A DOORWAY, CURLEW STREET, BERMONDSEY A DOORWAY, CURLEW STREET, BERMONDSEY

The expansion of London during the Nineteenth Century is in itself a fact unparalleled in the history of cities. Those who call attention to this miracle always point to the filling up of the huge area between Highgate and Hampstead and Clerkenwell in the North, or the extension of the town to Hammersmith on the West. Perhaps a little consideration of the South may show a still more remarkable growth. I have before me a map of the year 1834, only sixty-four years ago, showing South London as it was. I see a small town or collection of small towns, occupying the{302} district called the Borough Proper, Lambeth, Newington, Walworth, and Bermondsey. In some parts this area is densely populated, filled with narrow courts and lanes; in other parts there are broad fields, open spaces, unoccupied pieces of ground. At the back of Vauxhall Gardens, for instance there are open fields; in Walworth there is a certain place, then notorious for the people who lived there, called Snow's Fields; in Bermondsey there are also open spaces, some of them gardens, or recreation grounds, without any buildings. Battersea is a mere stretch of open country. I myself remember{303} the old Battersea Fields perfectly well; one shivers at the recollection; they were low, flat, damp, and, I believe, treeless; they were crossed, like Hackney Marsh, by paths raised above the level; at no time of year could the Battersea Fields look anything but dreary. In winter they were inexpressibly dismal. As a boy I have walked across the fields in order to get to the embankment or river wall from which one commanded a view of the Thames with its barges and lighters going up and down—pleasant when the sun shone on the river, but a mere shadow of the ancient glory when the pleasure barges and the State barges swept majestically up the river with the hautboys and the trumpets in the bows; when the swans by thousands sailed upon the broad bosom of the waters, and in the middle of the river{304} the fisherman cast his net, as Edric had done fifteen hundred years before at St. Peter's orders, when he brought out his famous salmon. One walked along the embankment; the fields on one side were lower than the waters on the other. Beyond the river were the trees of Chelsea Hospital. Close to the river bank was an enclosure which was called the Subscription Ground; here the subscribers came to shoot pigeons—noble sport. If I remember aright, while the subscribing sportsmen shot at the pigeons in the enclosure, others of low condition who were not subscribers lurked about on the outside to shoot down those birds which escaped from the murderers within. Close by the Subscription Ground was a certain famous tavern called the Red House. I do not know why it was famous, but everybody always said it was. I believe it was much frequented on summer evenings, and that the subscribing sportsmen close by, whether they hit their pigeon or not, proved excellent customers for the drinks of the Red House. At that time there were 'famous' taverns all up and down the river on either bank. There are still Riverside taverns, but the invasion of the new streets and houses has driven them, considered as 'famous' taverns, either higher up, or lower down. As mere commonplace public houses they probably remain still. Duels were conducted on the Battersea Fields, and there were certain historical associations in connection with these dreary flats. Here, for instance, the Duke of Wellington fought his duel with Lord Winchilsea. Other important people were also connected either with the Fields or the Village of Battersea, but at the time I knew not anything about them. The Battersea of my boyhood is gone absolutely: no trace of it remains, except the Church. The Grosvenor Railway Bridge passes over the site of the famous Red House; the most beautiful of all our Parks covers the Subscription Shooting Grounds, together with most of the flat and dreary fields; and houses by the thousand, with streets mean and monotonous, stand where formerly the{305} pigeons flew wildly, hoping to escape those who waited outside the grounds as they had escaped those who potted at them from within.
IN SNOW'S FIELDS, BERMONDSEY IN SNOW'S FIELDS, BERMONDSEY
The Temple from the Surrey Bank The Temple from the Surrey Bank
HOLY TRINITY, ROTHERHITHE HOLY TRINITY, ROTHERHITHE

