class of men--the
physicians.
Armstrong, another poet and physician and not unworthy of either
class, for genius and goodness of heart, though he had the weakness of
affecting a bluntness of manners, and of swearing, drew his last
breath in this street. He is well known as the author of the most
elegant didactic poem in the language,--the 'Art of Preserving
Health.' The affectations of men of genius are sometimes in direct
contradiction to their best qualities, and assumed to avoid a show of
pretending what they feel. Armstrong, who had bad health, and was
afraid perhaps of being thought effeminate, affected the bully in his
prose writings; and he was such a swearer, that the late Mr. Fuseli's
indulgence in that infirmity has been attributed to his keeping
company with the Doctor when a youth. We never met with a habitual
swearer in whom the habit could not be traced to some feeling of
conscious weakness. Fuseli swore as he painted, in the hope of making
up for the defects of his genius by the violence of his style.
At No. 8, Russell Street, Boswell was introduced to his formidable
friend of whom he became the biographer. The house then belonged to
Davies the bookseller. The account given us of his first interview is
highly characteristic of both parties. Boswell had a thorough specimen
of his future acquaintance at once, and Johnson evidently saw
completely through Boswell.
"Mr. Thomas Davies, the actor," saith the particular Boswell,
"who then kept a bookseller's shop in Russell Street, Covent
Garden, told me that Johnson was very much his friend, and came
frequently to his house, where he more than once invited me to
meet him; but by some unlucky accident or other he was
prevented from coming to us.
"Mr. Thomas Davies was a man of good understanding and talents,
with the advantage of a liberal education. Though somewhat
pompous, he was an entertaining companion; and his literary
performances have no inconsiderable share of merit. He was a
friendly and very hospitable man. Both he and his wife (who had
been celebrated for her beauty), though upon the stage for many
years, maintained an uniform decency of character, and Johnson
esteemed them, and lived in as easy an intimacy with them as
any family which he used to visit. Mr. Davies recollected
several of Johnson's remarkable sayings, and was one of the
best of the many imitators of his voice and manner, while
relating them. He increased my impatience more and more to see
the extraordinary man whose works I highly valued, and whose
conversation was reported to be so peculiarly excellent.
"At last," continues Mr. Boswell, "on the 16th of May, when I
was sitting in Mr. Davies's back parlour, after having drank
tea with him and Mrs. Davies, Johnson unexpectedly came into
the shop, and Mr. Davies having perceived him through the
glass-door in the room in which we were sitting, advancing
towards us--he announced his awful approach somewhat as an
actor in the part of Horatio, when he addresses Hamlet on the
appearance of his father's ghost, 'Look, my lord, it comes.' I
found that I had a very perfect idea of Johnson's figure, from
the portrait of him painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds soon after
he had published his 'Dictionary,' in the attitude of sitting
in his easy chair in deep meditation; which was the first
picture his friend did for him, which Sir Joshua very kindly
presented to me, and from which an engraving has been made for
this work. Mr. Davies mentioned my name, and respectfully
introduced me to him; I was much agitated, and recollecting his
prejudice against the Scotch, of which I had heard much, I said
to Davies, 'Don't tell where I come from.'--'From Scotland,'
cried Davies, roguishly. 'Mr. Johnson,' said I, 'I do indeed
come from Scotland, but I cannot help it.' I am willing to
flatter myself that I meant this as light pleasantry to soothe
and conciliate him, and not as a humiliating abasement at the
expense of my country. But however that might be, this speech
was somewhat unlucky; for with that quickness of wit for which
he was so remarkable, he seized the expression 'come from
Scotland!' which I used in the sense of being of that country;
and, as if I had come away from it, or left it, retorted,
'That, sir, I find, is what a great many of your countrymen
cannot help.' This stroke stunned me a good deal; and when we
had sat down, I felt myself not a little embarrassed, and
apprehensive of what might come next. He then addressed
himself to Davies: 'What do you think of Garrick? he has
refused me an order for the play for Miss Williams, because he
knows the house will be full, and that an order will be worth
three shillings.' Eager to take any opening to get into
conversation with him, I ventured to say, 'O, sir, I cannot
think Mr. Garrick would grudge such a trifle to you.' 'Sir
(said he, with a stern look,) I have known David Garrick longer
than you have done; and I know no right you have to talk to me
on the subject.' Perhaps I deserved this check; for it was
