Do you happen to know a quaint, dreamy old region in the west of London,
which bricks and mortar have not, as yet, overtaken, nor newfangled
villas vulgarised?
A region of innumerable market gardens that are principally laid out in
long, narrow beds, lost into nothingness as they dwindle down in the dim
vista of perspective, and which are planted with curly endive, piquante-
looking lettuces, and early cabbages; squat rows of gooseberry bushes
and currant trees, with a rose set here and there in between; and sweet-
smelling, besides, of hidden violets and honeysuckles, and the pink and
white hawthorn of the hedges in May:--
A region of country lanes, ever winding and seemingly never ending,
leading down to and past and from the whilom silent, whilom bustling
river, that never heeds their tortuous intricacies, but hurries by on
its way through the busy city towards the sea below; lanes wherein are
to be occasionally met with curious old stone houses, of almost
historical antecedents and dreamy as the region in which they lie,
scattered about in the queerest situations without plan or precedent, on
which the casual pedestrian comes when he least expects:--
Do you know this quaint old region, this fleeting oasis in the Sahara of
the building-mad suburban metropolis? I do, well; its market gardens,
its circumambient lanes, its old, antiquarian stone houses, and all!
Many a time have I wandered through them; many a time watched the heavy
waggons as they went creaking on their way to town and the great
emporium at Covent Garden, groaning beneath the wealth and weight of the
vegetable produce they carried, and laden so high with cunningly-
arranged nests of baskets on baskets, that one believed each moment that
they would topple over, and held the breath for fear of hastening their
fall; many a time sought to trace each curving lane to its probable
goal, or tried to hunt out the hidden histories which lay concealed
within the crumbling walls of the old dwellings on which I might happen
to light in my walks.
But my favourite ramble, eclipsing all others now in pleasant
recollections of by-gone days, was through the Prebend's Walk, bordered
with its noble grove of stately lime trees and oaks and elms on either
hand; and passing by open fields, that are, in spring, rich with yellow
buttercups and star-spangled daisies, and, in summer, ripe with the
aromatic odours of new-mown hay.
The Prebend's Walk, beyond where the lime-grove ends, whence the
prebend's residence can be faintly distinguished through the clustering
masses of tree-foliage, merges into the open, commanding the river in
front; but it is still marked out by a stray elm or horse-chestnut,
placed at scanty intervals, to keep up the idea of the ancient avenue
beyond.
Here, turning to the right and crossing a piece of unkempt land, half
copse, half meadow, the scene again changed.
You came to a stile. That surmounted and left behind, a narrow by-path
led you through its twisting turns until you reached a tiny, rustic
stone bridge--such a tiny, little bridge! This was over the sluice and
aqueduct from the adjacent river, which supplied the fosse that in olden
times surrounded the prebend's residence, when there were such things as
sieges and besiegements in this fair land of ours.
The prebend's residence was then a castle, protected, probably, by
battlements and mantlets and turreted walls, and with its keep and its
drawbridge, its postern and its fosse--simple works of defence that were
armed for retaliation, with catapult and mangonel, the canon raye of the
period, besides arquebuse and other hand weapons wielded, no doubt, by
mighty men at arms, mail-clad and helmeted, who knew how to give and
take with the best of them; now, it was but a peaceful priest's
dwelling, inhabited by as true a clergyman and gentleman as ever lived,
although it was still a fine old house.
As for the fosse, it sank long ages ago to the level and capacity of a
common ditch, and was almost hidden from view by the overhanging boughs
and branches of the park trees on the opposite side, and the half-
decayed trunks of former monarchs of the forest that filled its bed--a
ditch covered with a superstratum of slimy, green water, lank weeds, and
rank vegetation; and wherein, at flood time, urchin anglers could fish
for eels and sticklebats, and, at ebb, the village ducks disport
themselves and mudlarks play.
Along this fosse, the path continued. Further on, it widened into a
broader way, which led you direct to the churchyard of Saint Canon's.
So studded is it with weatherworn tombstones, inclining at all angles
like so many miniature leaning towers of Pisa, ivy-wreathed obelisks and
quaintly-fashioned, railed-in monuments, that you can scarcely make out
the lower buttresses of the ancient church that stands up from amongst
their midst.
With its whitish-grey walls, time-stained and rain-eaten, its severe-
looking, square Norman tower, and its generally-formal style of
architecture, that edifice does not present a very imposing appearance
from without; but, within, the case is different.
Lofty, pointed, stained-glass windows light it. The chancel bears the
stamp of the Restoration. Oaken beams; carved galleries, curiously
contrived to fit into every available space; high, upright box pews--of
the sort instituted, in the reign of Anne, by the renowned Bishop
Burnett to restrain the roving eyes of the congregation and make
gallants better attend to their devotions; all these, in addition to the
memorial slabs and tablets, and weeping angels over cinereal urns, tend
to give the church that air of ugliness and comfort which the modern
churchman detests.
Dear old church!
I love its old walls, its old chancel, its old pews, its form of
worship, and all; for it was there that I first saw her,--my own, my
darling!
O, Min, Min! can I ever forget that time?
Can I!
One Sunday--it is not so long ago that my hair is grey, nor so recently
as to prevent my having a story to tell--I was in Saint Canon's church,
sitting in one of its old, square box pews, where one was, as it were,
shut up in a small, private house, away from all connection with the
outer world; for you could not see anything when the door was closed,
with the exception of the roof overhead, and, mayhap, the walls around.
I was listening to the varied fugue introitus that the organist was
playing from the gallery beyond the pulpit,--playing with the full wind
power of the venerable reed instrument he skilfully manipulated, having
all the stops out,--diapasons, trumpet, vox humana, and the rest. The
music was from Handel, a composer of whom the maestro was especially
fond; so fond, indeed, that any of the congregation who might have the
like musical proclivities need seldom fear disappointment. They could
reckon upon hearing the Hallelujah Chorus at least once a fortnight, and
the lesser morceaux of _Israel in Egypt_ at intervals in between.
Presently, just before the vicar and curate made their customary
processional entry, ere the service began, two ladies were ushered into
the large pew which I occupied alone in solitary state. There was room
enough, in all conscience. It could have accommodated a round dozen,
and that without any squeezing.
Both the ladies were dressed in half-mourning, which attracted my
attention and made me observe them more closely than I might otherwise
have done. My mind was soon engaged wondering, as one is apt to do--
when in church, more particularly--who and what they were. One, I saw,
was middle-aged: the other had not, probably, as yet reached her
eighteenth year; and what a charming face she had,--what an expression!