PICTURESQUE LONDON.
INSCRIBED
WITH MUCH REGARD
TO
THE RIGHT HON. DAVID PLUNKET, M.P.,
FIRST COMMISSIONER OF WORKS

Picturesque London

BY
Percy Fitzgerald, M.A., F.S.A.
ILLUSTRATED BY

With a Frontispiece in Photogravure of
“THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.”
(From a Drawing by Hume Nisbet.)
London:
WARD & DOWNEY,
1890.

PREFACE.

In the following pages I have attempted to describe the numerous artistic treasures and beauties of London. These attractions are so abundant and varied, that I have not been able to do more than select specimens, as it were, of each class; but enough has been given to inspire the reader with an eagerness to set out, and make these discoveries for himself. The aim throughout has been to show that the Metropolis is as well furnished with “the picturesque” as any foreign city, and that there is much that is romantic and interesting, which, without a sympathetic guide, might escape notice. There are various modes of “seeing sights.” One, the most common, is the regular official method “the Guide Book;” when the stranger goes round, and stares, and takes care that he sees each object set down in his Book. No fruit or profit comes from this process, which leaves a feeling of tediousness. How welcome, on the other hand, is some living guide, the friend that knows the subject, that can point out the special merits and beauties with sympathy, describe in a few words why this or that is attractive, or admired. What was before a mere blank mass of details, now becomes vivified, and has meaning; something of this kind is, in a small way, attempted here.

These “Travels in London” have been the result of many years’ exploration. I have always found a never-failing pastime to observe as I walked, and made expeditions into far off and little known quarters, rarely without discovering something novel and unexpected. I must add, however, that these records do not pretend to be at all in the nature of a “guide,” or to supply historical or archæological information. They simply register impressions.

In the same spirit the Illustrations have been selected, so as to convey the artistic feeling with which the various scenes impress us. I am conscious too of shortcomings, especially when I think of the conscientious labours of Peter Cunningham, Thornbury, and Walford, though in another department of the subject; but these, I trust, will be excused in consideration of the goodwill and enthusiasm, in which the work has been carried out.

P. F.

Athenæum Club,
September, 1890.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

INTRODUCTION.

THE subject of London, old and new, has ever offered a charm and even fascination, attested by the countless works which crowd the shelves of the library. The entries under the word “London” fill nearly a volume of the British Museum catalogue. These old folios and quartos, grey and rusted like the churches and halls they celebrate, have a dilapidated, decayed tone, as though they also wanted “restoring”; and there is a welcome quaintness and sincerity in the style of such antiquaries as Northuck, Strype, Stowe, Pennant, and others, which contrast with the more prosaic tone of the modern handbooks. These old scribes belonged to that amazing and unrequited class, “the county historian”: such were honest, laborious Whitaker and Plot. There is nothing more pathetic than the record of these unselfish enthusiasts, who, after collecting subscriptions and devoting their lives and life-blood to these huge quartos, generally ruined themselves by the venture. Now, long after they have mouldered away, their huge tomes fetch large prices at auction; or some dapper editor of our day re-issues them, with airy notes of his own, taking care to point out the various “blunders” of the poor departed Dryasdust who laboured so faithfully and so modestly.

An interesting speculation might be found in considering the different ways persons have looked on the great aggregate of London. For those of fashion it is little more than an enlarged Grosvenor or Belgrave Square: it has few associations, historical or otherwise; while its “curios” may be useful as a sort of raree-show for the crowd. As the excellent Boswell put it, “I have often amused myself with thinking how different a place London is to different people. They whose narrow minds are contracted to the consideration of some one particular pursuit, view it only through that medium. A politician thinks of it merely as the seat of government in its different departments; a grazier as a vast market for cattle; a mercantile man as a place where a prodigious deal of business is done upon ’Change; a dramatic enthusiast as the grand scene of theatrical entertainments; a man of pleasure as an assemblage of taverns, etc., etc.; but the intellectual man is struck with it as comprehending the whole of human life in all its variety, the contemplation of which is inexhaustible.”

Stowe, Maitland, Grose, Pennant, Brayley, Leigh Hunt, with J. T. Smith, the author of “Walks in London,” the invaluable Peter Cunningham, and other “guides and friends,” in their dealings with London town seem to have been fascinated by one particular mode of treatment, viz.: the tracking out of all the personages and the social and historical incidents that are connected with particular spots. So diligently has this sort of investigation been pursued that some sort of connection has been established between every modern spot and corner and some great memory. Old houses, old inns, old streets and chambers, have all been thus registered and illustrated by quotations from books of their time. As Leigh Hunt says, “Nor perhaps is there a single spot in London in which the past is not visibly present to us, either in the shape of some old buildings, or at least in the names of the streets, or in which the absence of more tangible memorials may not be supplied by the antiquary. In some parts of it we may go back through the whole English history, perhaps through the history of man, as when we speak of St. Paul’s Churchyard, a place in which you may get the last new novel, and find remains of the ancient Britons and of the sea. There also, in the Cathedral, lie painters, patriots, humorists, the greatest warriors and some of the best men; and there, in St. Paul’s School, was educated England’s epic poet, who hoped that his native country would never forget her privilege of ‘teaching the nations how to live.’”

Elia seems to touch a more sympathetic note. He was, indeed, an idolater of the city. “London,” he cried, “whose dirtiest Arab-frequented alley, and her lowest-bowing tradesman I would not exchange for Skiddaw, Helvellyn, James, Walter, and the parson into the bargain. Oh! her lamps of a night, her rich goldsmiths, print shops, toy shops, mercers, hardwaremen, pastrycooks, St. Paul’s Churchyard, the Strand, Exeter Change, Charing Cross, and the man upon a black horse. These are thy gods, O London! All her streets and pavements are pure gold, I warrant you. At least I know an alchemist that turns her mud into that metal—a mind that loves to be at home in crowds.” This is pleasant rapture. In another place he grows almost wanton over what he calls “the furniture of his world,” that is, “streets, streets, streets, markets, theatres, churches, Covent Gardens, shops sparkling with pretty faces of industrious milliners, neat seamstresses, ladies cheapening, gentlemen behind counters lying, authors in the streets with spectacles ... lamps lit at night, pastrycooks’ and silversmiths’ shops, beautiful Quakers of Pentonville, noise of coaches, drowsy cry of mechanic watchmen at night, with bucks reeling home drunk. If you happen to wake at midnight, cries of ‘Fire!’ and ‘Stop thief!’ Inns of Court with their learned air, and halls and butteries, just like Cambridge colleges; old bookstalls ‘Jeremy Taylors,’ ‘Burtons on Melancholy,’ on every stall. These are the pleasures of London ... for these may Keswick and the giant brood go hang.” And his humorous penchant for the city was so strong that he would call aloud, “Give me Old London at fire and plague times,” rather than “healthy country air” and “purposeless exercise.”

The mutations in the aspect of London are taking place with an almost alarming rapidity, so that it becomes difficult even to note them. Hardly a week passes without some old street or mansion being menaced, and marked for destruction. Of a morning we see the new and significant “hoarding” set up: in a week or two we pass again, and the “housebreakers,” as they are called, are hard at work with their pickaxes, shovelling down the old Queen Anne bricks in showers of dust. From year’s end to year’s end this goes on. The hungry eyes of the speculator, or of the thriving man of business, are often fixed upon the old Wren churches, which, in his view, so idly cumber space that might be covered with useful warehouses at enormous rents. It is sad to think that eventually it will be found impossible to resist this never-relaxing pressure, and that within a few years the clearing away of these venerable memorials will have set in. The recent clamour about St. Mary’s in the Strand is truly significant, the spoilers knowing well that if they can insert their wedge or pickaxe here, a happy beginning will have been made. These old buildings have few authorized friends or guardians beyond the amiable amateur.

“London,” as a writer in The Builder says, “is still, in spite of all pullings down, and removals of the so-called worn-out and out of date buildings, full every here and there of quaint spots, and bits of architecture, and even of poetic remembrances in dreary nooks and corners. Many of the antique streets are yet in existence, as far as the plans of them go; and the irregularity of house pulling down and improvement necessitates differences in the size and height of the houses, which make up the crooked street, and leave the idea of it, as it was, almost intact.”

It is fashionable to abuse the old city, to be ashamed of it, when comparing it with foreign towns. Dr. Waagen, who was in London in 1838, took away a not very favourable impression of London architecture. “The outside of the brick houses,” he says, “in London is very plain, and has nothing agreeable in the architecture, unless it be the neat and well-defined joints of the brick-work. On the other hand, many of the great palace-like buildings are furnished with architectural decorations of all kinds, with pillars and pilasters. There are two reasons why most of them have a rather disagreeable effect. They are destitute of continuous simple main lines, which are indispensable in architecture to produce a grand effect, and the decorative members are introduced in a manner entirely arbitrary, without any regard to their original meaning. This absurdity is carried to the greatest excess in the case of columns, ranged here, as wholly unprofitable servants, directly before a wall. This censure applies in an especial manner to most of the works of the deceased architect, Nash. In truth, he had a peculiar knack of depriving masses of considerable dimensions of all meaning, by breaking them into a number of little projecting and receding parts.”

He is even more severe on some of the churches; for instance, All Souls, in Langham Place, “a circular building in two stories, with Ionic and Corinthian columns, surmounted by a pointed sugar-loaf.”

“If the immense sums expended in architectural abnormities had always been applied in a proper manner, London must have been the handsomest city in the world.” Exceptions, however, to this general blame, he admits, are Somerset House, which has the air of a regal palace, and the “new Post Office,” which has quite “a noble effect.”

It is interesting to reflect how the thoroughfares have affected eminent persons. When Leigh Hunt saw a house with flowers in the balcony, or otherwise prettily disposed or arranged with taste, he was seized with an irresistible longing to knock at the door, ask for the proprietor, and formally thank him for the pleasure he had given to a careless passer-by! It might be curious to see this graceful appreciation pass from theory to action; and conjure up the face of, say, some retired cheesemonger as he came down to receive the compliment. His natural sense would be—and would be in the case not merely of a retired cheesemonger, but of an average person—an idea of affront. Johnson, as we have been told again and again, enjoyed Fleet Street, though it must be confessed the removal of Temple Bar has somewhat spoiled this association. There was the idea of formal entrance to the City—much as one would pass under the portals of an old castle to gain the courtyard. The not unpicturesque oval where the Law Courts stand has gained, but Fleet Street has lost. Nay, there was a pleasure, when vulgarly reared aloft on an omnibus, in rumbling under that archway. It was like entering an old fortified town.

One might be inclined to think that a few reflections, new or old, could be suggested by the streets, where custom has so much staled any variety that existed. Leigh Hunt again declares that there is not a single London street—that endless world of flagging, stone, and brick—from which the pleasant vision of a tree is not to be seen. I believe the fact to be true in the main—certainly was true in his day. What curious survivals still remain to us—such as would make the foreigner stop and look back at long and eagerly, and go unheeded by the careless resident! To give an instance or two: On a Sunday morning the early promenader is likely to meet a little procession passing through the Mall of ten or a dozen boys, gorgeously clad in scarlet coats of antique cut, richly and profusely laced with gold, with black hose and shoes with buckles, college caps with gold tassels. Few even in London have encountered these little gentry, and if they did would wonder exceedingly. They belong to the Court, and are the singing boys of the Royal Choir. Again, to pass by Newgate Street and look in between the railings at the boys of the old foundation of “Christ’s” busily engaged enjoying football—what a quaint costume, the orange stockings, the monastic gown confined with a leather strap—like a “Frere”—and the curious rule which interdicts wearing hat or cap, apparently without injury. And we have still left the “Beefeaters” or Yeomen of the Guard.

Indeed, few can conceive how many interesting streets, houses, corners, churches, and general “surprises” are to be found by those who know where to look for them. There are people who have been brought up, “man and boy,” as it is called, in London, and lived there all their life long, and who think it is little more than a repetition of the Strand and Fleet Street, and that the City is all like Lombard Street. What London abounds in is the picturesque and the poetical: there is really an abundance of charming “bits,” of artistic buildings, and of relics as noteworthy as any in a foreign town. Some of them we pass every day, but familiarity obscures their merit. Others, too, we pass every day, but they are hid behind screens and walls, or locked in behind old rusty gates. Often thinking of these ignored treasures, I determined to explore for myself, and see if I could do something in a humble way to introduce to better notice this “Picturesque London,” or the picturesqueness of London. Prompted by this sympathetic impulse, I have for years made regular, diligent “travels in London” as an explorer, and have been astonished at all I saw. It was true, no doubt, that many of these things were described in the official guide-books, but after the appraising, registering fashion of such works. What one has looked for was some one with sympathy to point out the merits and beauties. I pursued my new calling with a growing relish, often directed to inspect curiosities by a friendly counsellor, more often stumbling on them by accident. In time it was amazing what a number of old houses, old doorways, old churches, old corners, I was thus introduced to, what unsuspected treasures were laid open, and above all what a new fund of entertainment was provided for a simple street promenader.

I shall now proceed to share my enjoyment with the courteous reader, and we shall make our wanderings in rather a fitful way, chiefly as the explorer made them, almost without system, dealing with these objects as they lie grouped together within compass of a day’s travelling.

PICTURESQUE LONDON.

CHAPTER I.
ST. MARGARET’S CHURCH, WESTMINSTER.

WE shall commence our pilgrimage at that striking and imposing scene, the old “Broad Sanctuary,” Westminster. Few may have noted the quaint obelisks which at intervals help to form the inclosure! Lately the churchyard was laid down in grass, and the flagging removed; but it may be doubted if this be a real improvement. The air of space seems diminished. A sward of this kind is becoming in a genuine close, as at Salisbury, where the cathedral is in the country; but here the minster is in the heart of the town—in the streets—and the grass seems to have an artificial air. Sixty years ago this inclosure displayed a number of fine old trees, which would have been in admirable keeping, and a picturesque adornment. But when the coronation of George IV. was at hand, the obsequious Dean and Chapter determined to erect scaffolding and ample theatres to view the procession; and the trees were cut down. As Mr. Croker said, they had been so ill-advised or so greedy as to take this step, and the “loss of this ornament to the public was great, while the profit to the Chapter did not perhaps amount to £10.”

One solitary altar-tomb, carefully railed round, will be noted in this large inclosure, and we may speculate as to the reasons for this toleration, where all the rest have been swept away. The inscription is almost illegible; but it is the memorial of a certain wealthy Mr. Davies. He was the owner of all the estate where are now Grosvenor Square and the adjoining streets; from him this enormous property passed to the Grosvenor family, and Davies Street was so named in his honour. No doubt it was owing to this august connection that his tomb was allowed to remain. But his heritors might have the inscription re-cut.

From a Drawing by Herbert Railton.

The group of buildings—the Abbey, Westminster Hall, the Houses of Parliament, the bridge beyond, the Westminster School—might be set off with prodigious effect were there one of real artistic instincts to undertake the task. Nothing, for instance, can be meaner or more ineffective than Palace Square with its statues. It is obvious that this should be treated as a place, with an imposing and attractive object as its centre; instead of which we find it divided in two by a broad walk, and the whole effect is frittered away. There is something grotesque in the statues ranged round dos à dos, huddled together with a commercial view to convenience. A single statue, it may be said, needs an area to itself to have proper effect; as we may see in the Place Verte at Antwerp, where that of Rubens is sufficient to give point to the whole area.

In the shadow of Westminster Abbey stands a homely-looking edifice of Churchwarden’s Gothic. Uninviting as is the exterior of St. Margaret’s, its interior is most interesting and suggestive. Restored not many years ago with excellent taste and reserve, it has been gradually beautified under the direction and encouragement of the rector, Archdeacon Farrar; so that, small and unpretending as it seems, a couple of hours may be profitably spent in viewing it. The interior is of the collegiate pattern, with a flat panelled roof supported by airy and elegant columns with delicate mouldings. The walls have been judiciously allowed to display the outlines of their stones, which furnish good detail and background. No church of its size, perhaps, is so rich in tombs and tablets, all of which are more or less interesting; and they are disposed so as to heighten the general effect. Some are fitted on to the light columns, shield-like, and bent to the mouldings. Most of the memorials are of one formal kind; a bust or medallion in the middle, a pediment above, and below a black marble slab or tablet with the inscription. The marbles are mostly of rich russet tones, or of a plum tint.

The idea of making the painted windows illustrate the story of eminent persons connected with the place or parish is a happy one; for it enriches as well as beautifies the church. The legends, moreover, have been supplied by distinguished poets. One great window, which displays its brown and amber glories in honour of Queen Elizabeth and Sir Walter Raleigh, is a present from the Americans; and Mr. Lowell has written these lines for it:—

The New World’s sons, from England’s breast we drew
Such milk as bids remember whence we came;
Proud of the Past from which our Present grew,
This window we erect to Raleigh’s name.

The window is a handsome one, and is richer and deeper in its tones than its fellows. Long ago a meagre white tablet with a bold inscription was placed here by “The Roxburghe Club,” to commemorate Caxton. Over the tablet a painted window has recently been fitted, the gift of the printers of London—a happy and becoming tribute; while the Laureate, who has given abundant work to printers all over the globe, has supplied these lines:—

Thy prayer was “light, more light while time shall last;”
Thou sawest a glory growing on the night,
But not the shadows which that light will cast
Till shadows vanish in the light of light.

Some of the side windows are poor and thin in tone, as if done in water-colour; but the rich depth and gorgeousness of the great window—as of old wine seen deep down in the glass—eclipses the rest. There is also a window to the memory of the ill-fated Lord Frederick Cavendish. The inscription is not particularly happy, and his fellow-victim is described as “Mr. T. N. Burke.” Another commemorative window which seems prosaic is that of the Jubilee, the Queen in the centre, in full view of her great ancestor Elizabeth. Here Mr. Browning furnished the verse:—

Fifty years’ flight! Where should he rejoice
Who hailed their birth, who as they die decays?
This—England echoes his attesting voice,
Wondrous and well, thanks, Ancient Thou of days!

A regular riddle or crux, which strains the wit, as we ponder over the meaning. Merriment and wonder were alike excited by the last line, with its odd punctuation:—

“Wondrous and well, thanks, Ancient Thou of days!”

There is also the Milton window—the Poet’s wife and daughter are buried here—given by another amiable American, Mr. Childs, with an inscription by Whittier:—

The New World honours him whose lofty plea,
For England’s freedom, made her own more sure;
Whose song, immortal as its theme, shall be
Their common freehold while both worlds endure.

The last line seeming rather prosaic, the author good-naturedly offered to substitute “heirloom” for “freehold.” But “freehold” stands. Another window celebrates Sir Erskine May, whose severe, thoughtful face is portrayed in various Scriptural attitudes—e.g., as the Faithful Steward, with the legend “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”

Another interesting memorial was set up on December 18th, 1888, thus further enriching the associations of the church. This was in honour of the gallant Admiral Blake, and takes the shape of a three-light window in the north aisle. The upper portions are of an allegorical kind; the lower depicts incidents from Blake’s life, such as the indignity of the ejection of his body from the Abbey in 1661, after the Restoration. Mr. Lewis Morris, another of the poets of our time, has furnished spirited verses, and sings:—

Strong sailor, sleeping sound as sleep the just,
Rest here: our Abbey keeps no worthier dust.

This fashion is interesting, and original too. For, as we pass from window to window, we can review our history, and the striking lines attached to each will linger in the memory. Thus we have five poets contributing to the glories of these windows.

The old tablets with which the walls are incrusted have an interest from the originality of the style and the richness of material. Here we find the rather grim likeness of the worthy Palmer, and of Emery Hill, whose almshouses and schools are still to be seen in Westminster. Many Court ladies find rest in the church: such as Lady Dorothy Stafford, “who served Queen Elizabeth forty years, lying in the bed-chamber;” or Lady Blanche Parry, “chief gentlewoman of Queen Elizabeth’s Privy Chamber, and keeper of her Majesty’s jewels, whom she faithfully served from her Highness’s birth;” or Anne Ellis, “who was born in Denmark, and was Bedchamber Woman to Queen Anne.” We come on a record “To the memory of the right virtuous and beautiful gentlewoman, Mistress Margaret Ratcliffe, one of the maids of honour to Queen Elizabeth, and who died at Richmond.” Many of the men, too, have served their King, like Cornelius Vandam, “souldier with King Henry at Turney, Yeoman of the Guard, and Usher to Prince Henry, King Edward, Queen Mary, and Queen Elizabeth;” or Peter Newton, “who served King James and King Charles, and was Usher of the Black Rod.”

