the pryor’s bank, fulham.
Nestling in trees beneath the old tower of Fulham Church, which has been judiciously restored by Mr. George Godwin, there may be seen from Putney Bridge a remarkable group of houses, the most conspicuous of which will be conjectured from a passing glance to belong to the Gothic tribe. This house, which has been a pet kind of place of the Strawberry Hill class, is called the Pryor’s Bank, and its history can be told in much less than one hundredth part of the space that a mere catalogue of the objects of interest which it has contained would occupy. In fact, the whole edifice, from the kitchen to the bedrooms, was a few years since a museum, arranged with a view to pictorial effect; and if it had been called “The Museum of British Antiquities” it would have been found worthy of the name.
In a print, published about forty years since, by J. Edington, 64 Gracechurch Street, of Fulham Church, as seen from the river, the ancient aspect of the modern Pryor’s Bank is preserved. Fulham Church The situation of this humble residence having attracted the fancy of Mr. Walsh Porter, he purchased it, raised the building by an additional story, replaced its latticed casements by windows of coloured glass, and fitted the interior with grotesque embellishments and theatrical decorations. The entrance hall was called the robber’s cave, for it was constructed of material made to look like large projecting rocks, with a winding staircase, and mysterious in-and-out passages. Vine Cottage One of the bed-rooms was called, not inaptly, the lion’s den. The dining-room represented, on a small scale, the ruins of Tintern Abbey; and here Mr. Porter had frequently the honour of receiving and entertaining George IV., when Prince of Wales. It was then called Vine Cottage, [213] and having been disposed of by Mr. Porter, became, in 1813, the residence of Lady Hawarden; and, subsequently, of William Holmes, Esq., M.P., who sold it to Mr. Baylis and Mr. Lechmere Whitmore about 1834.
By them a luxurious vine which covered the exterior was cut down, and the cottage, named after it, replaced by a modern antique house. Mr. Baylis being a zealous antiquary, his good taste induced him to respect neglected things, when remarkable as works of art, and inspired him and his friend Mr. Whitmore with the wish to collect and preserve some of the many fine specimens of ancient manufacture that had found their way into this country from the Continent, as well as to rescue from destruction relics of Old England. In the monuments and carvings which had been removed from dilapidated churches, and in the furniture which had been turned out of the noble mansions of England—the “Halls” and “old Places”—Mr. Baylis saw the tangible records of the history of his country; and, desirous of upholding such memorials, he gleaned a rich harvest from the lumber of brokers’ shops, and saved from oblivion articles illustrative of various tastes and periods, that were daily in the course of macadamisation or of being consumed for firewood.
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. Terrace at Pryor’s Bank Suppose, then, we leave those beautiful climbing plants—they are Chilian creepers that so profusely wanton on the sunny wall—and turning sharply round an angle of the river front, cut at once, by the most direct walk, the parties who in luxurious idleness have assembled about the garden fountain; and, lest such folk should attempt to interrupt us in our sober purpose, let us not stop to see or admire anything, until we reach the bay-window summer-house at the end of the terrace. “How magnificent are those chestnut-trees!” I hear you exclaim; “and this old bay-window!”
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! Fountain at Pryor’s Bank These balusters belonged to the main staircase of Winchester House. Do you remember Winchester House in Broad Street, in the good city of London, the residence of “the loyal Paulets?” Perhaps not. There is, however, a print of its last appearance in the ‘Gentleman’s Magazine’ for April, 1839, and by which you will at once identify this summer-house as the bay-window of the principal apartment. Indeed the editor tells you that “the greater part of the remaining ornamental wood-work has been purchased by Thomas Baylis, Esq., F.S.A., who is fitting up with it the kitchen and some of the new rooms of his house, Pryor’s Bank, Fulham.”
