Late Georgian Tea Gardens

I can’t recall why I was skimming through The Picture of London for 1804. As with most of my random, chaotic research, I didn’t find what I was seeking but instead stumbled upon something else: a listing of London tea gardens. Tea gardens! What a wondrous thing! My curiosity was piqued.

Despite writing historicals, I could never imagine myself in Regency or Victorian England. I have too much of a fondness for soft knit clothes, slang talk, and lounging about. However, I can envision myself in a tea garden, casually strolling about the flowers while chatting with friends.

Tea gardens, frequented by the middle classes, were humbler versions of pleasure gardens. They were known for tea, of course, as well as food and for providing venues for sports and concerts. Most were located in the green spaces outside London, which in those days wasn’t very far away. In The Amusements Of Old London William Biggs Boulton writes, “When George the Third came to the throne, London, including Westminster, was bounded by Oxford Street and Holborn on the north, by the river on the south, by the outer boundary of the city on the east, and by Hyde Park, Arlington Street, and St. James’ Street on the west. All the rest of modern London was suburban merely, or open and pleasant country interspersed with wild heaths, and dotted with ancient villages.”

Below I’ve excerpted some of the recommended tea gardens found in The Picture of London for 1804 and some tidbits from other books. I added some illustrations from those sources, but I struggled to find paintings of tea gardens, so I inserted images of Georgian-era people in outdoor settings.

Bagnigge Wells Tea Gardens, near Cold-bath-fields.
An elegantly finished place. In one of the rooms there is a good organ, regularly played every afternoon, Sundays excepted.


In The Book of Days, Robert Chamber’s writes,

The gardens at that time were extensive, and laid out in the old-fashioned manner, clipped trees, walks in formal lines, and a profusion of leadened statues. A fountain was placed centre, as shown in our cut. A Dutch Cupid half-choking a swan was the brilliant idea it shadowed forth. The roof of the temple is seen above trees to the left; it was a circular domed colonnade formed by a double row of pillars and pilasters; in its centre was a double pump one piston supconcert plying the chalybeate the other the cathartic water; it was encircled by a low balustrade. A grotto was the other great feature of the garden; it was a little castellated building of irregular hexagonal form, covered with shells, stones, glass, & c forming two apartments open to the gardens. They were drunk for the charge of threepence person or delivered from the pump-room at pence per gallon. As a noted place for tea drinking it is frequently alluded to by authors of the century. In the prologue to Colman’s comedy Bon Ton 1776 a vulgar city-madam from Spitalfields thus defines that phrase:

Bone Tone’s the space twix’t Saturday and Monday,
And riding in a one-horse chair on Sunday,
‘Tis drinking tea on summer afternoons
At Bagnigge Wells with china and gilt spoons

White Conduit-house Tea Gardens
Many years famous for the hot rolls peculiar to it. A delightful situation in summer, and has to boast of the finest toned organ in England for the size. Good wines, &c.

In Curiosities of London, John Timbs writes,

“A description the place [White Conduit House] in 1774 presents a general picture of the Tea Garden of that period : “The garden is formed into walks, prettily disposed. At the end of the principal one is a painting, which seems to render it (the walk) longer in appearance than it really is. In the centre of the garden is a fish pond. There are boxes for company, curiously cut into hedges, adorned with Flemish and other paintings. There are two handsome tea-rooms, one over the other, and several inferior ones in the house.” The fish-pond was soon after filled up, and its site planted, the paintings removed, and a new dancing and tea tea saloon, called the Apollo-room, built. In 1826, the gardens were opened as a “ Minor Vanxhall;” and here Mrs. Bland, the charming vocalist, last sang in public. In 1829, the small house, the original tavern, was taken down, and rebuilt upon a more extensive plan, so as to dine upwards of 2000 persons in its largest room. But in 1849 these premises wore also taken down ; the tavern was re-erected on a smaller scale, and the garden-ground let on building leases for White Conduit-street, &c.

In The Book of Days, Robert Chamber’s writes,

[The] cut represents the aspect of both buildings, as they stood in 1827. The conduit was then in a pitiable state of neglect — denuded of the outer case of stone, a mere core of rubble the house was a low roofed building, with a row of clipped trees in front, and a large garden in the rear, well supplied with arbours all round for tea drinking; and such was its popularity at the commencement of this century that fifty pounds was often taken on a Sunday afternoon for sixpenny tea-tickets. Its bread was as popular as the buns of Chelsea and White Conduit loaves was a London cry, listened for by such old ladies as wished to furnish a tea-table luxury to their friends. On week-days, it was a kind of minor Vauxhall, with singing and fire-works on great occasions; the ascent of a balloon crowded the gardens, and collected thousands of persons in the fields around. It was usual for London ‘roughs’ to assemble in large numbers in these fields for foot ball play on Easter Monday; occasionally the fun was diversified by Irish faction fights.”

