CHISWICK, KEW, RICHMOND, AND THEIR SUBURBS.
This little town, or village, of Chiswick is charming in every way, from
its church and pretty churchyard and its situation between river and
road. The walks hard by have the sylvan air of green lanes. There is the
“Mall,” and Chiswick Lane, up which as you glance from the river you can
see the little red-rusted terrace of Queen Anne houses, with its antique
railings and rural surroundings, a row of “pollarded” trees in front.
Facing the church is an old roadside tavern, “The Burlington Arms,” most
quaintly picturesque; and on the other side a fine old detached house
standing in its garden. We are glad to find here one of the old burly
independent and well-built “Manor Houses,” standing by the roadside and
flourishing. These must be comfortable structures to live in, with their
heavy eaves and solid walls, gardens behind and lawns in front. It is in
the occupation of a Chiswick doctor. The churchyard, which has quite the
air of a garden, has many tombs of pretension, and almost a theatrical
tone, from the players and artists who sleep there. Somehow it seems
more particularly associated with Drury Lane Theatre and Garrick, whose
name, with many compliments, is seen here and there. Here are his verses
on Hogarth’s tomb, which was carefully restored some years ago by a
modern Hogarth “of Aberdeen”; the visitor, reading over the much-admired
lines, is invited to “drop a tear.”
Here also is Garrick’s scene painter, De Loutherbourg, who is declared
on his tablet to be the equal of the greatest masters who are named,
which is certainly praise too extravagant. Not far off is Holland,
another Drury Lane performer, whom Foote saw laid here in what he
coarsely called “the family oven,” his father being a baker.
Following the pretty high road, a little farther on we come to a fine
old mansion, standing back from the road in a sort of open square,
flanked by two rows of low houses of the pattern seen in a cathedral
close, a sort of thick shrubbery filling up the centre. This is BOSTON
HOUSE, which has behind and round it a vast and interesting garden that
stretches away towards the river. These beautiful old grounds cover
seven acres, and have noble old trees, notably an immense and spreading
yew which can be seen from the road, with one of the oldest acacias in
England. This has long been a young ladies’ school. The old house
retires shyly from the road, and is flanked or sheltered by a few houses
as old on each side. Thus there is a sort of quaint square in front.
Lately a board was displayed, announcing that the place was for sale,
and still later it was secured--the inevitable fate of such places--for
a charitable institution.
[Illustration: HOGARTH’S HOUSE, CHISWICK.]
As we trudge along the high road we approach an object that should have
extraordinary interest for the artistic mind. A high wall runs along the
path. Within it is to be seen a much-dilapidated old house, its shoulder
turned to the road, and which, like many a dilapidated old person, has
the air of having seen better days. Its squalor is so marked, windows
shattered and patched like an Irish shanty, that we wonder at finding
such a spectacle on a country road. There are children as squalid, and a
general air of discomfort. This is Hogarth’s old home. “Hogarth House”
it is called, which he purchased about 1750, when he had grown
prosperous, and whence he used to drive into town in his carriage. The
good old red brick seems sound enough, and I fancy it would not be
difficult to restore and repair. It is surprising that some artist or
_littérateur_ does not purchase it, as it could be secured no doubt “for
a song”; and there would be the additional gratification of earning
public gratitude. One “fine morning” it will be found that it has been
swept away, and a row of “Hogarth Villas” erected in its stead. Indeed,
a week or so ago a warning voice--to which no one will attend--sounded a
call that it was tumbling into ruin.
Beside the river runs a wall which encloses the grounds and gardens of
Chiswick House, the Duke of Devonshire’s villa, a classical structure,
built by that nobleman of elegant taste--Lord Burlington, whose work is
to be seen not only in London, but at York and other places. His
buildings all exhibit this character, and are effective. This Italian
villa, with the cupola to its octagon room rising over the pillared
pediment, is in his best style. Not far away on the roadside is another
villa, with an ambitious portico and pillars which may have been
designed by the same amateur. It would be a surprise now-a-days to find
a nobleman designing houses.