It is stated in the same magazine, that in 1828 the motto of the Paulets, Aymes Loyaulte, was to be seen in the windows of the principal apartment on the first floor, in yellow letters, disposed in diagonal stripes; which motto, it is added, “was probably put there by the loyal Marquis of Winchester, in the time of Charles I., by whom the same sentence was inscribed in every window of his residence at Basing House, in Hants, which he so gallantly defended against the Parliamentarians.” [218]
Now, is it not more probable that the recollection of this motto in the windows of his paternal mansion, conveyed through the medium of coloured glass, indelibly stamped by sunshine (or daguerreotyped, as we might term it) upon the youthful mind of the gallant marquis those feelings of devoted loyalty which influenced his after conduct, and led him to inscribe with the point of his diamond ring the same motto upon the windows of Basing House? Turn Buckle Be this as it may, it is gratifying to know that many of the panes of glass which bore that glorious yellow letter motto in Winchester House, at the period when it was doomed to be taken down, are preserved, having been with good taste presented to the present Marquis of Winchester; and two or three which were overlooked have come into the possession of Lord Adolphus Fitzclarence. But much of the diamond-shaped glass in this bay-window, as it stood upon the terrace of the Pryor’s Bank, was ancient, and very curious. You could not fail to remark the quaint window-latch, termed “a Turn Buckle.”
Had we time to linger here, how amusing it might be to attempt to decipher the monograms, and names, and verses inscribed upon the various lozenge-shaped panes of glass, which practically exemplified the phrase of “diamond cut diamond.”
The fragments of the old Royal Exchange, with a Burmese cross-legged idol perched thereon—the urn to the memory of “Poor Banquo;” the green-house, with its billiard-table, and even an alcove, the most charming spot in “the wide world” to talk sentiment in, must not detain us from returning to another angle of the river front, after Alcove: and Angle of the River Front glancing at which, we enter the outer hall or passage, wainscoted with oak and lined above with arras, separated from the inner hall by an oak screen, which was usually guarded upon gala nights by most respectable “Beef-eaters,” who required the production of invitation Inner Hall with oak screen cards from all visitors. They permit us to pass without question; and that is a very proper example for you to follow, and a good reason why you should not question me too closely:—
“Do you think that I
Came here to be the Pryor’s Bank directory?”
You must use your own eyes, and judge for yourself. I will tell you, however, all that I know as briefly as possible, and point out whatever occurs to me in our scamper, for a scamper it can only be termed: just such a kind of run as a person makes through London who has come up by railroad to see all its wonders in a week. But I cannot allow you to examine so closely that curiously carved oak chimney-piece in the inner hall, although I admit that it may be as early as Henry VIII.’s time, and those interesting old portraits. Where shall we begin? You wish to inspect everything. Suppose, then, we commence with the kitchen, and steam it up-stairs to the dormitories, going at the rate of a high-pressure engine.
You are already aware that the kitchen was panelled with oak from the drawing-room of Winchester House, and now you see the whole style of fitting-up accords with that of “bygone days.” Look, for instance, towards the kitchen window, and you will find that the various cupboards, presses and dressers—even the cooking utensils—correspond; but, although modern improvements have not been lost sight of, antique forms have been retained. Let one example suffice, that of an ancient gridiron, of beautiful and elaborate workmanship.
Kitchen Window: and Ancient Gridiron
The history of the plates and dishes displayed in this kitchen would afford an opportunity for a dissertation on the rise and progress of the fine arts in this country, as they present most curious and important specimens of early drawing, painting, and poetry. The old English plate was a square piece of wood, which indeed is not quite obsolete at the present hour. The improvement upon this primitive plate was a circular platter, with a raised edge; but there were also thin, circular, flat plates of beech-wood in use for the dessert or confection, and they were gilt and painted upon one side, and inscribed with pious, or instructive, or amorous mottoes, suited to the taste of the society in which they were produced. Such circular plates are now well known to antiquaries under the name of “roundels,” and were at one time generally supposed by them to have been used as cards for fortune-telling, or playing with at questions and answers. More sober research into their origin and use shows that they were painted and decorated with conventional patterns by nuns, who left blank spaces for the mottoes, to be supplied by the more learned monks; and a set of these roundels generally consisted of twelve. As specimens of the style of these mottoes about the time of Henry VII. or VIII. the following may be taken:—
“Wheresoever thou traveleste,
Este, Weste, Northe, or Southe,
Learne never to looke
A geven horsse in the mouthe.”
“In friends ther ys flattery,
In men lyttell trust,
Thoughe fayre they proffer
They be offten unjuste.”
There are many sets of verses for roundels extant in manuscript, and a few have been printed; indeed, it appears likely that to the love for this species of composition we owe Tusser’s “Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry,” and most of his other admonitory verses.
