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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 SIR HARRY DINSDALE

MAYOR OF GARRAT AND EMPEROR

ANTI-NAPOLEON
 SIR JEFFERY DUNSTAN

“His first appearance on any stage.”

Many a time when I had no inclination to go to bed at the dawn of

day, I have looked down from my window to see whether the author of
the Sublime and Beautiful had left his drawing-room, where I had seen
that great orator during many a night after he had left the House of
Commons, seated at a table covered with papers, attended by an
amanuensis who sat opposite to him.[227] Major Money, who had nearly
been lost at sea with his balloon, at that time lodged in the same house.
Of the Major’s perilous situation at sea, the elder Reinagle made a
spirited picture, of which there is an engraving.[228]
In this year I had the honour for the first time of exhibiting at the
Royal Academy. My production was a portrait of the venerable beech-
tree which stood within memory at a short distance from Sand-pit Gate,
in Windsor Forest, and which tree has been so admirably painted by
West. This picture, which measures five feet in height and seven in
length, was sold by auction at Mr. West’s house, in May 23rd, 1829. My
drawing, as well as many of my studies made from that delightful
display of forest scenery, was highly finished in black chalk; it was
purchased by the late Earl of Warwick, who was not only an admirable
draughtsman himself, but kind to young artists. By that nobleman I was
introduced to the Hon. F. Charles Greville [the Earl’s brother and a Vice-
President of the Royal Society], whose taste for the Fine Arts is too well
known to need any eulogium from me.[229] This gentleman gave
Cipriani above one hundred guineas for an elaborate drawing of the
famous Barberini vase, brought to England by Sir William Hamilton.[230]
Several learned writers have given their conjectures as to the subject so
beautifully sculptured on this vase; but I understand that nothing has
been adduced as yet that sufficiently elucidates it. This vase is deposited
in the British Museum.
This grey and silver beech was the loftiest in the forest, and
particularly beautiful when the sun shone upon its ancient limbs; his
capacious and hollow trunk, with a small additional hut, afforded
accommodation for a woodman, his wife, four children, a sow and a
numerous litter of pigs. This happy family retreat, which had frequently
been noticed by King George iii., was at last unavoidably obliged, from
the symptoms it exhibited of falling, to submit to the woodman’s axe—
that woodman whose family had weathered many a storm, and had
been screened from the scorching sunbeams under its majestic
branches, several of which, by reason of its “bald and high antiquity,”
had not issued foliage for many a summer. The King, however, who
never suffered the humblest of his subjects whose industry he had
noticed, to sigh under calamity, ordered a snug, neat brick cottage to be
built for the honest occupant and his dependents, which was erected in
the same forest, and at as short a distance as possible from the former
residence.
One curious and interesting discovery resulted from the demolition of
this venerable tree. The woodman, who had allowed the smoke from his
peat-piled fire to pass through one of the hollow limbs of the tree for
several years without sweeping it, had, by accumulated incrustations,
produced a mass of the finest brown colour, resembling the present
appearance of that used by Rembrandt, so much coveted by the English
artists. The discovery was made by Mr. Paul Sandby, who was
fortunately passing at the time the timber was on the ground, who
immediately secured a tolerable quantity to enable him to prove that the
smoke from forest fuel, united with the heated branch of a hollow and
aged beech, produced the finest bistre: his son, the present Mr. Sandby,
gave me a lump of it, which I presented to the late Sir George
Beaumont.[231] Having mentioned this bistre to several Roman artists,
they informed me that a strong decoction of the sap of the ilex, or
evergreen oak, produces a colour nearly similar; and of this I have had
satisfactory proof. These, and suchlike bistres, would be much safer for
the artist to use than that called sepia, which is made from the ink of
the cuttle-fish, which, being a marine production, ever retains its saline
and pernicious qualities, as may be seen in several of the numerous
drawings made by Guercino, where the colour has left a blot, which has
completely eaten through the paper. However, after all the trials of our
experimentalists to match the present tint of Rembrandt’s drawings, and
however pleasingly ingenious their discoveries have been, still I am
inclined to believe that much, if not the whole, of the effect of old
drawings is owing to that produced by time; and in this idea I am borne
out by a small drawing which the ever-to-be-revered Flaxman made with
a pen in common writing-ink: he drew it when I was a lad, and it is now
a deep rich brown. May we not also fairly conclude, from the brown tint
of most of our old manuscripts, that time has thus operated upon the
ink? if so, the question is, what will the future colour of that which we
now use in imitation, consisting of many ingredients, be, after fifty-five
years, the elapsed time since I received my drawing from the kind hand
of Flaxman? It is a curious fact, however, that the ink used by the
ancient Egyptians on nearly two hundred specimens of the written
inscriptions on papyrus collected by Mr. Salt,[232] now in the British
Museum, are as jet a black as Cozens’s[233] blotting-ink, or Day and
Martin’s far-famed blacking.