Some of the inscriptions are quaint and touching, like that which celebrates “the late deceased Virgin Mistress Elizabeth Hereicke”:—

Sweet Virgin, that I do not set
Thy grave verse up in mournful jet
Or dappled marble, let thy shade
Not wrathful seeme, or fright the Maid
Who hither, at the weeping Howres,
Shall come to strew thy Earth with Flowres.
No: know, blest Soule, when there’s not one
Reminder left of Brasse or Stone
Thy living Epitaph shall be,
Though lost in them, yet found in me.
Deare, in thy bed of Roses then,
Till this world shall dissolve, as Men
Sleepe, while we hide thee from the light,
Drawing thy curtains round—Good night.

With much simplicity another lady, Dame Billing, frankly tells us of the happiness she enjoyed with her three husbands, whom she sets down in their order, “garnishing the tablet with their armes.” Another widow records on an old battered “brass” the merits of one Cole, her latest partner, at great length; whereof an extract:—

In Parliament, a Burgesse Cole was placed
In Westminster the like, for many years;
But now, with Saints above, his soul is graced,
And lives a Burgess with Heaven’s Royal Peers.

There is also seen here Pope’s well-known epitaph on Mrs. Corbett, which won Dr. Johnson’s highest praise, though he takes the objection that her name is not mentioned in the lines themselves. It is well worth quoting:—

Here rests a woman, good without pretence,
Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense;
No conquest she but her own sense desired,
No arts essayed, but not to be admired.

Of this line the Doctor says with grim humour: “I once heard a lady of great beauty and excellence object that it contained an unnatural and incredible panegyric—of this let the ladies judge.”

Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinced that virtue only is our own:
So unaffected and so composed a mind,
So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refin’d;
Heaven as its purest gold, by tortures tried,
The saint sustained it, but the woman died.

Of a quaint sort is the following to a Westminster boy:—

Richard Nott, aged 11 years. His Schoolfellow Walter Thomas made his Epitaph.

Dear to his parents here doth lye,
A youth admired for Piety,
His years eleven, yet knew more
Of God than many of threescore.

Another monument is that of Mrs. Barnett, who died in 1674, leaving £40 yearly for poor widows. A large oatmeal pudding is, or used to be, given at the “Feast,” to commemorate that this “worthy lady” sold oatmeal cakes at the church doors. Skelton, the poet, is interred here: also Thomas Churchyard, Hollar, the famous engraver, and Colonel Blood of regalia memory. There can be read here the entry of Milton’s marriage with Mrs. Catherine Woodcocke, and of Edmund Waller to Ann Bankes. There is also recorded the baptism of Thomas Betterton, the actor, in 1635. Titus Oates, Jeffreys, and Bishop Burnet’s children were baptized here. These are interesting associations.

But the glory of the whole is the wonderful window over the Communion-table, with its fine depth of blue, a treat for the eye, and satiating it with colour. This impoverishes, as it were, all the modern performances near it. A great authority on painted glass, Mr. Winston, declares it to be “the most beautiful work in this respect, of harmonious colouring,” he was acquainted with. The subject is the Crucifixion. It is divided into five compartments, three of which are filled by pictures of our Saviour and the two thieves. Below them are the holy women, a crowd of Roman soldiers, etc.; over the good thief a tiny angel is seen, bearing off his soul to Paradise, while a little demon has the impenitent one on his back. On one side is the portrait of a young king at his prayers, arrayed in crown and mantle, with the armed St. George overhead; on the other side a lady, also kneeling, over whom watches St. Catherine. This window had quite a strange course of adventures. According to one account, it was a present to King Henry VII. from the Dutch States-General, and was intended for his beautiful chapel. Another version runs that it was a present from the King and Queen of Spain, Ferdinand and Isabella. It took five years to make, and by that time King Henry VIII. had succeeded. Whether his religious views had altogether changed, or he had other reasons, the window was not set up, and he made it a present to the abbey at Waltham. On the Dissolution it was bought by General Monk, who brought it down to New Hall, where it was well protected during the Civil War. From New Hall it passed to a Mr. John Olmius, who sold the window to Mr. Conyers, of Copt Hall, where it was set up; and there it seemed likely to remain. Unluckily it entered into the minds of the Churchwardens’ Committee of St. Margaret’s, in 1758, to have a thorough restoration of their old church. Dreadful windows, the same that were to be seen about twenty years ago, were put in: a common “household parapet,” as it was called, was added, with the homely porch. But now they bethought themselves of Mr. Conyers’s beautiful window, and bought it for 400 guineas. Thereupon the Chapter, offended by its “Popish” character, commenced a lawsuit to have the window removed; but the action was decided against them. There is a loving cup which celebrates this victory. Thus this rich and glowing feast of colour was retained. Below it there is a curious oaken reredos, elaborately carved into the shape of a large picture—the Supper at Emmaus—the work of a Soho artist some 120 years ago. The pulpit is a rather fantastic thing, coloured like a sugar-plum. There is an antique bench in the porch, used at the distribution of the weekly dole of sixpences and bread to a number of poor widows.

Archdeacon Farrar, the Rector, takes jealous care of St. Margaret’s, and has excited public interest in the church by his improvements and reforms. He has opened it regularly for some hours in the day; numbers are seen gazing in astonishment at the unexpected monuments and curios.

The churchyard that encompasses it is, however, associated with a degrading history. There is somewhere in the inclosure “a nameless and promiscuous pit,” as Archdeacon Farrar calls it, into which were flung, shortly after the Restoration, the remains of some twenty Republicans who had been interred in the Abbey. The bodies of Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshaw were hung up at Tyburn, and their heads fixed on pikes on the top of Westminster Hall. But into the pit was cast the body of the Protector’s mother, who was ninety years old at her death, the great Admiral Blake, Dr. Twiss, and others of less note. It is fair, however, to say that the Royal warrant did not order this outrage, and has a specious reasonable air. It ran:—

It is his Majestie’s express pleasure and command that you cause the bodies of the severall persons undernamed wᶜʰ have been unwarrantably interred in Henry the 7th and other Chappels and places wᵗʰ in the collegiate Church of Westminster since the year 1641 to be forthwith taken up and buried in some place of the Churchyard adjoining to yᵉ said Church, whereof you may not faile, and for so doing this shall be yʳ warrant. Dated at yᵉ Court of Whitehall, Sept. 9, 1661.

LAMBETH PALACE.

CHAPTER II
THE WESTMINSTER TOBACCO-BOX—THE WESTMINSTER PLAY.

IN other ways our “Parish of Westminster” offers much that is still quaint and old-fashioned and picturesque. A stranger seeing the view from the Sanctuary for the first time will be moved to surprise and admiration. The very irregularity, the straggling shape of the ground, is original and pleasing. What a number of striking objects are here congregated! Standing at the bottom of Victoria Street we see to the right the Gothic Westminster Chambers, with the not ungraceful commemorative pillar to the scholars who fell in the Crimea. Beyond is the venerable Abbey, beside which is St. Margaret’s Church and Churchyard. Beyond these is seen Westminster Hall and the elaborate façade and towers of the Houses of Parliament. Between is the square with the statues. To the left the old Sessions House, and in the distance Westminster Bridge, Lambeth Palace, and the River. All this is made animated by the ceaseless procession of vehicles, for here runs the tide of life and business very strongly; and the long train of persons making for the Strand from Pimlico passes by this route. All here is interesting, and the foreigner could spend a day or two examining what is grouped in this spot.

Few are aware of the existence of a worthy society, “The Past Overseers of St. Margaret and St. John, Westminster,” who have been in the habit of dining together at one of the taverns in the district for over 150 years. This body, not otherwise remarkable, are custodians of a singular “curio,” which from small beginnings has, like the “deputy shepherd,” been “a swellin’ wisibly” from year to year. This is “the Westminster Tobacco-Box,” which is also an extraordinary, bizarre, historical calendar of London during the long period of its existence.

It seems that in the year 1713 one of the “past” overseers, Mr. Henry Monk, was in the habit of bringing to the tavern dinners his own private tobacco-box, which he had bought for 4d. at a horn fair, and which he good-naturedly placed at the service of his friends. In so cordial a spirit was this little attention received, that he presented the company with a tobacco-box for its own use when he should have passed away. As a reciprocal attention the society had a silver rim placed on the box, whereon were recorded the donor’s name and merits. This imparted a value to the box, and it was intrusted to the charge of the overseer for the time being. The next overseer—not to be outdone in liberality—embellished the box with a silver plate, on which his name and achievements were set out. The overseer succeeding followed suit; and thus grew up the rule or custom that every overseer should add a silver plate or decoration suitably inscribed. After a few years the box became overlaid with silver plates. Space failed, and it was now fitted into an inclosing box, upon which the same process was repeated. Figures and pictures came to be engraved on the plates; the notable event of the year, whether battle, royal marriage, procession, or celebration, was duly emblazoned; and still the box, or boxes, kept growing. As a result, the box has become enormous, and has now the aspect of a massive hexagonal silver-covered chest, which resolves itself into some half-dozen boxes, one enclosed in the other, and all glittering with the accumulated silver plates of 150 years. The outer chest or casket is made from an old oaken beam that belonged to the Abbey. The general aspect of the box is rather bewildering, with its pictures, portraits, scrolls, odd costumes, dates, and inscriptions. At the annual dinner there is a ceremonial of handing over the box to the new overseer, who is solemnly enjoined by the senior churchwarden to take all care of the article. He is to have and to hold it on the condition that it be produced at all parochial entertainments he shall be invited to, or have a right to attend, when it must be furnished, with tobacco sufficient to fill three pipes at least, under forfeiture, in case of failure, of six bottles of claret. Moreover, security in the sum of 200 guineas has to be found.

The box has passed through some critical situations: once, in 1785, when some thieves carried off from the dinner-table all the portable silver; but, fortunately, the overseer had the precious box (or boxes) in safe custody. In 1793 an unworthy overseer, named Read, having a claim on the parish, actually detained the box till he was satisfied—nay, threatened to destroy the box if he were not satisfied. Thereupon a Chancery suit was actually commenced to recover this Palladium of Westminster; and the case was heard before Lord Chancellor Loughborough, who decreed that the box be restored and the costs paid by the degenerate “past overseer,” Read aforesaid. There was general joy; the solicitor who conducted the suit was made free of the society, that “he may often” (so it runs in the books) “have an opportunity of contemplating the box and its recovery.”

In 1825 some odd regulations connected with the box were introduced. The dinner which ushered it in was to be served by five o’clock, on the actual striking of St. Margaret’s clock; the landlord, on failure, to be fined two bottles of wine. He was to produce his bill at half-past eight, under penalty of another bottle. When the Westminster tobacco-boxes are opened out there is a glittering show indeed. Hours might be spent deciphering their scrolls and records. There we may see and read of the King and Queen and of Mr. Wilkes, the gallant Nelson, Pitt and Fox, and Wellington, together with pictures of a “scratchy” kind of the new prison, the trial of Queen Caroline, and other interesting scenes. In 1746 Hogarth engraved a portrait of the Duke of Cumberland inside the lid. What is to become of the box when it bourgeons beyond manageable proportions? By-and-by it will have the dimensions of a plate-chest. Before long, however, it is not unlikely that some too practical past overseer will move “That this society do hereby for the future suspend their practice of adding silver plates to the tobacco-box; and that in lieu thereof ten guineas be subscribed annually to the funds of Westminster Hospital. And that the box or boxes be deposited in the Town Hall.”

In Westminster, as in other districts of London, there is a certain local tone—healthy and independent, as though it were a separate town. Chelsea, Islington, Holborn, all these have their Town Halls, some built in rather imposing style. In each there is the Concert room, where shows and entertainments are given to the lieges. At Westminster there is the Choral Society, which has its capital concerts, singing, and orchestra—all to the glory of local Westminsters, who have great repute among their own people. There is something Flemish in this spirit, and no doubt it will develop.

A few years ago there was a cluster of mean and squalid streets on the ground where the Aquarium stands—with others of the Seven Dials pattern leading to it. These have been cleared away with extraordinary rapidity, and quite a new quarter has been formed, of which the Town Hall is the centre. Not unpleasing, and effective also, is the large group of buildings in irregular broken order that gather round it. There is Christ Church and churchyard, across which a path has been made from Victoria Street, and which is flanked by the new and grand “Iddesleigh Mansions,” with its stained glass and outside galleries. Then on the other side rise the enormous “St. Ermine’s Mansions,” rival to the “Queen Anne’s.” The visitor should note the extraordinary decorations over the doorways—two boys seated in a dégagé attitude, their legs projecting airily, projections not likely to remain long in situ. We should note, however, the pleasing Vicarage just erected in the churchyard, a compact and snug and picturesque little edifice. The church is rude and bald enough, but a project is on foot for completing the steeple. Then the place will be complete. Yet, strange to say, fringing these pretentious edifices, meant for the opulent, are the most squalid dens and alleys filled with cellars and “shanties,” with such significant names as King’s Head Court, Smith’s Rents, Horse Shoe Alley, and the like, where poverty reeks and flourishes well, as it might be said, and where from half a crown to four shillings is paid weekly for some crazy dilapidated chamber.

The performance of the Westminster Play, which takes place about a week before Christmas, furnishes the Londoner with an opportunity for dreaming himself away into old University or Cathedral life. Once within Dean’s Yard a very pleasing delusion steals over him; and so appropriate are the calm associations of the place that he will fancy himself hundreds of miles away in some scholastic retirement, instead of being close to the rattle of streets, of passing omnibuses and cabs and the busy hurly-burly of Westminster. The pleasant old custom of the Westminster Play still flourishes in all its vitality, and should be cherished as one of those survivals which usefully keep green the few romantic associations that are known to the capital.

It is evening at Christmas-tide as we come to the Sanctuary—quaint name for the open space in front of the Abbey—the traffic seems at its very busiest. The Aquarium hard by is getting ready for a busy night; its electric arc lights are blazing. Beyond, the fierce light at the top of the Clock Tower gives token of busy work within, for a so-called “autumn session” is going on. Everything betokens din, bustle, and hard work. Passing under the archway we are in “Dean’s Yard,” and what a sudden change! It almost seems a monastic inclosure. The moon is at the full; the noise of the streets is suddenly hushed. Here are the old-fashioned buildings, low and antique, with the entrance to the Cloisters of the Abbey. The chimes from the Clock Tower are giving out eight. Here, too, is the Dean’s House, quaint, low and spreading, with a deceptive air of ruin, mullioned windows, and the Canons’ residences beside it; the Head Master’s house, too, all such as would be found in a Cathedral Close. Here are small peaked windows, the walls bearing a look of rust and ruin, but very sound. Passing through a dilapidated little archway, we reach the square, where on the left is made out Ashburnham House, lost in shadow; but its elegant iron gate is distinct enough; while in front there is the old-fashioned and heavy irregular buildings of the Westminster School, with its old-fashioned porch and steps, and straggling doorways. A crowd of persons are entering—the youths, fine lads, stand about in their caps and gowns. We pass up some cramped stairs and find ourselves in the great dormitory, with alcoves on each side, while overhead are seen the beams of the sloping platform which support the spectators’ seats. For in this vast hall the performance is given.

It is a gay and festive scene enough, brilliantly lit up, with a handsomely painted proscenium at the end, while the huge sloping platform is crowded. On the right the ladies of the audience are grouped together in ascetic seclusion, much as ladies are placed in the Palchi during the Holy Week at Rome. Young scholastic aides-de-camp in cap and gown distribute bills and show us to our proper places. The Head Master, the cordial and energetic Dr. Rutherford, enters in state, and with him the personages invited, who sit in rows in the centre. On the right and left are the scholars, and dressed in the best West-end style; a brave company. “Alas!” said Charles Lamb’s brother, “to think that these fine, bright young fellows will one day become stupid Members of Parliament.”

From a Drawing by Herbert Railton.

The great thick walls on each side display their blackened stones, and are pierced at the top with small, prison-like windows. These old walls seem to speak, for they are covered over as closely as possible with names—names of scholars, in large, well-cut, and very legible letters. There is something very significant in these records, some of very well known persons. The eye, almost at first, falls upon a bold, big-cut “E. IMPEY”—a boy who was to become Sir Elijah, and to figure so prominently with Warren Hastings. Formerly the boys used to climb up and cut their names anyhow and every how; now it is reduced to a prosaic and regular system: a payment of five shillings is made, and the appointed officer arrives with his tools and ladder, and does the job, which rather destroys the poetry of the thing.

Some pretty music is being played of a soft, winning kind—the performers unseen—which lends a regular theatrical tone to the place. A lad in cap and gown and white tie and kid gloves emerges from the curtain and bends down to whisper to the Head Master, it is presumed to obtain formal leave to begin. This ceremony was repeated at the beginning of every act. Then the curtains are drawn aside, revealing the beautiful view of Athens, painted with much grace and skill by Mr. Cockerell, a combination between interior and exterior, which I believe to be the true mode of presenting a drama. Nothing could be better, more correct or realistic than the dresses. With the discoveries of pictures, mosaics, medals, etc., we can really now dress a Greek or Roman with the minutest accuracy and faithfulness. The hair, beards, etc., are trained with such wonderful accuracy so as to suggest the true antique type of face. The style of declamation was spirited and animated, much beyond what might be expected from youths. There was a solidity and gravity, and a total absence of fear and shyness. It would be affectation to say the meaning was followed by the audience, though at professedly humorous passages volleys of applause came from above, betokening the presence, even here, of a disciplined claque, who must have applauded upon signal. There were some grave and reverend pundits, who really understood and followed every word—masters en retraite, perhaps—and who were convulsed at every jest—though these seemed mild enough. At the close there was the epilogue, full of allusions to current topics. Altogether a very pleasing and interesting entertainment. There was a suggestion, throughout of collegiate associations, from the presence of the many gowned professors, canons, and others, who had only to walk across from their numerous little quaint old residences either in “the quad,” or the antique College Street or Dean’s Yard.

As the crowd poured out we crossed the courts once again under the moonlight, everything still and remote, the great Tower of the Abbey dimly outlined, the huge Victoria Tower beetling over all, the many clocks, St. Margaret’s, the Abbey, “Big Ben,” and others of smaller degree, chiming vigorously one against the other. Ashburnham House, fast closed, was sleeping placidly in the moonlight. We passed the slow, old-fashioned rooms of the Head Master, where there was a cheerful restorative supper, not at all unwelcome after the long course of rather perplexing Latin, where the guests were hospitably entreated by this cordial host.

Towards midnight, as we came out from Dean’s Yard through the great entrance, and were once more greeted with cab and omnibus clatter and general hurly-burly, it really seemed again as though we had suddenly emerged from the tranquil University cloister. The gowns, plays, cloisters, old Latin, music, canons, etc., seemed part of a collegiate dream—now rudely broken.

CHAPTER III.
ASHBURNHAM HOUSE—THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT, ETC.

PASSING from Dean’s Yard, through a Gothic arch which leads through the Canons’ houses, we find ourselves in a large court, round which run the old buildings of the Westminster School and its familiar dormitory. Facing the school is a low building, within an inclosure, known as Ashburnham House, an old Tudor structure of much interest, which a few years ago was in serious peril. The valuable ground was coveted, and it was proposed to level it and erect large modern buildings in its stead. Happily public interest was aroused, pictures and sketches appeared in the illustrated papers, and the plan was arrested. The interest lay in the beautiful and elegant design of its interior, which though of modest scale is so exquisitely laid out and designed as to suggest an air of spaciousness. There is no doubt that it is the work of Inigo Jones, who is also credited with having designed the older dormitory of the school. On entering, a low hall presents itself, with a door facing us, through which can be seen a glimpse of the old garden behind.

Standing in the airy hall, which though of small size yet appears spacious, and is panelled round with delicately indicated mouldings, we see on the left a low arch over a slightly inclined stair of three or four steps, and beyond which the regular stair with its balustrade is seen. This of itself offers a highly original effect. The staircase itself has the most gentle ascent. The walls, generally white, are broken up by delicate mouldings and pilasters crowned at the top by an oval lantern of elegant shape, and there is a general architectural effect produced of the most pleasing kind. Neither is there anything elaborate, nor are the surfaces too much loaded. We feel that the groundwork is panelling, and therefore only suited to the lightest treatment. With the mouldings are combined stucco tracery of the best school.

