seen; that is to say, supposing the merits of an engraver to be in
proportion to his relish for and imitation of his originals. Other men
may have drawn a finer mechanical line, but none have surpassed
Strange in giving the proper diversity of surfaces, or equalled him in
transferring to hard copper the roundness and delicacy of flesh. His
engravings from Titian almost convey something of the colours of that
great painter. Like all true masters, Strange took pains with whatever
he did, and bestowed attention on every part of it; so much indeed,
that his love for his art appears to have been an exhausting one, and
he was anxious to keep the burin out of the hands of his children. He
had seen a great deal of the world, and was a very amiable as well as
intelligent man. When young he was a great Jacobite, and fought
sword-in-hand for the Pretender; though it is said that a main cause
of his ardour was the hope of attaining the hand of a fair friend,
equally devoted to the cause. It is pleasant to add, that he did
attain it, and that she made him a good wife. Sir Robert was a
Scotchman of a good family; but his knighthood came from George the
Third, a few years before the artist's death.
Macklin, the comedian, in the church-yard, at the age of one hundred
and seven, and upwards. We have spoken of him before in his stage
character. His long age in the midst of cities and theatres is very
remarkable. It seems to have been owing to the inheritance of a robust
constitution--the great cause of longevity next to temperance, perhaps
the greatest, unless contradicted by the reverse. Most persons who
have been long-lived have had long-lived progenitors; but somebody
must begin. The foundation is always temperance. Macklin must have
been very lucky in his physical advantages, for he did not keep any
very strict rein over his temper; nor does he appear to have followed
any regimen, till latterly, and then he consulted the immediate ease
of his stomach, and not the quality of what he took. However, his
habits, whatever they were, were most likely regular. "It had been his
constant rule," says his biographer, "for a period of thirty years and
upwards, to visit a public-house called the Antelope, in White Hart
Yard, Covent Garden, where his usual beverage was a pint of beer
called _stout_, which was made hot and sweetened with moist sugar,
almost to a syrup. This, he said, balmed his stomach, and kept him
from having any inward pains."[296] The same writer, in a report of a
conversation he had with Mr. Macklin, has left us an affecting but not
unpleasing picture of the decay of faculties, remarkable to the very
last for their shrewdness and vivacity. It is the liveliest picture of
old mortality we ever met with.
_Question._ "Well, Mr. Macklin, how do you do to-day?"
_Answer._ "Why, I hardly know, sir; I think I am a little
better than I was in the morning."
_Q._ "Why, sir, did you feel any pain in the morning?"
_A._ "Yes, sir, a good deal."
_Q._ "In what part?"
_A._ "Why, I feel a sort of a--a--a--" (shaking his head), "I
forget everything; I forget the word: I felt a kind of pain
here" (putting his hand upon his left breast),--"but it is gone
away, and I am better now."
_Q._ "How do you sleep, sir?"
_A._ "Not so well as I could wish; I am becoming more wakeful
than usual; I awoke last night two or three times: I got up
twice, walked about my room here, and then went to bed again."
_Q._ "Do you always get up when you awake, sir?"
_A._ "No, sir, not always; but I get up and walk about as soon
as I feel myself--there, now, it is all gone" (putting his hand
upon his forehead).
_Q._ "You get up, sir, I suppose, as soon as you feel yourself
uneasy in bed?"
_A._ "Yes, sir, when I begin to be troublesome to myself."
_Q._ "Do not you, sir, find it unpleasant to walk about here
alone, and to have nobody to converse with?"
_A._ "Not at all, sir, I get up when I am tired abed, and I
walk about till I am tired, and then I go to bed again; and so
forth."
_Q._ "But does it not afford you great pleasure when any person
comes to see you?"
_A._ "Why, not so much as one would expect, sir."
_Q._ "Are you not pleased when your friends come and converse
with you?"
_A._ "I am always very happy to see my friends, and I should be
very happy to hold a--a--a, see there now...."
_Q._ "A conversation you mean, sir?"
_A._ "Ay, a conversation. Alas! sir, you see the wretched state
of my memory--see there now, I could not recollect that common
word--but I cannot converse. I used to go to a house very near
this where my friends assemble ... it was a--a--a [a company]
no, that's not the word, a--a--club, I mean. I was the father
of it, but I could not hear all; and what I did hear, I did
not--a--a--under--under--understand; they were all very
attentive to me, but I could not be one of them. I always feel
an uneasiness, when I don't know what the people are talking
about. Indeed, I found, sir, that I was not fit to keep
company--so I stay away."
_Q._ "Have you been reading this morning, sir?"
_A._ "Yes, sir."
_Q._ "What book?"
_A._ "I forget:--here, look at it;"--handing the book.
_Q._ "I see, it is Milton's 'Paradise Lost.'"
[He then took the book out of my hand and said:--"I have only
read this much" (about four pages) "these two days--but what I
read yesterday, I have forgot to-day." He next read a few lines
of the beginning inimitably well, and laying down the book,
said] "I understand all that, but if I read any farther, I
forget that passage which I understood before."
_Q._ "But I perceive with satisfaction, sir, that your sight is
very good."
_A._ "Oh, sir, my sight, like everything else, begins to fail
too; about two days ago I felt--a--a--there now ... I have lost
it--a pain just above my left eye, and heard something give a
crack, and ever since, this eye (pointing to the left) has been
painful."
_Q._ "I think, sir, it would be advisable for you to refrain
from reading a little time."
_A._ "I believe you are in the right, sir."
_Q._ "I think you appear at present free from pain?"
_A._ "Yes, sir, I am pretty comfortable now: but I find
my--my--my strength is all gone. I feel myself going
gradually."
_Q._ "But you are not afraid to die?"
_A._ "Not in the least, sir--I never did any person any serious
mischief in my life:--even when I gambled, I never cheated:--I
know that a--a--a--see, now--death, I mean, must come, and I am
ready to give it up" (meaning the ghost).
_Q._ "I understand you were at Drury Lane theatre last night?"
_A._ "Yes, sir, I was there."
_Q._ "Yes, sir, the newspapers of this morning take notice of
it."
_A._ "Do they?"
_Y._ "Yes, sir;--the paragraph runs thus:--'Among the numerous
visitors at Drury Lane Theatre last night, we observed the Duke
of Queensbury and the veteran Macklin, whose ages together
amount to one hundred and ninety-six."
_Mr. Macklin._ "The Duke of who?"
_A._ "The Duke of Queensbury, sir."
_Mr. Macklin._ "I don't know that man. The Duke of Queensbury!
The Duke of Queensbury! Oh! ay, I remember him now very
well:--The Duke of Queensbury old! Why, sir, I might be his
father! ha! ha! ha!"
_Q._ "Well, sir, I understand that you went to the Haymarket
Theatre to see the 'Merchant of Venice?'"
_A._ "I did, sir."
_Q._ "What is your opinion of Mr. Palmer's Shylock?"
[This question was answered by a shake of the head. Being
desirous of hearing his opinion I asked him the second time.]
