A wanderer in London

LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA

TH= CITIE OF LONDON ^& 1560

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A WANDERER IN LONDON

OTHER WORKS BY E. V. LUCAS

Mr. Ingleside

Listener's Lure

Over Bemerton's

London Lavender

Loiterer's Harvest

One Day and Another

Fireside and Sunshinfc

Character and Comedy

Old Lamps for New

The Hambledon Men

The Open Road

The Friendly Town

Her Infinite Variety

Good Company

The Gentlest Art

The Second Post

A Little of Everything

Harvest Home

A Swan and Her Friends

A Wanderer in Florence

A Wanderer in Holland

A Wanderer in Paris

The British School

Highways and Byways in Sussex

Anne's Terrible Good Nature

The Slowcoach

Sir Pulteney

The Life of Charles Lamb
and

The Pocket Edition of th« Works of
Charles Lamb : I. Miscellaneous
Prose ; II. Elia ; III. Children's
Books ; IV. Poems and Plays ;
V. and VI. Letters.

[Cr*

A WANDERER IN

LONDON

/^

E. V/ L U G A S

WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR BT

NELSON DAWSON
AND THIRTY-SIX OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS

FIFTEENTH EDITION, REVISED

METHUEN & CO. LTD.

96 ESSEX STREET W.C.

LONDON

DA 6S4-

:
1%

First Published , . . September 1900

Second Edition . , . October 1906

Third Edition , . . December /yo6

Fourth Edition . . . January f9&j

Fifth Edition .... /nne 1907

Sixth Edition .... January 1908

Seventh Edition , . , July iqcy

Eighth Edition . . . January 1310

Ninth Edition . . . November igto

Tenth Edition . , . May 1911

Eleventh Edition . , . November 1911

Twelfth Edition . . . February 1912

Thirteenth Edition. . , December 1912

Fourteenth Edition . . May loij

Fifteenth Edition . . . August 1913

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

PAQB

No. i LONDON AND PICCADILLY . • • • * i • *

CHAPTER II.
ROMANCE AND THB WALLACE PICTURES . . § . . 17

CHAPTER III.
MAYFAIR AND THE GEORGIANS ...««« i 32

CHAPTER IV.
ST. JAMES'S AND PICCADILLY EAST . • « » % » 42

CHAPTER V.
TRAFALGAR SQUARE AND GREAT ENGLISHMEN . • « ( 56

CHAPTER VI.
THE NATIONAL GALLERY AND THE BRITISH MASTERS. . « 66

CHAPTER VII.
THE NATIONAL GALLERY II: ITALIAN SCHOOLS . • t • 73

CHAPTER VIII.
THE NATIONAL GALLERY III: OTHER FOREIGN SCHOOLS , . 80

CHAPTER IX.
THE STRAND AND COVENT GARDEN ...«*. 89

CHAPTER IX.
FLEET STREET AND THE LAW ....... 105

Ti CONTENTS

CHAPTER XI.

PA6S

ST. PAUL'S AND THE CHARTERHOUSE ...... 115

CHAPTER XII.
CHBAPSIDE AND THK CITY CHURCHES ...... 138

CHAPTER XIII.
THE TOWER AND THE AMPHIBIANS , . , 151

CHAPTER XIV.
WHITECHAPBL AND THE BORO' ....... 106

CHAPTER XV.

HOLBORN AND BLOOMSBCRV . . . , , , , 177

CHAPTER XVI.
THE BRITISH MUSEUM AND SOHO ...... 192

CHAPTER XVIL
THE PARKS AND THE Zoo ...«»«.. 306

CHAPTER XVIII.
KENSINGTON AND THE MUSEUMS .,«»;,, 213

CHAPTER XIX.
CHELSEA AND THE RIVE* . . . . . i . , 135

CHAPTER XX.
WESTMINSTER AND WHITEHALL 247

INDEX 267

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

IN COLOUR

THE TOWER AND THE TOWER BRIDGE . . . Frontispiece

PICCADILLY LOOKING EAST To face page 16

ST. JAMES'S STREET AND ST. JAMES'S PALACE . ,,46

TRAFALGAR SQUARE „ 76

THE CITY FROM WATERLOO BRIDGE .... „ 90

ST. MARY-LE-STRAND ....... „ no

IN THE TEMPLE GARDENS, FOUNTAIN COURT . . „ 128

ST. PAUL'S FROM THE RIVER „ 138

THE CHARTERHOUSE ....... „ 146

ST. DUNSTAN'S-UN-THE EAST „ 168

THE MONUMENT .....,,. ,, 176

STAPLE INN • . . „ 188

KENSINGTON PALACE FROM THE GARDENS . . „ 198

CANNON STREET STATION FROM THE RIVER . , „ 320

WESTMINSTER ABBEY „ 252

THE VICTORIA TOWER, HOUSE OF LORDS . . „ 266

Yfl

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

IN MONOTONE

DUTCH LADY. Frans Van Mierevelt (Wallace Collec-
tion) ......... To face pa;e \

THE PARABLE OF THE UNMERCIFUL SERVANT. Rem-
brandt (Wallace Collection) „ S

THE LADY WITH A FAN. Velasquez (Wallace Collec-
tion) „ 12

SAN GIORGIO MAQOIORE, VENICE. Francesco Guardi

(Wallace Collection) „ 18

SUZANNE VAN COLLEN AND HER DAUGHTER. Rem-
brandt (Wallace Collection) „ 22

THE LAUGHING CAVALIER. Frans Hals (Wallace

Collection) „ 28

THE SHRIMP GIRL. William Hogarth (National

Gallery) „ 32

LADY READING A LETTER. Gerard Terburg (Wallace

Collection) «, 36

INTERIOR OF A DUTCH HOUSE. Peter de Hooch

(National Gallery) „ 38

A TAILOR. Gianbattista Moroni (National Gallery) . ,, 40

viii

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS fc

PORTRAIT or A YOUNG SCULPTOR. Andrea del Sarto

(National Gallery) ....... To face page 43

THE HOLY FAMILY. Leonardo da Vinci (Diploma

From a Photograph by F. Hollyer

THB NATIVITY. Piero della Francesca (National

Gallery) ......... ^ ^

THE ENTOMBMENT. Rogier Van der Weyden (Na-

tional Gallery) . ...... jg

THE MADONNA OP THE MEADOW. Marco Basaiti

(National Gallery) ....... 60

MOUSEHOLD HEATH. Old Crome (National Gallery) . „ 66

PORTRAIT OF Two GENTLEMEN. Sir Joshua Rey-

nolds (National Gallery) ..... M 74

MOTHER AND CHILD. Romney (National Gallery) . „ 80

ADMIRAL PULIDO PAREJA. Velasquez (National

Gallery) ........ w 88

From a Photograph by W. A. Mansell & Co.

MADONNA AND LAUGHING CHILD. Antonio Rossellino

(or Desiderio des Settignano) (South Kensington) . „ 93

THE DEATH OF PROCRIS. Piero di Cosimo (National

Gallery) .......... f gg

From a Photograph by W. A. Mansell & Co.
VIROIN AND CHILD. Titian (National Gallery) . . ., n6

THE AVENUE AT MIDDBLHARNIS. Meindert Hob-

bema (National Gallery) ..... ,, 120

CHICHESTER CANAL. J. M. VV. Turner (National

Gallery) ....... . „ 126

CORNELIUS VAN DER GEBST. Antony Van Dyck

(National Gallery) ...... „ 132

VIRGIN AND CHILD. Filippino Lippt (National

Gallery) To face pagt 136

From a Photograph by W. A. Mansell ft Co.

MERCURY INSTRUCTING CUPID. Correggio (National

Gallery) „ 140

VIRGIN AND CHILD. Botticelli (National Gallery) « „ i52

THE ADVENTURE OF THE KINGS. By Jan Gossart de

Mabuse (National Gallery) . . . . • „ *7°

JEAN AND JEANNB ARNOLFINI. Jan van Eyck (Na.

tional Gallery) ,, 184

THE DEMETER OF CNIDOS. (British Museum) . . „ 194

From a Photograph by W. A. Mansell & Co.

CHRIST WASHING PETER'S FEET. Ford Madox Brown

(Tate Gallery) „ aio

HAMPSTEAD HEATH. John Constable (South Ken

sington) . „ 226

MRS. COLMANN. Alfred Stevens (Tate Gallery) . , (, 238

NOON. Jean Baptiste Camille Corot (National Gallery) „ 256

VIRGIN AND CHILD. Andrea del Sarto (Wallace

Collection) ,, 260

NOTE

The reproduction of "The Holy Family" by Leonardo da Vinci has
been made by permission of Mr. F. Hollyer, 9 Pembroke Square, W.,
from whom carbon prints can be obtained.

PREFACE TO FIFTEENTH EDITION

OINCE this book was written, in 1905-6,
London has undergone many and vast
changes. She has added to her treasures a
museum wholly devoted to the illustration of
her wondrous past ; the National Gallery has
been enlarged and is being re-arranged; South
Kensington Museum has been re-built ; the
Tate Gallery ha"s been extended and enriched ;
the Victoria Memorial has been erected ; the
Edward Memorial has been ordained ; the
decision to beautify Buckingham Palace has
at last been reached ; a new and superb opera
house has been built and has failed ; taxi-cabs
have multiplied by thousands ; picture theatres
by hundreds ; and the Underground has lost
its smoke for ever. These are but a few of
those changes which any writer who sets out
to enumerate the charms of London has to
take into consideration.

When I came to the task of revision it almost

n

xii PREFACE TO FIFTEENTH EDITION

seemed as if to write a new book — London Re-
visited— were best. But perhaps wiser counsels
prevailed, and I have retained the old title and
done what I could to bring the text into line
with 1913. A perfect reviser, however, would
be at work almost daily, and as an example of
the necessity for such vigilance and persistence,
I may remark that very soon after this edition
goes to press the priceless Layard collection of
Old Masters will arrive at the National Gallery.

June, 1913.

A WANDERER IN LONDON
CHAPTER I

NO. I LONDON AND PICCADILLY

A Beginning — No. i London — Charing Cross in Retirement — A Walk
down Piccadilly — Apsley House — The Iron Duke's Statues — An Old
Print — Rothschild Terrace — Changes — The March of Utilitarianism
— The Plague of New Buildings — London Architecture — The Glory
of Disorder — A City of Homes— House collecting — The Elusive
Directory — Kingsley's Dictum — The House Opposite — Desirable
Homes — London's Riches — The Smallest Hous* in London —
Women — Clubmen — A Monument to Pretty Thoughtfulness— The
Piccadilly Goat— Old Q — Rogers the Poet.

LONDON, whichever way we turn, is so vast and
varied, so rich in what is interesting, that to one
who would wander with a plastic mind irresponsibly day
after day in its streets and among its treasures there is not
a little difficulty in deciding where to begin, and there is
even greater difficulty in knowing where to end. Indeed,
to a book on London — to a thousand books on London —
there is no end.

But a beginning one can always make, whether it is

appropriate or otherwise, and since I chance to live in

Kensington and thus enter London by Kensington Gore

and Knightsbridge, there is some fitness in beginning at

1

% A WANDERER IN LONDON

Hyde Park Corner, by that square, taciturn, grey house
just to the east of it which we call Apsley House, but
which I have always been told is really No. 1 London —
if any No. 1 London there be. Let us then begin
«t No. 1 London — just as a Frenchman bent upon dis-
covering the English capital would begin at Charing Cross :
Charing Cross, one of the meeting places of East and
West, whose platform William the Conqueror would surely
have kissed had he waited for the Channel steam-boat
service.

To take a walk down Fleet Street — the cure for ennui
invented by the most dogmatic of Londoners — is no longer
an amusing recreation, the bustle is too great ; but to take
a walk down Piccadilly on a fine day remains one of the
pleasures of life : another reason for beginning with No. 1
London. Piccadilly between Hyde Park Corner and Devon-
shire House is 'Jill eminently a promenade. But only as
far as Devons^;Ve House. Once Berkeley Street is crossed
and the suOjjs begia, the saunterer is jostled ; while the
Green Park having vanished behind the Ritz Hotel, the
sun and the freshness are lost too. But between those
two ducal houses on a smiling day one may enjoy as fair
a walk as in any city in the world.

No. 1 London enjoys its priority only I think in verbal
tradition. To the postman such an address might mean
nothing, although the London postman has a reputation
for tracking any trail, however elusive. The official ad-
dress of Apsley House is, I fancy, 149 Piccadilly. Be that
as it may, it is No. 1 to us, and a gloomy abode to boot,
still wearing a dark frown of resentment for those broken
windows, although the famous iron shutters have gone.

THE DUKE 8

The London rough rarely mobilises now, and when he does
he breaks no windows; but those were stormier days.
Opposite is the Duke himself, in bronze, on his charger,
looking steadfastly for ever at his old home, where the
Waterloo survivors' dinner used to be held every year, with
lessening numbers and lessening, until the victor himself
was called away.

An earlier equestrian statue of Wellington once domin-
ated the triumphal arch now at the head of Constitution
Hill (where Captain Adrian Jones, that rare thing, a
soldier sculptor, has set up a spirited quadriga), but this,
I know not why, was taken down and erected afresh at
Aldershot. A third Wellington trophy is the Achilles
statue, at the back of Apsley House, in the Park, just
across the roadway. This giant figure was cast from cannon
taken at Salamanca and Vittoria, Toulouse and Waterloo,
and was set up here by the women of England in honour of
the great and invincible soldier. There is a coloured print
which one may now and then see in the old shops (the last
time I saw it was in the parlour of a Duke of Wellington
inn at a little village in Wiltshire), of the hero of Waterloo
riding beneath the Achilles on his little white horse, with
his hand to the salute : one of the pleasantest pictures of
the stern old man that I know, with the undulations of
Hyde Park rolling away like a Surrey common in the
distance.

We have no Iron Duke in these days, and Apsley House
is desolate, almost sinister. Albeit within its walls are
four of Jan Steen's pictures, to say nothing of one of the
finest Correggios in England and Velasquez' portrait of
himself.

And so we leave No. 1 London frowning behind us, and

4 A WANDERER IN LONDON

come instantly to smiling wealth, for the little terrace of
mansions between Apsley House and Hamilton Place is a
stronghold of that powerful family which moved Heinrich
Heine to sarcasm and Hans Christian Andersen to senti-
ment, and is still the greatest force in European finance.

Never in the recent history of London have so many
changes come so rapidly as in the past few years, to which
belong not only the rise of the motor and the loss of
horse 'buses and cabs, but the elimination of hundreds of
landmarks and the sweeping away of whole streets drenched
with human associations. Such is the ruthless march of
utilitarianism and luxury (some of the most conspicuous
new buildings being expensive hotels) that one has come to
entertain the uneasy feeling that nothing is safe. Certainly
nothing is sacred. A garage being required for the motor
cars of the Stock Exchange, what, one asks oneself, is there
to prevent the demolition of the Charterhouse ? Since
Christ's Hospital could be moved bodily to Sussex in order
that more offices might rise in Newgate Street, why should
not the Brothers be sent to Bournemouth ? The demand
for another vast caravanserai for American visitors on the
banks of the Thames may become acute any day : why
should not the Temple site be utilised ? One lives in fear.

I never look at the Adelphi Terrace without a misgiv-
ing that when next I pass it will have vanished. Nothing
but its comparative distance from the main stream of
commerce can have saved Gray's Inn. There is an architect
round the corner ready with a florid terra-cotta tombstone
for every beautiful, quiet, old-world building in London.
Bedford Row is undoubtedly doomed : Queen Anne's Gate
trembles : Barton Street knows no repose. Clifford's Inn is
going : Holy well Street has gone. He who would see I x>ndon
before London becomes unrecognisable must hasten his

A DUTCH LADY
AFTER THE FICTUKE BY FRANS VAN M1EKEVELT IX THE WALLACE COLLECTION

AN ARCHITECTURAL MEDLEY 5

steps. The modern spirit can forgive everything except
age.

The modern London architect dislikes large, restful,
unworried spaces and long unbroken lines : hence many
of our new buildings have been for the most part fussy and
ornamental — and not at all, I think, representative of the
national character. Somerset House (save for its fiddling
little cupola) is perhaps London architecture at its simplest ;
the Law Courts, with all their amazing intricacy and
elaboration, are London's public architecture at its most
complex and unsuitable. One of the most satisfying
buildings in London is the Adelphi Terrace ; one of the
most charming, the little row of dependencies to the north
of Kensington Palace. St. James's Palace is beautiful, but
Buckingham Palace could hardly be more commonplace.
It is, however, to be beautified soon.

To Somerset House, the Adelphi, St. James's Palace and
the Tower Bridge, different though they are, the epithet
English can be confidently applied ; but Buckingham Palace
is French, and it would be difficult to use the word English
of many of the great structures now rising in London.
We seem to have no national school of urban architecture
any longer, no steady ideals. The new London that is
emerging so rapidly lacks any governing principle. The
Ritz Hotel, for example, is Parisian, the Carlton and His
Majesty's Theatre are Parisian, and in Russell Square there
is a new hotel that has walked straight from Germany at
its most German and grotesque.

But if London's completed new buildings are not satis-
factory, their preparations are. There is nothing out of
Meryon's etchings more impressive than our contractors'
giant cranes can be— fixed high above the houses on their

6 A WANDERER IN LONDON

scaffolding, with sixty vertical yards of chain hanging from
their great arms. Against an evening sky, with a little
smoke from the engine purpling in the dying sun's rays,
and the mist beginning to blur or submerge the surround-
ing houses, these cranes and scaffoldings have an effect of
curious unreality, a hint even of Babylon or Nineveh, a
suggestion at any rate of all majestic building and builders
in history. London has no more interesting or picturesque
sight than this.

Among the best public buildings of recent days are the
National Portrait Gallery, seen as one walks down the
Charing Cross Road, and the Institute of Painters in Water
Colours in Piccadilly, and the Record Office in Chancery
Lane. The South Kensington School of Science is good, so
square and solid and grave is it, albeit perhaps a little too
foreign with its long and (in London) quite useless but
superbly decorative and beautiful loggia ; but what can
we say of the Imperial Institute and the Natural History-
Museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum close bv,
except that they are ambitious and symmetrical — the ideal
of the Kindergarten box of bricks carried out to its highest
power ?

It is as though London had been to a feast of architec-
ture and stolen the scraps. She has everything. She has
Queen Anne's Mansions, that hideous barracks, and she has
Standen's in Jermyn Street, which is a Florentine palazzo ;
she has St John's, Westminster, with its four unsightly
bell-towers, and St Dunstan's-in-the-East with its indes-
cribably graceful spire ; she has Charing's Eleanor Cross
and the Albert Memorial ; she has Westminster Hall and
the new Roman Catholic Cathedral ; she has Cannon Street
Station and the Heralds' College ; she has the terra cotta

BIZARRE BUILDINGS 7

Prudential Office in Holborn and within a few yards of it
the medieval facade of Staple Inn ; she has Euston Station
and the new Ecclesiastical Commissioners' offices at West-
minster; she has Park Lane and Bedford Row; she has
the Astor Estate Office and Frascati's ; she has Chelsea
Hospital and Whitehall Court ; she has the Gaiety Theatre
and Spence's in St. Paul's Churchyard with its plain stone
gables ; she has the white severity of the Athenaeum Club
and Waring and Gillow's premises in Oxford Street, a gay
enough building, but one that requires the spectator to be
a hundred yards in front of it — which he cannot be.

London has learnt nothing from Philadelphia or Paris of
the value of regularity, and if she can help it she never
will. I suppose that Regent Street and Park Crescent
were her last efforts on a large scale to get unity into
herself, and now she has allowed the Regent Street curve
to be broken by the Piccadilly Hotel. But since the glory
of London is her disorder, it does not matter. Nothing
will change that.

The narrowness and awkwardness of London streets
are a perpetual reminder of the Englishman's incapacity
or unwillingness to look ahead. In no other city in the
world would it have been permitted to build recently
two theatres and the Coliseum in a street so narrow
as St. Martin's Lane. Nowhere else is traffic allowed
to be so continuously and expensively congested at the
whim of private companies. In the city itself, in the
busy lanes off Cheapside for instance, where waggons are
sometimes kept eight hours before they can be extricated,
this narrowness means the daily loss of thousands of pound*.
London's chance to become a civilised city was probably
lost for ever at Waterloo. Had Wellington been defeated,

8 A WANDERER IN LONDON

carriages might now be running four abreast down Fleet
Street. Yet as neither Napoleon nor Baron Haussman
ever came our way, we must act accordingly ; and the
railway companies are still building on their branch lines
arches wide enough to carry only a single pair of rails.

But in spite of architectural whimsies, there are in no
city of the world so many houses in which one would like
to live as in London. In spite of our studious efforts to
arrange that every room shall have one or more draughts
in it : in spite of our hostility to hot water pipes and our
affection for dark and dreary basements; it is generally
agreed that the English house can come nearer to the idea
of home than that of any other people, and there can be
no doubt that the English home is to be found in its per-
fection in London. Even as I write the memory of friendly
houses, modem and Georgian and of even earlier date, in
various parts of England, rises before me : houses over
which the spirit of welcome broods, and within which are
abundant fires, and lavender-scented sheets, and radiant
almost laughing cleanliness, and that sense of quiet effi-
cient order that is perhaps not the least charming char-
acteristic of an English country house. Yet it is without
treachery to these homes that one commends the comfort-
able London house as the most attractive habitation in the
world ; for a house, I take it, should be in the midst of
men, and in spite of so many blemishes which no one feels so
much as the mistress of a country house — and the greatest
of which is dirt — the London home is the homeliest of all.
Perhaps a touch of grime is not unnecessary. Perhaps
houses can be too clean for the truest human dailiness.

While walking about London I have noticed so many
houses in which I could live happily ; and indeed to look
for these is not a bad device to make walking in London

DESIRABLE HOUSES 9

tolerable — to take the place of the thousand and one dis-
tractions and allurements of the walk in the country. One
becomes a house-collector : marking down those houses
which possibly by some unexpected turn of Fortune's wheel
one might take, or which one wants to enter on friendly
terms, or which one ought once to have lived in when
needs were simpler.

Holland House is, of course, too splendid : one could
never live there ; but there is, for example, at 16, South
Audley Street, a corner house where one would be quite
happy, with double windows very prettily placed and paned,
and a front door with glass panels quite as if it were in the
country and within its own grounds, through which may be
seen the hall and a few paintings and some old black oak.
I expect that Captain Guest's house in Park Lane is fairly
comfortable, although that also is too large ; and the low
white house standing back in Curzon Street is probably
too ambitious too ; but there is a house at the corner of
Cheyne Walk and Beaufort Street, in whose top windows
over-looking the grey and pearl river one could be very
serene. Other Cheyne Walk houses are very appealing
too: No. 15, with a sundial, and No. 6, square and grave,
and No. 2, with its little loggia, and Old Swan House, that
riparian palace. If however I was to overlook the Thames
I think I would choose one of the venerable residences on
the walls of the Tower, from which one could observe not
only the river but, at only one remove, the sea itself.

I have sometimes amused myself by jotting down the ad-
dresses of the houses I have liked, intending to find out who
lived in them ; but the London Directory seems to be hope-
lessly beyond the reach of anyone not in an office or a public-
house. But I do happen to know who it is that owns some
of the most desirable houses in my bag. I know, for example,

10 A WANDERER IN LONDON

that Aubrey House, Kensington, belongs to Mr. W. C.
Alexander; I know that the little low house facing St.
James's Park by Queen Anne's Gate once belonged to
the late Sir James Knowles ; and there is Kingston House,
a beautiful white house on the south side of Hyde Park, in
Kensington Gore, an old house within its own gates, with
a garden behind it, which I have discovered to belong to a
certain Lord. Everyone that I know seems to want that.

If ever I were found in these houses' it would not be
for theft, but to see if their Chippendale was really worthy
of them, and how blue their china was, and if they had
any good pictures. Perhaps many a burglar has begun
purely as an amateur in furniture and decoration. And
there are still so many pictures in London houses, in spite
of the temptation to sell offered by American gold. I
must not enumerate any of the private collections here, as
it might mean vexation to the owners ; but I could. I
could even give the number of the spacious Kensington
road where Tom Girtin's epoch-making London water
colour " The White House at Chelsea " hangs. . . .

I rather think it is Charles Kingsley who says, in one
of the grown-up digressions in Water Babies, that the
beauty of the house opposite is of more consequence than
that of the house one lives in : because one rarely sees the
house one is in, but is always conscious of the other.
Kingsley (if it was Kingsley) was good at that kind of
hard practical remark ; but I fancy that this one means
nothing, because the kind of person who would like to
live in an ugly house would not care whether the house
opposite was beautiful or not. I, who always want too
much, would choose above all things to live in a beautiful
house with no house opposite ; yet since that is hardly

ORGAN GRINDERS 11

likely to be, I would choose to live in a beautiful house
with long white blinds that shut out the house opposite
(beautiful or ugly) and yet did not exclude what it
amuses us in London to call light.

Not that the house opposite would really bother me
very much. In fact, the usual charge that is brought
against it in this city — that it encourages organ-grinders —
is to my mind a virtue. London without organ-grinders
would not be London ; and one likes a city to be true
to its character, good or bad. Also there is hardly any
tune except our National Anthem of which I can honestly
say I am tired ; and as often as one comes to the conclu-
sion that one can endure even that no longer, it justifies
itself and recovers its popularity by bringing some tiresome
evening to an end.

