landlord, Mr. Wright. {73} Gyp was not, indeed, universally beloved,
especially by the prowling dogs of the neighbourhood, on whom he pounced
with beak and claw. He was, moreover, not inexpert in thieving, and had,
in many hiding-places, deposited the spoons and pairs of spectacles
snapped up in leisure moments. He had also formed a coin collection by
swooping down on the sixpences and shillings placed on the bar by
customers paying their reckoning. He was a talking bird, but indulged
neither in fatuous endearments nor horrid oaths. He was, in truth, a
practical joker of the finest feather. His human ‘What’s a clock?’
elicited an answer from many a Cockney oarsman as he passed the Red
House; and his ‘Boat ahoy! Our Rock, over!’ could be heard across the
river. Now, at the White House (opposite the Red) was stationed a
ferryman named Rock, and even Mr. James Rock was sometimes deceived.
Twice on one day he had crossed to the Red House to answer the call of a
non-existent passenger, but the third time he caught the raven in the
act, and flung the handiest missile—a pewter pot—at the mischievous bird.
The landlord was enraged, though Gyp escaped; but it was probably owing
to this incident that Gyp was removed to a Midland county, where, in the
absence of Cockneys and ferrymen, he pined away and died.
[Picture: The Red House, Battersea. From a view published by J. Rorke,
circa 1845]
The frequenters of the Red House were not all pigeon-shooters. Around it
extended the drear and marshy waste of Battersea Fields, abounding in
plants many and curious, but also in strange specimens of humanity. In
the early years of the nineteenth century an informal fair was held at
Easter in the Fields; in 1823 it was prohibited, but the spirit of
fairing was not dead, and from 1835 onwards the fair became perpetual,
and especially vigorous on the Day of Rest. A Battersea missionary, the
Rev. Thomas Kirk, states his recollections of this fair as follows: ‘If
ever there was a place out of hell which surpassed Sodom and Gomorrah in
ungodliness and abomination, this was it.’ ‘I have gone,’ he says, ‘to
this sad spot in the afternoon and evening of the Lord’s Day, when there
have been from 60 to 120 horses and donkeys racing, foot-racing, walking
matches, flying boats, flying horses, roundabouts, theatres, comic
actors, shameless dancers, conjurers, fortune-tellers, gamblers of every
description, drinking-booths, stalls, hawkers, and vendors of all kinds
of articles.’ It would be impossible to describe the ‘mingled shouts and
noises and the unmentionable doings of this pandemonium on earth.’
[Picture: Barry, the Clown, on the Thames. (Cf. Red House, Battersea.)]
This is graphic enough, but perhaps a trifle severe, for it will be noted
that in the worthy missionary’s indictment the donkeys and the
roundabouts are hardly less heinous counts than the gambling and the
unmentionable doings. However this may be, Battersea Fields for years
not only outraged the notion of a quiet Sunday, but in the summertime
attracted by thousands the choicest specimens of the loafer, the
‘gypsey,’ and the rowdy. It might have been left to the local builder to
cover the objectionable fields with bricks and mortar, but a better way
was found. In 1846 an Act of Parliament empowered the Commissioners of
Woods and Forests to form a park in the Fields, and in 1850 the Red House
and its shooting-ground were purchased by them for £10,000. But the
landlord (James Ireland) and the fair people had still two years to run.
Mr. Ireland, on his part, considerably forced the pace, and made his
garden into a minor Vauxhall, where we hear of balloons and fireworks, a
ballet, a circus, a dancing-platform, and a tight rope. All this must
have been on a humble scale, for sixpence and threepence were the highest
charges. It was in 1852 that Mr. John Garratt raced Mr. Hollyoak from
the Old Swan to the Red House for £5, their boats being washing-tubs
drawn by geese. Nothing is new in ‘amusements,’ and even this silly
contest was as old as 1844, when John Barry, the clown of Astley’s, had
conducted (in full canonicals) a similar craft from Vauxhall to
Westminster. {75} As another attraction Ireland introduced the
pedestrian Searles to perform the dismal feat of walking 1,000 miles in
1,000 consecutive hours. Mr. Searles walked for six weeks, from July 7
to August 18 (1851), and an ox was roasted whole in the grounds to
celebrate his achievement. A monster loaf, a plum-pudding weighing a
hundredweight, and a butt of Barclay’s best, were at the same time
presented to the public. A calf, a fat sheep, and a prime pig were
promised for future Sundays.