_Mr. Macklin._--"Why, sir, my opinion is, that Mr. Palmer
played the character of Shylock in _one style_. In this scene
there was a sameness, in that scene a sameness, and in every
scene a sameness: it was all same! same! same!--no variation.
He did not look the character, nor laugh the character, nor
speak the character of Shakspeare's Jew. In the trial scene,
where he comes to cut the pound of flesh, he was no Jew.
Indeed, sir, he did _not hit_ the _part_, nor the _part_ did
_not hit_ him."[297]
This conversation took place in September 1796: in July 1797 he died.
Dr. Walcot, better known by the name of Peter Pindar. He was a coarse
and virulent satirist, and content to write so many common-places,
that they will stifle his works with posterity, with the exception of
a few pieces. His humour, however, was genuine of its kind. His
caricatures are striking likenesses; and the innocent simplicity which
he is fond of affecting makes a ludicrous contrast with his impudence.
Dr. Walcot's largest poems are worth little, and his serious worth
nothing. What we think likely to last in the collections, are his
"Bozzy and Piozzi," his 'Royal visit to Whitbread's Brewhouse,' one or
two more of that stamp, some of his "Odes to Academicians," and the
immortal "Pilgrims and the Peas," the hero of which is assuredly
hobbling to this day, and will never arrive. Dr. Walcot was a man of
taste in the fine arts, and produced some landscapes, which we believe
do credit to his pencil. We have never seen them. His critical good
taste is not to be disputed, though the Academicians, at one time,
would have given a great deal to find it wanting. He was latterly
blind, but maintained his spirits to the last. He had a fine skull,
which he was not displeased to be called upon to exhibit, taking his
wig off, and saying "There," with a lusty voice; which formed a
singular contrast with the pathos attached to the look of blind eyes.
Covent Garden market has always been the most agreeable in the
metropolis, because it is devoted exclusively to fruit, flowers, and
vegetables. A few crockery-ware shops make no exceptions to this
"bloodless" character. The seasons here regularly present themselves
in their most gifted looks,--with evergreens in winter, the fresh
verdure of spring, all the hues of summer, and whole loads of desserts
in autumn. The country girls who bring the things to market at early
dawn are a sight themselves worthy of the apples and roses; the
good-natured Irish women who attend to carry baskets for purchasers
are not to be despised, with the half-humorous, half pathetic tone of
their petitions to be employed; and the ladies who come to purchase,
crown all. No walk in London, on a fine summer's day, is more
agreeable than the passage through the flowers here at noon, when the
roses and green leaves are newly watered, and blooming faces come to
look at them in those cool and shady avenues, while the hot sun is
basking in the streets. On these occasions we were very well satisfied
with the market in its old state. The old sheds, and irregular
avenues, when dry, assorted well with the presence of leaves and
fruits. They had a careless picturesque look, as if a bit of an old
suburban garden had survived from ancient times.
Nothing, however, but approbation can be bestowed on the convenient
and elegant state into which the market has been raised by the
magnificence of the noble proprietor, whose arms we are glad to see on
the side next James Street. They are a real grace to the building and
to the owner, for they are a stamp of liberality. In time we hope to
see the roofs of the new market covered with shrubs and flowers,
nodding over the balustrades, and fruits and red berries sparkling in
the sun.[298] As an ornament, nothing is more beautiful in combination
than the fluctuating grace of foliage and the stability of
architecture. And, as a utility, the more air and sun the better.
There is never too much sun in this country, and every occasion should
be seized to take advantage of it.
The space between the church and the market is the scene of Hogarth's
picture of the 'Frosty Morning.' Here in general take place the
elections for Westminster. Sheridan has poured forth his good things
in this spot, and Charles Fox won the hearts of multitudes. It would
be an endless task to trace the recollections connected with the
coffee-houses under the portico. Perhaps there is not a name of
celebrity in the annals of wit or the stage, between the reigns of
Charles II. and the present sovereign, which might not be found
concerned in the clubs or other meetings which they have witnessed,
particularly those of Garrick, Hogarth, and their contemporaries. _Sir
Roger de Coverley_ has been there, a person more real to us than
nine-tenths of them. When in town he lodged in Bow Street.
Opposite the Bedford Coffee-house a tragical scene took place, the
particulars of which are interesting. The Earl of Sandwich, grandson
of Charles II.'s Earl of Sandwich, and first Lord of the Admiralty
during the North administration, had for his mistress a Miss Ray, whom
he had rendered as accomplished as she was handsome. Some say that she
was the daughter of a labourer at Elstree, others of a stay-maker in
Covent Garden. Her father is said to have had a shop in that way of
business in Holywell Street in the Strand. Miss Ray was apprenticed at
an early age to a mantua-maker in Clerkenwell Close, with whom she
served her time out and obtained a character that did her honour. A
year or two after the expiration of this period she was taken notice
of by Lord Sandwich, who gave her a liberal education; rendered her a
proficient in his favourite arts of music and singing; and made her
his mistress. He was old enough to be her father.
Lord Sandwich was in the habit of having plays and music at his house,
particularly the latter. At Christmas the musical performance was an
oratorio, for, "to speak seriously," says Mr. Cradock, "no man was
more careful than Lord Sandwich not to trespass on public decorum."
This gentleman, in his Memoirs, has furnished us with accounts which
will give a livelier idea of the situation of Miss Ray in his
Lordship's house than any formal abstract of them.
"Plays at Hinchinbrook had ceased before I had ever been in
company with Lord Sandwich, and oratorios for a week at
Christmas had been substituted. Miss Ray, who was the first
attraction, was instructed in music both by Mr. Bates and
Signor Giardini. Norris and Champness regularly attended the
meetings, and there were many excellent amateur performers; the
Duke of Manchester's military band assisted, and his Lordship
himself took the kettle-drums to animate the whole. 'Non nobis,
Domine,' was sung after dinner, and then catches and glees
succeeded; all was well conducted, for whatever his Lordship
undertook he generally accomplished, and seemed to have adopted
the emphatic advice of Longinus, 'always to excel.' Miss Ray,
in her situation, was a pattern of discretion; for when a lady
of rank, between one of the acts of the oratorio, advanced to
converse with her, she expressed her embarrassment; and Lord
Sandwich, turning privately to a friend, said, 'As you are well
acquainted with that lady, I wish you would give her a hint,
that there is a boundary line in my family I do not wish to see
exceeded; such a trespass might occasion the overthrow of all
our music meetings.'
"From what I have collected, Miss Ray was born in
Hertfordshire, in 1742, and that his lordship first saw her in
a shop in Tavistock Street where he was purchasing some
neckcloths. This was all that Mr. Bates seemed to have
ascertained, for both his lordship and the lady were equally
cautious of communicating anything on the subject. From that
time her education was particularly attended to, and she proved
worthy of all the pains that were taken with her. Her voice was
powerful and pleasing, and she has never been excelled in that
fine air of Jephtha, 'Brighter scenes I seek above;' nor was
she less admired when she executed an Italian bravura of the
most difficult description."[299]
Again:--"I did not know his lordship in early life; but this I
can attest, and call any contemporary to ratify who might have
been present, that we never heard an oath, or the least
profligate conversation at his lordship's table in our lives.