In naming desirable houses I am thinking chiefly of
the houses with individual charm : old houses, for the
most part, which have been made modern in their acces-
sories by their owners, but which retain externally their
ancient gravity or beauty — such as you see in Queen
Anne's Gate, or the Master of the Temple's house, or
Aubrey House on Campden Hill. I am thinking chiefly
of these old comely houses, and of the very few new
houses by architects of taste, such as Mr. Astor's exquisite
offices on the Embankment— one of the most satisfying
of London's recent edifices, with thought and care and
patience and beauty in every inch of it, whether in the
stone or the wood or the iron : possessing indeed not a
little of the thoroughness and single-mindedness that
Ruskin looked for in the cathedrals of France.

But a few desirable houses of the middle or early-nine-
teenth century one has marked approvingly too — such as
Thackeray's house in Kensington Palace Gardens, that

12 A WANDERER IN LONDON

discreet and almost private avenue of vast mansions, each
large enough and imposing enough to stand in its own
park in the country; but here packed close together —
not quite in the Park Lane huddle, but very nearly so —
and therefore conveying only an impaired impression of
their true amplitude. (It is of course the houses of a city
that give one the most rapid impression of its prosperity
or poverty. To walk in the richer residential quarters
of London — in May fair and Belgravia, South Kensington
and Bayswater and Regent's Park, is to receive an over-
whelming proof of the gigantic wealth of this people.
Take Queen's Gate alone : the houses in it mount to the
skies and every one represents an income of five figures.
The only one of them, however, that I covet is at the
corner of Imperial Institute Road — a modern Queen Anne
mansion of the best type.)

Thackeray's old house in Young Street spreads its bow
windows even more alluringly than the new one ; but there
is a little house next to that, hiding shyly behind ever-
greens, where I am sure I could be comfortable. This
house — it is only a cottage, really — has one of London's
few wet, bird-haunted lawns. It is so retiring and whisper-
ing that the speculative builder has utterly overlooked it
all these years. Another retiring house that I should like
to have is that barred and deserted house in Upper Cheyne
Row, Chelsea, and I could be happy in Swjin Walk, Chelsea,
too, and at No. 14 or 15 Great College Street, Westminster.

Of the exceedingly little houses which one could really
inhabit there are several on Campden Hill. There is one
in Aubrey Walk which once I could have been very happy
in : I am afraid it is too small now It could be moved
bodily one night anywhere : a wheelbarrow would be enough
wheelbarrow and a pair of strong arms. It is so small

THE LADY WITH A KAN
AFTER THE PICTURE ItV VALASyUEZ IN THE WALLACE COLLECTION

13

and compact that it might be transferred to the stage of
Peter Pan as a present for Wendy. I go that way con-
tinually just to look at it. And there is the white house
with a verandah at Kensington Gate which has been so
built in by new mansions as to be almost invisible; and,
best of all perhaps — certainly so in spring — there is the
secluded keeper's lodge in Kensington Gardens overlooking
the Serpentine, and the more spacious Ranger's home in
Hyde Park.

The most outrageously unreal new miniature house in
London is not on the outskirts at all but in the city itself
— in Fetter Lane, in fact. I mean the lodge in the garden
of the Record Office. This little architectural whimsy
might be the abode of an urban fairy or gnome, some
minute relation of Gog or Magog, or even a cousin of the
Griffin at Temple Bar. It is charming enough to have
such a tenant ; and whoever lives there believes nobly in
heat, for the chimney is immense. South Lodge, near
Rutland Gate, has a near relation to it. The quaintest of
the old miniature London houses is that residence for the
sexton which is built against the wall of St. Bartholomew
the Great in Smithfield — a very Elizabethan doll's house ;
the oddest of the new miniature London houses is a
tobacconist's shop in Sherwood Street — like the slice of
ham in a sandwich.

But this architectural digression has taken us far from
Piccadilly and the crossing at Hamilton Place where we
were standing when my pen ran away. After Hamilton
Place the clubs begin, one of the first being the largest of
those for women of which London now has so many, with
their smoking rooms all complete. One would like to
hear the Iron Duke on this development of modern life.
" Smoke and be " would he say ?

14 A WANDERER IN LONDON

To me a more interesting structure than any Piccadilly
club, whether it be for men or women, is the curious raised
platform on the Green Park side of the road at this point,
which was set there by a kindly observer some years ago,
who noticed that porters walking west with parcels were a
good deal distressed after the hill, and so provided them
with a resting place for their burdens while they recovered
breath. The time has gone by for its use, no one in these
parts now bearing anything on the shoulder, omnibuses
being so many and so cheap : but the platform remains as
a monument to pretty thoughtfulness.

When I first came to London, Piccadilly still had its
goat. I remember meeting it on the pavement one day in
1892, opposite Hamilton Terrace, and wondering how it
got there and why the people, usually so curious about the
unusual, were taking so little notice of such a phenomenon,
as it seemed to me. It must have been soon after that it
died and, with true London carelessness, was not replaced.
London never replaces anything.

Were it not for the traffic — omnibuses, carriages and cabs
all day and until long after midnight, and in the small
hours traction engines rumbling into Covent Garden with
waggon loads of cabbages and vegetables from the Thames
valley — Piccadilly opposite the Green Park would be the
perfect place for a house. But it is too noisy. None the
less residences there are, between the clubs, many of their
either having interesting associations of their own, or
standing upon historic sites : such as Gloucester House,
at the east corner of Hamilton Place, where the Elgin
marbles, wnich are now in the British Museum, first dwelt
after their ravishment from the Acropolis ; and Nos. 138
and 139, next it, which stand upon the site of the abode
of the disreputable " Old Q " who posed to three genera-

THE LOST CICERONE 15

tions as the model debauchee, and by dint of receiving
9,340 visits of two hours each from his doctor during the
last seven years of his life, and a bath of milk every morn-
ing, contrived to keep alive and in fairly good condition
until he was eighty-six. It was in the half of Old Q's
house which afterwards was called No. 139, and was pulled
down in 1839 and rebuilt, that Byron was living in 1816
when his wife left him for ever. Lord Palmerston for
»ome years occupied what is now the Naval and Military
(or " In and Out ") club ; and Miss Mellon the actress,
who married Mr. Coutts the banker, lived at No. 1 Stratton
Street, which was for so long the residence of the Baroness
Burdett-Coutts. In the good old knifeboard days one
had the history of these houses from communicative and
perhaps imaginative 'bus drivers. Their successors, the
chauffeurs, cannot tell any one anything, partly because
they are men at the wheel, and partly because they are
not within speaking distance of any of their fares, and
partly because they are engineers and moderns, and there-
fore not interested in the interesting. The iron law of
utilitarianism which called them into being is the foe of
so many of the little amenities of life.

And so, passing Devonshire House's rampart, we come
to Berkeley Street, and the strolling part of the walk is
over. Any one who is run over at this corner — and that
is no difficult matter — will have the satisfaction of knowing
that he shares his fate with the author of The Pleasures
of Memory. Being only a little past eighty at the time,
Rogers survived the shock many years.

This reminds me that the infrequency with which Lon-
doners are run over is one of the most amazing things in
ihis city. To ride in a taxi in any busy street, is, after
f short time, to be convinced that the vehicle has some

16 A WANDERER IN LONDON

such power of attraction over human beings as a magnet
has over needles. Men rise up from nowhere apparently
with no other purpose but to court death, and yet all seem
to view the advancing danger with something of the same
air of astonishment as they would be entitled to assume
were they to meet a railway train in Kensington Gardens.
It seems to be a perpetual surprise to the Londoner that
vehicles are making any use of his roadways.

PICCADILLY LOOKING EAST

CHAPl'ER II

ROMANCE AND THE WALLACE PICTURES

Dull Streets — London and London — The Rebuilder again — Old Pari»— -
The Heart of the Matter — A Haunt of Men — External Romance —
Dickens and Stevenson — The True Wandering Knight — The Beauti-
ful Serpentine — London Fogs — Wkistler— The Look-out down th«
River — Park Lane — Tyburn — Famous Malefactors — The Fortunate
John Smith — The Wallace Collection — Rembrandt and Velasquez —
Andrea del Sarto — Heresies about the F£te Champfttre School— Our
Dutch Masters — Metsu's Favourite Sitter — Guardi and Bonington —
Miniatures and Sevres.

r I SHE more I wander about London the less wanderable
-i- in, for a stranger, does it seein to be. We who
live in it and necessarily must pass through one street in
order to get to another are not troubled by squalor and
monotony ; but what can the traveller make of it who
comes to London bent upon seeing interesting things ?
What can he make of the wealthy deserts of Bayswater ?
of the grimy Vauxhall Bridge Road ? of the respectable
aridity of the Cromwell Road, which goes on for ever ? of
the grey monotony of Gower Street ? What can he make
of the hundreds of square miles of the East End ? And
what, most of all, of the interminable districts of small
houses which his train will bi-sect on every line by which he
can re-enter London after one of his excursions to th«
country ? Nothing. He will not try twice.
2 17

18 A WANDERER IN LONDON

And yet these poorer districts are London in the fullest
sense of the word, although for the most part when we say
London we mean the Strand and Piccadilly. But the
Strand and Piccadilly might go and it would not really
matter : few persons would suffer extremely ; whereas were
Poplar or Bermondsey, Kentish Town or Homerton, to fall
in ruins or be burnt, thousands and thousands of Lon-
doners would have lost all and be utterly destitute.

It perhaps conies to this, that there is no one London at
all. London is a country containing many towns, of which
a little central area of theatres and music hid Is, restaurants
and shops, historic buildings and hotels, is the capital ; and
it is this capital that strangers come to see. For the most
part it is this capital with which the present pages are
concerned. London for our purposes dwindles down to a
very small area where most of her visitors spend all their
time — the Embankment, Trafalgar Square, and Piccadilly,
Regent Street and the British Museum, the Strand and
Ludgate Hill, the Bank and the Tower. That is London
to the ordinary inquisitive traveller. Almost everything
that English provincials, Americans and other foreigners
come to London to see, is there.

It is not as if leaving the beaten paths were likely to lead
to the discovery of any profusion of curious or picturesque
cornel's. A few years ago this might have been so, but as I
have said, a tidal wave of utilitarianism has lately rolled
over the city and done irreparable mischief. London no
longer offers much harvest for the gleaner of odds and ends

o o

of old architecture, quaint gateways, unexpected gables.
Such treasures as she still retains in the teeth of the re-
builder are well known : such as Staple Inn and the York
Water Gate, a house or two in Chelsea (mostly doomed),

THE HUMAN COMEDY 19

the city churches, a corner or two near Sraithfield,
Butcher's Row, Aldgate, and so forth. She has nothing,
for example, comparable with the Faubourg St. Antoine
in Paris, where one may be rewarded every minute by
some beautiful relic of the past. London, one would say,
should be first among cities where symbols of the past
are held sacred ; but in reality it is the last.

Hence I am only too conscious as we walk up Park Lane
(having returned to No. 1 London to begin again), that we
shall be wandering in streets that present little or no
attraction to the stranger from the shires or the pilgrim
from over seas. For beyond some mildly interesting archi-
tecture Mayfair streets can offer nothing to any one that is
not interested in their past inhabitants. Better to have
stuck to Piccadilly or Oxford Street, with their busy pave-
ments : much better, perhaps, and at the same time to have
accepted the fact that London is before all things a city of
living men and women.

That is what the traveller must come to see — London's
men and women, her millions of men and women. If he
would eat, drink and be merry, he must go elsewhere ; if he
would move in beautiful and spacious thoroughfares, he
must go elsewhere ; if he would see crumbling architecture
or stately palaces, he must go elsewhere ; but if he has any
interest in the human hive, this is the place. He can study
it here day and night for a year, and there will still be vast
tracts unknown to him.

For a great city of great age and a history of extraordin-
ary picturesqueness and importance, London is nearly desti-
tute of the external properties of romance. But although,
except here and there — and those in the more placid and
law-abiding quarters, such as the Inns of Court — the dark

20 A WANDERER IN LONDON

gateway and the medieval gable are no more, I suppose
that no city has so appealed to the imagination of the
romantic novelist The very contrast between the dull
prosaic exterior of a London street and the passions that
may be at work within is part of the allurement.

It was undoubtedly Dickens who first introduced Eng-
lishmen to London as a capital of mystery and fun, tragedy
and eccentricity: it was Dickens who discovered London's
melodramatic wealth. But Dickens did not invent anv-
thing. It was Stevenson in his New Arabian Nights who
may be said to have invented the romantic possibilities of
new streets. Dickens needed an odd corner before he set
an odd figure in it ; the Wilderness, for instance, came
before Quilp, the Barbican before Sim Tappertit ; but
Stevenson, by simply transferring the Baghdad formula to
London, in an instant transformed, say, Campden Hill and
Hampstead, even Bedford Park and Sydenharn Hill, into
regions of daring and delightful possibilities. After read-
ing the New Arabian Nights the tamest residence holds
potentialities ; and not a tobacconist but may be a prince
in disguise, not a hansom cabman but may bear a roving
commission to inveigle you to an adventure.

In ordinary life to-day, even in London among her
millions, adventures are, I must admit, singularly few, and
such as occur mostly follow rather familiar lines ; but since
the New Arabian Nights there has always been hope, and
that is not a little in this world.

Even without Stevenson I should, I trust, have realised
something of the London cab driver's romantic quality.
He is the true Wandering Knight of this city. He does
not in the old way exactly hang the reins over his horse's

THE ROMANTIC CABMAN 21

neck — or, rather, to be modern, he does not permit his
steering wheel to turn itself — but he is as vacant of
personal impulse as if he did. His promptings come all
from without. There he sits, careless, motionless (save
for quick eyes), apathetic. He may sit thus for an hour,
for two, for three, unnoticed ; he may be hailed the next
moment. A distant whistle, an umbrella raised a hundred
yards away, and he is transformed into life. He may
be wanted to drive only to a near station — or to a
distant suburb. One minute he has no purpose in his
brain : the next he is informed by one and one only — to
get to St. Pancras or Netting Hill, the theatre or the
Bank, the Houses of Parliament or Scotland Yard, in the
shortest space of time. And this romantic is the servant
of every one who has a shilling — bishop or coiner, actress
or M.P.

I want to say one other word about romantic London
before we really enter Park Lane. Beneath one of her
mists or light fogs London can become the most mysteriout
and beautiful city in the world. I know of nothing more
bewitchingly lovely than the Serpentine on a still misty
evening — when it is an unruffled lake of dim pearl-grey
liquid, such stuff as sleep is made of. St. James's Park at
dusk on a winter's afternoon, seen from the suspension
bridge, with all the lights of the Government offices re-
flected in its water, has less mystery but more romance. It
might be the lake before an enchanted castle. And while
speaking of evening effects I must not forget the steam
which escapes in fairy clouds from the huge chimney ofl
Davies Street, just behind the Bond Street Tube Station.
On the evening of a clear day this vapour can be the most
exquisite violet and purple, transfiguring Oxford Street.

22 A WANDERER IN LONDON

To artists the fog is London's best friend. Not the black
fog, but the other. For there are two distinct London
fogs — the fog that chokes and blinds, and the fog that
shrouds. The fog that enters into every corner of the
house and coats all the metal work with a dark slime, and
sets us coughing and rubbing our eyes — for that there is
nothing to say. It brings with it too much dirt, too much
unhealthiness, for any kind of welcome to be possible. " Hell
is a city much like London " I quoted to myself in one of
the worst of such fogs, as I groped by the railings of the
Park in the Bayswater Road. The traffic, which I could
not see, was rumbling past, and every now and then a man,
close by but invisible, would call out a word of warning, or
some one would ask in startled tones where he was. The
hellishness of it consisted in being of life and yet not in it
— a stranger in a muffled land. It is bad enough for
ordinary wayfarers in such a fog as that ; but one has only
to imagine what it is to be in charge of a horse and cart,
to see how much worse one's lot might be.

But the other fog — the fog that veils but does not
obliterate, the fog that softens but does not soil, the fog
whose beautifying properties Whistler may be said to have
discovered — that can be a delight and a joy. Seen through
this gentle mist London becomes a city of romance. All
that is ugly and hard in her architecture, all that is dingy
and repellent in her colour, disappears. " Poor buildings,"
wrote Whistler, who watched their transformation so often
from his Chelsea home, "lose themselves in the dim sky,
and the tall chimneys become campanili, and the ware-
houses are palaces in the night, and the whole city hangs
in the heavens."

I have said that it was Dickens who discovered the
London of eccentricity, London as the abode of the

SUZANNE VAN COLI.EN AND HER DAUGHTER
AFTER THE PICTURE BY REMBRANDT IN THE WALLACE COLLECTION

WHISTLER'S DISCOVERY 28

odd and the quaint, and Stevenson who discovered London
as a home of romance. It was Whistler who discovered
London as a city of fugitive, mysterious beauty. For
decades the London fog had been a theme for vituperation
and sarcasm : it needed this sensitive American-Parisian
to show us that what to the commonplace man was a foe
and a matter for rage, to the artist was a friend. Every
one knows about it now.

Fogs have never been quite the same to me since I was
shown a huge chimney on the south side of the Thames,
and was told that it belonged to the furnaces that supply
London offices with electric light ; and that whenever
the weather seems to suggest a fog, a man is sent to the
top of this chimney to look down the river and give notice
of the first signs of the enemy rolling up. Then, as his
news is communicated, the furnaces are re-stoked, and
extra pressure is obtained that the coming darkness may
be fought and the work of counting-houses not interrupted.
All sentinels, all men on the look-out, belong to romance ;
and from his great height this man peering over the river
shipping and the myriad roofs for a thickening of the
horizon has touched even a black London fog with romance
for me. I think of his straining eyes, his call of warning,
those roaring fires. . . .

Park Lane is the Mecca of the successful financier. A
house in Park Lane is a London audience's symbol for
ostentatious wealth, just as supper with an actress is its
symbol for gilt-edged depravity ; yet it is just as possible
to live in Park Lane without being either a plutocrat or
a vulgarian, as it is to be dull and virtuous in the few
minutes after the play that are allowed for supper at a
restaurant before the light is switched off — to plunge his
guests in darkness being the London restaurateur's tactful
reminder that closing time has arrived.

24 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Park Lane is interesting in that every house in it
has personal character ; while a few are beautiful. Of
Captain Guest's I have already spoken. It might have
been built to stand among trees in its own deer park : a re-
mark that applies with even more propriety to Dorchester
House (the home of the American Embassy, with a spread
eagle over the door), and to Londonderry House, and to
Grosvenor House, all of which quietly take their place
in this street almost as submissively as the component
parts of a suburban terrace. Such natural meetings
of architectural incompatibles is one of London's most
curious characteristics. There are, I believe, in Park
Lane no two houses alike ; but now and then one comes
upon one more unlike the others than one would have
thought possible — as for example that richly carved stone
facade at the end of Tilney Street, a gem in its way, but
very, very unexpected here.

Before it was Park Lane and wealthy this pleasant
thoroughfare — half-town and half-country, catching all
the sun that London can offer in summer and winter — was
known as Tyburn Lane, Tyburn Tree, where highwaymen
and other malefactors danced upon air, being at the north
end of it, near the Marble Arch, now so foolishly isolated
— a gateway leading to nowhere — at the south end of
Edgware Road, as a triangle let into the roadway now
indicates, with particulars on a tablet on the adjacent
Capital and Counties Bank. The last hanging at Tyburn
was in 1783, after which the scene was moved to the front
of Newgate (now also no more). We have the grace to do
such deeds in secret to-day; but nothing in our social
history is more astonishing than the deliberateness with
which such grace came upon us.

Tyburn was the end of a few brave fellows, and many

TYBURN'S HEROES 25

others. Perkin Warbeck, who claimed the throne, died
here, and Fenton, who killed Buckingham ; Jack Sheppard
very properly had a crowd numbering 200,000, but
Jonathan Wild, who picked the parson's pocket on the
way to the gallows, had more ; Mrs. Brownrigg's hanging
was very popular, but among the masses through whom
Sixteen-stringed Jack wended his way, with a bouquet
from a lady friend in his hand, were probably more sym-
pathisers than censors. The notorious Dr. Dodd, in 1777,
also drew an immense concourse.

These curious Londoners (Hogarth has drawn them)
once at any rate had more (or less) than they were expect-
ing, when, in 1705, John Smith, a burglar, was reprieved
after he had been hanging for full fifteen minutes, and
being immediately cut down, came to himself " to the great
admiration of the spectators " (although baulked of their
legitimate entertainment), and was quickly removed by his
friends, enraptured or otherwise, to begin a second, if not
a new, life.

And here, having come to Oxford Street before I in-
tended, let us forget malefactors and the gallows in walk-
ing through the Wallace Collection at Hertford House,
which is close by, and gain at the same time some idea of
London's wealth of great painting: deflecting just for a
moment to look at the very charming raised garden in the
Italian manner which has just been ingeniously built over
a subterranean electric light station in Duke Street. This
is quite one of the happiest of new architectural fancies in
London, with its two domed gateways, its stone terraces
and its cypresses. One might almost be on Isola Bella.

Opinions would necessarily differ as to what is the greatest
picture on the walls of Hertford House, but I suppose that
from the same half dozen or so most of the good critics

26 A WANDERER IN LONDON

would select that one. It is not in me to support my
choice with professional reasons, but I should be inclined
to name Rembrandt's " Parable of the Unmerciful Servant ".
Near it come the same painter's portraits of Jan Pellicorne
and his wife, and Velasquez* " Portrait of a Spanish Lady,''
sometimes called " La Femme a 1' Eventail," of which I for
one never tire, whether I think of it as a piece of marvel-
lous painting or as a sad and fascinating personality.

But there are also such masterpieces as Andrea del
Sarto's " Virgin and Child with St. John the Baptist and
two Angels," notable for the beauty of it and the maternal
sweetness and kindliness of it, and the quiet ease of the
brush. It is not perhaps quite so lovely as a rather similar
picture belonging to Lord Battersea, which was exhibited
in London some ten years ago, and which, after the same
painter's portrait of the young sculptor in the National
Gallery, is the most exquisite of his paintings that I have
seen in England ; but it is very beautiful. And in the
largest of the Wallace rooms may also be seen Frans Hals'
'' Laughing Cavalier " who does not really laugh at all but
smiles a faint mischievous smile that I dare swear worked
more havoc than any laughter could. Here also is Murillo's
" Charity of St. Thomas of Villanueva " (No. 97), with its
suggestion of Andrea del Sarto in the beautiful painting
of the mother and children to the right of it ; and two
charming Nicolas Maes' : wistful, delicate, smiling boys
with hawks on their wrists; and several other glorious
Velasquez' ; and Vandyck's superb "Philippe le Roy, Seigneur
de Ravels " (No. 94), with his Lady (No. 79) ; and one of
Rubens' spreading landscapes ; and two of Luini's exquisite
Madonnas ; and some feathery Hobbemas ; and Gains-
borough's " ' Perdita ' Robinson " ; and a number of Rey-
nolds at his best, of which I would carry away either

THE CHARM OF THE CUMULUS 27

" Mrs. Hoare with her Infant Son," or " Mrs. Nesbitt with
a Dove " ; and two of the best portraits by Cornelius de
Vos I have seen ; and the sweet and subtle Mierevelt that
is reproduced opposite page 4. I name these only, but
there is not one picture in the large room that does not
repay individual study.

Before leaving it, I would say that, without going into
any kind of rapture, I have always been very fond of
Adrian Van der Velde's " Departure of Jacob into Egypt "
(No. 80), partly for the interesting drama and reality of it
all, and partly for its noble cumulus cloud, since no picture
with a cumulus cloud painted at all like life ever fails to
catch and hold my eye ; and with this picture I associate in
memory the Berchem on the opposite wall, " Coast Scene
with Figures " (No. 25), for a kind of relationship which they
bear the one to the other.

In Room XVII, which unites the great gallery with the
Fete Galante school, I would mention the magnificent
Claude — "Italian Landscape" (No. 114) — and the abso-
lutely lovely Cuyp on the opposite wall (No. 138) " River
Scene with View of Dort," only more beautiful than the
" River Scene " (No. 54) of the same master in the large
room. The Dort picture has an evening quietude ap-
proached only by William Van der Velde the younger, in
his " Ships in a Calm," in Room XIV, and by Berchem, in
his " Landscape with Figures " (No. 183), all misty gold and
glamour, in the same room.

Among the pictures in Room XV that I make a point
of returning to again and again, one of the first is " A
Fountain at Constantinople " (No. 312) by Narcisse Virgile
Diaz de la Pena, commonly called Diaz, who lived at
Barbizon, and was the dear friend of Theodore Rousseau,
the painter of No. 283, and of Jean Francois Millet, who is

28 A WANDERER IN LONDON

not represented either here or at the National Gallery.
Exactly what the fascination of this Turkish scene is I
cannot define, hut it affects me curiously and deeply, and
always in the same way. This room is given up to French
painters, Decamps being represented here better, I believe,
than in any collection, if not so numerously as in the
Thorny-Thierry gallery at the Louvre. Personally I could
wish for more of Corot and Rousseau and Diaz, and less of
Decamps although his "Villa Doria Pamfili" (No. 267)
always draws me to it and keeps me there. Meissonier too
I could exchange for something more romantic. One Corot
there is, and one Rousseau, both very fine, both inhabited
by their own light ; but there is no Millet. Having seen
the Fete Galante School in all its luxuriance in Rooms
XVIII, XIX and XX and on the staircase, one can per-
haps understand whv the peasants of Barbizon's greatest
and simplest son have been excluded.

