THE old mansions of nobles and gentlemen in Grosvenor Street, Brook Street, Hill Street, Cavendish Square and Portman Square are generally of a fine and dignified pattern. There is an imposing air about the halls. The staircase is laid out in a noble style. The reception rooms are grand, and disposed in an original way, a surprise to us who are accustomed to the modern pattern of “front and back drawingrooms.”

Some of these old mansions offer a pleasing study, and excite admiration from their good effect. The Burlington Hotel has lately added to its premises a couple of old and stately mansions of this grand pattern. The decoration is the most interesting feature, consisting of garlands and panelling, wrought in a sort of massive stucco and laid profusely on the walls, with a rich but heavy effect—“surfaces,” as they are called, of the boldest pattern. Everywhere are medallions and flowers.

Close by was a more interesting pile which for years many passed by without even a look of curiosity. This was a large building at the bottom of Old Burlington Street, apparently a factory or warehouse. “Few persons living,” says an agreeable reminiscent, writing in February, 1887, “can recollect the old Western Exchange, which in 1820 was one of the sights of London. It ran parallel with the Burlington Arcade, the entrance being from 10, Old Bond Street, to which house it is still attached, and was at one time the grand banqueting hall. This hall is 170 feet by 105 feet, is very lofty, and has spacious galleries all round, supported by handsome Doric columns, highly decorated. There are numerous ante-rooms covering a large space of ground at the rear of several houses in Old Bond Street, the whole abutting on the Burlington Arcade, to which at one time there was an entrance. Its existence dates back to about the end of the sixteenth century, when the northern part of the street ended here. New Bond Street was then an open field known as Conduit Mead, named from one of the conduits which supplied this part of London with water.

“In 1820 this place was converted into a bazaar, known, as already stated, as the Western Exchange. Though a fashionable resort before dinner of the idle and well-to-do, it did not last many years. Since then it has had a chequered existence, being occupied by commercial firms for various purposes. It is now about to be demolished, to erect on its site ‘commanding premises’ for a West-end firm of coach-builders, and thus one more of the few old London houses with a history will soon have disappeared.”

In various streets of the neighbourhood are to be found some fine, well-preserved houses of excellent pattern. In Clifford Street there is an ironmonger, or dealer in chimney-pieces, and as we enter his “store” we are surprised to find ourselves in one of the handsome architectural halls of the old days. Low, but richly adorned, columns, fluted, and with Corinthian capitals, support the ceiling, which is as richly worked with panels and devices. On the left a stair rises, in very short flights of half a dozen steps, between two of the columns, and the balustrades are quite monumental in their solidity. All is as stout and solid as it was a century and a half ago, when no doubt it was constructed. Such a sight as this is a pleasing surprise to the traveller in London.

Many will recall the fine old “Kensington House,” a long, tall, high-roofed building of many windows, which stood behind a low wall in that suburb. It was ever interesting to pass by, for one thought of Louise de Querouaille, Duchess of Portsmouth, who lived there; of the French school held there after the Revolution by the Prince de Broglie as principal, to whom King Charles X. was pupil; and of Mrs. Inchbald, who lived here when it was a boarding-house. It was a pity to lose so fine a mansion, and with such gardens behind.

In 1872 this and another fine old house, with wings, were levelled to make way for Baron Grant’s imposing but ugly palace, and a space of seven acres was cleared. Many will recall the gigantic green lattice work reared at each side to fence out the adjoining houses. The edifice and grounds cost close upon £300,000, equivalent to a rental of £15,000 a year. By the time it was completed its owner was ruined, and he never lived in it.[15]

In some of the old-fashioned streets in Westminster we find noblemen’s or gentlemen’s houses disposed inside after a pattern which might be commended to the study and imitation of our modern architects. Not long since we were in a house in Park Place, whose interior seemed strikingly original and elegant. The staircase was in a sort of well, and the drawing-room landing took the shape of a kind of balustraded gallery, whence you could look down on the company ascending. The drawing-room had a piquant window, whence there was a view of the stairs. Though this was a small house there was a general tone of spaciousness. There are modest houses in the little streets leading out of the Strand which display the same elegance of arrangement.