In the same spirit are the two beautifully proportioned rooms treated, door cases presenting rich borderings and the ceilings rich embroideries of stucco. Even the shape of the windows is worthy of study, as they let in the proper amount of light, and no more, and are exactly proportioned.

From a Drawing by Herbert Railton.

The exquisite proportion of the lines, and the general air of space and room, the rich, elaborate stucco and carving, all displayed in its proper place, and yet not too rich, will give delight to the trained architectural mind. One feature is the simple, unadorned panelling exhibited near the ground, and which contrasts with the decoration on the higher portions. The rich swelling stucco border of the oval lantern at once recalls that of the room in the Barbers’ Hall, which is confessedly from the same hand. The whole is really a gem, and again suggests the strange failing of modern architects, who, in our day, seem to neglect the laws of classical proportion which lent such a grace to works of architecture at so late a period as one hundred years ago. As for stucco, it seems hopeless to look for any comprehension of its principle. The latest elaborate expression is seen on the ceilings of the new Constitutional Club, which offers a mass of heavy details, suggesting such contours as the familiar “porridge” assumes on cooling.

The charming way in which the few remaining rooms—all that are left—open off the landing, is another of the attractions of this gem, about whose future one feels a little anxious. There is no doubt it is in a precarious state, if not rickety, and is unsuited for the requirements of the school which is carried on there. The landing might be a room itself, so airily is it treated; quite in keeping, too, is the view from the windows, original in its way, unsuspected perhaps by those familiar with the ordinary aspect of the old Abbey; for there rises before us the grim old and much-neglected flank of the fane, with its mouldering buttresses and decayed windows, which the restorers have, fortunately, not thought worthy of their attention, as being too retired to meet the public eye. Some judicious restoring, cleaning, and repairing might be expended on the old house, which has an air of slight dilapidation. The present general tone of white certainly adds to the effect of lightness, and it is questionable whether the effect would be improved by exposing the old oak panelling.

On passing out at the other end of Dean’s Yard, we find ourselves in a tranquil, old-fashioned street, College Street. This might be a portion of a close in an old cathedral, so placid and silent is it; the houses being of that small, unpretending order in which canons and choristers might reside. There are carved doorways, there is cheerful red brick, while a few houses are overgrown from top to bottom with a rich clothing of greenery. At the end we have a glimpse of the river and barges passing lazily by. In front stretches the old cobble wall of the Abbey gardens, full of old trees: the iron-grey walls of the schoolhouse, capped with the old richly-cut cornice, are seen within, Lord Burlington’s work—while over all rises the huge and solemn tower, the great Victoria—offering quite a suggestion of Canterbury Cathedral. In the wall are little unassuming portals, with the name of a canon or two inscribed on them, and cart or carriage rarely disturbs the solitude. In short there is scarcely anything in town more grateful, or more in tone with the Abbey itself than this little street, or indeed the region in which it is. Taken with the Cloisters, the old houses and little courts in the Dean’s Yard, and the School Square and Ashburnham House, all is perfectly in keeping.

The district round seems to partake of this conventual and retiring character. Going on a little farther we come to the massive, curious church which stands in Smith Square, the houses running round being of an odd, old fashion, unlike anything in London. It might be in a country town. This quarter, too, is one of those which has a distinct character, even in its squalor. But it is still pervaded by the ecclesiastical, cathedral flavour of the Abbey adjoining.

We scarcely expect to find lessons in art among the slums and squalid streets of Westminster, nor could we hope to light on much in

GARDEN OF ASHBURNHAM HOUSE (page 18)

the way of antique survival. Yet here we come on at least three interesting old edifices—almshouses and schools—which in their aspect and surroundings offer a charming sort of surprise. Passing out of Victoria Street, where there is much crush and noise at “The Stores,” and down a small alley, we come to a little gem of its kind, as it will seem to the true artist, a small charity school, standing in its walled inclosure. It is of Queen Anne date and pattern, and is no more than a simple square little hall. But how quaint and varied is it! how admirably are its surfaces broken! while every side offers a different pattern. The honest brick is of a fine plum colour; the wall is daintily divided by pilasters; delicate, unobtrusive cornices run around; the windows are shaped in proportion, and the four doorways are of such varied elegance that it is difficult to decide between them. The whole approach in front, the gateway and its piers, iron work, the flight of steps, the door itself—all strike one as being the work of a tasteful artist. Over the door is the pleasantly rococo figure of “The Blew Coat Boy” in his niche. There is a little garden behind, with steps leading down, and a sort of dédendance attached, similar in style, but acting as a kind of foil. There is a charm about the little unpretentious building that is extraordinary. Unhappily it needs repair and restoration, though it is not dilapidated. No one, however, seems to care for it, and a builder has been allowed to construct a sort of “lean to shed” beside it. By-and-by it is likely enough to pass away and to be swept off so coveted a piece of ground. All who appreciate the grace and charm of architecture must admire it.

Passing by this interesting structure and walking down a little farther in the direction of James Street, we come to a bit of almost rural life—a perfect picture, which few would suspect could be found so close to the busy haunts of men. This is a group of old almshouses known as Lady Dacre’s—a large square, covered on three sides by the buildings. They are exactly of the pattern that would have delighted the late Frederick Walker, and might be found in the outskirts of some old country town. In front there is a high railing of good old florid iron, with a handsome gateway in the middle. Through the rails we can see the forlorn garden, offering an air of “large desolation” and neglect, with a look of tranquil abandonment. In the centre there is a low block of buildings with a quaint cupola, or lantern, rising over a pediment filled with decayed sculptures. At the side are two pretty little gates by which you can enter and walk round, and play “the contemplative man,” past the low doorways, over each of which are faint characters with the name of a parish. A dim-faced clock gives hoarse and wheezy note of time; but there is no one to be seen.

Retracing our steps and crossing Victoria Street by “The Stores,” we pass into Rochester Row. Near the Westminster end we come to a large old house of a delightful pattern, with vast inclosed gardens or grounds behind. This is the “Grey Coat” School, with its fine tiled roof, central block, and wings. Nothing can be better than the rare solid brick-work and the air of solidity and comfort. Some directing Goths have, however, erected a barbarous sort of colonnade or passage exactly before the door of entrance, thus spoiling the effect of the façade. Everything is in excellent keeping, even to the high substantial wall round it. But the fair expanse of ground behind is coveted, and already a slice has been taken off for a large factory.

In front there used to stand, not long since, another group of almshouses, which the worthy Palmer and Emery Hill, erst citizens of Westminster, had erected. These were pulled down, and an attempt has been made to erect something of the same genre, but with indifferent success.

As we survey the so-called improvements of London, the thought often recurs—how much a little more taste would have beautified the changes! But we seem helpless in this matter. No one appears to have a conception of what the requirements or opportunities are of a particular situation. There is, for instance, a statue of Cœur de Lion, by Marochetti, before the House of Lords—which is flamboyant enough to be effective—yet how feebly disposed is it! It seems to shrink, or to be huddled away in a corner. We have so few equestrian statues, we ought to make the most display we can with them. Note the poorish pedestal, only a few feet high. This statue ought to be in the centre of a place, on a high commanding pedestal; and there, would really have effect.

People often lament that the old Cathedrals, both in England and abroad, are so crowded up, and incrusted by mean buildings and streets; but do they gain when these are cleared away? One of the most picturesque glimpses of the Abbey is to be obtained from a point vis-à-vis to the Peers’ entrance, near the equestrian statue. There is a perfect old-world charm over this little corner, at the end of which the great arched buttress of the Chapter House—a happy bit of restoration—shows itself. The air of repose and tranquillity is extraordinary. You would think you were in an old rural town.

We are so familiar with the great Westminster group of buildings, the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Hall, that we scarcely can appreciate the imposing magnificence of the site and disposition. But foreigners are often struck with astonishment and admiration at the vast elaborate workmanship and detail; and certainly for a modern work the Parliament House is singularly successful in the effort to reproduce the old Gothic. The irregularity and originality of the treatment of the two towers, the flèche, etc., is worthy of all praise. Of course faults may be detected, and it is said there is a monotony in the repetition of the panelling, which suggests wood-carving, as though wrought by machinery. When the plans were discussed it was proposed to raise the platform on the river side to the full level of the ground in Palace Square, or rather to that of the Bridge, and this would certainly have had an imposing effect. But the difficulty was what to do with Westminster Hall. There was an angry controversy between Pugin and Sir Charles Barry, and between those who represented them, as to their respective shares in the design, a point which the impartial spectator will have little difficulty in deciding. Pugin’s spirit is to be recognized everywhere and in all the details, and it was impossible that so pervading an influence should not have its effect in the constructive portions also. Barry’s other works offer nothing like this—nothing so free or fanciful. The luxuriance of florid details is indeed extraordinary, and the lavish profusion of ornament seems to belong to some gem of a private chapel rather than to the surfaces of so vast a building. But it is melancholy to note the evidence of decay, and this delicate tracery, though apparently preserving its shape and form, is mouldering away. Any “under-cutting” in this climate is doomed. The general decay of the main stone-work which caused such alarm many years ago has happily been arrested; a vast quantity of the decayed material has been cut out and renewed. But there is a constant repair going on, and little “crow’s nests” are to be always seen crusted round one or other of the delicate “finials.”

Some palpable mistakes, due to economy, can be detected at once. The intention of the architect in designing so long and so low a structure was to relieve it by the two Towers, which were to “carry up” the eye—like spires. The great Victoria Tower, whose enormous proportions can only be appreciated when we are close to it, seems as vast and massive as the Tower of the Town Hall at Ypres—that wonder of the world. Yet the whole idea of its imposing height has been sacrificed: it is indeed difficult to believe that it is as high as the dome of St. Paul’s. As Fergusson says, “the Victoria Tower partly dwarfs the portion of the building near it. Yet in the original design it was intended to be six stories in height, which increase would have lessened the sense of breadth, making it more airy. Unfortunately the architect had the weakness of often changing his original purpose, consequently the entrance, instead of being only of the height of two stories of the building as at first proposed, now runs through and makes the adjacent House of Lords ridiculous. If the size of the gate is appropriate the Lords are pigmies. Worse than this, at the back of the great arch is a little one, one fourth its height, through which everything must pass. The counterpart of all this is the House, which looks much smaller than it really is.”

The fact is, that when the Tower was approaching completion the House of Commons, in a fit of economy, interposed and refused to allow it to be carried to its proper height. It is now therefore some thirty or forty feet too short. Its proportions seem clumsy and stinted, and it is really unpleasant to contemplate. The flèche that rises from the centre of the building is really beautiful and elegant, covering (which few would suspect) the great central Hall, and, with these various towers and spires forms a charming assemblage, to which the Abbey unhappily does not contribute, for its central tower ought to be furnished with a flèche, or an octagonal lantern, like the one at St. Ouen at Rouen. Wren, it is known, prepared a design, which however was laid aside.

As we look up at the Clock Tower, it suggests some curious recollections—first, associated with the “Big Ben” within, which has its history. Few may recollect that it was so named after Sir Benjamin Hall, then Commissioner of Works. Unnoticed too, perhaps, by the incurious is the fact that “Big Ben” has long been cracked, but has done his work effectively for years. Yet the hoarse, rather jarring tone betrays this damage hourly. Forgotten also that it was designed by a bell amateur, Mr. Becket Denison, and that there was a controversy and discussion which long raged fiercely about the bell. It could not be even settled what note it uttered. It is astonishing to think that the large hand of the clock is over fourteen feet long. From the elaborate open-work character of the “cap,” or head, of the clock-tower, as well as from its function of holding a number of bells large and small, for which there is no room save in the body of the tower itself, it was intended that the whole should be pierced, and have an airy, open treatment like a church spire. This was actually the architect’s design, as will be seen from the slits that run all the way up. These, however, he was forced to “glaze,” and fill in with windows, which gives the whole a heavy, clumsy air, instead of a lightness and elegance. The system of lighting the dials is elaborate, and the cost enormous. There is quite a fire-chamber behind. Offenders against Parliamentary discipline have been consigned to the Clock Tower for custody; and, as may be imagined, the chief portion of their sufferings, night and day, must have been the alarming booming of the bells, which were quite close to their ears.

The great embarrassment for the architect of the Houses of Parliament was Westminster Hall, which stood in the way and seemed really irreconcilable. If left detached, with a space between it and the new building, there would be little room for the latter between it and the river; if combined with it, it was incongruous, being of a totally different style. The latter course was adopted, and it was turned into a sort of vestibule or entrance hall to the two Houses. On æsthetic grounds this was a blunder, for it has lost its significance as a separate work, and has always been in protest, as it were, against its degradation. From the outside everyone may conclude that here are two distinct buildings, yet on entering it is found to be merely a passage or approach for the other. Barry was so sensible of this that he determined to hide or screen it altogether, and he left designs for a building to be carried in front, and which was to go round the whole yard. There was to be a grand imposing tower, with arched entrance gate at the corner, facing Parliament Street. This costly scheme was never carried out, and instead, the Hall has been taken in hand by Mr. Pearson, fitted with a cloister and buttress, battlements, etc., after its own style. This of course only imparts a more general discrepancy, for its general plainness and rudeness of treatment make the details of the new building appear trivial; while in return their minuteness and delicacy causes the Westminster Hall to appear yet more rude and rough.

What shall be said of the magnificent interior of the Hall, its unique open and bewildering roof, a marvel of construction, with its history and traditions and trials? But it is curious, as we walk through it, to see how completely the effect has been destroyed. By opening out the end and adding ascending steps, with a passage beyond, its purpose has been changed, and the sense of space and size abolished. You merely pass through it, instead of entering it and staying there. It is no longer a great chamber. There is a handsome stained glass window seen beyond, of the style called “Perpendicular,” a portion of which, strange to say, is cut off by the beams of the roof. It was, however, Barry’s intention to raise the roof all through by hydraulic machinery—an intention that never will be carried out, and so the blunder or eyesore remains.

It is curious what uncertainty exists as to the roof of this fine Hall. It is generally supposed to be made of Irish oak, as stated by Macaulay in his account of the trial of Warren Hastings. Others maintain that it is of Normandy chestnut, others again that the roof alone is of chestnut and the ribs of oak.

Everyone is familiar with the two Chambers, with their fine and gorgeous decorations, enriched brass and iron work, carvings, paintings, etc. The House of Commons originally had an elegant open roof, elaborate to a degree, and furnishing the leading “note” of the chamber. It was found at once that the speeches were inaudible, and the architect was allotted the ungrateful office of destroying his own work—having to set up a flat panelled ceiling many feet below his tracery and Gothic work. This has answered perfectly, and the space between is utilized for lighting purposes. It may be added that when it was determined not to proceed further with Barry’s designs, the Palace was completed by his son, a low colonnade being added, the ornamental details of the Clock Tower being continued to the ground. The grilles and railings which were also added seem like the colonnade, but have not the same elegance as the building, and offer a different treatment.

The Gothic clock-face caused the architect a vast deal of thought, and it was only after many experiments that the existing mode of attaching it to the tower was devised. It is considered very successful. Prince Albert, it is said, insisted that the whole upper portion should be of metal. The tower has, within the last few years, been turned into a sort of beacon or gigantic lamp-post—not, indeed, to give light or a warning of danger—but to announce to whom it may concern that the House is not up. This acts as a pernicious schoolmaster, and insensibly preaches what is mean and degrading. The tower was a useful and faithful servant, “Big Ben” booming out—albeit a little hoarse and cracked—the hours by day, the huge illuminated dial telling the hour by night. But a gap was made in the fretwork over the dial, and an ugly semicircular lantern thrust out, which gives out a fierce glare while the House is sitting. The handsome Clock Tower is now present to our minds as a sort of gigantic candlestick, with the associations of smoke, fierce heat, flare, and glare. The light is not hung out from the tower beacon-wise, but the tower itself is the beacon.

CHAPTER IV.
WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

FOR the casual sightseer, however eager, the visiting of the “official shows”—whether in public picture galleries, museums or cathedrals—is often a weary business enough. After the first surprise he passes from object to object, staring, and gradually subsiding into a kind of dumb indifference, and troubled with the feeling that so much more remains to be seen and reviewed. He really knows not what is to be admired or distinguished from its fellows. But if, by a happy chance, there were at his elbow some guide who could select and illustrate for him by a few observations what was remarkable, and “the why and wherefore” of its merit, what was singular, and this without show and pedantry or lecturing, how happy and comfortable would be his situation! One of these days we shall have guide-books on this principle instead of the heavy treatises stored with historical and other information, and which require hard study at home. Such “shows” as the National Gallery, the British Museum, Westminster Abbey, and St. Paul’s, eminently require some such mode of illustration. The Abbey itself is one of the most interesting and richly stored places of the kind in the world, and an entertaining hour or two can always be spent there, even by the hackneyed Londoner. That exquisite gem and “perfect chrysolite,” Henry VII.’s Chapel, may be visited again and again with ever increasing wonder and delight. So too with the wonderful irregularity of the chapels, which seem to grow out of the main structure. We are amazed at the rich and costly tombs, scattered about in profusion, and perfectly astonishing in their welcome variety of design. These are indeed buildings in themselves; each teeming with suggestion and stored with ideas.

There are many Londoners who have never visited the “wonder of the world,” as it has been styled, Henry VII.’s Chapel, and which it is impossible to enter without being oppressed with a sense of overpowering astonishment and admiration. As we lift our eyes, the beautiful roof overpowers us with its exquisite forms and delicate ornamentation, its wealth of details that seem to float so airily, and appear to be crystallized foam, or lace work. The architect is confounded at the combination of enormous weight and solidity with infinite delicacy, and notes the art with which the burden is distributed.

The wonderful miscellany of posturing figures in the Abbey, the men, women and children, gods, goddesses, cupids, river gods, smirking bishops leaning comfortably on their elbows, warriors ascending to Heaven, sea fights, marble firmaments, &c., have been often described and ridiculed. Still they are curious as an expression of the feeling of their day, and, as progressive changes in treatment, are of value as signifying the tone of social and public thought. As Professor Westmacott has shown in one of his lectures, even the early reposing figures in the chapels betoken the religious feeling of the time. “The recumbent effigies,” he says, “with uplifted hands and serious expression, arrest attention, and are aids to reflection. But the time came when the mere personal honour and glorification of the subject was to be illustrated. The figures are now found turned on their side and leaning on their elbow, and look out from their resting-place as if inviting the notice and admiration of the passers-by.” This contrast is perfectly just, but is it not the effect of the change of religion, and in the national feeling towards the dead? The old pre-Reformation monuments are plastic reminders to pray for the dead—their images are displayed with a grave and sad solemnity; they are shown kneeling or in tranquil repose. On the other hand, the obstreperous displays of warriors crowned by pagan “Victories” betoken a time when the nation was engaged in wars and desperate struggles. The bishop on his elbow conveyed the idea of stalled and comfortable ease at a period when little was expected from the pastoral office.

“How revoltingly misplaced too,” says another writer, “is the shouldering, elbowing strife, with which, like advertising placards or rival shops with every trick that can be devised for glaring prominence, they struggle to outstare each other, as if the very well-being of the defunct depended upon whose statue shall be seen first, or whose epitaph read oftenest! How calmly, amid all this feverish strife, lie the modest retiring memorials of the mighty or the worthy of old, from the dignified reposing figures of the royal Plantagenets to the unpretending brasses of the untitled and humble, if indeed modern selfishness has left any uncovered!”

Every Monday and Tuesday, as is generally known, the whole Abbey is thrown open to sightseers, who may range unguided, and as they list, through the beautiful Henry VII. Chapel and the side chapels. The shrine of the Confessor is in a very shattered and mouldering state, but the wonder is that everything is in such excellent preservation. A reason is given for this state of decay. Once, when they were putting up Lord Bath’s monument, in presence of a great crowd, a mob broke in, so that a number of gentlemen who were standing on the ledge at the back of one of the royal tombs were seized with a panic and tore down the canopy of the tomb to defend themselves with the fragments. There is an odd bit of economy, by-the-way, in the direction of showmanship which might be remedied, and which has an air of shabbiness, viz., the setting out the names of the tombs and chapels on dirty cards in pen and ink.

As we make our careless and perhaps superficial promenade from chapel to chapel, we are almost bewildered by the number and variety of the huge edifices, rather than monuments, which record the memory of the great seigneurs who repose below. These are all of grand and solemn proportions—great gloomy pillared archings and entablatures—huge altars below, tiers and galleries, and angelic or kneeling figures. The materials are of the richest—costly deep-toned marbles and bronzes. Connected with each there is a regular history, which chroniclers like Dean Stanley have set out at great length. Indeed, a full history of Westminster Abbey would fill many a portly volume. We may, without following in the laborious steps of these historians, take a few glimpses at the more striking, and that without any order.

