As recently as 1859 the road to Hampstead was a charming one, especially if one drove there; for then you had the advantage of seeing beyond and above the pedestrian. No sooner did you cross the Canal Bridge than your pleasure in the prospects began. Leaving Chalk Farm on the left, where in some one or other of the effaced fields Tom Moore and Jeffrey (afterwards Lord Jeffrey) met to fight their intercepted duel, and Primrose or Barrow Hill, in a ditch on the south side of which (1678) the body of the murdered Sir Edmondbury Godfrey was found, ‘his sword thrust through him, but no blood upon his clothes or about him, his shoes clean, his money in his pocket, his rings upon his fingers, but with his breast all bruises, and his neck broken’;[38] and upon the summit of which, with sublimated vision, William Blake, pictor ignotus, saw the spiritual sun, ‘not like a golden disc the size of a guinea, but like an innumerable company of the heavenly host, crying “Holy, holy, holy!”’
Then Haverstock Hill, with the Load of Hay tavern, looking in 1845 as rustic and simple as its name. It had been famous for its tea-gardens, and an ancient footpath from the Lower Heath, Hampstead, formerly crossed the fields from Pond Street, and came out beside it on the main road. Above the bank, rising from the highway on the left, stood the cottage, ‘famous,’ as Carey in his ‘Book of the Roads’ (1812) called it, as the residence of Sir Richard Steele, the ‘solitude’ that for so many years reminded readers of the literary Captain’s delightful essays, and recalled in his company all the wits of Queen Anne’s time, who, on their way to the summer meetings of the Kit-Cat Club at the Upper Flask, Hampstead, were wont to beguile him from unfinished copy, an easy task, since the gay instincts of the man on these occasions would generally override the severity of the philosopher, and prevent the personal application of the moralities he so charmingly discoursed about.
Hampstead from Primrose Hill.
‘I am in a solitude,’ he wrote to Pope, June 1, 1712, ‘an house between Hampstead and London, in which Sir Charles Sedley died, breathing his last,’ he adds, ‘in this very room,’ a circumstance that, in connection with his enforced rusticity, and the circumstances that induced it, combined to waken serious reflections; and writing on this occasion, as Pope himself was said to write, ‘with his reputation in his hand,’ Sir Richard somewhat ungenerously, when we consider the close kinship of many of Sedley’s inclinations with his own, improved the occasion at the dead man’s expense, wholly ignoring the assurance of gossiping Anthony à Wood that poor Sedley, after suffering much for his offences, took up and grew serious, and subsequently became a leading man in the House of Commons. If this be true, it says a good deal for the recuperative moral force concentrated in Sir Charles’s nature. Steele’s cottage stood so nearly opposite to the little hostel, the Load of Hay, that its inhabitants, if so minded, could have almost distinguished the features of the gentlemen of the road who, towards sunset, occasionally drew bridle beside the horse-block in front of the well-worn steps leading into it, to refresh themselves with a tankard of ripe ale, or some more potent stirrup-cup, before starting across country to Brown’s Well, or Finchley Common, places which continued till quite modern times to be words of fear in the vocabulary of travellers.
Pope’s contributions to the Spectator led in 1712 to Steele’s making his acquaintance, which was followed by his introducing the young poet to his courtly friend Addison. One can fancy the fine presence and handsome countenance of the distinguished essayist, his Sir Charles Grandison air, and the stately suavity of his bow, which brings the side-locks of his voluminous wig an arm’s length beyond the shapely hand laid impressively on the breast of his deep-flapped waistcoat, and the ill-dressed, crooked figure and sallow face of the youthful poet. But remembering that Pope at seventeen years of age had been admitted to the company of the wits at Wills’s, it is probable that the stately compliments of the great moralist, whose mission it was to help reform the morals and manners of the day, did not so much affect him as they might have done an older man less conscious of his acknowledged power; and the nervous flushing of the sallow cheek, the brightening of the large dark eyes, and the slight quiver of the sensitive muscles of the melancholy mouth, may be as much the result of infelt pride as of modesty.
Sir Richard Steele.