After the Reformation, coloured prints superseded the painted and manuscript “poesies” of the nuns and monks, and the elder De Passe, and other artists of the period of James I. and Charles I., produced a variety of oval and circular engravings, which were pasted upon roundels and varnished over. The subjects generally selected were those which naturally arranged themselves into a set of twelve, as the months. By the Puritans the beechen roundels thus decorated were regarded with especial dislike, and they returned to the use of the unadorned trencher and “godly platter.” When the “Merry Monarch” was restored he brought over with him from Holland plates and dishes manufactured at Delft, where the porcelain known as Faenza, Faience, Majolica, and Fynlina ware, made during the fifteenth century in the North of Italy, and upon the embellishments of which, according to LamartiniÈre, the pencils of Raffaelle, Giulio Romano, and the Caracci, were employed, had been successfully, although coarsely imitated. And it must be confessed that many of the old Dutch plates, dishes, and bowls, upon the kitchen-shelves of the Pryor’s Bank, deserved to be admired for boldness of design, effective combinations of colour, and the manual dexterity displayed in the execution of the patterns. The superior delicacy of the porcelain of China, which about this time began to be imported freely into England from the East caused it to be preferred to the “Dutch ware,” and the consequence of international commerce was, that the Chinese imitated European devices and patterns upon their porcelain, probably with the view of rendering the article more acceptable in the Dutch and English markets. But while the Chinese were imitating us, we were copying their style of art in the potteries of Staffordshire, with the commercial manufacturing advantage given by the power of transferring a print to the clay over the production of the same effect by means of the pencil, an idea no doubt suggested by our roundels of Charles I.’s time, and which process became of the same relative importance as printing to manuscript. This was the origin of our common blue-and-white plate, or what is known as “the willow pattern,” where
“Walking through their groves of trees,
Blue bridges and blue rivers,
Little think those three Chinese
They’ll soon be smash’d to shivers.”
The popularity of this porcelain pattern must not be ascribed to superior beauty or cheapness, for to the eye of taste surely a pure plain white plate is infinitely superior to an unfeeling copy of a Chinese pagoda, bridge, and willow-tree “in blue print.” The fact is that the bugbear of a vulgar mind—“fashion”—long rendered it imperative upon every good housewife and substantial householder to keep up a certain dinner-set of earthenware, consisting of two soup-tureens and a relative proportion of dishes and vegetable-dishes, with covers, soup-plates, dinner-plates, and dessert-plates, which were all to correspond; and should any accidental breakage of crockery take place, it was a manufacturing trick to make it a matter of extra-proportionate expense and difficulty readily to replace the same unless it happened to be of “the blue willow pattern.” The practice, however, of using for the dessert-service plates of Worcester china painted by hand, and the execution of many of which as works of art call for our admiration as much as any enamel, created a taste for forming what are called harlequin sets, among which, if a few plates happen to be
the value of the whole set is only proportionately depreciated, and what has been broken may perhaps be advantageously replaced.
Earl of Essex
If you like, we will return to the inner hall, where is a portrait of the celebrated Earl of Essex, an undoubted original picture, dated 1598, three years previous to his being beheaded (Zucchero), and from it at once enter the library, or breakfast-room. Here there is a superbly carved Elizabethan chimney-piece.
Elizabethan chimney-piece
What are you about? You should not have touched so thoughtlessly that “brass inkstand,” as you call it. It is actually a pix, or holy box, [227] which once contained the host, and was considered “so sacred, that upon the march of armies it was especially prohibited from theft.” We are told that Henry V. delayed his army for a whole day to discover the thief who had stolen one. You may admire the pictures as much as you please; they are odd and hard-looking portraits to my eye; but they are historically curious, and clever, too, for their age. Pix, or Holy Box Could you only patiently listen to a discussion upon the characters of the originals of the portraits that have hung upon these walls, or the volumes that have filled these shelves; you might gain a deeper insight into the workings of the human heart than, perhaps, you would care to be instructed by. There were in the next room—the dining-room—into which we may proceed when you please, for only by a sliding door between the library and dining-room are they separated—such pictures! Sliding door into dining-room An unquestionable ‘Henry VIII.,’ by Holbein; a ‘Queen Mary,’ by Lucas de Heere, from the collection of the late Mr. Dent; and a glorious ‘Elizabeth,’ that had belonged to Nathaniel Rich of Eltham, who we know from the particulars of sale that were in the Augmentation Office, was the purchaser of Eltham Palace, when disposed of by the Parliament after the death of Charles I.; and we also know from Strype’s Annals of the Reformation, that Elizabeth visited Eltham and passed some days there in 1559, and that she made her favourite Sir Christopher Hatton keeper of the royal palace there.