These vast structures, often of a solid and massive pattern, rising to sixty or seventy feet, with columns, arches, carvings, bronzes and rich onyx-like marbles, could not have been reared in our time under some twenty thousand pounds, the Wellington monument, not nearly so elaborate, costing some twenty-seven thousand.

Here, for instance, in St. John the Baptist’s Chapel, we find ourselves before Lord Hunsdon’s enormous monument, which is truly imposing, and considered by Fuller “the most magnificent” in the Abbey. As Dean Stanley points out, its sumptuousness was intended as an amende for the earldom three times granted and three times revoked, the Queen herself coming to him when he was dying and laying the patent on his bed. “Madam,” was his reply, “seeing you accounted me not worthy of this honour whilst I was living, I count myself unworthy of it now that I am dying.” It is worth while thinking of this scene, as we gaze on its stupendous and stately proportions, and learn that it is the loftiest in the place. But what a point this little story gives to this spectacle of empty magnificence!

In St. Nicholas’ Chapel we are struck by another of these vast and overpowering tombs, reared aloft, rich in its copper tones and decorations, crowned at the top by a wrought picture. This is in honour of a high dame, Mildred, Lady Burleigh—“a very expensive monument,” as it is described. It is divided into two compartments, one elevated over the other. In the lower lies Lady Burleigh, in a recumbent posture, with her daughter, Lady Jane, in her arms, and at her head and feet are her children and grandchildren, kneeling. In the upper compartment is the figure of a venerable old man, supposed to be Lord Burleigh, on his knees, as if in fervent prayer. In this chapel, also, are “two beautiful pyramids dedicated to children”—one a child of two months old, “overlaid by his nurse; he was the son of Mr. Nicholas Bagnal;” the other, a child of a year old, daughter to Harlay, the ambassador, who had “her heart inclosed in a cup and placed at the top of the pyramid!”

One of the aisles of the north transept is crowded up with some very striking, interesting, and original tombs, and here an hour might be spent profitably if the reader cared to trust himself to judicious guidance for a few minutes, instead of being led sheep-like by the guide, or wandering vacantly about, depending on his own resources. It is customary to speak of “The Poets’ Corner” as the most interesting or most popular portion; but the one I am speaking of is more dramatic. Here, one of the first things that strikes us is a Roman general, perched on a pedestal as though he were going to topple over, and which is said to have been the first monument set up in the Abbey proper. But the eye is more attracted by a striking monument in St. John’s Chapel—a great slab or table, supported on the shoulders of four kneeling knights, whilst on the table is the armour of the knight himself, who is reposing below. The grace and chivalry in these warriors is remarkable—they have no air of subservience. The knight himself was Sir Francis Vere, a famous warrior. It was erected by his widow, but it is said to have been imitated from the Count of Nassau’s tomb at Breda. “Hush! he will speak presently,” Roubiliac was heard to say, in rapture, as he gazed on one of the figures.

But more striking is the Norris tomb in St. Andrew’s Chapel—dark, embrowned, rich and stately: Lord Norris, a stout warrior, reposing, while round him kneel his six sons; their faces, attitudes, etc., are worthy of long study. Of the six, four fell in battle—“that right valiant and warlike progeny of his, a brood of martial-spirited men,” says Camden. What an interest this imparts as we look on this memorial! One figure will be noted as looking cheerfully upwards, as if to heaven. As we gaze on the sleeping warrior and his valiant sons kneeling round him, the whole becomes a living family picture.

One of the many impressions left on us, after a promenade through the Abbey, is admiration for the fertility and plastic vivacity, if one may so style it, of Roubiliac. In all the fantastic shapes in which this gay Frenchman displays his talent, he is never conventional or monotonous, or repeats himself; he is always dignified, and if extravagant and theatrical, rarely departs from correctness in his modelling. This extraordinary man seemed “to do what he pleased” with his clay. His draperies particularly, though too elaborate and multiplied in folds for strict sculpture, add a richness to the detail, and indeed suggest a treatment that is usual in bronze; though time, by softening away sharp edges and mellowing the natural colour into a rich tawny yellow, has really imparted a metallic tone. It is said that his fashion of working these draperies was to arrange the linen, fixing it with starched water; he thus carved the marble directly, unassisted by a model, as was the practice of Michael Angelo. All his groups have what artists term bravura—a quality which, though not correctly classical, is always evidence of talent. Would indeed that in our time our formal sluggish sculptors indulged oftener in his sort of “dash!” Roubiliac’s limbs offer a display of muscle and sinew extravagant enough, but showing much life and action.

There are two of his works which have extraordinary merit: that to the Duke of Argyll, and the more melodramatic one to Lady E. Nightingale. The former is really noble, full of movement and suggestion. Fame is seen writing the hero’s name and achievements on the wall behind, though the writer has only got as far as “Duke of Argyll and Gr——,” the “conceit” being that this latter title did not descend to his heirs, and expired with him. The grace and earnestness of this figure is remarkable; but the one stooping forward in front as Eloquence, the arm outstretched, the robe gathered up on it, the body bent, the head eager, has always commanded admiration. Canova was quite astonished at its beauties, and after surveying it for some minutes declared that it was the noblest thing he had seen in England. It is a characteristic work of the time, and shows the great powers of Roubiliac in invention and execution, but, like all his works, it is deficient in the repose necessary in a place of worship. The same criticism applies to his monument of Handel close by. The expression of rapt attention with which he appears to be listening to celestial music is admirable, and the execution is, as usual, good; but the whole design is too theatrical for a church.

The well-known Nightingale monument is a wonderful tour de force, and every sculptor must admire it for its extraordinary “cleverness” in every point of view. It is of course altogether melodramatic, and no doubt travels outside the bounds of plastic art. Above is seen, in a sort of arched recess, the dying wife, supported by the arm of her husband, who is starting back in terror from what he sees below. A sort of iron door, as of a vault, has opened, and a grisly awful skeleton, in a sheet, half out of the vault, is about to launch his dart at the lady. There is a contrast of pictorial effect, for the arch is bluish grey, the iron door black, and the skeleton yellow. It has been a stock show for a hundred years or so. Here is bravura indeed; but the reckless extravagance is redeemed by the amazing cleverness and poetry and even pathos of the show. Nor is dignity wanting. The dying wife is a graceful figure, which, says a good judge, “would do honour to any artist. Her right arm and hand are considered by sculptors the perfection of pure workmanship. Life seems slowly receding from her tapering fingers.” A tradition of the place runs that a burglar, who had got into the Abbey by night, was so scared by the figure of Death that he incontinently dropped his tools and fled. The crowbar is still preserved and shown! This monument, generally associated with Lady Nightingale, the daughter of Lord Ferrers, also commemorates her husband, Joseph Nightingale, and was erected according to a direction in the will of their son. The lady died in 1734, aged twenty-seven; the husband in 1752, aged fifty-six. This survival of eighteen years, during which time the sorrowing spouse had erected no monument, somewhat impairs the dramatic force of the picture.

Our sculptor used to grumble at the injustice done to the position of what he considered his best work, that of Wade. The marshal’s profile is displayed upon a medallion over which a female figure with wings is springing upwards with much spirit and animation to drive back Time with his scythe, etc. The figures are almost as vivacious as some of those by Rude, on the Arc de l’Etoile, including a mourning Hibernia (whose child he was) with a derelect harp, stringless.

Nearly as entertaining is Roubiliac’s memorial of an obscure General Hargrave, close by: a wonderful piece of execution, and which would be as attractive as the Nightingale one were it placed lower. The general, an excellent, spirited figure, but grotesque, is seen starting out of his bath we had almost said—but it is his tomb, his sheet falling away from his naked form, one attenuated leg lifted timorously over the edge. He has been roused by the Judgment: a little angel is sounding the trump aloft in the marble clouds. There are drums and cannon, a marble flag; whilst, on the right, a spirited Time is seen thrusting down Death, holding him in fact on the ground, a grisly skeleton, done with infinite art and reality—bones, cartilage, etc., all complete. As a sort of pictorial background, we see the Pyramids, dislodged and tumbling to pieces, the stones falling in all directions: altogether one of the most elaborate tours de force in marble existing. But the whole is placed so high that details are lost. It is astonishing to think that an artist of such power and taste should have condescended to this vulgar and ineffective realism, which was, moreover, beyond his material. Near is Fleming’s, another military tomb; two figures, one seated on an arch, with a pyramid behind, over which are spreading trees with a cleverly imitated drum and a flag. The memorial to Sir Peter Warren, in the north transept, has great merit. It consists of a spirited bust of the admiral, bluff and dogged, yet good-natured, in which “realism” is carried so far as to furnish marks of small-pox on the cheeks! The mourning female figure beside him has been admired, and is graceful enough; whilst a vigorous Hercules bends over him. The legs and arms may be noted for their muscularity, and it is said the sculptor obtained his pattern legs from those of a stalwart Irish chairman; the arms were compounded from another herculean specimen of the same race.

Roubiliac “cut,” as the vergers would call it, seven or eight monuments in the Abbey: Lady Nightingale’s, the Duke of Argyll’s, Sir Peter Warren’s, Hargrave’s, Fleming’s, Admiral Wade’s, and Handel’s. Some of these are inferior works, or are perched so high as to be beyond our appreciation. The sculptor was dreadfully put out at being thus “skied,” but he could not always look for so fine a position “on the line” as he had for his Duke of Argyll. Not long before his death the Abbey had become somewhat crowded, and the practice of building up monuments against the windows had set in, with shocking results. Nearly all the nave windows have been thus encroached upon, built up with supporting screens. After a careful examination I find that these amount to about a dozen, which could readily be cleared away, to the enormous advantage and beauty of the fane. No more important improvement than this could be conceived, or more popular if effected, for here the barbarous ignorance of our forefathers is displayed to the coarsest extent. The best of the monuments would gain by being brought low down: they might be set up in the cloisters, for instance, or made a present to St. Paul’s.

Roubiliac had a pupil, one Read, who on his death “carried on the business;” concluding that by occupying his studio, it would be assumed he could supply the same article to the public. Strange to say, this theory was accepted, and he was employed for large and important works. Many have seen or heard of the famous “Pancake” monument, put up to celebrate a now forgotten Admiral Tyrrel, who in some engagement abroad, aboard his good ship the “Buckingham,” met his death. He died on shore, but was consigned to the deep. Furnished with these heroic materials, Mr. Read set to work. Room being scarce he was given half of a deeply embayed window, and determined to excel all other efforts. His master himself had made a strange prophecy which seemed to point to this very monstrosity, for on the pupil boasting that when he was out of his time he would show the world what a monument ought to be, “the other looked at him scornfully and said: ‘Ven you do de monument, den de vorld vill see vot d—d ting you vill make.’” And so it proved. There is to be seen on the left an enormous “practicable” flag of white marble, with all the folds, etc., balanced on the right by the ship “Buckingham,” about the size of the flag. All the intervals are filled in with what seem to be corals, waves, etc., an extraordinary jumble, whilst in the centre was seen ascending from the sea the figure of the deceased admiral going up to heaven—which Nollekens always declared was like a man swinging from a gallows with a rope round his neck. Unluckily the reforming Dean Stanley deprived us of this entertainment, and strangely cut away the admiral altogether, yet leaving the other monstrosities. As the Dean said, humorously, the artist’s object seemed to be “to present the Resurrection under difficulties.”

In the south transept there is a monument to Garrick, representing the actor standing in a fantastic attitude, having suddenly drawn aside a pair of curtains to reveal himself. This excited the derision of Elia, and yet it is effective enough, and expresses Garrick’s humour fairly. Notwithstanding all Mrs. Garrick’s doting affection for her spouse, it is said this had to be put up by other hands, and the donor declares that he appealed in vain to her for her approbation or aid. Close by is a very quaint and original monument to the learned Grævius, who is shown seated in an easy attitude on the side of his sarcophagus, looking at a book in a careless happy mood. There is a quaintness about this that causes a smile.

Of sculptors so eminent as Flaxman and Chantrey there are few examples, and these not particularly remarkable. In the north transept is the ambitious monument to Lord Mansfield, who is presented seated aloft in a judicial chair, on a ponderous circular base, on whose various tiers are found Justice and the other unavoidable attendants. This has been admired, but the effect is grotesque, the Chief Justice, with a very homely air, appearing as if he was about to call on “Brother Buzfuz.” But we go round to the back, and find an exquisite female figure, in the best style of sculpture, with much grace of attitude, refinement of curves and softness and delicacy of the skin. Here we come upon those tremendous piles of masonry which Westmacott and Bacon introduced, enormous pyramidal screens on which flounder as it were huge marble figures, Neptunes and other gods and goddesses, while the suffering hero reposes in the middle nearly naked, with weeping nymphs bent over him. These vast efforts were no doubt owing to the great sums given by public grant; Bacon receiving for his “Lord Chatham” £6,000, Nollekens for the “Three Captains,” much more. Chantrey, the foremost of modern sculptors, is scarcely represented here at all.

There is a pleasing figure of Horner, full of character in the face and eyes, with an almost pictorial expression. By what must have been some miscalculation the scale is too small, and as we turn from the huge Sir William Follett—a plain, roughly-finished work of Behnes’—it seems the likeness of a half-grown youth.

The two Pitts, father and son, are here: the great earl in the north transept—his monument wrought on the most tremendous scale—a vast screen or pyramid of stone filling in the span between two pillars. Below are enormous reclining gods. But raising one’s eyes aloft we see a small dapper figure set in a niche, and stooping forward to address the public. It is the great earl in a court dress. Far away at the west end, and actually perched over the door, is his gifted son, treated in the usual heroic style; the statesman standing aloft and airily on a huge base of marble, “arrayed in his parliamentary robes as Chancellor of the Exchequer. History, in a kneeling posture, is recording his words; and on the opposite side Anarchy seated in chains.” There is also a kneeling negro. Close by him, but on the ground, is one of the most singular yet amusing effects in the Abbey, a memorial to the lamented Charles James Fox. The deceased statesman is shown in a recumbent attitude, with a rueful face, on a mattress, “expiring in the arms of Liberty,” his enormous figure as fat as marble can make it, at his feet, Peace, reclining languidly; an African on one knee, with his arms clasped to his breast as if in gratitude. The whole effect is gross, and suggests a corpulent man who has just had, or is about to have, his bath. Fox’s physique was untreatable for poetical purposes; yet we are assured that when Canova was taken to inspect this figure in Westmacott’s studio, he declared to Lord Holland “that neither in England nor out of it had he seen anything that surpassed it.” The king gave a subscription of 1,000 guineas, a handsome tribute considering his Majesty’s known feelings towards Mr. Fox.

On each side of the arched doorway of the screen we find two imposing monuments which seem to fill their places in a satisfactory way, and are in harmony with the situation. That on the left of the spectator commemorates Sir Isaac Newton. The pendant to Newton’s is Lord Stanhope, a warrior. Both are conceived in a fantastic vein. Newton’s was designed by an architect, Kent, who also conceived the well-known, familiar figure of Shakespeare, leaning in a graceful attitude on an altar, and which is almost accepted as a portrait, so familiar has it become. The figure of Newton is exceedingly good, dignified, and well executed. He is seen reposing on a couch, leaning on his elbow, an uncomfortable support. Over him is an enormous sphere, “projecting from a pyramid behind,” which seems to fill the whole space, and which is scored deeply with erratic lines delineating, we are told, “the course of the comet in 1689, with the signs, constellations, and planets.” But then comes a singular conception: on the sphere is seated Astronomy, a huge female figure, with her book, in a very thoughtful, composed, and pensive mood. The inevitable chubby cherubs are of course present, employed suitably to their strength in supporting or struggling with a scroll. This combination leaves a singular impression.

The military memorial on the other side seems by its treatment to have been intended to correspond. A robust Roman warrior is reposing after his labour, leaning also on his elbow, but holding in one hand a marshal’s staff, in the other “a scroll.” Before him stands “a cupid resting upon a shield.” Behind him rises a marble tent, the canvas folds portrayed minutely, and then, marvel of marvels! on the top of this is seen perched a large lady, Minerva! Behind is a slender pyramid. This wonderful combination must be seen to be appreciated. Rysbraeck, a Dutchman, the author of this composition, was another of the Abbey sculptors who was in fashion. He worked somewhat after the pattern of Roubiliac; but he had not the easy grace and versatility of the Frenchman.

There are many whimsicalities, as they may be called, to be seen in the Abbey, witness the huge table tomb, with accommodation on its broad black marble slab for three persons, Lord Exeter’s, who had prepared this roomy accommodation for himself and his two wives, one to repose on each side of him. There, accordingly, he lies, arrayed in state, in the centre; on his right his first lady, a beruffled dame, but on his left—a blank space. It seems his second lady was offended at the place of honour being given to her predecessor, who was of somewhat lower degree, and flatly refused to be laid there.

A favourite show with the guides is that of the lady “who died from a prick of a needle”—Lady Elizabeth Russell, in white alabaster. She is holding out her finger, indeed, but is really pointing to the death’s-head at her feet. The Duchess of Newcastle’s tomb will be looked at with interest by admirers of Elia, who will recall his praise of the “high fantastical lady.” We should note her ink-bottle and book, showing her literary taste, for she was the authoress of thirteen folio volumes. Her husband is beside her, who once made the remark that “a very wise woman is a very foolish thing.” The row of modern full-length statues of patriots, orators, and politicians in the north transept has an odd effect, and suggests a visit to the waxworks. Some are very inferior. By-and-by, when they are toned down, they will look better and less offensive. Modern coats, trousers, shoes, etc., are unsuitable for treatment in marble. There is a very striking cluster of the three brilliant Cannings. An excellent coup de théâtre, this placing the trio together—George, the statesman; Earl Canning, Governor of India; and the “great Eltehi,” Sir Stratford. The first is Chantrey’s work—though it has rather the air of an actor with his toga; and it is curious to contrast with this attempt at spiritualizing the realistic style of the other two by Foley. If we turn to some of the inferior ones close by, we shall feel at once the want of a cultivated artist. Lord Beaconsfield, for instance, by Raggi, lacks poetry and expression, and, indeed, proportion, for the head is surely too small for the trunk. The robes droop ponderously, and do not reveal or indicate the figure. Peel, by Gibson, meant to be highly oratorical, is of a rather conventional sort. Lord Palmerston, on the other side, in his Garter dress, looks a Merry-Andrew. There is an absurdly homely expression on his face. It is, indeed, a most extraordinary spectacle, and not to be matched in any country, this row of marble men; but it were to be wished that they had been allowed to assume the proper yellowish or tawny hue, instead of being diligently scrubbed at intervals. Note the downcast, doomed look in the eyes of Castlereagh—a forecast of his sad fate, death by his own hand, and a burial here amid the howls and execrations of a furious mob.

So much for this wonderful temple and its extraordinary treasures and curios.

CHAPTER V.
THE ADELPHI AND THE STRAND.

THE little streets that descend from the Strand to the Embankment are mostly old-fashioned and picturesque in their way—perhaps from the contrast they offer to the noise and “sea-shell roar” of that busy thoroughfare. Many end in a cul de sac with an open aërial gallery as it were, whence we can look down on the silvery Thames below, with all its noble bridges. All these quiet alleys have some interesting or suggestive memorial to exhibit; their houses seem of the one pattern—sound and snug—of the early Georgian era, and mostly given over to the “private hotel” business. It may be conceived how much more interesting and piquant it was when these alleys led straight down, as many did, to the water’s edge, now set far off by the Embankment. The curious mixture of associations, as we wander up and down; the strange incredible squalor of some portions, the comparative stateliness and imposing air of others, the pretty gardens, the way in which memories of Garrick, Franklin, Peter the Great, the Romans, Charles Dickens, and many more, are suggested and jumbled together at every turn, make the old familiar Strand one of the most interesting quarters in London.

This may seem a puzzling statement. As all the world knows there is little or nothing of pretension about the streets—the houses are mean, the shops poor. There are no stately buildings—save indeed one theatre, handsome enough; and the church of St. Mary-le-Strand, lately in a precarious way, is threatened with removal. For all that it will be seen that a person who starts to explore the Strand and its “dependencies,” with instructions what to look for, will have a very enjoyable pilgrimage.