rather presumptuous in me, an entire stranger, to express any
doubt of the justice of his animadversion upon his old
acquaintance and pupil. I now felt myself much mortified, and
began to think that the hope I had long indulged of obtaining
his acquaintance was blasted. And, in truth, had not my ardour
been uncommonly strong, and my resolution uncommonly
persevering, so rough a reception might have deterred me for
ever from making any further attempts. Fortunately, however, I
remained upon the field, not wholly discomfited." * * * "I was
highly pleased with the extraordinary vigour of his
conversation, and regretted that I was drawn away from it by an
engagement at another place. I had, for a part of the evening,
been left alone with him, and had ventured to make an
observation now and then, which he received very civilly; so
that I was satisfied that, though there was a roughness in his
manner, there was no ill-nature in his disposition. Davies
followed me to the door, and when I complained to him a little
of the hard blows which the great man had given me, he kindly
took upon him to console me by saying, 'Don't be uneasy. I can
see he likes you very well.'"[287]
The Hummums Hotel and Coffee-house which occupies the south-west
corner of this street, and stretches round into Covent Garden market,
is so called from an eastern word signifying baths. It was one of the
earliest houses set up in England of that kind, and thence called
bagnios; and one of the few that retained their respectability. The
generality were so much the reverse, that the word bagnio came to mean
a brothel. It appears from a story we are about to relate, that people
went to the Hummums not only to bathe, but to get themselves cupped.
Bathing is too much neglected in this country; but the consequences of
our sedentary habits have forced upon us a greater degree of attention
to it, and the imitation of the Turkish system of cleanliness has been
carried further in vapour baths and the startling luxury of
shampooing, which makes people discover that they have in general two
or three skins too many. Englishmen, in the pride of their greater
freedom, often wonder how Eastern nations can endure their servitude.
This is one of the secrets by which they endure it. A free man in a
dirty skin is not in so fit a state to endure existence as a slave
with a clean one; because nature insists, that a due attention to the
clay which our souls inhabit, shall be the first requisite to the
comfort of the inhabitant. Let us not get rid of our freedom; let us
teach it rather to those that want it; but let such of us as have
them, by all means get rid of our dirty skins. There is now a moral
and intellectual commerce among mankind, as well as an interchange of
inferior goods; we should send freedom to Turkey as well as clocks and
watches, and import not only figs, but a fine state of the pores.
Of the Hummums there is a ghost-story in Boswell, a thing we should as
little dream of in this centre of the metropolis, as look for a ghost
at noonday. The reader will see how much credit is to be given it, by
the style of the narrator, who, with all his good-will towards
superstition (and it is no less a person that speaks than Dr.
Johnson), had an inveterate love of truth, which led him to defeat his
own object.
"Amongst the numerous prints," says Boswell, "pasted on the
walls of the dining-room at Streatham, was 'Hogarth's Modern
Midnight Conversation.' I asked him what he knew of Parson
Ford, who makes a conspicuous figure in the riotous group.
_Johnson._ 'Sir, he was my acquaintance and relation,--my
mother's nephew. He had purchased a living in the country, but
not simoniacally. I never saw him but in the country. I have
been told that he was a man of great parts, very profligate,
but I never heard he was impious.' _Boswell._ 'Was there not a
story of his ghost having appeared?' _Johnson._ 'Sir, it was
believed. A waiter at the Hummums, in which house Ford died,
had been absent some time, and returned, not knowing that Ford
was dead. Going down to the cellar, according to the story, he
met him; going down again he met him a second time. When he
came up, he asked some people of the house what Ford could be
doing there. They told him Ford was dead. The waiter took a
fever, in which he lay for some time. When he recovered he said
he had a message to deliver to some women from Ford; but he was
not to tell what, or to whom. He walked out; he was followed;
but somewhere about St. Paul's they lost him. He came back, and
said he had delivered the message, and the women exclaimed,
'Then we are all undone!' Dr. Pellett, who was not a credulous
man, inquired into the truth of this story, and he said, the
evidence was irresistible. My wife went to the Hummums (it is a
place where people get themselves cupped). I believe she went
with intention to hear about this story of Ford. At first they
were unwilling to tell her; but after they had talked to her,
she came away satisfied that it was true. To be sure the man
had a fever; and this vision may have been the beginning of it.
