The Skirts of the Great City

by N. D'Anvers

At a very early date Putney was included in the manor of Wimbledon, and is referred to in the Doomsday Survey as Putenhei, a name supposed to mean the landing-place, that was changed to Puttenheth before it was contracted into its present form. A local tradition, however, explains the word Putney in another and somewhat amusing fashion. The original parish churches of Fulham and Putney, that greatly resembled each other, were, it is related, built with their own hands by two sisters who had but one set of tools between them. They therefore took it in turns to use them, flinging them across the river to each other, the Fulham builder crying out, for instance, when she wanted the hammer, to heave it full home, the Putney one, when her turn came, shouting—'Put it nigh.' Whatever explanation of its name be adopted it seems certain that even before the Conquest the hamlet of Putenhei was a place of some little importance, for the last of the Saxon kings had a fishery there, and also owned the ferry that existed long before the erection of the wooden bridge alluded to above, and was valued at 20s. a year. Harold's immediate successor as holder of the property was Archbishop Lanfranc of Canterbury, who paid no toll for crossing the river, but later it became customary for the lord of the manor to exact the payment of several salmon from the lessee of the fishery for the right of landing the spoil of the river on the Putney side, and up to the middle of the seventeenth century the three best salmon in every haul taken in March, April, and May were delivered at the manor-house of Wimbledon. About 1786, however, a money payment was substituted for value in kind, the amount varying from six to eight pounds per season until 1786, when for some unexplained reason, probably because of the decrease in the amount of fish taken, the landlord waived his right to tolls of any kind. For another thirty years, however, it was compulsory to present to the Lord Mayor of London all sturgeons or porpoises caught, the fishermen receiving one guinea for each of the former and thirteen shillings for each of the latter.

The Putenhei ferry continued to yield what was then considered a considerable revenue for many centuries, and a fine of 2s. 6d. was inflicted on any waterman who failed to exact a halfpenny from every stranger and a farthing from every inhabitant of Putney who availed himself of his services. In 1611 two delinquents, one hailing from Fulham, the other from Kingston, were summoned for carrying across divers persons at and near Kingston and Putney against the custom, and to the annoyance and prejudice of the owners of the common ferry, 'and having pleaded guilty and expressed contrition, they were, very much to their own surprise, let off with a reprimand.'

In 1727 the last owners of the ferry, Dr. Pethward and William Skelton, sold their rights to the custodians of the new bridge for £7999, 19s. 11d., the latter giving a further sum to the lady of the manor, the Duchess of Marlborough, for her share in the property, and £23 to the then Bishop of London, who, in virtue of his office, enjoyed the privilege of free passage of the river. Long before the eighteenth century, however, the need of some safer mode of transit was felt, for as traffic increased many accidents took place, through the upsetting of the ferry barges, collisions, etc. About 1629, for instance, Bishop Laud, lately appointed to the see of London, was nearly drowned with his whole suite when on his way one dark evening from Putney to his palace at Fulham, and for this reason he strongly advocated the building of a bridge, but more pressing affairs prevented him from taking any definite steps in the matter. When in 1642 the twin villages of Putney and Fulham were for the first time united by the temporary bridge of boats thrown across the river, after the battle of Brentford, by the Earl of Essex, Laud had left his palace at Fulham for the last time, for he was in the Tower awaiting the issue of his protracted trial. One of the forts that protected the linked lighters and barges, by means of which the defeated Parliamentary army passed over from Middlesex to Surrey, eager to retrieve the disaster at Brentford, is still standing, about five hundred yards below the present bridge, but the connection between the two banks was of course destroyed as soon as it had served its purpose, and it was not until 1871 that a bill was brought before Parliament for building a bridge to replace the ancient Putenhei ferry. It was, however, rejected by thirteen votes, and the reasons given for their opposition by the dissentients throw a singular light on the ignorance and prejudice of men sufficiently well educated to have secured election to the national assembly. The member for London, for instance, declared that 'a bridge so far up stream would not only injure and jeopardise the great and important city he had the honour to represent, and destroy its commerce, but would actually annihilate it altogether,' adding 'not even common wherries would be able to pass the river at low water, and would not only affect the interests of his majesty's government, but those of the nation at large.' This remarkable opinion was endorsed by the Lord Mayor of London, who believed 'that the piles of a bridge would stop the tide altogether,' and by Sir William Thompson, a truly typical Conservative, who went so far as to assert that if the bridge were built quicksands and shelves would be created through the whole course of the river ... and not a ship would be able to get nearer London than Woolwich. The limits of London,' he added, 'were set by the wisdom of our ancestors, and God forbid they should ever be altered.' This remarkable speech was delivered at a time when the rebuilding of the metropolis, after the Great Fire, was actively proceeding, and the most casual observer could not fail to realise how utterly inadequate to avert a catastrophe had been the wisdom of those who had set limits respected neither by the powers of nature nor by man. The city was indeed at that very time in the throes of a new birth; its old boundaries had been swept away, and out of the ashes of the picturesque but plague-haunted town of the past was rising up a new capital that was ere long to send forth outshoots in every direction, and eventually to absorb not only reluctant Putney, but many hamlets and villages even further afield than it.

