HIGHGATE.
If I were inclined to be dull, I would say Highgate is a village to the
north of London, with an ancient history, a great deal of which the
reader, if he be not a fool, can imagine, and with a very fine geological
formation, indicative of salt-water where it is now very difficult to
find fresh. In order, also, that I may not weary my reader, and
establish a cheap reputation for a great deal of learning, I will frankly
confess that Highgate, means High Gate, and nothing more. In old times,
right away from Islington Turnpike-Gate to Enfield Chase, there was a
magnificent forest, and part of this forest extended as far as Highgate.
Down in the very heart of it, in Hornsey, the Bishop of London had a
castle, and of the Park attached to it Highgate formed a part. When the
old road to the north was found impassable, a new one was formed over the
hill, and through the Bishop's Park. In those days pious bishops levied
toll; to collect this toll a gate was erected, and here was Highgate, and
truly does it deserve the name. It is said the hill is 400 feet above
the top of St. Paul's. Be this as it may, near London, a lovelier spot
is rarely to be met with. Artists, poets, parties in search of the
picturesque, cannot do better than visit Highgate. At every turn you
come to the most beautiful prospects. When London will consume its own
smoke, if that time ever does arrive, the view from Highgate, across the
great city, will be the grandest in the world. On a clear day, standing
in the Archway Road--that road esteemed such a wonder of engineering in
its day, and forming such a disastrous property for its shareholders (the
50 pounds shares may be bought at about 18s. a share)--you may see across
the valley of the Thames as far as the Kent and Surrey hills looming
obscurely in the distance. Close to the Archway Tavern, but on the other
side of the road, is a lofty old-fashioned brick mansion, said to have
been inhabited by Marshal Wade, the military hero who did so much for the
wars of Scotland, and whose memory is still preserved in the following
very remarkable couplet:
"Had you seen these roads before they were made,
You would lift up your hands and bless General Wade."
Well, from the top of this mansion you can see no less than seven English
counties. The number seems almost fabulous, and if, in accordance with a
well-established rule in such cases, we only believe half we hear, enough
is left to convince us that the view is one of no common kind; all that
is wanted to make the scene perfect is a little bit of water. From every
part of the hill, in spite of builders and buildings, views of exquisite
beauty may be obtained. Going down towards Kentish Town, the hill where
her Majesty was nearly dashed to pieces by the running away of the horses
of her carnage (her royal arms on a public-house still preserves the
tradition and the memory of the man who saved her at the peril of his
life), past where Mr. Bodkin the Barrister lives, past where William and
Mary Howitt live, past where the rich Miss Burdett Coutts has a stately
mansion, which, however, to the great grief of the neighbourhood, she
rarely adorns with her presence, what pleasant views we have before us.
It is the same going down past St. Joseph's Retreat to Holloway; and in
Swain's Lane, another lane leading back to Kentish Town, you might fancy
you were in Arcady itself. Again, stand on the brow of the hill, with
your backs to London, looking far away to distant Harrow, or ancient
Barnet, what a fair plain lies at your feet, clothed with cheerful
villas, and looking bright and warm. "Upon this hill," says Norden, "is
most pleasant dwelling, yet not so pleasant as healthful, for the expert
inhabitants there report that divers who have been long visited with
sicknesse not curable by physicke, have in a short time repaired their
health by that sweet salutary air." In 1661, the Spanish Ambassador,
Count Gondomar, excuses his absence from the English court on the plea
that he had gone to his retreat in Highgate "to take the fresh aire."
The associations connected with Highgate are of the most interesting
character. It was coming up Highgate Hill that Dick Whittington heard
the bells prophesying that if he would return he would be Lord Mayor of
London; a public-house still marks the spot. It was at the bottom of
Highgate Hill that the great Bacon--the wisest and not the meanest of
mankind, that lie is at length exploded, and must disappear from
history--caught the cold of which he died. "The cause of his Lordship's
death," writes Aubrey, who professed to have received the information
from Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury, "was trying an experiment as he was
taking the air in the coach with Dr. Winterbourne, a Scotchman, physician
to the king. Towards Highgate snow lay on the ground, and it came into
my Lord's thoughts why flesh might not be preserved in snow as in salt.
