THE first glimpse of the river at Putney Bridge seems always new, with a never-failing charm. Indeed, all these clusterings on the river where a bridge crosses—Putney and Hammersmith—have for the Londoner walking out, say of a Sunday, an air of picturesque old fashion. The bridges at Kew and Richmond, with their graceful ascent and elegant arches, harmonize delightfully, and their tone and colour and delicate greys contrast with the green of the foliage and the patches of red brick. It is curious to note the two church towers at Fulham and Putney, which rise so picturesquely at each end of the bridge. The old Putney wooden bridge, with its piles and zigzag bulwarks, has been swept away.

The fine new stone bridge is a great and much-desired convenience, but the sentimentalist will lament its crazy wooden predecessor, rising so steeply and propped on angular wooden cages that were patched and repaired over and over again. This was dear to artists and etchers. The best portion was the gloomy old “Toll House,” with its antique roof of a Nuremberg pattern, grimed and shadowy. This was so suggestive of mystery and romance that in the days of realistic dramas, like the “Streets of London,” it was taken into a “sensation” piece. On the hoardings was a huge coloured picture, representing the structure by moonlight, with some such heading as—“The Murder—The Old Toll House, Putney!!”[28]

On the Fulham side there are a few antique houses with gardens and iron gates, and one which is clearly the work of Vanbrugh, from its heavy gate-porch. There is a little “Georgian” terrace of old-fashioned houses with gardens in front on the left, leading to the church, next to which stands the vicarage house and school. Here is a charming old churchyard with a public path through it. The church itself has been restored in “spick and span” fashion, but in the porch we are faced by a florid and truly gigantic mural tablet, which covers the whole wall, in memory of one Elizabeth

Timpany. This curious work of art is worth looking at, as well as the strange monument to Lord Peterborough within—apparently a field-marshal, standing on a pedestal, with two smaller pillars beside him, on one of which is laid carelessly his gauntlets, on the other, parts of his martial gear. In this verdant churchyard lie many Bishops of London—their palace is close by—with Lord Ranelagh, who has a massive granite monument erected by his regiment—and also Theodore Hook, of facetious memory.

Passing out of the churchyard to the river-side we come to the well-known “Bishop’s Walk,” a raised causeway that runs beside the moat which encloses the palace. This pleasing path, which commands the grounds, is the playground of boys, but is not without its dangers. There used to be a notice: “This path is dangerous.” “Whether the danger arises from the episcopal cows which graze peacefully on the water-meadows adjacent, and, with their sleek coats and calm, sleepy eyes, seem as little mischievous as possible, or from more occult sources of peril, it is not easy to determine. But a passer-by is better informed: ‘It’s the kids,’ he states succinctly. And it seems that the children of the neighbourhood ‘snatch a fearful joy’ in fishing for sticklebacks and newts from the grassy margin of the episcopal moat, and some have tumbled in and been drowned.”

Nothing strikes us so much as the fine old trees and the numerous yews which rise sadly and solemnly beside the Bishop’s Palace. The view from The Walk of the placid, solemn retirement of the grounds, with the cheerful old red of the house and its tiled roof peeping through the trees, is very pleasant. The late Samuel Read, who had a charming gift for catching the spirit of these old houses, and whom a practical publisher of Christmas numbers once praised as “the best moated-granger he knew,” would have revelled here. Entering by the gate, left open, we stroll up to the rather grim-looking quadrangle of solemn black and red brick in a diapered pattern. Nothing can be more pleasing than the still retirement of the inclosure with its circular and waterless basin in the centre, and the imposing doorway facing the archway. The windows are long and diamond-paned, and flush with the wall—lank and gloomy-looking. There is the picturesque lantern over the hall or chapel. No one is to be seen. It is scarcely wonderful that Dr. Temple should be fond of this sequestered place, or should have abandoned and shut up his town mansion.