The Adelphi and the Adelphi Terrace are familiar enough; but it is not so familiarly known to the passing crowd that they were named after certain “Brothers”—an eminent family of architects—the brothers Adam. These remarkable persons have left the most enduring marks of their talent and influence all over London. It is a sign of ability, and even of

ADELPHI TERRACE

genius, thus to make a strong impression on one’s generation. The Adam style is felt and appreciated to this hour, and as we walk about London it constantly forces itself on us for recognition. We know it by its grace and delicacy, and generally dignified treatment; above all, by a proportion that triumphs over inferior means and materials. As we walk it is possible to stop and say “Yonder is an Adam house.” All their effects are nicely calculated; such as the depth of a pilaster, the size of a window, the relation of the stories. The late Mr. Fergusson notes particularly “their peculiar mode of fenestration.” “They frequently,” he says, “attempted to group three or more windows together by a great glazed arch above them, so as to try and make the whole side of a house look like one room.”

The leading and inspiring member of the family, John, went to Italy to study. He devoted himself to a single building, the famous Palace of Diocletian, which he selected for the sensible reason that it presented a unique pattern of the dwelling-house of the ancients, whereas attention had mostly been concentrated on their public buildings. These studies bore fruit in a perfect system. The enthusiastic Scot, having conceived this idea, betook him to Spalato, taking with him a skilled French artist to make the drawings, while he himself took all the measurements. As we turn over the sumptuous atlas-folio tome which embodied his labours, we wonder at the energy and magnificence which then directed such projects. It was published by subscription, and the roll of distinguished names, from the King down, shows what patronage he enjoyed. The work is one of the most pleasing and romantic of such records.

The arrival of the two dilettante strangers in the ruined and deserted town excited suspicion, and it being assumed they were making drawings of the fortifications, they were ordered to desist. But these and other difficulties were overcome. Interest in this extraordinary and astonishing ruin has lately been revived by Mr. Jackson’s charming book; and from the beautiful drawings made in Adam’s work we see that it was a picturesque, rather forlorn, town with dilapidated fortifications round it on the sea-shore. There were to be seen the remains of the superb galleries of the Emperor, the temples and the banqueting halls, with the richly carved capitals, colonnades, friezes, etc., all in sound and excellent condition. Even the turning over of these pictures seems like being in a dream, with the Claude-like Italian shore before us, the splendid ruins, which appear to want little more than roofing, stretching high above the coast, so as to have the finest view of the sea. More than a century has gone by since that visit, and some strange changes have taken place; the inhabitants have been reverent, but, straitened for room, have built their houses through the palace. As the stranger wanders through the streets he comes on columns and arches embedded in modern walls, while the two pagan temples which the Emperor built have since been converted into a cathedral and church, without any rude violence being done.

No words could give an idea of the size, the richness of details, the comparative preservation of this amazing structure. Most notable was the beautiful arched terrace or gallery, which was raised up, overhanging the sea, and which stretched along for many furlongs. The splendid courtyard, with its rich friezes, capitals, pillars, and embroidery, all in capital condition, save the roof, shows what the old Roman work was. But it was the terrace that struck the imagination of the young student. On his return, commissions came pouring in, but the family had conceived a bold, ambitious scheme, which was, indeed, the fruit of the Dalmatian studies. The terrace just alluded to filled the mind of the traveller. In the Strand, at Durham Yard, the ground seemed to take much the same shape, and his dream was to rear, on double and triple rows of arches, just such a terrace, which should look down on the Thames. Such was clearly the origin of our familiar Adelphi Terrace.

No sooner was the scheme conceived than it was taken in hand in an ambitious style. Money was wanting, but, being Scotchmen, the brothers, Robert, John, Thomas and William, found a patron in their countryman, Lord Bute, without whom they could not have hoped to obtain the Act of Parliament they desired. They began their works in the Adelphi in 1768, leasing the ground from the Duke of St. Albans. A steep incline, which may be seen now in Buckingham Street, descended from the Strand to the Thames, and their plan was to raise on a series of massive arches quite a new quarter of streets, fronted to the Thames by a handsome terrace. The brothers calculated that their vaults would be used as Government storehouses, but in this they were disappointed. They also found themselves engaged in a lawsuit with the Corporation, as they had encroached on the foreshore of the Thames, and these checks led to serious pecuniary embarrassments in prosecuting the enterprise. In 1773 they found themselves obliged, after mortgaging their property, to take the unusual course of raising funds by lottery. They obtained an Act of Parliament allowing the issue of tickets for the scheme. In this way they raised some £218,000, and the houses to be built appear in some way to have been the prizes. The whole enterprise was brought to a conclusion in a very short time, the buildings, arches, etc., all being completed by 1775, having taken only about five years. The stately mansions on the terrace were eagerly sought. Garrick established himself at No. 4. Indeed, a volume might be written on the lives and adventures of the tenants of the Adelphi or those associated with it—the hapless Barry the painter; Dr Graham, the quack, and his “celestial bed”; Lady Hamilton, who was his subject; Topham Beauclerk, the man about Town, and Johnson’s friend; old Mrs. Garrick, who was there so lately as 1822; with Mr. Blanchard, the amiable and popular littérateur and dramatist, who lately resided there. He declared that he was but “two shakes of the hand” away from David. Lord Beaconsfield, it was believed, was born on the terrace, though this is doubtful; while “Tommy” Hill, the friend of Theodore Hook, and the Paul Pry of Poole, resided here. Mr. Attenborough has long occupied the gracefully decorated houses that lead from the Strand, and his books and records could unfold some strange stories of adventure. And finally, to bring in “the potentiality of growing rich beyond the dreams of avarice,” the great banking house of Coutts spreads away in different directions over the quarter. Mr. H. Wheatley, who has written much that is curious and interesting on the Adelphi, tells us the history of the bank:—

“It is not known when the business was removed to the Strand, or the exact locality to which it was so removed, but the house is described as The Three Crowns, next the Globe Tavern, and it is believed that John Campbell, the founder of the bank, was there in 1692. Campbell was succeeded by Middleton, who was succeeded by George Campbell. The firm was then known for a time as Campbell and Bruce; from 1751 to 1755 George Campbell was sole partner. At the latter date James Coutts, who married a niece of George Campbell, was taken into partnership, and the firm became Campbell and Coutts. In 1760, James Coutts, the sole partner, took his brother Thomas into partnership. He died in 1778, and the sole charge of the bank devolved upon Thomas Coutts, and from that time to this the style of the famous house has been Coutts & Co.

“Although the houses built on the site of the New Exchange were not old when the Adelphi was planned out, the Brothers Adam, who were known to Coutts, were employed to build a new house. This they did with a slightly architectural elevation, the symmetry of which has been somewhat injured by alterations of late years. In the house built by the Adams, Thomas Coutts lived for many years, and his dining-room and drawing-room, with their handsome marble chimney-pieces and fine mahogany doors, are still unoccupied. When Lord Macartney was on his embassy to China, he sent over some Chinese wall-paper to Coutts, which was hung on the walls of one of these rooms, and there it still is.”

Garrick, when he came to London and set up with his brother as a wine merchant, opened their small place of business near here, perhaps where Durham Street now stands. Towards the end of his life, after an interval of nearly forty years, he returned to this humble spot to inhabit a stately mansion on the terrace. We can see now the imposing and floridly painted ceiling, and admire the spaciousness and grace of the apartments. These houses are all well designed, the rooms of noble proportions—particularly the drawing-rooms. They have a unique feature of a basement in two stories, and you seem to descend into the bowels of the earth. Now they are given up to offices and public purposes, but when richly furnished, decorated, and inhabited by persons in Garrick’s position, the effect must have been admirable. Once after a dinner-party on a summer’s eve, the company adjourned to the noble terrace, looking down at the shipping and the bridges, and Boswell, who was present, describes the scene. It is curious that the brothers should—unconsciously, no doubt—have renewed the old family street names of one hundred years before. Just as they found streets named after George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham—so they christened their work, as we can see, Robert, John, William, James, and Adam. “Off” Alley not long ago ran between Buckingham and Villiers Streets—but the name has been changed of late years.

Still, the wonderful work underground almost excites more interest and astonishment than what is on the surface. The busy passers-by in the Strand will note a huge yawning archway at the bottom of a short inclined street which leads into these catacombs. The work is of a massive cast, the arches being regularly groined in Gothic fashion. Mr. Wheatley, who has explored them, tells us: “The arches below form one of the most remarkable sights in London, but it is a sight that only a few are privileged to see. I have wandered through these arches with wonder, under the obliging guidance of the custodians. Below you there is a very town, much of it filled with bottles of old vintages. The arches were many of them open for years, and formed subterranean streets leading to the wharves on the Thames. They were constructed (as stated on an old engraving) so as to keep the access to the houses level with the Strand, and distinct from the traffic of the wharves and warehouses. They extend under the whole Adelphi, including Adam Street, from York Buildings, and were also carried under the additional buildings at the end of Salisbury Street. In many places there are double tiers of arches. Some twenty years ago the Dark Arches had a bad name on account of the desperate characters who congregated there and hid themselves away in the innermost recesses, but at last the place was cleared out, and the greater portion of it closed in. The extensive cellarage of Messrs. Tod-Heatly gives evidence of the former state, for one of the alleys is styled Jenny’s Hole—and the arch above was known as the Devil’s Bridge. The disgraceful condition of the arches could not have existed for any length of time, as, some forty years ago, the place was well cared for by the wharfingers, and at nine o’clock at night a gun gave a signal for the gates to be closed.”

One of the most singular incidents in this stupendous undertaking is the short lease which was given and accepted. The result was that it expired in the year 1867, and the whole fee, with streets, houses, etc., passed into the hands of Messrs. Drummond. This was a fine property to gain in such a way. It was, however, rather dilapidated, and there were signs of sinking in the terrace or of failure in some of the arches, but this proved to be merely a trifling matter. The whole was thoroughly repaired and restored. Unfortunately it was thought proper to plaster over the façade of the terrace, which destroyed the graceful arabesques, which are, however, left on the flanking houses behind; though Walpole humorously declared that the embroidered pilasters reminded him of “warehouses laced down the seams, like a trull in a soldier’s old coat.”

Among their other plans the brothers did not forget a chapel. This was built at the corner of James and William Street, which the bankers, however, soon absorbed into their premises. To join this, however, a covered bridge was necessary, for which the firm had to obtain an Act of Parliament. The old banker “did not wish,” says Mr. Wheatley, “the view from his drawingroom window to be spoiled,” so he built a low house in John Street, and arranged with the Adams that the opening, now Robert Street, should be opposite this, so as to form a frame for his landscape.

Every one knows the “Adam” work—the long pilasters and medallions on a brick background, each enriched with arabesques and garlands of a delicate character. They sought, too, the beauties of proportion and space, regulated by principle and calculation. In many an old house we recognize their ceilings; a great circle in the centre, filled in with tracery in very low relief. Their designs have been published, and display fancy and variety. Portland Place and its stately mansions, with their broad surfaces of brick, have a certain dignity; but the houses have been sadly disfigured by additions. The pleasing old-fashioned-looking Fitzroy Square seems like a bit of Bath. The brothers are said to have been the first, in London at least, who attacked the difficult problem of imparting to a number of detached mansions the air of being portions of one whole, which in architecture is a deception most intolerable and not to be endured. For there is a perpetual struggle of assertion between the two principles going on—the separate houses making protest, as it were, by their individuality against being considered one great expression—while the long façade in its turn contradicts and overpowers the individuality. There are also some Adam houses in York Place, easily recognizable. Finsbury Square is their work, though Finsbury Circus staggers one. There is a terrible monotony in the place, though the line of the circus is graceful. It was probably a “job” akin to a painter’s “potboiler,” and to be done cheaply. It is to be suspected that Gwydir House, in Whitehall, which has been defaced by alterations, was their work. Plaster and delicate stucco-work—the patterns apparently taken from arabesque work—light garlands and vases wrought in very slight relief, these were all combined with yellow brickwork. Ceilings, chimney-pieces, furniture, carriages, garde-vins, plate-boxes, were also designed by the brothers on these principles.

Some of the most imposing and effective work of the architects is to be seen at Sion House, Isleworth. The great library displays all the resources of the school in the way of bold treatment with beautiful, elaborate work, garlands, Cupids, pilasters, embroidered in low relief. The chimney-pieces, ceilings, and all display this elegance and charming variety. It may be mentioned in proof of the elaborate study and pains devoted to their profession by these brothers, that in the Soane Museum all their minutely elaborate designs are to be seen. But would we have a really good idea of the brothers’ work, let us set out for Oxford Street, and pause in front of Stratford Place. Here we see a perfect architectural arrangement—the two terraces stretching down, the ends turning into Oxford Street, forming ornamental flanks, while the end is closed by a graceful classical mansion rising in the air with its pediment and pillars. The eye rests on it with comfort and satisfaction, and we admire the perfect ease and proportion of the lines. We turn and go our way, having gained a sense of general refinement. It should be recollected that the work of the brothers has not received fair treatment. Their idea was a combination of stone with yellow brick, and their two tints were intended to harmonize. In almost every instance the stone pilasters have been painted over, which gives a hard, artificial effect—the loftiness as well as the divisions of the stone are lost; the brickwork, too, has been coloured, and so the intention of the architects has been lost. In Mansfield Street, which lies westward of Portland Place, there is a broad, stately mansion, with spacious, lofty chambers, a goodly specimen of the nobleman’s house. It is worth looking at, for the attempt to “spiritualize” the stables by adorning them with Adam crescents and decorations. Horace Walpole noted in his copy of Pennant that this house was built on the model of a French Hôtel. Close to it are some highly elaborated bride-cake doorways in the best Adam style.

The screen that runs in front of the Admiralty, in Whitehall, was also the work of the brothers, and there is a little history connected with it. The hideous portico within is said to be constructed in defiance of all laws of proportion or architectural decorum. The pillars were, in fact, intended for a much larger edifice, and were found “handy” by “my lords” for this building. They, however, presented such an odd spectacle that the Messrs. Adam were called in, and devised the screen in front. The passer-by may now deem it singular that this structure should have been hailed with delight as a beautiful and classical work; it was engraved, and even in architectural books high praise has been given to it for its “chasteness” and perfect adaptation to the purpose intended. This has often been a puzzle to persons of taste; for there is a curiously dilapidated air, a sort of ramshackle look, which seems to exclude it from such a category. The present writer one day found out the reason of this failure. It had been mauled and altered, and with completest success so far as the destruction of the motive and purpose of its erection. As it originally stood it was a screen with a central arched entrance, on each side of which were two short recessed colonnades, which made an agreeable and original break in what would otherwise have been a blank wall. But the spoilers came presently. The First Lord desired to have one gate to enter by, another to drive out when crowded parties were given. Two such were accordingly broken in the colonnades to the right and left. The centre arch became useless, the whole ceased to exist as a screen, and, pierced with so many openings, lost all character. Few mutilations have been so characteristic and ignorant.

At every turn in London the amateur of Adam work will find abundant evidence of their taste. In Berkeley Square there is Lansdowne House, built after a favourite Adam pattern. Even the gate and walls show the same grace and proportion, and the elegance of the little ornament on each pillar will attract observation. In Harewood Place there is a fine Adam house, and a few in Dover Street.

Buckingham Street is another of the quaint, bright streets in the Adelphi, leading down to a cheerful opening, whence, as from a balcony, we look down on the animated Thames below, with its passing barges, tugs and river steamers: a scene which at first sight must impress the foreigner.

Here is the sequestered little mall, with its dozen trees, once a charming little promenade when the river ran beside it. This scene has been painted by Canaletti, and there are old engravings from the picture, representing promenaders in the costume of the day. The river, covered with ships and wherries, washes the walls; the old trees display their luxuriant foliage: but they are now stunted and decayed, and the whole has a dingy, forlorn aspect. It was once one of the gayest, brightest spots in London. For at the end stands the famous and much admired water-gate, or York Stairs, as it was called: it could be seen from the Strand, and persons eager to go on the water, hurried down here to embark. Owing to the construction of the Embankment, the gate has lost all meaning and purpose to an almost ludicrous extent. Instead of the water washing the steps, as it did not many years ago, the gate is sunk down, all awry, in a pit, and the ground is raised high about it. It is a pity that a little public spirit is not forthcoming to shift it again to the water’s edge, its proper position. Unhappily the monument is in a sadly decayed condition—all the square edgings worn round and smooth, and the sculptures almost obliterated—so, abundant restoration would have to attend the removal.

This interesting approach from the Strand has yet more associations to increase its value. We note the remains of former state and dignity, at the bottom of the street. On the left hand is a remarkable house of some antiquity, which, as one of the useful medallions of the Society of Arts tells

THE WATER GATE.

us, was occupied by the Czar Peter on his visit to London. Its various chambers are now given over to the Charity Organisation Society, to a maternity association, etc.; but on going up the stairs we see palpable vestiges of the magnificence of the place, which must have had some connection with old York House. For we find ourselves in a spacious and imposing drawing-room, of which the entire walls are oak as well as the flooring, while the two elegant doorways are embroidered round with a rich carved flowering border. But it is the unique ceiling that will excite admiration, consisting of a thick wheel-like border, filled in with the boldest and richest stucco-work, presenting solidly wrought roses and leaves. This encircles a painted allegorical piece, but so grimed with dirt that the subject cannot be clearly seen. It is but little damaged. One could fancy this room restored and furnished, and the rude Muscovite seated in congenial proximity to his favourite river. The side of the house that looks over the Embankment, though covered with whitewash, displays a tall elegant central window of a decorated kind, showing that the whole must in its best days have been of a spacious and imposing character. The view from this window, as indeed it is from all these corner houses giving on the river, is charming. On the opposite side of the street, a few doors higher up, is another old mansion of some pretence—also given over to offices—and noteworthy for the twenty or so grotesque heads, one of which is set over every window. It is hard to account for this odd form of adornment, unless it came with the Dutch. They are found in many quarters of London, some putting their tongues out to the spectators, others crying, laughing, etc. This mansion is believed to have been the one occupied by Mr. Secretary Pepys, and so we look at it with interest.

But this does not exhaust the associations of the Adelphi. There we lately saw the “house breakers” hard at work levelling what has some very pathetic associations with the early life of Dickens. For many generations now, a dilapidated miscellany of shanties has been visible from the terrace; a shed, outhouses, a small mean-storied thing in the last stage of decay, with an ancient cart or two lying up in ordinary. Across the wall ran a faded half-effaced legend, in what were once gold letters on a blue ground:—

THE FOX-UNDER-THE-HILL.
HOARE & CO’S ENTIRE,
AND BRILLIANT ALES.

It was hard to conceive of anything “brilliant” in such a place, save the little half-starved boy employed at the blacking factory in Hungerford Market, who used to make his way thither. “One of his favourite localities,” says Mr. Forster, “was a little public-house by the water-side called the Fox-under-the-Hill, approached by an underground passage, which we once missed in looking for it together; and he had a vision, which he has mentioned in ‘Copperfield,’ of sitting eating something on a bench outside and looking at some coal-heavers dancing.” This memorial has for years borne a dismal forlorn aspect, very suggestive of this despairing season in Dickens’s childhood. Within these few months, therefore, it was like losing a friend to find the “brilliant ales” gone and the house all but levelled.

On the higher level of the terrace, facing the Strand, are some gloomy-looking hotels, of many windows, “The Caledonian” and “The Adelphi.” There is here the air of dingy old fashion, so well suited to Pickwick, and we know that this Adelphi Hostelry is the “Osborne’s Hotel,” where Wardle and his daughter Emily put up, and where the droll scene occurred of Mr. Snodgrass being secreted during dinner—the fat boy running “something sharp into Mr. Pickwick’s leg” to attract his attention. As we look up at the first-floor windows the scene rises before us, and the whole appears in harmony with the humours of Pickwick. Most natural is it, too, that the Wardles should put up at such a house, for the dingy furniture, etc., all seems to belong to that era.

Here in the Adelphi we come upon a handsome building which houses the useful Society of Arts, its energetic Secretary, Sir H. Trueman Wood, and Librarian, Mr. Wheatley, so well skilled in London lore.