Kew, hackneyed and “cockneyfied” as it is, offers charms of its own that
do not stale by custom as we approach it by the river bank; it seems to
breathe a tone of soft and even melancholy tranquillity. The
beautifully-designed grey bridge, with its gracefully-curved gentle
ascent and descent, seems to suit the umbrageous shore on the Richmond
side. It should be noted that few rivers have been so fortunate in their
bridges as the silvery Thames. They are always graceful, and harmonize
with the banks, particularly those of Richmond, Henley, Kew, and many
more. There is a little Mall at Kew, as there is at Mortlake, formed of
stunted, narrow, and old-fashioned houses. The Green at Kew,
notwithstanding the tea-houses and tea-gardens and the “touting” notices
at the gates, has a truly _rococo_ and rural air which it is not likely
to lose. The cheerful white posts, the church perched down in the
middle, the old houses round, the grim, forlorn palace and the cheerful
trams, all add to the effect. There is a fine and imposing old house on
the right as you face the gardens, which was no doubt one of those
occupied by the young Princes during the unhappy residence of George
III. Opposite is the porch and ancient dependencies of the palace, so
lately tenanted by the “old Duchess of Cambridge.” The air seems thick
with the memories of the terrible days when the king was seized with
madness, and the London road was alive with the carriages of ministers
and physicians constantly posting down.
Of Richmond it is hard to tire, and it happily still retains its air of
old fashion. The town itself, in spite of many changes and new shops,
has an old, drowsy, and quaint air. Only a few years ago there stood
close by the railway a terrace of Queen Anne houses, of the brightest,
cheerfullest red and whose white doorways were miracles of elaborate
carving. They are gone now. As you walk up the street it is always
pleasant to think of the little bye lanes and twisting alleys that can
lead you on at any moment to the spacious Richmond Green, which, as it
were, accompanies the town on its way. I like to see Billett’s
confection shop, where are the only true and genuine “maid of honour”
cakes--excellent, special things, in their way. Billett’s shop in the
early times seemed an awe-inspiring place, and a palace of dainties.
There is an old-fashioned “cut” about the shop itself; and there was a
pleasant quaintness in this recent protest of the proprietor, and his
honest sensitiveness about his cake:--
“SIR,--The writer of your admirable article on ‘Richmond Park and
Town’ observes that ‘The pastrycook’s shop seems to have wandered a
little away from its old locality, and it may be that its genealogy
is doubtful.’ I would simply say that the business has been in the
hands of the present family for over fifty years, and that the
‘maids of honour’ have been sold at this same shop for nearly 200
years. The house itself is about 300 years old. In conclusion I may
add that the pastry has, I hope, lost nothing of its traditional
flavour since the days when it is on record that £1,000 was paid
for the secret of how to prepare them. The same sum of money has
since been paid for the recipe.
“Yours truly,
“J. T. BILLETT, JUN., the Proprietor.
“Richmond, June 8th.”
To celebrate the recent jubilee, Billett gave away an extra “maid of
honour” for every dozen purchased.
Years ago, in boyhood’s happy hours, Richmond seemed a very imposing
place to live in. There was a regular society of great and small
personages. There were lady patronesses, and people used to come all the
way from town for “our annual Richmond ball,” always given at the Castle
Hotel, that seemed then, with its fine river terrace and gardens and
ball-room, a most stately and awe-striking hostelry. Now it seems a
poorish place enough, and has lain unlet and abandoned for the last
twenty years. What music and fiddling and dancing was there! What barges
coming down in the season laden with cheerful company! There is
certainly a pleasing _rococo_ tone, recalling the old-fashioned flavour,
which has not yet departed. The rows of genial red Queen Anne houses
ranged round the common have even now a tranquil air--their tints are
mellowed by age--and they have architectural effect which contrasts as
effectively with the rows of the modern buildings as an elegant, faded
old lady does with some flaunting miss. The mixture of hue on these old
commons ever pleases; the green--even the white rails--the sleepy
tranquillity, the old-fashioned people who doze away life. There was a
colony that included Maria Edgeworth’s brother, a genial old man, who
gave parties; and I recall the great convulsion arising out of the
dispute between rector and curate. Richmond was rent into factions, but
the curate, weaker vessel, was driven out. He came round in a cab, and
bid adieu to all the friends who had stood by him in his trial, which
was thought very graceful of him.
[Illustration: MAID OF HONOUR ROW, RICHMOND.]