Miss Ray's behaviour was particularly circumspect. Dr. Green,
Bishop of Lincoln, always said, 'I never knew so cautious a man
as Lord Sandwich.' The Bishop came too soon once to an
oratorio; we went to receive him in the dining-room, but he
said, 'No; the drawing-room is full of company, and I will go
up and take tea there.' Lord Sandwich was embarrassed, as he
had previously objected to Lady Blake speaking to Miss Ray
between the acts; and as the Bishop would go up, a consequence
ensued just as I expected. Some severe verses were sent, which
Mr. Bates intercepted.
* * * * *
"The elegant Mrs. Hinchcliffe, lady of the Bishop, attended one
night with a party. She had never seen Miss Ray before, and she
feelingly remarked afterwards, 'I was really hurt to sit
directly opposite to her, and mark her discreet conduct, and
yet to find it improper to notice her. She was so assiduous to
please, was so very excellent, yet so unassuming, I was quite
charmed with her; yet a seeming cruelty to her took off the
pleasure of my evening.'"[300]
While Miss Ray was thus situated, his lordship, through the medium of
a neighbour, Major Reynolds, became acquainted with a brother officer
of the major's, a Captain Hackman, and invited him to his house. The
Captain fell in love with Miss Ray, and Miss Ray is understood not to
have been insensible to his passion. He was her junior by several
years, though the disparity was nothing like the reverse one on the
part of Lord Sandwich. Sir Herbert Croft, who wrote a history of their
intimacy and correspondence, under the title of "Love and Madness,"
represents the attachment as mutual. According to his statement,
Hackman urged her to marry him, and Miss Ray was desirous of doing so,
but fearful of hurting the feelings of the man who had educated her,
and who is represented as a sort of Old Robin Gray. In this sentiment,
Hackman with all his passion is represented as partaking. Sir
Herbert's book, though founded on fact, and probably containing more
truth than can now be ascertained, is considered apocryphal; and Mr.
Cradock, who is as cautious in his way as his noble acquaintance,
doubts whether any man was really acquainted with the particulars. All
that he could call to mind relative to either party was, that for
three weeks after the Captain's introduction, till his military
pursuits led him to Ireland, he was observed to bow to Miss Ray
whenever she went out; and that Miss Ray, during the latter part of
her time at the Admiralty, did not continue to speak of her situation
as before. "She complained," he says, "of being greatly alarmed by
ballads that had been sung, or cries that had been made, directly
under the windows that looked into the park; and that such was the
fury of the mob, that she did not think either herself or Lord
Sandwich was safe whenever they went out; and I must own that I heard
some strange insults offered; and that I with some of the servants
once suddenly rushed out, but the offenders instantly ran away and
escaped. One evening afterwards, when sitting with Miss Ray in the
great room above stairs, she appeared to be much agitated, and at last
said, 'she had a particular favour to ask of me; that, as her
situation was very precarious, and no settlement had been made upon
her, she wished I would hint something of the kind to Lord Sandwich.'
I need not express my surprise, but I instantly assured her, 'that no
one but herself could make such a proposal, as I knew Lord Sandwich
never gave any one an opportunity of interfering with him on so
delicate a subject.' She urged that her wish was merely to relieve
Lord Sandwich as to great expense about her; for as her voice was then
at the best, and Italian music was particularly her forte, she was
given to understand she might succeed at the Opera-house, and as Mr.
Giardini then led, and I was intimate with Mrs. Brooke and Mrs. Yates,
she was certain of a most advantageous engagement. I then instantly
conjectured who one of the advisers must have been; and afterwards
found that three thousand pounds and a free benefit had been
absolutely held out to her, though not by the two ladies who managed
the stage department. Whether any proposals of marriage at that time
or afterwards were made by Mr. Hackman, I know not."[301] Be this as
it may, Hackman's passion was undoubted. He was originally an
apprentice to a merchant at Gosport; was impatient of serving at the
counter; entered the army at nineteen, but during his acquaintance
with Miss Ray, exchanged the army for the church, "as a readier road
to independence;" and was presented to the living of Wyverton in
Norfolk.
Whatever was the nature of the intimacy between these unfortunate
persons, a sudden stop appears to have been put to Hackman's final
expectations, and he became desperate. By what we can gather from the
accounts, Lord Sandwich, either to preserve her from her lover or
herself, thought proper to put Miss Ray under the charge of a duenna.
Hackman grew jealous either of him or of some other person; he was
induced to believe that Miss Ray had no longer a regard for him, and
he resolved to put himself to death. In this resolution a sudden
impulse of frenzy included the unfortunate object of his passion.
On the evening of the fatal day, Miss Ray went with her female
attendant to Covent Garden Theatre to see "Love in a Village." Mr.
Cradock thinks she had declined to inform Hackman how she was engaged
that evening. Hackman, who appears to have suspected her intentions,
watched her, and saw the carriage pass by the Cannon Coffee-house
(Cockspur Street, Charing Cross), in which he had posted himself.
Singularly enough, Mr. Cradock happened to be in the same
coffee-house, and says that he wondered to see the carriage go by
without Lord Sandwich. This looks as if there was more in Hackman's
suspicion than can now be shown. Hackman followed them.
"The ladies sat in a front box," says Mr. Cradock; "and three
gentlemen, all connected with the Admiralty, occasionally paid
their compliments to them; Mr. Hackman was sometimes in the
lobby, sometimes in an upper side box, and more than once at
the Bedford coffee-house to take brandy and water, but still
seemed unable to gain any information; and I can add, as a
slight circumstance, that in the afternoon I had myself been at
the coffee-house (Cockspur Street, Charing Cross), and,
observing the carriage pass by, had remarked to my friend that
I wondered at seeing the ladies on their way to the theatre
without Lord Sandwich; that I meant to have dined at the
Admiralty, but had been prevented; so that it appears now that
most of the circumstances must have been accidental. The
dreadful consummation, however, was, that at the door of the
theatre, directly opposite the Bedford coffee-house, Mr.
Hackman suddenly rushed out, and as a gentleman was handing
Miss Ray into the carriage, with a pistol he first destroyed
this most unfortunate victim, and, though not at the time, fell
a most dreadful sacrifice himself."[302]
"Miss Ray," says the Introduction to 'Love and Madness,' "was
coming out of Covent Garden Theatre in order to take her coach,
accompanied by two friends, a gentleman and a lady, between
whom she walked in the piazza. Mr. Hackman stepped up to her
without the smallest previous menace or address, put a pistol
to her head, and shot her instantly dead. He then fired another
at himself, which, however, did not prove equally effectual.
The ball grazed upon the upper part of the head, but did not
penetrate sufficiently to produce any fatal effect; he fell,
however, and so firmly was he bent on the entire completion of
the destruction he had meditated, that he was found beating his
head with the utmost violence with the butt-end of the pistol,
by Mr. Mahon, apothecary, of Covent Garden, who wrenched the
pistol from his hand. He was carried to the Shakspeare, where
his wound was dressed. In his pocket were found two letters;
the one a copy of a letter which he had written to Miss Ray,
and the other to Frederic Booth, Esq., Craven Street, Strand.