One of the most pleasing, or quaint, survivals is a little tranquil corner in Westminster known as “Queen Anne’s Square,” or Gate. A very few years ago this might have altogether escaped the town traveller, so abandoned was it; but now it has come into fashion; the great “Mansions” tower over it, the ground is coveted, and is increasing in value every hour. Here are some houses of a truly antique pattern, high-roofed, with broad eaves, dormer windows, and, finally, some seven or eight doorways all of the same pattern, carved elaborately, each taking the shape of a sort of projecting canopy with pendent bosses. The whole is in perfect keeping, and is after one design—pillars, door-case, and railing. The effect is charming, and elaborate as the doorways are, the workmanship is so sound that they are in admirable condition, and have stood wind and weather for a couple of centuries. The artistic visitor will note the beautiful proportion of the pilasters, the due and effective breadth of the mouldings, while even the railings—simple and in such contrast to the pretentious and modern railings—are in keeping. In the corner of the square is the statue of Queen Anne. But already the refashioning has set in; stories are being added, the dormers swept away, and presently the houses will be modernized and rebuilt, the doorways coveted by the dealers, or disposed of for a good price in Wardour Street. One of the quaint oddities of the place is the grotesque faces which dot the walls, each different.

Within a couple of doors of the Adelphi Theatre are to be seen two houses, “quaint and old,” belonging to the Charles II. era—one said to have been the house of Drayton the poet—carved and original. I suppose few who pass hurriedly by, observe them. The old houses in London, of great pretensions to beauty, are very few. Of course there are a goodly number of simply antique mansions.

In James Street, and looking on the Wellington Barracks, is a quaint old Queen Anne house, extremely simple in treatment, but original. It is well worth looking at from its cheerful, gay brickwork, and the arrangement of the windows, disposed irregularly. It has quite the suburban or Richmond-like air, and ought to be on a common. Indeed, there is a quaint air of old fashion about this James Street rarely found in a London street.

Perhaps a gem of a house, as it might be called, is the one in Great Queen Street—No. 56, which was before alluded to. It consists of a most original, red-brick front, with pilasters adorned with rich and even elegant Corinthian capitals; above runs a no less rich cornice, while some piquant dormer windows give point and emphasis. Happily it has fallen into the hands of a worthy firm who deserve credit for having maintained it in its old perfect shape; but the necessities of trade have entailed the “excavation” of the lower storey, which of course destroys the effect. Still, as it is, this charming relic—the tradition runs that it was the work of Inigo Jones—is ever welcome to the passer-by, from the rich warm, mellow tint of its brick—its “closeness,” the whole being as smooth as a billiard table—and the general soundness of the work. This must have been built two centuries ago. What house of our day will stand for half a century, even with abundant renewings and repairs?

Two of the most beautiful and elaborate Old London houses are those to be found side by side at the end of Mortimer Street, out of Regent Street. There is a grace and richness in the carvings and general design which suggest some of the old Flemish houses in Antwerp and Bruges. Very few, I fancy, have ever noted this piece of architectural embroidery, which is as solid as it is interesting.

But it is melancholy to think of all that has been swept away, even recently. Forgotten now is the so-called Shakespeare Tavern, that stood a few years ago in Aldersgate Street, an extraordinarily picturesque specimen of the framed house, richly carved, overhanging the street, all gables and bows, a wonderfully effective example of the old wooden structures. In a short time we shall be looking for such things in vain, and have only pictures and photographs to remind us of them. Further down, on the opposite side of the street, stood, at the same period, that curious specimen of a nobleman’s town mansion, Shaftesbury House, with its huge stone pilasters and rambling faÇade. This also is levelled. It is something, however, to have seen these things. Nor must I forget a welcome surprise, or “treat” as an enthusiast would put it, in the way of old houses, which occurred many years ago, when it was announced in the papers that there was a special old house in the City, in Leadenhall Street, on the eve of being pulled down, and which every connoisseur ought to see before its destruction. I repaired thither with the rest, and was more than gratified, for a more instructive or effective survival could not be imagined. It was an old mansion of a thriving merchant in the days of Queen Anne. Outside it was gloomy, with an archway, under which you entered into a courtyard, round which spread the houses and offices. The front was clearly devoted to the business of the office; in the dwelling, just behind, the merchant and his family resided. But in what state! and what evidence of wealth and taste! There was a noble staircase with ponderous balustrades; the walls and ceilings were painted in allegorical devices—gods and goddesses and clouds; rooms all panelled in oak with carved cornices—such was the spectacle! This was the fashion of the day, the combination of business with opulence. The merchant had not then his box in the country, to which he repaired at evening, but lived in the town. Here was a glimpse of the old City—state and trade commingled—merchant and family and clerks and wares all under the same roof. In a few days the pickaxes were busy on the paintings!

