[-44-]
CHAPTER IV.
HIGHGATE.
IF I were inclined to be dull, I would say Highgate is a
village to the north of London, with an ancient history, a great deal of which
the reader, if he be not a fool, can imagine, and with a very fine geological
formation, indicative of salt-water where it is now very difficult to find
fresh. In order, also, that I may not weary my reader, and establish a cheap
reputation for a great deal of learning, I will frankly confess that Highgate,
means High Gate, and nothing more. In old times, right away from Islington
Turnpike-Gate to Enfield Chase, there was a magnificent forest, and part of this
forest extended as far as Highgate. Down in the very heart of it, in Hornsey,
the Bishop of London had a castle, and of the Park attached to it Highgate
formed a part. When the old road to the north was found impassable, a new one
was formed over the hill, and through the Bishop's Park. In those days pious
bishops levied toll; to collect this toll a gate was erected, and here was
Highgate, and truly does it deserve the name. It is said the hill is 400 feet [-45-]
above the top of St. Paul's. Be this as it may, near London, a lovelier
spot is rarely to be met with. Artists, poets, parties in search of the
picturesque, cannot do better than visit Highgate. At every turn you come to the
most beautiful prospects. When London will consume its own smoke, if that time
ever does arrive, the view from Highgate, across the great city, will be the
grandest in the world. On a clear day, standing in the Archway Road - that road
esteemed such a wonder of engineering in its day, and forming such a disastrous
property for its shareholders (the £50 shares may be bought at about 18s. a
share) - you may see across the valley of the Thames as far as the Kent and
Surrey hills looming obscurely in the distance. Close to the Archway Tavern, but
on the other side of the road, is a lofty old-fashioned brick mansion, said to
have been inhabited by Marshal Wade, the military hero who did so much for the
wars of Scotland, and whose memory is still preserved in the following very
remarkable couplet:
"Had you seen these roads before
they were made,
You would lift up your hands and
bless General Wade.
Well, from the top of this mansion you can see no less than seven English
counties. The number seems almost fabulous, and if, in accordance with a
well-established rule in such cases, we only believe half we hear, enough is
left to convince us that the view is one of no common kind; all that is wanted
to make the scene perfect is a little bit of water. From every part of the [-46-]
hill, in spite of builders and buildings, views of exquisite beauty may
be obtained. Going down towards Kentish Town, the hill where her Majesty was
nearly dashed to pieces by the running away of the horses of her carriage (her
royal arms on a public-house still preserves the tradition and the memory of the
man who saved her at the peril of his life), past where Mr. Bodkin the Barrister
lives, past where William and Mary Howitt live, past where the rich Miss Burdett
Coutts has a stately mansion, which, however, to the great grief of the
neighbourhood, she rarely adorns with her presence, what pleasant views we have
before us. It is the same going down past St. Joseph's Retreat to Holloway; and
in Swain's Lane, another lane leading back to Kentish Town, you might fancy you
were in Arcady itself. Again, stand on the brow of the hill, with your backs to
London, looking far away to distant Harrow, or ancient Barnet, what a fair plain
lies at your feet, clothed with cheerful villas, and looking bright and warm.
"Upon this hill," says Norden, "is most pleasant dwelling, yet
not so pleasant as healthful, for the expert inhabitants there report that
divers who have been long visited with sicknesse not curable by physicke, have
in a short time repaired their health by that sweet salutary air." In 1661,
the Spanish Ambassador, Count Gondomar, excuses his absence from the English
court on the plea that he had gone to his retreat in Highgate "to take the
fresh aire." The associations connected with High- gate are of the most
interesting character. It was [-47-] coming up
Highgate Hill that Dick Whittington heard the bells prophesying that if he would
return he would be Lord Mayor of London; a public-house still marks the spot. It
was at the bottom of Highgate Hill that the great Bacon - the wisest and not the
meanest of mankind, that lie is at length exploded, and must disappear from
history - caught the cold of which he died. "The cause of his Lordship's
death," writes Aubrey, who professed to have received the information from
Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury, "was trying an experiment as he was taking the
air ·in the coach with Dr. Winterbourne, a Scotchman, physician to the king.