The fair was suppressed by the magistrates in May, 1852, and from this
time the formation of Battersea Park went slowly on till its formal
opening on March 28, 1858. It occupies 198 acres of the old Fields, and
has absorbed, besides the Red House, some other places of resort—the
Tivoli Gardens on the river front, and the Balloon tavern and gardens in
the marshland.
[Bills and advertisements (W.); H. S. Simmonds, _All about Battersea_;
_Picture of London_, 1841–1846; Colburn’s _Kalendar_, 1840; and _Bell’s
Life_ (for the pigeon-shooting); Walford, vi. 476 _f._; Sexby’s
_Municipal Parks_.]
There are several lithographs and water-colour drawings, all showing the
front of the house and the jetty. A similar view (an oil-painting) in
Mr. Gardner’s collection is reproduced in Birch’s _London on Thames_,
Plate XVII.
BRUNSWICK GARDENS (OR VAUXHALL PLEASURE-GARDENS), VAUXHALL
‘THESE beautiful grounds, once the resort of Royalty,’ were opened by a
Mr. King in 1839, and flourished for a few years, till about 1845. Their
famous neighbour ‘Vauxhall’ was no longer what it had been, and in 1840
was actually closed for a year. There was thus an opening for a ‘Minor
Vauxhall’ with summer concerts _à la Musard_.
A band of from thirty to fifty performers was engaged under Blewitt as
director and composer, and the grand gala concerts twice a week were
hardly inferior to those of Vauxhall as it then was. Operatic and dance
music, and plenty of ballads and comic songs, formed the programme. The
comic singer was the popular Henry Howell; the other vocalists are not
much known to fame—Mr. Hart and Mr. Frost, and two ladies, Mademoiselle
Braehem and Miss Gieulien, who seem to have modelled their names on those
of better-known musicians. The concerts were followed by Darby’s
fireworks and by ascents of Montgolfier balloons, which, ‘on reaching a
certain height,’ discharged parachutes, and themselves descended quietly
into the gardens, instead of wandering off to risky trees and ponds in
remote English counties. The admission was a shilling or sixpence, with
refreshments, and in 1840 the experiment was tried of admitting ladies
free.
‘The resort of Royalty’ to the gardens was legitimately inferred from the
fact that the grounds were at the back of Brunswick House, the former
residence of the Duke of Brunswick. The local resident entered his
pleasure-garden from the Wandsworth Road, and respectfully skirted the
house and its private grounds till he reached a spacious lawn at the
back. This was bordered on two sides by rustic boxes and refreshment
bars, and by an orchestra and assembly-room. The pleasantest feature of
the garden was a promenade platform erected on piles over the Thames.
Close by was the river entrance and the pier of the Vauxhall Hotel, at
which the steamboats from Hungerford Market and the City landed visitors
at about seven o’clock.
Brunswick House, an ugly but spacious brick mansion (No. 54, Wandsworth
Road), is still standing, and is now used as a Club for the employés of
the London and South-Western Railway. The garden space is absorbed by
yards and wharves.
[Bills and newspaper advertisements; a plan of the gardens, 1844; and a
drawing.—W.]
FLORA GARDENS, CAMBERWELL
THESE gardens, entered from the Wyndham Road, Camberwell, had a brief but
lively existence from 1849 till about 1857. A central walk, adorned with
fountains and lawns on either hand, led to a ball-room on the right, and
on the left to a maze described as ‘the nearest to that of Hampton
Court.’ This maze was intricate and verdant, and provided with a
competent guide, while in the middle—in which respect it surpassed ‘that
of Hampton Court’—it had a magic hermitage inhabited by a learned
Chaldean astrologer.
Concerts and dancing took place every evening in the summer, the
admission being sixpence. On special occasions there were costume balls
with a large band. From 1851 to 1854 James Ellis, the former lessee of
Cremorne, was manager. He gave a ball _à la Watteau_, and in 1854
repeated Lord Chief Baron Nicholson’s ‘1,000 guineas fête,’ {79} which
had the genuine, and slightly risky, Nicholson flavour. It lasted three
days, and included a steeplechase by lady jockeys, a Coventry procession
by torchlight, with Lady Godiva and other characters sustained ‘by
artists’ (presumably not R.A’s) ‘from the Royal Academy.’ There were
also Arabian Nights’ entertainments, and a mock election for Camberwell,
in which the candidates addressed the free and independent voters from
the hustings.
On Sundays the Flora Gardens granted free admissions, and a
representative of _Paul Pry_ who visited the place in 1857 describes the
local frequenters. Polly P*rs*ns was, he tells us, quite up to the door
in her summer turn-out, while that pretty, gazelle-like girl from the
‘Manor,’ Lizzie B., accompanied by her particularly especial friend Polly
P*rk*r, amused themselves by firing at targets for nuts. {80}
[Plan of Gardens in 1855 (W.); bills, advertisements, etc. (W.);
_Theatrical Journal_, 1851.]