So lately as December, 1877, an action was brought by the owner of the Sir Paul Pindar Tavern in Bishopsgate Street to restrain the neighbouring hospital from pulling down the adjoining old house. The two houses were said to be to some extent framed together, so that parts of the rooms of one would be immediately above or below the rooms of the other. The two had probably formed originally one house. The buildings were old and interesting, and the plaintiff deposed that he attributed much of the value of the good-will “to the antique and quaint appearance of his house.” It appeared that the one house was separated from the other by a timber-framed partition, and that a portion of this had been removed to enable the South Kensington authorities to get some large and handsome ceilings. Already Sir Paul Pindar’s house leans ominously, as though the foundations were giving way. This elegant old mansion might be placed in a museum, so profuse and delicate are the carvings and carved panellings. Mr. Birch tells us it was built about the year 1650, the owner being a wealthy merchant, who gave a sum of £10,000 to old St. Paul’s Church. The ceilings of the two rooms are exceedingly rich, one representing, in flat relief, the sacrifice of Isaac, the other being divided into geometrical patterns. What will become of this work when the old building has to be taken down?

Mr. Birch notes with much praise the fine old mansions of St. Helen’s, their fine design and material, of “cut brick.” The date 1646 is on one of the pilasters. He thinks—and is probably right—that it is the work of Inigo Jones, who was employed on the church, where some of the screens and also the doorways are of his design. In No. 9 is to be seen a good fire-place. To the same architect also, Mr. Birch attributes “a very noble chimney-piece” in the house No. 25, Bishopsgate Street—Crosby Hall Chambers. It is a duty of rather mixed experience, the hunting up these relics, and the request to be admitted to see a room or hall upstairs is sometimes received suspiciously, but often enough very cordially. In some cases the City mind cannot understand the taste that prompts such inquiries. But on the whole there is a courtesy and cordiality of reception which is gratifying, the owner seeming flattered that his property should attract the notice of the curious. Mr. Birch, always a sympathetic observer, describes an old chamber in the Ward Schools of St. Botolph, Billingsgate, as a perfect gem, with its fine oak panels running round, in each panel an excellent painting in chiaro oscuro. Another imposing chamber is that one at Islington where the Directors of the New River Company meet, with its fine ceiling wrought with an oval in Inigo Jones’s manner. But in truth there is an abundance of these old apartments in London, stately, dignified, but comparatively unknown and difficult to find.

In Hanover Square and George Street there is quite a Dutch tone, as any one will see who pauses and glances from one house to the other. Removing the shops, in imagination, as well as the plaster with which the old brickwork has been encrusted, and peopling them with fine company, carriages waiting at the door, we can see what the old pattern was. Many are rich in pilasters and cornices, and it will be noted that most of the windows are slightly arched. They are, in fact, of the same pattern as some of the stately mansions in Grosvenor Square inhabited by the “nobility and gentry,” and would have the same effect if occupied by such tenants. A curious and elaborately adorned house stands on the right of the church—the fashionable St. George’s.

To an artistic eye one of the pleasantest sights is an old-fashioned mansion standing in its garden, with an elegant gate of twisted iron, monograms, and a gilt helmet, it may be, interlaced, with sinuous leaves gracefully bent. Through its openings we see the straight flagged walk leading to the fan-shaped steps, with the smooth flowing rail of hammered iron, opening out in a graceful curve. The doorway is tall and narrow, with an overhanging cornice. The windows exhibit a feeling of design and balance. There are the high, the solidly imperishable carved eaves which no damp can penetrate. The whole has an air of grace; it suits its garden, and its garden suits it. Out at Clapton, nearly opposite to the Salvationist Barracks, is a house of this pattern; pleasing, if only as a survival of the well-designed suburban house, and which will well repay a walk. It is now a ladies’ school.

