We now pass from the genuine antique to its imitations, and reach the curious cluster of modern-old houses to which the new Embankment has furnished ground. Some are bold and effective, and the whole group, which has gradually extended down the Embankment for a long distance, is worth a special visit. They bear quaint names, such as the Old Swan House, the White House, Carlyle House, Shelley House, River View, and the like. Farnely House and its neighbours are good imposing monuments of brick. Shelley House, with its attached theatre, is in an adjoining street. This place of “amusement” brought its owner endless annoyance and expense—a lawsuit finished it, and now it stands unused. The house with the curious white bow windows, set in something that looks like the stern of an old man-of-war, will attract attention; we should note the “Clock House” with its handsome dial projecting; likewise the house at the corner, with its elaborate grilles over most of the windows. But turning down Tite Street—Mr. Tite was an eminent architect of a few years back, now of course almost forgotten—we come to the White House, a curious, quaint structure, stiff as an American’s dress-coat about the shoulders, which is, or was, the dwelling of a well-known American artist, celebrated for his “nocturnes in green” and “symphonies in blue,” which caused jesters such merriment, to say nothing of his Peacock Chamber, one of those two, or nine days’ wonders which furnish society with something to talk of.
In the little square or tongue of ground near Cheyne Row will be noticed an elaborate lamp, supported by contorted boys. This was one of the rejected patterns for the series that was to decorate the Embankment. The one chosen consists of contorted dolphins, and is not very effective.
At Vauxhall Bridge we come to a curious conceit, that would have “arrided”—Lamb’s word—the heart of Dickens. Here is a large yard devoted to the sale of ship timber, for which old vessels of course are bought and broken up. But there remain always the old figure-heads—strange, curious, gigantic efforts, that make one wonder what manner of man the designer was. Nor are they without merit or spirit. They rise towering with a strange stark air, and look over the wall with much of the dazed astonishment the animals showed in Charles Lamb’s copy of Stackhouse’s Bible. Here are Dukes of York with a fatuous expression, the Janet Simpson, or Lady Smith, and Iron Dukes—all, it must be said, wrought rather vigorously, and looking with eternal solemnity over the wall, each some six or eight feet high, to the surprise of the stranger. The natives are familiar with them.
Turning up from the Embankment, we pass a very antique row of houses, Paradise Walk, with its heavy-browed eaves, grimed, tiled roofs and little gardens in front, a general decay over all. This curious range of buildings, which is in Wren’s style, is worth a few moments’ inspection, especially the one with the effective bit of old iron gateway; as well as the strange institution which forms the last house, entitled “The School of Discipline,” which, it seems, has been flourishing—for it would not have endured over sixty years otherwise—since 1825. It was founded by the worthy Elizabeth Fry for the training of servant girls. What the “discipline” is, what the school, are things not generally known. It was hard by here that a few years ago a ghastly bit of sensation engaged the attention of the penny papers and their special reporters, who invaded these sleepy precincts. Two young men arriving from the country, flush of money, took up their abode in some disreputable house, where they revelled for a week till their resources were exhausted, when both attempted suicide, one succeeding. It proved that they had embezzled the moneys of their employer, and then fled to London, burying themselves in this obscure region, where they escaped detection. Further on we reach the green in front of the Hospital. This must have had a fine effect when the Hospital could only be seen from the bottom of this great expanse; but now the high road has been ruthlessly cut across it, with no effect but that of convenience. The old overhanging public-house, the “Duke of York,” is curious, and gives the locale a sort of rural air. But this, indeed, is shared by the King’s Road, which has a sort of special country-town air, as distinct as what merry Islington offers. This is the scene of Wilkie’s famous picture of the Chelsea veterans receiving the news of the Waterloo victory. There is an air of retired and retiring simplicity in the shops and little by-streets.
The quaint “physick” gardens belonging to the Apothecaries—a benefaction of Sir Hans Sloane—will next attract the eye, if only by the magnificent old yew which rises grim and sepulchral in the centre. Whether the apothecaries walk in this piece of ground and peep over the rails at the passing boats on the river is uncertain—they surely do not “cull simples,” for they can buy them cheaper than grow them. But it is a pleasing inclosure—a surprise, considering its position—suited to calm tranquillity and meditation.
CHAPTER XXIX.
PUTNEY—FULHAM.
THE first glimpse of the river at Putney Bridge seems always new, with a never-failing charm. Indeed, all these clusterings on the river where a bridge crosses—Putney and Hammersmith—have for the Londoner walking out, say of a Sunday, an air of picturesque old fashion. The bridges at Kew and Richmond, with their graceful ascent and elegant arches, harmonize delightfully, and their tone and colour and delicate greys contrast with the green of the foliage and the patches of red brick. It is curious to note the two church towers at Fulham and Putney, which rise so picturesquely at each end of the bridge. The old Putney wooden bridge, with its piles and zigzag bulwarks, has been swept away.
The fine new stone bridge is a great and much-desired convenience, but the sentimentalist will lament its crazy wooden predecessor, rising so steeply and propped on angular wooden cages that were patched and repaired over and over again. This was dear to artists and etchers. The best portion was the gloomy old “Toll House,” with its antique roof of a Nuremberg pattern, grimed and shadowy. This was so suggestive of mystery and romance that in the days of realistic dramas, like the “Streets of London,” it was taken into a “sensation” piece. On the hoardings was a huge coloured picture, representing the structure by moonlight, with some such heading as—“The Murder—The Old Toll House, Putney!!”[28]
On the Fulham side there are a few antique houses with gardens and iron gates, and one which is clearly the work of Vanbrugh, from its heavy gate-porch. There is a little “Georgian” terrace of old-fashioned houses with gardens in front on the left, leading to the church, next to which stands the vicarage house and school. Here is a charming old churchyard with a public path through it. The church itself has been restored in “spick and span” fashion, but in the porch we are faced by a florid and truly gigantic mural tablet, which covers the whole wall, in memory of one Elizabeth