1788.
Although not considered an Adonis by the ladies, yet most of those to
whom I had the pleasure to be known, noticed me as a favourite, and
by some my appearance in company was cordially greeted. “Friend
Thomas,” asked one, “pray what play didst thou see last night?” With
this appellation I was frequently addressed, in consequence of my
mother having been a member of the Society of Friends. “Love’s Labour
Lost,” being my answer to the pre-engaged fair one, uttered perhaps
with a smile, she was induced to rejoin, “If you had not hitherto been so
blind a son of Venus, you would not have lost my smiles.” After this
rebuke, my pursuit became brisker, and I at last fixed my heart upon my
first wife.[234] Upon becoming a Benedict, I partly recovered the use of
my senses, gave up my clubs, dissolved many connections, and in order
to be faithful to my pledge, “to love and to cherish,” I applied myself
steadily to my etching-table, and commenced a series of quarto plates,
to illustrate Mr. Pennant’s truly interesting account of our great city
(entitled Some Account of London), which I dedicated to my patron, Sir
James Winter Lake, Bart.
Sir James was a governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company,—a situation,
it is well known, he filled with credit to himself as well as the satisfaction
of every one connected with that highly-respected body. Sir James most
kindly invited me to take a house near him at Edmonton, where I had
the honour, for the space of seven years, of enjoying the steady
friendship of himself and family. Lady Lake, who then retained much of
her youthful beauty, by her elegance of language and extreme affability
charmed every one. To clever people of every description she was kind,
and benevolent to the poor.
The Lake family consisted of Sir James, his lady, their sons, James,
Willoughby, Atwill, and Andrew,—their daughters, Mary, Charlotte, and
Anne.[235] Their residence, which had long been their family mansion,
was distant about a mile from the Angel Inn, and was called “The Firs,”
in consequence of the approach to the house being planted on either
side with double rows of that tree.

ELIZABETH CANNING

“For my own part, I am not at all brought to believe her story.”

Horace Walpole

1789.
 This year proved more lucrative to me than any preceding, for at this
time I professed portrait painting both in oils and crayons; but, alas!
after using a profusion of carmine, and placing many an eye straight
that was misdirected, before another season came, my exertions were
mildewed by a decline of orders, owing not only to the salubrity of the
air of Edmonton, but to the regularity of those who had sat to me, for
they would neither die nor quit their mansions, but kept themselves
snug within their King-William iron gates and red-brick-crested piers, so
that there was no accommodation for new-comers; nor would the red
land-owners allow one inch of ground to the Tooley Street Camomile
Cottage builders.[236] However, I experienced enough to convince me
that, had I diverged along the cross-roads towards the Bald-faced Stag,
the highway to the original Tulip-tree at Waltham Abbey, or the green
lanes to Hornsey Wood House, I might have considerably increased my
income; but this would have been impossible without a conveyance.
Nevertheless, as it was, the reader will hardly believe that my marches
of fame were far more extensive than those of Major Sturgeon;[237] his
were confined to marches and counter-marches, from Ealing to Acton,
and from Acton to Ealing, next-door neighbours: now, my doves took a
circuitous flight from Tottenham to “Kicking Jenny” at Southgate; then to
Enfield, ay, even to its very Wash, rendered notorious by Mary Squires
and Bet Canning;[238] thence over Walton’s famed river Lea: thence up
to Chingford’s ivy-mantled tower; down again, crossing the Lea with the
lowing herd, to Tottenham High Cross, finishing where they put up on
the embattlements of the once noble Castle of Bruce.
It was in the centre of the above vicinities, at “Edmonton so gay,” the
rendezvous of Shakspeare’s merry devil,[239] that I profiled, three-
quartered, full-faced, and buttoned up the retired embroidered weavers,
their crummy wives, and tightly-laced daughters. Ay, those were the
days! my friends of the loom, as Tom King declared in the prologue to
Bon Ton, when Mother Fussock could ride in a one-horse chaise, warm
from Spitalfields, on a Sunday![240]