But if the message to the women, and their behaviour upon it,
were true as related, there was something supernatural. That
rests upon his word: and there it remains.'"[288]
At the beginning of the reign of Elizabeth, Covent Garden (or, as it
would be more properly spelt, _Convent_ Garden[289]) extended from
Drury Lane to St. Martin's Lane, and was surrounded by a brick wall.
It had lately belonged to the abbots of Westminster, whom it supplied,
doubtless, with fruit and vegetables, as it has since done the
metropolis, and hence its appellation. The reader will see it in the
old print of London by Aggas. There was a break into it on the
south-west, made by the garden of Bedford House, which stood facing
the Strand between the present Bedford and Southampton Streets. On the
dissolution of the monasteries, Covent Garden was given to the Duke of
Somerset, and on his fall, to John, Earl of Bedford, whose family
converted it into a pasture ground, including Long Acre, then part of
the fields leading to St. Giles's. His descendant Francis, about
seventy years afterwards, let the whole pasture on a building lease,
and built the old church for the intended inhabitants. The architect
was Inigo Jones. To the same hand we are indebted for the portico of
the north-eastern quarter, which still remains. There was a
continuation of it on the south-east, which was burnt down. It was to
have been carried all round the square, and the absence of it might be
regretted on the score of beauty; but porticoes are not fit for this
climate, unless where the object is to furnish a walk during the rain.
Covered walks devoted to that purpose, and conveniently distributed,
might be temptations to out-of-door exercise in bad weather. If they
succeeded, they would effect a very desirable end. But covered walks,
however beautiful, which are not used in that way, are rather to be
deprecated in this cold and humid climate. In Italy, where the summer
sun at noon-day burns like a cauldron, they are much to the purpose;
but the more sun we can get in England the better. Luckily, there is a
convenience in this portico, as far as the theatre is concerned;
otherwise the circuit would be more agreeable without it, and the
coffee-houses of the place more light and cheerful.
Of the style of building observed in the church there is a well-known
story. "The Earl is said to have told Inigo Jones he wished to have as
plain and convenient a structure as possible, and but little better
than a barn; to which the architect replied, he would build a barn,
but that it should be the handsomest in England."[290]
Inigo Jones's church was burnt down in the year 1795, owing to the
carelessness of some plumbers who were mending the roof. "When the
flames were at their height," says Malcolm, "the portico and massy
pillars made a grand scene, projected before a back-ground of liquid
fire, which raged with so much uncontrolled fury, that not a fragment
of wood, in or near the walls, escaped destruction."[291]
[Illustration: INIGO JONES'S CHURCH, AND OLD COVENT GARDEN.]
The barn-like taste, or in other words the Grecian (for usefulness and
simplicity are the secrets of it, and the Temple of Theseus and a
common barn have the same principles of structure), was copied in the
new edifice. By a passage quoted in the _Londinium Redivivum_ from the
_Weekly Journal_ of April 22, 1727, it appears that the portico of the
old church had been altered by the inhabitants, and restored by the
Earl of Burlington, "out of regard to the memory of the celebrated
Inigo Jones, and to prevent our countrymen being exposed for their
ignorance." The spirit of this portico has been retained, and the
church of St. Paul's Covent garden is one of the most pleasing
structures in the metropolis.
A great many actors have been buried in this spot; among them,
Eastcourt the famous mimic, Edwin, Macklin, and King. We shall speak
of one or two of them presently, but it is desirable, especially in a
work of this kind, to observe a chronological order. The mere
observance itself conveys information. Among the variety of persons
buried here may be mentioned, first:
Car, Earl of Somerset, in the old church. His burial in Covent Garden
was, doubtless, owing to his connection with the family of Russell,
his daughter having married William, afterwards Earl and Duke of
Bedford, father of the famous patriot. It is said that his lady was
bred up in such ignorance of the dishonour of her parents, that having
met by accident with a book giving an account of it, she fainted away,
and was found in that condition by her domestics. Her lover's family
were very averse to the match, but wisely allowed it upon due trial,
and had no reason to repent their generosity. To read the history of
the foolish and unprincipled Countess of Somerset, who would suppose
that her daughter was to give birth to the conscientious martyr for
liberty? But the blood which folly makes wicked, a good education may
render noble.