Let us turn to another part of the map and inquire into Rotherhithe. It is curious that at one end we get Rotherhithe, the Place of Cattle; and at the other Lambeth or Lambhythe, if it be the 'Place of Lambs' and not the 'Place of Mud.' In 1834 the Commercial Docks are already there, but without prejudice to the ancient and venerable docks of the preceding century, Acorn Dock and Lavender Dock. A single street runs along the Embankment, which it hides and{306} covers: at the back of this street there is a succession of small lanes and courts running back with tiny houses—two or four rooms to each—on either side, and ending generally in gardens of greenery—leaves and palings. You may still see, in 1898, if you are lucky, the bows and bowsprit of a ship in one of the old docks, sticking across the street, causing a momentary confusion in the mind between land and water; there are riverside taverns which look as if at a touch they would yield and slide into the mud below. In 1834 this street with these little lanes was the whole of Rotherhithe. Inland—or in-marsh—ponds and ditches and creeping streams lay about; one of the ponds survives to this day; you will find it in the middle of the pretty garden they call Southwark Park, of which it forms the ornamental water. And the rest of Rotherhithe, between the Park and Bermondsey, is one unbroken mass of streets with no green thing and no open space. All is filled up and built upon.

A little beyond Rotherhithe lies Deptford. On my map of 1834 I see a little town, lying partly on the bank of the Thames, partly on the bank of the Ravensbourne, which here widens out and forms Deptford Creek. The greater part of the area of Deptford is taken up by the Dockyard, not yet closed. As for the town, which now contains nearly 100,000 people, about five-and-twenty little streets sufficed for all its people; it boasted of two churches and two almshouses. One of these Havens of Rest was so picturesque and so beautiful that it could not be suffered to remain. Almshouses which are perfectly beautiful are only vouchsafed to man for a limited period, lest other buildings become intolerable. Their time expired, they are then carried off Heavenward.

Or turn your eyes further south. London in this direction now covers—for the most part completely, in some parts leaving spaces and fields here and there—Greenwich, Blackheath, Brockley, Peckham, Forest Hill, Dulwich,{307} Brixton, Stockwell, Camberwell, Clapham, Balham, Wandsworth, Vauxhall, and Penge, and many others.
CZAR PETER'S HOUSE, DEPTFORD. CZAR PETER'S HOUSE, DEPTFORD.

It is difficult, now that the whole country south of London has been covered with villas, roads, streets, and shops, to understand how wonderful for loveliness it was until the builder seized upon it. When the ground rose out of the great Lambeth and Bermondsey Marsh—the cliff or incline is marked still by the names of Battersea Rise, Clapham Rise, and Brixton Rise—it opened out into one wild heath after another—Clapham, Wandsworth, Putney, Wimbledon, Barnes, Tooting, Streatham, Richmond, Thornton, and so south as far as Banstead Downs. The country was not flat: it rose at Wimbledon to a high plateau; it rose at Norwood to a chain of hills; between the Heaths stretched gardens and orchards; between the orchards were pasture lands; on the hill sides were hanging woods; villages were scattered about, each with its venerable church and its peaceful churchyard; along the high roads to Dover, Southampton, and Portsmouth bumped and rolled, all day{308} and all night, the stage coaches and the waggons; the wayside inns were crowded with those who halted to drink, those who halted to dine, and those who halted to sleep: if the village lay off the main road it was as quiet and as secure as the town of Laish. All this beauty is gone; we have destroyed it: all this beauty has gone for ever; it cannot be replaced. And on the south there was so much more beauty than on the north. On the latter side of London there are the heights with Hampstead, Highgate, and Hornsey—one row of villages; but there is little more. The country between Hatfield or St. Albans and Hampstead is singularly dull and uninteresting: it is not until one reaches Hertford or Rickmansworth that the explorer comes once more into lovely country. But the loveliness of South London lay almost at the very doors of London: one could walk into it; the heaths were within an easy walk, and the loveliness of Surrey lay upon all.