The larger mansions in London, which answer to noblemen’s “hÔtels” in Paris, are few, and are not very imposing of their class. Of this grand and pretentious kind there are barely half a dozen. The old Northumberland House, with its well-known lion—now levelled—was perhaps the only one with historical associations. The Brothers Adam, who have done so much for the metropolis, do not seem to have been sufficiently appreciated in this line. Their work is found abundantly in the country and suburbs, in houses of “noblemen and gentlemen.” The speculator is ever casting hungry glances at these tempting morsels. One of the finest of these mansions, so interesting from its associations, was Chesterfield House, with its graceful faÇade, flanked by colonnades joining the two wings, its harmonious yet unpretending combination of spacious rooms and fine staircase. Of late years this mansion passed through all the vicissitudes of a “letting house,” and was finally disposed of to a wealthy magnate who is said to have shown much ability and skill in “exploiting” his purchase. In the gardens a row of magnificent mansions, stables, etc. was reared. The ground covered by the wings was also built over, and the house, shorn of its charming colonnades, now disposed against the blank brick walls at right angles to the main building, serves as a residence for the proprietor himself. It was whispered that this clever arrangement of the purchase had recouped the whole outlay, and that the mansion is now rent free. The room where, as the tradition runs, Johnson waited, is now lit with the electric light!

Devonshire House, whose gloomy and rather dilapidated wall is familiar to all who pass through Piccadilly, is “a neat, plain, well-proportioned brick building,” a description that well suits its unpretending merits. There is also Lansdowne House adjoining, on the north, which has a large expanse of garden and grounds. It is one of the earliest works of the Brothers Adam, and after their favourite pattern, a central block with a pediment and four columns, two lower wings adhering, as it were, to it. It is said that the reception apartments when thrown open for festivities will hold a larger number of guests than any other London house. It has its grand gallery, one hundred feet long, with a famous collection of statues and pictures. Perhaps, says a certain guide book, in an amusingly odd criticism, “there is no other collection in which the human countenance appears with such glorious attributes of mental expression and artistic execution.” It may be said, however, that this at least applies admirably to the famous Reynolds portrait of Sterne, with its very original attitude and Voltairean glance. The Duke of Westminster’s mansion in Upper Grosvenor Street had probably originally one of those dismal walls which excited Sir W. Chambers’s reprobation. There is now in front a striking, open colonnade, or “columniated screen,” as the architects call it, with two gateways, probably suggested by that in front of old Carlton House. Through this is seen the rather ordinary mansion itself, which somehow suggests an “hÔtel” in the faubourg. Facing the park are the gardens, which have been curtailed by the erection of a somewhat ponderous gallery to hold the pictures. Here is one of the most famous London collections, with ten Claudes, eleven Rubenses, and seven Rembrandts, and over one hundred works by masters of the first and second rank. This is the remarkable feature in the case of these noble London mansions, viz., the curiosities of the picture gallery or art collection, suggesting the show palaces at Rome and Genoa. A sad specimen of failure, after abundant promise and lavish outlay, is offered by Apsley House. This was an old brick house which the Iron Duke purchased for nearly £10,000, and proceeded to patch and remodel, with the most unprofitable result. There are many stories of his dissatisfaction and disappointment at the result, and of the costly shifts to which he and his architect, Wyatt, were led to resort to. It was admitted that it would have been better and cheaper to have reared an entirely new edifice. Here is a gallery and many choice works of art, the most interesting of which is Canova’s colossal statue of Napoleon—the first object which greets the visitor.