The story of the luckless Barry is most pathetic, and as we sit in the fine meeting-room of the Society and look up at the painter’s crowds of animated figures that line the walls, it comes back on us with a strange vividness. He had something akin to the character and erratic temper of Haydon, the same despairing sense of talent neglected and put aside; the same struggle with the Academy, and a quarrelsome eccentricity. A difference, however, between the two men was that Barry’s work on the walls speaks for him and proclaims his fine academic culture, his grace and poetry in the beautiful, well-designed figures and groups, and the refined transparent colouring; with which we have to contrast the heavily-painted, earthy-looking portraits of the Sovereign and her Consort, which by some strange lack of congruity have been thrust into this classical company. One can conceive, however, the difficulties of dealing with a man who insisted on representing the death of Wolfe with a number of perfectly nude figures standing round, and who in his latter days of penury and neglect, when asked out to dine, insisted on tendering two shillings to his host in payment of the meal! These fine pictures cover a canvas that spreads round the room. To obtain the fame and expanse of canvas allowed by such an undertaking, the artist offered to do the whole work gratis; not, however, it may be supposed, that when the work was done the Society left him without remuneration. As the result proved, he was fairly well paid for his labours. The variety, the fine workmanship displayed, the grace of the figures, are extraordinary when we consider it was the work of one man.

Having thus concluded our exploration of the Adelphi, we may fairly ask the Londoner who passes through the Strand a dozen times in the day, could he be prepared to find so much that is novel in this familiar district?

ENTRANCE TO THE ROMAN BATH.

CHAPTER VI.
THE ROMAN BATH.—COVENT GARDEN.

BUT in this exceedingly modern Strand, where we are so eager to clear off the only bit of antiquity left us—the graceful church of St. Mary—what Monkbarns would think of looking for his “ancient Romans,” or anything connected with them? It is an astonishing surprise to find that we have only to turn out of the Strand hard by St. Mary’s Church, and see staring at us an invitation to come and look at a genuine, recognizeable, Roman work, in sound condition. We pass under a sort of archway, down a steep paved lane, lined with low white-washed walls and a few old houses, with a glimpse of the river beyond, and see the board before us, with directions “☛ To the Old Roman Bath.” On the left rises the towering wall of the New Strand Theatre (and it is wonderful they did not sweep the Romans away), and we come to a sort of shanty of a house such as we would see in a village, white-washed, a languid green creeper overgrowing it, which imparts quite a rural look. At the iron gate we are met by a showman of the place, who does his work intelligently enough, and communicates such details as he has picked up. Opening a door to the left and descending a few steps, he suddenly plunges us into a low cellar-like chamber. As we grow accustomed to the dim light, there is a sense of astonishment on looking round and finding ourselves before a genuine unmistakeable bath. It is a fairly sized, vaulted chamber, solidly built, with curved ceiling lit by a little semi-circular window perched high on the left. The bath is in the centre, rounded at one end and square at the other. On the opposite side are two or three stairs or tiers, and where it touches the water we can recognize the true fashion of Roman workmanship—the thin tiles of cheerful red, hard as iron, and the imperishable cement which has stood and resisted the water for centuries. The stately Roman look of the whole, even the massive grace in decay, is extraordinary. Extraordinary too is the volume of water, the purest and most delicious in London, which pours up at the rate of some ten tons a minute, and is recherché in the district, being sold at a fixed tariff. It is remarkable that this interesting relic, rare in any capital, should be so little known and so little esteemed. It is highly desirable that the bath should be secured to the City without loss of time, and its destruction thereby saved.

On the other side is another bath, known as “Lord Essex’s” plunge-bath, which has its interest also. It is elegantly designed, with rather original little steps for descending into the water. The bath is of a sort of buff-coloured marble, and is known to have been made, and perhaps used, by the Earl of Essex some three centuries ago. Our cicerone goes so far as to affirm that the Good Queen Bess was fond of taking an occasional “dip” here, and rather illogically points to a sort of darkened window or passage in proof of his assertion. But without introducing this august lady at all, or the Earl, the bath is sufficiently old and interesting to stand, if we may use the metaphor, on its own bottom. Holywell Street, close by, is evidence of the traditions of a holy source in the neighbourhood, and Essex Street is not far away. But how many who pass through the Strand daily for years have ever been to see the Old Roman Bath?

“Within memory of man,” says Mr. Roach Smith, “huge masses, with trees growing upon them, were to be seen at London Wall opposite to what is now Finsbury Circus. They were probably—like what may still be seen opposite Sion College, and in various places with warehouses, in obscure courts and in cellars, near Cripplegate—the core of the Roman wall denuded of the facing stones. In 1852 was discovered a portion which the Corporation had given to the Church Building Society to be pulled down, but it was happily saved; it had been preserved so long owing to a buttress built against it in the Middle Ages. But though saved, owing to earnest representations, it was built into a stable.”

There are indeed scarcely any of the associations of London more impressive or overpowering than its connection with the Roman Empire. There is of course the common vague and popular idea of “Roman remains” found all over England, and the “local museum” can generally boast some well-grimed vessels of various shapes, which are labelled “Roman.” There is often, too, the “incised” slab on which may be deciphered some “Roman” lettering, as ambiguous as that discovered by Mr. Pickwick. Nothing, however, is so astonishing to the casual spectator as the abundance and splendour of the real Roman remains found in London. The Guildhall Museum, where they are stored in quantities, might be a portion of the Vatican Museum. The Roman glass and pottery alone would fill a warehouse, and their variety and beautiful shapes and materials are perfectly astonishing. We say nothing of the tablets and statues, etc., and fragments of brickwork found about Blackfriars, but what really recalls the Roman domination in the most forcible and practical way is the superb Roman pavement, about 14 feet long, with its round end, which must have covered a goodly sized vestibule. The

brightness, the brilliancy of the colours, the freshness of the whole, the boldness of the treatment, excite wonder, and call up before us the conquerors who walked over it in this actual London of ours, with its cabs and policemen and costermongers, which presents a nation so opposed to every idea of Rome. The Guildhall Museum, viewed in this light, offers a real surprise when it is thought that the inanimate objects here found—hundreds of bronze implements for domestic use, combs, looking-glasses, cups, bottles, lamps, bowls, in profusion of pattern, all were the work of this fallen and departed race.

The most impressive of these memorials is the old Roman Wall, still to be seen close to Cripplegate Church, and which affects the spectator much as would one of the fragments to be found in Rome. There it rises up before us, in the street called “London Wall,” a stretch of about 50 yards long, and lofty, now made to do duty, which really secures its preservation, by being built into houses. This seems to add to the effect. A narrow strip of garden runs in front, so as to separate it from the pavement. In the curious diversity of colour and detail which the Roman wall always presents, owing to the ripe mellow tint of the brick, which contrasts with the white of the rocky cement, and to the general dappled tone, there is found a variety and air of suggestion. The whole seems to be caked and crusted into a rocky mass, which still speaks of the imperishable, enduring character of the conquerors. It does credit to the City Fathers that they have preserved this relic, which is really a striking ornament. Not far off is a curious fragment of a tower, of the same character, and which rises with odd effect in the busy City. It is indeed most interesting to find that the antiquaries can follow the course of the wall with almost perfect certainty by fragments of this kind which have shown themselves at intervals. Some years ago, passing by the Broadway on Ludgate Hill, I found an intelligent crowd gathered about some houses which were being pulled down; a portion of the old Roman wall was being removed, and all were staring with an absorbed interest, while certain persons learned on the subject, or affecting to be so, discoursed to the rest.

The little hilly Southampton Street, Strand, is interesting, leading as it does into Covent Garden Market. Near the top is No. 27, Garrick’s old house, where he lived so many years until he became “grand” and moved to a stately mansion on the Adelphi Terrace. It is said that this change injured his health, the terrace being exposed and unsheltered, the old house being “snug and quiet.” This became an hotel, “Eastey’s,” and later was dressed up with plaster mouldings. It is now in the possession of a business firm. With excellent feeling and good taste a handsome shield with Garrick’s arms has been set up in the hall, which recalls the fact of its having been Garrick’s residence, that in that parlour he had read Othello to a number of his friends, and in the drawing-rooms had given a party, during which Goldsmith arrived, wishing to borrow a guinea, but had gone away without having had courage to do so. The doorway which separates the back and front parlours is an elegant piece of work, most gracefully carved and moulded. I never pass by the house without looking in and recalling the pleasant scene described by Tate Williams when he came to exhibit his talents to the actor; and when he noticed this very door moving softly, and found that Mrs. Garrick was listening unseen to his mimicries.

The destroyers have lately been very busy in Covent Garden, where there have been wholesale clearances. Gone now is an entire block in Bow Street, where stood the old police court, the foundations of which the blind magistrate Fielding had laid, after his own house had been burnt to the ground by the Gordon rioters. This, however, could be spared; but not the Piazza in the market behind, Inigo Jones’s work. This is literally being nibbled away. Some years ago was razed the section where the old “Hummums” stood—a house known to Johnson, who used to relate a curious ghost story associated with it. A new, fresh, and gaudy “Hummums” has taken its place, with much unpicturesque iron sheds for the market. At the corner was the old “Rockley’s,” described by Mr. Sala nearly thirty years ago, a house of call for actors and Bohemians. There is now a new Rockley’s. Last year another portion of the Piazza—that behind Bow Street—was levelled, and with it that quaint specimen of the old London hotel, the Bedford, with its coffee-room, curved old-fashioned windows, entresols, bar, etc., to say nothing of its air of snugness and comfort. A few years ago another section, the one that touches “the old Evans’s,” or Cave of Harmony, was taken down, but was rebuilt. Thus out of the four sections there is now left to us but one, whose grace and proportions all amateurs must admire. It is said that Inigo Jones intended to imitate the Piazzas he had seen in Italy; and it will be noted how fine is the proportion of this fragment, and what an air of spaciousness he has imparted to it. The line of the arches, the intersections in the ceilings, the general gaiety of the whole are extraordinary; and to be the more remarked when we turn to the rebuilt portion, which seems narrow, over-grown, too tall for its width, and generally dismal.

No one looking at St. Paul’s, Covent Garden—this “Barn Church”—would believe that it is the most complete specimen of the Tuscan order of architecture known, for no ancient building of the kind exists in Italy or elsewhere. The extraordinary depth of its porch, the projection of its eaves, and the general rudeness and simplicity of its details have always obtained praise. Ralph, in the last century, declared it to be “one of the most perfect pieces of architecture that the art of man can produce.” Walpole, however, pronounced it to be a complete failure.

It must be confessed it looks ungainly enough. The truth is, as designed by Inigo, and in its original state, it was a finely-conceived structure.

COVENT GARDEN.

The architect wished to present a purely Doric building; though some maintained it was of a “barn-like order,” the pediment and pillars are impressive from their boldness and deep shadows. It has lately undergone an odd process of restoration, or rather transformation. The whole of the stone casing has been removed, and a flaming brick one substituted. Few edifices have been more vilified than this; and it must be confessed it is ugly enough. But it has been sadly mauled and outraged. The original building was burned, and the present one is a sort of replica with alterations. Passing by it, I have paused again and again, seeking to discover what was the cause of the apparent failure, and what a man of such eminence could have had in view in conceiving so bald, rude even, and unattractive a building. At last I discovered the secret. It was not he—as might be expected—but the fires, and what was as bad as the fires, the restorers and alterers, that were responsible. It should be remembered, too, that this is the back of his building, the front being really stately and imposing enough, could there be a fair open view of it obtained. This back presented a deeply-embayed porch, the foot-way running in front; but to gain space for the market, arches were cut in the flanking walls, and the foot passengers were made to pass through the porch. There was the secret. The walls being continued to the line of pillars, a shadowy depth or recess was gained, in keeping with the heavy cornice, and so much was added to the length of the church. In old prints we can see this effect. The pathway ran in front of the pillars, instead of behind them, as is now the case. In short, it was then a porch instead of a colonnade, which it is now. This shows how a mere touch, as it were, will destroy the whole character of a work. Further, the whole used to be garnished with some very piquant lanterns, vanes, sun-dials, etc., which imparted a lightness and finish. The restorers have not thought fit to replace these. The church and its churchyard cover a large inclosure in the block between the market and Bedford Street, and can be seen through gratings opening into the four streets that lie round it. It ought to be thrown open and laid out as a garden. Few even suspect its existence. In this great churchyard lie some of the most interesting notabilities who haunted Covent Garden in their life—actors chiefly—such as old Macklin.

Mr. Thackeray has a picture of Covent Garden which admirably conveys the impression left by the place. “The two great national theatres on one side, a churchyard full of mouldy but undying celebrities on the other; a fringe of houses studded in every part with anecdote or history; an arcade often more gloomy or deserted than a cathedral aisle, a rich cluster of brown old taverns—one of them filled with the counterfeit presentments of actors long since silent: a something in the air which breathes of old books, old painters, and old authors, a place beyond all other places one would choose in which to hear the chimes at midnight—a crystal palace—which presses timidly from a corner upon many things of the past: a withered bank that has been sucked dry; a squat building with columns and chapel-looking fronts, which always stand knee-deep in baskets, flowers, and scattered vegetables; a population that never seems to sleep, and that does all in its power to prevent others sleeping: a place where the very latest suppers and heartiest breakfasts jostle each other over the footways.” It is so long since this picture was done, that the strokes are altered and the details scarcely recognizable. But the tone is still the same. The old stately-looking building at the corner of the Piazza was once the town house or palace of a nobleman, and has been often engraved. More interesting, however, is it to think of it as the “Cave of Harmony,” once directed by the well-known “Paddy Green.” It was then the earliest type of Music Hall, where sober and serious glees were sung by choir boys, while the audience consumed kidneys and chops and baked potatoes, washed down by stout. This combination has passed away, and supping to music is no longer in vogue. The place was hung round with a vast number of curious theatrical portraits, old and modern, some of merit, while Paddy himself, red of face, walked about and conversed with the guests. When he saw anyone waiting or apparently neglected, he interposed with friendly courteous excuses, summoned waiters, and remedied the oversight. To the casual visitor to town this was altogether a novel and curious entertainment. Later it became the Falstaff Club, which went the way of ephemeral clubs. It is now the New Club.

Close as this district is to the Strand—and it is within a stone’s throw—it has a charm of old fashion that is extraordinary. Unhappily the devouring “Market” is rapidly absorbing the whole. Two entire sides have been swept away to find room for carts and vegetables. The eminent ground landlord seems insatiable in this respect; though it must be said that it is difficult, if not impossible, to resist the pressing advances of the dealers. It is said that a small space or coign of vantage is let three times over to successive tenants in the course of the twenty-four hours. The old Bow Street Court, and the buildings beside it, have been drawn in and swallowed up; the Floral Hall, erst a concert room, is now converted into a market. The lease of Drury Lane Theatre, close by, will run out in a few years, and it is rumoured will yield itself up to the inexorable market. This, as I said, is but the pressure of circumstances. “Facts are stubborn,” but the force of trade is irresistible.

We often lament the destruction of old houses with traditions, and the present writer has often joined in such jeremiads. But here is the test. Some one of moderate income, as most persons are, is the proprietor of some sacredly antique monument,—let us say Fairfax House at Brixton, standing in its “fayre grounds.” Presently the district has come into request; the speculative builder is about, and by-and-by a heavy, substantial sum that would yield an annuity is offered for the whole. The æsthetic proprietor cannot resist, for he will rationally argue, that if he decline, he will be paying an amount equal to the annuity he declines for the pleasure of retaining his old monument. Notwithstanding this process of unceasing destruction there is much left to interest, and the old tone of the place remains: as Mr. Hare points out, even the very names of the streets surrounding it, often carelessly and familiarly pronounced, have a suggestive significance.

Indeed, the London traveller, or contemplative man, whether promenading or gazing listlessly from his “knife-board” as he frets against the stagnant progress of his vehicle, may furnish himself with plenty of entertainment by speculating on the names of the streets through which he passes. The whole life of the great city could be traced by the aid of its street names. Thus, Fleet Street and Holborn were called after two rivers which crossed those thoroughfares, the Fleet and the Bourne; the Fleet also giving its name to the ill-omened prison. The modern christening of streets is rather of a formal, artificial kind, and has not the spontaneous natural character of the older names, which were given as a matter of convenience by the inhabitants of the locality. The origin of the familiar Piccadilly has been hotly debated; and a plausible theory has been offered—that one Higgins, a haberdasher, had invented a sort of spiked ruff, suggesting the “piccadille,” or lance, and out of this he made a fortune, which he invested in houses along the famous thoroughfare—then a rural lane. The Adelphi quarter was so named by the “Brothers” Adam, architects; to whom London also owes the Adelphi Terrace, Portland Place, Fitzroy Square, Stratford Place, Finsbury Square, and other buildings. John, Robert, and Adam Streets, as we have seen, recall their names. Close by we find George, Villiers, Duke, and Buckingham Streets, betokening that all this was the property of Charles II.’s favourite. On the other side of the Strand there are Charles, Henrietta, and York Streets; and it is unlikely that it ever occurs to the market gardener’s mind, or even to the intelligent publishers who flourish there, that these are the names of the hapless Charles I., his Queen, and brother. A vast number of streets take their names from territorial landlords—such as Bedford, Oxford, Essex, Arundel, and others. A bit of family history is illustrated by various small streets contiguous to the Strand. Thus, one of the Bedford family married Catherine, heiress of Brydges, Lord Chandos, and later, Lord Tavistock married a daughter of Lord Southampton. These alliances are now recalled by Catherine, Chandos, Tavistock, and Southampton Streets. Bow, with its bells and church, is said to be derived from the Norman arches in the crypt; and Bow Street from its bent shape. Fetter Lane was the street of beggars or “Fewters.” Pentonville has a plain and unsuspected origin, being named after a certain Mr. Henry Penton, M.P., who flourished in the present century. King’s Cross is another delusion; for, while we expect venerable associations akin to the Eleanor Cross, we are shocked to learn that here stood a poor effigy of George IV., long since removed. Lombard Street, of course, was a compliment to the banking natives of Lombardy; and Threadneedle Street was Three Needle Street, the Merchant Taylors’ Company being located there. Bunhill Fields, the great graveyard, was really Bone Hill Fields, and Houndsditch a ditch into which dead dogs were often cast. The Minories was originally the Minorites, an order of Poor Clares so named; and Mincing Lane was similarly distorted from the Minchin nuns, who had their convent at St. Helen’s, Bishopsgate. Goswell Street was God’s Well. At Tokenhouse Yard and thereabouts tokens used to be made. A fowl market was in the Poultry. Bread Street and Milk Street were devoted to the sale of those useful commodities. The curiously and picturesquely named Knightrider Street is most significant of all; for through it used to pass in procession the train of knights going to the joust. Rotten Row is said to derive its name from “rotteren” (to muster); but it is more likely to be a slang word expressive of the peculiar composition of the ground.

The large family of Ludgate, Bishopsgate, Cripplegate, Billingsgate, etc., all, of course, betoken the different City gates which stood in the localities. Billingsgate is said to be named after King Belin; Cripplegate after St. Giles, an abbot said to have written a work on palsy, and also venerated as the patron of lepers. It may be noted that the old statue of Queen Elizabeth which decorated Lud Gate is still to be seen in Fleet Street. Spitalfields was named after St. Mary Spital; Moorfields and Finsbury, or Fensbury, from the marshes; St. Bride, or St. Bridget, gave her name to Bridewell; indeed, a vast number of our streets have some such pious associations. It would take long to go through the full list of derivations; but these specimens will show how interesting and fruitful is the inquiry.

The naming of a street requires much tact, and is really a difficult office. Witness the clumsy suggestions and debates when Northumberland and Shaftesbury Avenues were formed. Thames Avenue or Thames Mall would have been better and more picturesque for the first, and Shakespeare Road for the second. The old “Paragons,” “Circuses,” “Crescents,” have a pleasant sound. In compliment to the great prose poet of Cockneydom, we ought surely to have a “Dickens Street,”—a good, sharp, well-sounding, and serviceable name.

CHAPTER VII.
THE NATIONAL GALLERY.