The Green is one of the most piquant of Greens, from its delightful,
straggling air. To look at the terrace that juts forward
prominently--pleasantly named MAID OF HONOUR ROW--is exhilarating from
the gaiety and brilliancy of the houses. Never was brick so rubicund, or
sashes and railings so brilliantly white. The Maids would have been in
spirits here. The design is capital, and the carving and ironwork all
match. Would there were more! But there are other old houses of merit
dotted about, while a little alley will lead you, by surprise, into the
main street. But the Green seems to have lost its genuine air of old
fashion since the day--some years ago--the old Richmond Theatre, that
filled in the far corner, was removed. It was reputed the oldest theatre
in the kingdom, and there, in that very tier of boxes, had the King,
George III., often sat and enjoyed the play, having driven over from
Kew. There was something particularly quaint and picturesque in this
cluster of buildings. You ascended the stairs _outside_ the theatre,
under a raised shed.
The curious old playhouse seemed to be exactly what should be found on
such a common. It recalled the old theatre at Tunbridge Wells which gave
on the Pantiles. It almost revived one of Dickens’s theatres, such as
Crummles might have managed, for then it was really a picturesque thing,
with stairs mounting outside, right and left to the boxes, while you
descended into a sort of well to reach the pit. Attached to it, and
growing out of it, was a sort of hexagonal dwelling-house, with a tree
planted by Queen Elizabeth, so the legend runs. There was something of
the old fashion of a weather-beaten three-decker in the look of the
place: it was a genuine thing--had the genuine flavour. Since then
someone plastered it over and modernized it, but the old balustrades and
stairs outside were left. This venerable tabernacle had a fitful time,
being on the whole more closed than open. It nodded and dozed through
the rest of the year. What excitement when it was to be opened for two
nights only, with _The Green Bushes_, a delightful entertaining piece,
and _so_ romantic--in the suburbs, and in “boyhood’s hour”! Occasionally
a company of London amateurs took it for one night, playing _London
Assurance_, having friends on the Green; then all old ladies and old
maids made an exertion, and the fly was sure to be ordered the night
before.
At another corner of the Green is the old Sheen Palace, with its fine
old archway, under which you pass, its indistinct blazonry and hexagonal
towers. This genuine fragment has been judiciously restored, and
fashioned into a snug dwelling-house, which secures its existence.
On the river’s bank, just as we turn down to the bridge, where there is
one of the most beautiful and exhilarating views of the river, we come
to a remarkable old house, a fine specimen of Georgian brickwork. This
imperishable-looking, rubicund structure is known as the Trumpeter
House, from two curious figures placed in front. It is in a sequestered
corner of its own, and might be built of iron, so firm and hard is it,
defying time and damp. Behind is its old-fashioned sward, with curious
old trees, a cedar of Lebanon, trimmed hedges, and sunk fences
stretching down to the river walk, to which, too, it displays an
imposing, snowy portico and pillars on a background of cheerful red.
This must be one of the best specimens of brickwork in the land. Old
Richmond is full of suggestions and old associations. There is a tablet
to Kean’s memory affixed to the old church. There is Mrs. Pritchard’s
house, Sir Joshua’s, Thomson’s the poet, and many more. In the middle of
the town we come upon a friendly sign-post, directing us in all
directions--a hospitable custom adopted in all these places, such as
Twickenham, Kingston, etc.
On a pleasant road, not far from the station, we pass a fine, portly,
red-brick mansion, well known as Miss Braddon’s (Mrs. Maxwell), which is
notable for still preserving the quaintly-formed long garden, or alley,
with a summer-house at the end, as if for bowls.
Isleworth, a charming suburb for the suburban Richmond, looks very
pleasing and picturesque from the opposite side of the river: here you
can see our long-lost Charing Cross Lion, who, as many think, was carted
away into space, or “shot” somewhere into the river. But there he
stands, defiant as ever, on Sion House--another of his ancestral
homes--associated, too, with charming Sunday walks by the river, say
from Kew to Richmond, where the ineffable _softness_ of the stream on
some balmy sunny day is best perceived. Hard by Isleworth is an enclosed
house and grounds--an antique villa a couple of centuries old, well
known as belonging to a sterling veteran actor long associated with the
old Haymarket. In this charming inclosure he has dwelt for many years,
and by assiduous but enjoyable toil created a garden with winding walks
and labyrinths, having a picturesque old yew as something to begin with.