MONTPELIER TEA GARDENS, WALWORTH
THESE gardens, attached to the Montpelier House tavern, came into
existence in the later years of the eighteenth century. William Hazlitt,
the essayist (born in 1778), recalls with pleasure his ‘infant
wanderings’ in this place, to which he used to be taken by his father.
{81a}
In July, 1796, the newly formed Montpelier Club played their first match
in their cricket ground at Montpelier Gardens; and on August 10 and 11 of
that year the same ground was the scene of a match of a rather painful,
if curious, character. The game, like all the cricket of the period, had
high stakes dependent on it—in this case 1,000 guineas—and the players
were selected (by two noble lords) from the pensioners of Greenwich
Hospital: eleven men with one leg against eleven with one arm. The match
began at ten, but about three a riotous crowd broke in, demolished the
gates and fences, and stopped the proceedings till six o’clock, when play
was resumed. On the second day the elevens reappeared, being brought to
the scene of action in three Greenwich stage-coaches, not without flags
and music. The match was played out, and the one-legged men beat the
poor one-arms by 103. {81b}
In the first thirty years of the nineteenth century the place had
considerable local reputation as a tea-garden, and was noted for its
maze. It did not become extinct till the end of the fifties.
In 1828 one of the attractions by day and by candle-light was the
waxworks booth of the Messrs. Ewing, ‘consisting of 129 public
characters, large as life.’ In this collection, omitting minor
celebrities, were to be seen George IV. in his chair of state; the
lamented Princess Charlotte; Guy Fawkes, who attempted to blow up the
Parliament House; the Archbishop of York; Wallace, the hero of Scotland;
‘the unfortunate John Bellingham’; and Daniel Dancer, ‘the miserable
miser,’ with his sister and servant. There was, moreover, a likeness of
the celebrated living skeleton, ‘procured at enormous expense and
difficulty’ (presumably to the skeleton). ‘Those who delight,’ said the
bills, ‘in the wonders of the Creator will no doubt be highly gratified,
without enduring that unpleasantness which some have complained of when
viewing the being himself [_i.e._, the skeleton].’ {82}
The gardens were to the west of the present Walworth Road, a little to
the south-west of Princes Street. The Montpelier tavern and Walworth
Palace of Varieties (No. 18, Montpelier Street) is on part of the site.
[Bills and newspaper notices; _Picture of London_, 1802–1830; W. W.
Read’s _Annals of Cricket_.]
THE SURREY ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS
A VIEW here reproduced represents these once famous gardens as they
appeared in the early thirties. They were in existence, somewhat
transformed, as late as 1877, but it is now difficult to imagine that
they were situated in a populous region between the Kennington and
Walworth Roads.
The ‘Zoo’ which found a home in a beautiful garden in the south of London
was for some time no mean rival to the Zoo _par excellence_ in Regent’s
Park, while, as a place of public entertainment, the Surrey Gardens had
something of the popularity of Cremorne, with which they were, in fact,
nearly coeval. But here the resemblance ends, for the Surrey Zoo had no
dancing-platform, {83} no alcoholic drinks for more than thirteen years,
and rarely furnished to the police-court reporter any copy worthy of his
notice. The gardens were generally closed at 10 p.m., and the addition
in 1846 of two new constables to the permanent staff was advertised as an
effective terror to evil-doers. The gardens were by no means solely
frequented by South Londoners, though they were far from the luxurious
west, and on the wrong side of the Thames. Fireworks, promenade concerts
and ballooning were a bait for the shillings of the sightseer, but for
more than twenty years at least these attractions never quite
sophisticated the simple recreation afforded by the Zoological Garden.
