The Fleet. Its Rivers, Prison, and Marriages. Ashton John

on the other side, the Royal arms quartered with others, which were supposed to be those assumed by the actress. When the old house was pulled down, the bust disappeared, and no one knows whither it went.

      I give a quotation from the Sunday Times, July 5, 1840, not as adding authority, or weight, to the idea that Bagnigge House was Nell's residence, but to show how deeply rooted was the tradition. It is a portion of the "Maximms and Speciments of William Muggins, Natural Philosopher, and Citizen of the World" —

      "Oh! how werry different London are now to wot it war at the time as I took my view on it from the post; none of them beautiful squares and streets, as lies heast and west, and north of the hospital, war built then; it war hall hopen fields right hup to Ampstead an Ighgate and Hislington. Bagnigge Well stood by itself at the foot of the hill, jist where it does now; and then it looked the werry pictur of countryfiedness and hinnocence. There war the beautiful white washed walls, with the shell grotto in the hoctagon summer house, where Nell Gwynne used to sit and watch for King Charles the Second. By the by, a pictur done by a famous hartist of them days, Sir Somebody Neller I thinks war his name, represents the hidentical ouse (it war a fine palace then) with the hidentical hoctagon summer house, with the beautiful Nelly leaning hout of the winder, with her lilly white hand and arm a-beckoning, while the King is seed in the distance galloping like vinking across the fields a waving his hat and feathers; while a little page, with little tobacker-pipe legs, in white stockings, stands ready to hopen a little door in the garden wall, and let hin the royal wisitor, while two little black and tan spanels is frisking about and playing hup hold gooseberry among the flower beds.

That ere pictur used to hang hup in the bar parlor; its wanished now – so are the bust as were in the long room; but there's another portrait pictur of her, all alone by herself, done by Sir Peter Lely, still to be seen. (This here last coorosity war discovered honly a year or two ago, rolled hup among sum rubbige in the loft hunder the roof.)"

      The old house, however, was evidently of some importance, for, over a low doorway which led into the garden, was a stone, on which was sculptured a head in relief, and the following inscription —

XTHIS IS BAGNIGGEHOUSE NEARETHE PINDAR AWAKEFIELDE1680

      thus showing that the Pindar of Wakefield was the older house, and famous in that locality. This doorway and stone were in existence within the last forty years, for, in a footnote to page 572 of the Gentleman's Magazine of June, 1847, it says, "The gate and inscription still remain, and will be found, where we saw them a few weeks since, in the road called Coppice Row, on the left going from Clerkenwell towards the New Road."

      The following illustration gives Bagnigge Wells as it appeared at the end of last century.

      We have read how these gardens were first started in 1757, but they soon became well known and, indeed, notorious, as we read in a very scurrilous poem called "Bagnigge Wells," by W. Woty, in 1760 —

      "Wells, and the place I sing, at early dawn

      Frequented oft, where male and female meet,

      And strive to drink a long adieu to pain.

      In that refreshing Vale with fragrance fill'd,

      Renown'd of old for Nymph of public fame

      And amorous Encounter, where the sons

      Of lawless lust conven'd – where each by turns

      His venal Doxy woo'd, and stil'd the place

      Black Mary's Hole– there stands a Dome superb,

      Hight Bagnigge; where from our Forefathers hid,

      Long have two Springs in dull stagnation slept;

      But, taught at length by subtle art to flow,

      They rise, forth from Oblivion's bed they rise,

      And manifest their Virtues to Mankind."

      The major portion of this poem (?) is rather too risque for modern publication, but the following extract shows the sort of people who went there with the view of benefiting their health —

      "Here ambulates th' Attorney looking grave,

      And Rake from Bacchanalian rout uprose,

      And mad festivity. Here, too, the Cit,

      With belly, turtle-stuff'd, and man of Gout,

      With leg of size enormous. Hobbling on,

      The Pump-room he salutes, and in the chair

      He squats himself unwieldy. Much he drinks,

      And much he laughs to see the females quaff

      The friendly beverage. He, nor jest obscene,

      Of meretricious wench, nor quibble quaint,

      Of prentic'd punster heeds, himself a wit

      And dealer in conundrums, but retorts

      The repartee jocosely. Soft! how pale

      Yon antiquated virgin looks! Alas!

      In vain she drinks, in vain she glides around

      The Garden's labyrinth. 'Tis not for thee,

      Mistaken nymph! these waters pour their streams," &c.

      And in the prologue to "Bon Ton: or High Life above Stairs," by David Garrick, acted at Drury Lane for the first time, for the benefit of Mr. King, in 1775, not much is said as to the character of its frequenters.

      "Ah! I loves life and all the joy it yields,

      Says Madam Fupock, warm from Spittlefields.

      Bon Ton's the space 'twixt Saturday and Monday,

      And riding in a one-horse chaise on Sunday,

      'Tis drinking tea on summer's afternoons

      At Bagnigge Wells, with china and gilt spoons."

      CHAPTER VIII

      THE gardens were pretty, after the manner of the times; we should not, perhaps, particularly admire the formally cut lines and hedges, nor the fountain in which a Cupid is hugging a swan, nor the rustic statuary of the haymakers. Still it was a little walk out of London, where fresh air could be breathed, and a good view obtained of the northern hills of Hampstead and Highgate, with the interlying pastoral country, sparsely dotted with farmhouses and cottages. The Fleet, here, had not been polluted into a sewer as it was further on, and there were all the elements of spending a pleasant, happy day, in good air, amid rural scenes.

The place, however, rapidly became a disreputable rendezvous, and we get an excellent glimpse of the costumes of circa 1780 in the two following engravings taken from mezzotints published by Carington Bowles; although not dated, they are of that period, showing the Macaronis and Belles of that time. The first is called "The Bread and Butter Manufactory,37 or the Humours of Bagnigge Wells," and the second "A Bagnigge Wells Scene, or no resisting temptation," which gives a charming representation of the ultra fashion of dress then worn.

      Yet another glance at the manners of the time is afforded by the boy waiter, who hurries along with his tray of tea-things and kettle of hot water.38

      And there was good music there, too – an organ in the long room, on which Charles Griffith performed, as may be seen in the accompanying illustration. The name of Davis on the music books, is that of the then proprietor, and the lines underneath are parodied from Dryden's "Song for St. Cecilia's day, 1687."

      "What passion cannot music raise and quell!

      When Jubal struck the corded shell,

      His listening brethren stood around,

      And, wondering, on their faces fell."

      It went on with varying fortunes, and under various proprietors. First of all Mr. Hughes, then, in 1792, Davis had it; in 1813 it was in the hands of one Salter; in 1818, a man named Thorogood took it, but let it to one

37

An allusion to the hot buttered rolls, which were in vogue there.

38

See p.89