On one enjoyable riverside Sunday I made my way down, having been often
bidden, and here I was welcomed by one of the best specimens the
profession can offer. Grateful is that bit of green-sward--like
velvet--the table set out near the overshadowing yew, the old porch at
home, the world and its hum shut out by the enclosing wall. This is the
home of the veteran Howe--a link with the rare old Haymarket days.
Taking our way up Richmond Hill--noting the still rustic, pleasingly old
fashioned air of the houses and villas as we ascend--we shall, of
course, pause to enjoy the oft-celebrated, ever-admired view, if a
proper day. It has a charm that cannot be surpassed, notably the silver
glistening of the riband that winds away below. It is only when you live
in the place that you learn the nature of the charm.
Before reaching Kingston we pass through Norbiton, where we welcome,
close to the roadside, the unwonted music of the rooks, now too rarely
heard. We can see their nests high in the tall trees, and then one or
two quaint “demesne houses,” quite in keeping with the rooks.
It is likely that there are many who have never explored old Kingston
town, and assume that it is of the same pattern as Kew or Putney. It is
a curiously attractive and original place enough, and its market-place
might be that of some old country town a hundred miles away. Here are
plenty of framed and gabled houses overhanging the street, and combined
together with a really pleasing variety. The number of old inns here
clustered is truly extraordinary--The Wheatsheaf, The Sun, The Ram, The
Griffin, a former great posting-house, with its archway and huge yard;
and even the Assembly Rooms, still in vogue. The Market House is
modern, but harmonizes pleasantly; there is a monumental
drinking-fountain, and a mysterious old stone, known as “the coronation
stone,” fenced carefully round. There is the old church and its
churchyard just touching the street. One Sunday morning, when I was
wandering here, there came across the old Market Place a small
procession, the town clerk leading, his fellows behind, one bearing a
mace, and behind the _Mayor!_ in his gown, for the little town boasts
this privilege. They were making for the church; and the whole had a
quaint air.
The Thames here is charming, and beside it are well-framed fishing inns,
such as “The Anglers,” with names of the hosts that seem appropriate--by
“J. Silver,” and the stranger “Everproud.” There is the silvery-looking
bridge close by, with its graceful, hilly curve.
Another of these Thames-side towns, one that interests with an ancient
quaintness, is the pleasant Teddington. How charming is that walk from
Richmond, by Twickenham, by the old-fashioned though fast modernizing
Strawberry Hill, Teddington, Kingston, until we reach Hampton Court! The
old High Street, Teddington, is really but little altered from the days
of Peg Woffington, who died there. There are many old and curious
houses, and inns as old, one kept by “Cornhill”--odd name! But at the
far end of the town, at the opening “turn,” we come upon the row of
three antique houses, well rusted, and with many well-leaded windows and
having an air of sleeping tranquillity. They are well overgrown with
creeping plants and are labelled “Mrs. Margaret Woffington’s Cottages,”
and are in fact the almshouses founded by the wayward, eccentric being
when she became “good.” They were built out of the money left to her by
“Old Sweny,” the manager, to inherit which she had to conform to the
established religion. New almshouses, however, have been built in
another quarter of the town, and the old ones are let out to the
inhabitants. Here is one of the most charming and picturesque old
churches in the country, of a most rural and attractive kind, “standing
in its own grounds” as it were, a garden-like churchyard, where, to use
Sir Lucius’s description, “there is snug lying,” or the snuggest lying.
The old church is very low, has its red-tiled, well-rusted roof bending
in the most sinuous lines, with a quaint little lantern, and double
aisles. Teddington Church, it need not be said, is figured in many a
picture and has often done duty in a Christmas number, with the
parishioners walking through the snow, or the ringers “ringing the old
year out at midnight.”