You should not disturb those books; you will look in vain for the publication of George III.’s ‘Illustration of Shakspeare,’ and corrected in the autograph of the king for a second edition. How remarkable are the opinions entertained by His Majesty respecting Doctors Johnson and Franklin, and how curious are some of the notes! This book is the true history of his reign, and would be worth to us fifty black-letter Caxtons. Mr. Thorpe of Piccadilly can tell you all about it. Monastic chair and damask curtains Oh, never mind that manuscript in its old French binding, and those exquisitely-wrought silver clasps, and dear old Horace Walpole’s books. We must enter the dining-room. Here sit down in this monastic chair, and look around you for five minutes. This chair Mr. Baylis picked up in Lincoln; and the curtains beside it, they came from Strawberry Hill, and are of genuine Spitalfields damask. There is no such damask to be had now. Eighty years ago were these curtains manufactured, and yet they are in most excellent condition. The greater portion of the Gothic oak panelling around us originally formed the back of the stalls in the beautiful chapel of Magdalen College, Oxford. During the late repairs this panelling was removed and sold. Much of it was purchased by the Marquess of Salisbury for Hatfield House, and the remainder Mr. Baylis bought. More of the oak panelling in the room, especially the elaborately-wrought specimens and the rich tracery work, have been obtained from Canterbury Cathedral, York Minster, St. Mary’s Coventry, and other churches.
Ornate chimney-piece
The chimney-piece is a rich composition of ancient carving; the canopy came from St. Michael’s Church, Coventry, and in the niches are some fine figures of the kings and queens of England. Knight’s armour The fire-back is an interesting relic, as it is the original one placed in the great dining-hall of Burghley House, by Elizabeth’s minister, whose arms are upon it, with the date 1575. The sideboard, with its canopy of oak, assimilates with the fitting of the room, and had upon its shelves a glittering display of ancient glass and early plate. Salvers and cups of singular forms and beautiful shapes arose proudly up, one above the other, with dishes of Raffaelle ware beneath them. But I cannot help seeing that the steel-clad knight, who keeps guard in a recess by the sideboard, attracts more of your attention. Leathern black jack and iron jug The effigy is an excellent suit of fluted armour of Henry VIIth’s time; and in the opposite recess, those huge drinking-vessels are only an honest old English leathern black jack and an iron jug; the former from St. Cross, Winchester, the latter from the castle of some German baron, and full of feudal character.
As for the other relics in the dining-room, I will only particularise two or three more; and they are a pair of round and solid well-carved pendents from the chancel of the church of Stratford-on-Avon, which have been removed from their original station immediately over the tomb of Shakspeare; and are now, as you see, inverted and used here as footstools.
“Think of that, Master Brooke!”
The other relic is that matchless piece of sculptured oak Effigy in oak of Emperor Rudolph II. which represents the Emperor Rudolph II., the size of life (five feet six inches in height), and which was brought from Aix-la-Chapelle by the late Sir Herbert Taylor. What may have been its former history I cannot tell you, but it resembles in execution the exquisite Gothic figures in the chimney-piece of the town-hall at Bruges, and is of about the same height and size.
Are you willing to forsake the thoughtful soberness of antique oak-panelling for the tinsel of Venetian gold and the richness of Genoa velvet, Florentine tapestry, and Persian arras? If so, we will ascend to the drawing-rooms and gallery. But stay a moment and permit this lady and oddly-dressed gentleman to pass us on their exit from the gallery, where they have been rehearsing some charming entertainment for the evening, or getting up some piece of fanciful mummery to amuse the idle guests who have congregated around the garden fountain. Couple exiting from gallery The light is not favourable for seeing all the pictures that deserve inspection on the staircase—you had better ascend; and now, having reached the head of the semi-staircase, our course is along this lobby to the opposite door-way, which is that of the drawing-room.
