CHAPTER XXVIII.CHELSEA AND FULHAM.

DOORWAY, 70, GROSVENOR STREET.

In the same street there is one charming house, No. 70, of rich, warm, tinted brick; and, though grimed enough, yet still with a dignity of its own. It boasts a graceful doorway, though it suffers from the window next to it being turned into a second door. Another porch in the same street, and worthy of a glance, from its unpretending yet effective grace, is that of No. 73, which iscompact, small, yet deep, with a little carving, which is sufficient; even the lamps lend effect. In Old Burlington Street, at No. 30, is to be found a plain and simple doorway, very singularly effective and well proportioned. The great noblemen’s mansions in Grosvenor Square have all received ponderous portico decorations; but the little doors they shelter betray the original form of entrance. One of the most odious, and at the same time favourite, of these shapes is the conversion of the whole portico into a chamber or box, by which shift a sort of mean hall is gained, but there is no shelter.

In Henrietta Street, Cavendish Square, are to be found some doorways of distinct patterns, examples, also, of architectural merit. They are of stone, and treated as stone should be, with boldness and simplicity. There is a grace in the device—two sprays crossed, a bold head, the arrangement of the lines being in the Renaissance fashion. These meritorious bits of art are Nos. 11 and 12, the latter disfigured by being painted raspberry colour.

Crossing now the line which separates trade from fashion, viz., Oxford Circus, we shall see what doorways are to be found in a promenade Citywards. Off Portland Street, in little-known Mortimer Street, are two notable houses, Nos. 70 and 72. These are treated from top to bottom in a rich style of “embroidery” that recalls some old Bruges house. Sir Paul Pindar’s House is justly admired: but these have almost an equal claim to admiration. There are borders, and “devices,” and ’scutcheons, and a general air of grace and elegance. Like all such tasteful structures, they appear to be in sound condition. What is the history of these two houses? We search in vain the folios of the untiring Smith and his fellows. The doorway of one has a richly-carved, semi-circular border runner, but broken and raised over the centre to admit of a panel decorated with sprays. These attract little attention, and will probably be soon swept away, but they are certainly remarkable enough. Passing into Holborn, and halting not far from the well-known restaurant of that name, we find a curiously retired little street, almost acul de sac, and known as Featherstone Buildings. Here will be seen no less than seventeen richly-carved doorways, each with its canopy and pilasters and deeply-embayed mouldings and recesses, all, too, in excellent preservation. A curious contrast this to the homely character of the owners or lodgers. Next we pass to a better-known street, Great Ormond Street, which had almost a sort of reputation for its ornaments; but, unhappily, the demolisher has been at work of late, and but little is left. There is one elaborate doorway of an imposing sort, that of the office of the Royal Standard Benefit Society, lofty, arched, and supported on columns, a very elaborate and handsome piece of work. Opposite these is one really graceful and beautiful, No. 17, all embroidered, with a sort of lace-work carving down, and well-wrought “ears” supporting the canopy. No. 8 isalso worth attention. Only a few years ago there were several remarkable houses here, notable for their railings, lamps, etc., but they have been levelled.

DOORWAY, PAINTER STAINERS’ HALL.

Passing down to the rear of the new Law Courts, to Carey Street, there was standing a few years ago a very remarkable house that might have been transported from Normandy. There was, indeed, nothingresembling it in London. It was a corner one, with a high wavy roof, bold massive eaves and gables, its upper storey hanging over the street and supported on a pillar. Its doorway was surprisingly elegant, and nothing could exceed the grace and freedom of the carving of the two boys who supported it. But it was carted away, no doubt disposed of as a work of art, and the house was soon after levelled.

EXTINGUISHERS, BERKELEY SQUARE.

Pursuing our rambles as far as Cannon Street, we turn into Laurence Pountney Hill, and there are surprised at the sight of an imposing coupled doorway, treated in a masterly style; the date, 1703, showing us that this style of work was in vogue at the beginning of last century. It will be notedin favour of this sort of work, what a rich variety of treatment has been offered the specimens we have been considering.

Passing yet lower down into Queen Victoria Street, we find among a number of levelled houses that old building known as the Painter Stainers’ Hall, with a pleasing and effective doorway, set off by carving of garlands and flowers, with the shield and arms of the company in the centre. Finally, making our way to College Hill, we find ourselves in front of what is called “Whittington’s House,” which is remarkable for its arched doorway, treated in a florid and original fashion. The circular window over it adds a point and character to the design.

OLD DOORWAY, WHITTINGTON’S HOUSE.

In Hatton Garden there are many doorways of different types. Greciantriangular pediments supported on bold Ionic columns, and forming bold porches. The rusticated style, too, is found here in abundance. Nos. 81 and 102 are worth looking at.

Wandering down the wharves at Lambeth, and hard by the hideous iron bridge, where we expect to find marble yards and trusses of hay and mounds of coal, we come on a magnificent doorway, richly carved and of the shell pattern; carved, also, are its pilasters. This work seems as sound as it was on the day it was set up. In Essex Street, Strand, on the right hand as we go down, we shall find some half a dozen doorways of merit, each of a different pattern and offering curious variety of treatment. In the City, close to Tower Hill, and in Seething Lane, and in quiet St. Catherine’s Court, we shall find some really imposing doorways, some grouped and thus made more effective. So also in Broad Street, off New Oxford Street. In Soho, once a fashionable quarter, in Gerrard Street and in Dean Street, there are some fine examples. There are some hundreds, in short, to be discovered in London; and they are well worth searching for.

At No. 8, Grosvenor Square, will be noted some airy and elegant treatment of old-fashioned iron railings, and which have been but little restored. It is not, moreover, limited to the doorway, but extends along the area. There are many doorways in London where a bit of “flourish” connects the brick wall next the door with the iron railing of the area with not unpleasing effect. In Greek Street, Soho, there are many of a solid kind, and we have mentioned how rich the adjoining Dean Street is in such entrances. These all speak of stately mansions to correspond, fine stairs, and spacious halls.[27]

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.

CHEYNE WALK.

“Everything is in keeping, even to the old rickety timber bridge, whichcrosses 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 charmingal frescogardens, 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 muffledsounds 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—buten revancheit 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 elaborategrillesover 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 thedesigner 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 thelocalea 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.

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

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 ofwhich 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 theMalls. There is a quaintrococotone 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 unnecessaryspikes. 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 wholestands 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.

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 isBoston House, which has behind and round it a vast and interesting garden that stretches away towardsthe 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.

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 hepurchased 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 orlittérateurdoes 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 trulyrococoand 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 therailway 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.”

“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 pleasingrococotone, 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 ofhue 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.

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 namedMaid 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 tierof 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 stairsoutsidethe 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, withThe Green Bushes, a delightful entertaining piece, andsoromantic—in the suburbs, and in “boyhood’s hour”! Occasionally a company of London amateurs took it for one night, playingLondon 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 ineffablesoftnessof 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 theAssembly 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 theMayor!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 welook 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-keptplaisaunceor 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 wideloggiason a wet day would be a welcome diversion. Within are the superb suites of rooms allotted to favouredprotégéesby 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 themost 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 itsgarden, 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 thePerpendicular 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

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