Last year we heard of a fine old house at Wandsworth that had been doomed: it was to be cleared away by some builder of suburban villas. It was a very interesting specimen of its kind. It stood back a little from the road--presenting a rather imposing front of ripe and hard old red brick, with a richly-carved tympanum curiously protected from the incursions of the birds by a wire netting--a building well disposed and balanced, with two little low wings or “dependences” peeping from behind luxuriant shrubs. Over all was that sort of red rust which gives a grateful look of ripeness to old brickwork. The doorway was well and richly carved. Welcome, on entering, was the prospect of the old hall, dusky, panelled in oak, and crossed by three airy arches, well carved, with light pillars suggesting a colonnade. Beyond was the stair, rising effectively in short lengths. The elegant, twisted rail, slight but stable, the solidly-moulded balustrade--were admirably effective and interesting. The wall of the stair was richly dight with allegorical painting; whilst in the carved ceiling, among the clouds and vapours, were stately medallions with portraits. The colours, though somewhat faded and overlaid with grime, were in good order, and when cleaned would no doubt make a brave show. Verrio’s work--a country job--we may easily believe it to be. All through the mansion was abundant panelling and doors, with cornices richly cut. There was a perplexing little room, seemingly sliced off some greater apartment, the ceiling of which also displayed pictorial glories--two tremendous dames seated on clouds, one handing a sealed letter to the other. In the broad ceiling over the stair a medallion picture, said to be a portrait of the Duchess of York; and another believed to represent Queen Anne. In all this there was a sense of surprise mingled with a tranquil charm, a kind of new sensation. It was pleasant to think that the hard and grinding London practical spirit had overlooked this graceful relic. The spirit of Anne seemed to flutter through the old chambers. But it was on passing through to the back, to the old-fashioned “grounds,” that this sentiment was intensified. Looking up we could see that its back façade was as architectural as the front, displaying another richly-carved pediment and scutcheon with what appeared to be a cipher. The solemn brickwork, rusted and mellow, looked down on an old-fashioned, low-lying plaisaunce. From the richly-carved doorway we entered upon a stone platform, two gracefully-curved flights of steps sweeping down to the garden. Here you could scarcely believe that you were close to the high-road and to the ever-jingling tram-cars. Beyond, there were shady old trees and velvet lawns, strongly marked by an old-fashioned air of tranquillity. This old place is said to have been the residence of the Princess Anne and her husband. For my part, I have no hesitation in accepting the tradition.