THIS little town, or village, of Chiswick is charming in every way, from its church and pretty churchyard and its situation between river and road. The walks hard by have the sylvan air of green lanes. There is the “Mall,” and Chiswick Lane, up which as you glance from the river you can see the little red-rusted terrace of Queen Anne houses, with its antique railings and rural surroundings, a row of “pollarded” trees in front. Facing the church is an old roadside tavern, “The Burlington Arms,” most quaintly picturesque; and on the other side a fine old detached house standing in its garden. We are glad to find here one of the old burly independent and well-built “Manor Houses,” standing by the roadside and flourishing. These must be comfortable structures to live in, with their heavy eaves and solid walls, gardens behind and lawns in front. It is in the occupation of a Chiswick doctor. The churchyard, which has quite the air of a garden, has many tombs of pretension, and almost a theatrical tone, from the players and artists who sleep there. Somehow it seems more particularly associated with Drury Lane Theatre and Garrick, whose name, with many compliments, is seen here and there. Here are his verses on Hogarth’s tomb, which was carefully restored some years ago by a modern Hogarth “of Aberdeen”; the visitor, reading over the much-admired lines, is invited to “drop a tear.”

Here also is Garrick’s scene painter, De Loutherbourg, who is declared on his tablet to be the equal of the greatest masters who are named, which is certainly praise too extravagant. Not far off is Holland, another Drury Lane performer, whom Foote saw laid here in what he coarsely called “the family oven,” his father being a baker.

Following the pretty high road, a little farther on we come to a fine old mansion, standing back from the road in a sort of open square, flanked by two rows of low houses of the pattern seen in a cathedral close, a sort of thick shrubbery filling up the centre. This is Boston House, which has behind and round it a vast and interesting garden that stretches away towards the river. These beautiful old grounds cover seven acres, and have noble old trees, notably an immense and spreading yew which can be seen from the road, with one of the oldest acacias in England. This has long been a young ladies’ school. The old house retires shyly from the road, and is flanked or sheltered by a few houses as old on each side. Thus there is a sort of quaint square in front. Lately a board was displayed, announcing that the place was for sale, and still later it was secured—the inevitable fate of such places—for a charitable institution.

As we trudge along the high road we approach an object that should have extraordinary interest for the artistic mind. A high wall runs along the path. Within it is to be seen a much-dilapidated old house, its shoulder turned to the road, and which, like many a dilapidated old person, has the air of having seen better days. Its squalor is so marked, windows shattered and patched like an Irish shanty, that we wonder at finding such a spectacle on a country road. There are children as squalid, and a general air of discomfort. This is Hogarth’s old home. “Hogarth House” it is called, which he purchased about 1750, when he had grown prosperous, and whence he used to drive into town in his carriage. The good old red brick seems sound enough, and I fancy it would not be difficult to restore and repair. It is surprising that some artist or littÉrateur does not purchase it, as it could be secured no doubt “for a song”; and there would be the additional gratification of earning public gratitude. One “fine morning” it will be found that it has been swept away, and a row of “Hogarth Villas” erected in its stead. Indeed, a week or so ago a warning voice—to which no one will attend—sounded a call that it was tumbling into ruin.

Beside the river runs a wall which encloses the grounds and gardens of Chiswick House, the Duke of Devonshire’s villa, a classical structure, built by that nobleman of elegant taste—Lord Burlington, whose work is to be seen not only in London, but at York and other places. His buildings all exhibit this character, and are effective. This Italian villa, with the cupola to its octagon room rising over the pillared pediment, is in his best style. Not far away on the roadside is another villa, with an ambitious portico and pillars which may have been designed by the same amateur. It would be a surprise now-a-days to find a nobleman designing houses.

Kew, hackneyed and “cockneyfied” as it is, offers charms of its own that do not stale by custom as we approach it by the river bank; it seems to breathe a tone of soft and even melancholy tranquillity. The beautifully-designed grey bridge, with its gracefully-curved gentle ascent and descent, seems to suit the umbrageous shore on the Richmond side. It should be noted that few rivers have been so fortunate in their bridges as the silvery Thames. They are always graceful, and harmonize with the banks, particularly those of Richmond, Henley, Kew, and many more. There is a little Mall at Kew, as there is at Mortlake, formed of stunted, narrow, and old-fashioned houses. The Green at Kew, notwithstanding the tea-houses and tea-gardens and the “touting” notices at the gates, has a truly rococo and rural air which it is not likely to lose. The cheerful white posts, the church perched down in the middle, the old houses round, the grim, forlorn palace and the cheerful trams, all add to the effect. There is a fine and imposing old house on the right as you face the gardens, which was no doubt one of those occupied by the young Princes during the unhappy residence of George III. Opposite is the porch and ancient dependencies of the palace, so lately tenanted by the “old Duchess of Cambridge.” The air seems thick with the memories of the terrible days when the king was seized with madness, and the London road was alive with the carriages of ministers and physicians constantly posting down.