Nothing is more welcome than the contrast between the ever-varying
glimpses of the turns and windings of the river, as revealed either at
Putney, Hammersmith, Kew, Richmond, or Hampton Court. At Putney it
assumes a sad, Dutch-like aspect: it is straight, and wide, and bare. At
Kew, as we look upwards, it has an umbrageous tone: the banks are well
wooded. At Richmond there is a beautiful and sylvan grace, like a
charmingly-painted scene in an opera; while at Hampton Court there is
something not only graceful, but original, varied, and animated.
Hackneyed as Hampton Court is--overdone and invaded by the crowds of
holiday folk on a Sunday--its graces never seem to pall on the visitor.
We pass from the station to the ugly iron bridge, and get our first
glimpse of the tranquil “glistening” river that winds away right and
left, truly “silver” in its surface, like a stream that wanders through
some daintily-kept _plaisaunce_ or ornamented grounds; while beyond is
seen, amid the grove, the mellowed red of the old palace, surely one of
the most interesting piles in England. Nor are the attractions of the
approach by other routes at all lessened. If we arrive from Teddington,
coming from Strawberry Hill, we find a beautiful sylvan and
health-giving promenade. Then comes the wall enclosing Bushey Park, the
famous avenue of chestnut trees, and the “round point,” with its
circular sheet of water.
The little town itself is rural enough, with its comfortable-looking
hotels, old-fashioned if not old, and the busy scene before
them--waggonettes, carts, carriages drawn up, horses “baiting” within,
and huge crowds clustered round the handsome, well-ornamented gateways.
Within are the beautiful old gardens and the winding avenue which lead
on to the wonderful Palace and its grounds--that clustering of great
brick courtyards and towers very little touched and “improved” by the
restorers.
How imposing is the long and stately façade that looks across the
gardens to Bushey! So solid and yet so rich in its decoration and stone
dressings. This is one of Wren’s most successful works; so varied and
original in its treatment. With all our fantastical modern freaks, no
one seems to have caught or adapted this style, the florid circular
windows particularly. How curious is it to look at the old tennis court,
where the King’s nobles and gentlemen played the game--a solemn,
mournful place of recreation now. The courtyard within and fine
colonnade--how fine and dignified! The florid embroidery in stone-work
seems exactly to suit the cheerful, sunshiny brick. A walk in these wide
_loggias_ on a wet day would be a welcome diversion. Within are the
superb suites of rooms allotted to favoured _protégées_ by the grace of
the Crown: but few could form an idea of the great accommodation. On one
“flat” alone, enjoyed by a single family, there are seventeen or
eighteen rooms. The grand staircases at the side that lead up to these
suites, and ascend to the roof almost, are pointed out as instances of
Wren’s ingenuity. He wished to make the ascent as easy as possible. They
were placed therefore in long low slopes, each containing a vast number
of steps.
From this court we pass into the portion built by Wolsey, which is the
most charming and interesting of the whole. Here, too, we must admire
the grace of the architecture, the beautiful proportions of the
gate-towers, and the tone of the old brick, softened into a ripe creamy
pink. Very little has been altered or renewed, everything is as Henry
and Wolsey saw it--the extraordinary florid old clock, and the effective
and vigorous terra-cotta heads of Roman Emperors fitted into the
brickwork with forcible effect. They were a present from the Pope of the
time.
The great banqueting hall is an imposing work, with its noble open roof
and vast proportions. But these things are really not to be appreciated
on a visit--when we stare and have to pass to some other part of the
“show,” where we stare again. In visiting old towns and old cathedrals
we should reside, and let the spirit of the place grow, or steal
gradually upon us. When a feeling of companionship arises we get
familiar, and find ourselves looking on it again and again. But with
short and hurried glances little is really gathered--we have seen, but
not known.
It will be noted that what we have been considering is not the hackneyed
or popular view, which consists in following the lazy herd as it
promenades wearily from room to room--the king and queen’s chambers--or
the waste of innumerable pictures, including the Hampton Court beauties
and the Field of the Cloth of Gold and other notable “curios.” There is
of course entertainment in this, but the real attraction is in the place
itself, where we might wander for days.
