Farther away from town are found other attractive spots—in the way of surprises—with much that is curious and original. As specimens of this kind of voyage of discovery might be suggested Edmonton, Enfield, Eltham, or Croydon. We need not dwell on the unsophisticated and rural character of these hamlets and towns, the fine invigorating air that sweeps along the high roads, the sense of cheerful exhilaration. In themselves the old coaching roads are full of interest.
Eltham is a pleasant, inviting, and novel sort of place, with a fair open country about it, breezy pastures and fine old trees spreading away. In many of these distant suburbs, as they may almost be called, there is this park-like wooded look, as though we were in the heart of some rich country. Antique houses line the roadside—there are few new ones. Searching out the old Palace, we are struck with the “rurality” of the road, the row of fine old trees which line it, which was once an avenue. One could hardly find more remarkable houses outside a Christmas number. Those we see here are high-roofed and long-windowed—with the old panes—which must at least be as old as Elizabeth. Each has its gardens round it, and looks snug and comfortable. Here is an old “moated” house, the water running lazily below—for the road is a bridge—actually round the foundations. To this mansion much has been done by way of restoration. Coming to the Palace, it is delightful to meet with the elegant and original banqueting hall, ruined fragment as it is. It suggests the equally interesting Crosby Hall in the City, and there is a bay or oriel window of the same character. We know the pattern, the wall running up for a dozen feet or so where the Perpendicular windows begin. There is a peculiar charm about this style, something graceful and satisfactory.
But would we recreate ourselves with some of the finest specimens of old brick, we must go yet further afield. Let us repair to Tottenham, that is, beyond the town, at the point where the road turns off to Enfield. There the country is charmingly old-fashioned, the air delicious, the route has the look of a coach road, with its great flourishing trees. Here are the fine Anne or Georgian houses, plum-coloured almost, untouched and sound as on the day they were built. The doorways are well carved. More remarkable is the sort of Manor House in its grounds, known, I think, as the “Lion House,” from the spiritedly carved lions which adorn the gate-posts.
If we walk on to Enfield and Edmonton, we shall be yet more gratified. Enfield is really remarkable for the variety of its mansions. As we walk along the pretty high road, oddly called Baker Street, we come upon many mansions in large expanses of grounds, and enclosed within walls, but their fine iron gates allow a satisfactory view. “Lovers of Queen Anne architecture,” says a good authority, “will do well to study here.” Some of these houses are perfect pictures—such as artists revel in and portray for the Exhibitions. They are perfect surprises from their old-world air, everything being in harmony. One is known as Enfield Court, which contains “quaint specimens of brickwork and a fine terraced garden, with clipped yews.” There is an old Hall for the admirers of Inigo Jones.
Indeed, the various places of this kind which are within easy reach of London offer extraordinary and unsuspected entertainment.
But of all these suburban places, perhaps the hackneyed Hampstead and Highgate offer an unfailing attraction. Nothing is more remarkable than the change from the dull heavy London atmosphere below to the keen, inspiring, vigorous air on these northern heights, which is palpable and felt at once as we ascend. In spite of the “demolitions” that meet us as we climb Hampstead High Street, the place still seems to retain its old-fashioned, quaintly-pleasing features; its alleys and lanes straggle and wind and turn with delightfully-picturesque effect; a row of venerable trees will line a raised path beside an old wall, while houses and short terraces of the true Hampstead pattern, odd, square, and cheerful, abound. Retired corners, shady lanes, small gardens enclosed within ancient walls, old lanterns, these are everywhere. No wonder artists covet these old tenements, and, it is said, give fancy prices for them. Winter and summer bring an equal, though varied, charm to the place. In winter there is a pleasant air of shelter and retreat; in summer umbrageous shade. Nothing can be more artfully arranged with a view to picturesque effect than the mixture of houses and general rusticity; it is country and town blended in the most pleasing fashion. The old gnarled trees rise on high paths overhanging the road, and over the walls behind peep
CHURCH ROW, HAMPSTEAD.
the cheerful red dormer windows of some quaint Georgian mansion—“The Grove,” or Grove House. As we wander through the place the impression is always the same, a pleasing, old-fashioned tranquillity, the alleys winding irregularly, little shaded corners and open places. And then the memory of Clarissa—most pathetic of heroines, and her painful, sad story—too painful almost to read. It used to be said that Frenchmen were found here asking to be shown “The Flask Inn,” where the persecuted maid took refuge. There is, or used to be, a Flask Inn in Flask Walk, and there is another ancient “Flask,” most picturesque, at Highgate. But the original, genuine Inn might escape the curious. It will be found on the breezy summit of the Heath, at the corner of Heath Street, and facing the reservoir. It is now a private mansion standing in a spacious garden.