As to the Fete Galante school, there is a word to be
said. If one has any feeling but one of intense satisfaction
in connection with the Wallace treasure house, it is a hint
of regret that the collectors were so catholic. I would
have had them display a narrower sympathy. I resent
this interest in the art of Boucher and Lancret, Pater and,
although not to the same extent, Watteau and Greuze.
After Rembrandt and Velasquez, Andrea del Sarto and
Reynolds, such artificialities almost hurt one. Each to
his taste, of course, and I am merely recording mine ; but
as a general proposition it may be remarked that great art
should not be too closely companioned by great artfulness.
On the other hand there is much to be said for catholicity ;
and I would include one Fragonard in every gallery if only
for the sound of his exquisite name. But at Hertford
House he is wholly charming in his wori too, especially
in " The Schoolmistress ".

THE " LAUGHING " CAVALIER
AFTER THE PICTURE BY FRANS HALS IN THE WALLACE COLLECTION

METSU'S FRIEND 29

Rooms XIV and XIII belong to the Dutch, and are
hung with small pictures by great craftsmen — Rembrandt,
with a curiously fascinating yellow landscape (No. 229);
Terburg, who is at his happiest in the " Lady Reading a
Letter" (No. 236), reproduced opposite page 36; William
Van der Velde ; Gerard Dou ; Van der Heyden, with " The
Margin of a Canal " (No. 225), so clear and solemn ; Paul
Potter, at his best in a small canvas; Caspar Netscher,
with a "Lace Maker" (No. 237), one of the simplest and
most attractive works of this artificer that I have seen, and
notable for the absence of that satin which he seems to
have lived to reproduce in paint ; and Gabriel Metsu, re-
presented by several little masterpieces, all faithful to that
womanly figure whom he painted so often, and who, I imagine,
in return did so much for the painter's material well-being :
for she is always busy in such pleasant domestic offices as
bringing enough wine, or preparing enough dinner, or
playing an air upon the harpsichord ; and is always smiling,
and always the same (as the clever wife notoriously has to
be), with her light hair smoothed back from her shining
brow, and her fair nose with the dip where one looks for
the bridge, and her red jacket and white cap. One seems
to know few women in real life better than this kindly
Dutch friend of Gabriel Metsu. Lastly I would name
Jan Steen, who in this collection is not at his greatest,
although, as always with him, he gives a sign of it some-
where in every picture. In the "Merry Making in a
Tavern " (No. 158), for example, the mother and child in
the foreground are set down perfectly, as only his touch
could have contrived ; and in the " Harpsichord Lesson "
(No. 154), the girl's hands on the keys are unmistakably
the hands of a learner.

In Room XII are the Guardis for which the Wallace
Collection is famous — soft and benign scenes in Venice,

30 A WANDERER IN LONDON

gondolas that are really moving, oars from which you can
hear the silver drops splashing into the water, beautiful
fairy architecture : Venice, in fact, floating on her Adriatic
like a swan. The best Guardis ever brought together are
here, hung side by side with the more severe and archi-
tectural Canaletto, to show how much more human and
southern and romantic Venice may be made by pupil than
by master. For the water colours you seek Rooms XXI
and XXII, notable above all for their examples of Richard
Parkes Bonington, that great and sensitive colourist, who,
like Keats, had done his work and was dead before ordinary
men have made up their minds as to what they will attempt
In two or three of these tiny drawings Bonington is at his
best — particularly in No. 700, "Fishing Boats" ; No. 714,
" The Church of Sant' Ambrogio, Milan," and, above all,
No. 708, " Sunset in the Pays de Caux " which might be
placed beside Turner's greatest effects of light and lose
nothing, although it is only seven and a half inches by ten.
On the ground floor are a few more pictures, among
them two or three which one would like to see in the great
gallery, properly lighted, such as Bramantino's charming
fresco of "The Youthful Gian Galeazzo Sforza reading
Cicero," which should be reproduced for all boys' schools ;
Pieter Pourbus' very interesting " Allegorical Love Feast "
— this painter's work being rare in England ; and Bronzino's
portrait of Eleanora de Toledo. In the room where these
pictures hang are the cases devoted to coloured wax reliefs,
a very amusing collection. In the great hall at the back
is the armour, and elsewhere are statuary, furniture and
a priceless company of miniatures, many of them very
naked, but all dainty and smiling. I am no judge of such
confectionery, but I recall one or two that seem to
stand out r -peculiarly dexterous or charming : I remember

MINIATURES 31

in particular a portrait wrongfully described as " The Two
Miss Gunnings," by Adolphe-Hall, and Samuel Cooper's
Charles II. I have said nothing of the Sevres porcelain
and enamelled snuff boxes, the bronzes and ecclesiastical
jewels. I may indeed almost be said to have said nothing
of the collection at all ; for it defies description. Amazing
however you consider it, when you realise that it was all
the work of two connoisseurs it becomes incredible. Cer-
tainly its acquisition is the best thing that has happened
to London in my time. Second to it is that wonderful
assemblage of beautiful things brought together by George
Salting, now also the nation's.

CHAFFER III

MAYFAIR AND THE GEORGIANS

The Stately Homes of London — Shepherd's Market and the Past — Gay's
Trivia — Memorial Tablets — May Fair — Keith's Chapel — Marriage
on Easy Terms — Curzon Street — Shelley and the Lark — Literary
Associations — Berkeley Square — The Beaux — Dover Street — John
Murray's — Grosvenor Square — South Audley Street and Chesterfield
House.

OF the vast tracts of wealthy residential streets in
Bayswater and Belgravia and South Kensington
there is nothing to say, because they are not interesting.
They are too new to have a history (I find myself instinct-
ively refusing to loiter in any streets built since Georgian
days), and for the most part too regular to compel atten-
tion as architecture. But Mayfair is different : Mayfair's
bricks and stones are eloquent.

Mayfair, whose oldest houses date from the early years
of the eighteenth century, is strictly speaking only a very
small district ; but we have come to consider its boundaries
Piccadilly on the south, on the north Oxford Street, on the
east Bond Street, and on the west Park Lane. Since
most of the people who live there have one or more other
houses, in England or Scotland, Mayfair out of the season
is a very desolate land ; but that is all to the good from
the point of view of the wanderer. It is still one of the
most difficult districts to learn, and so many are its cub de sue

32

THE SHRIMP GIRL
AFTER THE PICTURE BY HOGARTH IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY

SHEPHERD'S MARKET 33

>ften a mews, for from almost every Mayfair house may be
heard a horse stamping — and so capricious its streets, that
one may lose one's way in Mayfair very easily. I can still
do so, and still make a discovery every time ; whether, as
on my last visit, the little very green oasis between South
Street and Mount Street with the children in an upper
.room of a school singing a grave hymn, or, on the visit
before, an old ramifying stable-yard in Shepherd Street, ab-
solutely untouched since the coaching days.

In Shepherd's Market, just here, which is one of the
least modernised parts of London, it is still possible to feel
in the eighteenth century. It lies just to the south of
Curzon Street, in the democratic way in which in Lon-
don poor neighbourhoods jostle wealthy ones, and it is
a narrow street or two filled with bustling little shops
and busy shopkeepers. Many of the houses have hardly
been touched since they were built two hundred years ago,
nor have the manners of the place altered to any serious
degree. Gentlemen's gentlemen, such as one meets
about here, remain very much the same: the coachmen
and butlers and footmen who to-day emerge from the
ancient Sun inn, wiping their mouths, are not, save for
costume, very different from those that emerged wiping
their mouths from the same inn in the days of Walpole
and Charles James Fox. Edward Shepherd, the architect
who built Shepherd's Market, lived in Wharncliff House, the
low white house in its own grounds with a little lodge, oppo-
site the Duke of Maryborough's square white palace, and it
still looks to be one of the pleasantest houses in London.

A thought that is continually coming to mind as one
walks about older London and meditates on its past is how
modern that past is — how recently civilization as we under-
stand it came upon the town. Superficially much is
3

34 A WANDERER IN LONDON

changed, but materially nothing. Half an hour spent on
the old Spectator or Tatler, or with Walpole's Letters or
BoswelTs Johnson, shows you that. The London of Gay's
Trivia, that pleasant guide to the art of walking in the
streets of this city, is at heart our own London — with tri-
fling modifications. The Bully has gone, the Nicker (the
gentleman who broke windows with halfpence) has gone,
the fop is no longer offensive with scent, wigs have become
approximately a matter of secrecy, and the conditions of
life are less simple; but Londoners are the same, and
always will be, I suppose, and the precincts of St James still
have their milkmaids. It is too late in the day to quote
from the poem (which some artist with a genial backward
look, like Mr. Hugh Thomson, ought to illustrate), but my
little edition has an index, and I might quote a little from
that, partly because it is interesting in itself, and partly
because it transforms the reader into his own poet. Here
are some entries : —

Alley, the pleasure of walking in one

Bookseller skilled in the weather

Barber, by whom to be shunned

Butchers, to be avoided

Cane, the convenience of one

Coat, how to chuse one for the winter

Countryman perplexed to find the way

Coachman, his whip dangerous

Crowd parted by a coach

Cellar, the misfortunes of falling into one

Dustman, to whom offensive

Fop, the ill consequence of passing too near one

Father, the happiness of a child who knows his own

Ladies dress neither by reason nor instinct

Milkman of the city unlike a rural one

TABLETS 35

Overton the print seller

Oyster, the courage of him that first ate one

Prentices not to be relied on

Pern wigs, how stolen off the head

Playhouse, a caution when you lead a lady out of it

Shoes, what most proper for walkers

Stockings, how to prevent their being spattered

Schoolboys mischievous in frosty weather

Umbrella, its use

Wig, what to be worn in a mist

Way, of whom to be inquired

Wall, when to keep it

From these heads one ought — given a knack of rhyme — to
be able to make a Trivia for oneself; and they show that
the London life of Gay's day — Trivia was published in
1712 — was very much what it is now. There were no
Music Halls, no cricket matches, no railway stations ; but I
doubt if they lacked much else that we have.

From No. 1 London the best way to Shepherd's Market
is by Hamilton Place and Hertford Street, or it may be
gained from Piccadilly by the narrow White Horse Street.
Hertford Street is a street of grave houses where many
interesting men and women have lived, only one of whom,
however — Dr. Jenner, the vaccinator, at No. 14 — has a
tablet. The erection of tablets in historic London — a duty
shared by the County Council and the Society of Arts — is
very capriciously managed, owing to a great extent to the
reluctance of owners or occupiers to have their walls thus
distinguished for gapers. Mayfair, so rich in residents of
eminence, has hardly any tablets. Upon Hertford Street's
roll of fame is also Capability Brown, who invented the
shrubbery, or at any rate made it his ambition to make
shrubberies grow where none had grown before, and was

36 A WANDERER IN LONDON

employed on this task, and on the laying out of gardens,
by gentlemen all over England. Sheridan lived at No. 10
during four of his more prosperous years, in the house where
General Burgoyne (who was also a playwright) died.
Bulwer Lytton was at No. 36 in the eighteen-thirties.

Mayfair proper, which takes its name from the fair
which was held there every May until the middle of the
eighteenth century, on ground covered now by a part of
Curzon Street and Hertford Street, has changed its character
as completely as any London district. In those days it
was notorious. Not only was the fair something of a
scandal, but the Rev. Alexander Keith, in a little chapel
of his own, with a church porch, close to Curzon Chapel,
was in the habit of joining in matrimony more convenient
than holy as many as six thousand couples a year, on the
easiest terms then procurable south of Gretna Green.
Among those that took advantage of the simplicities and
incuriousness of Keith's Chapel was James, fourth Duke of
Hamilton, in his curtain-ring marriage with the younger
of the beautiful Miss Gunnings. Curtain-ring and Keith
notwithstanding, this lady became the mother of two Dukes
of Hamilton, and, in her second marriage, of two Dukes of
Argyle. Keith meanwhile died in the Fleet prison. Not
only is his chapel no more, but Curzon Chapel, its author-
ised neighbour and scandalised rival, is no more ; for a year
or so ago the Duke of Marlborough, wishing a new town
house, used its site.

Curzon Street, of which this mansion is one of the most
striking buildings, might be called the most interesting
street in Mayfair. Although it has new houses and newly-
fronted houses, it retains much of its old character, and it
is still at each end a cul de sac for carriages, and that is
always a preservative condition. Now and then one comes

LADY READING A LETTER
AFTER THE PICTURE BY TERBURG IN THE WALLACE COLLECTDN

SHELLEY THE LARK 37

to a house which must be as it was from the first — No. 35,
for example — which has the old windows with white frames
almost flush with the facade (a certain aid to picturesqueness,
as Bedford Row eminently shows), and the old tiled roof.
Like so many houses in this neighbourhood, No. 21 retains
its extinguishers for the torches of the link boys. To give
a list of Curzon Street's famous inhabitants would not be
easy ; but it was at No. 19 that Lord Beaconsfield died,
and at No. 8 died the Miss Berry s, of whom Walpole has
so much that is delightful to say.

Curzon Street's tributaries have also preserved much of
their early character : Half Moon Street, Clarges Street,
the north part of which has the quaintest little lodgings,
Bolton Street, and so forth. In Half Moon Street, named,
like many other London streets and omnibus destinations,
after a public house, lived for a while such very different
contemporaries as Hazlitt, Shelley and Madame d'Arblay.
I like the picture of Shelley there a hundred years ago :
" There was," says Hogg in his life of his friend, " a little
projecting window in Half Moon Street in which Shelley
might be seen from the street all day long, book in hand,
with lively gestures and bright eyes ; so that Mi's. N. said
he wanted only a pan of clear water and a fresh turf to
look like some young lady's lark hanging outside for air
and song." Mrs. N. might walk through Half Moon Street
to-day till her legs ached, and see no poet. Our poets are
for the most part at the British Museum or the Board of
Trade, and are not at all like larks.

Clarges Street, which is next Half Moon Street on the
east, has its roll of fame too. Dr. Johnson's blue-stockinged
friend Mrs. Elizabeth Carter died at a great age at No. 21,
and Nelson's warm-hearted friend Lady Hamilton occupied

88 A WANDERER IN LONDON

No. 11, from 1804 to 1806. Edmund Kean lived at No.
12 for eight years, and Macaulay lodged at No. 3 on his
return from India. No. 32, in Mr. Kinnaird the banker's
days, was one of Byron's haunts. Bolton Street, near by,
which just two hundred years ago was the most westerly
street in London, was the home of Pope's friend Martha
Blount, who inspired some of his most exquisite compli-
ments ; and it was there that Madame d'Arblay moved in
1818 and was visited by Sir Walter Scott and Samuel Rogers.

At its east end Curzon Street narrows to a passage be-
tween the gardens of Devonshire House and Lansdowne
House, which takes the foot passenger into Berkeley Street.
Once, however, a horseman made the journey too : a high-
wayman, who after a successful coup in Piccadilly, evaded
his pursuers by dashing down the steps and along this
passage — a feat which led to the vertical iron bars now
to be seen at either end.

Berkeley Square is smaller than Grosvenor Square but it
has more character. Many of the wealthy inhabitants of
Grosvenor Square are willing to take houses as they find
them ; but in Berkeley Square they make them peculiarly
their own. At No. 11 Horace Walpole lived for eighteen
years (with alternations at Strawberry Hill), and here he
died in 1797. At No. 45 Clive committed suicide. " Auld
Robin Gray " was written at No. 21.

To the task of tracing the past of this fashionable
quarter there would of course be no end, and indeed one
could not have a much more interesting occupation ; but
this is not that kind of book, and I have perhaps said
enough to send readers independently to Wheatley and
Cunningham,1 who have been so useful to me and to whom

1 London Past and Present. Its Histories, Associations and Traditions,
by H. B. Wheatley, based upon Peter Cunningham's Handbook of Lon-
don. Three volumes. Murray.

INTERIOR OF A DUTCH HOUSE
AKTER THE PICTURE BY PETER DE HOOCH IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY

MAYFAIR'S ROLL 39

old London is more familiar than new London. For any
one bent on this pleasant enterprise of re-peopling Mayfair,
Berkeley Square is a very good starting point. Charles
Street, Bruton Street, and Mount Street all lead from it,
of which Charles Street perhaps retains most of its ancient
peace and opulent gravity. One of its newer houses, with
three dormer windows, has some of the best wrought-iron
in London. At No. 42 lived, in 1792, Beau Brummell ; while
another Charles Street dandy — but only half a one, since he
smirched his escutcheon by writing books and legislating
— was the first Lord Lytton. Here also Mr. Burke flirted
with Fanny Burney, before Mrs. Burke's face too. Later,
Beau Brummell moved to 4 Chesterfield Street, where he
had for neighbour George Selwyn, who made the best
jokes of his day and dearly loved a hanging. In Bruton
Street — at No. 24 — lived in 1809 another George who was
also a wit, but of deeper quality, George Canning.

Through Bruton Street we gain Bond Street, London's
Rue de la Paix, which only a golden key can unlock ; but
into Bond Street we will not now stray, but return to
Berkeley Square and climb Hay Hill, — where the Prince of
Wales, afterwards George IV, with a party, was once way-
laid by footpads ; but to little profit, for they could muster
only half a crown between them — and so come to Dover
Street, where once lived statesmen and now are modistes.
Among its old inhabitants were John Evelyn, who died
in the ninth house on the east side from Piccadilly, and
Harley, Earl of Oxford, in whose house, the second from
Piccadilly on the west side, Pope and Swift and Arbuthnot
used to meet in what Arbuthnot called Martin's office —
Martin being Scriblerus, master of the art of sinking. In
another Dover Street house lived Sir Joshua Reynolds'
sister, whose guests often included Johnson and his satellite.

40 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Albemarle Street, which also is no longer residential and
has been given up to business, also has great traditions.
Lord Bute lived here, and here Zoffany painted the portrait
of John Wilkes ; Charles James Fox lived here for a little
while, and Robert Adam and James Adam, who with their
brothers built the Adelphi, both died here. Louis XVIII
stayed at Grillion's Hotel when in exile in 1814. But the
most famous house is John Murray's, at No. 50, where the
Quarterly Review, so savage and tartarly, was founded,
and whence so much that is best in literature emerged,
whose walls are a portrait gallery of English men of letters.
Byron's is of course the greatest name in this house, but
Borrow's belongs to it also. Scott and Byron first met
beneath this roof.

It was at the Mount Coffee House in Mount Street,
which takes one from Berkeley Square to Grosvenor Square,
that Shelley's first wife Harriet Westbrook, about whom
there has been too much chatter, lived, her father being
the landlord ; but Mount Street bears few if any traces of
that time, for the rebuilder has been very busy there.
And so leaving on the left Farm Street, where May fair's
Roman Catholics worship, we turn into Grosvenor Square.
Grosvenor Square is two hundred years old and has had
many famous residents. It was in an ante-room of the
Earl of Chesterfield's house here that Johnson cooled his
heels and wanned his temper. Mr. Thrale died in Gros-
venor Square, and so did John Wilkes, at No. 30. At No.
22 lived Sir William and Lady Hamilton, with " Vathek "
Beckford, and thither went Nelson after the battle of the
Nile. When gas came in as the new illuminant, Grosvenor
Square was sceptical and contemptuous, and it clung to oil
and candles for some years longer than its neighbours.

The two Grosvenor Streets, Upper and Lower, have rich

1'ORTRAIT OK A TAILOR
AFTER THE PICTURE BY MORONI IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY

END OF MAYFAIR 41

associations too. Mrs. Oldfield died at No. 60 Upper
Grosvenor Street in 1730 ; at No. 13 Scott and Coleridge
had a memorable meeting in 1809. The two Brook
Streets, and indeed all the Grosvenor Square tributaries,
are also worth studying by the light of Wheatley and
Cunningham ; while South Audley Street, although it
is now principally shops, is rich in sites that have historic
interest. At 77, for instance, lived Alderman Wood,
the champion of Caroline of Brunswick, who was his guest
there on her return from Italy in 1820. Many notable
persons were buried in Grosvenor Chapel, among them
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu and John Wilkes.

The house within its own walls and gates at the south"
east corner of South Audley Street is Chesterfield House,
built in the middle of the eighteenth century for the
famous fourth Earl of Chesterfield, who wrote the Letters,
and who by his want of generosity (but that was in Gros-
venor Square) stimulated Dr. Johnson to a better letter
than any of his own. And at this point we enter Curzon
Street again.

ST. JAMES'S AND PICCADILLY EAST

The other Park Lane — High Politics — Samuel Rogers — St. James's Place
— Male streets — Hoby the Bootmaker — Carlyle's feet — St, James's
Street — St. James's Palace — Blucher in London — Pall Mall and Nell
Gwynn — The Clubs — St. James's Square — Dr. Johnson's Night
Walk— Jermyn Street — St James's Church— Piccadilly again — The
Albany — Burlington House — The Diploma Gallery — A Leonardo
— Christy Minstrels and Maskelyne and Cook — Georgian London
once more — Bond Street and Socrates — Shopping — Tobacconists — •
Chemists — The Demon Distributor — Bond Street's Past — Regent
Street— The Flower Girls.

FROM Mayfair it is a pleasant walk for one still in-
terested in the very core of aristocratic life to that
other Park Lane, Queen's Walk, lined also with its palaces
looking westward over grass and trees — these, however,
being the grass and trees of Green Park. Some of London's
most distinguished houses are here — among them Hamilton
House and Stafford House, where are pictures beyond
price. Arlington Street, where the upper Queen's Walk
houses have their doors, has long been dedicated to high
politics. Every brick in it has some political association :
from Sir Robert Walpole to the late Lord Salisbury.
Horace Walpole lived long at No. 5, and was born opposite.
At No. 4 lived Charles James Fox ; and it was at lodgings

in Arlington Street in 1801 that Ladv Nelson parted

42

PORTRAIT OK A YOUNG SCULPTOR
AFTER THE PAINTING BY ANDREA DEI. SARTO IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY

ST. JAMES'S PLACE 43

for ever from her husband, being " sick of hearing of ' Dear
Lady Hamilton"1.

St. James's Place also has political associations, but is
more tinged with literature than Arlington Street.
Addison lived here, and here lived Pope's fair Lepel. Fox,
who seems to have lodged or lived everywhere, was here in
1783. "Perdita" Robinson was at No. 13; Mrs. Delany
died here; and Byron was lodging at No. 8 when English
Bards and Scotch Reviewers burst on the town. But the
king of St. James's Place was Samuel Rogers, who lived
at No. 22 from 1803 until 1855, when he died aged ninety-

ft

five, and in that time entertained every one who was
already distinguished and distinguished the others by
entertaining them.

St. James's Place is the quietest part of aristocratic Lon-
don. I have been there even in mid afternoon in the
season and literally have seen no sign of life in any of its
odd ramifications. Every house is staid ; every house, one
feels, has had its history and perhaps is making history
now , wealth and birth and breeding and taste are as
evident here as they can be absent elsewhere. One doubts if
any Cockney child, even the most audacious, venturing up
the narrowest of narrow passages from the Green Park into
this Debrettian backwater, ever dared to do more than peep
at its blue-blooded gravity and precipitately withdraw. I
would go to St. James's Place for a rest cure : it is the
last sanctuary in London which the motor-bus will de-
secrate.

Arlington Street and St. James's Place have kept their
residential character ; but St. James's Street and Pall Mall
have lost theirs. They are now the principal male streets
of London. Women are the exception there, and there are
no London streets so given up to women as these to men.

44 A WANDERER IN LONDON

The buildings are clubs and a few men's shops, most famous
of which in the past was Hoby's, the bootmaker. Hoby
claimed to have won Vittoria, and indeed all Wellington's
battles, by virtue of the boots he had made for him in St.
James's Street and the prayers he had offered for him in
Islington, where he was a Methodist preacher. I suppose
there are still characters among London tradesmen ; but
one does not hear much about them. Interest in char-
acter seems to have died out, the popular ambition to-day
being for every man to be as much like every other man
as he can. Hoby was splendid. When Ensign Horace
Churchill of the Guards burst into his shop in a fury,
vowing never to employ him again, the bootmaker quietly
called to one of his assistants, "John, put up the shutters.
It's all over with us. Ensign Churchill has withdrawn his
custom." Hoby kept all the Iron Duke's orders for boots ;
I wonder where they are now. I know personally of only
one great man's letter to his bootmaker, and that is on the
walls of a shop near Charing Cross, and in it Thomas
Carlyle says that there at last, after many years, have his
feet found comfort.

Before St. James's Street was given up to clubs — White's
with its famous bow window, Boodle's, Brooks's, the
Thatched House, to mention the old rather than the new
— it had its famous inhabitants, among them Edmund
Waller, Gillray the caricaturist, who committed suicide by
throwing himself from a window at No. 29, Campbell the
poet, and James Maclean the gentleman highwayman.