Now taking a flight in a totally opposite direction we light on the
riverside at Greenwich; familiar enough, “the Ship,” or whitebait
district at least. But as we leave the town behind and ascend the steep
Croom’s Hill, we come upon many a pretty bit, and on plenty of sound old
houses. Halfway up we note a curious garden pavilion of true Jacobean
design, such as is found in old English gardens, like those of
Stonyhurst. It is of elegant design, with open arches at the side and
well-proportioned mouldings. Within, the ceiling is richly stuccoed
round a circular panel, intended to hold a painting, but now the whole
is decayed and gone to ruin. On a summer’s evening the owners of the
garden could sit here and overlook the road as well as the gambols in
Greenwich Park. There is the legible date on it, 1675. It must have been
connected with some stately mansion in whose gardens it was situated,
but now swept away.
A little higher up, and next the pretty Catholic chapel, is a genuine
old mansion, of rather Renaissance design, all white-washed over and
sadly mauled, older than the usual Queen Anne ones. It is a pity that
such are not carefully restored by some wealthy citizen, for they would
be effective. On the other side of the chapel is a fine specimen of old
red brick, shining as a pippin, and even sounder than on the day it was
built. Still higher up on the hill, and peeping over an inclosure, is a
fine steep-roofed old house in its garden, its face turned to the park,
its back, which we confront, overgrown. This mixture of green and red
with the more delicate tint of the shingle roof makes a cheerful
combination. There are many old houses perched down in a delightfully
irregular fashion here and there on the side of the hill, each with its
trees and inclosure making a settlement for itself. Most have a history
of some sort--notable persons having resided in them. At the top, facing
the open country, the Blackheath valley lying below, we come to the
Ranger’s House, of rubicund brick and pleasing design, but disfigured by
a covered passage to the gate. This was the late Duke of Albany’s
residence, and long before his time was the mansion of the stout,
coarse, and much-outraged Princess Caroline of Wales, about the time of
“the Book” and other disgraces. As I often stand before it, and knowing
her history well, the image of the high jinks that used to reign here
rises before me, the Opposition ministers, Percivals, Gilbert Elliots,
etc., travelling down to dine, and have what were very like games of
romps in the gardens behind. In the same line of road is a fine old
crusted mansion of some pretension, with solemn antique grounds behind,
and a compact, snug, and reverent air.
Farther away from town are found other attractive spots--in the way of
surprises--with much that is curious and original. As specimens of this
kind of voyage of discovery might be suggested Edmonton, Enfield,
Eltham, or Croydon. We need not dwell on the unsophisticated and rural
character of these hamlets and towns, the fine invigorating air that
sweeps along the high roads, the sense of cheerful exhilaration. In
themselves the old coaching roads are full of interest.
Eltham is a pleasant, inviting, and novel sort of place, with a fair
open country about it, breezy pastures and fine old trees spreading
away. In many of these distant suburbs, as they may almost be called,
there is this park-like wooded look, as though we were in the heart of
some rich country. Antique houses line the roadside--there are few new
ones. Searching out the old Palace, we are struck with the “rurality” of
the road, the row of fine old trees which line it, which was once an
avenue. One could hardly find more remarkable houses outside a Christmas
number. Those we see here are high-roofed and long-windowed--with the
old panes--which must at least be as old as Elizabeth. Each has its
gardens round it, and looks snug and comfortable. Here is an old
“moated” house, the water running lazily below--for the road is a
bridge--actually round the foundations. To this mansion much has been
done by way of restoration. Coming to the Palace, it is delightful to
meet with the elegant and original banqueting hall, ruined fragment as
it is. It suggests the equally interesting Crosby Hall in the City, and
there is a bay or oriel window of the same character. We know the
pattern, the wall running up for a dozen feet or so where the
Perpendicular windows begin. There is a peculiar charm about this style,
something graceful and satisfactory.
But would we recreate ourselves with some of the finest specimens of old
brick, we must go yet further afield. Let us repair to Tottenham, that
is, beyond the town, at the point where the road turns off to Enfield.
There the country is charmingly old-fashioned, the air delicious, the
route has the look of a coach road, with its great flourishing trees.
Here are the fine Anne or Georgian houses, plum-coloured almost,
untouched and sound as on the day they were built. The doorways are well
carved. More remarkable is the sort of Manor House in its grounds,
known, I think, as the “Lion House,” from the spiritedly carved lions
which adorn the gate-posts.
If we walk on to Enfield and Edmonton, we shall be yet more gratified.
