Leaving Rotherhithe, we arrive at a place much more interesting, namely, Deptford. They have done their best to spoil Deptford of late years: they have taken away the old Trinity Almshouses: they have built new streets: but a good deal of the old Deptford remains. I walked about it nearly every day for three months some twelve years ago, reconstructing the Deptford of 1750 from the Deptford of 1886. It is like reconstructing the face in youth from a portrait in middle life. I succeeded at last, to my own satisfaction, and, I hope, to the satisfaction of my readers when the eighteenth-century Deptford appeared as the background of a novel. It was not a very big place: it consisted chiefly of an old church in the lower part of the town, and a new church in the upper part: there were two almshouses: there was the Hall where the Brethren of the Trinity House assembled every year before their service at St. Nicolas and their feast at their house on Tower Hill. The town was full of sailors and naval officers: the latter were not remarkable for the finicking ways of the beaux their contemporaries: on the contrary, they despised such ways—'their fashions I hate, like a pig in a gate.' When they were young they made love all the time they were ashore, except when they were drinking and taking tobacco at the tavern—these occupations, truly, left the honest fellows less time for love than might have been expected. There were officers' taverns and seamen's taverns: rum, however, was the favourite drink at both. And, really, it would surprise you to hear the songs they sang, and to observe the cheerfulness with which they put up with everything: favouritism: long and hopeless service in the lower ranks: bad food on board: long years of foreign service: and for all the gallantry that these brave fellows showed in service not a word of thanks: not a hint at promotion.
The Town consisted mostly of a single street: there were shops, but poor things: there was a market: fruit and vegetables were brought in from the country round: within a few steps of the town one was in the loveliest country, with the Ravensbourne flowing between meadows and under the branches of willows and of alders.
The dockyard of Deptford was founded by Henry the Eighth, and continued till 1869. It was at Deptford that most of the ships were built for the Royal Navy in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries: it was here that Drake's ship, the Golden Hind, in which he had made his voyage round the world, was laid up, her cabin turned into a place of entertainment. She remained here, an object of pilgrimage for the Londoners, for many years. She was a good deal cut about, because everybody wanted to carry away a piece of her. At last she was suffered to fall to pieces. One pious archæologist got a chair made out of her timbers and presented it to the Bodleian Library.
Pepys was often at Deptford in his capacity of Secretary of the Admiralty. 'Up and down the yard all the morning, and seeing the seamen exercise, which they do already very handsomely. Then to dinner.... After dinner and taking our leave of the officers of the yard, we walked to the waterside, and on our way walked into the ropeyard, where I had a look into the tarhouses and other places, and took great notice of all the several works belonging to the making of a cable.'
It was at Deptford that Pepys visited Lady Sandwich, 'where I stood with great pleasure an hour or two by her bedside, she lying prettily in bed.' During the plague year, when he and his wife were staying at Woolwich, he goes over to Deptford nearly every day, and was continually feasting with his friends and always 'very merry,' though the plague was slaying its thousands only a mile or two away.
Another visitor to Deptford who left a lasting memory was Peter the Great, who stayed here in 1698, studying ship architecture. The people of the town had the satisfaction of seeing the Czar of Muscovy—not quite so great a man then as he is now—smoking a pipe of tobacco and drinking brandy in their taverns every evening. By day they might see him working among the dockyard men at the various parts of a ship and its gear.
The most interesting person, however, who is connected with the annals of Deptford is certainly John Evelyn.
Evelyn was not a great writer, nor a great scholar, nor a great statesman: he was not great in anything that he did: yet his memory remains, and will remain long after that of much stronger men has been forgotten. He wrote a great deal, and since some of his writings survive after three hundred years it is manifest that he must have written well. He was a strong royalist who knew how to take care of his own skin. In order to avoid being dragged into the army and fighting for the cause which he loved, he went abroad and travelled in Europe for four years, during which time the royal cause fell to pieces, and those who fought for it were ruined. In 1647 he came home again; in 1649 he went back to France, where he stayed till 1652. By this time he had made many discoveries and observations on art and antiquities. He also married a wife, the daughter of Charles's ambassador at Paris. Through his wife he obtained possession of Sayes Court, Deptford, where, with a few breaks, one of which was to allow Peter the Great to use the house, he lived till nearly the end of his life. He was one of the founders and first Fellows of the Royal Society: he was a member of many commissions: he was the first Treasurer of Queen Mary's new naval hospital, and held many other offices.
In quite a brief note Pepys sums up the character and the accomplishments of this estimable man:
'Nov. 5, 1665. By water to Deptford, and here made a visit to Mr. Evelyn, who among many other things showed me most excellent painting in little: in distemper; in Indian ink; water colours; graving: and above all, the whole secret of mezzotinto, and the manner of it, which is very pretty, and good things done with it. He read to me very much also of his discourse he hath been many years and now is about, about Gardening, which will be a most noble and pleasant piece. He read me part of a play or two of his making; very good, but not as he conceits them, I think, to be. He showed me his "Hortus Hyemalis," leaves laid up in a book of several plants kept dry, which preserve colour, however, and look very finely, better than a Herball. In fine, a most excellent person he is, and must be allowed a little for conceitedness; but he may well be so, being a man so much above others.'