When, after passing Lambeth Palace on the left,—and possibly receiving from neighbouring boats some of those flowers of rhetoric to which Johnson once so triumphantly retorted,—you reached Vauxhall Stairs, your experiences were still, in all probability, those of Lydia Melford and her friends. There would be the same crush of wherries and confusion of tongues at the landing-place, and the same crowd of mudlarks and loafers would come rushing into the water to offer their unsolicited (but not gratuitous) services. Once free of these, a few steps would bring you to the unimposing entrance of the garden,—a gate or wicket in the front of an ordinary-looking house. Here you either exhibited your ticket, or paid your shilling; hurried, not without a throb of anticipation, down a darkened passage; and then, if you were as young and unsophisticated as Fanny Bolton in 'Pendennis,' probably uttered an involuntary exclamation of wonder as, with a sudden sound of muffled music, the many-lighted inclosure burst upon your view. There seems to be no doubt as to the surprise, heightened of course by the mean approach, and the genuine fascination of this first impression. The tall elms and sycamores, with the coloured lamps braced to the tree-trunks or twinkling through the leaves, the long ranges of alcoves with their inviting supper-tables, the brightly-shining temples and pavilions, the fading vistas and the ever-changing groups of pleasure-seekers, must have combined to form a whole which fully justified the enthusiasm of contemporaries, even if it did not, in the florid language of the old guide-books, exactly 'furnish the pen of a sublime and poetic genius with inexhaustible scenes of luxuriant fancy.'
The general disposition of the gardens was extremely simple and, in Miss Burney's opinion, even 'formal.' Opposite you, as you entered, was the Grand Walk, extending the entire length of the inclosure for a distance of 900 feet, and terminated, at the farther end, by a gilded statue of Aurora, apparently 'tip-toe on the mountain tops.' For this was afterwards substituted 'a Grand Gothic obelisk,' at the corners of which were painted a number of slaves chained, and over them the inscription:
Spectator
Fastidiosus
Sibi Molestus
Beyond the end of this walk was a sunk-fence or ha-ha which separated the gardens from the hayfields then adjoining it. Parallel to the Grand Walk ran the South Walk with its triumphal arches; next to this again was the covered alley known indifferently as the Druid's or Lovers' Walk, made rather for 'whispering lovers' than for 'talking age;' and last came a fourth walk open at the top. Other walks, the chief of which was the Cross Walk, traversed the garden from side to side; and in the quadrangle formed by the Grand Walk, the Cross Walk, the South Walk, and the remaining side of the grounds, was a space of about five acres. This, which lay to the right of the entrance, was known as the Grove.
The chief feature of the Grove was its open-air orchestra, at first no more than a modest structure bearing the unambitious title of the 'rustic music-house.' But about 1758, this made way for a much more ornate building 'in the Gothic manner,' having, like its predecessor, pavilions beneath for the accommodation of supper-parties. Above, it contained a magnificent organ, in front of which, encircling an open space for the singers, were ranged the seats and desks of the musicians. This second orchestra, which was lavishly ornamented with niches and carvings, was surmounted by the ostrich plumes of the Prince of Wales. The decorations were modelled in a composition said to be known only to the 'ingenious architect,' a carpenter named Maidman, and the whole was painted 'white and bloom colour.' Immediately behind the orchestra was a building described as 'a Turkish tent,' with a carved blue and gold dome supported on eight internal Ionic, and twelve external Doric columns. This was profusely embellished, both within and without, by rich festoons of flowers. A good idea of the orchestra in its renovated form may be gathered from a little plate by Wale, in which the supper-tables are shown laid out in front. These for a long time were covered with red baize, an arrangement that added greatly to the general effect, which was further enhanced by arches of coloured lamps and other contrivances. There is a tinted design by Rowlandson—one indeed of his most popular efforts—depicting a motley group in front of the orchestra during the performance of Mrs. Weichsell, and numbering among the crowd of listeners the Prince of Wales, 'Perdita,' the Duchess of Devonshire, Lady Duncannon, and other distinguished personages. In a supper-box at the side are Johnson, Boswell, Goldsmith, and Mrs. Thrale.
The musical performances in the orchestra generally began at six. At first they were wholly instrumental, and confined to 'sonatas and concertos.' In time, however, songs were added to the programme; and later still these were diversified by catches and glees, which generally came in the middle and at the end of the sixteen pieces to which the entertainment was restricted. Before the introduction of glees and catches, it was the practice to wind up with a duet or trio, accompanied by a chorus. In the old Vauxhall song-books may be studied the species of lyric which was trilled or quavered nightly from the Gothic aviary in the Grove. There is not much variety in these hymns to 'Jem of Aberdovey' or 'Kate of Aberdare, and the prevailing tone is abjectly sentimental. A favourite form was the 'Rondeau,' a much more rudimentary production than the little French plaything now known by that name, and characterized chiefly by its immoderate use of the refrain.
'Tarry awhile with me, my Love,
O tarry awhile with me.'