CHELSEA AND FULHAM.
Every Londoner of taste should make himself familiar with his river,
ever placidly winding on and offering a spectacle of grace that never
palls. It supplies a constant suggestion of rural beauty, even if we go
no further in search of it than to Battersea, where there is a quaint
Dutch tone. At Chelsea its many fitful changings begin. But even here,
within a few years, what violent alterations, and how much has been
lost! Here, for instance, is a sketch which I made not very many years
ago, which is scarcely recognizable now.
“Beyond Battersea Bridge the tiled houses begin at once; the footways
along the banks are sternly blocked, and we begin to see those charming
slopes and swards, and snatches of old houses playing hide and seek with
us between the trees. Here, we might, as it were, suddenly awaken one
who has travelled much, and ask him, as he rubs his eyes, to name the
river abroad on which he is sailing; to say whether it was the Dutch or
German portion of the Rhine, the Meuse, or any other important river. To
the eye not too much familiarized, it has a curiously foreign air. But
as we glide on and draw in to shore we observe a shaded walk, sheltered
by two rows of tall trees. On a long, irregular pier, not of the correct
hewn stone, modern pattern, but of earth and wood, or piles, and through
the trees and that delightful shade which dapples all the walk in
patterns, though outside it the sun is blazing fiercely, we see figures
promenading, and beyond them as background--a cosy row of red brick
houses--an old-fashioned terrace, of the brick of Queen Anne’s special
hue, with twisted iron railings and gates in front. At the edge of the
road in front of the trees is an irregular wooden railing, against which
loungers rest. Below them are boats drawn up. As we glide on we come to
the centre, where the trees open, and a little suspension pier juts out
to let the steamers land passengers; and behind the pier the terrace
breaks into a crescent. Here we land, and find ourselves on ‘_Cheyne
Walk, Chelsea_.’ The whole has the air of one of those Dutch views we
see in picture shops. There is a deal of grass-green paint; Dutch-built
barges of a varnished yellow lying low in the water; and as we walk
along in the shade the strong Dutch smell ‘grows,’ as from the canals,
and makes the delusion stronger. One would like to live in this Cheyne
Walk, as many great people did a long time ago, and as Maclise did only
yesterday. There is his house, with a little garden in front, as they
all have, and a gate of elegant iron tracery, with initials and flowers
worked in. Inside they are all panels and stucco, with noble
chimney-pieces, and gardens behind, stretching far back with shady
trees, and some a fountain.
[Illustration: CHEYNE WALK.]
“Everything is in keeping, even to the old rickety timber bridge, which
crosses the Thames, ascending steeply, and resting on what seems a
series of birdcages, but which is now disappearing piecemeal. Beyond the
bridge there is a charming bit of the river; and on some summer’s
evening after a sultry day, when the water has a glassy, lazy, brimming
look, and a faint haze is over the low-lying banks on the other side,
and the houses and the church slope up in pyramid shape, it has all the
air of a continental scene. Here the Chelsea watermen cluster and
lounge, leaning over the wooden paling, and as they talk looking down
into the glassy water, which is as languid as they are. Some old Manor
House behind us, revealed by its French Mansard windows in the roof, by
its projecting eaves, and its two great wings, has now been plainly cut
up into four houses; and the centre one, overgrown with ivy and
creepers, has all the windows open, its balconies filled with the family
reading or chatting, the maids sitting working on the top balcony; while
through its door we see the cool, shady hall and the green trees of the
garden beyond.
“The ‘watermen’ flourish here, gradually driven from the other ‘stairs.’
So do their boats, which are in vast numbers; and indeed here is rowed
the annual watermen’s race for the coat and badge left by the Irish
actor, Dogget, with money added by some of the London Companies. In the
windows was the bill of the Royal Chelsea Theatre, where, on this
special night, Mr. Welkinghorn takes his benefit in the Moor of Venice;
with, for a second piece, the appropriate Tom Tug; and on which occasion
‘the Chelsea watermen have kindly consented to attend in their coats and
badges.’ All this was primitive enough and welcome, and scarcely to be
expected in a London suburb. Here was once Saltero’s coffee-house,
familiar to readers of Coleridge and Lamb, a river inn very popular
once--indeed popular up to a late date. Salter was body servant to the
great Sir Hans, and came with him from Ireland, and then formed one of
those queer, good-for-nothing ‘museums,’ which captains of vessels often
get together and bequeath to some country town, where they are shown
with pride.”