1790.
 Many a rural walk have I and my beloved enjoyed, accompanied by
our uninvited, playful, tailed butterfly-hunter, through the lonely
honeysuckled lanes to the “Widow Colley’s,” whose nut-brown, mantling
home-brewed could have stood the test with that of Skelton’s far-famed
Elyn—the ale-wife of England, upon whose October skill Henry viii.’s
Poet Laureate sang.[241] Sometimes our strolls were extended to old
Matthew Cook’s Ferry, by the side of the Lea, so named after him, and
well known to many a Waltonian student. Matthew generally contrived
to keep sixteen cats, all of the finest breed, and, as cats go, of the best
of tempers, all of whom he had taught distinct tricks; but it was his
custom morning and evening to make them regularly, one after the
other, leap over his hands joined as high as his arms could reach: and
this attention to his cats, which occupied nearly the whole of his time,
afforded him as much pleasure as Hartry, the cupper in May’s Buildings,
[242] and his assistant could receive in phlebotomizing, in former days,
above one hundred customers on a Sunday morning, that being the only
leisure time the industrious mechanic could spare for the operation.
Melancholy as Cook’s Ferry is during the winter, it is still more so in
the time of an inundation, when it is almost insupportable; and had not
Matty enjoyed the society of his cats, who certainly kept the house
tolerably free from rats and mice, at the accustomed time of a high flood
he must have been truly wretched. In this year, during one of these
visitations, in order to gratify my indefatigable curiosity, I visited him
over the meadows, partly in a cart and partly in a boat, conducted by
his baker and Tom Fogin, his barber. We found him standing in a
washing-tub, dangling a bit of scrag of mutton before the best fire
existing circumstances could produce, in a room on the ground floor,
knee-deep in water, whilst he ever and anon raised his voice to his cats
in the room above, where he had huddled them for safety.
The baker, after delivering his bread in at the window, and I, after
fastening our skiff to the shutter-hook, waited the return of Fogin, who
had launched himself into a tub to shave Matthew, who had perched
himself on the coroneted top of a tall Queen Anne’s chair, and drawn his
feet as much under him as possible, and then, with the palms of his
hands flat upon his knees to keep the balance true, was prepared to
suck in Fogin’s tales in the tub during his shave. Tom retailed all the
scandal he had been able to collect during the preceding week from the
surrounding villages; how Dolly alias Matthew Booth, a half-witted
fellow, was stoutly caned by old John Adams, the astronomical
schoolmaster, for calling him “a moon-hauler,”—how Mr. Wigston
trespassed on Miss Thoxley’s waste,—of the sisters Tatham being called
the “wax dolls” of Edmonton, whose chemises Bet Nun had declared
only measured sixteen inches in diameter,—of old Fuller, the banker,
riding to Ponder’s End with a stone in his mouth to keep it moist, in
order to save the expense of drink,—upon Farmer Bellows’s and old Le
Grew’s psalm-singing,—of Alderman Curtis and his Southgate grapery,
and of his neighbour, a divine gentlem—man, I had very nearly called
him, who had horsewhipped his wife.