[Picture: A South-East View in the Surrey Zoological Gardens. After a
lithograph published by Havell, 1832]
The founder, and for many years the proprietor, of these gardens was
Edward Cross, whose menagerie at Exeter Change was once a London sight
and the abode of the famous elephant Chunee. But Exeter Change, as old
views of London clearly show, projected itself in an obstructive way
across the pavement of the Strand, and in 1829 was removed for the
formation of Burleigh Street. Mr. Cross then moved his animals to a
temporary home in the King’s Mews (the site of Trafalgar Square). In the
autumn of 1831 the menagerie found itself in South London. The
Manor-House, Walworth, had attached to it a fine garden of fifteen acres
and a lake of three acres, {84} which was not only a picturesque feature,
but, as we shall afterwards see, a valuable theatrical asset as ‘real
water.’ The owner of the Manor-House had already spent several thousands
on his grounds, and it was not difficult for Cross to make the necessary
alterations. The gardens were remodelled or laid out anew by Henry
Phillips, author of _Sylva Florifera_, with flower-beds, walks, and
undulating lawns, and an early guidebook to the gardens gives a list of
its two hundred varieties of hardy trees. Aviaries were soon put up for
the singing birds, and swings and cages for the parrots. The water-birds
readily took to the little ponds, and the swans and herons were soon at
home in the Great Lake, where they found an island haven overhung by
drooping willows. The lions and tigers were caged in a great circular
conservatory of glass (something like the palm-house at Kew), 300 feet
long, and constructed nearly in the centre of the grounds. A still
larger octagon building with enclosed paddocks was erected for the
zebras, emus, and kangaroos.
The _Companion_ to the gardens, issued in 1835, duly sets forth the
catalogue of the animals and birds, and many numbers of the _Mirror_
magazine give neat woodcuts of the ‘latest additions,’ at that time
apparently rare or curious, though now sufficiently familiar. The
greatest popular successes were the three giraffes—the first ever seen in
England—brought over in 1836 from Alexandria; the orang-outang; the
Indian one-horned rhinoceros (1834); Nero, the lion who cost £800, and
was stated to be twenty years old; and a gigantic tortoise, which small
children used to ride.
The Zoological Garden was inaugurated under distinguished auspices, and
the prospectus of 1831 proclaims as patrons the Queen, the Duchess of
Kent, the Princess Victoria, and an imposing array of Dukes and
Marquises. The season tickets were a guinea, and the admission at the
gates was from first to last one shilling. In this prospectus nothing
was said about popular amusements, and for several years nothing much was
done in this direction beyond anniversary fêtes of the fancy fair
description. On such occasions performers like Ramo Samee, the
sword-swallower, and Blackmore of Vauxhall made their appearance,
Blackmore’s function being to cross the lake on a rope sixty feet high.
In 1837 the South London Horticultural Society, formed in the preceding
year, held the first of many successful flower-shows in the gardens. In
the same year the first panorama was displayed—‘Vesuvius, with the town
and port of Posilippo.’ The lake was, of course, the Bay of Naples, with
feluccas and a miniature British frigate lying at anchor. The painter of
Vesuvius, as of many of the later panoramas, was George Danson, the
scene-painter at Astley’s. Danson was a clever artist in his way; his
panoramic drawing was good, and his colouring well kept under, so that
his productions would bear inspection by daylight. At night-time the
fireworker of the gardens, J. Southby, appeared on the scene, and
Vesuvius was soon in eruption. On the day when the first eruption was to
take place the manager of the gardens—if _Bell’s Life_ is not misleading
us—solemnly warned the chief fireman of the City, in case he should send
to Walworth engines that might be more needed elsewhere.
Vesuvius was repeated in 1838, and henceforth the Surrey Zoo was never
without an exhibition of the kind. It is a good rule always to see a
panorama or a big model whenever one has the opportunity, but the reader
will perhaps be contented if I set forth the chronology of the Surrey
panoramas in a footnote. {86a} However carefully painted the canvas
might be, a subject was preferred that lent itself to treatment by
gunpowder and fireworks. Thus, Vesuvius was followed by Mount Hecla; Old
London was burnt in the Great Fire of 1666; Gibraltar was besieged;
Badajoz stormed ‘with effects of real ordnance’; and the taking of
Sebastopol was truly terrific.
The city of Rome (covering five acres) was a favourite subject. The
scene showed the bridge over the Tiber, St. Peter’s, and the Castle of
St. Angelo. At night-time Southby’s fireworks legitimately reproduced
the Roman Girandola of Easter Monday:
“At the Surrey Menagerie every one knows
(Because ’tis a place to which every one goes)
There’s a model of Rome: and as round it one struts
One sinks the remembrance of Newington Butts;
And having one’s shilling laid down at the portal,
One fancies oneself in the City Immortal.” {86b}
Quieter efforts were the Temples of Elora, and Edinburgh, a subject
suggested by Prince Albert.
[Picture: Stirring up the Great Fire of London (Surrey Zoo). After
George Cruikshank, 1844]
Balloon ascents, which had such a strange fascination for the frequenters
of Vauxhall in the thirties and forties, and which were always an
attraction at Cremorne, do not seem to have been a feature of the Surrey
Gardens. An ascent by Henry Coxwell, on September 7, 1854, was of some
importance, as the balloonist for the first time gave a public exhibition
of his methods of balloon-signalling in war. His apparatus was attached
to the car, and the signals were supposed to be addressed to the
beleaguered fortress of Sebastopol. Some pigeons were also taken up, and
sent forth from the balloon with messages.