St. James's Street has the great scenic merit of termina-
ting in the gateway of St. James's Palace, a beautiful,
grave, Tudor structure of brick. The palace, now the
home of court officials, was the royal abode from the reign
of William III, in whose day Whitehall was burnt, to

PALL MALL 45

George IV. Queen Mary died there. Charles I was im-
prisoned there before his execution and walked to White-
hall on the fatal morning from this place — to bow his
comely head down as upon a bed. General Monk lived in
the palace for a while, and Verrio, the Italian mural painter,
who covered fair white ceilings with sprawling goddesses and
cupids, had his home here in the reign of James II.
In 1912-13 the delegates met here in the hope of
bringing the Balkan War to a satisfactory end. In 1814
Bliicher lodged in A mbassador's Yard, and, settled in his
window with his pipe, bowed to the admiring crowds — an
agreeable picture to think upon. Ambassadors' Yard is
still one of the quietest spots in London, and indeed the
Palace is a very pleasant place in which to retire from the
streets, for those who prefer the repose of masonry to the
repose of nature, such as St. James's Park offers. Levees
are still held at St. James's ; but the old practice of hearing
the Laureates declaim their state poems has been abandoned
without any particular wrench. Every morning at eleven
the lover of military music may enjoy the Guards' band.

And so we come to the Park, of whose beauty I have
already said something, and to the splendours of the new
Mall, which is London's Champs Elysees, and to the
monotonous opulence of Carlton House Terrace, the new
home of ambassadors. The new gateway at Whitehall,
and the Victoria Statue opposite Buckingham Palace, that
dreariest of royal homes, which, however, is to be soon
refaced, and I hope kept white, are part of the memorial
to the great queen ; the Edward memorial is to be at the
foot of Regent Street, opposite the A thenseum Club.

Pall Mall is not only more sombre in mien but has more
seriousness than St. James's Street. The War Office is
here, and here are the Carlton and the Athenaeum. Marl-

46 A WANDERER IN LONDON

borough House is here too. But it was not always thus,
for at the house which is now No. 79. but has been rebuilt
and rebuilt, once lived Mistress Elinor Gwynn, over whose
garden wall she leaned to exchange badinage with Charles
II. The impostor Psalmanazar lodged in Pall Mall, and
so did Gibbon, greatest of ironists. Gainsborough painted
there, and Cosway, and there was the house of John Julius
Angerstein, whose collection of old masters formed the
nucleus of our National Gallery.

Captain Thomas Morris's pleasant song about the charms
of the sweet shady side of Pall Mall over all the allure-
ments of the country has never found any echo in me. I
find Pall Mall equally forbidding in wet weather or fine.
There is something chilling about these huge, sombre,
material monasteries called clubs, solemn temples of the
best masculine form, compounded of gentlemen and waiters,
dignity and servility. They oppress me. Pall Mall has
no sweet shade ; its shade is gloomy.

Turning up between the Army and Navy and the Junior
Carlton clubs one comes to St. James's Square, once an-
other abode of the rich and powerful, and now a square
of clubs and annexes of the War Office, with a few private
houses only. In 1695, when it was already built round, the
square was a venue for duellists, and in 1773 a mounted
highwayman could still carry on his profession there. At
Norfolk House, No. 31, George III was born. The iron
posts at No. 2 were cannon captured off Finisterre by
Admiral Boscawen. At No. 15 lived Thurlow At the
north corner of King Street was Lord Castlereagh's, and
here his body was brought after his suicide in 1822. It was
round this square that Johnson and Savage, being out of
money, walked and walked for hours one night, " in high
spirits and brimful of patriotism," inveighing against the

'

ST. JAMES'S STREET AND ST. JAMES'S PALACE

CHRISTIE'S 47

ministry and vowing to stand by their country. Later
Johnson used often to quote the stanza about the Duchess
of Leeds —

She shall have all that's fine and fair,
And the best of silk and satin shall wear,
And live in a coach to take the air,
And have a house in St. James's Square, —
saying that it " comprised nearly all the advantages that
wealth can give." But King Street's chief interest for
me is centred in Christie's rooms, for here one may see
during the season so many beautiful pictures — better often
than our National Gallery examples — and even if one may
not buy one can attend the private views or even the sales
themselves, provided that one has no awkward nervous
affection which might be mistaken by the auctioneer for
the frenzied nods of the millionaire collector. In course
of time nearly every privately owned picture finds its way
to Christie's, and I advise all visitors to London in the season
to get into the habit of dropping into the rooms on the
chance of finding a masterpiece. At Shepherd's Gallery
opposite are the best British painters to be seen ; but for
the chief dealers Bond Street must be sought.

All the streets in this neighbourhood have their pasts :
Bury Street, where Swift had lodgings when he was in
London, and Steele, after his marriage, and Moore and
Crabbe ; Duke Street, where, at No. 67, Burke had
rooms ; and Jermyn Street, home of bachelors whose
clubs are their father and their mother, where in its palmy
residential days lived great men and women, even Marl-
borough himself and Sir Isaac Newton. Gray lodged here
regularly, over Roberts the hosier's or Frisby the oilman's ;
and in 1832, in a house where the Hammam Turkish Bath
now is, Sir Walter Scott lay very near his end.

48 A WANDERER IN LONDON

To the end of all, in the case of many illustrious persons,
we come at St. James's Church, between this street and
Piccadilly, one of Wren's red brick buildings and a very
beautiful one too, with a font and other work by Grinling
Gibbons and a Jacobean organ. Here lie cheerful Master
Cotton, who helped with the Compkat Angler, and Van
der Velde the painter of sea-fights, and the ingenious but
reprehensible Tom d'Urfey, and Dr. Arbuthnot, friend of
Pope and Swift and Gay and wit. Mrs. Delany is also
here, and Dodsley the bookseller, and the dissolute Old
Q, and Gillray ; and here was baptised the great Earl of
Chatham. And so we come to Piccadilly again — the
business part of it — with its crowded pavements, its tea
rooms and picture galleries and restaurants.

St. James's Church is Piccadilly's most beautiful old
building ; the Institute of Water Colour Painters its most
impressive new one ; Burlington House is its principal lion,
and the Albany its quietest tributary. Many famous men
made their home in this mundane cloister, where all is
well-ordered, still and discreet — like a valet in list slippers.
Monk Lewis had his cell at No. 1 A ; Canning was at 5
A ; Byron at 2 A, in rooms that afterwards passed to
Lytton; Macaulay was at 1 E for fifteen years — in the
eighteen-forties and fifties. Mr. Gladstone also was a
brother of the Albany for a while. Only by the expedient
of pretending to have a friend here (whose name one must
first ascertain) can a stranger get past the janitor into the
Albany.

Of Brrlington House, since it changes its exhibitions
twice a year, there is little to say in a book of this char-
acter. As a preliminary step for the full enjoyment of the
Bond Street tea shops there is nothing like the summer
Academy, where four thousand pictures wet from the easel

HOLY FAMILY

AFTER THE DRAWING BY LEONARDO DA VINCI IN THE DIPLOMA GALLERY,
BURLINGTON HOUSE

THE DIPLOMA GALLERY 49

touch each other ; but the winter exhibitions of Old
Masters are among the first intellectual pleasures that
London offers, and are a recurring reminder of the fine
taste and generosity of the English collector, and the
country's wealth of great art.

Few people find their way to the permanent Diploma
Gallery at the top of Burlington House, where hang the
pictures with which in a way every Royal Academician
pays his footing, together with a few greater works. But
to climb the stairs is important, for the Diploma Gallery
contains wbat might be called without extravagance the
most beautiful drawing in London — a Holy Family by
Leonardo da Vinci, reproduced on the opposite page.
The picture being in monochrome the reproduction does
it less injustice than usual, preserving much of its benign
sweetness, and the lovely maternity of it. A bas-relief of
Michael Angelo and a figure of Temperance by Giorgione
are other treasures of this gallery. Reynolds' sitter's chair
and easel and three or four fine portraits are also here ;
Maclise's vast charcoal cartoon of the meeting of Welling-
ton and Bliicher : sixty-six designs for Homer by Flaxman ;
Watts' Death of Cain ; and a number of impressionistic oil
sketches by Constable, some of them the most vivid pre-
sentments of English weather that exist. The rest is
strictly diploma work and not too interesting. The
sculpture room, full of diploma casts, yellow with paint
ar London grime, is, I think, the most depressing chamber
I ever hurried from ; but a few of the pictures stand out
— Reynolds' portrait of Sir William Chambers, and Rae-
burn's " Boy and Rabbit," and Sargent's " Venetian In-
terior," for example. But it is Leonardo and Michael
Angelo and Constable that make the ascent necessary.

A few years ago it was to Piccadilly that every fortunate

50 A WANDERER IN LONDON

child was taken, to hear the Christy Minstrels ; but this
form of entertainment having been killed in England,
within doors at any rate, that famous troupe is no more. The
St. James's Hall has been razed to the ground, and a vast
and imposing hotel has risen on its site ; yet twenty years
ago the names of Moore and Burgess were as well known
and as inextricably associated with London's fun as any
have ever been. But the red ochre of the Music Hall
comedian's nose now reigns where once burnt cork had
sway: and Brother Bones asks no more conundrums of
Mr. Johnson — " Can you tole me ? " — and Mr. Johnson
no more sends the question ricochetting back for Brother
Bones triumphantly to supply its answer. A thousand
humorous possibilities have been discovered and de-
veloped since then, from tramp cyclism to the farces of
the cinematoscope, and faces are blacked now only on the
sands.

Gone too is the Egyptian Hall, that other Piccadilly
Mecca of happy childhood, where incredible illusions held
the audience a-gape twice daily. Maskelyne still remains,
but there is no Cook any more, and the new Home of
Mystery is elsewhere ; while every Music Hall occasionally
has its mysteries too. Change ! Change ! But the Burling-
ton Arcade remains, through which, half stifled by heat and
patchouli, one may if one likes regain the quietude of
Georgian London : for one comes that way to Cork Street
and Old Burlington Street and Boyle Street and Savile
Row, which have been left pretty much as they were. In
Old Burlington Street lived General Wolfe as a youth;
and here lived and died the poet Akenside. Pope's friend
Arbuthnot lived in Cork Street Savile Row being the
headquarters of tailoring is now almost exclusively a mascu-
line street, save for the little messenger girls who run

THE NATIVITY
AFTER THE PICTURE BV PIERO DELLA FRANCESCA IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY

PICCADILLY 51

between the cutters and the sewing rooms ; but once it
was a street of family mansions, many of which are not
much altered except in occupants since they were built in
the seventeen-thirties. Poor Sheridan, who once lived at
No. 14, died at No. 17 in great distress — just before assist,
ance came to him from the Regent, who had been post-
poning it for weeks and weeks, a failure of duty which led
to Moore's most scathing poem. George Tierney, who
fought a duel with Pitt, lived at No. 11, which previously
was tenanted by Cowper's friend Joseph Hill, to whom he
wrote rhyming epistles. Grote's house is marked by a
tablet.

One of Piccadilly's claims to notice I must not overlook
— its shops. Though not so wholly given up to shops as
Regent Street or Bond Street, where everything can be
bought, Piccadilly contains certain shops of world-wide
fame, whose windows I for one never tire of studying. One
of these is that condiment house on the south side where,
according to Sydney Smith, the gourmets of England will
make their last stand when their country is under invasion.
It is still as wonderful as in the days of the witty Canon :
the ends of the earth still combine to fill it with exotic
delicacies. Close by is I suppose the best known taxider-
mist and naturalist's in the world, where you may see
rhinoceroses' heads and hartebeests' horns, tiger skin rugs
and coiled boa-constrictors, all ready for the English halls
of great hunters. These shops are unique, and so also is
that on the north side whose window is filled with varnished
chickens and enamelled tongues, all ready for Goodwood or
Henley or Lord's, where it is the rule that food shall be
decorative and expensive.

Bond Street, which Socrates would find more than filled
•with articles that he could do without, is more complete

52 A WANDERER IN LONDON

as a shopping centre. You may buy there anything from
a muff-wanner to a tiara, from caravan-borne tea to an
Albert Cuyp ; for old and new picture dealers have made it
their own, and I shall never forget that it was at Lawrie's
in 1893 that I first saw Corot at his best — in four great
pictures from a Scotch collection. Next to the picture
dealers I like Bond Street's jewellers, although far behind
the Rue de la Paix's both in taste and experimental daring.
In the matter of jewels London is still faithful to its old
specialising habit — the best jewellers being still in Bond
Street and close by, and its diamond merchants still con-
gregating almost exclusively in Hatton Garden ; but a
decentralising tendency is steadily coming upon the town.
Not so very long ago, for example, Wardour Street stood
for old furniture, and Holy well Street for old books. But
to-day Holy well Street does not exist, and old book and
old furniture shops have sprung up all over London.
Longacre, once wholly in the hands of carriage-makers, is
now a centre also for motor cars, which may, however, be
bought elsewhere too. The publishers, once faithful to
Paternoster Row, have (following John Murray) now spread
to the west. Departmental London, so far as retail trade
is concerned, is practically no more.

The saddest change in the shops of London is in the
chemists: the greatest, in the tobacconists. There must
now be a tobacconist to every ten men of the population,
or something near it, and many of these already save the
purchaser such a huge percentage that a time must be
coming when they will pay us to buy tobacco at all. The
new tobacconists are in every way unworthy of the old :
they know no repose, as a tobacconist should ; they serve
you with incredible despatch and turn to the next customer.

THE FALLEN CHEMIST 53

To loiter in one of their shops is beyond consideration and
no Prince Florizel could be a tobacconist to-day, unless he
was prepared for bankruptcy. Of course there are still a few
old-fashioned firms on secure foundations where a certain
leisure may be observed ; but it is superficial leisure. I
feel convinced that below stairs there is a seething activity.
And even in these shops one cannot really waste time,
although to enable one to do that with grace and a sense
of virtue is of course the principal duty of the leaf. It
will prove our decadence, our want of right feeling, of
reverence, when I say that in all London I know to-day
of only one tobacconist with enough piety to retain the
wooden Highlander who once was as necessary and import-
ant to the dealer in Returns and Rappee as is the figure
of Buddha to a joss house.

Sadder still is the decay of the chemist. There are
here and there the real old chemist's windows, with a
row of coloured jars such as poor Rosamund lost an
excursion for ; but how rare these are ! Our new busi-
ness habits, imported chiefly from America, have in no
respect done so much injury — aesthetically — as in sub-
stituting the new store-dru» gist's crowded window for
the old chromatic display. In the modern stress of com-
petition there is no room to spare for pure decoration;
and so the purple jars have gone. And within all is
changed too. An element of bustle has come into the
chemist's life. Of old he was quiet and sympathetic and
whispering : now his attitude is one best described by the
words " Next please." I wonder that the sealing wax re-
mains. Surely there is some American device to improve
upon sealing wax ? A few of the good old shops may still
be seen, if one is quick. There is one in Norton Folgate
with a row of coloured jars; and, best of all, there is that

54 A WANDERER IN LONDON

wonderful herbalist's in Aldgate, opposite Butchers' Row,
buy Dr. Lettsom's pills and the famous Nine Oils.

Another commercial sign of the times in London is the
increase of news-agents (in addition to the kerb-stone
salesmen), and with them the rise of the demon distributor.
No recent London street type is more noticeable than he :
a large-boned centaur, half-hooligan, half-bicycle, who,
bent double beneath his knapsack of news, dashes on his
wheel between the legs of horses, under wagons and
through policemen, in the feverish enterprise of spreading
the tidings of winner and starting price. A few years ago
London knew him not; to-day we should not know
London without him.

But I am forgetting that we are in Bond Street, where
these rough-riding Mercuries do not penetrate. The past
of this thoroughfare has been almost wholly buried be-
neath modern commerce, but it is interesting to recollect
that it was at No. 41, which was then a silk-bag shop, on
March 18, 1768, that the creator of Uncle Toby and
Corporal Trim died. It was at No. 141 New Bond Street
that in 1797 Lord Nelson lay for three months after the
battle of Cape St. Vincent, where his arm was shot

From Bond Street one is quickly in Regent Street, once
more among the shops and in the present day ; but
Regent Street is not interesting except as part of a great
but futile scheme to plan out a stately and symmetrical
London in honour of a blackguard prince. Of this, Port-
land Place, Park Crescent and Regent's Park are the
other portions. The project was noble, as the width of
Portland Place testifies, but it was not in character with
London, and it failed. No second attempt to provide
London with a Parisian thoroughfare — with anything

THE FLOWER-SELLERS 55

approaching French width and luxury — occurred until
the Mall was taken in hand and the space in front of
Buckingham Palace was made symmetrical.

Regent Street in its turn leads to Oxford Street, where
the great drapery shops — I should say, emporiums — are :
paradises of mannequins and super-mannequins. More
attractive to me is the little, almost Venetian, knot of
flower-sellers who have made the island in Oxford Circus
their own, in summer adding to its southern air by large
red umbrellas. Of such women one should buy one's
flowers.

CHAPTER V

TRAFALGAR SQUARE AND GREAT ENGLISHMEN

London's finest site — Nelson — The French salutes — Trafalgar Day —
The Steeple -jack — St. Martin's-in-the-Fields — The Gymnast —
" Screevers " — Sentimental Patriotism — Partisan loyalty — A peril of
predominance — London's statues — The National Portrait Gallery —
A recruiting ground.

OF Trafalgar Square London has every right to be
proud. Here at any rate, one feels, is a genuinely
national attempt at a grandiose effect. The National
Gallery facade is satisfactory in its British plainness and
seriousness ; St. Martin's Church, with its whiteness emerg-
ing from its grime, is pure London ; the houses on the east
and west sides of the square are commendably rectangular
and sturdy ; the lions (although occupied only in guarding
policemen's waterproofs) are imposing and very British :
while the Nelson column is as tall and as commanding as
any people, however artistic or passionately patriotic, could
have made it. It is right. I am not sure but it touches
sublimity. Apart, I mean, altogether from the crowning
figure and all that he stands for in personal valour, melan-
choly and charm, and all that he symbolises : conquest itself
— more than conquest, deliverance. Indeed with the idea
of Nelson added, there is no question at all of sublimity ; it
is absolute. I like the story of the French sailors who visited

London in 1905 rising to salute it as they were driving

56

THE ENTOMBMENT
AFTER THE PICTURE BY ROGIER VAN DER WEYDEN IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY

" WHAT NELSON SEES " 57

past on their way to the West End. Would they have
saluted Wellington's statue at Hyde Park Corner, I
wonder ? May be ; but certainly not with the involuntary
spontaneity that marked the Trafalgar Square demonstra-
tion. (Fortunately, exhaustive as was our hospitality,
they were not taken to the grave of Sir Hudson Lowe at
St. Mark's in North Audley Street.)

Every now and then the Nelson column is festooned in
honour of Trafalgar Day, and for a while its impressiveness
is lost. Wreaths at the foot were better. Patriotism and
hero-worship, however, do not resent broken lines ; and
the ropes of evergreens that twine about the pillar draw
thousands of people to Trafalgar Square every day. I
remember the first time I saw the preparations in progress.
Turning into the square from Spring Gardens, I was aware
of a crowd of upturned faces watching a little black spot
travelling up the pillar. It reached the top, disappeared
and appeared again, waving something. It was a Steeple-
jack, an intrepid gentleman from the north of England,
if I recollect aright, who had the contract for the decora-
tions, and with whom, on his descent, it was the privilege
of several newspaper men to have interviews.

I was tempted after reading one of these to seek him
myself, and either induce him to take me to the top with
him, or hand him a commission to describe the extent of
Nelson's view from that altitude, which, under the title
" What Nelson Sees," would, I thought, make a seasonable
and novel Trafalgar Day article. But I dared neither to
converse with the living hero nor climb to the dead one,
and that article is still unwritten. On a clear day Nelson
must have a fine prospect to the south — not quite to his
ancient element, of course, but away to the Surrey hills,
and east and west along the winding river.

58 A WANDERER IN LONDON

St. Martin's Church — the real name of which is St.
Martin's-in-the-Fields (how far from fields to-day !) stands
upon its hill as proudly almost as St. Paul's, and has not a
little of St. Paul's grave dignity. From its steps many
Londoners get their impression of State pageants : I was
standing there when the Shah drove by some years ago on
a visit to the City fathers. Among those who lie beneath
this church is Nell Gwynn, and Francis Bacon was christened
there.

St. Martin's spire was once used for a strictly secular pur-
pose, when, in 1727, Violanti, an Italian acrobat, fastened
one end of a rope three hundred yards long to its summit,
and the other to a support in the Royal Mews beyond St.
Martin's Lane, and descended upon it head foremost with
his arms and legs outstretched, among the crowd being
"the young princesses with several of the nobility."
The pavement to the north and south used to be the
canvas of two very superior " screevers " — as the men are
called who make pastel drawings on paving stones. London
has fewer "screevers" than it used, and latterly I have
noticed among such of these artists as remain a growing
tendency to bring oil paintings (which may or may not be
their own work) and lean them against the wall, supplying
themselves only the minimum of scroll work beneath. To
such go no pennies of mine — unless of course the day is
dripping wet. On a dry pavement the "screever" must
show us his pictures in the making : they must, like hot
rolls, be new every day. We will have no scamping in
this art

Trafalgar Square, with Nelson and the surrounding
figures of stone, notable among them the beautifully easy
presentment of Gordon, brings us to the general considera-
tion of London statues, of which there are many here and

ENGLAND AND FRANCE 59

there, although, since we are not naturally a statue-erecting
or statue- valuing people, as the French are, for the most part
they escape notice. Among the French, indeed, wherever
you go, a livelier love of country and a more personal pride
in it are to be found.

The old gibe against that nation that it has no word for
home, and no true sense of home, might be met by the
reminder that France itself is the home of the French in
a way that England can never be called the home of the
English. An Englishman's home is the world ; a French-
man's France ; and he is never wearied in beautifying that
home, and praising it, and keeping it homely. Such pride
has he in it that there is hardly a place in the whole
country without its group of statuary in honour of some
brave or wise enfant of the State, which is decorated at
regular intervals and whose presence is never forgotten. It
is impossible to do anything for France and escape recogni-
tion and tribute. With the English, patriotism is taken
for granted ; but the French nourish it, tend it like a
favourite flower, enjoy every fresh blossom.

It is true that on certain anniversaries we also decorate
some of our statues — Beaconsfield's, Gordon's, Nelson's ;
but we do so, I fear, less as a people than as a party.
Charles the First's statue facing Whitehall has its wreaths
once a year, but they come from a small body of " Legiti-
mists " ; the new Gladstone statue in the Strand will no
doubt be decorated too for a few years, but it will not be
a national duty, and none of those who take primroses to
Parliament Square on April 19 will be represented.

It is the manner of an Englishman not to remember —
except as a partisan. Even the unveiling of the Gladstone
statue in 1905, even the unveiling of a memorial to an
Englishman of so commanding a personality and intel-

60 A WANDERER IN LONDON

lectual power (apart from politics) as he, was unattended
by any member of the Conservative Government, although
he had been dead long enough, one would have said, to
permit them to be present without confusion or loss of
dignity. The incident is significant. We are all for or
against.

To look neither back nor forward, to care nothing for
the past and even less for the future, and to accept all
benefits as one's due and hardly as a matter for thanks,
is a hard habit of mind that must, I suppose, come to a
dominant pre-eminent race that has for so long known no
hardship or reverse or any dangerous rival. Patriotically
we are like the man in the American story who had a
prayer written out on the wall and made his devotions
every morning by jerking his thumb at it and remarking
"Them's my sentiments". Our patriotism for the most
part consists in being British as much as possible, rather
than in individually assisting Britain or glorying in
Britain.

The danger of being at the top is that one gets into the
habit of thinking of it as the only position ; and that
thought brings atrophy. A nation that wants to be at
the top must necessarily work harder and think more and
view itself more humbly than one that has long occupied
that dizzy altitude. Also it must be careful to add some
reward to virtue beyond virtue. In the rarefied atmo-
sphere of success one forgets the little things : certainly
one forgets the necessity of celebrating the stages of one's
painful climb. Hence, I think, much of our British care-
lessness about statues of great men. Given a loss of naval
or military prestige, and relegation to a lower rank among
the powers, and perhaps we should very quickly begin to
be interested in our country again : a new national poetry

LONDON'S STATUES 61

would emerge, new heroes would be discovered, and nothing
fine would be taken for granted. I wonder. I hope so.

