London's
Tea Gardens
An essay by William B Boulton
Visit
page one, two,
three, four,
five, six,
seven, eight, nine,
ten, eleven
From
the first we hear of musical rarities at the gardens. There
was Mr. Stanesby, jun., for example, who in 1738 produced "two
grand bassoons, the greatness of whose sound surpass that of
any other bass instrument whatever," and a little later
Mr. Ferron performed on "the Pariton, an instrument never
played in publick before."
For
thirty years, too, there was a succession of famous vocalists.
Mary Anne Falkner, the pretty ballad singer, who fascinated
half the young men of the middle century; Tommy Lowe, the tenor,
whose warblings were for many seasons one of the attractions
of Vauxhall, and Mrs. Vincent, who sang "Let the Merry
Bells go Round," to the accompaniment of "a new instrument
called the tintinnabula "; Charles Bannister gave his 'popular
imitations of other well-known singers, anticipating a favourite
entertainment of our own variety theatre; Nan Catley, the prima
donna from Covent Garden; Defesch, the famous violinist; Dibdin,
of Drury Lane; the fresh full voices of "the young gentlemen
from St. Paul's choir," and scores of others, made the
groves of Marylebone melodious for two generations.
The
great Handel himself was often in the gardens listening to the
performances of his own cantatas, and Dr. Arne was to be seen
conducting his own glees, with a visage "like two oysters
in a plate of beet-root," as Mr. Sheridan unkindly recorded
in describing the Doctor's eyes and complexion. Harmony and
decorum were the features of Marylebone Gardens at its prime,
broken rarely by a quarrel under the trees, or the rudeness
of a royal visitor like the burly Duke of Cumberland.
The
pleasant amenities of the place appear even in the announcements
of its simple pleasures. The naive and quaint advertisements
of Miss Trusler, the daughter of one of the proprietors of the
place at its best, could never have issued from the raffishness
of Islington or the vulgarity of Bagnigge Wells. Said this lady
in 1759, "Mr. Trusler's daughter begs leave to inform the
nobility and gentry that she intends to make fruit tarts during
the fruit season, and hopes to give equal satisfaction as with
the rich cakes and almond cheesecakes. The fruit will always
be fresh gathered, having good quantities in the garden, and
none but loaf sugar used and the finest Epping butter. Tarts
of a twelve-penny size will be made every day from one to three
o'clock. New and rich seed and plum cakes are sent to any part
of the town."
Marylebone,
to be sure, was an Arcadia under the presidency of such a genius
as this. It was, in fact, a place where the gentry who had country
houses in the village hard by could send their children and
their nursemaids in the summer days and evenings without fear
of untoward molestation, and where they themselves could, and
indeed often did, take their breakfast under the planes in the
sun and the gentle breezes of the hayfields with which the gardens
were surrounded.
Not
that Marylebone was without its mild excitements on occasion.
It is recorded that pretty Miss Fountayne, a relation of "Dr.
Fountayne's, a dean of the Established Church, "was one
day taking the air in the gardens when she was saluted by a
young man of a gallant bearing, who boldly kissed her before
all the quality. The lady started back shocked and surprised,
as in duty bound. "Be not alarmed, madam," said the
gentleman, "you can now boast that you have been kissed
by Dick Turpin."
On
an occasion of a much later date it is painful to record that
Dr. Johnson was concerned in a slight disturbance at Marylebone.
The place was then on the downward grade, and its good musical
attractions had been diluted by more or less unsatisfactory
displays of fireworks, displays which generally marked the beginning
of the end of the better class of the London al fresco. The
Doctor had been attracted by the fame of Mr. Torre's fireworks,
and went to see them with his friend George Steevens. The afternoon
had proved wet, there were few people present, and the management
announced that the fireworks, "being water-soaked,"
could not be fired. "This," said the Doctor, "is
a mere excuse to save their crackers for a more profitable company;
let us both hold up our sticks and threaten to break those coloured
lamps, and we shall soon have our wishes gratified. The core
of the fireworks cannot be injured; let the different pieces
be touched in their respective centres and they will do their
offices as well as ever."
Moved
by this very Johnsonian eloquence, some young men broke the
lamps; but the respective centres of the different pieces remained
untouched, and the uninjured cores still refused to do their
offices. Such troubles, however, were rare at Marylebone, and
its decorous joys, its harmonious concerts, its simple banquets
of syllabubs and negus, of coffee and plumcake, are the theme
of a score of kindly allusions in the memoirs and diaries of
the past.
Its
groves and its great room, its latticed arb ours and its fine
company are reflected in the fine engraving published by J.
Tinney in 1755, and many knowing connoisseurs contend that its
simple beauty inspired the lovely painting by George Morland
called the" Tea Garden," the plate after which by
Smith is now one of the prizes of the sale rooms. We have described
at some length these three old places of amusement, because
they are, as we believe, typical specimens of the very numerous
class of similar establishments, usually of smaller extent and
fewer pretensions, but still having each its own special attraction
for a special body of patrons, and each with a record of prosperity,
fleeting often, but real at one stage or other of its career.
There
was often a prodigious competition between neighbouring establishments.
Islington Spa, for example, had an enterprising competitor at
its very gates in the London Spa, a name gi ven to a spring
discovered in a tavern garden on a spot marked now by the junction
of Exmouth Street and Rosoman Street. This institution was advertised
by its proprietor, Mr. Halhead, as as good, if not better, than
the opposition affair over the way "so mightily cry'd up."
He produced something in the shape of a garden, and London Spa
became famous as a rendezvous of milkmaids on May day. His "chalybeate,"
when brewed, made ale of a surpassing richness, with which the
pleasure-seekers of the Welch Fair in the adjoining Spa Fields
were accustomed to wash down the orthodox dish of roast pork
eaten at those merry-makings in pleasant derision of the Jews.
Within a hundred yards of the London Spa were the New Wells,
with a reputation from quite early times for a quasi theatrical
and spectacular entertainment.