Few would imagine that in that fast-decaying city, Dublin, are to be found some of the finest and most architectural specimens of the nobleman’s house. It is pitiable to see these stately piles falling into ruin, or turned to baser and, at least, unsuitable uses. There are some half a dozen still remaining, worthy of admiration from their beautiful proportion, noble and spacious apartments, and exquisite stucco. The Duke of Leinster’s in Merrion Square is now occupied by the Royal Dublin Society. Another, in William Street, belongs to a commercial firm; Lord Alborough’s, a name long associated with Mr. Holloway and the “cure of a bad leg of long standing,” with its private theatre and chapel forming two wings, has become a barrack. Lord Charlemont’s, in Rutland Square, designed by Sir W. Chambers, is a public office. The friezes, ceilings, and other decorative works in these places are truly astonishing and indeed incomparable, and, it is said, a number of Italian artists were brought over specially for the work. Nothing indeed shows the decay of taste so much as the contrast between the older patterns of chimneypiece and the new. Not many years ago there was a sort of bande noire established in Dublin, who bought up all these artistic fittings, with the result that almost every old house in the county was ruthlessly stripped of its adornments, which were taken away to embellish newly-built houses in London. One private gentleman, who was concerned in a building speculation, secured no less than forty or fifty chimney-pieces at one swoop!

An imposing pile of building rises on one side of Piccadilly, between the Arcade and the Albany, whose great archway leads to the most popular of exhibitions, that of the Royal Academy. This pretentious and florid mass is already grey and ancient-looking. Yet not many years back its place was filled by a long, prison-like, well-grimed, and very dead wall, literally blackened with the dirt of a century, and more. In the centre was a huge, massive gateway, that might have opened into Newgate. This forlorn-looking place was old Burlington House, which seemed as though no one ever lived in, or entered it. Few supposed that within there was a building and architectural combination of an original order, which had often excited the admiration of connoisseurs—the work of the dilettante Earl of that name, whose skill is still to be admired in the spacious York Assembly Rooms, for which he furnished designs. In his alterations of his house in Piccadilly there was much pleasing grace. It was of only two stories, which can still be noticed, but they are now groaning under the superimposed third story laid on them by the modern architect. They seem to protest——

Those who about twenty years ago passed by its grim portals might have wondered how this monastic air could have recommended itself to the English nobility, for it was to be noted that all the great houses in London, with an exception or two, preserved this air of hostile and barricaded exclusion. Long ago Sir William Chambers, the architect of Somerset House, after remarking how in Italy and France the gates of palaces are always of open ironwork, so as to allow the house within to be seen, added this pleasant criticism:—

“In London many of our noblemen’s palaces towards the street look like convents; nothing appears but a high wall, with one or two large gates, in which there is a hole for those who choose to go in or out, to creep through: if a coach arrives the wide gate is opened indeed, but this is an operation that requires time. Few in this city suspect that behind an old brick wall in Piccadilly there is one of the finest pieces of architecture in Europe.” Here he alludes to the well-known colonnade, which, on the conversion of the place to its present purposes, was carted away ignominiously to Battersea Park.

It was a happy and original idea of the noble architect’s. For as he looked from the windows of his house, his nice artistic sense was offended by the blank space of the wall in which his gateway was pierced, and he filled it up with this imposing semicircular colonnade, which must have formed a stately and ennobling object for the eye to rest on. Horace Walpole gives this natural account of the surprise produced on its first introduction to him. “I had not only,” he says, “never seen it, but had never heard of it. I was invited to a ball at Burlington House; as I passed under the gate at night, it could not strike me. But at daybreak, looking out of the window to see the sun rise, I was surprised at the vision of the colonnade that fronted me. It seemed one of those edifices in fairy tales that are raised by genii in a night time.” Of another mansion planned by Lord Burlington, but since destroyed, Lord Chesterfield said in his lively way: “That to be sure he could not live in it, but intended to take the house over against it, to look at it.” This was as handsome a compliment as the sarcastic peer could offer. But there were other additions to be supplied to the scene. The house itself was flanked on each side with stately dependences joined to it by corridors, a system of arrangement to which the older architects were partial.

