CHAPTER XVI.OLD SQUARES.

Lie heavy on him, earth, for heLaid many a heavy load on thee.

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 streetlook 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 helooked 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 apiano nobileof 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, howmean 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 thisinteresting 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 sucha 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.

THE old, smaller squares in London are very interesting from their tranquil, retired air and antique pattern, and venerable trees. None is more characteristic than Queen Square in Bloomsbury, with its pleasant Queen Anne and Georgian houses running round. Most of these inclosures were laid out originally after the Dutch manner, which is still apparent. It must be a curious solitary sensation to live in one of these retreats, and they are affected by students and literary men. Old fashion, indeed, reigns in Queen Square, though now they have pulled down some of the houses to rear hospitals. The houses have a pleasant, tranquil air, though within they are gloomy enough. Everyone knows the curious half solemnity, half chill, inspired by an old Queen Anne house, such as one has experienced in Church Row, Hampstead. Here, you would think you were miles away from town, in some sleepy suburb. At the upper end lived Dr. Charles Burney—the father of the brilliant Fanny Burney—in a house which had been inhabited by Alderman Barber, and to which Swift was accustomed to resort. This house, I fancy, was one of those recently pulled down to give place to the hospital. In this worthy mansion one has the interest that one takes in all connected with Johnson.

Not far away is another antique square, very old-fashioned, and with good houses, Red Lion Square. The inclosures of both these places have more the air of “grounds” than of the prim and trim modern square. There is a certain wildness, and the grass grows carelessly. But it is now completely invaded by business, and every house is subdivided into offices. Curious little foot-alleys lead into it from various quarters.

Another interesting little square is the one yclept Golden. Many a Londoner scarcely knows of its existence, and many more have never seen it; yet it is within a stone’s throw of Regent Street. It is prettily proportioned, the grass flourishing with extraordinary greenness, and in the centre rises an effective statue. Not so many years ago private persons of high respectability lived here, among others Cardinal Wiseman. Now it is entirelygiven over to commercial offices, and has a busy air in consequence. It would seem strange now to look for any person of condition residing here. Some of the most forlorn and dismal places are those curious squares found in the long roads that lead out of London. There is one such near the Old Kent Road, built in a pretentious style and now utterly gone to seed and decay. All the doorways, of a curious pattern, are the same, so are all the windows. No one walks there, no custom appears to visit it. It seems one mass of abandonment and we hurry away depressed. Soho Square is really quaint and interesting: it is in a sound and flourishing condition; and so full of interest, that a small book has been written on its history. Nothing is more pleasing than the sudden glimpse that is obtained of it from Oxford Street, or from Dean Street, its fine old trees spreading out umbrageously. The old houses have a quaint, solid air, notably those at the corners. Still flourishes the old Soho Bazaar at one corner, a visit to which in days gone by was thought a treat and a wonder for children. The houses, with the streets surrounding, are valuable as suggesting how old London of a hundred and fifty years back must have looked. It can have been little altered, and though shops have been opened in many of the lower stories, these have in many instances retained their old parlour shape. One is struck by the handsome quality of the mansions, the sound, solid doors, and the “detached” character of each house; that is, each was finished by itself, and not built in “rows.” A long blank wall pierced with windows, now a chapel, was formerly Mrs. Cornely’s Ridotto Rooms. On the same side of Soho Square we may note a singularly handsome house, architectural in its bold pilasters and cornices, and the cheerful red of its brick, which suggest that famous old Inigo Jones’s house in Great Queen Street. This imposing-looking edifice belongs to the flourishing firm of Crosse and Blackwell, who have taken pains to keep it in sound condition, and have fitted up one of the handsome old chambers as a sort of baronial hall, with oaken panellings and ornamental chimney. Wardour Street is suspiciously close at hand, but the spirit that prompted the work was good. Some of the houses display curious devices—faces, roses, and fleur-de-lys. Close by, in Oxford Street, we find the wine-famed Messrs. Gilbey in occupation of a rather stately building with a heavy porch and architectural front. It is long forgotten now that this was erst the Pantheon, originally one of the most beautiful buildings ever erected in London, as we can learn from the fine series of engraved plates published in its heyday. The interior was burnt early in the century, and it was reconstructed, but not with the same magnificence. It has a curious history therefore—being used as an opera house, and a place of entertainment for assemblies. A well-known man of fashion in Sheridan’s days, Colonel Greville, was much concerned with its fortunes.