If we pursue the river bank we come to Hurlingham, a fine old mansion, the scene of many a fashionable joust—polo, and the rest. Many a traveller by the River Thames will have noted the Crab Tree Inn, a quaint and old—very old—house of entertainment. Indeed there are numerous old houses, some of historic interest, but rapidly tumbling into decay: such is old Munster House, at the corner of Munster Road, which is as awry and contorted with age as an ancient crone is with “the rheumatics,” behind whose high walls is seen a large stretch of grounds, solemn nodding yews, and gloomy foliage. Passing on to Parson’s Green we shall find plenty of fine old houses, architectural even in style—Duncannon House and others. We may note also Arundel House, by the road-side, with its quaint grounds and projecting pavilion at the rear. So many old trees and old gardens are found here that the birds, as it may be imagined, flourish exceedingly.

For those who love the pure “old fashion,” and the ways of old fashion, there is nothing more refreshing than a Sunday stroll by these antique towns and villages. Familiar and “Cockneyfied” as are such places, it is surprising what picturesque little “bits” will here repay a little quiet searching. These have often engaged the artist, but the antiquary and lover of the antique prettiness have not been so diligent. Numbers of little “corners” and old houses are revealed along these river banks as we walk. At Battersea, when we turn out of the “speculative builders” region and enter “Vicarage Road,” with its old house and gate, and railing of excellent ironwork, we come straight on a sound, solid old mansion of ripe brick, standing in charming grounds, with a velvet sward and fine old trees, the river flowing beside—a perfect surprise, for it has quite a manorial air. There are a number of these old riverside mansions—retired, snug, and very close to London town, with the air of being miles away. Some of these have been utilized for fashionable suburban clubs, just such a one as “Barn Elms,” of which you have a most pleasing view as you walk along the river’s bank from Putney to Town.

At Hammersmith, Chiswick, Kew, and a few other places there are terraces built along the river-side, which bear the name of the Malls. There is a quaint rococo tone in these titles; and it is pleasant to fancy oneself living in some old house on Chiswick or Hammersmith Mall. For instance, Hammersmith Mall has its row of old trees stooping over the river; its files of pleasure boats drawn up by the boat-houses; the Dutch barges, always furnishing colour. There are curious winding lanes behind houses, and yards which have been allowed to encroach on the banks and have thus driven back the path, with a small canal and a bridge across. Across the river will be noticed a row of mellow old red-brick mansions, snoozing, as it were, in the calm content of a tranquil old age, with a welcome Flemish air.

Beginning our promenade at Hammersmith, we pause before a fine old Williamite or Queen Anne mansion, on the right, of a cheerful red—“The Mall House,” it is called—with a suitable old gate of twisted iron, and a little lawn in front. In looking at an imposing specimen of this kind one is ever struck by the admirable proportions, and the mode in which the windows and doorways are disposed to each other. There is a grace—and proportion, too—in the two or three steps which, as it were, unfold themselves with a slight rail on each side, which expand fan-like, without the unnecessary spikes. This old mansion had originally overhanging eaves, and no doubt a high roof; but some modern occupant has raised the whole a story, using common yellow brick instead, with shocking and barbarous effect, and the whole stands an extraordinary monument of wanton disfigurement; for it would have been as easy and as cheap to have made the alteration somewhat in harmony. I never pass this somewhat roughly used mansion without a feeling of sympathy, if not sorrow.

Further on we arrive at Linden House, a very solid structure of yellow brick, after a style that was in fashion during the last century, with wings, bows, and a little belfry—always a pleasing finish—and of an honest buff. This style is to be found on Clapham and other commons.

Pursuing our walk to Chiswick we find something to interest and please at every step—the Eyot, the barges again, the genial, tranquil air, and the old houses with the older gardens, such as Cedar House, with its spreading trees on the pretty lawn; Walpole House, with its simple gate; Lingard, or Bedford, House, an imposing solid structure. Here is the unpretending-looking yard and factories where small steam launches and such fry are being manufactured by Messrs. Thorneycroft. We turn up Chiswick Lane, and note, on the left, a row of genteel ancient houses—infirm, no doubt, and not a little “ratty”—with a row of trim and pedantic old trees standing sentry in the path in front.