When he had so far recovered his faculties as to be capable of
speech, he inquired with great anxiety concerning Miss Ray; and
being told she was dead, he desired her poor remains might not
be exposed to the observation of the curious multitude. About
five o'clock in the morning, Sir John Fielding came to the
Shakspeare, and not finding his wounds of a dangerous nature,
ordered him to Tothill Fields Bridewell.
"The body of the unhappy lady was carried into the Shakspeare
Tavern for the inspection of the coroner."[303]
The whole of the circumstances connected with this catastrophe are
painfully dramatic.
"The next morning," says Mr. Cradock, "I made several efforts
before I had resolution enough to see any one of the Admiralty;
at last old James, the black, overwhelmed with grief, came down
to me, and endeavoured to inform me, that when he had mentioned
what had occurred, Lord Sandwich hastily replied, 'You know
that I forbad you to plague me any more about those ballads:
let them sing or say whatever they please about me!' 'Indeed,
my lord,' I said, 'I am not speaking of any ballads; it is all
too true.' Others then came in, and all was a scene of the
utmost horror and distress. His lordship for a while stood, as
it were, petrified, till, suddenly seizing a candle, he ran
up-stairs and threw himself on the bed; and in an agony
exclaimed, 'Leave me for a while to myself--I could have borne
anything but this!' The attendants remained for a considerable
time at the top of the staircase, till his lordship rang the
bell and ordered that they should all go to bed. They assured
me that at that time they believed fewer particulars were known
at the Admiralty than over half the town besides; indeed all
was confusion and astonishment; and even now I am doubtful
whether Lord Sandwich was ever aware that there was any
connection between Mr. Hackman and Miss Ray. His lordship
continued for a day or two at the Admiralty, till, at the
earnest request of those about him, he at last retired for a
short time to a friend's house in the neighbourhood of
Richmond."[304]
Hackman was executed at Tyburn. He confessed at the bar that he had
intended to kill himself, but he protested that but for a momentary
frenzy he should not have destroyed her, "who was more dear to him
than life." It appears, however, that he was furnished with two
pistols; which told against him on that point.
"On Friday," says Boswell, "I had been present at the trial of
the unfortunate Mr. Hackman, who, in a fit of frantic jealous
love, had shot Miss Ray, the favourite of a nobleman. Johnson,
in whose company I dined to-day, with some other friends, was
much interested by my account of what passed, and particularly
with his prayer for mercy of heaven. He said in a solemn,
fervent tone, 'I hope he _shall_ find mercy.' In talking of
Hackman, Johnson argued as Judge Blackstone had done, that his
being furnished with two pistols was a proof that he meant to
shoot two persons. Mr. Beauclerk said, 'No; for that every wise
man who intended to shoot himself, took two pistols, that he
might be sure of doing it at once. Lord ----'s cook shot
himself with one pistol, and lived ten days in great agony. Mr.
----, who loved buttered muffins, but durst not eat them
because they disagreed with his stomach, resolved to shoot
himself, and then he ate three buttered muffins for breakfast
before shooting himself, knowing that he should not be troubled
with indigestion; _he_ had two charged pistols: one was found
lying charged upon the table by him, after he had shot himself
with the other.' 'Well (said Johnson with an air of triumph),
you see here one pistol was sufficient.' Beauclerk replied
smartly, 'Because it happened to kill him.'"[305]
It is impossible to settle this point. The general impression will be
against Hackman; but, perhaps, the second pistol, though not designed
for himself, might have been for Miss Ray. His victim was buried at
Elstree, where she had been a lowly and happy child, running about
with her blooming face, and little thinking what trouble it was to
cost her.
In Mr. Cradock's book we hear again of Lord Sandwich on whom this
story has thrown an interest. On his return from Richmond, Mr. Cradock
went to see him, and was admitted into the study where the portrait of
Miss Ray, an exact resemblance, still hung over the chimney-piece. "I
fear," says Mr. Cradock, "I rather started on seeing it, which Lord
Sandwich perceiving, he instantly endeavoured to speak of some
unconnected subject; but he looked so ill, and I felt so much
embarrassed, that as soon as I possibly could, I most respectfully
took my leave."
"His lordship rarely dined out anywhere; but after a great
length of time he was persuaded by our open-hearted friend,
Lord Walsingham, to meet a select party at his house. All
passed off exceedingly well for a while, and his lordship
appeared more cheerful than could have been expected; but after
coffee, as Mr. and Mrs. Bates were present, something was
mentioned about music, and one of the company requested that
Mrs. Bates would favour them with, 'Shepherds, I have lost my
love.' This was, unfortunately, the very air that had been
introduced by Miss Ray at Hinchinbrook, and had been always
called for by Lord Sandwich. Mr. Bates immediately endeavoured
to prevent its being sung, and by his anxiety increased the
distress, but it was too late to pause. Lord Sandwich for a
while struggled to overcome his feelings, but they were so
apparent that at last he went up Mrs. Walsingham, and in a very
confused manner said, he hoped she would excuse his not staying
longer at that time; but that he had just recollected some
pressing business, which required his return to the Admiralty,
and bowing to all the company, rather hastily left the room.
Some other endeavours to amuse him afterwards did not prove
much more successful."[306]
His lordship afterwards lived in retirement, and died in 1792.
It does not appear that Lord Sandwich's disinclination to be amused
arose from excessive sensibility. Mr. Cradock represents him in his
political character as bearing "daily insults and misrepresentations
as a stoic rather than an injured and feeling man," and he describes
his calmness of mind in retirement, and his enjoyment of solitude.
The same writer who calls him "a steady friend," speaks highly of his
classical attainments, and his accomplishments as a modern linguist
and an amateur, to which he added great caution (as the Bishop said),
a love of "badgering," and an incompetency for the personal graces.
When he played his part in the oratorios, it was on the kettle-drum.
He related the following anecdote of himself.
"When I was in Paris, I had a dancing-master; the man was very
civil, and on taking leave of him, I offered him any service in
London. 'Then,' said the man, bowing, 'I should take it as a
particular favour, if your lordship would never tell any one of
whom you have learned to dance.'"
"Hurd once said to me," adds Mr. Cradock, "there is a line in
the Heroic Epistle that I do not at all comprehend the meaning
of; but you can, perhaps, acquaint me. It alludes to Lord
Sandwich, I suppose; but one word, _shambles_, I cannot guess
at,--
'See Jemmy Twitcher _shambles_--stop, stop, thief.'
'That, sir,' said I, 'alludes to his lordship's shambling
gait.'"[307]
Upon the whole we have no doubt that he was a cold and superficial
person, and that Miss Ray would not have been sorry had Hackman
succeeded in retaining her heart; for, as to Hackman, the great cause
of his mischance, according to the passage in Boswell, appears to have
been the violence of his temper,--the common secret of most of these
outrageous love stories. He was not a bad-hearted man, merely selfish
and passionate, otherwise he would have meditated no mischief against
himself.
