ST. JAMES'S PALACE

The old red-brick palace which stands at the foot of St. James's Street, looking up towards the busy throng of Piccadilly, still gives the diplomatic title to the Court of Great Britain, though it has long been neglected by royalty. It stands serene amid the traffic of Pall Mall, having gained with the passing of ages some of that dignity with which it was said to be lacking in the eighteenth century, when Sir John Fielding wrote "it reflects no honour on the kingdom, and is the jest of foreigners." Certainly less romantic in its history than Westminster or Whitehall, it yet remains to-day a Tudor palace, while its more picturesque rivals have crumbled away.

Long before the palace was erected, a small hospital stood upon its site, its inmates being fourteen chaste maidens, victims of the deadly malady of leprosy. The position had been chosen carefully, owing to its extreme loneliness, it being then completely surrounded by fields. In course of time eight brothers had been added to the hospital, which was known as St. James the Less, and the whole property had been granted by Henry VI. to his new foundation, Eton College. When Henry VIII. took possession of Wolsey's palace in Whitehall, he purchased the hospital and all the green fields round it, in order to obtain a park for his new residence. One is glad to learn that the unfortunate leprous maidens were pensioned off for the rest of their lives.

King Henry immediately set to work to build a sort of country manor-house for himself, surrounding the park with a brick wall, and at the same time draining it, for originally it was a somewhat dreary marsh. It is said that Holbein, the artist, drew up the plans for the palace, which were carried out by Thomas Cromwell, Wolsey's secretary, who rose in Henry's favour upon his master's fall. But whoever was the architect, the palace is essentially Tudor, and remains so in spite of the various additions made by the later monarchs. The gatehouse, with its four octagon towers and its clock, is the most familiar feature of the palace. Unfortunately, from a sentimental point of view, the clock is a new one; an older one, bearing the date 1731, was removed in 1831, and is now at Hampton Court Palace. Perhaps the most interesting part of the interior is the Old Presence Chamber, now known as the Tapestry Room, from the fine tapestry representing Venus and Mars, which had been made for Charles I., but had been put away in a chest and apparently forgotten, till it was discovered and hung up for the wedding of George IV. The stone Tudor fireplace in this room bears the initials H. and A. for Henry and Anne Boleyn, united most inappropriately, considering their later history, by a true lover's knot.

In spite of Henry's early enthusiasm, he was not often at the palace, which, indeed, was seldom used for any length of time, till after the fire at Whitehall, and even then Kensington Palace was preferred. It was more usually occupied by the heir to the throne, or some of the younger members of the royal family. Unhappy Queen Mary, soured by her early misfortunes, neglected by her husband, and despairing of the restoration of her Church, died after a weary illness on November 17, 1558, in the palace which she had always loved. Her successors did not reside there, Queen Elizabeth only coming for brief periods, and James I. giving it to his son, Prince Henry, who died there of a malignant fever, imputed, as was customary at that time, to poison.

On the death of his brother, Charles I., as Prince of Wales, took up his residence in St. James's Palace, spending the early years of his married life there, most of his children being born within its walls. Associated with the hopeful time of his young manhood, the palace also recalls his last days upon earth, before the final scene at Whitehall. Arriving on January 19, 1649, Charles spent the remainder of his life there, with the exception of the few days of his trial when he was lodged in the precincts of the old palace of Westminster. However much we may denounce the method by which Charles attempted to govern his kingdom, we can accord him nothing but a respectful and sympathetic admiration for the manner in which he passed to his death. He was still a young and vigorous man, to whom life must have held much that was good, and yet he left it with no whinings at fate, but with a calm dignity and full of trust in God. The day before his execution his two young children, Princess Elizabeth and the Duke of Gloucester, came to say farewell. Holding the little Princess in his arms, he told her she must not grieve for him, for he was going to die a glorious death, "for the laws and religion of the land." With the Duke of Gloucester on his knee, the father told the children to love and obey their mother, and then looking sadly at his little daughter he said, "But, sweetheart, thou wilt forget what I tell thee." The child promised to write down what he had told her, and then, after they had received some jewels and a last kiss from their royal father, they were led away by Bishop Juxon.

Waking early on the fateful morning, the King roused his faithful attendant, Sir Thomas Herbert, saying that he would get up, "having a great work to do this day." Bishop Juxon came and administered the Sacrament, after which Charles was persuaded to take a little food, as the day was so bitterly cold. A few hours later the dread sentence had been fulfilled; but St. James's Palace was to witness one more scene, for the body was brought back on February 1, remaining there for many people to see it. A story, unsupported by evidence, though we would gladly give it credence, runs that a man, hidden in a cloak, visited the coffin, and as he walked round it was heard to mutter, "Dreadful necessity"—the man being said to be Oliver Cromwell.

After the Restoration, Charles II. did not reside in the palace, but lent it to his brother, the Duke of York, afterwards James II., who maintained a lesser Court there, while remaining in perfect amity with his royal brother. King Charles took a tremendous interest in the park, which he altered under the superintendance of Le NÔtre, the famous French gardener, changing it from mere rural simplicity into long straight avenues, and confining the water of various ponds into one formal canal. Bird-cage Walk owes its name to the aviary which was created at this time in part of the park. Much of the popularity which the Merry Monarch enjoyed was the way in which he wandered about among the public, unattended by the courtiers. He was often to be seen walking about with his dogs in the park, which had been made public eight years after he had come to the throne. James, Duke of York, once ventured to suggest greater caution, but Charles, with sly humour, replied: "Brother James, take care of yourself, for no one would kill me to make you King!"

On his accession, James II. left St. James's for Whitehall, though his Queen much preferred the palace in which she had lived as the Duchess of York. His only son, the unfortunate Old Pretender, was born in St. James's in a room whose proximity to some back stairs allowed ground for the absurd belief that the child was smuggled into the palace in a warming pan. Bitter disappointment at the prospect of the continuance of the Roman Catholic dynasty was responsible for the story.

From this time St. James's was never very popular. When William of Orange had driven away his father-in-law, he allowed the Princess Anne to reside in the palace, he himself retiring to Kensington, which he built for his own use. The succeeding monarchs all delighted in the rural charms of Kensington, and only came to St. James's when State ceremonies rendered their presence absolutely necessary.

Since the fire in 1809, which destroyed a very picturesque part of the palace, no monarch has resided there, though the proclamation of the succession to the throne is still announced from the balcony leading from the Tapestry Room.