Some forty or fifty years ago, one of the Cavendish family remodelled the house, abolished the gardens, and allowed the familiar Arcade to be cut through them; while not many years ago the final change was made, and the house, purchased by Government, was given over to what may be styled the Artistic and Scientific Societies. The beautiful colonnade was levelled and carried off to Battersea Park, where the stones now lie piled on each other, and are decaying away. The late Mr. Ferguson, an admirable, critical architect, has pointed out the shocking, meagre, treatment that the house has received—the new story being heavier than the one underneath, and the monstrous stone arcade placed in front, as if on purpose to even further shorten the story below. Any unprofessional person can see for himself how discordant is all this, but “the job,” as it may be called, was not done by the architect of the new buildings. “Burlington House, at present, is only remarkable as an example to show how easy it is to destroy even the best buildings by ill-judged additions or alterations; an upper story has been added more solid, with an order taller than that in which it stands, so as utterly to crush what was a piano nobile of the building. The result is, that what a few years ago was one of the most elegant is now one of the very worst architectural examples in the metropolis.”

Another interesting pursuit for the “Traveller in London” is the visiting of old houses where famous persons have lived or died. It is a curious sensation, this, of halting before some cenotaph of this kind, especially when it wears its old habit, and has not been altered. You think how many times they ascended those steps and entered the always open door. There was his room—there his study. In most instances the reflection is, how poor, how mean the tabernacle! Never did this recur with such force as on a visit to Enfield to Charles Lamb’s old house—a poor, stricken little dwelling—one in a mean cluster, so straitened and small, with a little doorway through which you could scarce squeeze. Yet here he gave parties, and lived amid madness and misery. Friends came down from London to see him. The Society of Arts has furnished aid in this direction, and like some Old Mortality goes round London recording, and keeping alive, these memories by fixing pretty, circular tablets on the front of the more notable mansions. This good work is being gradually extended, but it takes time; for it entails negotiation with the proprietors, some of whom are slow to understand what is intended. But, in truth, if one were to diligently search the “lives” and “memoirs,” an enormous list could be made. The American, Mr. L. Hutton, has done this recently, with singular painstaking. The difficulty is, however, that in the last century “numbers” were not in fashion, and people gave generally the name only of the street. Sir H. Wood, the secretary of the Society, has given an account of his pleasant labours, by which it would appear that the complete list of tablets to the present time is as follows:—

James Barry, 36, Castle Street, Oxford Street; Edmund Burke, 37, Gerrard Street, Soho; Lord Byron, 16, Holles Street; George Canning, 37, Conduit Street; John Dryden, 43, Gerrard Street; Michael Faraday, 2, Blandford Street, Portman Square; John Flaxman, 7, Buckingham Street, Fitzroy Square; Benjamin Franklin, 7, Craven Street, Strand; David Garrick, 5, Adelphi Terrace; George Frederick Handel, 25, Brook Street; William Hogarth, 30, Leicester Square; Samuel Johnson, 17, Gough Square, Fleet Street; Napoleon III., 3A, King Street, St. James’s; Lord Nelson, 147, New Bond Street; Sir Isaac Newton, 35, St. Martin’s Street; Peter the Great, 15, Buckingham Street, Strand; Sir Joshua Reynolds, 47, Leicester Square; Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 14, Savile Row; Mrs. Siddons, 27, Upper Baker Street; Sir Robert Walpole, 5, Arlington Street.

We find also—Henry Cavendish, Sir Humphrey Davy, Charles Dickens, Thomas Gainsborough, Count Rumford, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Joseph Mallord William Turner, and Josiah Wedgwood. It is hoped that arrangements may, in most of the above cases, soon be completed. This is not so interesting a list as might be made; many more of greater importance might be added. Sterne, for instance, lodged in Old Bond Street, at a cheesemonger’s, as Mr. Cunningham ascertained; James Boswell in Halfmoon Street and Downing Street; William Penn, in Norfolk Street, Strand. The site, at least, of the Turk’s Head Coffee House, where the Literary Club met, might be easily ascertained. Theodore Hook’s and Charles Lamb’s house, in Colebrooke Row, should certainly be noted.