They were resolved they would try the experiment presently. They
alighted out of the coach, and went into a poor woman's house at the
bottom of Highgate Hill, and bought a hen and stuffed the body with snow,
and my Lord did help to do it himself. The snow so chilled him that he
immediately fell so ill that he could not return to his lodgings, but
went to the Earl of Arundel's house at Highgate, where they put him into
a good bed warmed with a pan, but it was a damp bed, that had not been
laid in for about a year before, which gave him such a cold, that in two
or three days, as I remember, he (Hobbes) told me he died of
suffocation." The Arundel house here referred to does not seem to be the
Arundel House still existing in Highgate, on the left-hand side as you
come up the main road from Islington. The house now bearing that name is
said to have been a residence of Nell Gwynne, and during that period was
visited by the merry monarch himself. The creation of the title of Duke
of St. Albans, which is related to have been obtained by Nell Gwynne in
so extraordinary a manner from King Charles, is said to have taken place
at this house. A marble bath, surrounded by curious and antique
oak-work, is there associated with her name. As the house is now in the
possession of a celebrated antiquarian, the Rev. James Yates, M.A., it is
to be hoped that it will be as little modernised as possible. More
hallowed memories appertain to the next house we come to.
Andrew Marvel, patriot, was born, 1620, at Kingston-upon-Hull. After
taking his degree of B.A. at Trinity College, Cambridge, he went abroad,
and at Rome he wrote the first of those satirical poems which obtained
him such celebrity. In 1635, Marvel returned to England, rich in the
friendship of Milton, who a couple of years after, thus introduced him to
Bradshaw: "I present to you Mr. Marvel, laying aside those jealousies and
that emulation which mine own condition might suggest to me by bringing
in such a coadjutor." "It was most likely," writes Mrs. S. C. Hall,
"during this period that he inhabited the cottage at Highgate, opposite
to the house in which lived part of the family of Cromwell." How Marvel
became M.P. for his native town--how he was probably the last
representative paid by his constituents, (a much better practice that
than ours of representatives paying their constituents)--how his
"Rehearsal Transposed," a witty and sarcastic poem, not only humbled
Parker, but, in the language of Bishop Burnet, "the whole party, for from
the king down to the tradesman the book was read with pleasure,"--how he
spurned the smiles of the venal court, and sleeps the sleep of the just
in St. Giles-in-the-Fields, are facts known to all. Mason has made
Marvel the hero of his "Ode to Independence," and thus alludes to his
incorruptible integrity:
"In awful poverty his honest muse
Walks forth vindictive through a venal land;
In vain corruption sheds her golden dews,
In vain oppression lifts her iron hand,--
He scorns them both, and armed with truth alone,
Bids lust and folly tremble on the throne."
On the other side of the way is an old stately red-brick building, now a
school, and well known as Cromwell House. I don't find that Cromwell
lived there, but assuredly his son-in-law, Ireton, did. His arms are
elaborately carved on the ceiling of the state-rooms, the antique
stair-case and apartments retain their originality of character, and the
mansion is altogether one of very great interest. Mr. Prickett, in his
History of Highgate, tells us Cromwell House is supposed to have been
built by the Protector, whose name it bears, about the year 1630, as a
residence for General Ireton, who married his daughter, and was one of
the commanders of his army; it is, however, said to have been the
residence of Oliver Cromwell himself, but no mention is made, either in
history or his biography, of his ever having lived at Highgate.
Tradition states there was a subterraneous passage from this house to the
Mansion House, which stood where the new church now stands, but of its
reality no proof has hitherto been adduced. Cromwell House was evidently
built and internally ornamented in accordance with the taste of its
military occupant. The staircase, which is of handsome proportions, is
richly decorated with oaken carved figures, supposed to have been of
persons in the General's army, in their costumes, and the balustrades
filled in with devices emblematical of warfare. From the platform on the
top of the mansion may be seen a perfect panorama of the surrounding
country.
