Picturesque London

by Percy Fitzgerald

Pursuing our walk to Chiswick we find something to interest and please at every step—the Eyot, the barges again, the genial, tranquil air, and the old houses with the older gardens, such as Cedar House, with its spreading trees on the pretty lawn; Walpole House, with its simple gate; Lingard, or Bedford, House, an imposing solid structure. Here is the unpretending-looking yard and factories where small steam launches and such fry are being manufactured by Messrs. Thorneycroft. We turn up Chiswick Lane, and note, on the left, a row of genteel ancient houses—infirm, no doubt, and not a little “ratty”—with a row of trim and pedantic old trees standing sentry in the path in front.

CHAPTER XXX.
CHISWICK, KEW, RICHMOND, AND THEIR SUBURBS.

THIS little town, or village, of Chiswick is charming in every way, from its church and pretty churchyard and its situation between river and road. The walks hard by have the sylvan air of green lanes. There is the “Mall,” and Chiswick Lane, up which as you glance from the river you can see the little red-rusted terrace of Queen Anne houses, with its antique railings and rural surroundings, a row of “pollarded” trees in front. Facing the church is an old roadside tavern, “The Burlington Arms,” most quaintly picturesque; and on the other side a fine old detached house standing in its garden. We are glad to find here one of the old burly independent and well-built “Manor Houses,” standing by the roadside and flourishing. These must be comfortable structures to live in, with their heavy eaves and solid walls, gardens behind and lawns in front. It is in the occupation of a Chiswick doctor. The churchyard, which has quite the air of a garden, has many tombs of pretension, and almost a theatrical tone, from the players and artists who sleep there. Somehow it seems more particularly associated with Drury Lane Theatre and Garrick, whose name, with many compliments, is seen here and there. Here are his verses on Hogarth’s tomb, which was carefully restored some years ago by a modern Hogarth “of Aberdeen”; the visitor, reading over the much-admired lines, is invited to “drop a tear.”

Here also is Garrick’s scene painter, De Loutherbourg, who is declared on his tablet to be the equal of the greatest masters who are named, which is certainly praise too extravagant. Not far off is Holland, another Drury Lane performer, whom Foote saw laid here in what he coarsely called “the family oven,” his father being a baker.

Following the pretty high road, a little farther on we come to a fine old mansion, standing back from the road in a sort of open square, flanked by two rows of low houses of the pattern seen in a cathedral close, a sort of thick shrubbery filling up the centre. This is Boston House, which has behind and round it a vast and interesting garden that stretches away towards the river. These beautiful old grounds cover seven acres, and have noble old trees, notably an immense and spreading yew which can be seen from the road, with one of the oldest acacias in England. This has long been a young ladies’ school. The old house retires shyly from the road, and is flanked or sheltered by a few houses as old on each side. Thus there is a sort of quaint square in front. Lately a board was displayed, announcing that the place was for sale, and still later it was secured—the inevitable fate of such places—for a charitable institution.

HOGARTH’S HOUSE, CHISWICK.

As we trudge along the high road we approach an object that should have extraordinary interest for the artistic mind. A high wall runs along the path. Within it is to be seen a much-dilapidated old house, its shoulder turned to the road, and which, like many a dilapidated old person, has the air of having seen better days. Its squalor is so marked, windows shattered and patched like an Irish shanty, that we wonder at finding such a spectacle on a country road. There are children as squalid, and a general air of discomfort. This is Hogarth’s old home. “Hogarth House” it is called, which he purchased about 1750, when he had grown prosperous, and whence he used to drive into town in his carriage. The good old red brick seems sound enough, and I fancy it would not be difficult to restore and repair. It is surprising that some artist or littérateur does not purchase it, as it could be secured no doubt “for a song”; and there would be the additional gratification of earning public gratitude. One “fine morning” it will be found that it has been swept away, and a row of “Hogarth Villas” erected in its stead. Indeed, a week or so ago a warning voice—to which no one will attend—sounded a call that it was tumbling into ruin.

Beside the river runs a wall which encloses the grounds and gardens of Chiswick House, the Duke of Devonshire’s villa, a classical structure, built by that nobleman of elegant taste—Lord Burlington, whose work is to be seen not only in London, but at York and other places. His buildings all exhibit this character, and are effective. This Italian villa, with the cupola to its octagon room rising over the pillared pediment, is in his best style. Not far away on the roadside is another villa, with an ambitious portico and pillars which may have been designed by the same amateur. It would be a surprise now-a-days to find a nobleman designing houses.