Of Richmond it is hard to tire, and it happily still retains its air of old fashion. The town itself, in spite of many changes and new shops, has an old, drowsy, and quaint air. Only a few years ago there stood close by the railway a terrace of Queen Anne houses, of the brightest, cheerfullest red and whose white doorways were miracles of elaborate carving. They are gone now. As you walk up the street it is always pleasant to think of the little bye lanes and twisting alleys that can lead you on at any moment to the spacious Richmond Green, which, as it were, accompanies the town on its way. I like to see Billett’s confection shop, where are the only true and genuine “maid of honour” cakes—excellent, special things, in their way. Billett’s shop in the early times seemed an awe-inspiring place, and a palace of dainties. There is an old-fashioned “cut” about the shop itself; and there was a pleasant quaintness in this recent protest of the proprietor, and his honest sensitiveness about his cake:—

To celebrate the recent jubilee, Billett gave away an extra “maid of honour” for every dozen purchased.

Years ago, in boyhood’s happy hours, Richmond seemed a very imposing place to live in. There was a regular society of great and small personages. There were lady patronesses, and people used to come all the way from town for “our annual Richmond ball,” always given at the Castle Hotel, that seemed then, with its fine river terrace and gardens and ball-room, a most stately and awe-striking hostelry. Now it seems a poorish place enough, and has lain unlet and abandoned for the last twenty years. What music and fiddling and dancing was there! What barges coming down in the season laden with cheerful company! There is certainly a pleasing rococo tone, recalling the old-fashioned flavour, which has not yet departed. The rows of genial red Queen Anne houses ranged round the common have even now a tranquil air—their tints are mellowed by age—and they have architectural effect which contrasts as effectively with the rows of the modern buildings as an elegant, faded old lady does with some flaunting miss. The mixture of hue on these old commons ever pleases; the green—even the white rails—the sleepy tranquillity, the old-fashioned people who doze away life. There was a colony that included Maria Edgeworth’s brother, a genial old man, who gave parties; and I recall the great convulsion arising out of the dispute between rector and curate. Richmond was rent into factions, but the curate, weaker vessel, was driven out. He came round in a cab, and bid adieu to all the friends who had stood by him in his trial, which was thought very graceful of him.

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.

Another of these Thames-side towns, one that interests with an ancient quaintness, is the pleasant Teddington. How charming is that walk from Richmond, by Twickenham, by the old-fashioned though fast modernizing Strawberry Hill, Teddington, Kingston, until we reach Hampton Court! The old High Street, Teddington, is really but little altered from the days of Peg Woffington, who died there. There are many old and curious houses, and inns as old, one kept by “Cornhill”—odd name! But at the far end of the town, at the opening “turn,” we come upon the row of three antique houses, well rusted, and with many well-leaded windows and having an air of sleeping tranquillity. They are well overgrown with creeping plants and are labelled “Mrs. Margaret Woffington’s Cottages,” and are in fact the almshouses founded by the wayward, eccentric being when she became “good.” They were built out of the money left to her by “Old Sweny,” the manager, to inherit which she had to conform to the established religion. New almshouses, however, have been built in another quarter of the town, and the old ones are let out to the inhabitants. Here is one of the most charming and picturesque old churches in the country, of a most rural and attractive kind, “standing in its own grounds” as it were, a garden-like churchyard, where, to use Sir Lucius’s description, “there is snug lying,” or the snuggest lying. The old church is very low, has its red-tiled, well-rusted roof bending in the most sinuous lines, with a quaint little lantern, and double aisles. Teddington Church, it need not be said, is figured in many a picture and has often done duty in a Christmas number, with the parishioners walking through the snow, or the ringers “ringing the old year out at midnight.”

Nothing is more welcome than the contrast between the ever-varying glimpses of the turns and windings of the river, as revealed either at Putney, Hammersmith, Kew, Richmond, or Hampton Court. At Putney it assumes a sad, Dutch-like aspect: it is straight, and wide, and bare. At Kew, as we look upwards, it has an umbrageous tone: the banks are well wooded. At Richmond there is a beautiful and sylvan grace, like a charmingly-painted scene in an opera; while at Hampton Court there is something not only graceful, but original, varied, and animated. Hackneyed as Hampton Court is—overdone and invaded by the crowds of holiday folk on a Sunday—its graces never seem to pall on the visitor. We pass from the station to the ugly iron bridge, and get our first glimpse of the tranquil “glistening” river that winds away right and left, truly “silver” in its surface, like a stream that wanders through some daintily-kept plaisaunce or ornamented grounds; while beyond is seen, amid the grove, the mellowed red of the old palace, surely one of the most interesting piles in England. Nor are the attractions of the approach by other routes at all lessened. If we arrive from Teddington, coming from Strawberry Hill, we find a beautiful sylvan and health-giving promenade. Then comes the wall enclosing Bushey Park, the famous avenue of chestnut trees, and the “round point,” with its circular sheet of water.