On the hill was the house of Mr. Coniers, Bencher and Treasurer of the
Middle Temple, from which, on the 3rd of June, 1611, the Lady Arabella
escaped. Her sin was that she had married Mr. Seymour, afterwards
Marquis of Hertford. Her fate was sad; she was recaptured and died in
the Tower. Sir Richard Baker, author of "The Chronicles of the Kings of
England," resided at Highgate. Dr. Sacheverel, that foolish priest, died
at Highgate. But a greater man than any we have yet named lived here. I
speak of S. T. Coleridge, who lived in a red-brick house in the "Grove"
twenty years, with his biographer, Mr. Gillman, which house is now
inhabited by Mr. Blatherwick, surgeon. It is much to be regretted that
Gillman's Life was never completed, but a monument in the new church, and
a grave in the old churchyard, mark the philosopher's connection with
Highgate. Carlyle has given us a description of what he calls
Coleridge's philosophical moonshine. I met a lady who remembers the
philosopher well, as a snuffy old gentleman, very fond of stroking her
hair, and seeing her and another little girl practise their dancing
lessons. On one occasion Irving came with the philosopher. As the great
man's clothes were very shabby, and as he took so much snuff as to make
her sneeze whenever she went near him, my lady informant had rather a
poor opinion of the author of "Christabel" and the "Ancient Mariner." A
contemporary writer, more akin in philosophy to Coleridge than Thomas
Carlyle, and more able to appreciate the wondrous intellect of the man
than the little lady to whom I have already referred, says, "I was in his
company about three hours, and of that time he spoke during two and
three-quarters. It would have been delightful to listen as attentively,
and certainly as easy for him to speak just as well, for the next
forty-eight hours. On the whole, his conversation, or rather monologue,
is by far the most interesting I ever read or heard of. Dr. Johnson's
talk, with which it is obvious to compare it, seems to me immeasurably
inferior. It is better balanced and squared, and more ponderous with
epithets, but the spirit and flavour and fragrance, the knowledge and the
genius, are all wanting. The one is a house of brick, the other a quarry
of jasper. It is painful to observe in Coleridge, that with all the
kindness and glorious far-seeing intelligence of his eye, there is a
glare in it, a light half-unearthly and morbid. It is the glittering eye
of the Ancient Mariner. His cheek too shows a flush of over-excitement,
the ridge of a storm-cloud at sunset. When he dies, another, and the
greatest of their race, will rejoin the few immortals, the ill-understood
and ill-requited, who have walked this earth." Had Coleridge ever a more
genial visitant than the farmer-looking, but eloquent and philanthropic
Chalmers, who in 1839 came from Scotland to London, and of course clomb
up Highgate Hill to pay a visit to Coleridge, he says--"Half-an-hour with
Coleridge was filled up without intermission by one continuous flow of
eloquent discourse from that prince of talkers. He began, in answer to
the common inquiries as to his health, by telling of a fit of
insensibility in which, three weeks before, he had lain for thirty-five
minutes. As sensibility returned, and before he had opened his eyes, he
uttered a sentence about the fugacious nature of consciousness, from
which he passed to a discussion of the singular relations between the
soul and the body. Asking for Mr. Irving, but waiting for no reply, he
poured out an eloquent tribute of his regard, mourning pathetically that
such a man should be throwing himself away. Mr. Irving's book on the
'Human Nature of Christ' in his analysis was minute to absurdity; one
would imagine that the pickling and preserving were to follow, it was so
like a cookery-book. Unfolding then his own scheme of the
Apocalypse--talking of the mighty contrast between its Christ and the
Christ of the Gospel narrative, Mr. Coleridge said that Jesus did not
come now as before, meek and gentle, healing the sick and feeding the
hungry, and dispensing blessings all around; but he came on a white
horse, and who were his attendants?--Famine and War and Pestilence."
The poets have always been partial to Highgate. William and Mary Howitt
live there at this day. Florence Nightingale has also there taken up her
abode. The German religious reformer, Ronge, lives at the foot of
Highgate Hill. Nicholas Rowe was educated there. It was in one of the
lanes leading to Highgate that Coleridge met Keats and Hunt. "There is
death in the hand," said he to Hunt, as he shook hands with the author of
Endymion. Painters and artists have also been partial to Highgate.