I have mentioned already some of the heaths, those which remain at the present moment. It will be a matter of surprise to the reader to hear of the many waste and wild places which have been appropriated and built over in the last two hundred years. In the parish of Lambeth alone, an extensive tract, it is true, there was nearly 500 acres of commons: namely, Kennington, Norwood, Norwood Common (in another part of Norwood), Hall Lane, Knight's Hill Green, Half Moon Green, Rush Common, South Stockwell Common, South Lambeth and North Stockwell Common. With the exception of the first all these are now gone.
ALLEYN'S ALMSHOUSES, 1840 ALLEYN'S ALMSHOUSES, 1840

Look at Dulwich—the peaceful and picturesque village of Dulwich on this map of 1834. It lies among its trees, its gardens, and its fields: the venerable college of Alleyn is the glory of the village—nothing more beautiful than this almshouse with its hall and its picture gallery. Yet the people flocked out to Dulwich less for the picture gallery than the{309} shady walks, the fields, and a certain tavern—the Greyhound—which was beloved by everybody, and believed to contain a particular brew of beer, a particular kind of old Jamaica for punch, and a particular vintage of port not to be found anywhere else, even in a City company's cellars. There was, in fact, no more favourite place of resort for the better sort of citizens of London than Dulwich in the summer. For the poorer sort it was too far off, and cost too much in conveyance. The Dulwich stage ran two or three times a day: it was not too long a drive from the city; the young men rode—in those days the young men could all ride—even John Gilpin thought he could ride; they hired a horse as we now get into a cab. For those who lived in any suburb on the south, Dulwich was an easy walk. Not far from the college and the village—Mr. Pickwick lived there in 1834—were the Dulwich Fields, as beautiful and interesting as those of Battersea were the{310} contrary: there were, I think, five of them in succession: the little stream called the Effra rose somewhere in the neighbourhood, and ran about, winding through the fields in a deep channel with rustic bridges across. In older days—at the end of the eighteenth century, for example, the Effra, a bright and sparkling stream, ran out of the fields above what is now called the Effra Road, and so along the south side—or was it the north?—of Brixton Road. Rustic cottages stood on the other side of the stream, with flowering shrubs—lilac, laburnum, and hawthorn—on the bank, and beds of the simpler flowers in the summer: the gardens and the cottages were approached by little wooden bridges, each provided with a single rail painted green. That, however, was before my time. In the 'fifties the boys used to play in these fields, jumping over the stream: when they left the fields and got into the village they looked about for Mr. Pickwick and for Sam Weller, if haply they might see either. But I do not learn that either sage or servant ever gratified those eyes of faith by an incarnation.

Here are three hills close together: Herne Hill, Denmark Hill, and Champion Hill. On Denmark Hill Ruskin once lived; but in the 'fifties I was not conscious of that fact or of his greatness. It must be saddening to a great man to reflect that the schoolboys have no respect for him. The road up the hill was somewhat gloomy on account of the trees: the houses, with their gardens and lawns, and carriage drives, and smoothness and snugness, betokened in those years the institution of evening prayers. I fear I may be misunderstood. At that time great was the power and the authority of seriousness. To be serious was fashionable, if one may say so, in City circles. Respectability was nearly always serious: it was divided into two classes: that which had morning prayers only, and that which had evening prayers as well. With the young, the latter institution was unpopular—no one of the present younger generation can understand how unpopular{311} it was: a house which had evening prayers made a deliberate profession of a seriousness which was something out of the common, which the young people disliked, as a rule; and it insisted on the sons getting home in time for prayers. This profession of seriousness generally belonged to a large house, beautiful gardens, rich conservatories, a large income, and a carriage and pair. Denmark Hill used to appear to outward view as more especially a suburb belonging to the serious rich, who could afford a profession of more than common earnestness.
DULWICH COLLEGE, 1780 DULWICH COLLEGE, 1780

