The materials thus acquired were freely used by him in the construction of a new building upon the site of Vine Cottage, and adapted with considerable skill; but when neither the vine nor the cottage were in existence, it appeared to Mr. Baylis ridiculous to allow a misnomer to attach itself to the spot. After due deliberation, therefore, respecting the situation upon a delightful bank of gravel,
and the association which an assemblage of ecclesiastic carvings and objects connected with “monkish memories,” there collected, were likely to produce upon the mind, the new house was styled the “Pryor’s Bank.”
As Horace Walpole’s villa was celebrated by the Earl of Bath, so the charms of the Pryor’s Bank have been sung in “the last new ballad on the Fulham regatta”—a jeu d’esprit circulated at an entertainment given by the hospitable owners in 1843:—
“Strawberry Hill has pass’d away,
Every house must have its day;
So in antiquarian rank
Up sprung here the Pryor’s Bank,
Full of glorious tapestry,—
Full as well as house can be:
And of carvings old and quaint,
Relics of some mitr’d saint,
’Tis—I hate to be perfidious—
’Tis a house most sacrilegious.
“Glorious, glowing painted glass,
What its beauty can surpass?
Shrines bedeck’d with gems we see,
Overhung by canopy
Of embroider’d curtains rare—
Wondrous works of time and care!
Up stairs, down stairs, in the hall,
There is something great or small
To attract the curious eye
Into it to rudely pry.
“Here some niche or cabinet
Full of rarities is set;
Here some picture—‘precious bit’—
There’s no time to dwell on it;
Bronzes, china—all present
Each their own sweet blandishment.
But what makes our pleasure here,
Is our welcome and our cheer;
So I’ll not say one bit more,—
Long live Baylis and Whitmore!”
I would endeavour to convey some idea of the Pryor’s Bank and its now dispersed treasures as they were in 1840, in which year we will suppose the reader to accompany us through the house and grounds; but before entering the house, I would call attention to a quiet walk along the garden-terrace, laved to its verdant slope by the brimming Thames.
Ay, this summer-house which shelters us, and those noble balusters which protect the northern termination of the terrace, how many thoughts do they conjure up in the mind!