"He that beats or knocks out brains,
The devil's in him, if he feigns,"
says the poet. But he was weak, wilful, and, by his readiness to
become a clergyman from a Captain, perhaps not very principled. The
truest love is the truest benevolence; it acquires an infinite
patience out of the very excess of its suffering, and is content to
merge its egotism in the idea of the beloved object. He that does not
know this, does not know what love is, whatever he may know of
passion.
In Henrietta Street Mrs. Clive once resided. She was the favourite
Nell of the stage in the "Devil to Pay," and similar characters; and,
according to Garrick, there was something of the Devil to Pay in all
her stage life. She might have been Macklin's sister for humour,
judgment, and a sturdiness of purpose amounting to violence, not
unmixed with generosity. The latter part of her life she spent in
retirement at Strawberry Hill, where she was a neighbour and friend to
Horace Walpole, whose effeminacy she helped to keep on the alert. It
always seems to us, as if she had been the man of the two, and he the
woman.
Henrietta Street was most probably named after the queen of Charles
I., and James Street after her father-in-law. In both these streets
lived the egregious almanack-maker, and quack doctor, the butt of the
wits of his time. He died in Salisbury Street, Strand, which is the
scene of his posthumous behaviour,--his pretending to be alive, when
Bickerstaff had declared him dead. Partridge had foretold the death of
the French king. Swift, under the name of Bickerstaff, foretold
Partridge's, and, when the time came, insisted he was dead. Partridge
gravely insisted that he was alive. The wits, the friends of Swift,
maintained the contrary, wondering at the dead man's impudence and the
whole affair was hawked about the streets, to the ludicrous distress
of poor Partridge, who not only highly resented it, and repeatedly
advertised his existence, but was fairly obliged to give up
almanack-making. "He persisted, indeed, sturdily in his refusal to be
buried till 1715: but he actually died as an almanack-maker in 1709,
his almanack for that year being the last, and the only one he wrote
after this odd misfortune befell him."[308]
The following are specimens of the way in which Partridge resisted his
death and burial. In the almanack for 1709, he says,
"You may remember there was a paper published predicting my
death on the 29th of March at night, 1708, and after that day
was passed the same villain told the world I was dead, and how
I died, and that he was with me at the time of my death. I
thank God, by whose mercy I have my being, that I am still
alive, and, excepting my age, as well as ever I was in my life,
as I was on that 29th of March. And that paper was said to be
done by one Bickerstaff, Esq., but that was a sham name, it was
done by an impudent lying fellow. But his prediction did not
prove true. What will he say to excuse that? for the fool had
considered the star of my nativity, as he said. Why, the truth
is, he will be hard put to it to find a salvo for his honour.
It was a bold touch, and he did not know but it might prove
true.
"Feb. 1709. Much lying news dispersed about this time, and also
scandalous pamphlets; perhaps we may have some knavish
scribbler, a second Bickerstaff, or a rascal under that name
for that villain, &c. It is a cheat, and he a knave that did
it, &c.
"Whereas, it has been industriously given out by Bickerstaff,
Esq., and others, to prevent the sale of this year's almanack,
that John Partridge is dead; this may inform all his loving
countrymen, that, blessed be God, he is still living in health,
and they are knaves who reported otherwise. 'Merlinus
Liberatus, with an almanack [printed by allowance for 1710]. By
John Partridge, student in Physic and Astrology.'"
In James Street, towards the beginning of the last century, lived a
mysterious lady, who will remind the reader of the Catholic lady in
the "Fortunes of Nigel."
"In the month of March 1720," says Mr. Malcolm, "an unknown
lady died at her lodgings in James Street, Covent Garden. She
is represented to have been a middle-sized person, with
dark-brown hair, and very beautiful features, and mistress of
every accomplishment peculiar to ladies of the first fashion
and respectability. Her age appeared to be between thirty and
forty. Her circumstances were affluent, and she possessed the
richest trinkets of her sex, generally set with diamonds. A
John Ward, Esq., of Hackney, published many particulars
relating to her in the papers; and amongst others, that a
servant had been directed by her to deliver him a letter after
her death; but as no servant appeared, he felt himself required
to notice those circumstances, in order to acquaint her
relations of her decease, which occurred suddenly after a
masquerade, where she declared she had conversed with the King,
and it was remembered that she had been seen in the private
apartments of Queen Anne; though after the Queen's demise she
had lived in obscurity. This unknown arrived in London from
Mansfield, in 1714, drawn by six horses. She frequently said
that her father was a nobleman, but that, her elder brother
dying unmarried, the title was extinct; adding, that she had an
uncle then living, whose title was his least recommendation.
"It was conjectured that she might be the daughter of a Roman
Catholic, who had consigned her to a convent, whence a brother
had released her and supported her in privacy. She was buried
at St. Paul's, Covent Garden."[309]
Perhaps she had some connection with Queen Anne's brother, the
Pretender.
In King Street lived the father of Arne and Mrs. Cibber. He was an
upholsterer, and is said to have been the original of the Quid-nunc in
the _Tatler_, and the hero of Murphy's farce of the _Upholsterer, or,
What News?_ His name is connected also with that of the four "Indian
Kings," as they were called, who came into this country in Queen
Anne's time, to ask her assistance against the French in Canada.
"They were clothed and entertained," says a note in the
'Tatler', "at the public expense, being lodged, while they
continued in London, in an handsome apartment," perhaps in the
house of Mr. Arne, as may be inferred from 'Tatler,' 155, and
note. Certainly their landlord was an upholsterer in Covent
Garden, in a new street, which seems at that time to have
received the name of King Street, which it retains to this day,
in common with many other streets so called, in honour of
Charles II. The figures of these four Indian kings or chiefs
are still preserved in the British Museum. The names and titles
of their Majesties are recorded there and in the 'Annals of
Queen Anne,' but with the following differences from the
account of them in this paper: _Tee Yee Neen Ho Ga Prow_, and
_Sa Ga Yean Qua Prah Ion_, of the _Maquas_;--_Elow Oh Kaom_,
and _Oh Nee Yeath Ion No Prow_, of the river _Sachem_, and the
_Ganajoh-hore Sachem_. On the 18th of April 1710, according to
Salmon, on the 19th according to Boyer, these four illustrious
personages were conveyed in two of the Queen's coaches to St.
James's, by Sir Charles Cotterel, master of the ceremonies, and
introduced to their public audience by the Duke of Shrewsbury,
then Lord Chamberlain. They made a speech by an interpreter,
which Major Pidgeon, an officer who came over with them from
America, read in English to her Majesty. "They had (they said)
with one consent hung up the kettle and taken up the hatchet,
in token of their friendship to their great queen and her
children, and had been, on the other side of the great water, a
strong wall of security to their great queen's children, even
to the loss of their best men. For the truth of what they
affirmed, and their written proposals, they referred to Colonel
Scuyder and Colonel Nicholson, whom they called, in their
language, Brother Queder, and Anadgargaux, and, speaking of
Colonel Vetch, they named him Anadiasia. They said they always
considered the French as men of falsehood, and rejoiced in the
prospect of the reduction of Canada; after which they should
have free hunting, and a great trade with their great queen's
children, and as a token of the sincerity of the six nations,
in the name of all, they presented their great queen with the
belts of wampum. They concluded their speech with recommending
their very hard case to their great queen's gracious
consideration, expressing their hopes of her favour, and
requesting the mission of more of her children to reinforce and
to instruct, for they had got, as they said, since their
alliance with her children, some knowledge of the Saviour of
the world. The curious may see this speech at full length in
the 'Annals of Queen Anne,' year 9th, p. 191, _et seq._, 8vo.