Enfield is really remarkable for the variety of its mansions. As we walk
along the pretty high road, oddly called Baker Street, we come upon many
mansions in large expanses of grounds, and enclosed within walls, but
their fine iron gates allow a satisfactory view. “Lovers of Queen Anne
architecture,” says a good authority, “will do well to study here.” Some
of these houses are perfect pictures--such as artists revel in and
portray for the Exhibitions. They are perfect surprises from their
old-world air, everything being in harmony. One is known as Enfield
Court, which contains “quaint specimens of brickwork and a fine terraced
garden, with clipped yews.” There is an old Hall for the admirers of
Inigo Jones.
Indeed, the various places of this kind which are within easy reach of
London offer extraordinary and unsuspected entertainment.
But of all these suburban places, perhaps the hackneyed Hampstead and
Highgate offer an unfailing attraction. Nothing is more remarkable than
the change from the dull heavy London atmosphere below to the keen,
inspiring, vigorous air on these northern heights, which is palpable and
felt at once as we ascend. In spite of the “demolitions” that meet us as
we climb Hampstead High Street, the place still seems to retain its
old-fashioned, quaintly-pleasing features; its alleys and lanes straggle
and wind and turn with delightfully-picturesque effect; a row of
venerable trees will line a raised path beside an old wall, while houses
and short terraces of the true Hampstead pattern, odd, square, and
cheerful, abound. Retired corners, shady lanes, small gardens enclosed
within ancient walls, old lanterns, these are everywhere. No wonder
artists covet these old tenements, and, it is said, give fancy prices
for them. Winter and summer bring an equal, though varied, charm to the
place. In winter there is a pleasant air of shelter and retreat; in
summer umbrageous shade. Nothing can be more artfully arranged with a
view to picturesque effect than the mixture of houses and general
rusticity; it is country and town blended in the most pleasing fashion.
The old gnarled trees rise on high paths overhanging the road, and over
the walls behind peep
[Illustration: CHURCH ROW, HAMPSTEAD.]
the cheerful red dormer windows of some quaint Georgian mansion--“The
Grove,” or Grove House. As we wander through the place the impression is
always the same, a pleasing, old-fashioned tranquillity, the alleys
winding irregularly, little shaded corners and open places. And then the
memory of Clarissa--most pathetic of heroines, and her painful, sad
story--too painful almost to read. It used to be said that Frenchmen
were found here asking to be shown “The Flask Inn,” where the persecuted
maid took refuge. There is, or used to be, a Flask Inn in Flask Walk,
and there is another ancient “Flask,” most picturesque, at Highgate. But
the original, genuine Inn might escape the curious. It will be found on
the breezy summit of the Heath, at the corner of Heath Street, and
facing the reservoir. It is now a private mansion standing in a spacious
garden.
On the other side of Hampstead there is the attractive Church Row, a
unique range of “Queen Anne” houses, through whose windows can be seen
glimpses of waving trees and shrubs in the gardens behind. The bottom of
the little street is closed by the church, with its quaint, copper
spire--not older than the last century, but old enough to harmonize
fairly. Round it spreads away its rural churchyard, with paths across
it.
One of the most delightful walks, familiar enough to Londoners, is that
from the breezy summit of the Heath round to Highgate. Here stands the
old inn, Jack Straw’s Castle, to which Dickens and his trusty friend
Forster used to ride out on some “shoemakers’ holiday,” halting to
regale themselves on a chop after their labour of the week. At this old
hostelry we have stayed for a week or so, in snug quarters. There was a
certain piquancy and originality in the situation; it was “so near and
yet so far” from town. The ceaseless halting at the door of the
innumerable travellers’ vehicles was curious to note. No one seemed to
have power to resist the attraction. The fine old, solid mansion beside
it, with its garden, seemed enviable.
A quarter of a mile further on we come to that truly Pickwickian inn,
“The Spaniards,” where Mrs. Bardell was arrested: a charmingly
old-fashioned, rural house, with its tea gardens. We never pass it
without calling up the scene--the hackney coach waiting at the gate,
Mrs. B. and her friends at one of the little tables, and Mr. Jackson
entering with his assistant. In catching this local flavour the novelist
was unrivalled. It is difficult to describe the particular charm of a
walk through a country district, but this to Highgate is unrivalled.