1791.
I remember on a midsummer morn of this year making one of a party
of pleasure, consisting of the worthy baronet Sir James Lake, the elder
John Adams,[243] schoolmaster of Edmonton, Samuel Ireland,[244]
author of the Thames, Medway, etc. We started from my cottage at
Edmonton, and took the road north. The first house we noticed was an
old brick mansion at the extreme end of the town, erected at about the
time of King Charles i., opposite butcher Wright’s. This dilapidated fabric
was let out in tenements, and the happiest of its inmates was a gay old
woman who lived in one of its numerous attics. She gained her bread by
spinning, and as we ascended she was singing the old song of “Little
boy blue, come blow me your horn” to a neighbour’s child, left to her
care for the day. “Well, Mary,” quoth the a-b-c-darian, “you are always
gay; what is your opinion of the lads and lasses of the present time,
compared with those of your youthful days?” “I’ faith,” answered Mary,
“they are pretty much the same.” She was then considerably beyond her
eightieth year. We then proceeded to Ponder’s End, where I conducted
my fellow-travellers to a field on the left, behind the Goat public-house,
to see “King Ringle’s Well,” but why so called even Mr. Gough has
declared he was unable to discover.[245]
The next place we visited consisted of extensive moated premises,
called “Durance,” on the right of the public road. This house, as tradition
reported, had been the residence of Judge Jeffreys; and here it is said
that he exercised some severities upon the Protestants.[246]
We then returned through Green Street; and at a cottage we
discovered an Elizabethan door, profusely studded with flat-headed nails.
This piece of antiquity Samuel Ireland stopped to make a drawing of,
which circumstance I beg the reader will keep in mind, as it will be
mentioned hereafter. We then, after descanting upon the beauties of
Waltham Cross, proposed to visit the father of the Tulip-trees, an
engraving of which appeared in Farmer’s History of Waltham Abbey.[247]
We looked in vain for a portion of King Harold’s tomb. There were
remains of it in Strutt’s early days: he made a drawing of them. Our
next visit was to a small ancient elliptic bridge in a field a little beyond
the pin-manufactory; this bridge has ever been held as a great curiosity,
and one of high antiquity. As we returned through Cheshunt, we
rummaged over a basket of old books placed at the door of the barber’s
shop, where Sir James Lake bought an excellent copy of Brooke’s
Camden’s Errors for sixpence, and also an imperfect copy of Burton’s
Anatomy of Melancholy, for the sake of a remarkably fine impression of
a portrait of its author on the title-page. After dining at the Red Lion, we
visited another old moated mansion, the property of Dr. Mayo, said to
have been originally a house belonging to Cardinal Wolsey, or in which
he had at one time resided.[248] After crossing a drawbridge, and
passing through the iron gates, the gardener ushered us into a spacious
hall, and showed us a curiously constructed chair, in which he said the
Cardinal’s porter usually sat. Of this singular chair above mentioned I
made a drawing, and had the honour to furnish the late Marquis of
Lansdowne with a copy, to enable his Lordship to have a set made from
it. In an adjoining room was a bedstead and furniture, considered to be
that in which the Cardinal had slept; it was of a drab-coloured cloth,
profusely worked over with large flowers in variously coloured silks. We
were then conducted to an immense room filled with old portraits. I
recollect noticing one in very excellent preservation of Sir Hugh
Myddelton, with an inscription on the background totally differing from
the one by Cornelius Janssen, engraved by Vertue.[249] Thus ended this
pleasant excursion.
 1792.
That Vandyke did not possess that liberal patron in King Charles i.
which his biographers have hitherto stated, is unquestionably a fact,
which can be proved by a long bill which I have lately seen (by the
friendly indulgence of Mr. Lemon[250] and his son), in the State Paper
Office, docketed by the King’s own hand. For instance, the picture of his
Majesty dressed for the chase (which I conjecture to be the one
engraved by Strange),[251] for which Vandyke had charged £200, the
King, after erasing that sum, inserted £100; and down in proportion,
nay, in some instances they suffered a further reduction. Of several of
the works charged in the bill, which his Majesty marked as intended
presents to his friends, I recollect one of two that were to be given to
Lord Holland was reduced to the sum of £60. Other pictures in the bill
the King marked with a cross, which is explained at the back by
Endymion Porter, that as those were to be paid for by the Queen, the
King had left them for her Majesty to reduce at pleasure.
That a daughter of Vandyke was allowed a pension for sums owing by
King Charles i. to her father, is also true, as there is a petition in
consequence of its being discontinued still preserved in the State Paper
Office, in which that lady declares herself to be plunged into the
greatest distress, adding that she had been cheated by the purchaser of
her late father’s estate, who never paid for it.[252]
It would be the height of vanity in me to offer anything beyond what
the author of The Sublime and Beautiful has said of Sir Joshua Reynolds,
who died this year at his house in Leicester Square.[253] As Mr. Burke’s
character of this most powerful of painters may not be in the possession
of all my readers, I shall here reprint it.[254]

“The illness of Sir Joshua Reynolds was long, but borne

with a mild and cheerful fortitude, without the least
mixture of anything irritable or querulous, agreeably to
the placid and even tenor of his whole life.
“He had, from the beginning of his malady, a distinct
view of his dissolution; and he contemplated it with that
entire composure which nothing but the innocence,
integrity, and usefulness of his life, and unaffected
submission to the will of Providence, could bestow. In this
situation he had every consolation from family
tenderness, which his own kindness to his family had
indeed well deserved.
“Sir Joshua Reynolds was, on very many accounts, one
of the most memorable men of his time. He was the first
Englishman who added the praise of the elegant arts to
the other glories of his country. In taste, in grace, in
facility, in happy invention, and in the richness and
harmony of colouring, he was equal to the great masters
of the renowned ages. In portrait he was beyond them;
for he communicated to that description of the art, in
which English artists are the most engaged, a variety, a
fancy, and a dignity derived from the higher branches,
which even those who professed them in a superior
manner did not always preserve, when they delineated
individual nature. His portraits remind the spectator of the
invention of history and the amenity of landscape. In
painting portraits, he appeared not to be raised upon that
platform, but to descend to it from a higher sphere. His
paintings illustrate his lessons; and his lessons seem to be
derived from his paintings. He possessed the theory as
perfectly as the practice of his art. To be such a painter,
he was a profound and penetrating philosopher.
“In full happiness of foreign and domestic fame,
admired by the expert in art, and by the learned in
science, courted by the great, caressed by sovereign
powers, and celebrated by distinguished poets, his native
humility, modesty, and candour never forsook him, even
on surprise or provocation, nor was the least degree of
arrogance or assumption visible to the most scrutinising
eye, in any part of his conduct or discourse.
“His talents of every kind, powerful from nature, and
not meanly cultivated by letters—his social virtues in all
 the relations and in all the habitudes of life—rendered him
the centre of a very great and unparalleled variety of
agreeable societies, which will be dissipated by his death.
He had too much merit not to excite some jealousy, too
much innocence to provoke any enmity. The loss of no
man of his time can be felt with more sincere, general,
and unmixed sorrow. ‘Hail! and farewell!’”