Hornsey-wood-house for Tea Gardens.
A most interesting place, celebrated for the peculiar beauty of the wood adjoining. As no expense has been spared to render this an elegant house of accommodation, it stands first on the list of places of this description. Dinners provided for large parties.

Willoughby’s Tea Gardens, &c. usually known by the name of Highbury Barn.
A very pleasant place in summer, where parties are accommodated with dinners or tea, hot rolls, liquors, &c. on reasonable terins.

Chalk Farm, near Hampstead.
A house of the above description, where parties meet also for convivial entertainment every afternoon in the summer season.

In Curiosities of London, John Timbs writes,

Chalk Farm, corrupted from the old village of Chalcot, shown in Camden’s map, was another noted tea-garden. This was *the White House,’’ to which, in 1678, body of Sir Edmund Herry Godfrey was carried, after it had been found, about two fields distant, upon the south side of Primrose Hill. Several duels have been fought here: here John Scott (of the London Magazine) was shot by Mr. Christie, Feb. 16, 1821; and the poet Moore, and Jeffrey, of the Edinburgh Review, met in 1806. Chalk Farm now gives name to the railway station here.

Canonbury-louse, near Islington.
Frequented in the summer-time by tea-drinking parties, who are comfortably accommodated, on reasonable terms. Large dinner parties provided for.

Hoxton Tea Gardens, Hoxton-square.
Upon the same plan, has a good room, with a neat orchestra, and a small organ, Tea, wines, &c.

Yorkshire Stingo Tea Garden, Lisson-green, New-road, Paddington.
A house many years celebrated for rustic sports on May-day. Wines, Ales &c.

In The Book of Days, Robert Chamber’s writes,

Pursuing the road toward Paddington ‘The Yorkshire Stingo’ opposite Lisson Grove, invited wayfarer to its tea garden and bowling green; it was much crowded on Sundays when an admission fee of sixpence was demanded at the doors. For that a ticket was given, to be exchanged with the waiters for its value in refreshments; a plan very adopted in these gardens to prevent the intrusion of the lowest classes, or of such as might only stroll about them without spending anything. The Edgeware Road would point the way to Kilburn Wells, which an advertisement of 1773 assures us were then ‘in the utmost perfection the gardens enlarged and greatly improved the great room being particularly adapted to the use and amusement of the politest companies, fit for either music dancing or entertainment.”

‘The Monster’ and ‘Jenny’s Whim’ in the fields near Chelsea. Walpole, in one of his letters, says that at Vauxhall he ‘picked up Lord Granby, arrived very drunk from Jenny’s Whim.’ Angelo, in his Pic-nic or Table talk describes it as a tea garden situated after passing a wooden bridge on the left previous to entering the long avenue, the coach way to where Ranelagh once stood. This place was much frequented from its novelty, being an inducement to allure the curious by its amusing deceptions particularly on their first appearance there. Here was a large garden, in different parts of which were recesses; and treading on a spring, taking you by surprise, up started different figures, some ugly enough to frighten you; like a Harlequin, Mother Shipton, or some terrific animal. In a large piece of water, facing the tea alcoves, large fish or mermaids were shewing themselves above the surface. This queer spectacle was kept by a famous mechanist, who had been employed at one of the winter theatres. The water served less reputable purposes in 1755 when according to a notice in The Connoisseur it was devoted to ‘the royal diversion of duckhunting.’

Adam and Eve Tea Garden, Sc. Tottenham-court-road.
Similar to the above. A small organ in the room upstairs, where tea, wine, and punch are regularly served.

In Curiosities of London, John Timbs writes,

Toten Hall, at the north west extremity of Tottenham-court-road, was the ancient court house of that manor, and subsequently a place of public entertainment. In the parish books of St Giles’s in the Fields year 1645 is an entry of Mrs Stacye’s maid and others being fined for drinking at Tottenhall Court on the Sabbath daie, xijd a piece.” The premises next became the Adam and Eve Tea Gardens before the house is laid the scene of Hogarth’s March to Finchley; and in the grounds May 16 1785, Lunardi fell with his burst balloon, and was but slightly injured. The Gardens were much frequented but the place falling into disrepute, the music house was taken down, and upon the site of the Skittle-grounds and Gardens was built Eden street, Hampstead road, the public house being rebuilt.

Adam and Eve Tea Garden, &c. St. Pancras.
A pleasant distance from town, where is an excellent bowling green, and a regular company meet in summer, in the afternoon, to play at bowls and trap-ball. A very good room for parties to dine, drink tea, &c.