Another fifty years were to pass away before the bridge between Putney and Fulham was actually built, and according to tradition it was George II., when Prince of Wales, who brought about what was then considered an extraordinary innovation, impelled thereto by the inconvenience to which he was put when hunting in the Surrey forests an incidental illustration of the great change that has taken place since the sites of Putney, Wimbledon, Barnes, and Richmond were the haunts of wild animals that used to go down to the river to drink, and if sorely pressed in the chase, were able to swim over to the further side. Sir Robert Walpole, father of the more celebrated Horace, was entrusted with the onerous task of carrying a bill through Parliament authorising the construction of the bridge, which was begun in 1727 and completed in 1729. It very quickly justified the predictions of its promoters, for in 1731 the revenue yielded by the tolls amounted to £1500 a year, a sum that was nearly doubled by the beginning of the nineteenth century. The tolls were not remitted until 1880, by which time the bridge was already in so lamentable a state of decay that it had to be pulled down. It was replaced by the present structure, which, though it cannot be called a work of art, has nothing unsightly about it, a commendation that cannot, unfortunately, be extended to the aqueduct of the Chelsea Waterworks that spans the stream a little higher up, and has done more to spoil the picturesque appearance of Fulham and Putney than anything else.

Connected with the parish church of Putney, which, as already stated, was rebuilt in 1836, is a gem of early sixteenth-century architecture, a little chapel with a beautiful fan tracery roof, built by Bishop West of Ely, who was the son of a baker of Putney, and greatly loved his native place. The chapel originally stood on the south of the chancel, but when the restoration of the main building took place it was carefully removed to its present position, and is still practically what it was when first completed, though the ancient window-frames have been filled in with modern stained glass. Unfortunately, some of the quaint monuments that were in the old church have been destroyed, but its successor still retains some interesting tombs with characteristic laudatory inscriptions, including those of Richard Lister, some time Lord Mayor of London, and his wife Margaret Diggs, and of Philadelphia Palmer, whilst in the Bishop's Chapel is a noteworthy brass to the memory of John Welbeck and his wife.

Less than a century ago Putney still owned many an historic mansion standing in its own grounds, including the so-called Palace, Fairfax House, Essex House, Windsor Lodge, and Putney House, but they have all, alas, been demolished, as has also the no less interesting gabled cottage by the riverside in which Henry VIII.'s hated minister Thomas Cromwell was born, and the more important Lime Grove House, standing well back from the village on the road to Wimbledon, in which the great historian Edward Gibbon first saw the light. Fortunately, however, their sites can still be identified, and are even now, to some extent, haunted by the memory of the great names associated with them. The palace, built about the end of the fifteenth century, and now represented by River Street and River Terrace, was a place of no little note, and was connected with the one occupied by the Bishop of London by a subterranean passage. Long the seat of the Waldeck family, the palace was owned in the reign of Elizabeth by Mr. John Lacy, a wealthy cloth-merchant, who several times entertained the maiden queen in it. Her first visit took place in 1579, and her last in 1603, when she was on her way to her beloved palace at Richmond, where she died two months later. To the Putney Palace came also her successor James I., just before his coronation, and thirty-nine years later it was for a time the headquarters of one of his son's most bitter enemies, General Lord Fairfax, who had succeeded the Earl of Essex in command of the Parliamentary army that was encamped at Putney during the three months of 1647 when Charles I. was a prisoner at Hampton Court. The mansion was then the property of the High Sheriff, Mr. Wymonsold, and after the Restoration it changed hands many times. Early in the nineteenth century the property was thrown into Chancery, and sold to a gentleman whose name, fortunately perhaps for his memory, has not been preserved, for he showed no appreciation for the associations connected with the beautiful old house, but had it pulled down to make room for totally uninteresting buildings. The only still existing relics of the palace are the iron entrance-gates, that were often flung open to admit Queen Elizabeth and her retinue, which were bought by a brush manufacturer of Putney, by whose descendants they are prized as heirlooms.