THIS great collection really holds the first position among the galleries of Europe, not for the number of pictures, but for their choiceness and value. The building which contains the collection has been assumed to be rather a failure, and many a jest has been made upon what are called its “pepper casters,” an article which its cupolas suggest. Yet upon the whole it is a classical, well-proportioned building, with a fine, imposing façade. Of late years a new gallery has been added in the rear, whose Italian campanile rears itself awkwardly, and is inconsistent with the Grecian style of the rest. Sir Frederick Leighton has spoken with just severity of this incongruity. The new rooms are stately and lofty, united by imposing central halls, floridly decorated, contrasting oddly with the low and shabby chambers beside it. Still, the smaller area is more effective for the display of pictures; they are brought closer to the eye, are seen more comfortably, and there is the feeling of being in a private gallery. The small but beautiful collection at The Hague has its peculiar charm from these conditions. Within the last few years the great entrance hall has been remodelled and treated sumptuously, laid out with flights of stairs, pillars of costly African and other marbles, profuse gilding and painting. But the effect is scarcely satisfactory: the pillars are thin, and ill proportioned to this work, and seem more ornamental than serviceable, while the complicated umbrella and stick arrangements seem to do violence to the natural construction of the building.

The Gallery owes much to its accomplished director, Sir F. Burton, who is an artist of the Academic school, with much fine taste and feeling, and power of drawing. The days when men were trained in the schools, and when studies of the human figure (on one of which Mulready would expend months) were labours of love, are unhappily passed away. To Sir F. Burton’s admirable judgment we owe the real development of the collection, and its almost universal character. If we might make an objection, it would be that there is almost a surfeit of works of the earlier Italian school of the Pre-Raphaelite time, and there is something monotonous in the innumerable altar-pieces and sacred pieces set off with richly gilt and carved architectural framings. On the other hand, it is admitted that the English school is imperfectly represented. At the same time nothing could be more difficult than to form a really representative gallery of English works, owing to the shiftings of taste and criticism. This can be seen by considering the once-admired Vernon collection, where figure all the “Augustus Eggs” and “Redgraves,” and which seem scarcely worthy of a place in a public gallery. At the Academy Exhibitions we find every school imitated—French, German, Dutch. Still it would not be difficult to apply some principles in the selection, and to define what might be considered a purely English character in landscape, portraits, or genre.

A serious difficulty is what to do with the accepted bequests which for half a century or so have held possession. These keep their place by virtue of law and Acts of Parliament, and as they entered in company with works of real value, there would be an ungraciousness in rejecting them. The pigments of this era seem to have faded: the pictures are flat, stiff, and, in some cases, seem the work of amateurs. One instance of this “white elephant” sort of donation is the picture of Rembrandt’s “Night Watch,” said to be a copy of no startling merit, which is yet allowed a conspicuous place.

The visitor is assisted by guides and guide-books of all kinds; one, a full, reformed one, in two volumes, has been issued recently. I always think that a model guide-book, such as the eager but uninformed public would desire, has yet to be devised. The usual system is after this pattern: The name and number is given, then the painter and school, say, “The Umbrian School”—with the size of the picture in inches, a few lines about the painter, his birth and death, and to what “school” he succeeded; then a rather banal description of what the figures are doing—which the spectator can discover for himself without assistance. These points, such as size in inches, and the description, are, of course, valuable for the Waagens and other critical persons, but are caviare to the visiting public. I venture to say that the questions every one puts to himself on seeing a “famous” picture are these: “Why is it that this work is so admired? What are the particular merits?” The effect is admittedly good and beautiful; but it seems so like many others that we have seen, excellent, pleasing; but it puzzles us to say why it exceeds in merit the others. How delightful, on the other hand, and improving is it, when it is our good fortune to be attended by some real critic and trained judge, who in a few words points out the merits, the contrast of colour, the drawing of that arm, the difficulty overcome in grouping in figures! Again, what is style? Corot, the French landscape painter, is deservedly admired, and the spectator, looking at his catalogue, will exclaim, “Oh! that is a Corot.” He sees, with wonder, a sort of marsh or fen with gloomy “furry”-looking trees. He is told of the enormous price this small work fetches in the market, and wonders again. It seems to him sketchy, blurred, and unfinished, perhaps meaningless, but it must be a great work from its price: he cannot puzzle it out, and he has to pass on to others. The critic, however, at his elbow, will draw him back and tell him, first, what the Corot theory was, viz., that nature has moods of humour, of feeling and passion, which can be noted, just as we note expression on the human countenance; that this often becomes so marked and absorbing that we do not observe mere details. The painter, who wished to seize the humour or expression, passes by all details of leaves, branches, etc., and even the outlines, so that the spectator, like the painter, will note only, say, the general sadness of the whole. This is roughly and, perhaps, broadly expressed, but it furnishes a sort of key. But we now look at our Corot with a different interest, and its meaning gradually grows upon us. So with the Dutch school. We pass from one to the other in the Peel collection, from Teniers and Van Steen to De Hooge, with a sense of sameness. There are the usual “Boors” and “Vrows” carousing or dancing; or there are “Interiors” by De Hooge; or Hobbema, with his alleys and trees, all great, clever, finished minutely, and curious. But we have no key, and there is a mystery beyond us. Here, again, we should reflect that this “style” is due to the conditions of climate and character. Dutch skies are sad and sombre, the country flat and bare, the long avenues of trees add to the mournful feeling; the interiors are dark. There is a wonderful, much-admired Hobbema, here a “grand piece,” as it is called; an alley of long bare trees stretching away from the spectator, a landscape spreading away beyond. The spectator as he gazes will feel a curious sense of melancholy, owing to the flat wastes, the trunks exposed to the sweeping winds, the earth redeemed by stern toil from the sea, the feeling of isolation, with a suggestion of the indomitable Dutch character, which has battled successfully for centuries with the ocean, and which finds a relief in scenes of carousal. They have no mountains or valleys, or woods to draw from. The houses in the cities are narrow, their rooms small and dark; hence everything is looked at in miniature; hence, too, the laborious finish. Hence, too, plenty of dark corners and shadows. All which explains Rembrandt’s traditional effects, his faces emerging from dark backgrounds. Hence, too, the costume of the Dutch portrait, with its white collar and black jerkin. In the small dark rooms, panelled with dark oak, the light falls only on the face; rich-coloured clothes would lose their lustre. So with De Hooge’s picture of the “Entrance to a Dutch Yard,” where there is a welcome but unexpected stream of light, and which is treated as light that enters into a dark place.

I have often thought, too, how interesting it would be if there were some critics to explain the treatment and manipulation adopted by different painters! Why did Gainsborough, for instance, deal in exquisite streaky greens and translucent blues; how is it that his faces are so delicate and tender? The fact is, different painters see things with different eyes, and the figure presents itself differently. One will note only the expression as worthy of representation, another the colours of the face, another will be struck by the attitude, the richness of the dress, etc. Denner saw nothing but lines and wrinkles. It is with painting exactly as it is with authorship. One will relate a fact exactly as it occurred, another in newspaper style, another with touches of character; another has a certain charm of description; yet another is poetical.

To give a more particular illustration of how enjoyment would be increased by some such critical aid as this, let us pause a moment before this fine full-length portrait of Lewis, the actor, which hangs in the vestibule of the hall—a smiling figure in a sort of Spanish dress. It is the character of “The Marquis” in “The Midnight Hour,” and is painted by Sir Martin Shee, erst President of the Academy. There is something effective and pleasing about the picture, but most persons content themselves with a glance and pass on. Now, suppose we inform him that Lewis was a comedian of the old “airy” school, was noted for his elegant style of representing people of rank—that is to say, personages gay and witty, without condescension—carrying themselves through difficult situations without embarrassment, and making love in a very irresistible way. Shee had seen Lewis many times on the stage, and knew him au bout des ongles; these gifts were present to him; so, selecting this favourite character, he embodied here an epitome of all its attractions. With these facts in view, we look again at the picture, and how different it appears! There is the delightful expression, half rallying, half of enjoyment, a general refinement, with a graceful carriage—in short, a regular bit of comedy is going on before us.

In some of the great “Gallery” pictures—such as Sebastian del Piombo’s “Raising of Lazarus”—the assistance of judicious criticism is really essential. We must be instructed how and why to admire. Otherwise, as in other kindred instances, such as with pictures of the Caraccis, we see only a number of Scriptural figures in robes, blue or scarlet, grouped together; no doubt large, dignified, impressive, but not by any means interesting. There is a general conventionality. Yet this “Raising of Lazarus” has been criticised by Hazlitt, Haydon, and others in a very interesting way, and our catalogues of the future might profitably have these inserted. Dr. Waagen thought this picture the most important of the Italian school that England possesses. He adds that the “first glance would teach us that the figure of Lazarus was drawn, though not painted, by Michael Angelo.” The figure of our Saviour he praises for its nobility, and “in Lazarus the transition from death to life is expressed with wonderful fidelity. In the other figures gratitude, astonishment, conviction, doubt are to be traced.” I fear there are few of the thousands passing who would gather this or anything from the first glance, or note any of these things.

There is one picture considered the cynosure of the whole, on account of the vast price (some £70,000) given for it—the Ansidei Raphael. Of this we might venture to say that the effect scarcely corresponds to the outlay; or rather, that were it placed among the other Italian estimated pictures, and divested of its history, it would not probably attract much notice. This may seem heretical, but I am confident it is true. With the critical, of course, it is different, though I fancy it would be a difficult task to give a nice, accurate, and judicial appreciation of its points of attraction, going beyond mere phrases of praise. I confess, if choice were offered, I would prefer the more “taking” Soult Murillo in the Louvre. Pace Sir Frederick Burton, it seems also to suffer from the heavy mass which does duty as frame—the excessive gilding impairs the colours, and it is constructed with a sort of basement which stands “in the air” unsupported, which seems to imply that it ought to be on a bracket or altar.

A crying blemish to the collection is the room full of fantastic pictures, so called, the terrible legacy which Turner bequeathed to the nation. These grotesques have neither form nor meaning, and seem to be mad, wild caprices. There is nothing to match them in existence, and no gallery, private or public, would tolerate them. Some are nothing but streaks and smears—yellows and blues utterly amorphous; yet admirers will protest that there is some deep-seated “no meaning” mystery beneath, which study and sympathy will reveal. Some arrangement by Act of Parliament or otherwise should be made for disposing of these performances, which we have heard again and again excite the derision of the foreigner as “polissonneries.” The serious and responsible works of Turner are here, and excite admiration: but these, it is well known, were the eccentricities of his dotage. Some of his large grand pieces are truly fine, such as “The Sea Fight” and the beautiful Italian landscape placed as a pendant to the well-known Claude, though it is easy to note that the exquisitely sultry luminousness of the French painter cannot be approached, Turner’s atmosphere, from the very contrast, being somewhat thick and heavy. Any one who goes from picture to picture of Turner’s, those, I mean, of his sane manner, with care and regularity, will be lost in wonder at the variety of his styles, and will conclude that he could “do anything.” The mistake of his later days was his attempt to simulate with colours atmospheric tones and effects, such as the “actual sense of effulgence” in the sun when we attempt to look straight at it, or the glare from a passing train, or a steamer showing lights and letting off steam.

Perhaps the truest “painter” of the modern English school who could be called a master, and whose works would stand the test of criticism, is Wilkie. No praise could do justice to that masterpiece, “The Blind Fiddler,” with its minutely delicate handling of faces and hands, yet offering a grand breadth of style. The beautiful limpid colouring, the firmness, yet delicacy, of the touch, the pleasant, quiet, unforced humour of the scene—akin to that of Goldsmith—the brilliancy and largeness of treatment, are perfectly miraculous in a youth little more than twenty. Neither Mieris nor Meissonier have works that can be classed with this gem, which, by-the-way, would gain by being hung higher. His picture of “The Beadle” leading away the Mountebanks and their Dancing Dogs, with figures brilliantly and exquisitely finished, is not, however, his best specimen. We should note the contrast with his well-known “Knox Preaching,” which seems the work of a different hand. Many would be puzzled at this; but art critics know that Wilkie altered his style completely after a visit to Spain, and affected a rich, juicy, full-coloured tone, even adopting a large unfinished “streaky” manner. In this contrasting of style we may profitably turn for comparison to a picture truly unique, of which, as Lamb says, “One species is the genus,” and which may be coveted by any gallery, that is, the famous “Treaty of Munster,” by Terburg, a small cabinet picture, the gift of a private person. This extraordinary little masterpiece is worth an hour’s study, and illustrates all the principles of painting. There are some fifty or sixty figures, and the force, dramatic expression, and feeling of the whole is surprising. Every minute face is distinct, and leaves the air of perfect finish; yet, if we look closely, we shall see the workmanship is rough and bold. Mr. Ruskin has happily illustrated this valuable principle by a minute vignette of Turner’s, which decorates his “Italy.” It represents the marvellous windows and elaborate details of the Ducal palace in Venice, all within a couple of inches; yet, if we take a magnifying glass, we shall find that none of the objects represented are actually drawn. There are only a number of dots and touches, and yet the effect of the relief, details, and carvings is perfectly conveyed. On the other hand, had the details been actually drawn on so small a scale, these details would at a distance have failed to convey the idea intended. Here is one of the secrets of largeness of style. Meissonier has much in common with Terburg. Our fashionable modern painters have little idea of relative values. They copy all before them with the accuracy of a photograph.

A little study of one who is the glory of this Gallery, viz. Constable, will illustrate this better. A landscape painter may copy carefully and minutely a spreading cornfield, with reapers at work and effects of sunlight, but, as was said in the case of Corot, there is a mystery in landscape which only genius can discover. This is not to be interpreted as Corot found it was, by wholesale sacrifice of details, but by studying the art of making these contribute to the general effect. The really great painter seems to work in this way: he sees or discovers an “effect”; it becomes an inspiration, it takes possession of him, and it imprints itself vividly on his pictorial memory. He notes the same effect under other conditions, and so the idea becomes generalized. Thus a great marine painter, on an occasion, watches the form of waves in a storm, or a peculiar effect of light. As to mere mechanical painting, that becomes, or should become, as the language he speaks; neither does he require the object or model to be before him to paint from, save by way of suggestion or correction. It is to be suspected that the average modern painter does not work on these principles. He copies everything from without, and not from within. The great painter who has found inspiration in his landscape will only copy so far as to ensure topographical correctness, but his main purpose is to produce the general effect or inspiration which is imprinted on his memory. Such is the meaning of the impression left by Constable’s work. The trees, pastures, figures, are all subsidiary to the tone of the whole, the grand feeling of open air which spreads beyond the narrow, contracted limits of the frame. As he felt the largeness, so is the sense of largeness produced in the spectator. One well-known picture will illustrate this more effectively.

Like the human face, the cathedral has its cast of expression, a kind of soft tenderness, or placid, quiet solitariness, wholly different from the air of perky sharpness and strutting detail which photographs present. Turning to the “Salisbury Cathedral” of this painter anyone that has seen the original will recognize how he caught the poetry, the contrast of the grey building with the green sward of the close, and the deep tone of the trees, and the beautiful significance of the spire, which seems almost to be a natural product of the landscape. These spires, indeed, always seem to give a different sort of interpretation to the place in which they stand; and every person of sensibility will own to different impressions as he passes on the railway by Canterbury, Peterborough, or Ely. In the case of the Salisbury spire there is a certain sharpness which contrasts with the dark and angry cloud behind, and gives an air of menace and hostility.

To take another illustration. There are photographs and engravings in plenty of the picturesque Dover Harbour, with its cliffs and castle. Many who have seen the place in its various moods have wished for some reminder, and may have found the traditional sketches of commerce accurate enough, but insufficient to restore the old charm. As the traveller returning from France approaches, he notes the pyramidal character, the junction and blending of the castle with the clouds behind it, the contrast of the glaring white cliffs with the grey of the sea; there is, besides, the grand air of large security and shelter afforded for centuries back. Now, there is a picture by Turner—in which all these complex ideas are abundantly suggested; he has caught the whole tone of the place, dealing with the skies above and the waters below, quite as elaborately as with the town and harbour; indeed, these are subsidiary. In this way it is true a great artist becomes an interpreter, as well as a painter, of Nature.

It is difficult not to feel a sort of enthusiasm and deep admiration when standing before these grand works of Constable. There is a breadth and solidity, a massiveness, about his style and treatment. The secret might be the sense of dignity, the imparting of a grand personality to the trees, the grass, the water, and everything represented. As we look, the details seem to grow and be enriched. It is not surprising to learn that the introduction of one of his pieces into France was the foundation of the school for landscape in that country. The Gallery is well furnished with other masterpieces of his, and the visitor will study them with delight. If we look at the “Flatford,” or the “Haywain,” we shall see and recognize the power, the mixture of emotions suggested, the grand tranquillity of the country, the variety, the sense of distance, and, as we said, the air of state; as for the colour, its depth and richness are not even approached in our day.

To turn to another of our English masters, it must be said that Landseer was hardly a “painter” in a strict sense. He really only took portraits of animals—and of particular animals. A “painter” would generalize more, and in this view Herring’s horses are more pleasing, and exhibit the animals in their relation to surrounding objects. Of course, in producing fur, hair, etc., Landseer is unequalled. This can be further illustrated by a painting here of Morland’s, who is usually associated with certain vulgar subjects, such as pigs, coarse hinds, and the like, masterly in their way. This portrays a heavy cart-horse and pony entering their stable. The sort of living interest infused is extraordinary, with the languid, helpless expectancy of the pair, the general tone of the stable. We would place it above anything Landseer has done. This will be seen if we compare this stable scene of Morland’s with the well-known “Horse-shoeing,” which has quite an artificial air. Among the finest Landseers are, no doubt, the “Newfoundland Dog” and the capital, vigorously-painted creature who personates Alexander in the visit to Diogenes. In his latter works he became rather tame and insipid in his colour and touch, as we can see by turning to “Peace and War.”

Thirty or forty years ago among the chief attractions of the Academy were pictures by Ward, O’Neil, Crowe, Mrs. Ward, Frith, and others. Such were “James II. receiving the News of the Arrival of William,” “The South Sea Bubble,” the “Derby Day,” and “The Railway Station.”

Leslie, Maclise, Eastlake, Ward, and many more have all fallen considerably in public esteem. Many years ago there was a general exhibition of Leslie’s works, and it was curious to see how the assemblage revealed his defects—the “chalkiness” of his white, his thin colour, his general stiffness. This was the result of the Academic school, when drawing was much insisted upon. Nowadays, when the French imitative system is in vogue, a hard pure outline, it is contended, is not in nature. The figure is softened or blended with the background according to experience.

There are some pictures at which we look with astonishment; the gaudy, glaring figures all dressed in variegated fashion and crowded together. It may be said these are like “Tableaux Vivants,” and painted, it might be, from grouped figures. It will be noted that all are in the light, and there are no shadows; indeed, no point of view conceivable could take in so many objects at a time. There is little or no “composition,” and the laws of Academic arrangement seem to be set aside. These pictures, admired, gravely discussed by the critics, have long since found their legitimate place. We have, indeed, only one purely Academic painter—the President of the Royal Academy—who has been trained in the “schools,” and whose work is always elegant, graceful, and honest. If he has to present a draped figure with an arm exposed, the arm and hand are truly “drawn.” There is an exquisite contour exhibited which pleases the eye; the drapery falls not merely in natural, but airy folds, while the tints are of a delicate harmony. There is, in short, composition, and we turn away refreshed. Not so much could be said of some of our popular portrait painters, whose hands are not outlined, but blurred, though dashing, and whose drawing is misty.

Another painter once in high repute, and scarcely thought of now, was Etty, assumed to be the most gorgeous colourist of his day. We look now at his nude nymphs sailing in boats, and wonder a little at this reputation, though there are plenty of tints of lake, and rich black tresses, and cobalt. Somehow these works now seem heavy, and not so brilliant. Would we seek a genuine colourist, let us turn to this little cabinet Bonnington, who has left but few examples, but whose works are precious and much esteemed in Paris. Another rare master of this kind is Muller, of whom there are few specimens. These small cabinet pictures, a few inches square, produce extraordinary effects of force and brilliancy, and gorgeous colour.

To enumerate the attractions of this great collection would, it need hardly be said, take long, but one must speak of the famous “Chapeau de Poil” of Rubens (“The Felt Hat,” not, as it is vulgarly known, “The Chapeau de Paille”). As any one can see for himself, there is no straw hat in the case. These, with the wonderfully powerful and abundant Rembrandts, the “Sassoferrato” (blue-hooded) head, the Murillos, the Reynolds and Gainsborough portraits, the grand Constables, the Turners, the Claudes, the great Rubens landscape, the Hogarth series, the Wilkies, Landseers, Moronis, Botticellis and Bordones may be considered the “stock pieces” of the place. Frith’s “Derby Day,” and Rosa Bonheur’s well-known “Horse Fair,” and the room full of Landseers, furnish the holiday starers with delight. Rosa has, however, “gone down” somewhat in the estimation of connoisseurs, and her horses and her style of painting do not seem quite so marvellous nor so wonderful as they did originally: her colouring is somewhat sketchy. There are other artists of later date concerning whom we must also revise our judgments.

