Fling but a stone, the giant dies!”
The money-grub, pent up in a close city, eating the bread of carefulness, and with the fear of the shop always before his eyes, is not industrious. He is the droning, horse-in-a-mill creature of habit,—like a certain old lady of our acquaintance, who every morning was the first up in the house, and good-for-nothing afterwards. A century ago the advantages of early rising to the citizen were far more numerous than at present. A brisk walk of ten minutes brought him into the fields from almost any part of the town; and after luxuriating three or four miles amidst clover, sorrel, buttercups, aye, and corn to boot! the fresh breeze of morn, the fragrance of the flowers, and the pleasant prospect, would inspire happy thoughts: and, as nothing better sharpens the appetite than these delightful companions, what was wanting but a substantial breakfast to prepare him for the business of the day? For this certain frugal houses of entertainment were established in the rural outskirts of the Metropolis, *
* “This is to give notice to all Ladies and Gentlemen, at
Spencer's original Breakfasting-Hut, between Sir Hugh
Middleton's Head and St. John Street Road, by the New River
side, fronting Sadler's Wells, may be had every morning,
except Sundays, fine tea, sugar, bread, butter, and milk, at
four-penee per head; coffee at threepence a dish. And in the
afternoon, tea, sugar and milk, at threepence per head, with
good attendance. Coaches may come up to the farthest gar-
den-door next to the bridge in St. John Street Road, near
Sadler's Wells back gate.—Note. Ladies, &c. are desired to
take notice that there is another person set up in
opposition to me, the next door, which is a brick-house, and
faces the little gate by the Sir Hugh Middleton's, and
therefore mistaken for mine; but mine is the little boarded
place by the river side, and my backdoor faces the same as
usual; for
I am not dead, I am not gone,
Nor liquors do I sell;
But, as at first, I still go on,
Ladies, to use you well.
No passage to my hut I have,
The river runs before;
Therefore your care I humbly crave,
Pray don't mistake my door.
“Yours to serve,
Daily Advertiser, May 6, 1745. “S. Spencer.”
where every morning, “except Sundays, fine tea, sugar, bread, butter, and milk,” might be had at fourpence per head, and coffee “at three halfpence a dish.'” And as a walk in summer was an excellent recruit to the spirits after reasonable toil, the friendly hand that lifted the latch in the morning repeated the kind office at evening tide, and spread before him those refreshing elements that “cheer, but not inebriate;” with the harmless addition of music and dancing. Ale, wine, and punch, were subsequently included in the bill of fare, and dramatic representations. But of latter years the town has walked into the country, and the citizen can just espy at a considerable distance a patch of flowery turf, and a green hill, when his leisure and strength are exhausted, and it is time to turn homeward.
The north side of London was famous for suburban houses of entertainment. Midway down Gray's Inn Lane stands Town's End Lane (so called in the old maps), or Elm Street, which takes its name from some elms that once grew there. To the right is Mount Pleasant, and on its summit is planted a little hostelrie, which commanded a delightful prospect of fields, that are now annihilated; their site and our sight being profaned by the House of Correction and the Treadmill! Farther on, to the right, is Warner Street, which the lover of old English ballad poetry and music will never pass without a sigh; for there, while the town were applauding his dramatic drolleries,—and his beautiful songs charmed alike the humble and the refined,—their author, Henry Carey, in a fit of melancholy destroyed himself. *
* October 4, 1743.
Close by stood the old Bath House, which was built over a Cold Spring by one Walter Baynes, in 1697. * The house is razed to the ground, but the spring remains. A few paces forward is the Lord Cobham's Head, ** transmogrified into a modern temple for tippling; its shady gravel walks, handsome grove of trees, and green bowling alleys, are long since destroyed. Its opposite neighbour was (for not a vestige of the ancient building remains) the Sir John Oldcastle, *** where the wayfarer was invited to regale upon moderate terms.
* According to tradition, this was once the bath of Nell
Gwynn. In Baynes's Row, close by, lived for many years the
celebrated clown Joe Grimaldi.
** “Sir,—Coming to my lodging in Islington, I called at the
Lord Cobham's Head, in Cold Bath Fields, to drink some of
their beer, which I had often heard to be the finest,
strongest, and most pleasant in London, where I found a very
handsome house, good accommodation, and pleasantly situated.
I afterwards walked in the garden, where I was greatly
surprised to find a very handsome grove of trees, with
gravel walks, and finely illuminated, to please the company
that should honour them with drinking a tankard of beer,
which is threepence. There will be good attendance, and
music of all sorts, both vocal and instrumental, and will
begin this day, being the 10th of August.
“I am yours,
“Tom Freeman.”
Daily Advertiser, 9th August 1742.
*** “Sir,—A few days ago, invited by the serenity of the
evening, I made a little excursion into the fields.
Returning home, being in a gay humour, I stopt at a booth
near Sir John Oldcastle's, to hear the rhetoric of Mr.
Andrew. He used so much eloquence to persuade his auditors
to walk in, that I (with many others) went to see his
entertainment; and I never was more agreeably amused than
with the performances of the three Bath Morris Dancers. They
showed so many astonishing feats of strength and activity,
so many amazing transformations, that it is impossible for
the most lively imagination to form an adequate idea
thereof. As the Fairs are coming on, I presume these
admirable artists will be engaged to entertain the town; and
I assure your readers they can't spend an hour more
agreeably than in seeing the performances of these wonderful
men.
“I am, &c.
Daily Advertiser, 27th July 1743.
See a rare print, entituled “A new and exact prospect of
the North side of the City of London, taken from the Upper
Pond near Islington. Printed and sold by Thomas Bake-well,
Print and Map-seller, over against Birching Lane, Corn-hill,
August 5, 1730.”
Show-booths were erected in this immediate neighbourhood for Merry-Andrews and mor-ris-dancers. Onward was the Ducking Pond; * (“Because I dwell at Hogsden,” says Master Stephen, in Every Man in his Humour, “I shall keep company with none but the archers of Finsbury or the citizens that come a ducking to Islington Ponds;”) and, proceeding in almost a straight line towards “Old Iseldon,” were the London Spa, originally built in 1206; Phillips's New Wells; *