Butler in the church-yard. The popular notion that he was starved is
unfounded; but he was very ill-treated by a court whom his wit
materially served. It is said that Charles, once and away, gave him a
hundred pounds. This is possible; but it is at least as possible that
he gave him nothing, though he would willingly have done it, perhaps,
had his debaucheries left him the means. Charles, in his way, was as
poor as Butler, though not as honourably so, for it does not appear
that the poet was unwilling to labour for his subsistence. There is a
mystery, however, in Butler's private affairs. He once appears to have
had some office in the family of the Countess of Kent. Perhaps he was
not a very good man of business, though the learning exhibited in
'Hudibras' showed how he could work on a favourite subject. When men
succeed to this extent in what nature evidently designs them for,
great allowance is to be made for their disinclination to other tasks;
and Butler had no children to render the neglect of his fortune
criminal. The Duke of Buckingham, who once undertook to "do something
for him," and had a meeting for the purpose at a coffee-house, saw a
pander of his go by the window with a "brace of ladies," and going
after him, we hear no more of his Grace. Luckily, to prevent him from
starvation, Butler found a friend in the excellent Mr. Longueville of
the Temple, a scholar and a real gentleman, who did not confine his
generosity to an admiration of him in books. The poet is understood to
have been indebted to him for support during the latter part of his
life; and it was he who buried him in this church-yard. It is to Mr.
Longueville that we are indebted for the publication of Butler's
"Remains," which are quite worthy of the wit of "Hudibras," and
deserve to be more generally known. Butler was the greatest wit that
ever wrote in verse; perhaps the greatest that ever wrote at all,
meaning by wit the union of remote ideas. He was undoubtedly the most
learned. His political poem is out of date; and much of the humour
that delighted the cavaliers must, of necessity, be lost to us; but
passages of it will always be repeated; and it is difficult to hear
his name mentioned, without quoting some of his rhymes. He was the
first man that gave rhyme itself an air of wit. His couplets are not
only witty themselves, but seem to add a new idea to their imagery in
the very sounds at the end of them. His startling turns of thought are
accompanied by as surprising a turn in the cadence, as if the echo
itself could not help laughing. Thus his doctor's shop is
"---- stored with deletery medicines,
Which whosoever took is dead since:"
his sour religionists
"Compound for sins they are inclined to,
By damning those they have no mind to:"
and again,
"Synods are mystical bear-gardens,
Where elders, deputies, church-wardens,
And other members of the court,
Manage the Babylonish sport;
For prolocutor, scribe, and bear-ward,
Do differ only in a mere word:
Both are but several synagogues
Of carnal men, and bears, and dogs:
Both antichristian assemblies
To mischief bent, as far's in them lies."
His most quoted rhyme, when
"---- Pulpit, drum ecclesiastic,
Was beat with fist instead of a stick,
is, singularly enough, no rhyme at all; but the surprise of the echo,
and the truth conveyed in it, affect us as if it were perfect. Here
are one or two more of the wilful order, very ludicrous:--
"---- The captive knight
And pensive squire, both bruised in body
And conjured into safe custody.
---- in all the fabrick
You could not see one stone or a brick.
Who deals in destiny's dark counsels,
And sage opinions of the moon sells.
Those wholesale critics that in coffee-
Houses cry down all philosophy."
Mrs. Pilkington tells us that Swift took down a "Hudibras" one day,
and ordered her to examine him in the book, when, to her great
surprise, she found he remembered "every line, from beginning to end
of it."[292] Mrs. Pilkington is a lady whose word is to be taken _cum
multis granis_; nor is it very likely she should ever have heard the
Dean repeat a whole volume through; but if Swift knew any author
entire, Butler is likely to have been the man. Butler had the same
politics, the same love of learning, the same wit, the same apparent
contempt of mankind, the same charity underneath it, and the same
impatient wish to see them wiser. His style of writing is evidently
the origin of Swift's. If the reader is not yet acquainted with his
'Remains,' the following sample or two will give him a desire to be
so:--
"The truest characters of ignorance
Are vanity, and pride, and arrogance;
As blind men use to bear their noses higher,
Than those who have their eyes and sight intire."
* * * * *
"There needs no other charm, nor conjuror,
To raise infernal spirits up, but fear;
That makes men pull their horns in like a snail,
That's both a prisoner to itself, and jail;
Draws more fantastic shapes than in the grains
Of knotted wood, in some men's crazy brains,
When all the cocks they think they see, and bulls,
Are only in the inside of their skulls."