The following letter was addressed to me by my worthy friend Colonel

Phillips:[255]—

“Dear Sir,—If it was not for having you older than your
friends would wish you, I should be glad you had been of
the party, where I heard an argument between Dr.
Johnson and Sir Joshua Reynolds, on the wonderful
power of the human eye. Dr. Johnson made a quotation
which I do not remember. ‘Sir,’ said Sir Joshua, in reply,
‘that divine effect is produced by the parts appertaining to
the eye, and not from its globe, as is generally supposed;
the skull must be justly proportioned.’
“Mrs. Cholmondeley.[256]—‘My dear Sir Joshua, was
there nothing in the magic of Garrick’s eye? its comicality.
The Duke of Richmond, the Duke of Dorset, and young
Sheridan[257] have superb eyes; but I don’t know what
effect they would have on the stage.’
“Sir Joshua.—‘Little or none, Madam; the great beauty
of the Duke of Richmond’s eye proceeded from its fine
and uncommon colour, dark blue, which would be totally
lost on the stage, the light being constantly either too
high or too low. Garrick’s eye, unaccompanied by the
action of his mouth, would not fascinate. When you are
near a person, a pretty woman for instance, and have a
good light, the contraction and expansion of the pupilla,
which bids defiance to our art, is delightful; it is more
perceptible in fine grey and light blue eyes, than in any
other colour. We, however, cannot deny the majestic look
of the Belvedere Apollo, though unassisted by iris, pupil,
eye-lashes, or colour.’
“Dr. Johnson.—‘Sir, a tiger’s eye, and, I am told, a
snake’s, will intimidate birds, so that they will drop from
trees for its prey, without using their wings.’
“After Dr. Johnson had quaffed about twenty-four cups
of tea, he gave a blow of considerable length from his
mouth, drew his breath, and said, ‘Sir, I believe you are
right, it is but rational to suppose so: I wish that rogue
Burke was here.’
“I am sorry, my dear Sir, that my memory is not better,
so as to give you verbatim what passed. I feel like a
person giving evidence in a court, trammelled by the
apprehension of saying too much, or, as a late friend of
mine said, ‘remembering a great many circumstances that
never happened;’ and I only write this to show my
readiness to comply with any request you could possibly
make of your obliged friend,
“M. Phillips.”
“If you ask how it comes, the faithful Bossy was not
present; Bossy was not always producible after dinner.”
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN

“Tell Lady Besborough that my eyes will look up to the coffin-lid as

brightly as ever.”

“Wednesday, 27th March.

ROYAL BUN HOUSE, CHELSEA,
GOOD FRIDAY.
No Cross Buns.
 “Mrs. Hand respectfully informs her friends, and the public, that in
consequence of the great concourse of people which assembled before
her house at a very early hour, on the morning of Good Friday; by which
her neighbours (with whom she has always lived in friendship and
repute) have been much alarmed and annoyed; it having also been
intimated, that to encourage or countenance a tumultuous assembly at
this particular period, might be attended with consequences more
serious than have hitherto been apprehended; desirous, therefore, of
testifying her regard and obedience to those laws by which she is
happily protected, she is determined, though much to her loss, not to
sell Cross Buns on that day, to any person whatever;—but Chelsea Buns
as usual.
“Mrs. Hand would be wanting in gratitude to a generous public, who,
for more than fifty years past, have so warmly patronised and
encouraged her shop, to omit so favourable an opportunity of offering
her sincere acknowledgments for their kind favours; at the same time,
to assure them she will, to the utmost of her power, endeavour to merit
a continuance of them.”[258]

