On the other side of Hampstead there is the attractive Church Row, a unique range of “Queen Anne” houses, through whose windows can be seen glimpses of waving trees and shrubs in the gardens behind. The bottom of the little street is closed by the church, with its quaint, copper spire—not older than the last century, but old enough to harmonize fairly. Round it spreads away its rural churchyard, with paths across it.
One of the most delightful walks, familiar enough to Londoners, is that from the breezy summit of the Heath round to Highgate. Here stands the old inn, Jack Straw’s Castle, to which Dickens and his trusty friend Forster used to ride out on some “shoemakers’ holiday,” halting to regale themselves on a chop after their labour of the week. At this old hostelry we have stayed for a week or so, in snug quarters. There was a certain piquancy and originality in the situation; it was “so near and yet so far” from town. The ceaseless halting at the door of the innumerable travellers’ vehicles was curious to note. No one seemed to have power to resist the attraction. The fine old, solid mansion beside it, with its garden, seemed enviable.
A quarter of a mile further on we come to that truly Pickwickian inn, “The Spaniards,” where Mrs. Bardell was arrested: a charmingly old-fashioned, rural house, with its tea gardens. We never pass it without calling up the scene—the hackney coach waiting at the gate, Mrs. B. and her friends at one of the little tables, and Mr. Jackson entering with his assistant. In catching this local flavour the novelist was unrivalled. It is difficult to describe the particular charm of a walk through a country district, but this to Highgate is unrivalled.
How inviting too, and antique, is the town! The group of old red-brick houses at the top—some detached, with gardens as old—all are inviting. Here are some quaint inns—one curious one, with the remains of the “pike,” where persons coming to London were “sworn,” a pair of horns being brought out to add effect to the ceremony. It was here that an innkeeper stepped the horses of her present Majesty, and was allowed to display the Royal Arms as his sign, with a commemorative inscription. On the descent are some fine old country seats, mansions with grounds well wooded and park-like. Most of these are being gradually absorbed by charitable or religious institutions, which might seem at first sight a guarantee for their preservation. But, alas! as the institution begins to flourish, the old mansion is certain to be taken down and rebuilt. One fine old place is in the hands of a religious order which has just completed an imposing Byzantine temple, whose Eastern cupola is a landmark.
There are districts more familiar and of minor importance which are yet well worth exploring. Such are the inviting green lanes round Barnes Common and Roehampton; and on the roadside of the latter place we pass by what is perhaps the finest specimen of the old brick mansion near London. This brilliant, genial, riant bit of brick is worthy the notice of our modern architects in that material—the novelty and stateliness of the design, the combination of stone dressings with the brick, being worthy of Wren himself. This is Roehampton House, Lord Leven’s mansion.
The hackneyed Clapham even has attractions of its own in many a fine, old, well-preserved house and grounds, in that capital, serviceable style of architecture which was fashionable about a century ago—a well-designed central block of yellow brick with a high roof and two wings, to which it was united by a short colonnade. In front was a small circular lawn, protected by a sort of fence. Old trees filled in the back and flanks. This combination was highly effective. On one side of the common is a charming and original Queen Anne terrace, Church Row, which we have noted before—every house panelled, old gates of twisted iron, flights of steps and carved doorways.
There is surely no air so keen and bracing as that which sweeps with such vigour across the fine open common of Blackheath. The houses that fringe the common have a quaint air of old fashion, somewhat sad coloured and of that dull “gamboge” tint which Elia spoke of, but they have a good snug appearance. Such is “Montpelier Terrace,” and “The Paragon,” which must have been considered a great effort in their day. The Paragon is a semicircular row of “desirable” mansions, built with some state and pretension—the pattern for a “Paragon” being usually two semi-detached houses joined by a low colonnade—while in front there is an oval inclosure. There are Paragons in most of the suburbs—as at Streatham—and one close to London, in the Kent Road, a dispiriting and decayed place.
Close by the Paragon, and on the gentle descent that leads down into the little town of Blackheath, is a clump of umbrageous planting, with a little iron gate opening into pretty and well-sheltered grounds. Entering, for it is open to all, a walk leads us up to what is something of a surprise. Here we are confronted by a fine solid building of the Wren pattern, high roofed, deep gabled, and red bricked. Its many windows are set off with deep green “jalousies,” and in the middle there is a pediment and pavilion with the two statues of the founder and foundress, standing side by side, in their old-fashioned dress; below are carved flourishings and graceful garlands of stone flowers, with a deep and spreading archway, through which we see the interior of a square. This is Morden College, a retreat founded for reduced or comparatively genteel persons. The archway is lined with oak panelling and long oaken benches, acceptable in the summer, where the collegians mostly sit and gossip, and perhaps smoke. Within the square a pretty colonnade runs all round, convenient for pleasant walking in wet weather. There is the old sundial looking down, and a quaint clock-tower with a bell, lantern, and weather-cock. Altogether a drowsy, picturesque old place, dating from 1675. Few would suspect even the existence of this sequestered and interesting place, which is absolutely hidden in its umbrageous shelter. There is a dreamy poetical air over it, and though fully tenanted it seems a perfect solitude—occasionally a “collegian” may flit across the court. A chapel is on one side of the archway: on a Sunday, opening the door gently, you will see all the collegians assembled. The building itself, which seems sound, has mellowed with time into an harmonious red.
Old Richmond Theatre.