Indeed, a history of the London squares would have extraordinary interestand romance, and there are many odd details associated with them. Who knows, for instance, that the eminently grave and respectable mansions round Russell Square were actually built out of the square itself?—the bricks being obtained from an immense pit dug in the centre, which still lies in a hollow. The air of Portman Square used to have a reputation for extreme salubrity and mildness, and Mrs. Montagu—who lived in one of the corner houses, and entertained her chimney sweeps there—used to declare that “it was the Montpelier of England.” One of the most genuine and truly old-fashioned squares is Berkeley Square—where the trees are ancient, their branches spreading away close to the ground. The grass seems extra rich and green, as though long laid down. Of a sunny day there is a most picturesque effect from the shade cast on the grass by the branches. We seem to be straying in some old park, and there is a tranquil, retired air. These little effects are overlooked by the incurious sojourners in town. Belgrave Square dates from only the year 1825, and was the work of the Messrs. Cubitt, the houses being designed by an Italian. Hanover Square, and George Street adjoining, is certainly one of the most notable and characteristic portions of London, for its almost picturesque old houses. These are in fine condition, but so familiar is the locality that few will perhaps have taken note of them. The square and street date from the time of George I., and, it is stated, “exhibit many examples of the German style of architecture in private houses.” Indeed, we have only to pause before some of the houses at the upper end of George Street to see the truth of this. Within there are fine specimens of staircases and panellings. “The view down George Street, from the upper end of the square, is one of the most interesting in the whole city; the sides of the square, the area in the middle, the breaks of building that form the entrance of the vista, the vista itself, but above all, the beautiful projection of the portico of St. George’s Church, are all circumstances that unite in beauty, and render the scene perfect.” Mr. Malton says, “This view has more the air of an Italian scene than any other in London.” Harewood House, on the north side of the square, was built for the late Duke of Roxburghe, but purchased by Lord Harewood: it was designed, as can be seen at the first glance, by the Adams. These tall houses of George Street, with their bright cheerful tint, their long windows, have within fine spacious staircases of infinite variety, walls handsomely panelled and richly decorated, and, above all, fine ceilings elaborately wrought in good old stucco work. In some of the houses the drawing-room walls are set off with medallions in low relief of the Wedgwood pattern. This old stucco work is now a lost and beautiful art. Mr. Aitcheson, the accomplished architect, has recently explained its true principles, which are totally at variance with the modern system. One of

BERKELEY SQUARE.

the most attractive of the houses here is the Arts Club—a fine, interesting specimen, with rather florid ceilings exhibiting very delicate work, fine inlaid marble chimney-pieces, and a “flowing” staircase. Though a small mansion, it offers that curious air of spaciousness which arises from the sense of proportion being duly felt and carried out.

While wandering through the immediate district of Hanover Square, where the same school of architects seems to have inspired the work, I came on a house of pretension which many an explorer would overlook, and which has certainly escaped the notice of the careless wanderer. At the top of Old Burlington Street is a large mansion, a centre block and two wings, which now does duty as two or three distinct establishments. One wing forms the entrance and hall, with a circular stair built into a sort of rotunda, from which open richly-carved doors and doorways. The other wing is pierced by a long tunnel which leads by a kind of alley to St. George’s Church. The centre block is given over to a house agent. Here too is abundance of mouldings and decorations, with a monumental fireplace, over which is a sort of panelled chimney-piece. This contrast with the practical uses for which the place serves is curious. Behind is a large building or hall which can scarcely be made out from the street, so built in is it. This is now known as the Burlington Hall, and used as a Young Men’s Association. This place, with all its dependences, must date from the middle of last century.

Portman and Cavendish Squares offer a great variety of mansions, well built and well designed—such specimens of the interiors as I have seen are remarkable for their noble stone staircases, florid ironwork railings, and heavily panelled walls. The beautiful solid work with which noblemen and gentlemen used to adorn their mansions can be well illustrated by a casual instance which lately came under my notice. A gentleman who was fitting up his West End house was informed by his builders that a mansion was being pulled down in Grosvenor Street, I think, and that some of the fittings could be secured for the usual “old song.” Among these were a set of massive mahogany doors—portes battantes—of the finest description, the mouldings being set off with richly gilt brass.