Let us enter at once, and in our tour of the Pryor’s Bank regard the ante-drawing-room as a kind of middle or passage-room, belonging either to the gallery or the drawing-room. I admit that the arrangement of the house, which, however, is very simple, appears puzzling at first: the reason of this is, that the senses are often deceived, from mirrors here and there being so judiciously arranged, that they reflect at happy angles objects which would otherwise escape observation. It is impossible to convey an idea of the whole effect of the Pryor’s Bank, made up as it has been of carvings of unrivalled richness, grace, and variety, solemn and grotesque. Statues are there, some of the highest class of art, others which belong to an early Gothic period, and yet an harmonious effect has been produced. Where will you take up your position for a general view? At the other end? or in the oriel window looking on the Bishop’s Walk?
Oriel Window. Venetian Table
Now if it were not for that richly gilt Venetian table, the companion to which is in the possession of the Earl of Harrington, we might have an excellent view of that magnificently embellished recess, upon the merits of which Mr. Baylis is commenting to another oddly equipped gentleman. There certainly is something going forward in the fancy-dress way. On this Venetian table stands a French astronomical clock; upon it are silver medallions of Louis XIII. and XIV., and among its ornaments the monograms of these monarchs appear.
Here is a group, in ivory, of bacchanals, with attendant boys; a genuine piece of Fiamingo’s work, cut from solid ivory, and formerly in the collection of the Vatican. Here, Group in Ivory: Tapestried Recess come this way, we may as well pick up something of the history of this tapestried recess, the canopy and seats of which, and the three other recesses in the drawing-room, are fashioned out of the remains of a large throne or dais brought from Florence, and which had belonged to the Medici family. The materials are of the richest possible kind, being flowers of floss silk upon a ground-work of gold thread, interspersed with silver. The effect produced by this combination is gorgeous in the extreme. “And those figures?” That nearest the eye is a statue of the Emperor Rudolph of Hapsburgh, admirably carved in oak, the armour is of silver damasked with gold. The other figure, and a corresponding one on the opposite side of the room, represent Gothic queens, whose robes have been restored in the illuminated style of decoration. “And the tapestry in the recess?” Listen to what Mr. Baylis is saying. “Thinking over it,” remarked Sir Bulwer Lytton to me, “I have very little doubt but that my guess was right—that the fisherman is meant for Antony and the lady for Cleopatra; it was a favourite story in the middle ages, how Antony, wishing to surprise Cleopatra with his success in angling, employed a diver to fix fishes on his hook. Cleopatra found him out, and, in turn, employed a diver of her own to put waggishly a salt (sea) fish on his hook.” The story is in Plutarch, and the popularity of the anecdote may be seen by the use Shakspeare makes of it. Charmian says,—
“’Twas merry when
You wagered on your angling; when your diver
Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he
With fervency, drew up.” [235]
It is no doubt correctly conjectured by Sir Bulwer Lytton, that many subjects in tapestry (not Scriptural) have their explanation in Plutarch, the fashionable classic source of tale and legend for our fathers of the middle ages. Shakspeare, it need scarcely be observed, depends on him for all his classic plots; and he was no less a favourite on the Continent than with us. If you observe the attitude and expression of Cleopatra, for so we will consider her, you will perceive that there is something impressive, as well as smiling, about her which would suit the words she is supposed to have uttered, when she had laughed sufficiently at the trick she played him, and which, to the best of my recollection, ran thus, “Leave fishing to us smaller potentates; your angling should be for cities and kingdoms.”
Every article of the furniture merits your attention. Here is a Venetian chair; [236] it is one of a set of twenty-six, with a sofa, brought from the Gradenigo Palace, and is carved and gilt all over,—the back, and seat, and cushions for the arms, being Genoa red velvet. Venetian chair Fourteen of these chairs, with the sofa, are in this room; the other twelve were purchased by the Earl of Lonsdale.
Vases of Dresden china, marqueterie tables, and a shrine (see page 237) of gilt carved work at one end of the room, reflected in mirrors of gigantic dimensions, dazzle the senses; and its ceiling studded with blue and gold pendants, and its walls all painted over with quaint devices like the pages of a missal. Also a magnificent Gothic chimney-piece (see page 238) of Carrara marble, fitted with brass-work of ormolu and chimney-glass. The chimney was removed from the grand Gothic-room at Carlton House, and cost George IV. many hundred pounds. Indeed the drawing-room of the Pryor’s Bank seems to be more like some scene in an enchanted palace, than in an every-day residence upon the bank of the river Thames.