1794.
The origin of wooden tessellated floors having been a subject of much
inquiry among many of my friends, I here insert a copy of an
advertisement introduced in a catalogue of books, published 1676,
under the licence of Roger L’Estrange.[259]
“There is now in the press, and almost finished, that excellent piece of
architecture,[260] written by Andrea Palladio, translated out of Italian,
with an Appendix, touching Doors and Windows, by Pierre le Muet,
Architect to the French King: translated out of French, by G. R.; also
Rules and Demonstrations, with several designs for the framing any
manner of Roofs, either above pitch, or under pitch, whether square or
bevel; never published before; with designs of Floors of Variety of small
pieces of Wood, lately made in the Palace of the Queen-Mother, at
Somerset House—a curiosity never practised in England.
 “The third Edition, corrected and enlarged, with the new model of the
Cathedral of St. Paul’s as it is now building.”
The floors of the oldest parts of the British Museum,[261] retained
specimens of this tessellated work, until they were removed on the
construction of the new building.

1795.
Having often heard my father expatiate upon the extraordinary talents
of Keyse,[262] the proprietor of Bermondsey Spa, as a painter, I went
one July evening to Hungerford, and engaged “Copper Holmes”[263] to
scull me to “Pepper Alley Stairs”; from thence I proceeded to the
gardens. This I was the more anxious to accomplish, as that once famed
place of recreation was most rapidly on the decline. I entered under a
semicircular awning next to the proprietor’s house, which I well
remember was a large wooden-fronted building, consisting of long
square divisions, in imitation of scantlings of stone. My surprise was
great, for no one appeared, but three idle waiters, and they were
clumped for the want of a call. The space before the orchestra, which
was about a quarter the size of that of Vauxhall, was in the centre,
totally destitute of trees, the few that these gardens could then boast of
being those planted close to the fronts of the surrounding boxes of
accommodation, as a screen to prevent the public from overlooking the
gardens.
My attention was attracted by a board with a ruffled hand, within a
sky-blue painted sleeve, pointing to the staircase which led “To the
Gallery of Paintings.” In this room I at first considered myself as the only
spectator; and as the evening sun shone brilliantly, the refraction of the
lights gave me a splendid and uninterrupted view of the numerous
pictures with which it was closely hung, each of which had just claims to
my attention, as I found myself frequently walking backwards to enjoy
their deceptive effects. When I had gone round the gallery, which by the
bye was oblong, and in size similar to that of the Academician, J. M. W.
Turner, in Queen Anne Street, I voluntarily recommenced my view, but,
in stepping back to study the picture of the Green-stall, “I ask your
pardon,” said I, for I had trodden upon some one’s toes; “Sir, it is
granted,” replied a little thick-set man, with a round face, arch look,
closely curled wig, surmounted by a small three-cornered hat, put very
knowingly on one side, not unlike Hogarth’s head in his print of the
Gates of Calais. “You are an artist, I presume; I noticed you from the
end of the gallery when you first stepped back to look at my best
picture. I painted all the objects in this room from nature and still life.”
“Your Greengrocer’s Shop,” said I, “is inimitable; the drops of water on
that Savoy appear as if they had just fallen from the element. Van
Huysum could not have pencilled them with greater delicacy.” “What do
you think,” said he, “of my Butcher’s Shop?” “Your pluck is bleeding
fresh, and your sweetbread is in a clean plate.” “How do you like my
bull’s eye?” “Why it would be a most excellent one for Adams or
Dollond[264] to lecture upon. Your knuckle of veal is the finest I ever
saw.” “It’s young meat,” replied he; “any one who is a judge of meat can
tell that from the blueness of its bone.” “What a beautiful white you
have used on the fat of that South Down leg! or is it Bagshot?”[265]
“Yes,” said he, “my solitary visitor, it is Bagshot; and as for my white,
that is the best Nottingham, which you or any artist can procure at
Stone and Puncheon’s, in Bishopsgate Street Within. Sir Joshua
Reynolds,” continued Mr. Keyse, “paid me two visits. On the second, he
asked me what white I had used; and when I told him, he observed, ‘It
is very extraordinary, Sir, how it keeps so bright; I use the same.’ ‘Not at
all, Sir,’ I rejoined: ‘the doors of this gallery are open day and night; and
the admission of fresh air, together with the great expansion of light
from the sashes above, will never suffer the white to turn yellow. Have
you not observed, Sir Joshua, how white the posts and rails on the
public roads are, though they have not been repainted for years?—that
arises from constant air and bleaching.’
 J. M. W. TURNER, R.A.

FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH BY J. T. SMITH

“Come,” said Mr. Keyse, putting his hand upon my shoulder, “the bell
rings, not for prayers, nor for dinner, but for the song.” As soon as we
had reached the orchestra, the singer curtsied to us, for we were the
only persons in the gardens. “This is sad work,” said he, “but the woman
must sing according to our contract.” I recollect that the singer was
handsome, most dashingly dressed, immensely plumed, and villainously
rouged; she smiled as she sang, but it was not the bewitching smile of
Mrs. Wrighten,[266] then applauded by thousands at Vauxhall Gardens.
As soon as the Spa lady had ended her song, Keyse, after joining me in
applause, apologised for doing so, by observing that, as he never
suffered his servants to applaud, and as the people in the road (whose
ears were close to the cracks in the paling to hear the song), would
make a bad report if they had not heard more than the clapping of one
pair of hands, he had in this instance expressed his reluctant feelings.
As the lady retired from the front of the orchestra, she, to keep
herself in practice, curtsied to me with as much respect as she would
had Colonel Topham been the patron of a gala night.[267] “This is too
bad,” again observed Keyse; “and I am sure you cannot expect
fireworks!” However, he politely asked me to partake of a bottle of
Lisbon, which upon my refusing, he pressed me to accept of a catalogue
of his pictures.
Blewitt[268] (who at that time lived in Bermondsey Square), the
scholar of Jonathan Battishill,[269] was the composer for the Spa
establishment. The following verse is the first of his most admired
composition,—“In lonely cot by Humber’s side.”
My old and worthy friend Joseph Caulfield,[270] Blewitt’s favourite
pupil, of whom he learned thorough bass, related to me the following
anecdote of a musical composer, as told him by his master:—“When I
was going upstairs,” said Blewitt, “to the attics, where one of my
instructors lived (for I had many), I hesitated on the second-floor
landing-place, upon hearing my master and his wife at high words. ‘Get
you gone!’ said the lofty paper-ruffled composer, ‘retire to your
apartments!’ This command of her lord she did not immediately obey;
however, in a short time after, I heard the clattering of plates against the
wall, and upon entering the room, I discovered that the lady had retired,
but not before she had covered the whitewashed wall profusely with the
unbroiled sprats.”
“I was at a musical party,” continued my friend Joseph, “at Lord
Sandwich’s,[271] in Hertford Street, Mayfair, when, among other
specimens of the best masters, I heard Battishill’s beautiful composition
of
 “Amidst the myrtles as I walk,
Love and myself thus entered talk,
‘Tell me,’ said I, in deep distress,
‘Where I may find my Shepherdess.’”[272]

Upon expressing my pleasure at hearing the above performed in so

superior a style, his Lordship told me he had written a sequel, which he
thus repeated:—

“Love said to me, ‘Thou faithful swain,

Thy search in myrtle groves is vain;
Examine well thy noblest part,
Thou’lt find her seated in thy heart.’”

It appears that in poetry, as well as in painting and prints, and also in

dwellings, decorations, and dress, there has ever been a fashion for a
time. Battishill was the composer of that justly celebrated glee,
commencing with “Underneath this myrtle shade.” Myrtles, after having
had a great run, were succeeded by Cupid’s darts; and that little rogue
Love played old gooseberry with the hearts of Chloes and Colins, Robins
and Robinets; then the ever-blooming lasses of Patterdale and
Richmond Hill attracted our giddy notice. These were succeeded by
“Bacchus in green ivy bound,” giving “Joy and pleasure all around.” After
that, moonlight meetings were preferred, and “Buy a broom, ladies,”
was continually dinning our ears “through and through.”

1796.
In the summer of this year, the late John Wigston, Esq., then of
Millfield House, Edmonton, having repeatedly expressed a wish to see
the famous George Morland before he commenced a collection of his
pictures, I having been known to that child of nature in my boyish days,
offered to introduce them to each other.[273] Morland then resided in
Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square, in the house formerly inhabited by Sir
Thomas Apreece. He received us in the drawing-room, which was filled
with easels, canvases, stretching-frames, gallipots of colour, and oil-
stones; a stool, chair, and a three-legged table were the only articles of
furniture of which this once splendid apartment could then boast. Mr.
Wigston, his generous-hearted visitor, immediately bespoke a picture,
for which he gave him a draft for forty pounds, that sum being exactly
the money he then wanted; but this gentleman had, like most of that
artist’s employers, to ply him close for his picture.