Towards Highgate snow lay on the ground, and it came into my Lord's thoughts why
flesh might not be preserved in snow as in salt. They were resolved they would
try the experiment presently. They alighted out of the coach, and went into a
poor woman's house at the bottom of Highgate Hill, and bought a hen and stuffed
the body with snow, and my Lord did help to do it himself. The snow so chilled
him that he immediately fell so ill that lie could snot return to his lodgings,
but went to the Earl of Arundel's house at Highgate, where they put him into a
good bed warmed with a pan, but it was a damp bed, that had not been laid in for
about a year before, which gave him such a cold, that in two or three days, as I
remember, he (.Hobbes) told me he died of suffocation." The Arundel house
here referred to does not seem to be the Arundel House still existing in
Highgate, on the left-hand side as you come up the main [-48-]
road from Islington. The house now bearing that name is said to have been
a residence of Nell Gwynne, and during that period was visited by the merry
monarch himself. The creation of the title of Duke of St. Albans, which is
related to have been obtained by Nell Gwynne in so extraordinary a manner from
King Charles, is said to have taken place at this house. A marble bath,
surrounded by curious and antique oak-work, is there associated with her name.
As the house is now in the possession of a celebrated antiquarian, the Rev.
James Yates, M.A., it is to be hoped that it will be as little modernised as
possible. More hallowed memories appertain to the next house we come to.
Andrew Marvel, patriot, was born, 1620. at
Kingston-upon-Hull. After taking his degree of B.A. at Trinity College,
Cambridge, he went abroad, and at Rome he wrote the first of those satirical
poems which obtained him such celebrity. In 1635, Marvel returned to England,
rich in the friendship of Milton, who a couple of years after, thus introduced
him to Bradshaw: "I present to you Mr. Marvel, laying aside those
jealousies and that emulation which mine own condition might suggest to me by
bringing in such a coadjutor." "It was most likely," writes Mrs.
S. C. Hall, "during this period that he inhabited the cottage at Highgate,
opposite to the house in which lived part of the family of Cromwell." How
Marvel became M.P. for his native town - how he was probably the last
representative paid by his constituents, (a much better practice that than [-49-]
ours of representatives paying their constituents) - how his
"Rehearsal Transposed," a witty and sarcastic poem, not only
humbled Parker, but, in the language of Bishop Burnet, "the whole party,
for from the king down to the tradesman the book was read with pleasure," -
how he spurned the smiles of the venal court, and sleeps the sleep of the just
in St. Giles-in-the-Fields, are facts known to all. Mason has made Marvel the
hero of his "Ode to Independence," and thus alludes to his
incorruptible integrity:
"In awful poverty his honest
muse
Walks forth vindictive through a
venal land;
In vain corruption sheds her golden
dews,
In vain oppression lifts her iron
hand,-
He scorns them both, and armed with
truth alone,
Bids lust and folly tremble on the
throne."
On the other side of the way is an old stately red-brick building, now a school,
and well known as Cromwell House. I don't find that Cromwell lived there, but
assuredly his son-in-law, Ireton, did. His arms are elaborately carved on the
ceiling of the state-rooms, the antique stair-case and apartments retain their
originality of character, and the mansion is altogether one of very great
interest. Mr. Prickett, in his History of Highgate, tells us Cromwell House is
supposed to have been built by the Protector, whose name it bears, about the
year 1630, as a residence for General Ireton, who married his daughter, and was
one of the commanders of his army; it is, however, said to have been the
residence of Oliver [-50-] Cromwell himself, but no
mention is made, either in history or his biography, of his ever having lived at
Highgate. Tradition states there was a subterraneous passage from this house to
the Mansion House, which stood where the new church now stands, but of its
reality no proof has hitherto been adduced. Cromwell House was evidently built
and internally ornamented in accordance with the taste of its military occupant.
The staircase, which is of handsome proportions, is richly decorated with oaken
carved figures, supposed to have been of persons in the General's army, in their
costumes, and the balustrades filled in with devices emblematical of warfare.
From the platform on the top of the mansion may he seen a perfect panorama of
the surrounding country.
On the hill was the house of Mr. Coniers, Bencher and
Treasurer of the Middle Temple, from which, on the 3rd of June, 1611, the Lady
Arabella escaped. Her sin was that she had married Mr. Seymour, afterwards
Marquis of Hertford. Her fate was sad; she was recaptured and died in the Tower.
