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 pointvis-à-visto 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 canappreciate 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, theflèche, 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. Thegeneraldecay 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 throughand 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. Theflèchethat 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 aflèche, 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, therewould 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. Thegrillesand 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 isnotup. 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.
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, seafights, 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 chapelto 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 anamendefor 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 termbravura—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 wonderfultour 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 isbravuraindeed; 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 erectedaccording 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 GeneralHargrave, 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 elaboratetours de forcein 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 seevot 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 theback, 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 arein 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 histwowives, 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 excellentcoup 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 ofmarble 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.
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 acul de sacwith 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
ADELPHI TERRACE
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 twodilettantestrangers 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 archesembedded 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 popularlittérateurand 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 away. 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, andwith 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