On the same day, according to Boyer, a royal messenger of the
Emperor of Morocco, Elhadge Guzman, was likewise introduced by
the Duke of Shrewsbury to a private audience, and delivered
letters to the Queen from Mula Ishmael, his master; the same
emperor, probably, who sent an ambassador to our court in 1706,
mentioned in the 'Tatler,' No. 130, and note, vol. iii., p. 44.
The Indian Kings continued about a fortnight longer in London,
during which time they were hospitably entertained by some of
the lords commissioners of the Admiralty, by the Duke of
Ormond, and several persons of distinction. They were carried
to see Dr. Flamstead's house and the mathematical instruments
in Greenwich Park, and entertained with the sight of the
principal curiosities in and about the metropolis; then
conveyed to Portsmouth through Hampton Court and Windsor, and
embarked with Colonel Frances Nicholson, commander-in-chief of
the forces appointed to the American service, on board the
Dragon, Captain Martin, Commodore, who, with about eighteen
sail under his convoy, sailed from Spithead on the 18th of May,
and landed their Majesties safe at Boston, in New England, July
15th, 1710."[310]
Their names are like a set of yawns and sneezes.
Young Arne, who was born in King Street, was a musician against his
father's will, and practised in the garret, on a muffled spinnet, when
the family had gone to bed. He was sent to Eton, which was probably of
use to him in confirming his natural refinement, but nothing could
hinder his devoting himself to the art. It is said the old man had no
suspicion of his advancement in it, till, going to a concert one
evening, he was astonished to see his son exalted, bow in hand, as the
leader. Seeing the praises bestowed on him, he suffered him to become
what nature designed him for. Arne was the most flowing, Italian-like
musician of any we have had in England; not capable of the grandeur
and profound style of Purcell, but more sustained, continuous, and
seductive. His "Water parted" is a stream of sweetness; his song,
"When Daisies pied" is truly Shaksperian, full of archness and
originality. Like many of his profession, who feel much more than they
reflect, he became, in some measure, the victim of his sense of
beauty, being excessively addicted to women. His sister, Mrs. Cibber,
whose charming performances on the stage we have before noticed, did
not escape without the reputation of a like tendency; but she had a
bad husband (the notorious Theophilus Cibber); and on the occasion
that gave rise to it, is understood to have been the victim of his
mercenary designs.
Southampton Street we have noticed in speaking of the Strand.
Godfrey's, the chemist's, in this street, is an establishment of old
standing, as may be seen by the inscription over the door. A hundred
years ago, Mr. Ambrose Godfrey, who lived here, proposed to extinguish
fire by a new method of "explosion and suffocation;" that is to say, a
mixture of water and _gunpowder_. Tavistock Street (where Lord
Sandwich first saw Miss Ray) was once the great emporium of millinery
and mantua-making. Macklin died there. He lived many years in Wyld
Street. In Maiden Lane, Voltaire lodged, when in England, at the sign
of the White Peruke, probably the house of a fashionable French
peruquier. In "Swift's Works" (vol. xx. of the duodecimo edition, p.
294), there is a letter to him, in English, by Voltaire, and dated
from this house. The English seems a little too perfect. There is
another following it which looks more authentic. But there is no doubt
that Voltaire, while in England, made himself such a master of the
language, as to be able to write in it with singular correctness for a
foreigner. He was then young. He had been imprisoned in the Bastile
for a libel; came over here, on his release; procured many
subscriptions for the "Henriade;" published in English "An Essay on
Epic Poetry," and remained some years, during which he became
acquainted with the principal men of letters--Pope, Congreve, and
Young. He is said to have talked so indecently at Pope's table
(probably no more than was thought decent by the belles in France),
that the good old lady, the poet's mother, was obliged to retire.
Objecting, at Lord Chesterfield's table, to the allegories of Milton,
Young is said to have accosted him in the well-known couplet:--
Thou art so witty, profligate, and thin,
Thou seem'st a Milton, with his Death and Sin.
But this story has been doubted. Young, though not so thin, was as
witty and profligate in his way as Voltaire: for, even when affecting
a hermit-like sense of religion, he was a servile flatterer and
preferment-hunter. The secret of the gloomy tone in his
"Night-Thoughts" was his not having too much, and his missing a
bishopric. This is the reason why the "Night-Thoughts" are overdone,
and have not stood their ground. Voltaire left England with such a
mass of subscriptions for his "Henriade" as laid the foundation of his
fortunes, and with great admiration of English talent and genius,
particularly that of Newton and Locke, which, with all his
insinuations against our poetry, he took warm pains to extend, and
never gave up. He was fond to the last of showing he had not forgotten
his English. Somebody telling him that Johnson had spoken well of his
talents, he said, in English, "He is a clever fellow;" but the
gentleman observing that the doctor did not think well of his
religion, he added, "a superstitious dog."
During his residence in Maiden Lane, there is a story of Voltaire's
having been beset, in one of his walks, by the people, who ridiculed
him as a Frenchman. He got upon the steps of a door-way and harangued
them in their own language in praise of English liberty and the
nation; upon which, the story adds, they hailed him as a fine fellow,
and carried him to his lodgings on their shoulders. The treatment of
foreigners at this time in the streets of London (and every foreigner
was a Frenchman) was very much the reverse of what the inhabitants
took it for. Thanks to the progress of knowledge, nations have learnt
to understand one another's common cause better, and to suspect that
the most ridiculous thing they could do is to forget it.
Long Acre is a portion of the seven acres before mentioned. The great
plague of London began there in some goods brought over from Holland;
but as that calamity made its principal ravages in the city, we shall
speak of it under another head. During the battles of the Whigs and
Tories, Long Acre was famous for its Mug-houses, where beer-drinking
clubs were held, and politics "sung or said." Cheapside was another
place of celebrity for these meetings. There is a description of them
in a Journey through England in 1724, quoted by Mr. Malcolm in his
"Manners and Customs of London during the Eighteenth Century."
"Gentlemen, lawyers, and tradesmen," says the account, "used to meet
in a great room, seldom under a hundred."
"They had a president, who sat in an arm-chair some steps
higher than the rest of the company, to keep the whole room in
order. A harp played all the time at the lower end of the room,
and every now and then one or other of the company rose and
entertained the rest with a song, and (by the by) some were
good masters. Here was nothing drank but ale, and every
gentleman had his separate mug, which he chalked on the table
where he sat as it was brought in; and every one retired when
he pleased, as from a coffee-house.