I have I think named all of London's statues that ever
receive any attention. The others are chiefly statesmen,
soldiers and kings, and may be said hardly to exist. I
recall as I write Queen Anne in front of St. Paul's and
again at her beautiful gate by St. James's Park ; George I
on the top of the spire in Bloomsbury ; George II in
Golden Square ; George III in a little scratch wig on a
prancing horse at the east end of Pall Mall ; George IV,
riding without stirrups, and visibly uncomfortable, in
Trafalgar Square ; James II (looking too much like Mr.
Forbes Robertson the actor) behind the Admiralty ; Queen
Elizabeth on the wall of St. Dunstan's-in-the-West ; Mary
Queen of Scots for some reason or other on a new facade
in Fleet Street; Queen Victoria, by Blackfriars Bridge,
standing, and in Kensington Gardens, seated ; Cromwell in
the shelter of Westminster Hall, very nigh the replaced
bauble ; Richard Cceur-de-Lion, splendidly warlike, on his
horse, by the House of Lords ; the Duke of York of dis-
ci-editable memory on his column in Waterloo Place, doing
all he can by his sheer existence to depreciate the value of
the national tribute to Nelson close by ; Wellington at
Hyde Park Corner and again before the Royal Ex-
change ; Havelock in Trafalgar Square ; Captain Coram
by his Foundling Hospital ; Shakespeare in the middle
of Leicester Square, within hail of the Empire and
the Alhambra, and again, with Chaucer and Milton, in
Hamilton Place ; Milton outside St. Giles's, Cripplegate ;
Lord Strathnairn at Knightsbridge ; Boadicea, in her
chariot, on Westminster Bridge ; Darwin, Huxley, Owen
and Banks in the Natural History Museum ; William
Pitt, a gigantic figure, in Hanover Square ; Charles

62 A WANDEKER IN LONDON

James Fox in Bloomsbury Square arid at Holland House ;
Carlyle in Chelsea; Sir Hugh Myddelton in Islington
Green ; Canning (who has a sparrow's nest under his arm
every spring) in Parliament Square ; Cobden in Camden
Town ; Sir Robert Peel (in profile very like Lamb) in Cheap-
side ; Lord Herbert of Lea opposite the War Office ; Cardinal
Newman by the Brompton Oratory ; John Wesley opposite
Bunhill Fields ; George Stephenson at Euston ; Sir John
Franklin in Waterloo Place, near several Crimean heroes ;
Byron, seated, in Hamilton Gardens and in relief in St.
James's Street and again in Holies Street ; Robert Burns,
Robert Parkes and Sir Arthur Sullivan in the Embankment
Gardens ; Sir Wilfred Lawson there too, looking thirstily
at the Thames ; the Duke of Cambridge in Whitehall ;
Sir Henry Irving in the Charing Cross Road ; and Prince
Albert, unnamed and unrecognised in Holborn Circus, and
again, all gold, in Kensington Gardens, seated beneath a
canopy not without ornamentation. This, though far from
complete, may be called a good list ; and I doubt if there
are many Londoners who could have supplied from memory
half of it.

Indoor collections of statues and busts are to be seen
in the Abbey, in St. Paul's, in the National Portrait
Gallery and the Tate Gallery, in the Houses of Parlia-
ment and the British Museum ; while the long facade
of the Institute of Royal Painters in Water Colours in
Piccadilly has a fine row of the masters in that medium —
De Wint and David Cox, Girtin and Turner, for ex-
ample ; and the Birkbeck Bank, off Chancery Lane, has a
rich assortment of reliefs of illustrious intellects, includ-
ing Hazlitt and Besssmer, Leonardo da Vinci and Charles
Lamb. On the roof of Burlington House, again, are
many artists.

NATIONAL PORTRAITS 63

To the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square we shall
return later ; but after my digression on statues and the
English pride or want of pride in their great men, this
is the time to enter the National Portrait Gallery, hard
by, where pictures of most of the nation's principal sons
since the days when painters first got to work among us
(less than a poor four hundred years ago, so modern is
our culture,) may be studied. In masterpieces the gallery
is not rich — nor need it be, for the interest is rather in
the sitter than in the artist — yet it has many very fine
portraits (quite a number of Reynolds', for example), a
few superlatively fine, and not many wholly bad. Taken
as a whole it is a very worthy collection, and one of which
England has every reason to be proud. A composite
photograph of each group of men here would make an
interesting study, and it might have significance to a
Lavater — unless, of course, the painters have lied.

Some of the best and most interesting portraits are in
Room XXV, which is the first room to take seriously as
one climbs the building, where sailors, soldiers and authors
grace the walls. Here is Fuger's unfinished head of
Nelson, doomed and sad and lovable ; Danloux's Viscount
Duncan on the bridge of his vessel ; Sir Joshua's Admiral
Keppel ; a flaming Lord Heathfield by Copley ; Wolfe as
a youth, and again, with his odd lean face, as a general ;
Landseer's sketch of Walter Scott without a dog, and
Allan's Walter Scott in his study with his dog asleep;
Laurence's large full face of Thackeray, above the in-
gratiating bust of the great novelist as a schoolboy ;
Romney's Cowper ; and Sargent's Coventry Patmore, that
astonishingly vital and distinguished work. Here also,
still in Room XXV, are a number of George Frederick
Watts's great contemporaries painted by himself and pre-

64 A WANDERER IN LONDON

sented by him to the nation ; but these I have never been
able to admire or believe in quite as I should like to.

Among the famous portraits in the first floor rooms —
Nos. XIV-XXI — are Barry's unfinished sketch of Dr. John-
son, so grim and mad ; Reynolds' Goldsmith and Burke ;
Hickel's vast and rural Charles James Fox ; Arthur Pond's
Peg Woffington in bed ; Phillips' rapt Blake; Stuart's Wool-
lett the engraver ; Romney's farrily of Adam Walker, and
Lady Hamilton (one of how many ?) ; Rossetti's chalk
drawing of his mother and sister ; and some magnificent
self-painted portraits of great artists not inferior to many
in the Uffizi — notably Romney, very sad ; Sir Joshua,
in the grand manner ; Joseph Wright ; and that very in-
teresting craftsman, John Hamilton Mortimer, in a picture
that might hang as a pendant to one recently presented to
the Diploma Gallery at Burlington House. Elsewhere is
a fine Van Dyck by himself.

Ascending to the top floor we recede to Augustan,
Stuart and Tudor periods. Here are Hogarth's Lord
Lovat ; Kneller's Sarah Jennings, Duchess of Maiiborough ;
Van Ceulen's William III as a boy, very sweet and pensive,
and the same artist's Earl of Portland ; Gheeraedts' Queen
Elizabeth and the famous Countess who was Sidney's
sister, Pembroke's mother ; Zucchero's James VI of Scot-
land and I of England, as a child with a hawk ; Van Dyck's
children of Charles I ; Mierevelt's Queen of Bohemia (" Ye
meaner beauties of the night ") ; Sadler's Bunyan in middle
age, with dangerous little red eyes ; Lefebvre's Isaac
Barrow, that lean divine ; Lely's Flaxman ; and a putative
but very interesting Mary Queen of Scots. I mention
these because they seem to stand out ; because technically
they catch the eye ; but the most interesting men often
are the worst painted, as for example the author of

RECRUITIES 65

" Hamlet " and " Love's Labour's Lost," who in his portrait
here, the "Chandos" as it is called, looks incapable of
writing either work, or indeed of doing anything more
subtle than acquiring wealth as a sober unambitious
merchant, sitting on the bench among the unpaid, or
propping the Establishment in the capacity of church-
warden.

On the ground floor are some very interesting electro-
types of recumbent figures of Kings and Queens from the
tombs in the Abbey. Here also is Bacon seated in his
chair, from the great chancellor's tomb at St. Albans, and
a little Darnley kneeling to his ill-fated queen. The two
death masks of Cromwell, more unlike than they ought to
be, should be noticed, and one of Thomas Carlyle, very
different from Boehm's bust which stands near it.

The pavement between the comer of Trafalgar Square
and the National Portrait Gallery has long been appropri-
ated by the War Office as London's chief recruiting ground ;
and here you may see the recruiting sergeants peacocking
up and down, flicking their legs with their little canes,
throwing out their fine chests, and personifying with all
their might the allurements of the lordliest life on earth.
One has to watch but a very short time to see a shy youth,
tired of being an errand boy or grocer's assistant, grab at
the bait ; when off they go to the barracks behind the
National Gallery to complete the business. Is it, one
wonders, another Silas Tomkyns Comberbatch ? Not often.

CHAPTER VI

THE NATIONAL GALLERY AND THE BRITISH MASTERS

I ONCE startled and embarrassed a dinner table of artists
and art critics by asking which was the best picture
in the National Gallery. On my modifying this terrible
question to the more human form, " Which picture would
you choose if you might have but one ? " and limiting- the
choice to the Italian masters, the most distinguished mind
present named at once Tintoretto's " Origin of the Milky
Way". One could understand the selection, so splendid
in vigour and colouring and large audacity is this wonderful
work; but it would never be my choice to live with.
Another, an artist, also without hesitation, chose Titian's
" Bacchus and Ariadne " ; and I can understand that too,
but that also would not be my choice. After very long
consideration I have come to the conclusion that mine
would be Francesca's " Nativity ". Take it for all in all I
am disposed to think that Francesca's " Nativity " appeals
to me as a work of companionable beauty and charm
before any Italian picture in the National Collection.

Piero della Francesca was born about 1415, and died in
1492, and we may assume him to have painted this picture in
the height of his powers — say about 1450. It is thus four
and a half centuries old. In other words it was in existence,
exercising its sweet spell on those that saw it, while Henry
Vrl was on our throne, a hundred years before Shakespeare

66

ONE DAY, ONE PICTURE 67

was born. The picture is unfinished and in not the best
preservation, but its simplicity and sincerity and beauty
are unharmed. The reproduction of it in this volume is
necessarily small and, as in the case of all process blocks of
great works, only a reminder of the original ; but it con-
veys the exquisite grace of Mary's attitude The little
birds which Francesca's sweet thoughtfulness painted in
must be looked for in the picture itself.

But all this talk of one's favourite picture is futile :
because there are so many others that one could not really
do without Perhaps no picture is steadily one's favourite.
Better to confess to a favourite in each room, or a
favourite for every mood. There are Italian days and
there are Dutch days, French days and English days. The
National Gallery has a picture for each, all the year round.

The National Gallery, I hope, will never be crystallised.
Something will always be happening owing to the acquisi-
tion of new works by purchase or bequest. I write these
words in May, 1913, and in August there may be a dozen
new pictures of which this edition takes no account. I hope
so, as I say, but it is awkward for compilers of guide books.

At the Tate Gallery we shall take the rooms in their
numerical order. But here, let us begin with Room XX
at the head of the left hand stairs, because that is the first
of the British rooms and it is well, in a British National
Gallery to let curiosity begin at home. Moreover, we do
know practically for a certainty, that, although new British
pictures may arrive from time to time, these rooms are
fixed for many years to come.

Room XX is particularly interesting, because there Sir
Charles Holroyd, the Director, has hung not only the
earliest British pictures, but works by certain of those
foreigners, settled" here at the invitation of royalty,

68 A WANDERER IN LONDON

whose influence for many years determined the trend
of our national art. Here, for example, are Holbein's
"Ambassadors" and that lovely full-length of Christina
of Denmark which we so nearly lost when the Duke of
Norfolk, a little while ago, decided to sell it. And here
are many Hogarths, chief among them, for interest, the
"Marriage a la Mode " series, and for beauty " The Shrimp
Girl ". " The Shrimp Girl," and the portrait of Mrs. Salter
(No. 1663), and one or two of the heads of his servants
(No. 1374), exhibit a Hogarth whose fine free vivid way
with paint interests me far more than his delineation of
interiors, where technically he seems to me to come far
below Jan Steen. But Jan Steen could not have painted
the Mrs. Salter : rather indeed does that, in its easy cool
liquid colouring, suggest Vermeer of Delft.

Room XXI is dedicated to landscape. Crome is its
presiding genius with his increasingly lovely " Mousehold
Heath," and his not much less lovely " Windmill " on the
same open space, so near his Norwich home, and certain
other pictures, among which are two recently bequeathed
by George Salting — the profoundly still and impressive
" Moonrise " (No. 2645) and a " Heath Scene " (No. 2644)
with its joyous atmosphere. Here too is the " Poringland
Oak," a recent purchase, one of the noblest pictures of a
tree painted since Crome's own adored Hobbema laid down
the brush. But " Mousehold Heath " is the picture here.
When I enter Room XXI it becomes the abode of
" Mousehold Heath " and " Mousehold Heath " only. It
is that, I realise, which I came to see; and when I go
away it is with the golden light of it, the scented air of
it, in my very system. Not all Turner's Titanic miracles,
not all Constable's mighty transcriptions of English weald
and weather, not all Wilson's memories of the age of

TURNER 69

gold, affect me as Crome does in this great and beautiful
picture. I do not say that he is greater than they ;
but upon me he exerts a greater influence, to me he is
more of a magician.

Gainsborough is here too with his " Musidora," his
superb " Watering Place," and other landscapes, notable
among which is No. 1783, the " View of Dedham " ; while
the Salting bequest made us the richer by the charming
small portrait, filled with vivacity, of Miss Elizabeth Single-
ton. Some little beautiful Wilsons also hang in this room.

We now enter the Turner Room, but here it is un-
profitable to say much, because the pictures are from time
to time changed. The two Turners — and in some ways
the best — that can never change are in Room XXVI,
beside two Claudes, as Turner insisted in his will.

To me, to whom art is never so appealing as when it
is still and reposeful, shipwrecks and tempests are merely
amazing ; and so I always seek first, and return to again
and again, two Turners of a quietness equal to the quietude
of any landscape I know, in which perhaps the quietude
is the more noticeable by the absence of any external aid.
It is the essential quietude of the country. I refer to the
"Chichester Canal," No. 560, which is reproduced on the
page opposite 126, and to No. 492, "A Frosty Morning:
Sunrise," which conveys a sense of still cold more com-
pletely than any other winter picture, however it may be
loaded with corroborative snow flakes or figures blowing
on their nails. These are my favourites — these and "The
Sun Rising in a Mist," next the Claude, which enters a
region of which Claude knew nothing. Having seen these,
there is still before one the exquisite delight of the Turner
water colours in the basement, and after that all the other
great Turners at the Tate.

70 A WANDERER IN LONDON

The little Room XXIII should be peeped into for
certain little Constables by way of preparation for his
more important works in Room XXIV, particularly "The
Hay Wain " and the new Salting examples — the green
" Spetchley " (No. 2653) and the boisterously modern
" Weymouth Bay " with its glorious skv. In the "Stoke-
by-Nayland, Suffolk," No. 1819, "The Mill Stream,"
No. 1816, "The Country Lane," No. 1821, and "The
Cornfield," No. 1065, one seems to discern the germ of
Barbizon landscape. As one so often sees the father in
the sou — a hint of the elder generation in a passing ex-
pression on even the infant's face — so as one looks at
these pictures may one catch glimpses of Troyon and
Rousseau, Diaz and Millet. The gleaner in the foreground
of No. 1065 is sheer Millet Constable's larger and more
painty landscapes, the "Flatford Mill," "The Hay Wain,"
and so forth, seem to me smaller efforts than some of his
more impressionistic and rapid sketches here and elsewhere
— at South Kensington and the Diploma Gallery. There
is less of inevitable masterly genius about them than in
the little "Summer Afternoon after a Shower," No. 1815,
which is terrific, and No. 1817, "The Gleaners," and
No. 1822, " Dedham Vale ". These are to me among the
greatest works of English art. Here, too, are various works
by David Cox, all left us by Mr. Salting, Bonington from
the same hand, a new Henry Walton, and old familiar
Wilkies and Morlands.

The next room — XXV — is the last and the greatest of
the British School, for here are those portrait painters
who ever will be considered its greatest glory, although
I personally, for pleasure, prefer Turner, Constable, and
Crome: Reynolds, Gainsborough, Romney, and Lawrence,
and I am tempted to say, above all (although not perhaps

REYNOLDS AND ROMNEY tl

above all here) Raeburn. Gainsborough also has a land-
scape, his " Market Cart," and the two great Wilson
classical canvases are here too. Among the many Sir
Joshuas, all fine, all touched with grandeur and Old-
Mastery — I have chosen for reproduction the " Portrait
of Two Gentlemen" (No. 754), because it has always
fascinated me most. But I would not call it greater per-
haps than one or two others — the Johnson, for example, or
the Keppel, or the Lord Heathfield, or the very haunting
Anne Countess of Albemarle. In the same room are such
famous mothers' pictures as the " Age of Innocence " and
the "Angels' Heads". London is extraordinarily rich in
Reynolds : here, at the Wallace Collection (where they
are all beautiful women), at the National Portrait Gallery,
and at the Diploma Gallery. Abundance has always
marked the greatest English artists, whether with the
brush or the pen, the abundance which we find in Reynolds
and Turner and Constable, in Shakespeare and Scott, in
Fielding and Thackeray and Dickens : the large manner.

The other picture in this room that I reproduce k
Romney's " Lady with a Child " (No. 1667), which I have
chosen for its charm and for the amazing vitality of the
little girl, who is as real, as living, as any figure ever
painted, although I do not suggest that the picture is
greater technically than his portrait of Lady Craven, or
"The Parson's Daughter," close by, or the famous sketch
of Lady Hamilton as a Bacchante. Its claims are, how-
ever, more urgent — for a mother and child (and such a
child) have ultimately — as the great masters knew — a
deeper appeal than any woman alone, however beautiful,
can have.

But Room XXV to many persons is less noteworthy
for the portraits I have rfamed than for No. 688,

78 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Gainsborough's Mrs. Siddons, in the large black hat and
feathers and the blue and white striped dress. This is
the first picture they look at and the last. Brilliant and
masterly as it is, I must confess to a want of interest in
it I can stand before it quite impassive : it affects me
like a kind of quintessential Burlington House — the Royal
Academy portrait carried out to its highest power. Sir
Thomas Lawrence's Mrs. Siddons, in the same room, seems
to me greater. Before that one has a pulse.

CHAPTER VII

THE NATIONAL GALLERY II : ITALIAN SCHOOLS

IN the first edition of this book I took all the rooms in
order ; but so many changes are possible — some even
now in progress — that it seems to me better, having walked
through the six British rooms, merely to enumerate
certain of the National Gallery's principal treasures and
leave my fellow-wanderers to discover them. Nothing, at
any rate, is more delightful than seeking a particular
picture in a large and fine collection.

Beginning with the Tuscans, in the first room we are at
once among masterpieces — Michael Angelo's "Entomb-
ment," with its enormous technical difficulties, the conquest
of which must have given the painter such satisfaction ;
Andrea del Sarto's "Sculptor" (long thought to be his
own portrait) and a " Holy Family " from the same serene
sad hand ; several Botticellis, among them that deeply
interesting "Nativity" (No. 1034), in which the painter
testifies to his belief in Savonarola ; his head of a young
man, and his curious pagan " Venus and Mare" ; Piero de
Cosimo's somewhat smaller but far more whole heartedly
and richly pagan "Death of Procris," one of our most
beautiful pictures; the same painter's portrait of a
warrior; Filippino Lippi's very lovely "Virgin and Child
with St. Jerome and St. Dominic," and an " Angel
Adoring," a fragment of a fresco from the same hand.

73

74 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Filippino's Virgins are always adorable : a slip of a girl
he always made Her, with a high innocent forehead, and
Her hair combed back from it, and just a hint of per-
plexity mixed with the maternal composure which She
has managed to assume, accepting Her great fate very
naturally. Filippino's scapegrace father's " Annunciation "
(No. 666) should be looked for, and Paolo Uccello's superb
battle scene, perhaps the most decorative thing in all
England, demands much study. It has a curious grave
harmony which I suppose has never been surpassed. Its
charm is quite incommunicable : it must be seen, and
seen again and again. I visit it, whenever I go to the
National Gallery, both on entering and on leaving. All
these, at the time of writing (and perhaps for some time
to come), are in Room No. I.

Other Tuscan painters in neighbouring rooms include
Fra Angelico with No. 663 — "Christ and the Heavenly
Host," so simple and sweet, and filled with such adorable
little people. Note also the " Virgin and Child Enthroned,"
by his pupil Benozzo Gozzoli. This picture, though not the
equal of Francesca's "Nativity," has much sweetness and
simplicity ; and the little goldfinches again are not for-
gotten. A pupil of Gozzoli is the painter of the very artless
and quaint " Rape of Helen" (No. 591), in which we see
Helen, the World's Desire, for whom Trojan and Greek
blood was to run like water, perched, a cheery little innocent
romp, on the shoulders of her captor. Other somewhat
kindred pictures are No. 1155, Matteo di Giovanni's spirited
" Assumption," a very heartening if rather artificial work ;
No. 1331, the " Virgin and Child " of Bernardino Fungai,
with its lovely grave colours ; and No. 227, by an unknown
painter of the fifteenth century, " St Jerome in the Desert "
— once an altar piece at Fiesole — which I always like for
the little kneeling girl with the red cap.

PORTRAIT OK TWO GENTLKMKX
AFTER SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS' PICTURE IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY

PIERO BELLA FRANCESCA 75

Search also for Pacchiorotto's "Madonna and Child,"
so sweet and glowing, and his pale tempera " Nativity " next
it ; Botticini's (or some one else's) " Raphael and Tobias,"
that distinguished pretty thing, with Raphael light as
thistledown ; Botticini's very interesting panorama of Flor-
ence in the great " Assumption " picture ; and Verrocchio's
"Virgin Adoring," the perfection of paint and drawing,
goldsmithery and sweetness.

Among the best Umbrian paintings are Piero della Fran-
cesca's " Nativity " and " Baptism ". Of the " Nativity "
I have already spoken, but would say here that almost
chief among the old masters would it gain by being taken
from its gold and framed in black. The gilt frame con-
vention needs breaking down mercilessly again and again
in this collection, but most of all, I think, in the case of
this picture. The "Baptism of Christ in the Jordan,"
No. 665, is in its way, though not more ingratiating, more
remarkable even than the " Nativity ". Surely never did
dove so brood before, nor — to take a purely technical
point, disregarding the spirit of the work — not even in
modem realistic art has any man ever so divested himself
of his shirt as the figure in the background. And the
sweetness of the whole, and the lovely colouring of it !

Near by are Luca Signorelli's " Triumph of Chastity,"
Manni's " Annunciation," the unknown " Story of Griselda,"
worth minute study for its detail and more distant atten-
tion for its lovely Umbrian light ; Pinturicchio's " Return
of Ulysses" and a very fascinating " Madonna and Child ".
Note the wild flowers in Luca Signorelli's " Nativity "
(No. 1133).

Most conspicuous of the Peruginos is the famous Altar
Piece, "The Virgin Adoring the Infant Christ". This
work is notable not only for its beauty and mastery,

76 A WANDERER IN LONDON

but for being the first joyous exultation in colour which
we have seen. The picture burns into the mind : to
think of it is to feel warmth and content. Incidentally
one might say that there are no more charming boys in
any Renaissance work of art than this Michael and this
Tobias. Other pictures by Perugino (whom the catalogue
knows as Vannucci) are his faint and lovely fresco "The
Adoration of the Shepherds," which one might say had
lent all its own colour to the great triptych, and No. 181,
the very sweet little " Virgin and Christ with the infant
St John," who is always a sweet figure but here the
solidest little boy in Italian art. The baby Christ plays
very prettily with his mother's finger. Raphael's tiny
"Vision of a Knight" and his "Procession to Calvary"
please me more than his more ambitious works, and I
love the " Madonna of the Tower " whoever painted it.
Lastly there are Penni's " Holy Family " and the two
allegorical subjects by that rare and attractive painter
Melozzo da Forli.

Among other Italian pictures (not Venetian) which are
still to mention is Correggio's "Venus, Mercury, and
Cupid ". I know of no painting of the nude which so
grows on one as this : its power, its soft maturity, its
charm. It becomes daily more and more beautiful ; the
little figure of Cupid becomes more and more roguish.

Hereabouts are Roberti's "Israelites gathering Manna,"
Bronzino's dashing allegory of Cupid, Venus, Folly, and
Time, Ridolfo Ghirlandaio's portrait of Girolamo Benivieni,
Sellaio's " Venus and Cupid," Rossi's unknown boy, and
Mainardi's unknown girl. Last, but not least, is Leonardo
da Vinci's " Virgin of the Rocks," the only Leonardo
in the National Gallery. The Louvre is far richer,
for it has not only a counterpart of this picture, but

TRAFALGAR SQUARE

THE VENETIANS 77

several others ; but London has the " Holy Family " in the
Diploma Gallery, which I reproduce in this volume,
and there is nothing anywhere more lovely than that.
Of the " Virgin of the Rocks " I have nothing to say. It
is — and that is all. And still I have said nothing of
Borgognone, Boltraffio, and a number of other painters
whose number is at once a delight and a perplexity.

The gallery is very rich in the work of the great
Venetians : superb masterful gentlemen who painted for the
Doge rather than for Heaven. Occasionally they took a
religious subject, but they brought little religion to it
Colour came first. Only in one work here — and that a
very little picture — do I find more than a little trace of
the simple piety that surrounded us in Fra Angelico's
presence : the " Crucifixion " of the rare and wonderful
Antonello da Messina, No. 1166.

The greatest names on the Venetian walls are Titian
and Tintoretto, Bellini and Moroni, Giorgione and Cima,
Moretto and Paolo Veronese, Sebastian del Piombo and
Catena. I suppose the glories of the room are Tintoretto's
"Origin of the Milky Way" and Titian's " Bacchus and
Ariadne," although Charles Lamb would, I feel sure, still
remain faithful to No. 1, Piombo's " Raising of Lazarus,"
in which Michael Angelo was thought to have a hand and
which is the picture that began the National Gallery. The
Tintoretto seems to me the rarest work of art here — the
most amazing, the least copyable ; but its appeal is not
simple. Titian's Bacchus is simpler and more gorgeous ;
but I always feel that the Tintoretto transcends it. Com-
parisons are odious : it is better to delight in both. The
National Gallery is strong in Titian : it has his " Holy
Family," his "Bacchus and Ariadne," his "Madonna and
Child " (the blue of the mountains in the distance!), the

78 A WANDERER IN LONDON

new portrait of Aretino. Of Titian, the glorious, the
gorgeous, one cannot have too much ; but I should hesitate
to say the same of Paolo Veronese, who when he is painting
his vast panoramic efforts always suggests the contributor
to the Salon carried out to his highest power. His " Saint
Helena "is to me one of the most beautiful of pictures,
but I grudge some of his square yards.