There is another admirable society especially devoted to cherishing the interest in old London buildings, and which has already worked admirably. This is “The Society for Photographing Relics of Old London,” and which has been excellently directed by Mr. Alfred Marks, of Long Ditton. Already no less than eighty-four pictures have been taken, many of which are already the sole and faithful records of what have been swept away. These are very different from the average photograph, being artistic to a high degree, done in low tones with effective shadow, of large size, and mounted on a bluish grey card, so as to throw out the picture. The list includes—the “Oxford Arms” Inn, Warwick Lane; houses in Wych Street and Drury Lane; Lincoln’s Inn; St. Bartholomew the Great, and adjacent houses in Cloth Fair; Temple Bar; houses in Leadenhall Street; Gray’s Inn Lane; Brewer Street, Soho; the “Sir Paul Pindar;” Staple Inn, Holborn Front; Canonbury Tower; Barnard’s Inn; Christ’s Hospital; Churchyard of St. Laurence Pountney; houses in Great Queen Street and Aldersgate Street; twelve views of the Charterhouse; the Southwark Inns; old houses in the Borough and Bermondsey; St. Mary Overy’s Dock; Sion College; Oxford Market; Little Dean’s Yard; Ashburnham House; Banqueting House, Whitehall; Water Gate, York House; Lincoln’s Inn Fields; Lambeth Palace Gate House, Great Hall, and “Lollards’ Tower”; old house, Palace Yard, Lambeth; old houses, Aldgate; “The Golden Axe,” St. Mary Axe; No. 37, Cheapside; No. 73, Cheapside; old house, Great Ormond Street; old house, Queen Square, Bloomsbury; shop, Macclesfield Street, Soho.

Another old mansion whose loss is to be lamented is that of the Tradescants, in South Lambeth. It had fine old grounds attached, and venerable trees. Indeed, in Lambeth, up to a recent date, there was an abundance of picturesque, heavy-eaved houses, often sketched by the artist. This, of the Tradescants, had been visited by Charles I., Pepys, Atterbury, and others. “On this spot, which until the last few weeks (1881) remained a rare pleasaunce amid bricks and mortar and smoke, were grown the first apricots ever seen in England. These, tradition declared, were stolen from the Dey of Algiers’ garden by John Tradescant, who had joined an expedition against the Barbary pirates. ‘Tradeskins’ Ark’ was a favourite show place of the Londoners, and its contents subsequently became the foundation of the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. In the gardens grew noble trees, which long relieved the dinginess of the decaying neighbourhood. But the axe has been laid at the root of the tall trees. The shrubs have been torn up, the absurd little temples to Flora have fared roughly at the hodman’s hands, and this winter every trace of the ‘Ark’ itself has disappeared.”

Not long ago the public was invited to take farewell of a great merchant’s mansion, declared positively to be the last-surviving specimen of the kind. Vast crowds came accordingly, and visited every portion of this interesting old place, which however was not so imposing or effective as the old destroyed house in Leadenhall Street. I went with the rest. It was situated in the interesting Austin Friars, where you enter from the street under an arch and find yourself in the grounds and inclosure of the old Augustine monastery, now covered with houses, but still laid out in curious winding passages, and not unpicturesque. On the right is the old Dutch Church. “With difficulty,” says an explorer, “we find the old house, which is like a manor house—No. 21—having its steps and garden—waste enough. It could be traced on maps, and had a regular pedigree, from its first possessor, Olmius, a Dutch merchant, in King William’s time, from whom it passed to the French family of Tierrenoult, from them to the Minets—eminent bankers in the days of the First French Empire—and from them to Thomas Le Marchant, whose descendant held it as representative of the firm of Thomas, Son, and Lefevre. From these last holders the present owner, Mr. John Fleming, acquired the property.” It is described as “a large red-brick structure, lined throughout with quaintly carved panels and wainscoting, and its many rooms are capacious, lofty, and comfortable. Entering the old hall through a fine doorway, the merchant’s counting-house is seen to the right, and his morning room and many remains of ware rooms to the left. Below this are capacious cellars, containing mysterious hiding places, and a remarkable vaulted strong room with an iron door. Here, too, was an old stone well, the water of which was used by the present owner until he discovered that there were some human bones at the bottom of it. In the vaulted kitchen there is a veritable old Dutch oven, faced with fantastic blue tiles, representing courtiers caracoling on fat Flanders mares, and the figures alternate with illustrations of tulips and tiger-lilies. Outside are the old red-tiled stables, and brew-house with gabled roof; and these look on part of the Garden of the Mendicants, still containing a gnarled old fig-tree that has at spasmodic intervals borne fruit, but ends its life next week. Returning to the hall we mount a broad staircase with large twisted balustrades and rails, every step of which is ornamented with intricate floral decoration. The panelling was of a rather meagre kind, with small mouldings up a narrow stair, and getting on to the red-tiled roof, with a stone parapet surrounding it, we can see what may be called the scheme of this extraordinary old property. The house is surrounded by other old buildings—all alike sentenced to destruction next Monday morning—and scraps of gardens, and over the way we see the huge modern buildings that now stand on the site of the Drapers’ Gardens, which existed in many a living person’s memory. There was something pathetic in the forlorn look of the whole, particularly of this abandoned bit of City garden, with its broad flight of riveted Purbeck flag steps and old iron handrails approaching it. Lofty, comfortable, highly respectable, and in its true sense ‘snug’ is the dining-room on the first floor, with its many ingeniously-contrived cupboards and good woodwork. The outside displayed the sad-coloured tint of old and grimed brick.” Coming by a day or two later, I found the hoardings already up, and the “breakers” at their work.