This little picture is--if I may say it--a very faithful one of Chelsea
as it used to be.
The headlong rapidity with which everything that is pretty or
interesting in London is being swept off is truly extraordinary. It
seems but yesterday--it is little over ten years ago--when London had
its two charming _al fresco_ gardens, the Surrey and Cremorne. The
latter was a most original place, lying as it did by the tranquil river.
So pretty a garden did not exist near London, and there was a quaint air
of old fashion somehow preserved, suggesting Ranelagh and Vauxhall. Of a
summer’s evening it was pleasant to glide down by steamer, touch at the
crazy pier, now passed away, walk by the river’s edge to where the old
trees rose high, thick, and stately--you expected to hear and see the
rooks--through which came the muffled sounds of music and glittering,
flitting lights. Even the gate was old and stately, and its ironwork
good. Within, there was the blaze of light at the dancing platform; the
old-fashioned hotel--nobody surely ever boarded or lodged there, or
could--with bowed wings all ablaze with lamps; the “boxes” running round
for suppers; the not unpicturesque bars; the capital theatres, for there
were several dispersed about here and there and everywhere; and the sort
of procession headed by an illuminated placard announcing the name of
the next show. Then would the band strike up a stirring march, the drums
clattering, the brass braying, and in military array lead the way,
attended by all the rout and crowd, who fell in behind and tramped on
cheerfully to renewed enjoyments. The dancing was always an amusing
spectacle, from the rude honesty with which it was carried out; not the
least amusing portion the dignity of the M.C.’s. The people sitting
under the good old trees--the glaring booths--even the fortune-teller in
his dark retirement, as in a deep grove, all this made up a curious
entertainment never likely to be revived. We cannot go back to these
things. The Surrey Gardens went before, as these have gone, long since.
Now these elements are gathered up into aquariums, great halls, perhaps
“hugely to the detriment” of the public. So peace be with the manes of
Cremorne!
Turning out of Cheyne Walk, we find ourselves in Cheyne Row, which seems
still and old-fashioned as some by-street in a cathedral close. Here are
small, sound, old red-brick houses of the Queen Anne period, or
so-called Queen Anne period. And here, at No. 24, lived Thomas Carlyle,
in whom neighbours and neighbourhood might well take pride. A compact
dwelling, next to the one with a verandah and substantial porch. Its
neighbour on the other side boasts the good old eaves which it has
lost--but _en revanche_ it has its “jalousies.” Within, there is a
strange air of old fashion, and the furniture as antique. The
inhabitants, or vestry perhaps, have honoured him. For close by is a
rather imposing square--yclept Carlyle Square--a nice and unusual shape
of compliment. They point out his house, and at the photographers’ and
print shops, during his life, you could buy photographs of house and
owner.
Once, and not long before his death, the writer found himself sitting
with the philosopher, who in his kindly fashion had allowed himself to
be modelled by very inexperienced hands. This “bust”--if it is entitled
to the dignity--is beside me now, in the old, broad, felt hat, the
grizzled beard below, and the heavy coat up about his ears, for he
seemed to feel the cold. That was a pleasant hour, for he talked in his
pleasantest vein. There have been occasions when I have smoked a
“churchwarden” with him, but these were on rare festivals. Now the old
house seems fast going to decay, and is unlet, strange to say, though a
tenant is sought. There is over it that curious sense of blight which
seemed to settle on the sage himself in his later days, when even the
visitor was struck by the chill, forlorn look of the rooms and
furniture.
The lower end of the “walk” is closed by the Church. There is nothing
more picturesque in London than old Chelsea Church, with its grimed old
red-brick or brown-brick tower, and its tablets and tombstones fixed
outside, high on the walls of the church, up and down, like framed
pictures--an unusual adornment; the effect, as may be conceived, is the
quaintest. So, too, with the little appendix, or round house, attached
to it, with the odd figures, and the Hans Sloane altar-tomb under a sort
of shed or canopy. The tower, however, is the attraction, suggesting
something Dutch, and rising sad, solemn, and grizzled. Indeed, the view
here is quaint and pretty, and recalls a bit of the Scheldt; especially
in the time of the old wooden bridge, kept together with clamps and bits
of framing, with the high hunchback look we see on the bridges over the
Rhine.
