Kew, hackneyed and “cockneyfied” as it is, offers charms of its own that do not stale by custom as we approach it by the river bank; it seems to breathe a tone of soft and even melancholy tranquillity. The beautifully-designed grey bridge, with its gracefully-curved gentle ascent and descent, seems to suit the umbrageous shore on the Richmond side. It should be noted that few rivers have been so fortunate in their bridges as the silvery Thames. They are always graceful, and harmonize with the banks, particularly those of Richmond, Henley, Kew, and many more. There is a little Mall at Kew, as there is at Mortlake, formed of stunted, narrow, and old-fashioned houses. The Green at Kew, notwithstanding the tea-houses and tea-gardens and the “touting” notices at the gates, has a truly rococo and rural air which it is not likely to lose. The cheerful white posts, the church perched down in the middle, the old houses round, the grim, forlorn palace and the cheerful trams, all add to the effect. There is a fine and imposing old house on the right as you face the gardens, which was no doubt one of those occupied by the young Princes during the unhappy residence of George III. Opposite is the porch and ancient dependencies of the palace, so lately tenanted by the “old Duchess of Cambridge.” The air seems thick with the memories of the terrible days when the king was seized with madness, and the London road was alive with the carriages of ministers and physicians constantly posting down.
Of Richmond it is hard to tire, and it happily still retains its air of old fashion. The town itself, in spite of many changes and new shops, has an old, drowsy, and quaint air. Only a few years ago there stood close by the railway a terrace of Queen Anne houses, of the brightest, cheerfullest red and whose white doorways were miracles of elaborate carving. They are gone now. As you walk up the street it is always pleasant to think of the little bye lanes and twisting alleys that can lead you on at any moment to the spacious Richmond Green, which, as it were, accompanies the town on its way. I like to see Billett’s confection shop, where are the only true and genuine “maid of honour” cakes—excellent, special things, in their way. Billett’s shop in the early times seemed an awe-inspiring place, and a palace of dainties. There is an old-fashioned “cut” about the shop itself; and there was a pleasant quaintness in this recent protest of the proprietor, and his honest sensitiveness about his cake:—
“Sir,—The writer of your admirable article on ‘Richmond Park and Town’ observes that ‘The pastrycook’s shop seems to have wandered a little away from its old locality, and it may be that its genealogy is doubtful.’ I would simply say that the business has been in the hands of the present family for over fifty years, and that the ‘maids of honour’ have been sold at this same shop for nearly 200 years. The house itself is about 300 years old. In conclusion I may add that the pastry has, I hope, lost nothing of its traditional flavour since the days when it is on record that £1,000 was paid for the secret of how to prepare them. The same sum of money has since been paid for the recipe.
“Yours truly,
“J. T. Billett, Jun., the Proprietor.
“Richmond, June 8th.”
To celebrate the recent jubilee, Billett gave away an extra “maid of honour” for every dozen purchased.
Years ago, in boyhood’s happy hours, Richmond seemed a very imposing place to live in. There was a regular society of great and small personages. There were lady patronesses, and people used to come all the way from town for “our annual Richmond ball,” always given at the Castle Hotel, that seemed then, with its fine river terrace and gardens and ball-room, a most stately and awe-striking hostelry. Now it seems a poorish place enough, and has lain unlet and abandoned for the last twenty years. What music and fiddling and dancing was there! What barges coming down in the season laden with cheerful company! There is certainly a pleasing rococo tone, recalling the old-fashioned flavour, which has not yet departed. The rows of genial red Queen Anne houses ranged round the common have even now a tranquil air—their tints are mellowed by age—and they have architectural effect which contrasts as effectively with the rows of the modern buildings as an elegant, faded old lady does with some flaunting miss. The mixture of hue on these old commons ever pleases; the green—even the white rails—the sleepy tranquillity, the old-fashioned people who doze away life. There was a colony that included Maria Edgeworth’s brother, a genial old man, who gave parties; and I recall the great convulsion arising out of the dispute between rector and curate. Richmond was rent into factions, but the curate, weaker vessel, was driven out. He came round in a cab, and bid adieu to all the friends who had stood by him in his trial, which was thought very graceful of him.
MAID OF HONOUR ROW, RICHMOND.