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 we look 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-kept plaisaunce or 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 wide loggias on a wet day would be a welcome diversion. Within are the superb suites of rooms allotted to favoured protégées by 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 the most 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 its garden, 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.