GEORGE MORLAND
 “There! go back and tell the pawnbroker to advance me
five guineas more upon it.”
As Mrs. Wigston had a great desire to see Morland, he was invited to
take a day’s sport with the hounds, which the artist accepted, with a full
assurance of punctuality. However, as usual with that eccentric man, he
only arrived time enough for dinner, accompanied by eight of those
persons denominated his friends. Mrs. Wigston, an elegant and most
accomplished lady, was in consequence deprived of a sight of this far-
famed genius. I was deputed by my honoured friend Mr. Wigston to take
Mrs. Wigston’s abdicated chair, and carved for this pretty set, consisting
of persons unaccustomed to sit at such a table. Our worthy host soon
discovered their strong propensity for spirituous liquors, three of them
even during dinner, instead of taking wine, of which there were many
sorts on the table, calling for a glass of brandy. After hearing several
jokes and humorous songs from some of the party, George Morland
declared he must go, having an engagement with Mrs. Laye, and other
friends, at “Otter’s Pool.”[274]
When Morland and his party entered the stable-yard, the following
altercation took place between Mr. Wigston and his groom.
Mr. Wigston.—“Bring out these gentlemen’s horses.”
Groom.—“Horses, horses! they’ll find ’um at the ‘Two Jolly Brewers.’
Horses, indeed!”
Mr. Wigston.—“And why, Sir, were they sent there?”
Groom.—“Why, I would not suffer such cattle to come near your stud;
for I never saw such a set-out in my life!”
The party accordingly betook themselves to the “Brewers”; but upon
our return to the honest though rough diamond of a groom, he
observed that it was past two o’clock, and that the dog ought to have
been let loose two hours ago!

1797.
Although my mother continued till the time of her death in the habit
of the Society of Friends, and my father followed most of the popular
Methodists, I, from my earliest days of reflection, gave a preference to
the Established Church of England. Notwithstanding this, my
inquisitiveness now and then induced me to hear celebrated preachers
of every sect. I remember one Sunday morning in this year, after
intending to enter some church on my way to dine with my great-aunt
on Camberwell Green, my ears were most agreeably greeted with the
swelling pipes of the Surrey Chapel organ.[275] Why, thinks I to myself,
should not I hear Rowland Hill? Surely it must be now full twenty years
since I saw him in Moorfields, at my last visit to the Tabernacle. In I
accordingly went; and though a smile with me was always deemed
highly indecorous during divine worship, yet the truth must out; I could
not help sometimes laughing—as heartily, though not so loudly, I hope,
as all of us when led into the enjoyment of Momus’s strongest fits by the
inimitable Mathews.
No sooner was the sermon over and the blessing bestowed, than
Rowland electrified his hearers by vociferating, “Door-keepers, shut the
doors!” Slam went one door; bounce went another; bang went a third;
at last, all being anxiously silent as the most importantly unexpected
scenes of Sir Walter Scott could make them, the pastor, with a slow and
dulcet emphasis, thus addressed his congregation:—“My dearly beloved,
I speak it to my shame, that this sermon was to have been a charity
sermon, and if you will only look down into the green pew at those—let
me see—three and three are six, and one makes seven, young men with
red morocco prayer-books in their hands, poor souls! they were
backsliders, for they went on the Serpentine River, and other far distant
waters, on a Sabbath; they were, however, as you see, all saved from a
watery grave. I need not tell ye that my exertions were to have been for
the benefit of that benevolent institution the Humane Society.—What! I
see some of ye already up to be gone; fie! fie! fie!—never heed your
dinners; don’t be Calibans, nor mind your pockets. I know that some of
ye are now attending to the devil’s whispers. I say, listen to me! take my
advice, give shillings instead of sixpences; and those who intended to
give shillings, display half-crowns, in order not only to thwart the foul
fiend’s mischievousness, but to get your pastor out of this scrape; and if
you do, I trust Satan will never put his foot within this circle again. Hark
ye! I have hit upon it; ye shall leave us directly. The Bank Directors, you
must know, have called in the dollars; now, if any of you happen to be
encumbered with a stale dollar or two, jingle the Spanish in our dishes;
we’ll take them, they’ll pass current here. Stay, my friends, a moment
more. I am to dine with the Humane Society on Tuesday next, and it
would shock me beyond expression to see the strings of the Surrey
Chapel lay dangle down its sides like the tags upon Lady Huntingdon’s
servants’ shoulders. Now, mind what I say, upon this occasion I wish for
a bumper as strenuously as Master Hugh Peters did, when he
recommended his congregation in Broadway Chapel to take a second
glass.” It is recorded that when he found the sand of his hour-glass had
descended, he turned it, saying, “Come, I know you to be jolly dogs,
we’ll take t’other glass.”[276] I understand that Rowland Hill is not made
up of veneer, but of solid well-seasoned stuff, with a heart of oak, and
ever willing to exercise kindness to his fellow-creatures, upon the
system of my friend Charles Lamb.[277]
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