The little town itself is rural enough, with its comfortable-looking hotels, old-fashioned if not old, and the busy scene before them—waggonettes, carts, carriages drawn up, horses “baiting” within, and huge crowds clustered round the handsome, well-ornamented gateways.

Within are the beautiful old gardens and the winding avenue which lead on to the wonderful Palace and its grounds—that clustering of great brick courtyards and towers very little touched and “improved” by the restorers.

How imposing is the long and stately faÇade that looks across the gardens to Bushey! So solid and yet so rich in its decoration and stone dressings. This is one of Wren’s most successful works; so varied and original in its treatment. With all our fantastical modern freaks, no one seems to have caught or adapted this style, the florid circular windows particularly. How curious is it to look at the old tennis court, where the King’s nobles and gentlemen played the game—a solemn, mournful place of recreation now. The courtyard within and fine colonnade—how fine and dignified! The florid embroidery in stone-work seems exactly to suit the cheerful, sunshiny brick. A walk in these wide loggias on a wet day would be a welcome diversion. Within are the superb suites of rooms allotted to favoured protÉgÉes by the grace of the Crown: but few could form an idea of the great accommodation. On one “flat” alone, enjoyed by a single family, there are seventeen or eighteen rooms. The grand staircases at the side that lead up to these suites, and ascend to the roof almost, are pointed out as instances of Wren’s ingenuity. He wished to make the ascent as easy as possible. They were placed therefore in long low slopes, each containing a vast number of steps.

From this court we pass into the portion built by Wolsey, which is the most charming and interesting of the whole. Here, too, we must admire the grace of the architecture, the beautiful proportions of the gate-towers, and the tone of the old brick, softened into a ripe creamy pink. Very little has been altered or renewed, everything is as Henry and Wolsey saw it—the extraordinary florid old clock, and the effective and vigorous terra-cotta heads of Roman Emperors fitted into the brickwork with forcible effect. They were a present from the Pope of the time.

The great banqueting hall is an imposing work, with its noble open roof and vast proportions. But these things are really not to be appreciated on a visit—when we stare and have to pass to some other part of the “show,” where we stare again. In visiting old towns and old cathedrals we should reside, and let the spirit of the place grow, or steal gradually upon us. When a feeling of companionship arises we get familiar, and find ourselves looking on it again and again. But with short and hurried glances little is really gathered—we have seen, but not known.

It will be noted that what we have been considering is not the hackneyed or popular view, which consists in following the lazy herd as it promenades wearily from room to room—the king and queen’s chambers—or the waste of innumerable pictures, including the Hampton Court beauties and the Field of the Cloth of Gold and other notable “curios.” There is of course entertainment in this, but the real attraction is in the place itself, where we might wander for days.

Now taking a flight in a totally opposite direction we light on the riverside at Greenwich; familiar enough, “the Ship,” or whitebait district at least. But as we leave the town behind and ascend the steep Croom’s Hill, we come upon many a pretty bit, and on plenty of sound old houses. Halfway up we note a curious garden pavilion of true Jacobean design, such as is found in old English gardens, like those of Stonyhurst. It is of elegant design, with open arches at the side and well-proportioned mouldings. Within, the ceiling is richly stuccoed round a circular panel, intended to hold a painting, but now the whole is decayed and gone to ruin. On a summer’s evening the owners of the garden could sit here and overlook the road as well as the gambols in Greenwich Park. There is the legible date on it, 1675. It must have been connected with some stately mansion in whose gardens it was situated, but now swept away.