St. James’s Square has a cheerful dignity of its own: one of the most dramatic incidents of the century took place in one of the houses. When the issue of the battle of Waterloo was unknown, a wealthy Mrs. Boehm was giving a grand ball, at which the Regent was present. All the rank and fashion of London were there, the windows lit up and open, for the night was sultry; the crowd gathered thickly, looking up at the festivity and the clustered figures. It was after midnight, when a roar came from the distant streets, which increased and swelled, and was borne into the room. The dancing stopped, and those looking on witnessed an indescribable scene of tumult andjoy. A chaise and four approached—flags projecting from the windows: an officer, Major Percy, leaped out, carrying his flags, rushed upstairs, and coming up straight to the Prince, knelt on one knee and announced the great victory. Poor Mrs. Boehm’s ball was ruined, for the Prince and everyone departed instantly. But the scene rises before us on some of the summer nights when festivity is going on in the square.[16]

How very few “West-enders” have penetrated so far as Fitzroy Square, which, though close to Tottenham Court Road, is somewhat difficult to find. There is an attraction in its stately façades, one side of which is the work of the Brothers Adam, and has quite the flavour of Bath. Another side was designed by an inferior artist; while the remaining ones are in the ordinary style. Anyone who would wish to feel thoroughly “old-fashioned” should come and live here. Not many years ago, before the era of studio building set in, it was much affected as a haunt of artists; but now it offers a curious “running to seed” air. It is, however, well worth a visit, and a person of taste, by contrasting the two sides, will see how skilfully a true architect can lay out a pile of buildings.

MANSION IN CAVENDISH SQUARE.

OLD inns in London may perhaps owe their repute to the share they have in the scenery of Pickwick and Nickleby. The London inns and inn-yards, still used as houses of entertainment, are among the last few survivals which link us to the antique customs of old London. These are now being swept away with a pitiless rapidity, and in a dozen years more not one will be left. The enormous, sheltering, tiled roofs, the galleries, balustrades, crannies, winding stairs, joined to make these singular structures picturesque, with their lights and shadows, suggestive of the buildings in an old Normandy town. The strange part is that these hostelries seem to do business up to the moment of their extinction; and even when that occurs, the traffic is transferred to a parasite public-house bearing the same name. In most cases, however, the tradition of its being a halt or starting place for carriers and country waggons is maintained, as the great railway companies have seized on many to serve as their goods depots. Hence we find the Bricklayers’ Arms and such places, from under whose archways now rumble forth the Pickford vans, instead of the favourite “Mouldy’s Iron Devil,” the six or eight-horse waggon of our grandsires. The old inns were frail and precarious structures; and it is a marvel that they should have survived so long, the vast expanse of tiled roof being warped and bent in eddying waves, while the crazy stairs and galleries of ancient wood were rotten with age. Many of the Dickens inns were in the City, notably the one in which Mr. Squeers put up when he used to repair to London to collect victims for his school. Mr. Squeers’s house, with many other curious places, was swept away when Snow Hill was abolished, and the Holborn Viaduct carried through to Newgate Street.

Two picturesque specimens—the “Old Tabard,” in the Borough, and the “Warwick Arms,” close to Paternoster Row, would have found admirers in Nuremberg or Rouen. The latter was a remarkable specimen from its size and elaborateness, with its huge roof, rambling galleries and crannies, cavernous dark shadows, and general air of mystery. The tiledroofs of these buildings seemed to grow bent and warped from age and weakness, and fall into those wavings and twists which form an element of the picturesque. The wood of the balustrades grew black and grimed; it was strange that what appeared so crazy should have held together so long. The “Tabard,” though it did not date from Chaucer’s day, as many innocently fancied, was a genuine structure of the seventeenth century. The wonder, in truth, is that any of these fragile structures should still be in existence. Perhaps the most remarkable and most interesting of the old inn-yards was that of the “Four Swans,” which stood till some eight or ten years ago in Bishopsgate Street. This was considered the most perfect and best preserved of all, having more galleries, and having been the scene of a stirring adventure during the Roundhead and Cavalier wars. Its neighbour, the “Green Dragon,” was levelled about the same time. What a pleasing twang, it may be said, is there about the titles of these hostelries, which contrast with the more prosaic designations of latter-day life!