Two curiosities of ballooning are connected with these gardens. In May,
1837, Mr. and Mrs. Graham took up in a parachute attached to their
balloon a monkey named Signor Jacopo, attired in a scarlet coat and
feathers. The monkey descended in his parachute on Walworth Common, and,
being duly labelled with ‘two pounds reward,’ was promptly returned to
Mr. Cross. In 1838 the appearance of the ‘Montgolfier’ balloon {88a}
excited no ordinary interest. It was a monstrous machine made of lawn
varnished, and was said to be ‘of the height of the York Column, with a
circumference nearly half that of the dome of St. Paul’s.’ It was
announced to ascend on May 24, and people began to assemble in the
grounds at noon. By seven o’clock there were nearly 5,000 spectators,
and, behind a huge tarpaulin, the balloon was supposed to be in process
of inflation. The balloon was attached to a platform in the middle of
the lake, and its peculiarity was that it had to be inflated by chopped
straw burnt in a brazier under the orifice of the bag. The size of the
furnace had been miscalculated, and after the balloon had twice been set
on fire, the ‘intrepid aeronaut’ decided not to ascend. Some of the
spectators considered that, at any rate, the balloon could be punished,
and ‘a well-directed volley of stones’ soon left the monster prostrate on
the lake. An attempt was made to drag it on shore and tear it in pieces,
but at this moment the cord broke. Some of the rowdier spirits now
sought out the proprietor, hoping to duck him in one of his own ponds.
And when this failed, they attacked the glass panes of the lion’s
conservatory. But suddenly the police appeared and Vesuvius burst forth
in all its fury, and when the fireworks were over the visitors quietly
dispersed.
From 1839 to 1844 orchestral concerts, without vocalists, were one of the
principal attractions. A good band, under C. Godfrey, performed music of
the promenade-concert type—operatic overtures, dance-music by Strauss and
Musard, with an occasional ‘classical’ first part, when Handel and
Beethoven had their turn.
In 1844 there was a change of proprietors. Edward Cross retired, {88b}
and was succeeded by William Tyler, who had been the secretary to the
gardens. Next year a gigantic and very ugly orchestra was erected for
the accommodation of a band of 300 under Jullien, {89} who had made a
name by his promenade concerts at Covent Garden and Drury Lane.
Post-horn gallops and polkas now enlivened the multitude, and in this
‘Concert monstre’ the brass too often got the better of the strings.
Some vocalists (Mlle. Lovarny and Miss Huddart) were also introduced
(1848). These concerts and the panoramas bring us to 1855, which was
practically the last year of the _old_ Zoo. For Tyler then disposed of
his property, and sold off the wild beasts. The popular taste was no
doubt changing, though Tyler had done his best, and lit up the glass
conservatory so that (as his advertisements stated) the ‘matchless
collection of carnivora could be viewed by gaslight.’
[Picture: ‘Old London’ at the Surrey Zoological Gardens. After a
lithograph published by Webb, 1844]
The gardens were now taken in hand by the Surrey Music-Hall Company, who
had a working capital of over £30,000, and rented the gardens for £346.
The chairman of this company was Sir W. de Bathe, but Jullien had a
considerable stake in the enterprise. At a cost of £18,200 a music-hall
(in the classical sense of the word) was erected near the lake, on the
site of the circular conservatory. This building, by Horace Jones, was
on a great scale, and would hold an audience of 12,000 and an orchestra
of 1,000. Its general appearance was not ineffective, but a critic
described its style as degenerate Italian relieved in the French taste.
It was opened on July, 15, 1856, with a performance of ‘The Messiah,’
with Jullien, Clara Novello, Sims Reeves, Miss Dolby, and Piatti.
In the autumn the new hall had a strange tenant in Mr. C. H. Spurgeon,
who, finding Exeter Hall and his own chapel too small, hired the building
for four Sundays for a payment of £15 each Sunday. On the evening of
October 19 there was an enormous congregation. While Spurgeon was
engaged in prayer an extraordinary panic occurred. Some mischief-maker
raised a shout of ‘Fire!’ or, according to another account, there was an
agonized cry of ‘The roof! The roof!’ A mad rush was made for the
doors, some of which seem to have been locked to prevent people strolling
in and out of the gardens. Spurgeon kept calm, and, when the terror
subsided, some of the congregation found their way back to the hall, but
seven persons had been killed and about fifty injured in the crush.