Camberwell-grove House and Tea Garden.
A very comfortable place, where there is a good bowling green, and such excellent accommodation as is usual to places of this description.

The Montpellier Tea Garden, Walworth, near Camberwell.
A compact place, something similar to the above, and noted for a small maze at the bottom of the garden. Tea, hot rolls, good wines, spirituous liquors, &c. Large parties provided for.

Bermondsey Spa, Southwark.
Conducted upon a pian something similar to Vauxhall. By paying one shilling the visitor is entitled to the amusement of the evening, which consists of a concert of vocal and instrumental music, and frequently of fireworks. There are some very decent paintings; and among them an excellent butcher’s shop, by the late Mr. Keys, who was unrivalled in this species of painting. Parties are accommodated with tea, wines, and good suppers.

Mermaid Tea Gardens, Hackney.
An ordinary on Sundays; a good larder, wines, &c. with an assembly room.

Cumberland Tea Gardens, Vauxhall.
In addition to the garden, this place has to boast of one of the pleasantest rooms near the metropolis. It is situated on the banks of the Thames, and commands a delightful view of that beautiful river, and of the places adjacent.

The Sluice House, near Hornsey.
Celebrated for eel pies, excellent tea, and hot rolls.

Marlborough Tea Gardens, near Sloane-square, Chelsea.
Diners, tea, &c. An excellent cricket ground.


For even more information on tea gardens visit Jane Austen’s World.

Wicked, My Love – World Tour

Dear wonderful readers,

It’s that time! The Wicked, My Love book release world tour.  Yay!

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We are playing a wicked little game for this release called Kiss, Marry or Kill.  Bloggers give me the names of fictional characters or celebrities, and I decide if I will kiss, marry, or 86 them.  I’ll be posting each blog stop here and on my Facebook page and Twitter.  There will be many chances to win a copy of Wicked, My Love. So have some fun and play the game along with me!

But that’s not all! I’m touring with the Enemies to Lovers Tour, which features the amazingly talented Bec McMaster, Kristen Callihan, and Sara Humphreys.  We’re hopping around the web, talking about what makes the Enemies to Lovers trope so fun to write and read.

If you need a little break (and laugh) in your day, check out the prologue to Wicked, My Love posted below.

Thanks  for stopping by and I look forward to chatting at one of the tour spots.

Sincerely,

Susanna Ives

———- Wicked, My Love excerpt ———–

Prologue

1827

Nine-year-old Viscount Randall gazed toward Lyme’s coast but didn’t see where the glistening water met the vast sky. He was too lost in a vivid daydream of being all grown-up, wearing the black robes of the British prime minister, and delivering a blistering piece of oratorical brilliance to Parliament about why perfectly reasonable boys shouldn’t be forced to spend their summer holidays with jingle-brained girls.

“You know when your dog rubs against me it’s because he wants to make babies,” said Isabella St. Vincent, the most jingled-brained girl of them all, interrupting his musings.

The two children picnicked on a large rock as their fathers roamed about the cliffs, searching for ancient sea creatures. Their papas were new and fast friends, but the offspring were not so bonded, as evidenced by the line of seaweed dividing Randall’s side of the rock from hers.

“All male species have the barbaric need to rub against females,” she continued as she spread strawberry preserves on her biscuit.

She was always blurting out odd things. For instance, yesterday, when he had been concentrating hard on cheating in a game of whist in hopes of finally beating her, she had piped up, “Do you know the interest of the Bank of England rose by a half a percentage?” Or last night, when she caught him in the corridor as he was trying to sneak a hedgehog into her room in revenge for losing every card game to her, including the ones he cheated at. “I’m going to purchase canal stocks instead of consuls with my pin money because at my young age, I can afford greater investment risks,” she’d said, shockingly oblivious to the squirming, prickly rodent under his coat.

Despite being exactly one week younger than he was, she towered over him by a good six inches. Her legs were too long for her flat torso. An enormous head bobbled atop her neck. Her pale skin contrasted with her thick, wiry black hair, which shot out in all directions. And if that wasn’t peculiar enough, she gazed at the world through lenses so thick that astronomers could spot new planets with them, but she needed them just to see her own hands. Hence, he took great glee in hiding them from her.

“You’re so stupid.” He licked fluffy orange cream icing from a slice of cake. “Everyone knows babies come when a woman marries a man, and she lies in bed at night, thinking about yellow daffodils and pink lilies. Then God puts a baby in her belly.” He used an exaggerated patronizing tone befitting a brilliant, powerful viscount destined for prime ministership—even if “viscount” was only a courtesy title. Meanwhile, Isabella was merely a scary, retired merchant’s daughter whom no one would ever want to marry. And, after all, a female’s sole purpose in life was to get married and have children.