"The rooms were always so diverted with songs, and drinking
from one table to another one another's healths, that there was
no room for anything that could sour conversation.
"One was obliged to be there by seven to get room, and after
ten the company were for the most part gone.
"This was a winter's amusement, agreeable enough to a stranger
for once or twice, and he was well diverted with the different
humours when the mugs overflow.
"On King George's accession to the throne, the Tories had so
much the better of the friends to the Protestant succession,
that they gained the mobs on all public days to their side.
This induced this set of gentlemen to establish mug-houses in
all the corners of this great city, for well-affected tradesmen
to meet and keep up the spirit of loyalty to the Protestant
succession, and to be ready upon all tumults to join their
forces for the suppression of the Tory mobs. Many an encounter
they had, and many were the riots, till at last the Parliament
was obliged by law to put an end to this city strife, which had
this good effect, that, on pulling down the mug-houses in
Salisbury Court, for which some boys were hanged on this Act,
the city has not been troubled with them since."[311]
One of the mistresses whom Prior celebrates, under the name of Chloe,
and compares to Venus and Diana, lived in Long Acre, and was the wife,
some say, of a common soldier, others of a cobbler, others of the
keeper of an ale-house. Perhaps she was all these, or there were three
mistresses whose alliances were confounded. Spence says that the
ale-house keeper was the first husband, and the cobbler the second.
"Everybody knows," says Pope, "what a wretch she was." And
again:--"Prior was not a right good man. He used to bury himself, for
whole days and nights together, with a poor mean creature, and often
drank hard. He turned from a strong Whig (which he had been when most
with Lord Halifax) to a violent Tory; and did not care to converse
with any Whigs after, any more than Rowe did with Tories."[312] "I
have been assured," says Pope's friend, Richardson, the painter, "that
Prior, after having spent the evening with Oxford, Bolingbroke, Pope,
and Swift, would go and smoke a pipe, and drink a bottle of ale, with
a common soldier and his wife, in Long Acre, before he went to
bed."[313] After the poet's death, Arbuthnot says something to the
same effect; but we forget what.
None of the wits of that time seem to have known much about love as a
sentiment. There is no end of the misconceptions of what is called
love. Prior would probably have retorted upon Pope, that his own taste
was not very delicate; and upon Arbuthnot, that the doctor was a
sensualist in his way, and of a lower order.[314] He would have quoted
Propertius, Raphael, and others, for the impartiality of his taste;
and the woman, though in low life, might have had wit and beauty. The
secret of these inequalities has been explained by Fielding.[315]
Sir Joshua Reynolds lived successively in St. Martin's Lane, and on
the north side of Great Newport Street, before he settled finally in
Leicester Square. In Newport Street was born the celebrated Horne
Tooke, the son of a poulterer in the adjoining market; which made him
say, that his father was a "Turkey merchant." He was, perhaps, the
hardest-headed man that ever figured in the union of literature and
politics; meaning, by that epithet, the power to discuss, and
impenetrability to objection. He died at his house at Wimbledon, and
was buried at Ealing. His history trenches too closely on the politics
of our own day, to allow us to expatiate upon it in a work expressly
devoted to the past.
St. Martin's Lane (see Charing Cross, for a notice of the church,) was
once as famous for artists as Newman Street has been since. In
Salisbury Court and in St. Martin's Lane the Royal Academy may be said
to have originated, for in those places successively its original
members first came together as a society established by themselves.
Perhaps there was not a single artist, contemporary with Sir Joshua,
who was unconnected with St. Martin's Lane, either as a lodger,
student, or visitor. Old Slaughter's coffee-house, in the same lane,
became celebrated on the same account, and as a resort of the
contemporary wits, especially Hogarth, who may be said to have
amalgamated in his works the wit and the painter. St. Martin's Lane
and Leicester Square are the head-quarters of the memory of English
art. In the annals of the former we meet with the names of Wilson and
Gainsborough: in the latter flourished and died Hogarth and Sir Joshua
Reynolds.
Sir Joshua's house in Leicester Square was on the eastern side, four
doors from Sydney's Alley.[316] It was there he kept a handsome table,
and was visited by Johnson and Goldsmith, and had the whole round of
the fashionable world fluttering before him, and steadying itself to
become immortal in his pictures: if, indeed, immortal they are to be,
in the ordinary meaning of that word; for, out of certain misgivings,
which perhaps argued a want of perfect claim to that destiny, he
dabbled in experiments upon colours which have failed; and his
pictures, though but of yesterday, already look old and worn out,
while Titian's are as blooming as Apollo.
Hogarth, the greatest name in English art, lived in one of the two
houses which now form Sabloniere's hotel. It was the one to the north.
He was a little bustling man, with a face more lively than refined, a
sort of knowing jockey look; and was irritable and egotistical, but
not ungenerous. As a painter, he did what no man ever did before or
since--brought out the absurdities of artificial life,
"Showed vice her own features, scorn her own image,"
and fairly painted even goods and chattels with a meaning! His
intentions were less profound than his impulses; that is to say, he
sometimes had an avowed common-place in view, as in the instance of
the Industrious and Idle Apprentice, while the execution of it was
full of much higher things and profounder humanities. As to the rest,
if ever there was a wit on canvass, it was he. To take one instance
alone, his spider's web over the poor's box is a union of remote
ideas, coalescing but too perfectly.[317]
Leicester Square, formerly Leicester Fields, was not built upon till
towards the restoration of Charles II. It took its name from a family
mansion of the Sydneys, Earls of Leicester, which stood on the north
side, on the site of the present houses and of Leicester Place.
[Illustration: RESIDENCE OF SIR ISAAC NEWTON.]
"It was for a short time," says Pennant, "the residence of
Elizabeth, daughter of James I., the titular Queen of Bohemia,
who, on February 13th, 1661, here ended her unfortunate life.
It has been tenanted for a great number of years. It was
successively the pounting-place of princes. The late King
[George II.], when Prince of Wales, after he had quarrelled
with his father, lived here several years. His son Frederic
followed his example, succeeded him in his house, and in it
finished his days."
"Behind Leicester House," the same author informs us, "stood,
in 1658, the Military-yard, founded by Henry Prince of Wales,
the spirited son of our peaceful James. M. Faubert afterwards
kept here his academy for riding and other gentlemanlike
exercises, in the reign of Charles II., which, in later years,
was removed to Swallow Street, opposite the end of Conduit
Street. Part is retained for the purpose of a riding-house; the
rest is converted into a workhouse for the parish of St.
James's."[318]
But the glory of the neighbourhood of Leicester Fields is in St.
Martin's Street, where the house is still remaining which was occupied
by the great Newton.
FOOTNOTES:
[274] Scott's 'Dryden,' vol. viii., p. 178.
[275] In the prologue to Etherege's play of the 'Man of Mode.' Scott's
'Dryden,' vol. x., p. 340.
[276] Manners and Customs of London during the Eighteenth Century,
vol. ii., p. 317.
[277] Cibber's 'Lives of the Poets' vol. iii., p. 252.