Shrine
The ante-room is not less splendidly furnished. Its ceiling is even more elaborately embellished than that of the drawing-room, for the heads of mitred abbots, jolly monks, and demure nuns look down upon us from each intersection of the groining.
A Florentine cabinet (see page 239), of mosaic work in lapis lazuli, pietra dura, topaz, agates, etc., one of the finest specimens of the kind ever seen,—it eventually came into the possession of Mr. Hurst, who asked fifteen hundred Gothic Chimney-piece guineas for it—a magnificent carved oak chimney-piece (see page 240); chairs which belonged to Queen Elizabeth; and among other pictures, an undoubted one by Janssen, of “Charles II. dancing at the Hague,” must not detain us, although it be a duplicate of the celebrated picture in the possession of Her Majesty, with which the history of this is completely identical, both having been purchased from the same individual at the same period.
A Florentine Cabinet
“And that portrait of Elizabeth?” It was given by Charles II. to Judge Twysden. “And that other portrait?” Yes, it is Lord Monteagle; not of Exchequer documentary fame, but of Gunpowder Plot notoriety. And there are portraits of Katharine of Aragon and Prince Arthur from Strawberry Hill. I positively cannot allow you to dwell on that chimney-piece of Raffaelle design, carved in oak and coloured in ultra-marine and gold.
I entirely agree with you in thinking it a pity that the Carved Oak chimney-piece vast labours of our ancestors—things upon which they bestowed so much time and thought—should be blown into oblivion by the mere breath of fashion. How much nobler is the fashion to respect, cherish, and admire them!
And now we are again within the gallery, and look upon the ante-room through the private entrance, and in another second we might be within the bay-window of the gallery; for, place these sketches together at a right angle, side by side, and the part of the sofa which appears in one, is only the continuation of the same seat in the other. But this must not make you think that the Pryor’s Bank is but a miniature affair, or give you a contemptible idea of the size. You should rather take your general notion of the proportions of the gallery from a glance at that lady who is studying with so much attention the part she has undertaken to enact, and look up as to the comparative height of the window at the top compartments made up of ancient Bay-Window: Private Entrance painted glass, charged with the arms of some of the medieval kings of England, among which you cannot fail to notice those of Richard III. Those two elaborately-wrought lanterns which depend from the groined ceiling, formerly hung in the Gothic conservatory of Carlton House, and the recesses of the walls are adorned with eleven full-length portraits of kings and queens of Spain painted upon leather.
Look at those ebony and ivory couches, and this ebony chair, from which justice was formerly meted out by the Dutch and English rules to the Cingalese; and see here this great chair, so profusely carved and cushioned with rich black velvet worked with gold. Black velvet chair It is said to have been the Electoral coronation chair of Saxony; and the date assigned to it in the ‘Builder’ is 1620. The armorial bearings embroidered upon the back would probably settle the question; but I know little of foreign heraldry beyond the fact that sufficient attention is not paid to it in this country.
Attached to the gallery at the opposite end of the lobby from which we entered the drawing-room, there is a boudoir, or robing-room—a perfect gem in its way. Nell Gwynne’s mirror You have only to touch this spring, and that picture starts from the wall and affords us free egress. Just take one peep into this fairy boudoir.
There hangs against the wall Nell Gwynne’s mirror, in its curious frame of needlework. Oh! You wish to take a peep at yourself in Nelly’s looking-glass? Odds, fish! mind you do not overset that basset table of Japan manufacture—another Strawberry Hill relic. Now, are you satisfied? Those beautiful enamels, and that charming Bermudian brain-stone, the wonderful network of which infinitely exceeds the finest lace? Well, I must admit that some philosophy is required to feel satisfied when revelling among the ornaments of palaces, the treasures of monasteries, and the decorations of some of the proudest mansions of antiquity; and did we not turn our eyes and regard the infinitely superior works of Nature, alike bountifully spread before the poor and the rich man, the heart might feel an inward sickening at the question. In the state carved-oak bed-room is a finely carved walnut-wood German cabinet of the true Elizabethan period.