“No, you cabbage-headed dolt,” she retorted. “Cousin Judith told me! She said girls shouldn’t be ignorant about the matters of life.” Isabella’s Irish mother had died, so Cousin Judith was her companion. Randall’s mama claimed that Judith was one of those “unnatural sorts” who supported something terrible called “rights of women.” He didn’t understand the specifics, except that it would destroy the very fabric of civilized society. He would certainly abolish it when he was prime minister.

“Judith said that for a woman to produce children, she, unfortunately, requires a man.” Isabella’s gray eyes grew into huge round circles behind her spectacles. “That he, being of simple, base nature and mind, becomes excited at the mere glimpse of a woman’s naked body.”

He was about to interject that she was wrong again—girls were never right—but stopped, intrigued by the naked part. Nudity, passing gas, and burping were his favorite subjects.

“Anyway, a man has a penis,” she said. “It’s a puny, silly-looking thing that dangles between his limbs.”

He gazed down at the tiny bulge in his trousers. He had never considered his little friend silly.

“When a man sees the bare flesh of a woman, it becomes engorged,” she said. “And he behaves like a primitive ape and wants to insert it into the woman’s sacred vagina. My cousin said that was the passage between a woman’s legs that leads to the holy chamber of her womb.”

“The what?” Where was this holy chamber? He was suddenly overcome with wild curiosity to see one of these sacred vaginas.

“Judith said the man then moves back and forth in an excited, animalistic fashion for approximately ten seconds, until he reaches an excited state called orgasm. Then he ejaculates his seed into the woman’s bodily temple, thus making a baby.”

His dreams of future political power, the shimmering ocean, fluffy vanilla-orange icing, and a prank on Isabella involving a dead, stinking fish all seemed unimportant. He gazed at his crotch and then her lap—the most brilliant idea he ever conceived lighting up his brain. “I’ll show you my penis if you show me your vagina.” He flashed his best why-aren’t-you-just-an-adorable-little-thing smile, which, when coupled with his blond hair and angelic, bright blue eyes, charmed his nannies into giving him anything he wanted. However, his cherubic looks and charm didn’t work on arctic-hearted Isabella.

“You idiot!” She flicked a spoonful of preserves at his face.

“You abnormal, cracked, freakish girl!” he cried. “I only play with you because my father makes me.” He smeared her spectacles with icing. In retaliation, she grabbed her jar of lemonade and doused him.

When their fathers and nurses found them, she was atop the young viscount, now slathered in jam, icing, mustard, and sticky lemonade, pummeling him with her little fists.

Mr. St. Vincent yanked his daughter up.

“She just hit me for no reason,” Randall wailed, adopting his poor-innocent-me sad eyes. “I didn’t do anything to her.”

“Young lady, you do not hit boys,” her father admonished. “Especially fine young viscounts. You’ve embarrassed me again.”

“I’m sorry, Papa,” Isabella cried, bereft under her father’s hard gaze. Humiliation wafted from her ungainly body and Randall felt a pang of sympathy, but it didn’t diminish the joy of knowing she had gotten in trouble and he hadn’t.

The Earl of Hazelwood placed a large hand on the back of Randall’s neck and gave his son a shake. “Son, we didn’t find any old sea creatures, but Mr. St. Vincent has come up with a brilliant idea to help our tenants and provide a dependable monthly income.” He turned to his friend. “We are starting the Bank of Lord Hazelwood. Mr. St. Vincent and I will be the major shareholders and we will add another board member from the village.”

Even as a small child, Randall had an uneasy, gnawing feeling in his gut about this business venture that none of Mr. St. Vincent’s strange terms, such as financial stabilization, wealth building, or reliable means for tenant borrowing and lending, could dissuade. He was never going to get rid of that rotten Isabella.

***

Through the years, he and she remained like two hostile countries in an uneasy truce; a lemonade-throwing, cake-splatting war could break out at any moment. Randall would indeed follow his path to political fame, winning a seat in Parliament after receiving a Bachelor of Arts from St. John’s College, Cambridge. He basked in the adoration of London society as the Tory golden boy. To support Randall’s London lifestyle, the Earl of Hazelwood signed over a large amount of the bank’s now quite profitable shares to his son.

He came home from Parliament when he was twenty-three to witness Isabella standing stoic and haunted with no black veil to hide her pale face from the frigid January air as they lowered her father into the frozen earth. Having no husband, she inherited her father’s share in the bank and began to help run it. The two enemies’ lives would be hopelessly entwined through the institution born that fateful day in Lyme, when Randall learned how babies were made.

For the next five years, bank matters rolled along smoothly. Then the board secretary passed away unexpectedly, leaving his portion to his young bachelor nephew, Mr. Anthony Powers.

That’s when all manner of hell broke loose.

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