Of these old inns, with their yards and galleries, there are but two or three in which the business of entertainment is still carried on. There is the old “Bell Inn,” a grimed, caked, red-brick, ancient building, with its sign of the Bell, a china shop in front, and an archway according to the old pattern. Entering, there is the true old-world flavour—the galleries, the tumble-down stairs fashioned of wood-panelling with projecting eaves, the files of bells outside, the kitchen to the left as in a foreign hotel, strange little rickety stairsteps as from the cabin of a ship, with also the occasional appearance of a figure in one of the galleries. The inn life here, from these arrangements, is certain to correspond—every one is, as it were, in evidence. You can hardly dream of the noisy Holborn just outside. It is very different in the regular hostelries, where everything is at the top of the house or at the bottom, not, as here, all round about it. London has many of these quaint surprises to those who wish to see them. Here is to be seen the low arch, under which the coaches and waggons drove into the inn-yard, with its galleries running round, from which chambermaids looked down or called to those below. Even now it seems a strange order of things and a quaint arrangement, and you wonder how business is carried on at such places.

It is, however, when we cross London Bridge and enter the Borough that we come to the region of inn-yards. Here began the road to Canterbury, and here, in the old times, the waggons and coaches arrived with their goods and passengers; and we are at once struck with the innumerable yards and small inclosures into which these vehicles used to drive. There were a large number of these inns, most of which remain in some shape, surviving at least as public-houses. There were the old “King’s Head,” the old “White Hart,” the new “White Hart,” the “Old George,” the “Queen’s Head,” the “Nag’s Head,” and the “Spur.” Few only of the old patternremain, and their days, or hours in one case, are certainly numbered. The first is the old “King’s Head,” of which a fragment—some thirty or forty yards long—still stands all ruinous and forlorn, with its two ancient galleries or balustrades in a sadly tottering state, its anatomy exposed in a heartless fashion at each end. One could be sentimental and mournful over it. It is surrounded by new spick and span brickwork, and a new “King’s Head” insolently confronts it and seems to flourish.

THE WHITE HART.

“In the Borough,” says the author of “Pickwick,” “there still remain some half-a-dozen old inns which have preserved their external features unchanged. Great, rambling, queer old places they are, with galleries and passages and staircases, wide enough and antiquated enough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories. It was in the yard of one of these inns—of no less celebrated a one than the ‘White Hart,’ that a man was employed in brushing the dirt off a pair of boots:” the introduction as theworld knows, of Mr. Pickwick to the immortal Samuel Weller. The yard is then described: “It presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usual characteristics of a large coach inn. Three or four lumbering waggons, each with a pile of goods beneath its ample canopy about the height of a second-floor window of an ordinary house, were stowed away beneath a lofting which extended over one end of the yard; and another, which was to commence its journey in the morning, was drawn out into an open space. A double tier of bedroom galleries with old clumsy balustrades ran round two sides of the straggling area, and a double row of bells to correspond, sheltered from the weather by a little sloping roof, hung over the door leading to the bar and coffee-room. Two or three gigs or chaise-carts were wheeled up under different little sheds and pent-houses.”

The guests, it would appear, slept in rooms giving on the galleries all round; for, we are told, “a loud ringing of one of the bells was followed by the appearance of a smart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who after tapping at one of the doors and receiving a request from within, called over the balustrade” to Sam. Presently the “bustling landlady of the ‘White Hart’ made her appearance in the opposite gallery, and after a little vituperation, flung a pair of lady’s shoes into the yard and bustled away.”

