1818.
It is scarcely possible for any person, possessing the smallest share of common observation, to pass through ten streets in London, without noticing what is generally denominated a character, either in dress, walk, pursuits, or propensities. As even my enemies are willing to give me credit for a most respectful attention to the ladies, I hope they will not in this instance impeach my gallantry, because I place the fair sex at the head of my table of remarks, as to the eccentricity of some of their dresses. Miss Banks,[363] the sister of Sir Joseph, was looked after by the eye of astonishment wherever she went, and in whatever situation she appeared. Her dress was that of the Old School; her Barcelona quilted petticoat had a hole on either side for the convenience of rummaging two immense pockets, stuffed with books of all sizes. This petticoat was covered with a deep stomachered gown, sometimes drawn through the pocket-holes, similar to those of many of the ladies of Bunbury’s time, which he has introduced in his prints. In this dress I have frequently seen her walk, followed by a six-foot servant with a cane almost as tall as himself.
Miss Banks, for so that lady was called for many years, was frequently heard to relate the following curious anecdote of herself. After making repeated inquiries of the wall-vendors of halfpenny ballads for a particular one which she wanted, she was informed by the claret-faced woman, who strung up her stock by Middlesex Hospital-gates, that if she went to a printer in Long Lane, Smithfield, probably he might supply her Ladyship with what her Ladyship wanted. Away trudged Miss Banks through Smithfield, “all on a market-day”; but before she entered Mr. Thompson’s shop, she desired her man to wait for her at the corner, by the plumb-pudding stall. “Yes, we have it,” was the printer’s answer to the interrogative. He then gave Miss Banks what is called a book, consisting of many songs. Upon her expressing her surprise when the man returned her eightpence from her shilling, and the great quantity of songs he had given her, when she only wanted one,—“What, then!” observed the man, “are you not one of our chanters? I beg your pardon.”
It has been stated that this lady and Lady Banks, out of compliment to Sir Joseph, who had been deeply engaged in the production of wool, had their riding-habits made of his produce, in which dresses those ladies at one period upon all occasions appeared. Indeed, so delighted was Miss Banks with this overall-covering, that she actually gave the habit-maker orders for three at a time,—and they were called Hightum, Tightum, and Scrub. The first was her best, the second her second best, and the third her every-day one.
I have been informed that once, when Miss Banks and her sister-in-law visited a friend with whom they were to stay several days, on the evening of their arrival they sat down to dinner in their riding-habits. Their friend had a large party after dinner to meet them, and they entered the drawing-room in their riding-habits. On the following morning they again appeared in their riding-habits; and so on, to the astonishment of every one, till the conclusion of their visit.
Being in possession of an immense number of tradesmen’s tokens current at this time, I left them in Soho Square, with a note begging Miss Banks’s acceptance of any she might want. After a few hours, her footman’s knock at my door announced the arrival of Miss Banks, who entered the parlour holding up the front of her riding-habit with both hands, the contents of which she delivered upon the table, at the same time observing “that she considered herself extremely obliged to me for my politeness, but that, extraordinary as it might appear, out of so many hundred there was not one that she wanted.”
Although Miss Banks displayed great attention to many persons, there were others to whom she was wanting in civility. I have heard that a great genius, who had arrived a quarter of an hour before the time specified upon the card for dinner, was shown into the drawing-room, where Miss Banks was putting away what are sometimes called rattle-traps.[364] When the visitor observed, “It is a fine day, Ma’am,” she replied, “I know nothing at all about it; you must speak to my brother upon that subject when you are at dinner.” Notwithstanding the very singular appearance of Miss Banks, she was in the prime of life, a fashionable whip, and drove four-in-hand.