George Morland would stay at the Bull, an inn still existing, weeks at a
time, and, we may be sure, ran up very handsome scores. An incident that
occurred to Hogarth while at Highgate made an artist of him. The tale is
thus told by Walpole--"During his apprenticeship he set out one Sunday
with two or three companions on an excursion to Highgate. The weather
being very hot, they went into a public-house, where they had not been
long before a quarrel arose between some persons in the same room; one of
the disputants struck the other on the head with a quart pot and cut him
very much; the blood running down the man's face, together with the agony
of the wound, which had distorted the features into a most hideous grin,
presented Hogarth, who showed himself thus early apprised of the mode
nature had intended he should pursue, with a subject too laughable to be
overlooked. He drew out his pencil, and produced on the spot one of the
most ludicrous figures that was ever seen. What rendered the piece the
more valuable was, that it exhibited an exact likeness of the man, with
the portrait of his antagonist, and the figures in caricature of the
principal persons gathered around him." One of the names associated with
Highgate I find to be that of Hogarth's enemy, Wilkes, patriot or
demagogue. In his Life I read, "Mr. Wilkes was of the Established
Church, but after he was married he often went to Meeting. He lived in a
splendid style, and kept a very elegant and sumptuous table for his
friends. Among the numerous persons who visited this family were Mr.
Mead, an eminent drysalter on London Bridge, with his wife and daughter,
who, being also Dissenters, frequently went to the Meeting-house in
Southwood Lane, Highgate, in Mr. Wilkes's coach, which was always drawn
by six horses, such was his love of external appearance." Going still
further back, more renowned characters appear on Highgate Hill. After
the memorable battle of Bosworth Field, in which the usurper, Richard,
had been slain, it was at Highgate that the victorious Richmond was met
by the citizens of London on his triumphal approach to the metropolis.
"He was met," writes Lambert, "by the Lord Mayor and Aldermen in scarlet
robes, with a great number of citizens on horseback." The Gunpowder Plot
is also connected with this interesting locality. It is said, while that
old villain, Guy Fawkes, was preparing "to blow up king and parliament,
with Jehu and Powdire," the rest of the conspirators had assembled on
Highgate Hill to witness the catastrophe; indeed, a driver of the Barnet
mail--I fear not the best authority in the world on antiquarian
matters--went so far on one occasion as to point out to the writer a bit
of an old wall, a little beyond Marvel's house on the same side of the
way, as a part of the identical house in which those very evil-disposed
gentlemen met. A subterraneous way is also said to have existed from the
site of the present church to Cromwell House, and thence to Islington.
To me the story seems somewhat doubtful, but the reader is at full
liberty to believe it or not as he likes. Let us now speak of the
institutions of Highgate: the most modern is the cemetery, which was
consecrated by the Lord Bishop of London in May, 1839, and has therefore
the merit of being one of the first, as it is undoubtedly one of the most
beautiful in situation, of any near London. It contains about twenty
acres of ground on the side of the hill facing the metropolis. The
approach to it through Swain's Lane conducts the visitor by a green lane
rising gradually to the Gothic building which forms the entrance.
Entering the grounds, the eye is struck by the taste everywhere
displayed. Broad gravel paths on either side wind up the steep slope to
the handsome new church of St. Michael's, which is seen to great
advantage from almost every part of the grounds. An hour may be very
well spent here musing on the dead. Good and bad, rogue and honest man,
saint and sinner, here sleep side by side. John Sadleir, but too well
known as M.P., and chairman of the London and County Bank, is buried
here. Indeed all sects, and callings, and professions, have here their
representative men. General Otway has one of the handsomest monuments in
the grounds. One of the most tasteful is that of Lillywhite, the
cricketer, erected by public subscription. Wombwell, known and admired
in our childish days for his wonderful menagerie, reposes under a massive
lion. One grave has a marble pillar bearing a horse all saddled and
bridled. The inscription under commemorates the death of a lady, and
commences thus,
"She's gone, whose nerve could guide the swiftest steed."
