The older part of Twickenham centres about the church, one of those pagan eighteenth-century boxes of red and yellow and grey brick that are so familiar along these outer fringes of London. The old church sank into ruin in 1713, but the tower of it remains.
In the churchwardens’ accounts of some two hundred years ago we gain some diverting glimpses of an older Twickenham. Thus, in 1698, we find, “Item: Paid old Tomlins for fetching home the church-gates, being thrown into ye Thames in ye night by drunkards, 2s. 6d.”; and “Item: To Mr. Guisbey, for curing Doll Bannister’s nose, 3s.”
The old and slummy lanes that here lead down to the waterside are bordered with houses that date back to the time of those entries.
In the church is a monument to Pope, with an epitaph written by himself, “For one who would not be buried in Westminster Abbey”: the last scornful effort of his bitter spirit. The stone in the floor that marks his actual resting-place is covered over, and many therefore seek his grave in vain. I have, in fact, myself thus vainly sought it; questing in the first instance among the tombs in the churchyard, to the puzzlement of a group of working-men engaged upon a job there.
“What you looking for, guv’nor?” asked one.
“I want to find Pope’s grave.”
“Don’t know the name,” said he. “’Ere, Bill”—raising his voice to one of his mates a little way off—“d’ye know where a bloke named Pope is berried?”
O! horror.
An epitaph upon Kitty Clive, the actress, who died in 1758, may be seen here, among those to other notabilities.