Our own Sir Joshua is here handsomely and abundantly represented. The charm of this great painter is extraordinary; the grace, “distinction,” and variety of his treatment are no less remarkable. “Lord Heathfield” exhibits robust serenity with the rugged good-humoured face, and the fine generous scarlet of his coat. The variety of Reynolds’ attitudes, considering his countless sitters, is truly astonishing. One of his most powerful efforts is the well-known head of Dr. Johnson, in the Peel Collection. Here should be noted the suggestion of suffering, so delicately conveyed, the curious look of expectancy, the air of softness and even gentleness, infused into the rough lineaments. Our moderns make their sitters stare from their frames, and every one says “How like!”

Gainsborough is a painter in whose praise one is tempted to grow wanton. We are often inclined to wonder where he found the sea-green, cobalt blue streaks. His faces are worthy of study. As will be seen, he conveys the idea perfectly of transparency of skin, that is, we see the colour below, through the upper cuticle. The large picture of the Baillie family in the vestibule is one of his finest works. There is the bold firmness of touch, a rich stroke, and a certain brilliancy. This is the more astonishing, as in his larger pictures and portraits there is often an unpleasing coarseness. The term “master” may be certainly applied to him, as it may be to Reynolds, Gainsborough, Wilkie, Constable, Morland, perhaps Wilson, and a few more. Lawrence was a portrait painter, not a master.

No painter is more accepted on account of his rank and prestige than Rembrandt, and the collection is singularly strong in his works. There is a sort of conventional idea of what a Rembrandt should be—a yellow old man or woman looking out of a dark background. Yet few think how luminous is his work. Thus, the old Vrow in the ruff is an amazing specimen of his power; and it is worth while looking closely into the face to see the vigorous fashion in which the strokes are dealt out, the paint being literally plastered on, but with profoundest method. For we have of course moderns who can lay on their paint as with a trowel, thus assuming a vigour they do not possess. Each of his strokes have a meaning, and it was not his intention to give an air of raised surface. No one has approached him in the rich tone of his golden tints.

The great Italian portraits here—the Moronis, Pordonones and others—we have to grow acquainted and intimate with, to discover their power. The “Tailor” of the first has been often praised for its expression and dignity. The attitude is delightfully significant of his calling, without, however, the least vulgar emphasis; so with that of the lawyer. We learn in these that grace and propriety belong to all castes and conditions. The costumes enter largely into the expression. When will our moderns recognize the fact that a portrait must be intellectual, both in the painter’s and in the sitter’s share? At the Academy exhibitions we see Mayors, City men, Parliamentarians, and others, whom nature has furnished with parts of a low money-getting type, and whom our artists faithfully portray in dignified attitude and recognizable shape. The sitter has done his best to look stately and “like a gentleman.” Yet this is not his likeness. But were we to see this man in his counting-house with his clerks at a crisis, we should find him becoming animated, ready, resolute, his features light up, and the low vulgarity disappears. Your Moronis and others have found out this secret.

There are some great canvases of Paolo Veronese in the large room: “Alexander receiving the Family of Darius,” and others; but the visitor turns from their comparatively dull tones with a little disappointment. Any one who has seen the grand and brilliant “Marriage of Cana,” in the Louvre, is spoiled for future judgment. That superb and brilliantly animated scene seems to be the work of another master.

I could linger longer on these interesting themes, and have done little more than touch on some of the great masterpieces here collected. But it is not vanity to say that the visitor who has studied principles akin to what we have been imperfectly setting out, will find a new, unsuspected enjoyment in a visit to a Picture Gallery.

CHAPTER VIII.
SIR JOHN VANBRUGH AND ST. MARTIN’S LANE.

IT is curious that most of the great London architects should have come from Scotland. Among these the most distinguished are Chambers, the designer of Somerset House, Campbell, Rennie, Gibbs, and the Brothers Adam. All these have left their mark upon the great city. The Barry family were Irish; Pugin and Vanbrugh of foreign extraction; while Inigo Jones was a Welshman. Wren, however, outweighs the rest, and he was an Englishman.

Vanbrugh was an interesting character, and his scattered works abound in London and its suburbs. This brilliant man has scarcely obtained the full credit he deserves for his numerous and versatile gifts, for he adorned no less than five professions. He was soldier, dramatist, and manager; an architect and a herald to boot: to say nothing of his being a wit and a poet. His plays, “The Relapse,” “The Confederacy,” “The Provok’d Wife,” and “The Provok’d Husband” are among the works that no theatrical gentleman’s library should be without. His great mansions at Blenheim and Castle Howard are monuments of his skill, and his fables were considered by Pope to be superior to those of La Fontaine. In soldiering and management he was not so successful, though he was persuasive enough to obtain from the nobility and gentry £30,000 with which to build an opera-house in the Haymarket on the exact spot where Her Majesty’s Theatre now stands. When this theatre was finished hardly a word could be heard, and the voices of the actors had the effect of low undulating murmurings. The object of the designer, however, was to furnish an interior for both music and Italian opera; and it would pass the wit of our Phippses and Emdens to supply a building which would be equally suited for acting and singing.

It seems to be the fate of every architect of eminence who is favoured with a “commission” for some vast public building to suffer hardship and sordid treatment at the hands of the authorities. It was so with Wren, Barry, Street, and above all with Vanbrugh, who had to go to law with the Marlboroughs to obtain his fees. He was himself sued by the contractors and workmen, who could obtain no money from either the family or Government. The story of this persecution is to be found in the curious Vanbrugh papers. More curious is it to discover, as the writer did lately, that there is still standing in London his old mansion, the very first attempt he made, which (though dilapidated enough) seems still hale, stout, and strong. When it became known, about the year 1702, that the wit and dramatist had turned architect and had actually built himself a mansion in Whitehall, it became the subject of much ridicule; and Dr. Swift was merry on the shape and peculiarity of the new building.

One asks the waterman hard by,
Where may the Poet’s palace lie?
At length they in the rubbish spy
A thing resembling a goose-pie—
A type of modern wit and style
The rubbish of an ancient pile.

STATUE OF GENERAL GORDON IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE.

It seemed unlikely that this “goose-pie,” amid all the vicissitudes of Whitehall, could have escaped demolition. But recently the writer of these notes came on a rather minute description of the place, drawn up in the year 1815. As it then appeared, it was a low, long building in three divisions, two stories high, with arched windows, three in each compartment. Further, the brothers Adam had taken it in hand, and added two wings or vestibules, projecting forward and decorated with their own peculiar “fan-like” ornamentation. This was satisfactory for identification; though no one of our generation was likely to recall such a structure in Whitehall. But almost at the first search it was revealed. There it stood flanking the Banqueting Hall in the shape of the dilapidated, gone-to-seed museum known as the United Service Institution. This was the original Vanbrugh “goose-pie” family mansion, answering in every point to the description, encumbered with the Adam additions, effective and not without merit. It is, however, in rather a squalid state; and it is safe to prophesy that in two or three years it will have disappeared. It is curious to think of the brilliant author of “The Relapse” living here nearly two hundred years ago.

Close as it is to Charing Cross, St. Martin’s Lane and the district about it still retain an old-fashioned air. At its very entrance we note one of the most effective and effectively placed buildings in London, the fine church, St. Martin’s, with its soaring and conspicuous steeple and stately portico. The levity of our time was never better illustrated than by the proposal to cut away the steps to gain a few feet of roadway, and it was actually gravely suggested and discussed whether it would not be the best course to remove the portico wholesale, and place it at the back of the church! From every direction, almost, the spire can be seen, and from every quarter the church forms a pleasing point of view. It was built by Gibbs, and its interior is in Wren’s peculiar favourite manner—a vaulted ceiling supported on columns, which, in their turn, support galleries, their bases being covered up by the massive pews.

St. Martin’s Lane is a far more interesting street than might be supposed, being full of strange Hogarthian memories. Bishop Horsley told the antiquary so oddly named “Rainy-day Smith,” that he had often heard his father describe the time when St. Martin’s Church was literally “In the fields,” and when there was a turnpike leading into St. Martin’s Lane. Mr. Smith wrote this over sixty years ago, and there have been enormous changes since then. There are two curious little lanes or passages turning out of it on the right hand as you go up, one of which bears the name of “May’s Buildings, 1739,” in faint characters. This was built by a gentleman of that name, whose house is still to be seen at No. 43, a sausage shop, a striking and elegant piece of brick-work, though unpretending. It was thus that it struck “Rainy-day Smith,” fifty years ago, who was much praised in his day for “his attention to old houses.” He says that Mr. May’s house “consisted of two pilasters supporting a cornice; and it is, in my opinion, one of the neatest specimens of architectural brick-work in London. The site of the White Horse livery stables was originally a tea-garden; and south of it was a hop-garden, which still retains that appellation. The extensive premises, No. 60, were formerly held by Chippendale, the most famous upholsterer and cabinet-maker of his day, to whose folio work on household furniture the trade formerly made constant reference. It contains in many instances specimens of the style of furniture so much in vogue in France in the reign of Louis XIV., but which for many years past has been discontinued in England. However, as most fashions come round again, I should not wonder if we were to see the unmeaning scroll and shell-work, with which the furniture of Louis’s reign was so profusely incumbered, revive; when Chippendale’s book will again be sought after with redoubled avidity, and, as many of the copies must have been sold as waste paper, the few remaining will probably bear rather a high price.”[1] Another house that always attracts attention is the one numbered 96, and which deserves notice for its artistic doorway—certainly one of the most effective in London for its flowing style of carving and elegant design. It is now a cloth shop, but Mr. Smith describes it as being in his day “one of the oldest colour-shops in London, and has one of the very few remaining shop-fronts where the shutters slide in grooves. The street-door frame is of the style of Queen Anne, with a spread-eagle, foliage, and flowers, curiously and deeply carved in wood, over the entrance, similar to those remaining in Carey Street and in Great Ormond Street. The late Mr. Powel, the colourman, and family inhabited it; and I have heard him say that his mother for many years made a pipe of wine from the grapes which grew in their garden, which at that time was nearly one hundred feet in length, before the smoke of so many surrounding buildings destroyed their growth. This house has a large staircase, curiously painted, of figures viewing a procession, which was executed for the famous Dr. Misaubin, about the year 1732, by a painter of the name of Clermont, a Frenchman, who boldly charged one thousand guineas for his labour; which charge, however, was contested, and the artist was obliged to take five hundred. Behind the house there is a large room, the inside of which Hogarth has given in his Rake’s Progress, where he has introduced portraits of the doctor and his Irish wife.”

Passing on beyond St. Martin’s Lane, we enter that curious street dedicated to bird and dog fanciers and frame makers, Great St. Andrew Street, but which in truth popularly ranges itself under the designation of “The Dials.” We stop before a mouldy shop, No. 42, whose window is filled with as disagreeable a category of objects as was found in the establishment of the apothecary in Romeo and Juliet—skulls, jaw and thigh bones, skeletons of monkeys, stuffed birds, horns of all kinds, prepared skins, and everything unpleasant in the anatomical line. When Dickens was busy with his Mutual Friend, a confrère—Mr. Wilkie Collins, I think—described to him a strange character, a bird-stuffer—and “articulator” of bones and skeletons—and the idea so “tickled” the writer that he at once put in “Mr. Venus,” the intimate of Wegg. This original character excited much attention; and a friend of the great writer, as well as of the present chronicler, Mr. C. Kent, passing through this street, was irresistibly attracted by this shop and its contents—kept by one J. Willis. When he next saw Mr. Dickens he said, “I am convinced I have found the original of ‘Venus’;” on which said Mr. Dickens, “You are right.” Anyone who visits the place will recognize the dingy gloomy interior, the articulated skeleton in the corner, the general air of thick grime and dirt.

In full view of St. Martin’s Lane, and next to where the old Northumberland House stood, stood the house that was remarkable as having been the first that was numbered in London. Readers of old letters will notice with surprise how readily a person’s residence was found by the post; “To Mr. Sterne, in ye Pall Mall,” was sufficient. This seems almost a mystery.

In the London churchyards there is plenty to interest the explorer, but it may be doubted if anything could be more tragically romantic than is offered by two memorials, found in two old churchyards—separated by one easy half-hour’s walk. The moralist will find profit, and a curious meditation over the instability of things, in his visit to these two interesting spots. Standing on that ill-shaped open place, the former Regent’s Circus, and looking along the bend of the new Shaftesbury Avenue, we can see the blackened and ungainly steeple of old St. Anne’s Church in Soho, now unexpectedly revealed by the clearances and “demolitions.” This clumsy, eccentric object seems to take the shape of a vintner’s cask perched airily on a spire, and must be pardoned to the memory of Wren, as one of those architectural freaks in which he occasionally indulged when invention failed him. To the same class belonged those extraordinary obelisks and other devices which he has placed on some of his towers. The church is a very old and interesting one, dating from 1686, and looks out on Dean Street. It has attained a sort of celebrity from its musical services; and the Princess of Wales and other distinguished persons are often found in the congregation. The old rectory, where, up to the present incumbency of Dr. Wade, the rector used to reside, stands where it did, beside the church, its rows of ancient windows having a cheerful prospect of the churchyard; but the actual rectory is in the quaint Soho Square. The churchyard is a very large forlorn piece of ground opening upon Wardour Street, and it was taken in hand some years ago by the improvers and spoilers. The tombstones were all collected together and laid down neatly as a sort of pavement, the rest planted with grass. It is now given over to a large colony of fowls, which pick up a livelihood and enjoy a sort of rus in urbe there. One would have thought these measures were preparatory to throwing open the place as a recreation ground; but the gates remain fast locked, and the public may not enter now.

On the outside wall of the church are seen two tablets, which arrest the attention; one to the memory of Hazlitt, of an extraordinary kind, setting forth his peculiar opinions; the other to an actual genuine king, who, after his abdication, died in England. The king’s coffin was placed in the vaults beneath, where the clerk recollects seeing it many years ago. But among the other bizarre proceedings which marked the course of the “improvements,” the vaults were completely filled up with sand, and the contents, as it were, obliterated. The inscription, which is the work of Horace Walpole, runs:—

Near this place is interred Theodore, King of Corsica, who died in this parish, Dec. 11, 1756, immediately after leaving the King’s Bench Prison, by the benefit of the Act of Insolvency, in conveyance of which he registered his kingdom of Corsica, for the benefit of his creditors.

The grave, great teacher, to a level brings
Heroes and beggars, galley-slaves and kings;
But Theodore this moral learned ere dead—
Fate poured its lessons o’er his living head,
Bestowed a kingdom and denied him bread.

His story is sad, romantic, and perfectly true; for he was a real crowned king and adventurer. His name was Newhoff, and he had figured in many capitals in many countries, making himself useful to the smaller potentates, and had finally succeeded in impressing the Corsican insurgents with the idea that he was a personage of power, and could find them assistance. They were tempted by his offers to lead them. One morning he arrived in a ship laden with cannon and other stores, and landed arrayed in Eastern dress and attended by black servants. Received with acclamations, he was duly crowned, lived in a palace, put himself at the head of an army, and fought battles.

Soon, however, his supplies failing him, he went away to raise money in Holland, but did not succeed. He then came to London, was arrested by his many creditors, and thrown into the King’s Bench. He took advantage of “the Act,” and registered his crown for the benefit of his creditors. On his liberation he did not know where to go, and went in a chair to the Portuguese Minister’s, whom he did not find at home. The fallen king, literally not possessing a sixpence in the world, was charitably taken in by a Soho tailor, fell ill the next day, and died; his coffin and interment were paid for by this worthy tradesman, who said he wished for once to have the credit of burying a king.

Another strange being was laid in the vaults, but only temporarily, in the year 1804. This was the eccentric Lord Camelford, whose adventures and intemperance were always exciting attention. He was shot in a duel by Captain Best, reputed the best shot in England, which was the odd reason given by his antagonist for meeting him. “Six quarts of blood,” we are told, were found in the cavity of his chest. All the denizens of Soho crowded round Mr. Dawes’s shop in Dean Street to see the crimson-velvet coffin, adorned with cherubim of silver and “wrought gripes,” as it lay in the St. Anne’s vaults, until the strange provision of his will could be carried out. It seems he had once passed many hours at a romantic spot by a lake in the Canton of Berne, where there were three trees. A sum of £1,000 was left to the proprietor, and he directed that his body should be transported thither and placed under one of the trees. There was to be no monument; he only wished “the surrounding scenery to smile upon my remains.”

Here also rests the beautiful maid of honour, Mary Bellenden, to whom the Prince of Wales showed his devotion, which was of an extravagant kind, by taking out his purse and counting his money. “If you go on counting your money,” said she, “I will run out of the room.” This beauty was secured by Colonel Campbell, later Duke of Argyll. Her royal admirer had made her promise that she would let him know whenever she made her selection; but she forgot, or omitted purposely, to do this. She thus incurred his bitter dislike; and whenever her duties compelled her to attend at Court, which she did with some alarm, this gracious person always took care to whisper some ill-natured speech. She did not live to share her husband’s honours, and now sleeps in the well-sanded vaults of the old Soho church.

Now taking flight across London to “the Marble Arch” and to the Queen’s Road, we reach the old Bayswater burying-ground, where it is assumed that one of our great humorists lies buried. It is not, however, generally known that there are well-founded doubts as to whether Yorick’s “dust” is to be found beneath his headstone, and whether the “mortal coil” he shuffled off in Bond Street has not been sacrilegiously transported away.

Sterne the recherché, the friend of wits and nobles in Paris as well as London, died on March 18, 1768, in mean lodgings, No. 41 Old Bond Street, a silk bag maker’s. Mr. Loftie, however, believes that the house was No. 39B, now Messrs. Agnew’s. The Shandean gave up the ghost piteously enough, abandoned by his family, and by a strange chance a footman, sent by a convivial party to inquire “how Mr. Sterne was,” arrived almost exactly at the moment of dissolution, and saw him pass away. This person was one James Macdonald, “own man” to Mr. “Fish” (so nicknamed) Crauford, a person of fashion; and he has recorded this curious incident in his valet-memoirs.

Now, this departure of poor Yorick was disastrous enough. His whole career, indeed, was one of eccentric gambadoes on his hobby-horse; but he never reckoned that after his death, yet another grimly grotesque chapter was to be added to his Shandy record. It was hard enough that so jocund a person should die so miserably—or, as he might have thought it, die at all; and there was a hideous contrast between the crowd which the viveur was always secure of, and this sad desertion.

But the funeral was in keeping. It might have been expected that a Canon of York, one holding the curacy of Coxwold, would have had many mourners; but the English humorist was attended to the grave by—how many will it be supposed?—two mourners! One was Becket, who published the defunct’s works; the other, old Sam Salt, one of Elia’s Benchers, a Shandean in his way, though why he attended seems as mysterious as why the others stayed away. This humble cortège took its way to the old burying-ground near Tyburn, and there, on the west side, poor Yorick’s remains were duly consigned to the earth.

More than a year passed away, when, in July, 1769, a strange report got into the papers: “It is rumoured that the body of Mr. Sterne, the ingenious author of Tristram Shandy, which was buried at Marylebone, has been taken up and anatomized by a surgeon at Oxford.” This must have astounded Hall-Stevenson and other jovial Shandeans. It was likely enough to be true. The meanness of his burial, the beggarly account of mourners, was a plain hint to the resurrection-men that here was a subject not likely to be watched or inquired after. The remains were certainly “lifted” and disposed of, like the late Mr. Gamp’s, “for the benefit of science.”

Mr. Edmund Malone, who had much of his friend Boswell’s taste for small gossip, tells us that he had heard that the body was sent to Cambridge, and sold to a surgeon there for dissection. He adds, that a friend of Sterne’s, coming in during the operations, told him that he at once recognized the features. This was the last outrage that poor Yorick could have dreamed of—worse than what befell his own Slawkenbergius, or the sufferers by the famous Tagliacotian operation. Yet there seems little reason for doubting Malone’s account.

There is a third version, which supplies even the name of the anatomist—one Mr. Charles Collignon, B.M. of Trinity, who died in 1785, and who on this occasion had invited some amateur anatomists to see him operate on “a subject” just received from London. After the recognition it was too late to suspend the dissection, which had nearly been completed. It is added that the friend of Mr. Sterne fainted away.