On inquiry we found the lady was the wife of a celebrated knacker, well
skilled in the mysteries of horseflesh and the whip. Holman, the blind
traveller, is buried in Highgate Cemetery, and very near him are the
mortal remains of that prince of newspaper editors and proprietors,
Stephen Rintoul. On the other side the cemetery is buried Bogue, the
well-known publisher of Fleet Street. In the Catacombs are interred
Liston, the greatest operator of his day, and Pierce Egan, a man as
famous in his way. It was only a few months since Sir W. Charles Ross,
the celebrated miniature painter, was buried here. Frank Stone sleeps in
the same cemetery, as also does that well-remembered actress, Mrs.
Warner. Haydn, well-known for his Dictionary of Dates, and Gilbert a
Beckett, still remembered for his comic powers, are amongst the literary
men that here await the resurrection morn. A fairer place in which to
sleep it would be difficult to choose, in spite of the monstrous trophies
of affectation, or ostentation, or affection all round,--in spite of the
reminiscences of Cornhill and Cheapside, suggested by every other grave.
As a ride, you had better pass by monuments unlooked at, they do but
enumerate the virtues of the illustrious obscure, and the wealth of their
survivors.
Of the past we now recall another relic, Lord Byron, in "Childe Harold,"
writes,
"Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair,
Others along the safer turnpike fly;
Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware,
And many to the steep of Highgate hie.
Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the reason why?
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,
Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery,
In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn,
And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till mom."
In the note from whence the above extract is taken, Lord Byron says he
alludes to a ridiculous custom which formerly prevailed in Highgate of
administering a burlesque oath to all travellers of the middling rank who
stopped there. The party was sworn on a pair of horns fastened, never to
kiss the maid when he could the mistress; never to eat brown bread when
he could get white; never to drink small beer when he could get strong;
with many other injunctions of the kind, to all which was added the
saving clause, "unless you like it best." Lambert tells us, "the oath
formerly was tendered to every person stopping at any of the
public-houses of the village, which are very numerous, and mostly
distinguished by a large pair of horns placed over the signs." I need
not add, no horns are seen now. When a person consented to be sworn, he
laid his hand on a pair of horns fixed to a long staff, and the oath was
administered. This ridiculous ceremony being over, the juror was to kiss
the horns and pay a shilling for the oath, to be spent among the company
to which he or she belonged. To complete the incongruous character of
the ceremony, the father, for such was the style of the person
administering the oath, officiated in a wig and gown, with the addition
of a mask. The origin of this custom is completely lost, but it was so
common at one time, that one man is said to have sworn one hundred and
fifty in a day. It appears to have been the fashion to make up parties
to Highgate for the purpose of taking the oath, and as a prerequisite for
admission to certain convivial societies now no more, the freedom of
Highgate was indispensable. The father facetiously said if the son, as
the individual sworn was termed, was too poor to pay for wine himself, he
was recommended to call for it at the first inn, and to place it to his
father's score, "and now, my good son," the formula continued, "I wish
you a safe journey through Highgate and this life." If the father's good
wishes were realized, one is almost inclined to regret that the ceremony
exists no longer. Another ancient institution is the grammar school,
founded in 1562 by Sir Roger Cholmeley, Lord Chief Baron of the
Exchequer, and after that Chief Justice of the King's Bench.
But we must leave Highgate, now the retreat of the wealthy citizen, and
the great North Road, along which coaches galloped almost every minute,
and along which lords and ladies posted, ere that frightful leveller, the
railroad had been formed. By the Favourite omnibuses it is but a
sixpenny ride to Highgate from the Bank, but in the good old times, the
fare by the stage was half-a-crown. It would do aldermen good to go up
its hill, and the city clerk or shopman cannot frequent it too much.
Highgate has much the air of a provincial town. It has its Literary
Institution, and its police office, and water-works, and gas, its
seminaries for ingenious youth of either sex, and its shops filled with
miscellaneous wares. The great city is creeping up the hill, and seeking
to encircle it with its chains of brick, but it resists lustily, and with
its quaint old houses, and fine old trees, will not assume a cockney
appearance. I honour it for its obstinacy, and trust that it will be
long before it shall have the wicked, busy, towny appearance of the
Modern Babylon.