in a short poem by William Woty, the author of the "Shrubs of Parnassus, consisting of a variety of poetical essays, moral and comic, by I. Copywell, of Lincoln's Inn, Esq. 1760."
"And to White Conduit House
We will go, will go, will go."
Grub Street Register.
"Wish'd Sunday's come—mirth brightens ev'ry face,
And paints the rose upon the housemaid's cheek
Harriot, or Mol more ruddy. Now the heart
Of prentice resident in ample street,
Or alley, Kennel-wash'd Cheapside, Cornhill
Or Cranborne, thee, for calcuments renown'd,
With joy distends. His meal meridian o'er,
With switch in hand, he to White Conduit house
Hies merry hearted. Human beings here
In couples multitudinous assemble,
Forming the drollest groupe, that ever trod
Fair Islingtonian plains. Male after male,
Dog after dog, succeeding—husbands—wives—
Fathers and mothers—brothers—sisters—friends—
And pretty little boys and girls. Around,
Across, along, the garden's shrubby maze,
They walk, they sit, they stand. What crowds press on,
Eager to mount the stairs, eager to catch
First vacant bench or chair in long-room plac'd.
Here prig with prig holds conference polite,
And indiscriminate, the gaudy beau,
And sloven mix. Here he, who all the week
Took bearded mortals by the nose, or sat
Weaving dead hairs, and whistling wretched strain,
And eke the sturdy youth, whose trade it is
Stout oxen to contend, with gold bound hat,
And silken stocking strut. The red-arm'd belle
Here shews her tasty gown, proud to be thought
The butterfly of fashion: and, forsooth,
Her haughty mistress deigns for once to tread
The same unhallow'd floor. 'Tis hurry all,
And ratling cups and saucers. Waiter here,
And waiter there, and waiter here and there,
At once is call'd—Joe—Joe—Joe—Joe—Joe—
Joe on the right—and Joe upon the left,
For ev'ry vocal pipe re-ecchoes Joe.
Alas, poor Joe! Like Francis in the play
He stands confounded, anxious how to please
The many-headed throng. But shou'd I paint
The language, humours, customs of the place,
Together with all curtsy's lowly bows,
And compliments extern, 'twould swell my page
Beyond it's limits due. Suffice it then,
For my prophetic muse to say, 'So long
As fashion rides upon the Wing of time,
While tea and cream, and buttered rolls can please,
While rival beaux, and jealous belles exist,
So long White Conduit house, shall be thy fame.
W. W."
Later on in the century, it was still a reputable place of resort. In 1774, there was a painting at one end of the garden, the perspective of which served, artificially, to augment its size; the round fish-pond in the centre of the garden, still existed, and the refreshment-rooms, or boxes, were hung with Flemish and other pictures.
Hone ("Every Day Book," vol. ii. p. 1201, &c.) says, "About 1810, the late celebrated Wm. Huntingdon S.S.[26] of Providence Chapel, who lives in a handsome house within sight, was at the expense of clearing the spring for the use of the inhabitants; but, because his pulpit opinions were obnoxious, some of the neighbouring vulgar threw loads of soil upon it in the night, which rendered the water impure, and obstructed its channel, and, finally, ceasing to flow, the public was deprived of the kindness he proposed. The building itself, was in a very perfect state at that time, and ought to have been boarded up after the field it stood in was thrown open. As the new buildings proceeded, it was injured, and defaced, by idle labourers and boys, from mere wantonness, and reduced to a mere ruin. There was a kind of upper floor or hayloft in it, which was frequently a shelter to the houseless wanderer. A few years ago some poor creatures made it a comfortable hostel for the night with a little hay. Early in the morning a passing workman perceived smoke issuing from the crevices, and as he approached, heard loud cries from within. Some mischievous miscreants had set fire to the fodder beneath the sleepers, and, afterwards, fastened the door on the outside: the inmates were scorched by the fire, and probably they would all have been suffocated in a few minutes, if the place had not been broken open.
THE WHITE CONDUIT.
"The 'White Conduit' at this time (1826) merely stands to those who had the power, and neglected to preserve it.
"To the buildings grown up around, it might have been rendered a neat ornament, by planting a few trees, and enclosing the whole with an iron railing, and have stood as a monument of departed worth.
"'White Conduit House' has ceased to be a recreation in the good sense of the word. Its present denomination is the 'Minor Vauxhall,' and its chief attraction during the passing summer has been Mrs. Bland.[27] She has still powers, and, if their exercise here, has been a stay and support to this sweet melodist, so far the establishment may be deemed respectable. It is a ground for balloon flying and skittle playing, and just maintains itself above the very lowest, so as to be one of the most doubtful places of public resort. Recollections of it some years ago are more in its favour. Its tea gardens
