Dear Sir,--Some agreeable recollections induce me to pen a few
circumstances for the _Table Book_, which may kindle associations in the
many who were formerly engaged in representing the “raw recruit,” and
who are now playing the “old soldier” in the conflict of years. I do not
travel out of the road to take the “Eleven city regiments” into my
battalion, nor do I call for the aid of the “Gray’s-inn sharpshooters,”
(as lawyers are,) and other gents of the “sword and sash,” who then
emulated their brethren in “scarlet and blue.”--Erecting my canteen at
Moorgate, I hint to other quilldrivers to extend _their_ forces when and
where their memories serve. Inkshed, not bloodshed, is my only
danger--my greatest failing is a propensity (I fear) to digress and
enlarge, till I may not bring the numbers of my muster-roll within
proper discipline. Being on my guard, however, I take the succeeding
specimens from a spot filled with chapels of several persuasions, the
“London Institution,” and well-built houses, with a pleasant relief of
verdure in the centre for nursery maids and romping children.
_Moorfields_, alas! has no fields! Where the “Beth’lem hospital” raised
its magnificent but gloomy front, with old Cibber’s statues of “Raving
and Melancholy Madness” siding the centre entrance, no vestiges remain,
except the church and parts of London Wall, leading from Broker-row to
the Albion chapel, commonly called the Plum-cake. Who that knew the
crossing from Finsbury-square to Broad-street remembers not the
open-barred window at which “Mad Molly” daily appeared, singing, and
talking inconsistencies of love, confinement, and starvation? Who that
stood before the massive building heard not the tones of agony, and felt
not deep pity for the poor reasonless creatures?
----In Moorfields, when Buonaparte threatened this country with
invasion, the beat of drum and the shrillings of the fife brought corps
of gentlemen volunteers into rank and file, to show how much a “nation
of shopkeepers” could do. Ladies in clusters assembled here to witness
the feats of their soldier-like heroes--sanctioning with their presence,
and applauding with their smiles, the defenders of their domiciles.
The “Bank gentlemen,” distinguished by their long gaiters, and therefore
called black-legs, went farther off and exercised before bank-hours, in
the Tenter-ground beyond the Vinegar-yard.
The East India Company’s three regiments (the best soldiers next to the
foot-guards) drilled in a field which lay in the way on the one side to
the Rosemary Branch, (noted for a water-party or fives’ match,) and the
White Lead Mills, whose windsails are removed by the steam Quixotes of
the day. On the other side, skirted the once pleasant path, leading from
the Shepherd and Shepherdess across the meadow either to Queen’s
Head-lane, the Britannia, or the Almshouses, near the Barley Mow,
Islington. The East India field is now divided into gardens and snug
arbours, let to the admirers of flowers and retreats.
Lackington’s “Temple of Fame” was a temple of knowledge. This splendid
place and its winding shelves of books caught the passing eye with
astonishment at the success and skill of the once humble owner of a
bookstall in Chiswell-street. Here Finsbury’s “child of lore and
catalogue-maker” wrote a “book,” abounding with quotations from authors,
and refuted his own words in after-life by publishing his “Confessions.”
Lackington was, however, a man of deep judgment in his business, and no
every-day observer of the manners and variations of his contemporaries.
Then, the “Artillery Company” attracted well-dressed people on Wednesday
evenings, and from Finsbury-side to Bunhill-row there was a promenade of
fashionables from Duke’s-place and Bevis Marks, listening to a band of
music and the roar of cannon till dusk.
Moorfields gathered more regiments than any other spot excepting the
Park, in which reviews and sham-fights concentrated the corporate forces
on field-days. Wimbledon Common became also an occasional scene of busy
parade and preparation; baggage long drawn out, multitudes of friends,
sweethearts and wives, and nondescripts. In the roads were collected the
living beings of half of the metropolis. It seemed a stir in earnest of
great achievements. Many a white handkerchief dried the parting tear.
There were the adieu and the farewell; salutes given behind the counter,
or snatched in the passage, affected the sensibilities like last
meetings. Sir W. Curtis and other colonels reminded the “gentlemen” they
had “the honour” to command, that they were in “good quarters.” Sermons
were preached in and out of the establishment to “soldiers.”
Representations were given at the theatres to “soldiers.” The
shop-windows presented tokens of courage and love to “soldiers.” Not a
concert was held, not a “free and easy” passed, without songs and
melodies to “soldiers.” It was a fine time for publicans and poets.
Abraham Newland’s promises kept army-clothiers, gun-makers, Hounslow
powder-mills, and Mr. Pitt’s affairs in action. No man might creditably
present himself if he were void of the tone of military distinction; and
Charles Dibdin and Grimaldi--“wicked wags!”--satirized the fashion of
“playing at soldiers.”
In process of time, Maidstone, Colchester, and Rochester were select
places for trying the shopkeeping volunteers: they were on duty for
weeks, and returned with the honours of the barracks. Things taking a
more peaceful aspect, or rather the alarm of invasion having subsided,
the regimentals were put by, and scarcely a relic is now seen to remind
the rising generation of the deeds of their fathers.
I could travel further, and tell more of these and similar doings, but I
refrain, lest I tire your patience and your readers’ courtesy.
Dear sir,
Truly yours,