It is curious to think that this scene was a description of what was going on about fifty years ago, and was kept up for many years after “Pickwick” was written. The picture of that morning—the chambermaid coming out of the room in the gallery, the landlady throwing the boots down to Sam—still rises before us as we turn into the yard. Two sides of the inclosure now remain, but it shows how imposing an establishment must have been the house that in Dickens’s time would be called “thecelebrated‘White Hart Inn.’”The huge tiled roof is there, and the double tiers of galleries, with the doors of the guests’ chambers. But a wooden shed has been built round the lower portion, close to where Sam stood and was questioned by Mr. Perker and Mr. Wardle. Clothes-lines hang across the galleries, and a few years ago squalid women could be seen looking down and surveying the intruders, just as the chambermaid and landlady looked down upon Mr. Weller. A waggon lies up in ordinary in the corner, as it did in Dickens’s day. The whole is black, grimed, rusty, and decayed, and fills the mind with a sort of melancholy, as things “fallen from their high estate” do. By the right rises a flight of stairs leading to the gallery, close to which is a quaint, short balcony. Such is the old “White Hart,” or all that is left of it, which, however, still accommodates a certain number of tenants. On the other side is the newer “White Hart,” with its long row of glass windows, seeming a comfortable place enough.[17]

Our next halt is at the “George,” which has really a bright and

THE GEORGE INN, BOROUGH.

bustling air of business. It is a not unpicturesque courtyard from its very irregularity, the old wooden galleries being alternated with buildings of a different pattern, some projecting forward. The galleries are gay with paint and plenty of flowers; and altogether one might seem able to take one’s ease in one’s inn here very fairly. Even more picturesque is the “Queen’s Head,” a little lower down, a very effective gathering of irregular buildings. It has its two galleries on the left, but another portion has been boarded in for greater room and comfort. A tall archway in the centre block offers a De Hooghe-like glimpse of another court beyond, while a bow-windowed bar-parlour has been built out in front, and suggests a Captain Cuttle flavour.Here, too, is the heavy tiled roof, over which rises a little peaked cupola, not without effect. One hardly hears the hum of the Borough without. Who “puts up” at these places? What sort of “entertainment for man or beast” is there? How long do the guests stay? These are questions of high mystery. The people who dwell here must have ways of their own, and be influenced by the dispensations under which they abide. This conversing from aloft, with occasional pausing to look down and see what is going on, lends a sort of vitality to what would otherwise be a sleepy and antiquated kind of existence. To this old arrangement, as is well known, it is that we owe the form of our theatres. The old inn-yard being a favourite place of entertainment, the guests would gather in the galleries to look over; the floor suggested the later pit; while the stage was set up, facing the archway, at the far end.

In Covent Garden, under Inigo Jones’sloggia, are found some old inns of a thoroughly Pickwickian sort, with the bars and snuggeries which are fitting background for a gathering of Dickens’s men and women. These are “The Tavistock” and “The Bedford,” in high favour with country bachelors. They must be as old almost as the colonnade itself; while the “Bedford Coffee House” has quite a history of its own, resplendent with the names of Churchill, Hogarth, the steak-ordering Duke of Norfolk, and many a son of fame besides. Still flourishes also the “Hummums,” where Parson Ford saw the ghost, as described by Dr. Johnson; but it has been rebuilt.

On the top of Hampstead Heath, and situated in a most picturesque spot, is “Jack Straw’s Castle,” a little inn which has a reputation of its own. ’Tis said to be the highest point in the quarter, and though so close to town, has an antique and truly rustic air. The pleasant Hampstead mornings, with the keen air of those northern heights, the glimpses of cheerful old red-brick houses, the vicinity of Church Row, one of the most effective “bits” of old brick architecture in the country, the delightful undulations of the Heath, all make “Jack Straw’s Castle” a most acceptable hostelry, though John Sadleir was found hard by, with his silver poison cup lying some yards away. Readers of Forster’s “Life of Dickens” will recall the many rides of the novelist, accompanied by his “trusty” friend, to this inn, and the pleasanttête-à-têtedinners that followed. Indeed, a pleasant volume might be made on “The History of Old Inns, and Those who Frequented Them.” One of the most famous is of course the “Red Lion” at Henley, where Johnson and Boswell stayed—Johnson, indeed, had a particular predilection for taverns. He was one of their most ardent votaries; he remains their most eloquent apologist. In the inn at Chapel-house, after “triumphing over the French for not having in any perfection the tavern life,” he went on to enlarge upon them in a discourse which has become historical. “There isno private house,” he declared, “in which people can enjoy themselves so well as at a capital tavern. Let there be ever so great plenty of good things, ever so much grandeur, ever so much elegance, ever so much desire that every body should be easy; in the nature of things it cannot be: there must always be some degree of care and anxiety. The master of the house is anxious to entertain his guests; the guests are anxious to be agreeable to him; and no man, but a very impudent dog indeed, can as freely command what is in another man’s house as if it were his own. Whereas, at a tavern there is a general freedom from anxiety. You are sure you are welcome; and the more noise you make, the more trouble you give, the more good things you call for, the welcomer you are. No servants will attend you with the alacrity which waiters do, who are incited by the prospect of an immediate reward in proportion as they please. No, Sir; there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so much happiness is produced, as by a good tavern or inn.” Thus did he discourse to Boswell; while to Hawkins he asserted that a tavern chair is the throne of human felicity.

