THE “COCK,” SUTTON 1789.
From an aquatint after Rowlandson.“Sutton for mutton”: so ran the old-time rhyme. The reason of that ancient repute is found in the downs in whose lap the place is situated; those thymy downs that afforded such splendid pasturage for sheep. Sutton Common is gone, enclosed in 1810, but the downs remain; and yet that rhyme has lost its reason, and Sutton is no longer celebrated for anything above its fellow towns. Even the famous “Cock” is gone—that old coaching-inn kept by the ex-pugilist, “Gentleman Jackson.” Long threatened, it was at last demolished in 1898, and with the old house went the equally famous sign that straddled across the road. The similar sign of the “Greyhound” still remains; the last relic of narrower streets and times more spacious.

Leaving Sutton “town,” as we call it nowadays, the road proceeds to climb steadily uphill to the modern suburb of “Belmont,” where stands an old, but very well cared-for, milestone setting forth that it is distant “XIII. miles from the Standard in Cornhill, London, 1745,” from the Royal Exchange the same distance, and from Whitehall twelve miles and a half. The neighbourhood is now particularly respectable, but I grieve to say that the spot is marked on the maps of 1796 as “Little Hell,” which seems to indicate that the character of the people living in the three houses apparently then standing here would not bear close inspection. With the “Angel” placed at one end, and this vestibule into Inferno situated at the other, Sutton seems to have been accorded exceptional privileges.

“Cold Blow,” which succeeds to Little Hell, is a tremendous transition, and well deserves its name, perched as it is on the shivery, bare, and windy heights that lead to Burgh Heath and Banstead Downs “famous,” says an annotated map of 1716, “for its wholesome Air, once prescribed by Physicians as the Patients’ last refuge.” The feudal-looking wrought-iron gates newly built beside the road here, surmounted by a gorgeous shield of arms crested with a helmet and enveloped in mantling, form the entrance to Nork Park, the seat of one of the Colman family, who have mustered very strongly in Surrey of late years.

At the right-hand turning, in midst of a group of fir-trees, stands the prehistoric tumulus known to the rustics as “Tumble Beacon.” “Tumble” is probably the rural version of “tumulus.”

Beyond this point, on a site now occupied by a cottage, stood the once-famed “Tangier” inn. Originally a private residence, the seat of Admiral Buckle,[10] who named it “Tangier,” in memory of his cruises on the north coast of Africa, it became a house of call for coaches, and especially for post-chaises. Here, we are told, George the Fourth invariably halted for a glass of Miss Jeal’s celebrated “alderbury”—that is to say elderberry-wine—“roking hot,” to keep out the piercing cold, and Miss Jeal brought it forth with her own fair hands. Other travellers, who were merely persons, and not personages, had to be content with the less fair hands of the waiter.

The “Tangier” was burnt down about 1874. For some years after its destruction a platform that led from the house to the roadside, on a level with the floors of the coaches and post-chaises, survived; but only the cellars now remain. The woods at the back are, however, still locally known as “Tangier Woods.”

Burgh Heath, at the summit of these downs, is a curious place called usually “Borough” Heath: it is in Domesday “Berge.” As its name not obscurely hints, and the half-obliterated barrows show, it is a place of ancient habitation and sepulture; but nowadays it is chiefly remarkable for the descendants of the original squatters of about a century ago, who, braving the cold of these heights, settled on what was then an exceedingly lonely heath and stole whatever land they pleased. That was the origin of the hamlet of Burgh Heath. The descendants of those filibusters have in most cases rebuilt the original hovels, but it is still a somewhat forlorn place, made sordid by the tumbledown pigsties and sheds on the heath in which they have acquired a prescriptive freehold.

Passing Lion Bottom, or Wilderness Bottom, we come to Tadworth Corner, past the grounds of Tadworth Court, late the seat of Lord Russell of Killowen, better known as Sir Charles Russell. He was created a Baron in 1894, on his becoming Lord Chief Justice: but the title was—at his own desire—limited to a life-peerage, and consequently at his death in 1900 became extinct. At Tadworth, in the horsey neighbourhood of Epsom, he was as much at home as in the Law Courts, and neither so judicial nor restrained, as those who remember his peppery temper and the objurgatory language of his “Here, you, where the —— — are you —— — coming to, you —— ——, you!” will admit. There seems, in fact, an especial fitness in his residence on this Regency Road, for his speech was the speech rather of that, than of the more mealy mouthed Victorian, period.

At Tadworth Court, where the ways divide, and a most picturesque view of long roads, dark fir trees, and a weird-looking windmill unfolds itself, formerly stood a toll-gate. A signpost directs on the right to Headley and Walton, and on the left to Reigate and Redhill, and a battered milestone which no one can read stands at the foot of it. The church spire on the left is that of Kingswood.

From London to Reigate, through Sutton, is, according to Cobbett, “about as villainous a tract as England contains. The soil is a mixture of gravel and clay, with big yellow stones in it, sure sign of really bad land.” The greater part of this is, of course, now covered by the suburbs of “the Wen,” as Cobbett delighted to style London; and it is both unknown to and immaterial to most people what manner of soil their houses are built on; but the truth of Cobbett’s observations is seen readily enough here, on these warrens, which owe their preservation as open spaces to that mixture, worthless to the farmer, and not worth the stealing in those times when land could be stolen with impunity.