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LOCAL HISTORY PREVIOUS | NEXT | BROWSE ARCHIVES Memorials of Thomas Hood Thomas Hood lived in Lake House in Wanstead from 1832 to 1835, during which time his son, also called Thomas, was born. After his father's death, Thomas, with his sister, published volumes of his father's work along with memoirs of their father's life. The following are short extracts from these memoirs, as narrated by Thomas' son, Thomas Hood. 'In 1832 he left Winchmore Hill, owing to some disagreement with his landlord, who declined to make some necessary alterations; it was much to be regretted, and he always spoke of it afterwards in that light. He was induced to take a house in Essex - Lake House, Wanstead. He was over-persuaded to do so by some not very judicious friends, and he ver afterwards repented it. It was, however, a beautiful old place, although exceedingly inconvenient, for there was not a good bed-room in it. The fact was, it had formerly been a sort of banqueting-hall to Wanstead Park, and the rest of the house was sacrificed to the one great room, which had extended all along the back. It had a beautiful chimney-piece carved in fruit and flowers by Gibbons, and the ceiling bore traces of painting. Several quaint Watteau-like pictures of the Seasons were panelled in the walls, but it was all in a shocking state of repair, and in the twilight the rats used to come and peep out of the holes in the wainscot. There were two or three windows on each side, while a door in the middle opened on a flight of steps leading into a pleasant wilderness of a garden, infested by hundreds of rabbits from the warren close by. From the windows you could catch lovely glimpses of forest scenery, especially one fine aspen avenue. In the midst of the garden lay the little lake from which the house took its name, surrounded by huge masses of rhododendrons. In the early part of his residence at Wanstead, my father's boyish spirit of fun broke out as usual. On one occasion some boys were caught by him in the act of robbing an orchard; with the assistance of the gardener, they were dragged trembling into the house. My mother's father happened to be staying there, an imposing-looking old gentleman, who had not forgotten his scholastic dignity when looking on anything in the shape of a boy. A hint to him sufficed, and he assumed an arm-chair and the character of a J.P. for the county. The frightened offenders were drawn up before him and formally charged by my father with the theft, which was further proved by the contents of their pockets. The judge, ssuming a sever air, immediately sentenced them to instant execution by hanging on the cherry tree. I can recollect being prompted by my father to kneel down and intercede for the culprits, and my frightened crying and the solemn farce of the whole scene had its due effect on the offenders. Down on their knees they dropped in a row, sobbing and whining most piteously, and vowing never 'to do so no more.' My father, thinking them sufficiently punished, gave the hint, and they were as solemnly pardoned, my father and grandfather laughing heartily to see the celerity with which they made off." Thomas' son goes on to recount other stories of pranks and practical jokes, and reveals that even he himself was not excluded as a target for his father's sense of humour; "Nor was I, though a mere child, more exempt than my mother from a few innocent pranks. I had a favourite but very ugly wooden doll, combining all the usual features of the race, a triangular nose, button mouth and inverted eyes. This lovely creature I left by some chance in the dangerous precincts of my father's study. What was my horror and amazement next morning to find her comely visage thickly studded with bright pink spots ! For some hours I dared not to go near her, as she lay extended on the table, being firmly persuaded she had the measles, then very prevalent in the neighbourhood. My father was, of course, the author of the mischief, and perceived the success of his plan with infinite amusement. My fears, however, were not allayed till poor dolly underwent a thorough ablution, under which her few remaining charms vanished for ever. Though living at Wanstead, my father and mother still visited the sea-side at intervals; indeed my father seemed always to yearn with a vague longing for the ocean, 'his old love' - just as dwellers in towns long for green fields. While residing at Lake House, my father wrote his only completed novel, 'Tylney Hall', much of the scenery and description benig taken from Wanstead and its neighbourhood. This was dedicated to the Duke of Devonshire. Here also was written a little volume containing a poem called the 'Epping Hunt', with illustrations by Cruickshank. The frontispiece was an admirable likeness of an old gentleman who lived near us, a Mr Rounding, the landlord of the the inn at Woodford at this time, and the life and spirit of the Epping Hunt. He was one of the few surviving representatives of the old fox-hunting squires of other days, living in hospitable style in their large old houses, and keeping packs of hounds. He was, I believe, the manager of those Cockney Olympian revels, the Epping Hunts, which, however, at that time were many shades better than they are now." See also these other related articles: Hood, Thomas (1799-1845) Thomas Hood at Wanstead 1832-1835