Moorfields, alas! has no fields! Where the “Beth’lem hospital” raised its magnificent but gloomy front, with old Cibber’s statues of “Raving and Melancholy Madness” siding the centre entrance, no vestiges remain, except the church and parts of London Wall, leading from Broker-row to the Albion chapel, commonly called the Plum-cake. Who that knew the crossing from Finsbury-square to Broad-street remembers not the open-barred window at which “Mad Molly” daily appeared, singing, and talking inconsistencies of love, confinement, and starvation? Who that stood before the massive building heard not the tones of agony, and felt not deep pity for the poor reasonless creatures?
——In Moorfields, when Buonaparte threatened this country with invasion, the beat of drum and the shrillings of the fife brought corps of gentlemen volunteers into rank and file, to show how much a “nation of shopkeepers” could do. Ladies in clusters assembled here to witness the feats of their soldier-like heroes—sanctioning with their presence, and applauding with their smiles, the defenders of their domiciles.
The “Bank gentlemen,” distinguished by their long gaiters, and therefore called black-legs, went farther off and exercised before bank-hours, in the Tenter-ground beyond the Vinegar-yard.
The East India Company’s three regiments (the best soldiers next to the foot-guards) drilled in a field which lay in the way on the one side to the Rosemary Branch, (noted for a water-party or fives’ match,) and the White Lead Mills, whose windsails are removed by the steam Quixotes of the day. On the other side, skirted the once pleasant path, leading from the Shepherd and Shepherdess across the meadow either to Queen’s Head-lane, the Britannia, or the Almshouses, near the Barley Mow, Islington. The East India field is now divided into gardens and snug arbours, let to the admirers of flowers and retreats.
Lackington’s “Temple of Fame” was a temple of knowledge. This splendid place and its winding shelves of books caught the passing eye with astonishment at the success and skill of the once humble owner of a bookstall in Chiswell-street. Here Finsbury’s “child of lore and catalogue-maker” wrote a “book,” abounding with quotations from authors, and refuted his own words in after-life by publishing his “Confessions.” Lackington was, however, a man of deep judgment in his business, and no every-day observer of the manners and variations of his contemporaries.
Then, the “Artillery Company” attracted well-dressed people on Wednesday evenings, and from Finsbury-side to Bunhill-row there was a promenade of fashionables from Duke’s-place and Bevis Marks, listening to a band of music and the roar of cannon till dusk.
Moorfields gathered more regiments than any other spot excepting the Park, in which reviews and sham-fights concentrated the corporate forces on field-days. Wimbledon Common became also an occasional scene of busy parade and preparation; baggage long drawn out, multitudes of friends, sweethearts and wives, and nondescripts. In the roads were collected the living beings of half of the metropolis. It seemed a stir in earnest of great achievements. Many a white handkerchief dried the parting tear. There were the adieu and the farewell; salutes given behind the counter, or snatched in the passage, affected the sensibilities like last meetings. Sir W. Curtis and other colonels reminded the “gentlemen” they had “the honour” to command, that they were in “good quarters.” Sermons were preached in and out of the establishment to “soldiers.” Representations were given at the theatres to “soldiers.” The shop-windows presented tokens of courage and love to “soldiers.” Not a concert was held, not a “free and easy” passed, without songs and melodies to “soldiers.” It was a fine time for publicans and poets. Abraham Newland’s promises kept army-clothiers, gun-makers, Hounslow powder-mills, and Mr. Pitt’s affairs in action. No man might creditably present himself if he were void of the tone of military distinction; and Charles Dibdin and Grimaldi—“wicked wags!”—satirized the fashion of “playing at soldiers.”
In process of time, Maidstone, Colchester, and Rochester were select places for trying the shopkeeping volunteers: they were on duty for weeks, and returned with the honours of the barracks. Things taking a more peaceful aspect, or rather the alarm of invasion having subsided, the regimentals were put by, and scarcely a relic is now seen to remind the rising generation of the deeds of their fathers.
I could travel further, and tell more of these and similar doings, but I refrain, lest I tire your patience and your readers’ courtesy.
Dear sir,
Truly yours,
A City Volunteer.