Herne Hill was remarkable for consisting of three houses only, each with its parklike grounds and gardens and its noble trees. Champion Hill I remember as a green and grassy slope: there were no houses at all upon it: but there was a road, and at the bottom of the road a green called Goose Green—you may still find this tract of grass, but I believe it is now pinched and attenuated. On Goose Green{312} they kept ponies for hire: the boys used to ride them up the hill and gallop them down the hill. Beyond this green there was a much larger expanse called Peckham Rye: so far as I can remember it was a most uninviting place formerly; not a wild heath like Putney or Hampstead, not a waste place covered with fern and gorse and bramble and wild trees; but a barren, dreary expanse of uncertain grass. Boys would perhaps have played cricket upon it in summer, but there were then no boys at Peckham Rye. Now, all this country is covered with houses, and Peckham is like Bloomsbury itself for streets and terraces and squares.

We have not only destroyed the former beauty of South London: we have forgotten it. Ask a resident of Penge—one of the many thousands of Penge—what this suburban town was like seventy years ago. Do you think he can tell you anything of Penge Common? Has he ever heard of any Penge Common? Well, it is exactly seventy-one years ago—viz. in May 1827—that Mr. William Hone—the compiler of the 'Every-Day Book,' climbed up outside the Dulwich stage, proposing to visit the picture gallery of Dulwich College. Hone was one of the first of those curious and inquisitive persons who began to employ their summers in exploring the unknown villages and strange places round London. The picture gallery he could not see because it was closed; he therefore walked across the country from Dulwich to a place called Penge. At the top of a hill he found a choice of three roads. He chose that which led through Penge Common. The place was thickly wooded: it was, he says, 'a cathedral of singing birds.' At the mere recollection of that choir he bursts into verse—other people's verse. Alas! the Common had already, even then, been ravished from its owners, the people: it was enclosed; it was doomed; it was about to be built upon. Mr. Hone consoled himself, however, at the 'Old Crooked Billet,' with eggs and bacon and home-brewed ale. Again, is there anyone in Penge who now remembers{313} the hanging woods? They hung over a hillside, and were as beautiful as the hanging woods of Cliveden. But, like the Common, they are gone.
From the Tower of St. Saviour's From the Tower of St. Saviour's

Or let us ask the resident of Norwood what he remembers of its ancient glories; whether there were any ancient glories. Has he heard of the famous Norwood oak? Of the Norwood Spa? Of the gypsies of Norwood? Why, the Queen of all the gypsies, unless there was a more powerful sovereign at Jedburgh, held her court and camp at Norwood. Has this resident heard of the views from the top of the hill, four hundred feet above the level of the sea, whither the people flocked by hundreds to see the view and to wander in the woods?

All this beauty is destroyed. Of course, the destruction was inevitable. One accepts the inevitable with a sigh; we cannot have town and country together. The woods are gone, the rural life is gone, encroachments have been made upon{314} the commons, the wayside tavern—the place was full of wayside taverns—is gone. What remains of all this beauty is a fragment here and there. Clapham Common, once a heath, now a park; Wimbledon Common, Tooting Common; these expanses are mercifully left us for breathing-places. Some of them, like Clapham, are transformed into imitations of a park, instead of being left as a heath. All of them are bereft, of course, of their old accompaniments; they have lost the wood beside the heath, the farm, the ploughed lands, the tinkle of the sheep bell, the song of the skylark.

We have seen in the course of these chapters some of the associations of South London. I confess that, for my own part, I am not happy in considering associations connected with rows of terraces and villas. Here, you say, was once the house, with the park, of such and such a great man. Really! I dare say. But it is now covered with gentility. If I am taken to a slum—such a slum as that on the west of St. Mary Overies, and am told that in this place was Winchester House, I am at once interested. Why should the memory of the past appeal to our imagination more in a slum than in a brand new, spick and span collection of pleasant country villas? Is it from a feeling that all things tend to decay, and that the new suburb speaks not of decay? Who, for instance, stepping from the south-east corner of Tooting Common into the place which was once Streatham Park, can think of Mrs. Thrale a............