How inviting too, and antique, is the town! The group of old red-brick
houses at the top--some detached, with gardens as old--all are inviting.
Here are some quaint inns--one curious one, with the remains of the
“pike,” where persons coming to London were “sworn,” a pair of horns
being brought out to add effect to the ceremony. It was here that an
innkeeper stepped the horses of her present Majesty, and was allowed to
display the Royal Arms as his sign, with a commemorative inscription. On
the descent are some fine old country seats, mansions with grounds well
wooded and park-like. Most of these are being gradually absorbed by
charitable or religious institutions, which might seem at first sight a
guarantee for their preservation. But, alas! as the institution begins
to flourish, the old mansion is certain to be taken down and rebuilt.
One fine old place is in the hands of a religious order which has just
completed an imposing Byzantine temple, whose Eastern cupola is a
landmark.
There are districts more familiar and of minor importance which are yet
well worth exploring. Such are the inviting green lanes round Barnes
Common and Roehampton; and on the roadside of the latter place we pass
by what is perhaps the finest specimen of the old brick mansion near
London. This brilliant, genial, _riant_ bit of brick is worthy the
notice of our modern architects in that material--the novelty and
stateliness of the design, the combination of stone dressings with the
brick, being worthy of Wren himself. This is Roehampton House, Lord
Leven’s mansion.
The hackneyed Clapham even has attractions of its own in many a fine,
old, well-preserved house and grounds, in that capital, serviceable
style of architecture which was fashionable about a century ago--a
well-designed central block of yellow brick with a high roof and two
wings, to which it was united by a short colonnade. In front was a small
circular lawn, protected by a sort of fence. Old trees filled in the
back and flanks. This combination was highly effective. On one side of
the common is a charming and original Queen Anne terrace, Church Row,
which we have noted before--every house panelled, old gates of twisted
iron, flights of steps and carved doorways.
There is surely no air so keen and bracing as that which sweeps with
such vigour across the fine open common of Blackheath. The houses that
fringe the common have a quaint air of old fashion, somewhat sad
coloured and of that dull “gamboge” tint which Elia spoke of, but they
have a good snug appearance. Such is “Montpelier Terrace,” and “The
Paragon,” which must have been considered a great effort in their day.
The Paragon is a semicircular row of “desirable” mansions, built with
some state and pretension--the pattern for a “Paragon” being usually two
semi-detached houses joined by a low colonnade--while in front there is
an oval inclosure. There are Paragons in most of the suburbs--as at
Streatham--and one close to London, in the Kent Road, a dispiriting and
decayed place.
Close by the Paragon, and on the gentle descent that leads down into the
little town of Blackheath, is a clump of umbrageous planting, with a
little iron gate opening into pretty and well-sheltered grounds.
Entering, for it is open to all, a walk leads us up to what is something
of a surprise. Here we are confronted by a fine solid building of the
Wren pattern, high roofed, deep gabled, and red bricked. Its many
windows are set off with deep green “jalousies,” and in the middle there
is a pediment and pavilion with the two statues of the founder and
foundress, standing side by side, in their old-fashioned dress; below
are carved flourishings and graceful garlands of stone flowers, with a
deep and spreading archway, through which we see the interior of a
square. This is Morden College, a retreat founded for reduced or
comparatively genteel persons. The archway is lined with oak panelling
and long oaken benches, acceptable in the summer, where the collegians
mostly sit and gossip, and perhaps smoke. Within the square a pretty
colonnade runs all round, convenient for pleasant walking in wet
weather. There is the old sundial looking down, and a quaint clock-tower
with a bell, lantern, and weather-cock. Altogether a drowsy, picturesque
old place, dating from 1675. Few would suspect even the existence of
this sequestered and interesting place, which is absolutely hidden in
its umbrageous shelter. There is a dreamy poetical air over it, and
though fully tenanted it seems a perfect solitude--occasionally a
“collegian” may flit across the court. A chapel is on one side of the
archway: on a Sunday, opening the door gently, you will see all the
collegians assembled. The building itself, which seems sound, has
mellowed with time into an harmonious red.
[Illustration: Old Richmond Theatre.]