If one had to name the most charming pictures on these
Venetian walls, I should pick out Basaiti's "Infant Christ
and the Virgin," No. 599 (a reproduction of which will be
found in this book), and Giorgione's " Knight in Armour,"
No, 269, which once hung on the wall of Samuel Rogers,
the poet, in St. James's Place It is one of the pictures one
would certainly hasten to save if London fell into the
hands of an enemy and looting set in. One could carry
it easily. Bellini is always interesting, always the con-
summate craftsman, always intelligent and distinguished.
His finest picture here is, I think, " Christ's Agony in
the Garden," No. 726, which is indescribably wonderful
in colour.

To two other Venetian painters I would draw attention :
both portrait painters, Moroni and Moretto. Moroni is
well represented, and I have, I think, chosen his best
picture for reproduction : "The Tailor," No. 697. I never
tire of this melancholy Italian bending over his cloth,
whom one seems to know better than many of one's living
acquaintance Moroni's " Portrait of an Italian Nobleman "
— No. 1316 — I should put next — so superb and dis-
tinguished is it, so interesting a harmony of black and grev.
(Surely Velasquez must have seen it) Comparable with it is
the " Italian Nobleman," No. 1025, by Moretto (whom the
catalogue calls Bonvicino), another of the great portraits.

Among other pictures to which I return again are No.

THE GREAT MANTEGNA 79

636, Palma's "Portrait of a Poet"; No. 1105, Lotto's
" Portrait of the Prothonotary," with its curious Surrey
common vista ; No. 1455, Bellini's " The Circumcision,"
glorious in colour ; No. 234, Catena's " Warrior adoring
the Infant Christ," a large rich picture with a lovely
evening glow and real simplicity in it ; Cima's " Incredulity
of St. Thomas," No. 816, with a very charming un-Italian
landscape, that Crome might have painted, seen through
the left window ; No. 173, Jacopo da Ponte's " Portrait of
a Gentleman " ; No. 1141, a head by Antonello da Messina ;
No. 1160, a very beautiful little Giorgione ; No. 1450, a
sombre Piombo ; and Romanino's very rich triptych.

Great among other Venetian or Paduan painters is
Andrea Mantegna, for whose work in England, however,
Hampton Court is the place. He is represented at the
National Gallery by a very beautiful "Virgin and Child
with St John the Baptist and the Magdalene," No. 274 ;
by the amazing "Triumph of Scipio," in monochrome, a
masterpiece of psychological painting ; and by the " Agony
in the Garden," curiously like Bellini's, and not inferior
though far less glorious in colour. Another Venetian
represented here very fully is Carlo Crivelli, in whom
I seem to see more ingenuity than greatness, but who
certainly drew divinely and made very interesting pictures.
All his work bears careful scrutiny, as he had an engaging
fancy ; but beside Mantegna he is mere confectionery. A
painter whom one loves better is Vittore Pisano — for the
sheer delight of his " St. Anthony and St. George," so gay
and pretty, and the gentle simplicity of his " Vision of
St. Eustace ". Lastly I must note the Guardis and
Canalettos.

Drawings by all or nearly all of these painters may be
seen at the British Museum.

THE NATIONAL GALLERY III: OTHER FOREIGN SCHOOLS

OF early Flemish works we have beautiful examples.
Directly one enters the room where Rogier Van der
Weyden and Van Eyck are to be seen, one notes that the
cheerful piety of Francesca and Fra Angelico, and the
sheer love of innocent beauty of Botticelli and Filippino
Lippi, are no more A note of sadness has come in, a
northern earnestness, and also the beginning of a realistic
interest in humanity. The full materialism of later Nether-
landish art is not yet : there is still much left of the rapt
religious spirit ; but these early Flemish painters have an
eye on this world too. It is in their minds that living
men and women deserve painting as much as the hierarchy
of heaven. We find realism at its most extreme in No. 944,
the " Two Usurers " of Mariiius van Romerswael, a miracle
of minuteness without compensating allurement of any
kind. Joachim Patinir introduces us to domestic landscape
in Nos. 1084 and 1082, both incidents in the life of the
Virgin but more interesting for their backgrounds of fairy
tale scenery, busy with romantic Chaucerian happenings.
Even more remarkable as innovation is No. 1298, from the
same hand, one of the most exquisite pieces of colour in the
whole collection — a river scene frankly, and nothing else,
painted four hundred years ago. This Patinir, whose work
is not often to be seen, was a friend of Dtirer, who painted

80

LADY AND CHILD
AFTER THE 1'ICTURE BY ROMNEY IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY

VAN EYCK 81

his portrait and no doubt encouraged him. The three-
portraits by Mabuse, or Jan Gossaert — Nos. 656 and 946
and 1689 — all show his great and rare power, but his
masterpiece is, of course, the recent acquisition, " The
Adoration of the King," which I reproduce in this book.
No. 654, " The Magdalen Reading," possibly by a follower
of Rogier Van der Weyden, draws the eye continually by
its sweet gravity. For Van der Weyden himself look at
No. 664, "The Deposition in the Tomb " (also reproduced
in this book), a beautiful work lacking nothing of the
true religious feeling, a feeling that is noticeable again
with no diminution in the " Virgin and Infant Christ
Enthroned in a Garden," No. 686, by Hans Memling, one
of the greatest of the Flemings. But the greatest of all,
and also one of the earliest, was the painter of No. 186,
that amazing achievement of human skill, that portrait
of Jean and Jeanne Arnolfini from which sprang half the
Dutch school. Earliest and best ; for no later painter ever
surpassed this forerunner panel, in precision, in colour, or
in sincerity. " Johannes de Eyck fuit hie 1434 " is its
inscription. I give a reproduction in this book, but
the picture must be seen if its fascination is really to be
felt. Greater minds than Van Eyck's may have arisen in
the Netherlands, but never a more interesting one. I look
upon Van Eyck's painting of St. Barbe, in the Antwerp
Museum, as one of the most beautiful of the works of
man ; and this picture that we are standing before at this
moment, and the Virgin and Child with a saint, at the
Louvre, with its wonderful river and town seen beyond the
ramparts, and children peeping over, could have been
painted only by one who loved his fellow- men and to whom
the world was new every morning. Before leaving the
Flemings I would draw attention to the " Mystic Marriage
6

82 A WANDERER IN LONDON

of St. Catherine" by Gheerart David, No. 1432, and to
certain of the pictures by unknown painters, particularly
to No. 653, portraits of a man and his wife, very masterly
and living, especially the wife; to No. 943, a portrait
of a man ; to Nos. 1078 and 1079, which are very in-
teresting ; and lastly to the fascinating portrait of a lady,
No. 1433.

Among German work we have already seen the fine
Holbeins in the earliest of the British rooms, most
beautiful of them " Christina, Princess of Denmark " (the
Arundel Holbein), one of the sweetest and serenest of all
portraits, which England so nearly lost but is now forever
ours. The show picture is Holbein's " Ambassadors," which
is a great work but hard. Nearer to one's heart comes
Durer's portrait of his father, No. 1938, a little like Ridolfo
Ghirlandaio's " Girolamo Benevieni," and very satisfying.
As with the Flemish School, so with the German, many
of the most interesting and beautiful pictures are by un-
known hands: such as No. 658 "Death of the Virgin,"
No. 687 "The Santa Veronica," No. 705 "Three Saints,"
No. 707 "Two Saints," No. 722 "Portrait of a Lady,"
No. 1049 " The Crucifixion," and No. 1087 " The Mocking
of Christ". These are remarkable either for simplicity
or charm or realism, or a blend of all. One should notice
too No. 291, " The Portrait of a Young Lady," by Lucas
Cranach, a very striking face.

Our Spanish pictures are few but good, and now and
then superb. Here are seven and perhaps more Velasquez'
— including his "Admiral Pulido-Pareja," his "Boar
Hunt," and his " Venus and Cupid ". It is no small thing
to possess these Velasquez' and those at the Wallace Col-
lection (notably "The Lady with a Fan"). Personally
I do not derive so much pleasure from the " Venus and

VELASQUEZ AND MURILLO 83

Cupid " as from those in the master's prevailing manner :
it seems too much like his contribution to the Salon : it
seems to me to have the least touch of vulgarity, which,
before one saw it, one would have said was impossible in
anything from that commanding and distinguished brush ;
but even feeling like this, one can realise how rare a
possession it is and be proud that England owns it. When
I think of Velasquez in our two great collections the
pictures that alway rise before the inward eye are the
" Admiral " here, and " The Lady with a Fan " at Hertford
House — both reproduced in this book. The " Admiral "
is one of the world's great pictures : a gentleman's picture
pre-eminently. Fascinating in another way is the brilliant
" Betrothal" (now ascribed to another hand, perhaps
Luca Giordano). The " Dead Warrior " is also only
attributed to Velasquez; but whoever painted it was a
great man. The " Boar Hunt " is immense and over-
powering but it seems to lack air. The other Velasquez'
are two Philips, " Christ at the Column," with the exquisite
kneeling child, and " Christ in the House of Martha," with
the haunting strong sullen face of the servant girl : —
altogether a marvellous collection.

Murillo is here too, in both his moods — the sweet
pietistic mood in which he painted the "Holy Family"
and " St. John and the Lamb," so irresistibly warm and
rich, and the worldly and masterful mood which gave us
his marvellous "Boy Drinking" — that wonderfully living
head. It remains only to mention El Greco, who has a
haunting portrait of St. Jerome ; Zurbaran — who might
be said to blend Velasquez and Murillo, and who had one
of the surest hands among all painters ; Goya's brilliant
portrait of " Dona Isabel Corbo de Porcel " ; and the
charming little "Virgin and Child" of Morales.

84 A WANDERER IN LONDON

When the first edition of this book was published the
French painters were very poorly represented, and there
were no modern Dutch at all. The two Claudes and
Poussins bulked fairly well, there was a nice Greuze, a
Le Brun, and two fair Chardins, but the collection was not
what it should be. Since then we have gained enormously
in modern French works, chiefly of the Barbizon School,
and modern Dutch, through the benefactions of two
friends of art, Mr. J. C. J. Driicker and the late George
Salting, while other donors have given examples of modern
French art and a large Israels. The result is that to-day
our Corots and Daubignys alone are worth pilgrimages even
from Paris.

Mr. Driicker is indeed a remarkable specimen of the
genus man, for with a passion for the best and most
sensitive painting, he can find it possible to present from
his walls masterpieces which no other person in the world
would be able to relinquish. To him we owe examples
of the three Marises, Mauve, and Bosboom, and also a
fine English Daubigny. The majority of the Daubignys
and Corots were from Mr. George Salting. These are very
fine, especially the Corots numbered 2628 and 2631. We
now have also two Boudins, both admirable, an enchanting
sea piece by Courbet, a Michel, a Millet, a superb Diaz, No.
2632, and a very sweet and soothing Rousseau, No 2439.

And now for the wonderful Dutchmen. The Tuscans,
Umbrians, Ferrarese, Parmese, Lombardians, Sienese — these
found in the Scriptures their principal sources of inspira-
tion ; these painted the Holy Child, the Virgin Mary and
the blessed company of saints, with a persistence which I
for one cannot too much admire and rejoice in. Looking
to Rome and Romish patrons for their livelihood, they had
little choice, more particularly in the earlier days when
simplicity was in their very blood, nor would they have

DUTCH ART 85

wished a wider field. We may say, at any rate of the
Tuscans and Umbrians and Sienese, that their colours were
mixed and their panels made smooth for the glory of their
Lady. But in the Dutch rooms we are among painters
whose art was the servant of the State rather than the
Church. Farewell to mild Madonnas and chubby Christs :
farewell to holy families and the company of the aureoled.
Art has descended to earth : become a citizen, almost a
housewife. Heaven is unimportant : what is important
is Holland and the Dutch. Let there be Dutch pictures !
A religious subject may creep in now and then, but (but un-
less Rembrandt holds the brush or the burin) it will not be a
religious picture. World liness has set in thoroughly. We
have travelled very far from Fra Angelico and Francesca's
"Nativity".

I hope I shall not be misunderstood about Dutch art,
for which I have the greatest admiration. All I mean is
that there is no preparation for a loving appreciation of
it so unsuitable as the contemplation of the old Italian
masters. No emotio-.ial student of the Umbrians and the
Venetians, no one whose eyes have just been filled with
their colour and glory, is in a fit state to understand the
dexterity and homeliness of Gerard Dou and Terburg,
De Hooch and Jan Steen, the austere distinction of Van
Dyck, or even the stupendous power of Rembrandt. Least
of all is he able to be fair to Peter Paul Rubens. A
different attitude is expected by Italian masters and the
northern masters : the Italians ask for wonder, delight ;
the Dutch for curiosity, almost inquisitiveness. It is the
difference between rapture and interest. Always, however,
excepting Rembrandt : he stands alone.

Perhaps one should not combine the north and the south
in one visit at all, but confine each visit to a single group.

Weak as the National Gallery is, here and there, no

86 A WANDERER IN LONDON

one can deny the thoroughness and superlative excellence
of its Netherland rooms. The English have always appre-
ciated Dutch art. To have nineteen Rembrandts is alone
no small matter ; but we have also thirty-two works from
Rubens' hand, and five Hals', and four De Hoochs, and
nine Jan Steens, and three Terburgs, and fourteen Cuyps,
and six Van der Heydens, and two Vermeers, and twenty-
one Ruisdaels, and eight Hobbemas, including the best of
all. I doubt too if Van Dyck ever surpassed the distinction
and power of our " Cornelius van der Geest ".

Let us begin with Rembrandt Here are his fascinating
girl's head, No. 237, with the amused expression and ruddy
tints of health, and his " Old Lady " in a ruff, No. 775—
one of those wonderful heads that come right out of the
canvas and seem always to have been our personal ac-
quaintances. Other Rembrandts include the sombre
" Jew Merchant," No. 51 ; the two portraits of himself,
as a young man and an old man — Nos. 672 and 221 ; the
"Old Man"; the "Burgomaster"; the other "Old
Lady," also in a ruff, No. 1675, a little wizened but
immortal; and the "Jewish Rabbi," No. 190. These
are the greatest of them, and these alone make our
National Gallery priceless. There are also " The Woman
Taken in Adultery " and " The Adoration of the Shep-
herds," two of the pictures with which the collection
began: both lighted in that way which added the word
Rembrandtesque to the language ; the masterly " Woman
Bathing," one of his most brilliant oil sketches (look at
the way the chemise is painted) ; and lastly the beautiful
grave landscape — beyond Ruisdael or any of the regular
Dutch landscape painters: "Tobias and the Angel," No.
72 — a picture which always draws me to it. It is
stupendous, this man's mastery of his means.

FRANS HALS 87

I always wonder if No. 757 — " Christ Blessing the Little
Children," which is said to be of the School of Rembrandt —
was not painted by Nicolas Maes. The child in the fore-
ground seems straight from his brush, and he was Rem-
brandt's pupil. We come to him with No. 1247, "The
Card Players," a very fascinating and powerful work, very
near Rembrandt indeed.

Among the great masterpieces are our portraits by
Frans Hals, all beggaring one's store of adjectives and all
making all other painters of the ruddy human face, even
Rembrandt himself, almost fumblers. No one so per-
petuated the life of the eye and the cheek as this jovial
Haarlemer. Since this book was written the large Family
Group by Hals has been added to the collection — a picture
not perhaps of this painter's highest quality as a whole,
but notable for certain figures. Better perhaps is " The
Woman with a Fan," bequeathed by George Salting —
a very memorable thing painted like a miracle. The
Ruisdaels also have been enriched by the same munificent
testator, a perfect little " View near Haarlem " being now
our property for ever — unless the suffragettes destroy it
in their search for the vote. Among other Dutch pictures
added since my first edition are the Salting Jan Steens,
chief of which is the perfect " Skittle Players," No. 2560.

Three great landscape painters may be found in the same
rooms as the Hals — Ruisdael, Cuyp and Hobberaa, but
Koninck is next door. Hobbema's wonderful " Avenue
at Middelharnis " I reproduce. Chief of the many Cuyps
in beauty is No. 822 and next it is No. 53.

Vermeer hangs in a little room. He is represented by
pictures of two young ladies which have his peculiar magical
skill and charm but are not quite of his finest. Here
also hangs Terburg's " Portrait of a Gentleman," in which

88 A WANDERER IN LONDON

black cloth is painted with a distinction that I have never
seen elsewhere — a picture from which. Whistler must have
learned much.

Of Rubens I find it always difficult to write. He was
so powerful, so vigorous and so abundant. Enough that he
may be seen here in every mood, and that personally I like
best his landscape and that brilliant sketch for a large
picture — No. 57 — " The Conversion of St. Bavon ". Here
you see the great creative hand in its most miraculous
form. Of Van Dyck's "Cornelius van der Geest" I have
spoken. His portraits of the Marchese and Marchesa
Cattaneo, added since the first edition of this book, are
superb. The reader must search for the best of the Peter
de Hoochs — the " Interior of a Dutch House," No. 834,
reproduced in this volume, most marvellously lighted
and alive ; and the best National Gallery Metsu, No. 839,
" The Music Lesson," in which he is again faithful to the
type we observed at the Wallace Collection ; Terburg's
" Guitar Lesson "; Jan S teen's "Music Lesson," No. 856,
where the girl is painted — face, dress and hands — as
this inspired tippler alone could paint, Gerard Dou's
" Poulterer's Shop," the most marvellous example of Dutch
minuteness in the collection ; a church interior by Berck-
Heyde, and a view in Haarlem by the same efficient brush ;
some exquisite street scenes by the adorable Van der
Heyden ; and a very beautiful church interior by Saenredam,
all cool light My list is, of course, incomplete, for so far
from mentioning all the jewels of this collection, I cannot
even name all my own favourites ; but I must not omit
the more than lovely " River Scene " (No. 978) by
Willera van de Velde. And so we leave the National
Gallery (only, I hope, to return to it again and again)
with the praises of the late George Salting very genuinely
on our lips.

ADMIRAL PUI.IOO-PAREJA
AFTER THE PICTURE BY VELASQUEZ IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY

CHAPTER IX

THE STRAND AND COVENT GARDEN

The Strand — A Cosmopolitan Street — Waterloo Bridge and white stone
— The Adelphi — The Brothers Adam — Adelphi Terrace and Bucking-
ham Street — Samuel Pepys, a great Londoner — The old Palaces —
The Covent Garden stalwarts — A modern bruiser — New thorough-
fares— Will's Coffee House — Charles and Mary Lamb — The Lyceum
— Benedick and Beatrice — Dr. Primrose and Olivia — Sotheby's —
Interesting and not interesting — Essex Street — Simpson's of the Past
— Chop Houses — London's love of affront — Modes of Slavery — The
picturesque omnibus — A Piccadilly scene — St. Mary's Le Strand —
—The Maypole— The Swinge-bucklers— St. Clement Danes — The
Law Courts.

T COULD not, I think, explain why, but I have more dis-
taste for the Strand than for any street in London.
I would avoid it as carefully, from pure unreasoning pre-
judice, as Count D'Orsay or Dick Swiveller avoided certain
other districts on financial grounds. This, I fear, proves
me to be only half a Londoner — if that ; for the Strand to
many people is London, all else being extraneous. They
endure their daily tasks elsewhere only because such endur-
ance provides them with the means to be in the Strand at
night.

The most Bohemian of London streets, if the Strand
could cross to Paris it would instantly burgeon into a
boulevard. Its prevailing type is of the stage: the blue
chin of Thespis is very apparent there, and the ample

90 A WANDERER IN LONDON

waistcoat of the manager is prominent too. Except at
night, on the way to the Gaiety, the fashionable youth
avoid the Strand ; and indeed the best-dressed men and
women are not seen on its pavements, howsoever they may
use its carriage way. But with these exceptions, all London
may be studied there ; and other nations too, for the great
hotels and Charing Cross station tend to cosmopolitanise it.
Probably at no hour of the day or night are more than half
the Strand's population true Londoners.

If the Strand is too much for one, as it may easily be,
the escape is very simple. You may be on the banks of the
Thames in two minutes from any part of it, or on the
beautiful Adelphi Terrace, or among the flowers and greenery
of Covent Garden, or amid the peace of the Savoy chapel
or the quietude of Essex Street. Standing on the south
end of Waterloo Bridge on a sunny afternoon you get one
of the best views of London that is to be had and learn
something of the possibilities of the city's white stone.
Somerset House from this point is superb, St. Paul's as
beautiful and fragile as any of Guardi's Venetian domes.
Above the green of the trees and the Temple lawns and
the dull red of the new Embankment buildings, broken
here and there by a stone block, you see Wren's spires
pricking the sky, St. Bride's always the most noticeable ;
and now, far back, gleaming with its new whiteness and
the gold of its figure of Justice, is the new Central Crimi-
nal Court, to add an extra touch of light. Culminating
statues gilded or otherwise are beginning to be quite a
feature of London buildings. The New Gaiety Theatre has
one ; Telephone House in Temple Avenue has a graceful
Mercury ; over the Savoy portico stands a noble Crusader ;
over Romano's doorway dance a group of bronze Cupids.
Less ambitious but not less pleasing is the gold galleon
forming a weather vane on Mr. Astor's embankment office,

THE ADELPHI 91

which is as fine in its way as the Flying Dragon on Bow
Church in Cheapside.

The Adelphi, which dates from 1768, consists of the
Terrace, standing high overlooking the river, and its neigh-
bouring streets, John Street, Robert Street, James Street,
William Street and Adam Street, together with the arches
beneath. It was the work of the Scotch architects Robert,
John, James and William Adam, who in its generic title
and in these four streets celebrate for ever their relationship
and their names. The Terrace must be seen from the Em-
bankment or the river if its proportions are to be rightly
esteemed ; and one must go within one of the houses to
appreciate the beauty of the Adam ceilings and fireplaces,
which are the perfect setting for the furniture of Heppel-
white and Sheraton. English taste in decoration and de-
sign has certainly never since reached the height of delicacy
and restraint it then knew.

No house in the Terrace has been replaced or very seri-
ously tampered with, and all have some interesting associa-
tion, chief among them being No. 4, where in 1779 the
gaiety of nations was eclipsed by the death of Garrick.
The other Adelphi streets have historic memories too.
Disraeli always believed that he was born at No. 2 James
Street, in a library, although the facts seem to be against
him ; at No. 18 John Street is the Society of Arts, whence
come London's tablets of great men, of which I have
already said something ; and at No. 2 Robert Street lived
Thomas Hood, who sang the " Song of the Shirt ".

More ancient is the district between the Adelphi and
the Charing Cross District Railway station. Here we go
back a hundred years before the Adelphi was built, to
associations with the great name of Buckingham — Bucking-
ham Street, Duke Street, and Villiers Street being its chief

92 A WANDERER IN LONDON

quarters. Of these Buckingham Street retains moat signs
of age. Samuel Pepys lived there for many years, hi the
south-west corner house overlooking the river, which he
probably came to think his own ; Peter the Great lodged
at the opposite corner ; Jean Jacques Rousseau and David
Hume were together in Buckingham Street in 1765, before
they entered upon their great and unphilosophic quarrel ;
Etty painted at No. 14 and Clarkson Stanfield's studio was
below him.

Pepys' companion diarist John Evelyn resided for a while
in Villiers Street, which is now given up to cheap eating-
houses and meretricious shops, and on Sunday evenings is
packed with rough boys and girls. Steele lived here after
the death of his wife. The street is much changed since
then, for Charing Cross station robbed it of its western
side.

I am inclined to think that Pepys when all is said is the
greatest of the Londoners — a fuller, more intensely alive,
Londoner than either Johnson or Lamb. Perhaps he wins
his pre-eminence rather by his littleness, for to be a
Londoner in the highest one must be rather trivial or at
least be interested in trivialities. Johnson was too serious,
Lamb too imaginative, to compete with this busy Secretary.
Neither was such an epicure of life, neither found the world
fresh every morning as he did. It is as the epicure of life
that he is so alluring. His self-revelations are valuable in
some degree, and his picture of the times makes him per-
haps the finest understudy a historian ever had ; but Pepys'
greatness lies in his appreciation of good things. He lived
minute by minute, as wise men do, and he extracted what-
ever honey was possible. Who else has so fused business
and pleasure ? Who else has kept his mind so open, so
alert ? Whenever Pepys found an odd quarter of an hour

MADONNA AND THE LAUGHING CHILD

FROM THE CLAY STATUETTE BY DESIDEKIO DA SETTIGNANO (?) IN THE VICTORIA
AND AI-HERT MUSEUM

THE OLD STRAND PALACES 98

he sang or strummed it away with a glad heart ; whenever
he walked abroad his eves were vigilant for pretty women.
No man was more amusable. He drank "incomparable
good claret " as it should be drunk, and loved it ; lie
laughed at Betterton, he ogled Nelly Gwynn, he in-
trigued with men of affairs, he fondled his books, he ate
his dinner, all with gusto and his utmost energy. Trivial
he certainly was, but his enjoyment is his justification.
Samuel Pepys was a superb artist in living. He was a
man of insatiable inquisitiveness : there was always some-
thing he considered " pretty to see " ; and it was this gift of
curiosity that made him the best of Londoners. He had
also the true Londoner's faculty of bearing with equanimity
the trials of others, for all through the great plague and
the great fire he played his lute with cheerfulness.

