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.