German cabinet (Eizabethan period)
Though within the walls of the Pryor’s Bank, or any other human habitation, all that is rich in art may be assembled, yet, without the wish to turn these objects to a beneficial purpose, they become only a load of care; but when used to exalt and refine the national taste, they confer an immortality upon the possessor, and render him a benefactor to his species; when used, also, as accessories to the cultivation of kindly sympathies and the promotion of social enjoyment, they are objects of public utility. The revival of old-fashioned English cordiality, especially at Christmas, had been always a favourite idea with the owners of the Pryor’s Bank, and in 1839 they gave an entertainment which, like
“O’Rourke’s noble feast, will ne’er be forgot
By those who were there or those who were not.”
They were fortunate in securing the aid of Theodore Hook, of pleasant, and, alas! of painful memory, who was their neighbour, with that of some other friends and acquaintances, who thoroughly entered into the whim of recalling olden times by the enactment of masques and other mummeries.
Hook, in his manuscript journal of Thursday, the 26th of December, 1839, notes that he was engaged to dine with Lady Quentin at Kew:—
“Weather dreadful, so resolved to write her an excuse and came home in coach early, so up to Baylis’s, where I was asked to dine. They came here, and we walked up together; so to rehearsal, and then back again to bed.”
Hook’s letter, in a feigned hand, to Mr. Baylis upon this occasion ran thus:—
“Sir,—Circumstancis hoeing too the Fox hand wether in Lunnun as indered me of goen two Q. wherefor hif yew plese i ham reddy to cum to re-ersal two nite, in ten minnits hif yew wil lett the kal-boy hof yewer theeter bring me wud—if you kant reed mi riten ax Mister Kroften Kroker wich his a Hanty queerun like yewerself honly hee as bin longer hatit yewers two kommand,
“TEE HEE OOK.”
“Master Bailies hesquire,
Manger hof thee,
T.R.P.B. and halso Proper rioter thereof.”
On Saturday, Hook records in his ‘Diary’ his having refused his “firmest friend’s command” that he should dine with him—“because,” writes Hook, “I cannot on account of the things to be done at Pryor’s Bank.”
Of the memorable Monday, the 30th of December, Hook notes:—
“To-day, not to town, up and to Baylis’s; saw preparations. So, back, wrote a little, then to dinner, afterwards to dress; so to Pryor’s Bank, there much people,—Sir George and Lady Whitmore, Mrs. Stopford, Mrs. Nugent, the Bully’s, and various others, to the amount of 150. I acted the ‘Great Frost’ with considerable effect. Jerdan, PlanchÉ, Nichols, Holmes and wife, Lane, Crofton Croker, Giffard, Barrow. The Whitmore family sang beautifully; all went off well.”
The part of the Great Frost to which Hook alludes was in a masque, written for the occasion, and printed and sold in the rooms, for the benefit of the Royal Literary Fund; and among the record of miscellaneous benefactions to this most admirable charity are registered—“Christmas masquers and mummers at the Pryor’s Bank, Fulham, the seat of Thomas Baylis, Esq., F.S.A., and William Lechmere Whitmore, F.S.A. (1840), £3 12s. 6d.” Thus carrying out in deed as well as act the benevolent feelings of the season.
What little plot there was in this production had reference to the season, the house in which it was performed, and temporary events. Egomet, an imp, most piquantly personified by Mr. John Barrow, opened the affair in a moralising strain prophetically applicable to the moment.
After stating who and what he was, he starts:—
“But I’m all over wonder.
Surely the kitchen must be somewhere under?
But where’s the room?—the matchless little chamber,
With its dark ceiling, and its light of amber—
That fairy den, by Price’s pencil drawn,
Enchantment’s dwelling-place? ’Tis gone—’Tis gone!
The times are changed, I said, and men grown frantic,
Some cross in steamboats o’er the vast Atlantic;
Some whirl on railroads, and some fools there are
Who book their places in the pendant car
Of the great Nassau—monstrous, big balloon!
Poor lunatics! they think they’ll reach the moon!
All onward rush in one perpetual ferment,
No rest for mortals till they find interment;
Old England is not what it once has been,
Dogs have their days, and we’ve had ours, I ween.
The country’s gone! cut up by cruel railroads,
They’ll prove to many nothing short of jail-roads.
The spirit vile of restless innovation
At Fulham e’en has taken up his station.
I landed here, on Father Thames’s banks,
To seek repose, and rest my wearied shanks;
Here, on the grass, where once I could recline,
Like a huge mushroom springs this mansion fine.