Sir Richard Baker, author of "The Chronicles of the Kings of England,"
resided at Highgate. Dr. Sacheverel, that foolish priest, died at Highgate. But
a greater man than any we have yet named lived here. I speak of S. T. Coleridge,
who lived in a red-brick house in the "Grove" twenty years, with his
biographer, Mr. Gillman, which house is now inhabited by Mr. Blatherwick,
surgeon. It is much to be regretted that Gillman's Life was never completed, but
a monu-[-51-]ment in the new church, and a grave in
the old churchyard, mark the philosopher's connection with Highgate. Carlyle has
given us a description of what he calls Coleridge's philosophical moonshine. I
met a lady who remembers the philosopher well, as a snuffy old gentleman, very
fond of stroking her hair, and seeing her and another little girl practise their
dancing lessons. On one occasion Irving came with the philosopher. As the great
man's clothes were very shabby, and as he took so much snuff as to make her
sneeze whenever she went near him, my lady informant had rather a poor opinion
of the author of "Christabel" and the "Ancient Mariner." A
contemporary writer, more akin in philosophy to Coleridge than Thomas Carlyle,
and more able to appreciate the wondrous intellect of the man than the little
lady to whom I have already referred, says, "I was in his company about
three hours, and of that time he spoke during two and three-quarters. It would
have been delightful to listen as attentively, and certainly as easy for him to
speak just as well, for the next forty-eight hours. On the whole, his
conversation, or rather monologue, is by far the most interesting I ever read or
heard of. Dr. Johnson's talk, with which it is obvious to compare it, seems to
me immeasurably inferior. It is better balanced and squared, and more ponderous
with epithets, but the spirit and flavour and fragrance, the knowledge and the
genius, are all wanting. The one is a house of brick, the other a quarry of
jasper. It is painful to observe in Coleridge, that with all the kindness [-52-]
and glorious far-seeing intelligence of his eye, there is a glare in it,
a light half-unearthly and morbid. It is the glittering eye of the Ancient
Mariner. His cheek too shows a flush of over-excitement, the ridge of a storm-
cloud at sunset. When he dies, another, and the greatest of their race, will
rejoin the few immortals, the ill-understood and ill-requited, who have walked
this earth." Had Coleridge ever a more genial visitant than the
farmer-looking, but eloquent and philanthropic Chalmers, who in 1839 came from
Scotland to London, and of course climb up Highgate Hill to pay a visit to
Coleridge, he says- "Half-an-hour with Coleridge was filled up without
intermission by one continuous flow of eloquent discourse from that prince of
talkers. He began, in answer to the common inquiries as to his health, by
telling of a fit of insensibility in which, three weeks before, he had lain for
thirty-five minutes. As sensibility returned, and before he had opened his eyes,
lie uttered a sentence about the fugacious nature of consciousness, from which
he passed to a discussion of the singular relations between the soul and the
body. Asking for Mr. Irving, but waiting for no reply, he poured out an eloquent
tribute of his regard mourning pathetically that such a man should be throwing
himself away. Mr. Irving's book on the 'Human Nature of Christ' in his analysis
was minute to absurdity; one would imagine that the pickling and preserving were
to follow, it was so like a cookery-book. Unfolding then his own scheme of the
Apocalypse - talking of the [-53-] mighty contrast
between its Christ and the Christ of the Gospel narrative, Mr. Coleridge said
that Jesus did not come now as before, meek and gentle, healing the sick and
feeding the hungry, and dispensing blessings all around; but he came on a white
horse, and who were his attendants ?-Famine and War and Pestilence."