Turning out of High Street, Kensington, close by the station, and descending “Wright’s Lane” for a hundred yards or so, we find ourselves before another of these surviving old mansions—Scarsdale House. There is the venerable brick wall running along the road and enclosing a garden as old, while the mansion, with its tiled roof, turns its shoulder to the road and looks toward its fair garden. A pleasing gateway, with piers surmounted by well-carved vases of graceful pattern. Entering we find ourselves in a spacious garden of the old Manor House pattern, a broad walk, with piers halfway down—remains, probably, of a terrace—and at the bottom a sort of ruined pavilion or summer-house; steps lead down from the old doorway into the garden, and the house, with its tiled roof and dormer windows, forms a pleasing background. There is a pleasant air of repose and abandonment over all, and no one would suppose he was in the heart of a busy quarter of London.

Within we find all in keeping. The spacious reception and drawing-rooms are long and lofty, and “walled” with old panelling, heavily moulded, which have not been disfigured with paint or even varnish. The staircase is in short flights, with broad landings, and has fine substantial balusters of oak, with richly-twisted rails. The doorways are black as ebony, and carved elaborately; and an entrance to one of the bedrooms is deeply embayed, and offers an effective union of arched and square doorway combined, supported on carved pillars. There is an abundance of recesses and shadowy places, and the whole has quite a picturesque air. Long may Scarsdale House be spared! though railway companies and speculative builders have the valuable ground in their eyes, and would be glad—the latter, at least—to erect a showy Scarsdale Terrace, or Mansions, “suitable for noblemen, gentlemen, Members of Parliament, or bachelors of position.”

Another interesting house is to be found in a mean street just out of Leicester Square, next Orange Street Chapel, where the great philosopher Newton lived—a poor, whitened, tumbling-down place, that will not hold together long. It is a melancholy spectacle. Some thirty years ago it was a sort of restaurant, dignified by the name of “HÔtel Newton.” Persons before that date recalled the aspect of the house, which appropriately displayed the actual observatory on the top, used regularly, it was said, by the philosopher. A Frenchman who occupied the house, and who carried on the calling of an optician, professed to have many of the philosopher’s instruments, which he offered for sale to the curious in such matters. After he passed away the observatory was removed, amid much lament over such a heathenish sacrifice. It came out, however, that the whole was an imposture; the observatory had been constructed by the Frenchman himself, and the sale of the instruments was akin to the sale of the bits of bronze which professed to be portions of the adjoining statue of Charles I.!

Flaxman’s house is close to that interesting square—so suggestive of Bath—Fitzroy Square. Canning’s house is in Conduit Street, but has been fashioned into a shop. The name, however, does not excite much interest, as we are too near his time; though this objection would not hold in the case of Lord Beaconsfield, whose house in Curzon Street, Mayfair, might be acceptably distinguished by a tablet.