Astounding work! but yesterday ’twas building;
And now what armour, carving, painting, gilding!
Vexed as I am, yet loth to be uncivil,
I only wish the owner at the ---!”
Father Thames (Mr. Giffard), who had been slumbering between two painted boards, respectively inscribed “middlesex county bank” and “surrey bank,” and surrounded by flower-pots filled with bulrushes and sedge, roused by the intended imprecation upon their host, here interrupted Egomet, and entered into a long dialogue with him, in which he detailed all his grievances so far as gas and steam were concerned. At length he feels the influence of Hook as “the Great Frost,” who turns
“The old blackguard to solid ice.”
Upon which Egomet’s remark was, that—
“The scene to Oxford shifted in a trice is,
This river-god—no longer Thames, but Isis.”
Father Christmas (Mr. Crofton Croker) then appeared with a long speech about eating, drinking, and making merry, and the wondrous power that a good fire and a cheerful glass have upon the heart. Beholding “poor Thames a-cold”—“an icy, heartless river”—the question follows, what
“Do I the matter see?
I’ll thaw you soon—begone to Battersea,
There let thy icebergs float in Chelsea Reach.”
The Great Frost, too, after much buffoonery, turns himself into
“A pleasant fall of fleecy snow,”
which he effected by the vigorous use of the kitchen dredging-box, and an ample supply of flour, therewith bepowdering Jolly Christmas, Father Thames, and Egomet, so plentifully as to leave no doubt upon the minds of the audience respecting the transformation.
Another Christmas revel followed, and then came “a Grand Tournament,” in which a contest between “the Blue Knight” (Mr. Lechmere Whitmore), and “the Yellow Knight” (Mr. Baylis), each mounted upon hobby-horses, was most fiercely executed. Nor was the Giant Cormoran (fourteen feet in height), nor the Queen of Beauty, nor the Dragon Queen wanted to complete the chivalry of this burlesque upon the memorable meeting at Eglinton.
The fun which now became
and to which an impudent but most amusing jester (Mr. Jerdan) mainly contributed, was checked only by the announcement of supper; and as the guests descended the stairs from the gallery, or assembled on the lobby, they beheld their cheer borne in procession from the kitchen, headed by a military band and a herald-at-arms. A cook, with his cap and apron of snowy whiteness, placed a boar’s head
“Bedeck’d with bays and rosemary,”
upon the table; then came two ancient halberdiers, followed by a serving-man in olden livery, carrying the wassail-bowl; then another herald in his tabard, and servitors with Christmas-pie, and brawn, and soup, and turkey, and sirloin of beef, and collared brawn, whereof was an abundant supply, and of the most magnificent dimensions. Father Christmas, carving-knife in hand, and belted with mincepies, and his attendant Egomet, with followers bearing holly, ivy, and mistletoe, brought up the rear. Then was sung “beautifully,” as Hook notes, by four voices, the Oxford chant of
“The boar’s head in hand bear I.”
And here we must drop the curtain, but not without stating that several of the guests felt the enjoyment of the evening so warmly, that it was in long debate among them what suitable acknowledgment in recollection of it should be made to Mr. Baylis and Mr. Whitmore; and, that the actors in the masque presented these gentlemen with an ancient charter horn, which had belonged to the Pickard family, and which they were fortunate enough to secure. The height of this horn, which is supposed to be that of the Highland buffalo—an animal said to be extinct nearly three hundred years—is one foot two inches, its length is one foot six inches, its width at the top five and a half inches; and it is capable of containing one gallon.
Upon this most gratifying memorial to the owners of the Pryor’s Bank, of the esteem created by their hospitality, suitable inscriptions were placed by the donors, with the motto:—
“While Thames doth flow, or wine is drank,
par-hÆl to all at Pryor’s Bank.
++unc-hÆl.”
The remembrance of the pleasant hours passed within the walls of the Pryor’s Bank will not easily be forgotten, though the character of the interior is changed since this was written. The first sale took place on the 3rd May, 1841, and five following days: and there was a subsequent sale on the 25th May, 1854, and four following days. Both these sales took place on the premises, and the Auctioneer, on both occasions, was Mr. Deacon.
Pryor’s Bank is now let to Mr. E. T. Smith, of Her Majesty’s and Drury Lane Theatres.