Sir Peter Lely, the painter of the meretricious beauties of the court
of Charles II.--Pope's couplet on him is well known:--
"Lely on animated canvass stole
The sleepy eye that spoke the melting soul."
The canvass is more sleepy than animated, and the ladies more like
what they were in inclination than in features. However, there is a
great likeness on that very account. They are all of a sisterhood;--
_qualem_ non _decet esse sororum_. A master of pictorial criticism has
said of the collection of them at Windsor Castle, that "they look just
like what they were, a set of kept-mistresses, painted, tawdry,
showing off their theatrical or meretricious airs and graces, without
one trace of real elegance or refinement, or one spark of sentiment to
touch the heart. Lady Grammont is the handsomest of them; and though
the most voluptuous in her attire and attitude, the most decent. The
Duchess of Portsmouth (Cleveland), in her helmet and plumes, looks
quite like a heroine of romance, or modern Amazon; but for an air of
easy assurance, inviting admiration, and alarmed at nothing but being
thought coy, commend us to my Lady ---- above, in the sky-blue
drapery, thrown carelessly over her shoulders. As paintings, these
celebrated portraits cannot rank very high. They have an affected
ease, but a real hardness of manner and execution; and they have that
contortion of attitude and setness of features, which we afterwards
find carried to so disgusting and insipid an excess in Kneller's
portraits. Sir Peter Lely was, however, a better painter than Sir
Godfrey Kneller--that is the highest praise that can be accorded to
him. He had more spirit, more originality, and was the livelier
coxcomb of the two! Both these painters possessed considerable
mechanical dexterity, but it is not of a refined kind. Neither of them
could be ranked among great painters, yet they were thought by their
contemporaries and themselves superior to every one. At the distance
of a hundred years we see the thing plainly enough."[293] Sir Peter
was a Westphalian, of a family named Vander Vaas. His father was an
officer in the army, who, having been born in a perfumer's house which
had a lily for its sign, got the name of Captain Du Lys, or Lely, and
the cognomen was retained by his son. He aimed at magnificence in his
style of living, probably in imitation of his predecessor at the
English court, Vandyke; but there was a certain coarseness about him
which showed the inferiority of his taste in that particular, as well
as in the rest.
Wycherly in the Church. See Bow Street.
Southern, one of those dramatic writers who, without much genius,
succeed in obtaining a considerable name, and justly, by dint of
genuine feeling for common nature. He began in Dryden's time, who knew
and respected his talents, was known and respected by Pope, and lived
to enjoy a similar regard from Gray. "I remember," says Oldys, "this
venerable old gentleman, when he lived in Covent Garden, and used to
frequent the evening prayers in the church there. He was always neat
and decently dressed, commonly in black, with his silver sword, and
silver locks." Gray, in a letter to Walpole, dated Burnham, in
Buckinghamshire, 1737, says, "We have old Mr. Southern at a
gentleman's house, a little way off, who often comes to see us; he is
now seventy-seven years old, and has almost wholly lost his memory;
but is as agreeable an old man as can be; at least I persuade myself
so when I look at him, and think of Isabella and Oroonoko." Southern
died about nine years after this period, aged about eighty-five. With
all the respect he obtained, probably a great deal more by the decency
and civility of his habits than by his genius, Southern, it appears,
was not above making application to the nobility and others to buy
tickets for his plays.
Joe Haines, the comedian. See Drury Lane.
Eastcourt, the comedian--or mimic, rather--for, like most players who
devote themselves to mimicry, which is a kind of caricature
portrait-painting, his comedy or general humour was inferior to it. He
was, however, a man of wit as well as a mimic; and, in spite of a
talent which seldom renders men favourites in private, was so much
regarded, that, when the Beef-steak Club was set up (which a late
author says must not be confounded with the Beef-steak Club held in
Covent Garden Theatre and the Lyceum), Eastcourt was appointed
_provveditore_ or _caterer_, and presented as a badge of distinction
with a small gridiron of gold, which he wore about his neck fastened
to a green ribbon. He is said at one time to have been a
tavern-keeper, in which quality (unless it was in the other) Parnell
speaks of him in the beginning of one of his poems:--
Gay Bacchus liking Estcourt's wine
A noble meal bespoke us,
And for the guests that were to dine
Brought Comus, Love, and Jocus.[294]
But his greatest honour is the following remarkable testimony borne to
his merits by Sir Richard Steele, whose own fineness of nature was
never more beautifully evinced in any part of his writings:--
"Poor Eastcourt! the last time I saw him we were plotting to
show the town his great capacity for acting in his full light,
by introducing him as dictating to a set of young players, in
what manner to speak this sentence and utter t'other passion.