THE old London taverns and chop houses are disappearing year by year, but there are a few quaint survivals which are interesting. Take it that on some winter’s evening, we have passed through old Holywell Street, where the gas is flaring wildly over the doors, and emerge at the foot of the picturesque St. Clement Danes’ tower, in whose belfry windows are red lights, while its bells are clanging away noisily, worked by the strong arms of “the College of Bell Ringers.” We hurry on, passing through the old Bar, which once seemed like entering a fortified town, and only wanted a drawbridge; then see to the left, over a little low porch, the illuminated beacon of “The Cock,” cheerfully inviting entrance. The long bent passage, with the swing-door at the end, had an air of ineffable comfort—there was a glimpse of the cozy bar beyond. To the right hand, as the swing-door opened and shut, you saw the jovial red curtains within, the blackened mahogany boxes, the hats hung up, and the sanded floor. It seemed like a whiff of the “Old Maypole.” You understood at once the significance of Dickens’s old inns, which he seemed to revel in. How snug that corner seat near the fire—just holding two—with the stout table in front—the kettle singing close to you—from below came the sound of cheerful hissing, as the tender chops or “dinner steak” was being prepared “to follow” or not, as it might be—to be succeeded again by the peculiar “rare-bit,” the unapproachable stout, fine port, and finer whiskey!

It was a curious sensation to find refuge here after a weary day, and look round on the characteristic figures, mostly solitary, dried up, old lawyers, who have spent their day in company with deeds and papers. They would have their tumblers of old Scotch—more as a companion for their thoughts—and you could see their faces wandering placidly to the fire as if tracing some of their favourite quiddities and quillets there. Here, too, was to be found the adventurer come to seek his fortune in the great town, brooding over the buffets already met with, planning how to fend off others, yet finding a soothing comfort in the placid retirement of the old hostel.

“I may here mention,” wrote an old City solicitor named Jay, “that the ‘Cock Tavern’ in Fleet Street has been a noted resort of lawyers for more than two centuries. When I first went there, no chops or steaks were cooked, but gentlemen and tradesmen went there in the afternoon to smoke their pipes (cigars being then very little used). The landlord at that time held a high position in Whitbread’s brewery. It was at this time kept open during the night, and until the early hours of morning were far advanced it was often a difficult matter to find an unoccupied seat. The gentlemen who frequented it were members of the Temple and other Inns of Court, and used their own silver tankards bearing their crests, which were exposed to view against the wall of the bar or coffee-room; and I have still many pleasant reminiscences of oyster and other suppers furnished at this house; a man from a neighbouring fishmonger’s being specially retained to open oysters for the numerous customers, who with sharp appetites kept him fully employed.”

To many persons who have never entered a tavern in their lives, “The Cock” had a certain charm of association, mainly owing to its having been celebrated in verse by the Poet Laureate. Perhaps few, again, are familiar with all he has said or sung upon the subject, contenting themselves with the oft-quoted lines to the “plump head waiter at ‘The Cock,’”which gave that personage an immortality. The lines on “Will Waterproof’s” visit have an extraordinary charm of pensive retrospect and solitary meditation, and convey an idea of the tone of the old place, and of the fancies it is likely to engender in some solitary and perhaps depressed guest. A series of pictures and moods is unfolded in this charming poem, a sort of dreamy rumination and pleasant sadness; visions float upwards in the curling fumes of the smoker’s “long clay.” But only a great poet could extract a refined quintessence from the mixed vapours of chops and steaks.

WILL WATERPROOF’S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE.

MADE AT “THE COCK.”

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