Fairfax House, named, not as is generally taken for granted, after the Parliamentarian leader, but a private gentleman, was until quite recently one of the most noteworthy features of the High Street, and the lawn overshadowed by trees, said to have been planted by Bishop Juxon in the happy days before his royal master's troubles began, is still in existence. Essex House, that stood not far from Fairfax House, is generally supposed to have been built by Queen Elizabeth's ill-fated favourite, and he may probably have been living in it when his royal mistress was the guest of Mr. Lacy at Putney Palace. It, too, was destroyed in the iconoclastic nineteenth century, but in a humble shop occupying part of its site is preserved a very significant relic of it—a ceiling bearing the coat of arms of Queen Elizabeth, set in a circlet representing the Prince of Wales's feathers and the Harp of Ireland, and with the initials of Essex and the queen worked into a true-lovers' knot.

Of Windsor Lodge, once, it is said, part of a convent, some remains were dug up a short time ago proving it to have been a fine building in the Gothic style; but of Putney House, in which George III. was often entertained by its owner, Mr. Gerard Van Neck, the memory alone survives, for after serving from 1839 to 1857 as a college for civil engineers, it was pulled down and is now replaced by a row of commonplace villas.

It is difficult to determine exactly where the cottage stood in which Thomas Cromwell was born, but it is well known that his father, who held a good position in Putney as a blacksmith, brewer, wool-merchant, and inn-keeper, owned a considerable amount of property under the lord of the manor of Wimbledon. Part of his land was by the Thames, and was known as the 'Homestall,' the probability being that the homestead in which the family lived, the brewery, and hostelry were three separate buildings grouped together not far from the parish church. In any case, the young Thomas must have been very familiar with riverside Putney; he often helped to load his father's barges with wool, to be taken down to the ships awaiting them below London Bridge, and he attended a day-school close to his home. At the age of fourteen he was apprenticed to his uncle John Williams, who was then overseer of Wimbledon Manor and lived in a homestead at Mortlake, on the site of which is a house still named after him. On the death of his master in 1502, Thomas Cromwell collected the Wimbledon rents till the appointment was given to his father, under whom he worked until 1504, when he fell into disgrace and ran away from home. What his crime was is not known, but his father never forgave him, and for many years his native place knew him no more. Walter Cromwell, too, seems to have lost the good position he had long held in Putney, and he would have died in absolute want but for the generosity of his son-in-law Morgan Williams, who gave him a little cottage on Wimbledon Green, near to his own brewery and inn, called the Crooked Billet, the site of which is now occupied by a group of small houses. In this cottage the elder Cromwell died in 1516, without having seen his son again. By this time, however, Thomas had returned to England and was already in the service of Wolsey, the Crooked Billet had passed into the hands of his sister and her husband, and all connection between him and the neighbourhood seemed to be finally severed. Strange to say, however, some twenty-three years later he became lord of the manor of the very estate on which he was born, and owner of the princely income it yielded which he had himself once helped to collect for another. No doubt he had sometimes in the interval landed at the steps near his old home when in attendance as secretary on Cardinal Wolsey, who often halted at Putney on his way up the river to Richmond or Hampton Court before the memorable occasion in 1529—ten years before his protégé became lord of the manor of Wimbledon, when in his sad journey to Esher after the Great Seal had been taken from him, he eluded the malice of his enemies by going by land, attended only by two or three faithful servants, riding up the then gorse and heather-clad Putney Hill towards the heath, which he intended to cross in a westerly direction. The story goes that the disgraced favourite was stopped before he reached the summit of the ascent by a messenger from the king, no less a personage than the Lord Chamberlain, Sir John Norris, who gave him a ring in token that he was once more forgiven. In his gratitude and surprise he is said to have hurriedly dismounted, to fall on his knees in the road, and give earnest thanks to God for this unexpected mercy. Sir John followed his example, their escorts looking on in amazement; and when the two great men rose up again, a deeply interesting conversation took place between them, Wolsey declaring that the tidings were worth half a kingdom, and bitterly regretting that he had nothing to send to his master to prove his deep appreciation of his goodness, adding, on second thoughts, 'but here is my fool that rides beside me, take him, I beseech thee, to court, and give him to his majesty; I assure you he is worth a thousand pounds for any nobleman's pleasure.'