He had so exquisite a discerning of what was defective in any
object before him, that in an instant he could shew you the
ridiculous side of what would pass for beautiful and just, even
to men of no ill judgment, before he had pointed at the
failure. He was no less skilful in the knowledge of beauty;
and, I dare say, there is no one who knew him well, but can
repeat more well-turned compliments, as well as smart repartees
of Mr. Eastcourt's, than of any other man in England. This was
easily to be observed in his inimitable faculty of telling a
story, in which he would throw in natural and unexpected
incidents to make his court to one part, and rally the other
part of the company. Then he would vary the usage he gave them,
according as he saw them bear kind or sharp language. He had
the knack to raise up a pensive temper and mortify an
impertinently gay one, as he saw them bear kind or sharp
language.
"It is an insolence natural to the wealthy, to affix, as much
as in them lies, the character of a man to his circumstances.
Thus it is ordinary with them to praise faintly the good
qualities of those below them, and say, it is very
extraordinary in such a man as he is, or the like, when they
are forced to acknowledge the value of him whose lowness
upbraids their exaltation. It is to this humour only that it is
to be ascribed, that a quick wit in conversation, a nice
judgment upon any emergency that could arise, and a most
blameless inoffensive behaviour, could not raise this man above
being received only upon the foot of contributing to mirth and
diversion. But he was as easy under that condition as a man of
so excellent talents was capable; and since they would have it
that to divert was his business, he did it with all the seeming
alacrity imaginable, though it stung him to the heart that it
was his business. Men of sense, who could taste his
excellencies, were well satisfied to let him lead the way in
conversation, and play after his own manner; but fools, who
provoked him to mimicry, found he had the indignation to let it
be at their expense who called for it; and he would show the
form of conceited heavy fellows as jests to the company at
their own request, in revenge for interrupting him from being a
companion, to put on the character of a jester.
"What was peculiarly excellent in this memorable companion was,
that in the accounts he gave of persons and sentiments, he did
not only hit the figure of their faces, and manner of their
gestures, but he would in his narration fall into their very
way of thinking, and this when he recounted passages wherein
men of the best wit were concerned, as well as such wherein
were represented men of the lowest rank of understanding. It is
certainly as great an instance of self-love to a weakness, to
be impatient of being mimicked, as any can be imagined. There
were none but the vain, the formal, the proud, or those who
were incapable of mending their faults, that dreaded him; to
others he was in the highest degree pleasing, and I do not know
any satisfaction of any indifferent kind I ever tasted so much
as having got over an impatience of seeing myself in the air he
could put me when I have displeased him. _It is indeed to his
exquisite talent this way, more than any philosophy I could
read on the subject, that my person is very little of my care;
and it is indifferent to me what is said of my shape, my air,
my manner, my speech, or my address. It is to poor Eastcourt I
chiefly owe that I am arrived at the happiness of thinking
nothing a diminution to me_, BUT WHAT ARGUES A DEPRAVITY OF MY
WILL.
"I have been present with him among men of the most delicate
taste a whole night, and have known him (for he saw it was
desired) keep the discourse to himself the most part of it, and
maintain his good humour with a countenance and in a language
so delightful, without offence to any person or thing upon
earth, still preserving the distance his circumstances obliged
him to; I say, I have seen him do all this in such a charming
manner, that I am sure none of those I hint at will read this
without giving him some sorrow for their abundant mirth, and
one gush of tears for so many bursts of laughter I wish it were
any honour to the pleasant creature's memory that my eyes are
too much suffused to let me go on."[295]
Closterman in the church-yard. He was an indifferent, but once popular
artist, whom we mention on account of his painful domestic end. He had
a mistress, whom he thought devoted to him. She robbed him of
everything she could lay her hands on, money, plate, jewels, and
moveables, and fled out of the kingdom. He pined away with an impaired
understanding, and was soon brought to the grave. Closterman was once
set in competition with Sir Godfrey Kneller. He painted the family of
the Duke of Marlborough, and had so many disputes about the picture
with the Duchess, that Marlborough said to him, "It has given me more
trouble to reconcile my wife and you, than to fight a battle."
Arne, the celebrated musician, in the church-yard. See King Street.