The poets have always been partial to Highgate. William and
Mary Howitt live there at this day. Florence Nightingale has also there taken up
her abode. The German religious reformer, Ronge, lives at the foot of Highgate
Hill. Nicholas Rowe was educated there. It was in one of the lanes leading to
Highgate that Coleridge met Keats and Hunt. "There is death in the hand,
said he to Hunt, as he shook hands with the author of Endymion. Painters and
artists have also been partial to Highgate. George Morland would stay at the
Bull, an inn still existing, weeks at a time, and, we may be sure, ran up very
handsome scores. An incident that occurred to Hogarth while at Highgate made an
artist of him. The tale is thus told by Walpole- "During his apprenticeship
he set out one Sunday with . two or three companions on an excursion to
Highgate. The weather being very hot, they went into a public-house, where they
had not been long before a quarrel arose between some persons in the same room;
one of the disputants struck the other on the head with a quart pot and cut him
very much; the blood running down the man's face, together with the agony of the
wound, which had distorted the features into a most hideous grin, presented
Hogarth, [-54-] who showed himself thus early
apprised of the mode nature had intended he should pursue, with a subject too.
laughable to be overlooked. He drew out his pencil, and produced on the spot one
of the most ludicrous figures that was ever seen. What rendered the piece the
more valuable was, that it exhibited an exact likeness of the man, with the
portrait of his antagonist, and the figures in caricature of the principal
persons gathered around him. One of the names associated with Highgate I find to
be that of Hogarth's enemy, Wilkes, patriot or demagogue. In his Life I read,
"Mr. Wilkes was of the Established Church, but after he was married he
often went to Meeting. He lived in a splendid style, and kept a very elegant and
sumptuous table for his friends. Among the numerous persons who visited this
family were Mr. Mead, an eminent drysalter on London Bridge, with his wife and
daughter, who, being also Dissenters, frequently went to the Meeting-house in
Southwood Lane, Highgate, in Mr. Wilkes's coach, which was always drawn by six
horses, such was his love of external appearance." Going still further
back, more renowned characters appear on Highgate Hill. After the memorable
battle of Bosworth Field, in which the usurper, Richard, had been slain, it was
at Highgate that the victorious Richmond was met by the citizens of London on
his triumphal approach to the metropolis. "He was met," writes
Lambert, "by the Lord Mayor and Aldermen in scarlet robes, with a great
number of citizens on horseback." The Gunpowder Plot is also
[-55-] connected with this interesting locality. It is said, while that
old villain, Guy Fawkes, was preparing "to blow up king and parliament,
with Jehu and Powdire," the rest of the conspirators had assembled on
Highgate Hill to witness the catastrophe; indeed, a driver of the Barnet mail -
I fear not the best authority in the world on antiquarian matters - went so far
on one occasion as to point out to the writer a bit of an old wall, a little
beyond Marvel's house on the same side of the way, as a part of the identical
house in which those very evil-disposed gentlemen met. A subterraneous way is
also said to have existed from time site of the present church to Cromwell
House, and thence to Islington. To me the story seems somewhat doubtful, but the
reader is at full liberty to believe it or not as he likes.
Let us now speak of the institutions of Highgate: the most modern is the
cemetery, which was consecrated by the Lord Bishop of London in May, 1839, and
has therefore the merit of being one of the first, as it is undoubtedly one of
the most beautiful in situation, of any near London. It contains about twenty
acres of ground on the side of the hill facing the metropolis. The approach to
it through Swain's Lane conducts the visitor by a green lane rising gradually to
the Gothic building which forms the entrance. Entering the grounds, the eye is
struck by the taste everywhere displayed. Broad gravel paths on either side wind
up the steep slope to the handsome new church of St. Michael's, which is seen to
great advantage from almost every part of the grounds. An hour may be very well [-56-]
spent here musing on the dead. Good and bad, rogue and honest man, saint
and sinner, here sleep side by side. John Sadleir, but too well known as M.P.,
and chairman of the London and County Bank, is buried here. Indeed all sects,
and callings, and professions, have here their representative men. General Otway
has one of the handsomest monuments in the grounds. One of the most tasteful is
that of Lillywhite, the cricketer, erected by public subscription. Wombwell,
known and admired in our.childish days for his wonderful menagerie, reposes
under a massive lion. One grave has a marble pillar-bearing a horse all saddled
amid bridled. The inscription under commemorates the death of a lady, and
commences thus,
"She's gone, whose nerve could
guide the swiftest steed."
