my; it is, however, said to have been the
residence of Oliver 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 be 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 monument 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
com