The Green is one of the most piquant of Greens, from its delightful, straggling air. To look at the terrace that juts forward prominently—pleasantly named Maid of Honour Row—is exhilarating from the gaiety and brilliancy of the houses. Never was brick so rubicund, or sashes and railings so brilliantly white. The Maids would have been in spirits here. The design is capital, and the carving and ironwork all match. Would there were more! But there are other old houses of merit dotted about, while a little alley will lead you, by surprise, into the main street. But the Green seems to have lost its genuine air of old fashion since the day—some years ago—the old Richmond Theatre, that filled in the far corner, was removed. It was reputed the oldest theatre in the kingdom, and there, in that very tier of boxes, had the King, George III., often sat and enjoyed the play, having driven over from Kew. There was something particularly quaint and picturesque in this cluster of buildings. You ascended the stairs outside the theatre, under a raised shed.
The curious old playhouse seemed to be exactly what should be found on such a common. It recalled the old theatre at Tunbridge Wells which gave on the Pantiles. It almost revived one of Dickens’s theatres, such as Crummles might have managed, for then it was really a picturesque thing, with stairs mounting outside, right and left to the boxes, while you descended into a sort of well to reach the pit. Attached to it, and growing out of it, was a sort of hexagonal dwelling-house, with a tree planted by Queen Elizabeth, so the legend runs. There was something of the old fashion of a weather-beaten three-decker in the look of the place: it was a genuine thing—had the genuine flavour. Since then someone plastered it over and modernized it, but the old balustrades and stairs outside were left. This venerable tabernacle had a fitful time, being on the whole more closed than open. It nodded and dozed through the rest of the year. What excitement when it was to be opened for two nights only, with The Green Bushes, a delightful entertaining piece, and so romantic—in the suburbs, and in “boyhood’s hour”! Occasionally a company of London amateurs took it for one night, playing London Assurance, having friends on the Green; then all old ladies and old maids made an exertion, and the fly was sure to be ordered the night before.
At another corner of the Green is the old Sheen Palace, with its fine old archway, under which you pass, its indistinct blazonry and hexagonal towers. This genuine fragment has been judiciously restored, and fashioned into a snug dwelling-house, which secures its existence.
On the river’s bank, just as we turn down to the bridge, where there is one of the most beautiful and exhilarating views of the river, we come to a remarkable old house, a fine specimen of Georgian brickwork. This imperishable-looking, rubicund structure is known as the Trumpeter House, from two curious figures placed in front. It is in a sequestered corner of its own, and might be built of iron, so firm and hard is it, defying time and damp. Behind is its old-fashioned sward, with curious old trees, a cedar of Lebanon, trimmed hedges, and sunk fences stretching down to the river walk, to which, too, it displays an imposing, snowy portico and pillars on a background of cheerful red. This must be one of the best specimens of brickwork in the land. Old Richmond is full of suggestions and old associations. There is a tablet to Kean’s memory affixed to the old church. There is Mrs. Pritchard’s house, Sir Joshua’s, Thomson’s the poet, and many more. In the middle of the town we come upon a friendly sign-post, directing us in all directions—a hospitable custom adopted in all these places, such as Twickenham, Kingston, etc.
On a pleasant road, not far from the station, we pass a fine, portly, red-brick mansion, well known as Miss Braddon’s (Mrs. Maxwell), which is notable for still preserving the quaintly-formed long garden, or alley, with a summer-house at the end, as if for bowls.
Isleworth, a charming suburb for the suburban Richmond, looks very pleasing and picturesque from the opposite side of the river: here you can see our long-lost Charing Cross Lion, who, as many think, was carted away into space, or “shot” somewhere into the river. But there he stands, defiant as ever, on Sion House—another of his ancestral homes—associated, too, with charming Sunday walks by the river, say from Kew to Richmond, where the ineffable softness of the stream on some balmy sunny day is best perceived. Hard by Isleworth is an enclosed house and grounds—an antique villa a couple of centuries old, well known as belonging to a sterling veteran actor long associated with the old Haymarket. In this charming inclosure he has dwelt for many years, and by assiduous but enjoyable toil created a garden with winding walks and labyrinths, having a picturesque old yew as something to begin with. On one enjoyable riverside Sunday I made my way down, having been often bidden, and here I was welcomed by one of the best specimens the profession can offer. Grateful is that bit of green-sward—like velvet—the table set out near the overshadowing yew, the old porch at home, the world and its hum shut out by the enclosing wall. This is the home of the veteran Howe—a link with the rare old Haymarket days.
Taking our way up Richmond Hill—noting the still rustic, pleasingly old fashioned air of the houses and villas as we ascend—we shall, of course, pause to enjoy the oft-celebrated, ever-admired view, if a proper day. It has a charm that cannot be surpassed, notably the silver glistening of the riband that winds away below. It is only when you live in the place that you learn the nature of the charm.
Before reaching Kingston we pass through Norbiton, where we welcome, close to the roadside, the unwonted music of the rooks, now too rarely heard. We can see their nests high in the tall trees, and then one or two quaint “demesne houses,” quite in keeping with the rooks.
It is likely that there are many who have never explored old Kingston town, and assume that it is of the same pattern as Kew or Putney. It is a curiously attractive and original place enough, and its market-place might be that of some old country town a hundred miles away. Here are plenty of framed and gabled houses overhanging the street, and combined together with a really pleasing variety. The number of old inns here clustered is truly extraordinary—The Wheatsheaf, The Sun, The Ram, The Griffin, a former great posting-house, with its archway and huge yard; and even the Assembly Rooms, still in vogue. The Market House is modern, but harmonizes pleasantly; there is a monumental drinking-fountain, and a mysterious old stone, known as “the coronation stone,” fenced carefully round. There is the old church and its churchyard just touching the street. One Sunday morning, when I was wandering here, there came across the old Market Place a small procession, the town clerk leading, his fellows behind, one bearing a mace, and behind the Mayor! in his gown, for the little town boasts this privilege. They were making for the church; and the whole had a quaint air.
The Thames here is charming, and beside it are well-framed fishing inns, such as “The Anglers,” with names of the hosts that seem appropriate—by “J. Silver,” and the stranger “Everproud.” There is the silvery-looking bridge close by, with its graceful, hilly curve.