On inquiry we found the lady was the wife of a celebrated
knacker, well skilled in the mysteries of horseflesh and the whip. Holman, the
blind traveller, is buried in Highgate Cemetery, amid very near him are the
mortal remains of that prince of newspaper editors and proprietors, Stephen
Rintoul. On the other side the cemetery is buried Bogue, the well-known
publisher of Fleet Street. In the Catacombs are interred Liston, the greatest
operator of his day, and Pierce Egan, a man as famous in his way. It was only a
few months since Sir W. Charles Ross, the celebrated miniature painter, was
buried here. Frank Stone sleeps in the same cemetery, as also does that
well-remembered actress, Mrs. Warner. Haydn, well-known for his Dictionary of
Dates, and Gilbert a [-57-] Beckett, still
remembered for his comic powers, are amongst the literary men that here await
the resurrection morn. A fairer place in which to sleep it would be difficult to
choose, in spite of the monstrous trophies of affectation, or ostentation, or
affection all round,- in spite of the reminiscences of Cornhill and
Cheapside, suggested by every other grave. As a rule, you had better pass by
monuments unlooked at, they do but enumerate the virtues of the illustrious
obscure, and the wealth of their survivors.
Of the past we now recall another relic, Lord Byron, in
"Childe Harold," writes,
"Some o'er thy Thamis row the
ribbon'd fair,
Others along the safer turnpike fly;
Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud
to Ware
And many to the steep of Highgate hie.
Ask ye, Boeotian shades the reason
why
Tis to the worship of the solemn
Horn,
Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery,
In whose dread name both men and
maids are sworn,
And consecrate the oath with draught,
and dance till morn."
In the note from whence the above extract is taken, Lord Byron says he alludes
to a ridiculous custom which formerly prevailed in Highgate of administering a
burlesque oath to all travellers of the middling rank who stopped there. The
party was sworn on a pair of horns fastened, never to kiss the maid when he
could the mistress; never to eat brown bread when he could get white; never to
drink small beer when he could get [-58-] strong;
with many other injunctions of the kind, to all which was added the saving
clause, "unless you like it best." Lambert tells us, "the oath
formerly was tendered to every person stopping at any of the public- houses of
the village, which are very numerous, and mostly distinguished by a large pair
of horns placed over the signs." I need not add, no horns are seen now.
When a person consented to be sworn, he laid his hand on a pair of horns fixed
to a long staff, and the oath was administered. This ridiculous ceremony being
over, the juror was to kiss the horns and pay a shilling for the oath, to be
spent among the company to which he or she belonged. To complete the incongruous
character of the ceremony, the father, for such was the style of the person
administering the oath, officiated in a wig and gown, with the addition of a
mask. The origin of this custom is completely lost, but it was so common at one
time, that one man is said to have sworn one hundred and fifty in a day. It
appears to have been the fashion to make up parties to Highgate for the purpose
of taking the oath, and as a prerequisite for admission to certain convivial
societies now no more, the freedom of Highgate was indispensable. The father
facetiously said if the son, as the individual sworn was termed, was too poor to
pay for wine himself, he was recommended to call for it at the first inn, and to
place it to his father's score, "and now, my good son," the formula
continued, "I wish you a safe journey through Highgate and this life."
If the [-59-] father's good wishes were realized,
one is almost inclined to regret that the ceremony exists no longer. Another
ancient institution is the grammar school, founded in 1562 by Sir Roger
Cholmeley, Lord Chief Baron of the Exchequer, and after that Chief Justice of
the King's bench.
But we must leave Highgate, now the retreat of the wealthy
citizen, and the great North Road, along which coaches galloped almost every
minute, and along which lords and ladies posted, ere that frightful leveller,
the railroad had been formed. By the Favourite omnibuses it is but a sixpenny
ride to Highgate from the Bank, but in the good old times, the fare by the stage
was half-a-crown. It would do aldermen good to go up its hill, and the city
clerk or shopman cannot frequent it too much. Highgate has much the air of a
provincial town. It has its Literary Institution, and its police office, and
water-works, and gas, its seminaries for ingenious youth of either sex, and its
shops filled with miscellaneous wares. The great city is creeping up the hill,
and seeking to encircle it with its chains of brick, but it resists lustily, and
with its quaint old houses, and fine old trees, will not assume a cockney
appearance. I honour it for its obstinacy, and trust that it will be long before
it shall have the wicked, busy, towny appearance of the Modern Babylon.