Turning into the pleasant Embankment Gardens at the
foot, one comes at once upon the York Water Gate, which was
built by the Duke of Buckingham on the shore of the
river to admit boats to his private staithe, those being the
days when the Thames was a highway of fashion. To-day
it is given up to commerce. But he did not complete his
design of rebuilding the old Palace ; the gate is all that
now remains ; and the site of York House is covered by
Buckingham Street and its companions — just as the site of
Durham House, where Raleigh lived, is beneath the Adelphi,
and that of Arundel House beneath Arundel Street and its
neighbourhood, and that of old Somerset House beneath
the present building of the same name.

Only two relics of the old Strand palaces remain : the
York Water Gate and the Savoy chapel, one of London's
perfect buildings, dating from 1505 and offering in its
quietude the completest contrast to the bustle of the
surrounding neighbourhood. The outside walls alone

94 A WANDERER IN LONDON

represent the original structure, and they, I fancy, only
in parts. Among those who lie beneath its stones are
Mrs. Anne Killigrew, whom Dryden mourned, and George
Wither the poet, who sang divinely in prison of the con-
solations of the muse.

Covent Garden being for the most pail a wholesale
market, it has none of the interest of the Paris Halles, where
the old women preside over stalls of fruit and vegetables
arranged with exquisite neatness, and make up pennyworths
and two pennyworths with so thoughtful an eye to the pre-
servation of economy. We have nothing like that in
London. In London if you want two pennyworth of
mixed salad you must buy six pennyworth and throw
away the balance, economy being one of the virtues of
which we are ashamed; nor do we encourage open air
stalls except for the poor. Hence where it is retail Covent
Garden deals only in cut flowers and rare fruit*, al-
though I must not forget the attractive little aviary on
the roof at the east end of the central building, where
the prettiest of the little cage birds of all countries twitter
their appeal to you to take them home and love them.

There is something in the constitution of the London
porter, whether he unloads ships or wagons, carries on his
head vegetables, fish, or the products of farthest Ind,
which arrests progress, keeps him apart and out of the
movement. You notice this at the Docks, which are of
course remote from the centre, but you notice it also at
Covent Garden, within sound of the very modern Strand.
Covent Garden remains independent and aloof. New
buildings may arise, petrol instead of horses may drag in
the wagons from the country, but the work of unloading
and distributing vegetables and flowers remains the same,
and the porters have an immemorial air and attitude

THE BRUISED BRUISER 95

unresponsive to the times; while the old women who sit
in rows in the summer shelling peas have sat thus since
peas first had pods. Not only does the Covent Garden
porter lead his own life insensitive to change, but his
looks are ancient too : his face belongs to the past. It is
not the ordinary quick London face: it has its scornful
expression, of course, because London stamps a weary
contempt on all her outdoor sons ; but it is heavier, for
example, than the Drury Lane face, close by. Perhaps the
soil is responsible for this : perhaps Covent Garden depend-
ing wholly on the soil, and these men on Covent Garden,
they have gained something of the rural stolidity and
patience.

One could not have a better view of the Covent Garden
porters collectively than fell to my lot one day recently,
when I found some scores of them waiting outside the
boxing club which used to be Evans's Rooms in Thackeray's
day, and before that was Lord's Hotel, looking expectantly
at its doors. I waited too, and presently there emerged
alone a fumbling stumbling figure, a youth of twenty-four
or so, neatly dressed and brushed, but with his cheeks and
eyes a mass of pink puff. The daylight smote him almost
as painfully as his late adversary must have done, and he
stood there a moment on the steps wondering where he
was, while Covent Garden, which dearly loves a fight
with or without the gloves, murmured recognition and
approval. No march of progress, no utilitarian wave,
here. Byron's pugilist friend and master, Jackson of
Bond Street, could he have walked in, would have detected
little change, either in the crowd or the hero, since his own
day.

Perhaps the most important event connected with St.
Paul's Church, in Covent Garden, which in it* original

96 A WANDERER IN LONDON

form was built by Inigo Jones to be " the handsomest barn
in England," was the marriage in 1773 of William Turner
of Maiden Lane to Mary Marshall of the same parish ; for
from that union sprang Joseph Mallord William Turner,
the painter, who was baptised there in 1775. Among
those buried here are Samuel Butler the author of Hudibrcts,
and Peter Pindar (Dr. Wolcot) the scarifier of Guelphs
and Whitbreads, who wished his coffin to touch that of his
great and satirical predecessor ; William Wycherley, who
wrote The Country Wife; Sir Peter Lely, who painted
Stuart beauties ; Grinling Gibbons, who earve$ wood like
an angel ; Dr. Arne, the musician ; and Charles Macklin,
the actor, who lived to be 107.

It was in Maiden Lane, close by, that Turner was born,
in 1775, and among famous sojourners there were Andrew
Marvell and Voltaire. To-day it is given up to the stage,
and it is difficult to pass through it without hearing the
chorus of some forthcoming musical piece at practice in an
upper room. Rule's oyster shop is here, the modern sub-
stitute for the historic Cyder Cellar, where a hundred years
ago Person drank incredible draughts and grew wittier
with every potation. And it was in Maiden Lane that
poor Terriss, the last of the swaggering romantics of the
English stage, was murdered by a madman a few years ago.
Close by, in Tavistock Street, at the Country Life office,
is the best green door in London.

Between Covent Garden and Drury Lane certain eight-
eenth century traces still remain; but east of Drury
Lane is * wilderness of modernity. Everything has gone
between that street and Lincoln's Inn Fields — everything.
Men are not made London County Councillors for nothing.

At the time I write the houses in Kingsway and Ald-
wych have still to be built, a few isolated theatres and

NEW STREETS 97

offices being all that is yet finished. It remains to be seen
whether London, so conservative in its routes, so senti-
mentally attached to its old rights of way, will make any
use of a wide road from the Strand to Holborn, but will
not rather adhere to Bow Street and Endell Street or
Chancery Lane. It has a way of doing so. Nothing- has
ever yet persuaded it to walk or drive up or down Shaftes-
bury Avenue, which for all the use it has been might never
have ploughed through the Soho rookeries ; while there are
many people who would rather be splashed in St. Martin's
Lane and among the bird fanciers of St Andrew's two
streets, than use the new and spacious Charing Cross Road.
There is yet another reason why one looks with doubt on
the usefulness of this new road, and that is that the great
currents of London locomotion have set always east and
west.

Of Covent Garden's two great theatres I have nothing to
say ; but the north-east corner house of Russell Street and
Bow Street, with its red tiles and ancient fa9ade, has much
interest, for it was once, in a previous state, Will's Coffee
House, where John Dryden sat night after night and
delivered j udgments on new books and plays. The associa-
tions of Will's are too numerous for me to dare to touch
upon them further : they are a book alone. Next door,
at No. 20 Russell Street, a hundred and more years later,
over what is now a fruiterer's, lodged Charles and Mary
Lamb ; but the Society of Arts does not recognise the fact,
nor even that Lamb was born at 2 Crown Office Row in
the Temple, to which we are steadily drawing near. Lamb's
rooms I fancy extended to the corner house too, and it was
from one of these that, directly they were established there
in 1817, Mary Lamb had the felicity to see a thief being
conveyed to Bow Street police station.
7

98 A WANDERER IN7 LON7DON

Bow Street has now completely lost its antiquity and is
no longer interesting. Nor would Wellington Street be
interesting were it not for its association with Henry
Irving and the Lyceum. It is true that Henry Irving is
no more, and the Lyceum is transformed and vulgarised ;
but the memory of that actor is too vivid for it to be
possible yet to pass through this street without a regret.
The Lyceum, so long the stronghold of all that was
most harmonious and romantic and dignified in the
English drama, is now a home of cheap melodrama, and
never again will that great and courteous gentleman with
whom its old fame is identified be seen on its stage. It
was in a corner of the pit, leaning against the barrier be-
tween that part of the house and the stalls, that I saw all
Irving's best performances in recent years, most exquisite
of which to recall being always his Benedick in Much Ado
About Nothing — or, as the programme hawkers who
hovered about the queue in the dark passage of the
Lyceum Tavern used to call it, "Much to-do about
Nothing." Of all the myriad plays I have seen — good
plays, middling plays, and plays in which one's wandering
eyes return again and again most longingly to the magic
word "exit" — I remember no incident with more serene
pleasure than the entry of Miss Terry as Beatrice with the
words " Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to
dinner," and the humorous gravity, a little perplexed by
the skill of this new and alluring antagonist, of Benedick's
face as he pondered his counter stroke and found none.
And with it comes the recollection of that other scene
between these two rare and gentle spirits, when, in " Olivia,"
Dr. Primrose, having at last found his weeping daughter,
would take her home again. All reluctance and shame,
she demurs and shrinks until he comes beautifully down to

SOTHEBY'S 99

level ground with her, by saying, with that indescribably
sweet smile of his, " You ran away with one man : won't
you run back with me ? " and wins the day. Irving may
have lacked many qualities of the great actor ; but when he
died there passed away from the English stage something
of charm and distinction and picturesque power that it is
not likely in our time to recover ; and the world was the
poorer by the loss of a commanding gentleman.

It is in the lower part of Wellington Street, between the
Strand and Waterloo Bridge, that Sotheby's is situated —
that famous sale-room where book-collectors and dealers
meet to bid against each other for first editions, and where,
in these unpatriotic times, the most valuable of our auto-
graph letters and unique literary treasures are allowed to
fall to American dollars.

York Street, which was built early in the seventeenth
century, retains much of its old character. It was at No.
4 that De Quincey wrote his Confessions ; and the superb
Elliston, who counted fish at dinner " as nothing," lived at
No. 5. I am exploring and naming only the old streets
where the actual historic houses still stand, because to walk
down a dull street because a great man lived in it before the
rebuilder and modern taste had made it dull, is not an
attractive occupation. And I am omitting all names but
those that seem to me to lend a human note to these
pages. Streets such as Arundel Street and Norfolk Street
in the Strand, which had many literary and other associa-
tions, but have been entirely rebuilt and are now merely
business thoroughfares lined with fantastic red brick facades,
do not seem to me interesting. But Essex Street, close
by, does seem to me interesting, because it retains its old
Georgian form, and being a cul-de-sac for carriages, is quiet
to boot. The Essex Head, it is true, where Sam's Club

100 A WANDERER IN LONDON

met under Doctor Johnson's sway, has been rebuilt ; but
the lower part of the street is much as it was when Henry
Erskine learnt oratory at the Robin Hood Club (as some
of the speakers of our day learn it at the Cogers') and when
the Young Pretender lodged at Lady Primrose's.

When I first came to London, Simpson's, the most famous
of the Strand eating-houses, was beyond my purse. Not
for two years did I venture between its doors, and then
was so overawed that I might as well have fasted. I re-
member that the head waiter, in addition to the charge
for attendance, which was, I think, threepence, although,
such was my obvious unimportance, there had been none,
automatically subtracted a sixpence as my tip to him, thus
saving me the embarrassment of wondering if that were
enough. It was the first thoughtful thing that had occurred
during the meal. But later, when I had learned to call
" Waiter " without a spasm of self-consciousness, I extracted
much entertainment from Simpson's, not only in the
restaurant, but upstairs in the Divan, where one might
watch champions of chess mating in two moves, or read the
current number of Cornhitt.

But all that is changed. There is no Divan to-day, and no
one there has ever heard of the Cornhill, and in place of the
old shabbiness and comfort we have sumptuously-uphol-
stered rooms and all the paraphernalia of modernity. The
chop-house has become a restaurant. The joints are still
wheeled from table to table, but not with the old leisure,
although still not so eagerly that the drivers' licences are
in any danger of endorsement. Simpson's in its new shape
is indeed symptomatic of the times. It even advertises.

The old Chop House is almost extinct, although I know
still of one or two the addresses of which nothing shall in-
duce me to divulge (lest a syndicate corrupt them), where

A LOVER OF AFFRONTS 101

one still sits in bays, and eats good English food with
English names, and waits a long time for it, and does not
complain ; where there is no cloakroom for hats and coats,
and no door porters whose one aim in life is to send you
away in a cab ; where a twopenny tip goes farther than a
shilling elsewhere; and where if one lights a pipe no
German-Swiss manager suddenly appears, all suavity and
steel, to say that pipes are not allowed. There are still two
or three of such places, but probably by the time this book
is published they will have gone too and no pipes be left.
Londoners, who sing " Rule Britannia " at every smoking
concert, turn to water before any foreign mattre cChotel.

Although never perhaps so much a slave as when he is
in a foreign restaurant, the Londoner loves always to wear
shackles. No one accepts slights and insults so much as a
matter of course. He may grumble a little, but he never
really protests ; and the next day he has forgotten. The
Londoner has no memory. I say it again and again : he
has no memory, and no public spirit or real resentment.

He supports national collections of pictures and books,
but is quite happy when he goes to see them on Sunday
afternoons, his only opportunity, and finds the door locked
in his face.

In the course of a week he wastes hours on 'buses in
the cold, during blocks caused by a handful of Italians
(London's official road-menders) repairing a hole made by
an Electric Light or Gas Company; and though at the
time he remarks that it is scandalous, he forgets all about
it the instant the block is past.

He pays twice for having his hair cut or his chin shaved,
once to the proprietor of the saloon and once to the oper-
ator (sometimes to add to the grotesqueness of the proceed-
ing the proprietor and the operator being one). He allows

102 A WANDERER IN LONDON

theatrical managers to charge him sixpence for a programme
without which he cannot understand the play which he
has already paid to see.

He does nothing towards reform when at one minute
past eleven on Sunday, one minute past twelve on Saturday,
and twenty-nine minutes to one on ordinary nights, he is
unable by law to buy anything to drink.

He pays his money day after day for a seat in a train,
and cheerfully stands for the whole journey home, hanging
perilously to a strap or hat rack, packed closer than the
Humane Society (to which perhaps he contributes) would
allow any one to pack creatures who lack immortal souls.

Now and then a letter finds its way into the papers
pointing out this and other hardships; but tnat is all.
The railway companies and restaurateurs, the theatrical
managers and music-hall, know Londoners too well to do
more than smile in their sleeves and prepare new forms
of aggression. London would be wretched were it not

OO

affronted.

In no street out of the city are omnibuses so constant as
in the Strand, although to see the London 'bus at its best
I think Whitehall is the place. As they come down the
hill from Charing Cross into the spaciousness of the road
opposite the Horse Guards, at a sharp trot, like ships in
full sail, swaying a little under their speed, and shining
gaily in all their hues, they are full of the joy of life and
transmit some of it to the spectator. What London would
be without its coloured omnibuses one dares not think.
After the first flush of Spring, almost all her gaiety comes
from them. Whitehall is the best at all times, but in
April and May, when the trees (always a fortnight earlier
than in the country) are vivid on the edge of the Green
Park, and the sun has a nearly level ray, there is nothing

THE SUNNY STRAND 103

to equal the smiling loveliness of Piccadilly filled with
omnibuses, as seen from the top of the hill, looking east,
about Down Street. It is an indescribable scene of stream-
ing colour and gentle vivacity. Words are useless : it needs
Monet or Pissarro.

Mention of the slanting sun brings me back to the
Strand ; for there is nothing more beautiful in its way —
certainly a way peculiar to London — than that crowded
'bus-filled street at the same afternoon hour, with the light
on the white spire of St. Mary's at the east end, which
now, in its isolation, more than ever seems to block the
way. It is a graver, less Continental, beauty than Picca-
dilly's: but it is equally indelible. Almost it makes me
forgive the Strand.

St. Mary's church, like St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, is not,
as most people would tell you, one of Wren's, but was
built by Gibbs. Everything possible was done, some few
years ago, to get permission to demolish it, for what were
called the " Strand improvements " ; but happily in vain.
All honour to the resistors. The famous Maypole in the
Strand stood on the site of this church. A cedar trunk,
one hundred and thirty four feet high, it was erected in
1661 in honour either of the Restoration or (and here
comes in the sweet of ignorance) because a Strand farrier's
daughter, the wife of General Monk, had become the
Duchess of Albemarle.

St. Clement's Inn close by St. Mary's Le Strand, a few
years ago was still a backwater of peace, but is now ob-
literated and new houses bear its name — Clement's Inn,
where young Master Shallow of Warwickshire, Little John
Doit of Staffordshire, Black George Barnes of Staffordshire,
and Francis Pickbone and Will Squele, a Cotswold man,
were the devil's own swinge-bucklers. How could we pull

104 A WANDERER IN LONDON

it down ? But we would pull down anything. And New
Inn, close by, of which Sir Thomas More was a member —
that has gone too. Men, as I remarked before, are not
made County Councillors for nothing.

With St. Clement Danes church, just to the east of St.
Mary's Le Strand, and, like that, most gloriously in the
very middle of the road, we come at last to the true Wren.
It was in this church, one of London's whitest where it is
white — of a whiteness, under certain conditions of light,
surpassing alabaster — that Dr. Johnson had his pew, from
which, we are told, he made his responses with tremulous
earnestness. The pew was in the north gallery, where a
tablet marks the spot, styling him (and who shall demur ?)
"the philosopher, the poet, the great lexicographer, the
profound moralist and chief writer of his time." Among
those buried here are Thomas Otway and Nathaniel Lee,
the dramatists ; Joe Miller, who made all the jokes, and in
addition to being a " facetious companion," as his epitaph
says, was a "tender husband" and "sincere friend," as
humorists should be; Dr. Kitchiner, the author of The
CooKs Oracle and himself a "notable fork"; and Acker-
mann, the publisher of the Repository, which everyone
who loves the London of the Regency, its buildings and
costumes, in the fairest of all the methods of counterfeiting

7 O

a city's life, namely copper-plate and aquatint, should know,
and if possible possess.

And here at the Griffin, opposite the most fantastically
and romantically conceived Law Courts in the world — the
most astounding assemblage of spires, and turrets, and
gables, and cloisters, that ever sprang from one English-
man's brain, — we leave the Strand and pass into Fleet
Street, or, in other words, into the City of London,

CHAPTER X

FLEET STREET AND THE LAW

Temple Bar— Charles Lamb— The Retired Cit— The Griffin— Printer's
Ink— An All-night Walk in London— The Temple— Oliver Gold-
smith— Lamb Again — Lincoln's Inn — Ben Jonson — Lincoln's Inn
Fields — Old Mansions — Great First Nights — The Soane Museum—
Dr. Johnson — The Cheshire Cheese — St. Dunstan's and St. Bride's,

WHEN I first knew London — passing through it on
the way to a northern terminus and thence to
school — Temple Bar was still standing. But in 1878 it
was pulled down, and with its disappearance old London's
doom may be said to have sounded. Since that day the
demolishers have taken so much courage into their hands
that now what is old has to be sought out : whereas Temple
Bar thrust antiquity and all that was leisurely and obsolete
right into one's notice with unavoidable emphasis. The
day on which it was decreed that Fleet Street's traffic must
be no longer embarrassed by that beautiful sombre gate-
way, on that day Dr. Johnson's London gave up the ghost
and a new utilitarian London came into being.

By the way, it is worth while to give an afternoon to a
walk from Enfield to Waltham Cross, through Theobald's
park, in order to stand before Temple Bar in its new
setting. Enfield is in itself interesting enough, if only for
its associations with one who loved London with a love

105

106 A WANDERER IN LONDON

that was almost a passion, and who never tired of running
over her charms and looking with wistful eyes from his
rural exile across the fields towards the veil of smoke be-
neath which she spread her allurements : I mean, of course,
Charles Lamb. It was an odd chance, which no one could
have foreseen, least of all perhaps himself, to whom it must
have stood for all that was most solid and permanent and
essentially urban, that carried Temple Bar (beneath whose
shadow he was born) to this new home among green fields,
very near his own.

The Bar stands now as one of the gateways to Theo-
bald's park. It was bought prior to demolition by Sir
Henry Meux, and every brick and stone was numbered, so
that the work of setting it up again in 1888 exactly as of
old was quite simple. I know of no act of civic piety
prettier than this. And there Temple Bar stands, and
will stand, beneath great trees, a type of the prosperous cit
who after a life of hard work amid the hum of the streets
retires to a little place not too far from town and spends
the balance of his days in Diocletian repose. What sights
and pageants Temple Bar must recall and ruminate upon in
its green solitude ! The transplantation of the Elgin Marbles
from the Parthenon to the British Museum — from domina-
ting the Acropolis and Athens to serving as a source of
perplexity to British sightseer in an overheated gallery of
Bloomsbury — is hardly more violent than the transplanta-
tion of Temple Bar from Fleet Street and the city's feet to
Hertfordshire and solitude.

A concrete example of English taste in the eighteen-
seventies is offered by the study of the Griffin — the me-
morial which was selected to mark the site of Wren's
gateway. It is curious to remember that the heads of
traitors were displayed publicly on the spikes of Temple

PRINTER'S INK 107

Bar as recently as 1772. Barbarism is always surprising us
by its proximity.

Even less than the Strand's pavements are those of Fleet
Street fitted for loiterers. In fact we are now in the City,
and urgent haste has begun : not quite as in Cheapside and
Broad Street, for no one here goes without a hat, but
bustle is now in the air, and with every step eastward we
shall be more in the fray. From Fleet Street, however,
though it may in itself seethe with activity, the escape is
easy into quietude more perfect than any that the Strand
has offered ; for here is the Temple on the south, and on
the north Lincoln's Inn with its gardens ; here also are
Clifford's Inn (now, in 1906, doomed to the speculator) and
Serjeants' Inn; and here are the oddest alleys, not nar-
rower than those between the Strand and Maiden Lane,
but more tortuous and surprising, the air of all of them (if
you can call it air) heavy with the thick oiliness of printer's
ink.

Printer's ink is indeed the life blood of Fleet Street and
its environs. The chief newspaper offices of London are
all around us. The Times, it is true, is fixed a little to the
south-east, on the other side of Ludgate Hill station ; but
in Fleet Street, and between it and Holborn on the north
and the river on the south, are nearly all the others. Here
all day are men writing, and all night men printing it. If
a tidal wave were to roll up the Thames and submerge
London, the newspapers would go first : a thought for each
of us to take as he will, with or without tears.

On an all-night walk in London, which is an enterprise
quite worth adventuring upon, it is well to be in Fleet
Street between three and five, when it springs into intense
activity as the carts are being loaded with the papers for
the early morning trains. From here one would go to

108 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Covent Garden and smell the flowers — the best antidote
to printer's ink that has been discovered.

The Temple, which spreads her cool courts and gardens
all unsuspected within a few yards of Fleet Street, is best
gained by the gateway opposite Chancery Lane, by the old
house with a ceiling of Tudor roses that one used to
contemplate as one was being shaved (all barbers1 saloons
should have good ceilings). It is now a County Council
preserve. Almost immediately we come to the Temple
church, the most beautiful small church in London and
one of the most beautiful in the world — so grave in char-
acter and austere and decisive in all its lines ; and yet so
human too and interesting, with its marble Templars lying
there on their circular pavement in a repose that has al-
ready endured for five centuries and should last for cen-
turies more. Many of Lamb's old Benchers are buried
beneath this church ; and here also lie the learned John
Selden, and James Ho well who wrote the Epistolce.

To the north of the church is a plain slab recording that
Oliver Goldsmith, that eminent Londoner and child of
genius, lies beneath it. He died at No. 2 Brick Court, up
two pau*s of stairs, in a " closet without any light in it," as
Thackeray, who later had rooms below, described the poet's
bedroom. That was on April 4, 1774, and the next
morning, when the news went out, it was to this door that
there came all kinds of unfortunate creatures to whom he
had been kind — weeping and friendless now.

To name all the illustrious men who have had chambers
in the Temple would not only be an undertaking of great
magnitude but would smell overmuch of the Law. Rather
would I lay stress on the more human names, such as poor
Goldsmith's and Charles Lamb's. It was a little less than
a year after Goldsmith had died at 2 Brick Court that at

THE CONSERVING LAW 109

the same number in Crown Office Row Charles Lamb was
bom — on February 10, 1775. The Row is still there,
but it has been rebuilt since Lamb's day, or perhaps only
re faced. The gateway opposite leading into the garden
is the same, as its date testifies. Lamb claimed to be a
Londoner of the Londoners ; but few Londoners have the
opportunity of spending their childhood amid so much
air and within sight of so much greenery as he. Perhaps
to these early associations we may attribute some of the
joy with which in after life, Londoner as he was (having
lent his heart in usury to the City's stones and scenes), he
would set out on an expedition among green fields.

I ventured just now to mock a little at the Law; and
yet it is not fair to do so, for it is the Law that has
preserved for London this beautiful Temple where all
is peace and eighteenth-century gravity. Yet not every-
thing has it retained, since no longer are the Inns of
Court revels held here. It was in the Middle Temple
Hall, which is a perfect example of Elizabethan architec-
ture, that Twelfth Night was first played.

Lincoln's Inn, the Law's domain on the other side
of Fleet Street, has its lawns and seclusion and old
world quiet too; but it does not compare with the
Temple. The Temple's little enclosed courts, with
plane trees in their midst, of the tenderest green
imaginable in early spring ; her sun-dials and her
emblems ; her large green spaces sloping to the river ;
her church and her Master's house; her gateways
and alleys and the long serene line of King's
Bench Walk — these are possessions which Lincoln's
Inn can but envy. And yet New Square is one of
the most satisfying of London's many grave parallelo-

110 A WANDERER IN LONDON

grams ; and the chapel which Inigo Jones built rises nobly
from the ground ; and the old gateway in Chancery Lane
does something to compensate for the loss of Temple Bar.
Its date 1518 disposes of the story that Ben Jonson helped
to build it, with a trowel in one hand and a book in the
other, but I like to believe that he did a little desultory
bricklaying in this way on some extension to it.