Mrs. Carter,[365] the translator of Epictetus, was also singular in her dress. Her upper walking-garment, in the latter part of her life, which was cut short, was more like a bed-gown than anything else. The last time I met this benevolent lady was in 1801, at Mrs. Dards’s exhibition,[366] an immense collection of artificial flowers made entirely by herself with fish-bones, the incessant labour of many years. I remember, in the course of conversation, Mrs. Dards observed, “No one can imagine the trouble I had in collecting the bones for that bunch of lilies of the valley; each cup consists of the bones which contain the brains of the turbot; and from the difficulty of matching the sizes, I never should have completed my task had it not been for the kindness of the proprietors of the London, Free-Masons’, and Crown and Anchor Taverns, who desired their waiters to save all the fish-bones for me.”
HENRY CONSTANTINE JENNINGS (OR NOEL)
“… barring his eccentricities.”
This ingenious person distributed a card embellished with flowers and insects, upon which was engraven the following advertisement:—
No. 1, Suffolk Street, Cockspur Street.
“Mrs. Dards begs leave to inform her friends in particular, and the public in general, that after a labour of thirty years, she has for their inspection and amusement opened an exhibition of shell-work, consisting of a great variety of beautiful objects equal to nature, which are minutely described in the catalogue. Likewise is enabled to gratify them
“With bones, scales, and eyes, from the prawn to the porpoise,
Fruit, flies, birds, and flowers, oh, strange metamorphose!”
“Open from ten to six in the summer,—from ten to four in the winter.
“Admittance 1s. Catalogue 6d.”
Mr. Jennings,[367] latterly known as Constantine Noel, barring his eccentricities, was an accomplished gentleman, a traveller of infinite taste, and one of the most liberal and entertaining companions imaginable. Mr. Noel’s figure was short, thin, and much bent by age; and he was very singular in his dress. The crown of his hat fitted his head as close as a pitch-plaster; his coat was short, of common cloth, and, like Mr. Wodhull’s, regularly buttoned up from his waist to his chin. His stockings were not striped blue and white, like those of Sir Thomas Stepney,[368] but of pepper-and-salt mixture, and of worsted. He stepped astride in consequence of the bowness of his legs, and generally attracted notice by striking his walking-stick hard on the stones with his right arm fully extended, while his left hung swinging low before him. He wore thick-sole shoes, with small buckles, and seldom showed linen beyond the depths of his stock.
My father, who knew him well, used to relate the annexed anecdote. Mr. Noel one day, when at the corner of Rathbone Place, close to Wright’s, the intelligent grocer, finding himself rather fatigued, called repeatedly to the first coachman, who, after laughing at him for some time, increased the insult by observing, “A coach, indeed! a coach! who’s to pay for it?”
“You rascal,” exclaimed Mr. Noel, clenching his stick in the position of chastisement, “why don’t you come when I call, Sir; I’ll make an example of you, I will.”
The coachman continued laughing, till a gentleman accosted Mr. Jennings thus:—“My worthy friend, what is all this about?”
The coachman was immediately curbed; and when Mr. Noel’s friend had parted with him, by shaking his hand in the coach, the coachman, touching the front of his hat, wished to know of his honour “Where to?”
“I’ll give you a pretty dance,” replied Mr. Noel; “drive me to h——, you rascal; to Whitechapel, and from thence to Hyde Park Corner. I’ll take care it shall be long enough before you get any dinner, you rascal, I will.” Then, with a nod and a smile to the assembled crowd, he declared, to their no small amusement, “I’ll punish him.”
Dr. Burges, of Mortimer Street, whose singular figure has been etched by Gillray, under which he wrote, “From Warwick Lane,” was one of the last men who wore a cocked-hat and deep ruffles. What rendered his appearance more remarkable, he walked on tiptoe.[369]
It was the regular custom of Mr. Alderman Boydell, who was a very early riser, at five o’clock, to go immediately to the pump in Ironmonger Lane. There, after placing his wig upon the ball at the top of it, he used to sluice his head with its water. This well-known and highly respected character,[370] who has done more for the British artists than all the print-publishers put together, was also one of the last men who wore the three-cornered hat commonly called “Egham, Staines, and Windsor.”
I recollect another character, a bricklayer, of the name of Pride, of Vine Street, Piccadilly, who wore the three-cornered hat commonly called “The Cumberland Cock.”[371]