PUTNEY--FULHAM.
The first glimpse of the river at Putney Bridge seems always new, with a
never-failing charm. Indeed, all these clusterings on the river where a
bridge crosses--Putney and Hammersmith--have for the Londoner walking
out, say of a Sunday, an air of picturesque old fashion. The bridges at
Kew and Richmond, with their graceful ascent and elegant arches,
harmonize delightfully, and their tone and colour and delicate greys
contrast with the green of the foliage and the patches of red brick. It
is curious to note the two church towers at Fulham and Putney, which
rise so picturesquely at each end of the bridge. The old Putney wooden
bridge, with its piles and zigzag bulwarks, has been swept away.
The fine new stone bridge is a great and much-desired convenience, but
the sentimentalist will lament its crazy wooden predecessor, rising so
steeply and propped on angular wooden cages that were patched and
repaired over and over again. This was dear to artists and etchers. The
best portion was the gloomy old “Toll House,” with its antique roof of a
Nuremberg pattern, grimed and shadowy. This was so suggestive of mystery
and romance that in the days of realistic dramas, like the “Streets of
London,” it was taken into a “sensation” piece. On the hoardings was a
huge coloured picture, representing the structure by moonlight, with
some such heading as--“THE MURDER--THE OLD TOLL HOUSE, PUTNEY!!”[28]
On the Fulham side there are a few antique houses with gardens and iron
gates, and one which is clearly the work of Vanbrugh, from its heavy
gate-porch. There is a little “Georgian” terrace of old-fashioned houses
with gardens in front on the left, leading to the church, next to which
stands the vicarage house and school. Here is a charming old churchyard
with a public path through it. The church itself has been restored in
“spick and span” fashion, but in the porch we are faced by a florid and
truly gigantic mural tablet, which covers the whole wall, in memory of
one Elizabeth
[Illustration: OLD PUTNEY BRIDGE.]
Timpany. This curious work of art is worth looking at, as well as the
strange monument to Lord Peterborough within--apparently a
field-marshal, standing on a pedestal, with two smaller pillars beside
him, on one of which is laid carelessly his gauntlets, on the other,
parts of his martial gear. In this verdant churchyard lie many Bishops
of London--their palace is close by--with Lord Ranelagh, who has a
massive granite monument erected by his regiment--and also Theodore
Hook, of facetious memory.
Passing out of the churchyard to the river-side we come to the
well-known “Bishop’s Walk,” a raised causeway that runs beside the moat
which encloses the palace. This pleasing path, which commands the
grounds, is the playground of boys, but is not without its dangers.
There used to be a notice: “This path is dangerous.” “Whether the danger
arises from the episcopal cows which graze peacefully on the
water-meadows adjacent, and, with their sleek coats and calm, sleepy
eyes, seem as little mischievous as possible, or from more occult
sources of peril, it is not easy to determine. But a passer-by is better
informed: ‘It’s the kids,’ he states succinctly. And it seems that the
children of the neighbourhood ‘snatch a fearful joy’ in fishing for
sticklebacks and newts from the grassy margin of the episcopal moat, and
some have tumbled in and been drowned.”
Nothing strikes us so much as the fine old trees and the numerous yews
which rise sadly and solemnly beside the Bishop’s Palace. The view from
The Walk of the placid, solemn retirement of the grounds, with the
cheerful old red of the house and its tiled roof peeping through the
trees, is very pleasant. The late Samuel Read, who had a charming gift
for catching the spirit of these old houses, and whom a practical
publisher of Christmas numbers once praised as “_the best moated-granger
he knew_,” would have revelled here. Entering by the gate, left open, we
stroll up to the rather grim-looking quadrangle of solemn black and red
brick in a diapered pattern. Nothing can be more pleasing than the still
retirement of the inclosure with its circular and waterless basin in the
centre, and the imposing doorway facing the archway. The windows are
long and diamond-paned, and flush with the wall--lank and
gloomy-looking. There is the picturesque lantern over the hall or
chapel. No one is to be seen. It is scarcely wonderful that Dr. Temple
should be fond of this sequestered place, or should have abandoned and
shut up his town mansion.
