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

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.