Sweet Hampstead and Its Associations

by Caroline A. White

Then Hampstead was a street of village shops upon the slope of the hill, with a broken sky-line of red-roofed, one-storied, brown-brick or weather-boarded houses, with small windows, often glazed with glass that darkened light. Some of the shops had still hanging shutters, and open shop-boards, and many of them half-hatch doors, a few of which, with a fine vein of what was called independence, were comfortably bolted against all comers during meal-times. Not many years ago I met with the same custom in practice at Totnes, on the river Dart.

A narrow footway paved with cobble-stones followed the irregular outlines of the street, and made Hampstead, like other places of pilgrimage, a place of penance also for the pilgrims who chose that narrow way. The shops then were dusky little places, with not much choice of goods; and what there were, were exhibited with little taste in the arrangement of them. What did it signify? Everyone knew of what his neighbours’ stock consisted, and consequently where to get what he wanted. There was no hurry in those days, and plenty of time for everything. Very few people except visitors were to be seen about, and there was a delightful freedom from the sounds of vehicles—a stillness in the uphill street that suggested somnolence. The little windows seemed to blink at the sunshine like the half-shut eyes of the sleek tabby I used to see there taking her afternoon nap amongst the soft goods in one of them.

There was another peculiarity in many of the Hampstead shops: the earth had so accumulated outside the houses that the difference in the level of the street with the floor had to be taken into consideration when entering them, otherwise the unaccustomed customer was very likely to make a more precipitate than graceful entry. This state of things continued even as late as 1895, at the old post-office and elsewhere. Such things as these only proved the antiquity of the delightful suburb, and its unlikeness to other places.

In the old sunny days South End lay, a picturesque little hamlet of red-roofed houses, embosomed in green trees—an integral part of the parish of St. John, but unenfolded in it—a sort of Hagar’s child, outside Hampstead.

I am told that part of South End still remains in South End Road, close to Hampstead Heath Station, and that South End Green—with a few houses that have not been converted to shops, with their palings and gardens, in a very dilapidated condition—also exists. The Green has on it a fountain, erected in 1880 by a lady resident (Miss Crump) to the memory of a relative. It stands on a piece of greensward, surrounded by iron railings, nearly opposite her house, and no doubt answers a very useful purpose, for South End Green is now the terminus of the tramcars, which in summer bring many thirsty children and travellers to Hampstead.

In the days I am recalling, a road ran out of South End over the sloping fields, sweet with white clover flowers, to Parliament Hill, and the mounds like tumuli on the sunk road in the field at the east end of the Heath. I used to think these mounds were barrows, but am told that they only cover the dead hopes of a rapacious Lord of the Manor, who between forty and fifty years ago intended building houses on the field, but, having only a life interest in the estate, was prevented doing so. The road and ground delved for foundations, and thrown up in great heaps here and there, was left neglected and desolate. But Nature soon covered the scarred earth with a green mantle, and turned its unsightliness to beauty. Only a few years ago a subscription was raised amongst the inhabitants of Hampstead, and the fields, with Parliament Hill, and the storied Pancras meadows, were purchased and added to the Heath.

But in my time there were what Shelley, who knew the whole of Hampstead by heart, and remembered it with yearning amidst the lovely landscapes of Italy, called the beautiful meadows near Shepherd’s Fields, and tells his friend Hunt that he often longs for them, and the Hendon Road, and Hampstead lanes, and the pretty entrance to the village from Kentish Town.

How well I remember the Shepherd’s Fields,[286] and the old conduit in them, round the margins of which the yellow stars of the lesser celandine first opened, and Shakespeare’s ladies’ smocks were soonest seen.

Then there were other pretty meadows near Chalk Farm, the peacefulness of which had often been desecrated by duellists, and of which some tragic stories might be told, but not here.