If we pursue the river bank we come to Hurlingham, a fine old mansion,
the scene of many a fashionable joust--polo, and the rest. Many a
traveller by the River Thames will have noted the Crab Tree Inn, a
quaint and old--very old--house of entertainment. Indeed there are
numerous old houses, some of historic interest, but rapidly tumbling
into decay: such is old Munster House, at the corner of Munster Road,
which is as awry and contorted with age as an ancient crone is with “the
rheumatics,” behind whose high walls is seen a large stretch of grounds,
solemn nodding yews, and gloomy foliage. Passing on to Parson’s Green we
shall find plenty of fine old houses, architectural even in
style--Duncannon House and others. We may note also Arundel House, by
the road-side, with its quaint grounds and projecting pavilion at the
rear. So many old trees and old gardens are found here that the birds,
as it may be imagined, flourish exceedingly.
For those who love the pure “old fashion,” and the ways of old fashion,
there is nothing more refreshing than a Sunday stroll by these antique
towns and villages. Familiar and “Cockneyfied” as are such places, it is
surprising what picturesque little “bits” will here repay a little quiet
searching. These have often engaged the artist, but the antiquary and
lover of the antique prettiness have not been so diligent. Numbers of
little “corners” and old houses are revealed along these river banks as
we walk. At Battersea, when we turn out of the “speculative builders”
region and enter “Vicarage Road,” with its old house and gate, and
railing of excellent ironwork, we come straight on a sound, solid old
mansion of ripe brick, standing in charming grounds, with a velvet sward
and fine old trees, the river flowing beside--a perfect surprise, for it
has quite a manorial air. There are a number of these old riverside
mansions--retired, snug, and very close to London town, with the air of
being miles away. Some of these have been utilized for fashionable
suburban clubs, just such a one as “BARN ELMS,” of which you have a most
pleasing view as you walk along the river’s bank from Putney to Town.
At Hammersmith, Chiswick, Kew, and a few other places there are terraces
built along the river-side, which bear the name of the MALLS. There is a
quaint _rococo_ tone in these titles; and it is pleasant to fancy
oneself living in some old house on Chiswick or Hammersmith Mall. For
instance, Hammersmith Mall has its row of old trees stooping over the
river; its files of pleasure boats drawn up by the boat-houses; the
Dutch barges, always furnishing colour. There are curious winding lanes
behind houses, and yards which have been allowed to encroach on the
banks and have thus driven back the path, with a small canal and a
bridge across. Across the river will be noticed a row of mellow old
red-brick mansions, snoozing, as it were, in the calm content of a
tranquil old age, with a welcome Flemish air.
Beginning our promenade at Hammersmith, we pause before a fine old
Williamite or Queen Anne mansion, on the right, of a cheerful red--“The
Mall House,” it is called--with a suitable old gate of twisted iron, and
a little lawn in front. In looking at an imposing specimen of this kind
one is ever struck by the admirable proportions, and the mode in which
the windows and doorways are disposed to each other. There is a
grace--and proportion, too--in the two or three steps which, as it were,
unfold themselves with a slight rail on each side, which expand
fan-like, without the unnecessary _spikes_. This old mansion had
originally overhanging eaves, and no doubt a high roof; but some modern
occupant has raised the whole a story, using common yellow brick
instead, with shocking and barbarous effect, and the whole stands an
extraordinary monument of wanton disfigurement; for it would have been
as easy and as cheap to have made the alteration somewhat in harmony. I
never pass this somewhat roughly used mansion without a feeling of
sympathy, if not sorrow.
Further on we arrive at Linden House, a very solid structure of yellow
brick, after a style that was in fashion during the last century, with
wings, bows, and a little belfry--always a pleasing finish--and of an
honest buff. This style is to be found on Clapham and other commons.
Pursuing our walk to Chiswick we find something to interest and please
at every step--the Eyot, the barges again, the genial, tranquil air, and
the old houses with the older gardens, such as Cedar House, with its
spreading trees on the pretty lawn; Walpole House, with its simple gate;
Lingard, or Bedford, House, an imposing solid structure. Here is the
unpretending-looking yard and factories where small steam launches and
such fry are being manufactured by Messrs. Thorneycroft. We turn up
Chiswick Lane, and note, on the left, a row of genteel ancient
houses--infirm, no doubt, and not a little “ratty”--with a row of trim
and pedantic old trees standing sentry in the path in front.