[278] Works of Dryden, vol. i., p. 387. Sir Walter thus notices a
letter of Tonson's on the subject of Dryden's contribution to one of
the volumes known under the title of his Miscellanies:--"The
contribution, although ample, was not satisfactory to old Jacob
Tonson, who wrote on the subject a most mercantile expostulatory
letter to Dryden, which is fortunately still preserved, as a curious
specimen of the minutiæ of a literary bargain in the seventeenth
century. Tonson, with reference to Dryden, having offered a strange
bookseller six hundred lines for twenty guineas, enters into a
question in the rule of three, by which he discovers and proves, that
for fifty guineas he has only 1,446 lines, which he seems to take more
unkindly, as he had not counted the lines until he had paid the money;
from all which Jacob infers, that Dryden ought, out of generosity, at
least to throw him in something to the bargain, especially as he had
used him more kindly in Juvenal, which, saith old Jacob, is not
reckoned so easy to translate as Ovid."--Vol. i., p. 379.
[279] Dryden, vol. i., p. 114.
[280] Dryden, vol. i., p. 203.
[281] Poems on State Affairs, vol. i., p. 99.
[282] Spence's 'Anecdotes,' p. 263.
[283] Spence's 'Anecdotes,' p. 59.
[284] Vol. xv., p. 218.
[285] Spence, p. 263.
[286] Ibid., p. 286.
[287] Boswell, vol. i., p. 373.
[288] Boswell, vol. iii., p. 378.
[289] It is still so called by many of the poorer orders, who are
oftener in the right in their old English than is suspected. Some of
them call it Common Garden, which is a better corruption than its
present one.
[290] Londinium Redivivum, vol. iv., p. 213.
[291] Londinium Redivivum, vol. iv., p. 219.
[292] Memoirs of Mrs. Letitia Pilkington. Dublin, 1748, vol. i., p.
136.
[293] Hazlitt's 'Picture Galleries of England,' p. 80.
[294] The best account we are acquainted with of the various
Beef-steak Clubs has been given us by the good-humoured author of
'Wine and Walnuts.' His book is an antiquarian fiction, but not
entirely such; and the present account, among others, may be taken as
fact. George Lambert, Rich's scene-painter at Covent Garden, says he,
"being a man of wit, and of repute as an artist, was frequently
visited by persons of note while at his work in the scene-room. In
those days it was customary for men of fashion to visit the
green-room, and to indulge in a morning lounge behind the curtain of
the theatre. Lambert, when preparing his designs for a pantomine or
new spectacle (for which exhibitions the manager, Rich, was much
renowned), would often take his chop or steak cooked on the German
stove, rather than quit his occupation for the superior accommodation
of a neighbouring tavern. Certain of his visitors, men of taste,
struck with the novelty of the thing perhaps, or tempted by the
savoury dish, took a knife and fork with Lambert, and enjoyed the
treat. Hence the origin of the Beef-steak Club, whose social feasts
were long held in the painting-room of this theatre, which, from its
commencement, has enrolled among its members persons of the highest
rank and fortune, and many eminent professional men and distinguished
wits. The Club subsequently met in an apartment of the late theatre;
then it moved to the Shakspeare Tavern; thence again to the theatre;
until, being burnt out in 1812, the meetings adjourned to the Bedford.
At present the celebrated convives assemble at an apartment at the
English Opera House in the Strand.
"At the same time this social club flourished in England, and about
the year 1749, a Beef-steak Club was established at the Theatre Royal,
Dublin, of which the celebrated Mrs. Margaret Woffington was
president. It was begun by Mr. Sheridan, but on a very different plan
to that in London, no theatrical performer, save one _female_, being
admitted; and though called a Club, the manager alone bore all the
expenses. The plan was, by making a list of about fifty or sixty
persons, chiefly noblemen and members of Parliament, who were invited.
Usually about half that number attended, and dined in the manager's
apartment in the theatre. There was no female admitted but this _Peg
Woffington_, so denominated by all her contemporaries, who was seated
in a great chair at the head of the table, and elected president for
the season.
"'It will readily be believed,' says Mr. Victor, who was joint
proprietor of the house, 'that a club where there were good
accommodations, such a _lovely president_, full of wit and spirit, and
_nothing to pay_, must soon grow remarkably fashionable.' It did
so--but we find it subsequently caused the theatre to be pulled to
pieces about the manager's head.
"Mr. Victor says of Mrs. Margaret, 'she possessed captivating charms
as a jovial, witty bottle companion, but few remaining as a mere
female.' We have Dr. Johnson's testimony, however, who had often
gossipped with Mrs. Margaret in the green-room at old Drury, more in
the lady's favour.
"This author (Victor) says, speaking of the Beef-steak Club, 'It was a
club of ancient institution in every theatre; when the principal
performers dined one day in the week together (generally Saturday),
and authors and other geniuses were admitted members.'
"The _club_ in Ivy Lane, celebrated by Dr. Johnson, was originally a
_Beef-steak_."
[295] From a paper of Steele's in the 'Spectator,' No. 468.
[296] Memoirs of the Life of Charles Macklin, Esq., &c., by James
Thomas Kirkman, vol. ii., p. 419.
[297] Memoirs of the Life of Charles Macklin, Esq., by James Thomas
Kirkman, vol. ii., p. 416.
[298] A few days after writing this passage, we saw the shrubs making
their appearance.
[299] Literary and Miscellaneous Memoirs, by J. Cradock, Esq., M.A.,
F.S.A., vol. i., p. 117.
[300] Literary and Miscellaneous Memoirs, by J. Cradock, Esq., M.A.,
F.S.A., vol. iv., p. 166.
[301] Literary and Miscellaneous Memoirs, by J. Cradock, Esq., M.A.,
F.S.A., vol. i., p. 143.
[302] Cradock, as above, p. 144.
[303] Love and Madness, a Story too True, in a series of Letters, &c.
1822, p. 11.
[304] Cradock's Memoirs, vol. iv., p. 166.
[305] Boswell, vol. iii., p. 414.
[306] Cradock's Memoirs, vol. i., p. 146.
[307] Cradock's Memoirs, vol. iv., p. 166.
[308] Account of John Partridge, in the Appendix to the Tatler, vol.
iv., p. 613.
[309] Anecdotes, Manners, and Customs of London during the Eighteenth
Century, vol. i., p. 407.
[310] Tatler, _ut supra_, vol. iii., p. 397.
[311] Anecdotes, Manners, &c. _ut supra_, vol. iii., p. 239.
[312] Spence, _ut supra_, pp. 2, and 49.
[313] Johnson's Life of Prior.
[314] Arbuthnot was a lover of the table, and is understood to have
embittered his end by it; a charge which has been brought against
Pope. Perhaps there is not one that might be brought with more safety
against ninety men out of a hundred.
[315] Journey to the Next World.
[316] The house was probably on the site now occupied by the
south-east corner of New Coventry Street.
[317] For masterly criticisms on Hogarth, see the "Works of Charles
Lamb," vol. ii., p. 88, and the "Picture Galleries of England," p.
181.
[318] Pennant, p. 120.