A little higher up, and next the pretty Catholic chapel, is a genuine old mansion, of rather Renaissance design, all white-washed over and sadly mauled, older than the usual Queen Anne ones. It is a pity that such are not carefully restored by some wealthy citizen, for they would be effective. On the other side of the chapel is a fine specimen of old red brick, shining as a pippin, and even sounder than on the day it was built. Still higher up on the hill, and peeping over an inclosure, is a fine steep-roofed old house in its garden, its face turned to the park, its back, which we confront, overgrown. This mixture of green and red with the more delicate tint of the shingle roof makes a cheerful combination. There are many old houses perched down in a delightfully irregular fashion here and there on the side of the hill, each with its trees and inclosure making a settlement for itself. Most have a history of some sort—notable persons having resided in them. At the top, facing the open country, the Blackheath valley lying below, we come to the Ranger’s House, of rubicund brick and pleasing design, but disfigured by a covered passage to the gate. This was the late Duke of Albany’s residence, and long before his time was the mansion of the stout, coarse, and much-outraged Princess Caroline of Wales, about the time of “the Book” and other disgraces. As I often stand before it, and knowing her history well, the image of the high jinks that used to reign here rises before me, the Opposition ministers, Percivals, Gilbert Elliots, etc., travelling down to dine, and have what were very like games of romps in the gardens behind. In the same line of road is a fine old crusted mansion of some pretension, with solemn antique grounds behind, and a compact, snug, and reverent air.

Farther away from town are found other attractive spots—in the way of surprises—with much that is curious and original. As specimens of this kind of voyage of discovery might be suggested Edmonton, Enfield, Eltham, or Croydon. We need not dwell on the unsophisticated and rural character of these hamlets and towns, the fine invigorating air that sweeps along the high roads, the sense of cheerful exhilaration. In themselves the old coaching roads are full of interest.

Eltham is a pleasant, inviting, and novel sort of place, with a fair open country about it, breezy pastures and fine old trees spreading away. In many of these distant suburbs, as they may almost be called, there is this park-like wooded look, as though we were in the heart of some rich country. Antique houses line the roadside—there are few new ones. Searching out the old Palace, we are struck with the “rurality” of the road, the row of fine old trees which line it, which was once an avenue. One could hardly find more remarkable houses outside a Christmas number. Those we see here are high-roofed and long-windowed—with the old panes—which must at least be as old as Elizabeth. Each has its gardens round it, and looks snug and comfortable. Here is an old “moated” house, the water running lazily below—for the road is a bridge—actually round the foundations. To this mansion much has been done by way of restoration. Coming to the Palace, it is delightful to meet with the elegant and original banqueting hall, ruined fragment as it is. It suggests the equally interesting Crosby Hall in the City, and there is a bay or oriel window of the same character. We know the pattern, the wall running up for a dozen feet or so where the Perpendicular windows begin. There is a peculiar charm about this style, something graceful and satisfactory.

But would we recreate ourselves with some of the finest specimens of old brick, we must go yet further afield. Let us repair to Tottenham, that is, beyond the town, at the point where the road turns off to Enfield. There the country is charmingly old-fashioned, the air delicious, the route has the look of a coach road, with its great flourishing trees. Here are the fine Anne or Georgian houses, plum-coloured almost, untouched and sound as on the day they were built. The doorways are well carved. More remarkable is the sort of Manor House in its grounds, known, I think, as the “Lion House,” from the spiritedly carved lions which adorn the gate-posts.

If we walk on to Enfield and Edmonton, we shall be yet more gratified. Enfield is really remarkable for the variety of its mansions. As we walk along the pretty high road, oddly called Baker Street, we come upon many mansions in large expanses of grounds, and enclosed within walls, but their fine iron gates allow a satisfactory view. “Lovers of Queen Anne architecture,” says a good authority, “will do well to study here.” Some of these houses are perfect pictures—such as artists revel in and portray for the Exhibitions. They are perfect surprises from their old-world air, everything being in harmony. One is known as Enfield Court, which contains “quaint specimens of brickwork and a fine terraced garden, with clipped yews.” There is an old Hall for the admirers of Inigo Jones.

Indeed, the various places of this kind which are within easy reach of London offer extraordinary and unsuspected entertainment.

But of all these suburban places, perhaps the hackneyed Hampstead and Highgate offer an unfailing attraction. Nothing is more remarkable than the change from the dull heavy London atmosphere below to the keen, inspiring, vigorous air on these northern heights, which is palpable and felt at once as we ascend. In spite of the “demolitions” that meet us as we climb Hampstead High Street, the place still seems to retain its old-fashioned, quaintly-pleasing features; its alleys and lanes straggle and wind and turn with delightfully-picturesque effect; a row of venerable trees will line a raised path beside an old wall, while houses and short terraces of the true Hampstead pattern, odd, square, and cheerful, abound. Retired corners, shady lanes, small gardens enclosed within ancient walls, old lanterns, these are everywhere. No wonder artists covet these old tenements, and, it is said, give fancy prices for them. Winter and summer bring an equal, though varied, charm to the place. In winter there is a pleasant air of shelter and retreat; in summer umbrageous shade. Nothing can be more artfully arranged with a view to picturesque effect than the mixture of houses and general rusticity; it is country and town blended in the most pleasing fashion. The old gnarled trees rise on high paths overhanging the road, and over the walls behind peep

CHURCH ROW, HAMPSTEAD.