We now pass from the genuine antique to its imitations, and reach the
curious cluster of modern-old houses to which the new Embankment has
furnished ground. Some are bold and effective, and the whole group,
which has gradually extended down the Embankment for a long distance, is
worth a special visit. They bear quaint names, such as the Old Swan
House, the White House, Carlyle House, Shelley House, River View, and
the like. Farnely House and its neighbours are good imposing monuments
of brick. Shelley House, with its attached theatre, is in an adjoining
street. This place of “amusement” brought its owner endless annoyance
and expense--a lawsuit finished it, and now it stands unused. The house
with the curious white bow windows, set in something that looks like the
stern of an old man-of-war, will attract attention; we should note the
“Clock House” with its handsome dial projecting; likewise the house at
the corner, with its elaborate _grilles_ over most of the windows. But
turning down Tite Street--Mr. Tite was an eminent architect of a few
years back, now of course almost forgotten--we come to the White House,
a curious, quaint structure, stiff as an American’s dress-coat about the
shoulders, which is, or was, the dwelling of a well-known American
artist, celebrated for his “nocturnes in green” and “symphonies in
blue,” which caused jesters such merriment, to say nothing of his
Peacock Chamber, one of those two, or nine days’ wonders which furnish
society with something to talk of.
In the little square or tongue of ground near Cheyne Row will be noticed
an elaborate lamp, supported by contorted boys. This was one of the
rejected patterns for the series that was to decorate the Embankment.
The one chosen consists of contorted dolphins, and is not very
effective.
At Vauxhall Bridge we come to a curious conceit, that would have
“arrided”--Lamb’s word--the heart of Dickens. Here is a large yard
devoted to the sale of ship timber, for which old vessels of
course are bought and broken up. But there remain always the old
figure-heads--strange, curious, gigantic efforts, that make one wonder
what manner of man the designer was. Nor are they without merit or
spirit. They rise towering with a strange stark air, and look over the
wall with much of the dazed astonishment the animals showed in Charles
Lamb’s copy of Stackhouse’s Bible. Here are Dukes of York with a fatuous
expression, the Janet Simpson, or Lady Smith, and Iron Dukes--all, it
must be said, wrought rather vigorously, and looking with eternal
solemnity over the wall, each some six or eight feet high, to the
surprise of the stranger. The natives are familiar with them.
Turning up from the Embankment, we pass a very antique row of houses,
Paradise Walk, with its heavy-browed eaves, grimed, tiled roofs and
little gardens in front, a general decay over all. This curious range of
buildings, which is in Wren’s style, is worth a few moments’ inspection,
especially the one with the effective bit of old iron gateway; as well
as the strange institution which forms the last house, entitled “The
School of Discipline,” which, it seems, has been flourishing--for it
would not have endured over sixty years otherwise--since 1825. It was
founded by the worthy Elizabeth Fry for the training of servant girls.
What the “discipline” is, what the school, are things not generally
known. It was hard by here that a few years ago a ghastly bit of
sensation engaged the attention of the penny papers and their special
reporters, who invaded these sleepy precincts. Two young men arriving
from the country, flush of money, took up their abode in some
disreputable house, where they revelled for a week till their resources
were exhausted, when both attempted suicide, one succeeding. It proved
that they had embezzled the moneys of their employer, and then fled to
London, burying themselves in this obscure region, where they escaped
detection. Further on we reach the green in front of the Hospital. This
must have had a fine effect when the Hospital could only be seen from
the bottom of this great expanse; but now the high road has been
ruthlessly cut across it, with no effect but that of convenience. The
old overhanging public-house, the “Duke of York,” is curious, and gives
the _locale_ a sort of rural air. But this, indeed, is shared by the
King’s Road, which has a sort of special country-town air, as distinct
as what merry Islington offers. This is the scene of Wilkie’s famous
picture of the Chelsea veterans receiving the news of the Waterloo
victory. There is an air of retired and retiring simplicity in the shops
and little by-streets.
The quaint “physick” gardens belonging to the Apothecaries--a
benefaction of Sir Hans Sloane--will next attract the eye, if only by
the magnificent old yew which rises grim and sepulchral in the centre.
Whether the apothecaries walk in this piece of ground and peep over the
rails at the passing boats on the river is uncertain--they surely do not
“cull simples,” for they can buy them cheaper than grow them. But it is
a pleasing inclosure--a surprise, considering its position--suited to
calm tranquillity and meditation.