Chancery Lane has recently been ennobled by the new
Record Office and made attractive by a little row of the
lions which Alfred Stevens designed for the British Museum
railinors but which the British Museum authorities nov»

O

keep carefully under cover Some one had the happy
thought to set up copies of these delightful creatures
(which may be bought in plaster of Paris for a few shillings
of Brucciani) on the railings of the west side of the road
opposite the Record Office.

To Lincoln's Inn Fields, which is now lawyers' offices and
a public playing ground, but was once a Berkeley Square,
we come by way of the Inn. On the north and south
sides the rebuilders have already set their mark ; but the
west side, although the wave of reform that flung up
Kingsway and Aldwych washes its very roots, is still
standing, much as it was in the great days of the seven-
teenth century, except that what were then mansions of
the great are now rookeries of the Law. No. 59 and 60,
for example, with its two magnificent brick pillars, was
built by Inigo Jones for the Earl of Lindsay. Inside are
a few traces of its original splendours. The corner house,
now No. 67, with the cloisters, was Newcastle House (pre-
viously Powis House) the residence of the great Duke of
Newcastle. Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre, where Pepys
used to be so vastly amused (going there so often as to
make Mrs. Pepys " as mad as the devil ") was on a site

'

"J, i-i&lUiik :„;;:, tfi^SroiW^

ST. MARY-LE-STRAXD

THE SOANE HOTCH-POTCH 111

now covered by the Museum of the Royal College of
Surgeons, to which the curious are admitted by order.
Not for me are physiological whims and treasures of
anatomy preserved in spirits of wine ; rather would I stay
outside and reflect on the first night of Congreve's Love
for Love on April 30, 1695 with Mrs. Bracegirdle as
Angelica, or of the premiere of The Beggar's Opera, thirty
and more years later, with Lavinia Fenton so bewitching
as Polly Peacham that she carried by storm the heart of
the Duke of Bolton and became his Duchess. A little
while ago I was reflecting that barbarism, although now,
of course, extinct, is yet very recent ; but to dip however
casually into the history of London is to be continually
reminded that for the most part nothing changes. Even
as I write the papers are full of the marriages of two
noblemen to actresses.

On the north side of Lincoln's Inn Fields is the Soane
Museum, a curious medley of odds and ends with a few
priceless things among them and a very capricious system
of throwing open its doors. One must, however, visit it,
for otherwise one would never see Hogarth's delicately
coloured election series or " The Rake's Progress " in the
original, and since in two or three of the subsidiary
figures of " The Humours of an Election Entertainment "
he comes nearer Jan Steen than in any of his work this
would be a pity ; and one would never see Canaletto's fine
painting of the Grand Canal — better than any of that
master's work at the Wallace Collection, I think ; nor
Giulio Clovio's illuminations to St. Paul's Epistles ; nor
a very interesting Watteau ; nor several quaint missals,
among them one whence the Bastard of Bourbon got his
religion ; nor a MS. of Lamb's Margaret of Newcastle ;
nor the MS. of Tasso's Gerusalemme Liberata ,• nor two of

112 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Reynolds' sketch books ; nor many exquisite cameos and
intaglios ; nor Christopher Wren's watch ; nor the silver
pistol which Peter the Great ravished from a Turkish Bey ;
nor paintings on silk by Labelle, little delicate trifles as
pretty as Baxter prints ; nor enough broken pieces of
statuary — gargoyles, busts, capitols, and so forth — to build
a street of grottoes ; nor the famous alabaster sarcophagus
of Seti I, King of Egypt about 1370 B.C.

It is the duty of all who now take a walk down Fleet
Street to visit the scenes associated with the great name
of Johnson. Dr. Johnson's house in Gough Square still
stands, throbbing with printing presses : you may still
thread Bolt Court: you may worship, as he did, in St.
Clement Danes. But whether the wooden seat in the
Cheshire Cheese which bears a brass plate sanctifying it to
the Doctor was really his is another matter. None the less
it has drawn many English sightseers and all Americans.
The Cheshire Cheese, together with one or two chop
houses in the city where willow pattern plates and two-
pronged forks are still used, represents the old guard in
English restauration. How long they will be able to hold
out I dare not prophesy : but not, I fear, long. There are
indeed already signs at the Cheshire Cheese that devotion
to old ideas is not what it was. The famous pudding (lark
and ovster, steak and kidney) was produced, I seem to re-
collect, with more ritual, more of an air, fifteen years ago
than to-day. I have eaten of it but once, and shall eat of
it no more. Not to my charge shall be laid the luring of any
sweet-voiced lark into a Fleet Street kitchen, or indeed any
kitchen whatsoever ; but others have other views, and for
them the arrival of the dish has long been one of London's
crowded moments. Americans cross the Atlantic to par-
take of it and write their opinion in the visitors' book,

FLEET STREET 113

which, not less depressingly facetious than all its kind, is
rather more interesting by reason of an occasional name
that has some artistic con-elation. Old ale, a sanded floor,
hot punch, and seats of a discomfort beyond that of the
old third class railway compartments or a travelling circus,
complete the illusion of Johnsonian revelry.

More than any other street Fleet Street, in spite of all
its new buildings, has kept an old London feeling. I think
this is due in a great measure to its irregular facades, each
one different and some very odd, and its many clocks and
signs. To look down Fleet Street on a sunny afternoon is
to get a very vivid sense of almost eighteenth century
animation. Modern as it all is, it always recalls to my mind
the Old London street at one of the early South Kensing-
ton exhibitions. Every variety of architecture may be seen
here — from the putative palace of Cardinal Wolsey to
the Daily Telegraph office, from Sell's building, with its
sundial, to St. Dunstan's-in-the-West ; while to glance
down Middle Temple Lane is to have a genuine peep at
the eighteenth century.

St. Dunstan's-in-the-West is Fleet Street's jewel, with its
very curious, very beautiful, open work tower, as exceptional
in its way as St. Dunstan's-in-the-East, although not the
artistic equal of that delicate structure. The architect of
the western St. Dunstan's was one Shaw, and it is not yet
eighty years of age, all the old associations belonging to
that which preceded it — the St. Dunstan's under whose
shadow Charles Lamb says he was born ; in which Donne
preached ; and which in the seventeenth century was sur-
rounded by booksellers' shops, among them Smethwick's,
who published Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet, and Marriot's,
who put forth The Compleat Angler. The other Fleet

Street church, St. Bride's, which is iust off the road on the
8

114 A WANDERER IN LONDON

south, is older and has far more dignity : it is indeed one
of Wren's finest efforts. Elsewhere I have said something of
the spire under a busy sky. In a house in the churchyard
Milton once lived, and beneath the church lies the author
of Pamela and Clarissa Harlowe, under the central aisle.

It is at the Barley Mow, close by, in Salisbury Square,
that the ancient society of the Cogers hold their parliament
every Saturday night and settle questions of state over pipe
and glass. One should certainly visit one of these debates,
where so many speakers have first raised their voices and
demolished the Government. Students of race will not be
surprised to hear that there was never a Cogers' palaver
without a brogue in it.

CHAPTER XI

ST. PAUL'S AND THE CHARTERHOUSE

Observing in London — The London gaze — A few questions — St. Paul's
— Sir Christopher Wren — Temples of Prosperity — Spires of Genius
— St. Paul'i from a Distance — London from St. Paul's — The High
Roads to the Country — Florid Monuments — An Anomaly — The
Great Painters — The Thames-Streets — Wren again — Billingsgate —
St. Sepulchre's and Condemned Men — The Great Fire — The Cock
Lane Ghost — Bartholomew's Hospital — St. Bartholomew the Great —
A Wonderful Church— Cloth Fair— Smithfield Martyrs— The Charter-
house — The Old Gentlemen — Famous Schoolboys — A Spring Walk
— Highgate and Hampstead Heath — The Friendly Inns — A word on
Hampstead and Kate Greenaway.

*~ I AHERE are so many arresting movements in London,
-L as indeed in all hives of men, that to observe widely
is very difficult. Just as one is said not to be able to see
a wood for trees, so one cannot rightly see a city for its
citizens, London for its Londoners. I believe, to give an
example of defective London observation, that one's tend-
ency is to think that all its greater streets are straight ;
whereas hardly any are. Here is a question on that fallacy,
suggested to me one day as I stood at the point which we
have now reached : " From the middle of the road under
the railway Bridge at the foot of Ludgate Hill how much
of St. Paul's do you see ? " I would wager that the majority
of Londoners would expect to see the whole facade ; but
they would be very wrong.

In one of his delightful books Dr. Jessopp remarks that

whereas country people look up, Londoners look down It

US

116 A WANDERER IN LONDON

is largely this habit that has limited their observing powers ;
but London has itself to blame. I assume that one can
observe well only by taking large views, and in London
this is impossible, even if one would, partly from the cir-
cumscribing effect of bricks and mortar, partly from the
dim light of a London distance, and partly from the need
of avoiding collisions. One's eyes unconsciously acquire a
habit of restricted vision : our observation specialises, like
that of the little girl in Mrs. Meynell's book, who beguiled
the tedium of her walks by collecting shopkeepers named
Jones. Perhaps that is the kind of observation for which
we in London have become best suited.

I remember how amazed I was, some years ago, when
one clear Sunday morning, as I was walking in Fleet Street,
I chanced on looking down Bouverie Street to see, framed
between its walls, the Crystal Palace gleaming in the far
distance. That, however, was an exceptional sight. Far
less uncommon yet quite obvious characteristics cause as-
tonishment when they are pointed out. It comes, for
example, as a surprise to many people if you refer to the
hill in Piccadilly. "What hill?" they ask. Indeed, if
there is one thing more remarkable than one's own ignor-
ance of London it is that of other people. Walking one
day in Cheapside, from west to east, I was struck by the
unfamiliar aspect of the building which blocked the end of
that thoroughfare. It turned out to be a new set of offices
at the foot of Cornhill, and it caused me to wonder how
many people shared my belief that as one walks eastwards
down Cheapside one ought to have a full view of the Royal
Exchange ; which is not, as a matter of fact, visible until
one is almost out of the Poultry. And this error led me
to examine other similar fancies, and in many cases to find
them equally wrong. I amused myself in consequence by

< 2

LONDON QUESTIONS 117

drawing up a little paper in London topography, or rather
in London observation. Here are a few of the questions
which I jotted down : —

1. If the Nelson column were to fall intact upon its side
in a due southerly direction, where would Nelson's head lie ?

2. If circumstances should confine your perambulations
to an area comprised in a radius of three hundred yards
from the Griffin in Fleet Street, what streets and how much
of them would be open to you ? Could you get to the
theatre ?

3. Give in detail the route of what is in your opinion
the shortest walking-distance from (a) St. Pancras to
Victoria, (6) Paddington to London Bridge, (c) the Lyceum
to Oxford Circus, (d) the Zoological Gardens to the Albert
Hall, (e) the Bank to the Tower, (/) Seat P4 in the
British Museum Reading Room to seat C7.

4. Between what points of the compass do the following
streets run : the Strand, Northumberland Avenue, Fen-
church Street, Edgware Road, Knightsbridge, Tottenham
Court Road, Cockspur Street, Bow Street, Whitehall,
Westminster Bridge, Waterloo Bridge and London Bridge ?

5. Give the approximate taxi fare between Charing
Cross and (a) the Elephant and Castle, (6) the Spaniards,
(c) Liverpool Street, (d) the Marble Arch, (e) the Bromp-
ton Oratory, (/") the People's Palace, (g) the Agricultural
Hall.

6. If you followed that diameter of the four-mile radius
which starts from the West Hill, Highgate, where would
you collide with the opposite circumference?

7. Does it surprise you to learn that Westminster Bridge,
if continued in a straight line for two or three miles on the
Surrey side would run into Tower Bridge, or somewhere
very near it ?

118 A WANDERER IN LONDON

8. Where are Hanging Sword Alley and Whetstone
Park ?

Of St. Paul's Cathedral I find it very difficult to write.
Within, it is to me the least genial of cathedrals, the least
kindly. It has neither tenderness nor mystery. I would
not call it exactly hard and churlish, like some of the
white-washed Lutheran temples: it is simply so much
noble masonry without sympathy.

Wren, of course, had no religion : one sees that in every
church he built. He was a wonderful architect ; he heaped
stone on stone as no Englishman has ever done, before or
since ; one feels that he must have known by inspired pre-
vision exactly how the smoke and fog of the future would
affect his favourite medium; but he had no religion, no
secret places in his soul, no colour. His churches are
churches for a business man, and a successful one at that :
not for a penitent, not for a perplexed and troubled soul,
not for an emotional sufferer. Poor people look out of
place in them. Wren's churches are for prosperity.

To make satisfying exteriors — especially to make the
right spires — was Wren's happy destiny. He never, or
almost never, failed here. Within, his churches are for
the most part merely consecrated comfortable rooms :
without, they are London's most precious, most magical
possession. At first they may not please; but — and
especially if one studies the city from a height — one comes
to realise their beauty and their extraordinary fittingness.
On a bright day of scudding clouds, such as I remember in
January of this year, when I was sitting in a room at the
highest point of the Temple, the spire of a Wren church
can have as many expressions, can reflect as many moods,
as a subtle and sympathetic woman. I was watching St.
Bride's with absolute fascination as it smiled and frowned,
doubted and understood.

ST. PAUL'S 119

St. Paul's of course can hardly be ranked with Wren's
churches at all: it is so vast, so isolated. It is too vast
in its present Anglican hands for human nature's daily
needs. The Roman Catholics, by their incense, their con-
fessionals, their constant stream of worshippers, their little
side chapels, their many services, and, perhaps most of all,
by their broken-light, bring down even their largest cathe-
drals to reasonable dimensions, so that one does not feel
lost in them. They might humanise St. Paul's. But as
it is, St. Paul's is a desert : nothing is done for you, and
its lighting is almost commercial. The dominant impres-
sion it conveys is of vastness : one emerges with no hush on
one's soul.

St. Paul's should, I think, be loved from a distance ; an
interview should not be courted. The triumph of St. Paul's
is that, vast and serene, it broods protectively over the
greatest city in the world, and is> worthy of its office. The
dome is magnificent : there is nothing finer : and that to
me is St. Paul's — a mighty mothering dome ; not cold
aisles and monstrous groups of statuary, not a whispering
gallery and worried mosaics, not Americans with red guide
books and typists eating their lunch. All that I want to
forget.

St. Paul's best appeal, true appeal, is external. It has
no religious significance to me : it is the artistic culmina-
tion of London city, it is the symbol of London. And as
such it is always thrilling. One of the best near views is
from the footbridge from Charing Cross to Waterloo ; one
of the best distant views is from Parliament Hill. By no
effort of imagination can one think of London without it.

Yet go to St. Paul's one must, if only to reverse this
view and see London from its dome. On a clear day,
which in London means a windy day, you cannot have a

120 A WANDERER IN LONDON

more interesting sight than this great unwieldy city from
the ball of its sentinel cathedral — all spread out on every
side, with a streak of river in the midst : all grey and busy
right away to the green fields.

To trace the great roads from this height is one of the
most interesting things. For it is pleasant to think that
all the roads even of the crowded congested business centre
take one in time into the country, into the world, right to
the sea. In time, for example, Ludgate Hill is going to be
Fleet Street, and Fleet Street the Strand, and the Strand
King William Street, and so on to Leicester Square and
Coventry Street and Piccadilly; and Piccadilly leads to
Hounslow and Staines and the west of England. Behind
us is Cannon Street, which leads to London Bridge and
the Borough High Street and Tabard Street to Watling
Street and Gravesend and Rochester and the Kentish coast :
or via London Bridge and the Borough High Street, to
Newington Causeway, to Clapham, Epsom, Leatherhead and
Dorking to the Sussex coast ; or through Guildford to the
Hog's Back and Hampshire. Cheapside leads to Cornhill
and Leadenhall Street and Aldgate, and Aldgate to the
Whitechapel Road and Romford, Brentwood, Chelmsford
and the east ; Bishopsgate leads to Edmonton, Hoddes-
den, Cheshunt, Ware and the north-east; the City Road
leads to Islington, Highgate, and the North ; and Cheapside
to Holborn, Oxford Street, the Edgware Road, St. Albans
and the north-west From the ball of St. Paul's one can
follow all these roads for a little way on their great journeys.

A few years ago such eventualities were not considered
as they now are, the Londoner associating liberty only
with the rail. But now that the motor-car has come, the
road has returned to its own again, not only in fact but in
our thoughts. No motorist thinks only of the portion of

THE OTHER CHEEK? 121

road that he happens to be on : he looks ahead and thinks
of its course and destination. This is good. This is one
of the best things that the motor has done. Compared
with such an enlargement of vision, such a quickening of
the imagination, its speed is unimportant. The motor's
great achievement is its gift of England to the English,
the home counties to the Londoner.

It is in St. Paul's that our great soldiers and sailors and
painters are commemorated. The painters are modest ;
but the monuments to the warriors are large and florid
(rather like the Dutch), usually personifying the hero in
action. Nothing is so wrong as for sculpture to perpetuate
an arrested movement: great art, and particularly mar-
moreal art, treats of repose ; but the sculptors of St. Paul's,
the Bacons, and Bailleys, and Westmacotts, did not think
so, and we therefore have Sir Ralph Abercromby for ever
falling from his horse, and Sir John Moore for ever being
just lowered into his grave, though not at all as the poem
describes. Latterly, however, taste has improved, for the
completed Wellington monument has dignity and tran-
quillity, while Lord Leighton's sarcophagus is beautiful.

The old rule which seems to have insisted upon every
statue being eight feet high, although doubtless a wise one
in so large a building, leads to some rather quaint effects :
as when one comes suddenly upon a half-naked Colossus of
truculent mien, fit opponent for Hackenschmidt, and finds
the name of Samuel Johnson beneath it Anomalies in
marble are so very noticeable. There seems to me to be
another of a more serious nature in the bas-relief memorial
to the officers and men of the 57th West Middlesex who
perished in the Crimea and New Zealand, the subject of
which is Christ comforting the mourners : for the logician
might so easily point out that had the law of Christ not
been broken the cause of mourning would not have existed.
One's feeling is that Christ should not be here : it is not so

122 A WANDERER IN LONDON

much over dead soldiers as over the living that He must
mourn. But every church which, like St. Paul's, glorifies
war and warriors, is of course in a very delicate position.
England is, however, the last country in which to say so.

For other memorials to distinguished men one must de-
scend, at a cost of sixpence, into the crypt (the soldiers and
sailors above are free), where Sir Christopher Wren lies,
and where many of the greatest painters are buried — among
them Turner and Reynolds, Lawrence and Millais. Here
too lie Nelson and Wellington. Latterly the crypt has
been set apart as the resting-place or memorial-place of
some of our lesser but authentic men of genius, such as
W. E. Henley, that burly fighter and sweet poet, and
Randolph Caldecott, best of illustrators for the young.

One of the parts of commercial London that I like best
is the slope of the hill between St. Paul's and the river. All
kinds of old narrow lanes wind down this hill to the water,
crossing Upper Thames Street on the way — all strongly
stamped by the past and all very busy and noisy. No-
where in London do the feet of horses make so clattering a
disturbance as hereabouts, and the motor vehicle has hardly
yet found its way here. These lanes with the odd names —
Godliman Street, Benet Lane, Sermon Lane, Trig Lane,
Distaff Lane, Little Divinity Lane, Garlick Hill, College
Hill, Stew Lane — are all winding and narrow and obsolete,
and without exception, contrary to the best interests of
business ; yet they persist, and one is glad of it. And all
make for the wharves and the river, and ultimately the
open sea.

The Great Fire made very short work of Thames Street
— as indeed a fire always does of riverside buildings — and
everything that one now sees dates from the hither side of
that disaster. The churches are all Wren's, whose in-
dustry amazes more and more : — St. Benet's (where Inigo
Jones is buried); St. James's in Garlickhithe (with a figure

BILLINGSGATE 123

of the apostle over its fine assertive clock) ; St. Michael's,
on College Hill, with some carving of Wren's confederate
Grinling Gibbons, and a window to Dick Whittington, who
was buried here as often as he was Lord Mayor of London.
By Cannon Street's arch one passes the very thinnest end
that any architectural wedge ever had, and so comes into
Lower Thames Street, where we quickly find Wren again
— at St. Magnus the Martyr, at the foot of Fish Street
Hill, on which the Monument, like a tall bully, lifts its
head and lies. St. Magnus's is one of London's larger
churches, and in its way is very fine. Miles Coverdale, who
gave the English their Bible, is buried here. The glass is
not good, nor is it good in any Wren church that I have
seen, but it rarely reaches a lower point than in St. Dun-
stanVin-the-East (which has the beautiful tower). Before
we come to this church we pass Pudding Lane, where the
Great Fire began (we shall see directly where it stopped),
and to Billingsgate fish market. Both the Thames Streets,
Upper and Lower, are very genuine, and very interesting,
with their warehouses and their wharves ; although I should
feel there by night that one must meet rats. The whole
walk from Blackfriars Station to the Tower is worth tak-
ing, with plenty of material to the hand of a Meryon or
Muirhead Bone on the way ; but at Billingsgate I draw the
line — Billingsgate, which is always muddy whatever the
weather, and always noisy and slimy and fishy beyond words.
One comes away indeed vowing never to eat ftsh again.

From St. Paul's, when I was last there, I walked to
the church of St. Bartholomew the Great in Smithfield,
feeling that I needed a little Norman and Early English
humanising in the genuine atmosphere of antiquity; for
St. Paul's, for all its sacred dust, is too much like the
mausoleum of a Lord Mayor. I walked through a

124 A WANDERKR IN LONDON

narrow passage into Paternoster Row, and so to Amen
Corner and Warwick Lane. I peeped into Amen Court,
that quiet ecclesiastical backwater where St. Paul's canons
live, but have at the present moment no Sydney Smith
among them; not among the minor canons is there a
Thomas Ingoldsby. I peeped also into Warwick Square,
one of whose old residential houses still stands amid the
offices, with a top hamper of woodwork and a parliament
of pigeons on its coping. And so on into Newgate Street,
where all is changing so rapidly — Christ's Hospital being
no more, and Newgate's dark and sinister prison having
given way to the gleaming new Central Criminal Court
in yellow stone with its gold figure of Justice on top. St.
Sepulchre's Church has not yet been pulled down, it is
true ; but I suppose it has merely been overlooked, so
noble is it and worthy of preservation.

St Sepulchre's, whose four vanes and their inability to
swing exactly together have made a city proverb, has a
long association with crime which, however kindly meant,
lends it a sinister air. Its clock for centuries gave the hours
to the hangman at Newgate across the way : at first to
warn him that it was time to start for Tyburn, and later
that the moment was ripe for the execution in the prison
itself. Life must have been very interesting and full —
to the innocent or undetected — in Holborn and Oxford
Street in those old days when condemned men were hanged
at Tyburn tree : processions so constantly passing, with
every circumstance of publicity and ribaldry. St. Sepul-
chre's connection with executions did not end at merely
giving the time: it had refinements of torture at its
fingers' ends. By the zeal of a citizen of London named
Robert Dowe, who left a sum of money for the purpose,
the clerk of the church was forced to take his bell in

TO TYBURN TREE 125

hand on the eve of a hanging, and proceed twice, once at
night and once in the morning, to the prison, where,
standing beneath the window of the wretch's cell, he gave
out certain tolls and called upon him in a dreary rhyme
to make his peace with God if he would avoid eternal
flames. And then, on the departure of the cart for
Tyburn, the clerk had to appear again and offer prayers ;
and lest any of these searching attentions were omitted
or shirked, the Beadle of the Merchant Taylors' Hall was
provided with a stipend to see that the clerk duly carried
them out with a becoming Christian rigour. So much
for St. Sepulchre's official interest in the condemned ; but
it played also an amateur part in another and prettier,
although not much humaner, ritual, for it was from its
steps that a nosegay was presented to every traveller to
that Tyburn from which none returned.

Our church has fifteenth century masonry in it, but
for the most part is seventeenth, having been destroyed
by the Great Fire. St. Sepulchre's was indeed that
destroyer's last ecclesiastical victim, for a few yards farther
up Giltspur Street, at Pie Corner, it died away and was
no more, having raged all the way from Pudding Lane
by the Monument. Pie Corner was just by Cock Lane,
the scene, in 1762, of the most ridiculous imposture which
ever laid London by the heels — the Cock Lane ghost.
When last I stood looking down this lane, which now
belongs almost entirely to commerce, a catsmeat man
went by, pushing a barrow and calling his wares, and it
seemed he must have walked straight out of one of
Hogarth's pictures.

I have said in an earlier chapter that Shepherd's Market
in Mayfair gives one the best impression at this moment
of the busy shopkeeping London of the Augustan essayists.

126 A WANDERER IN LONDON

The best idea of a London of an earlier time that still
remains, is I think to be found in Cloth Fair and Bar-
tholomew Close, where sixteenth-century houses still stand,
and sixteenth-century narrownesses and dirt are every-
where. If there is the true old London anywhere, it is
in the passages on the north side of St. Bartholomew the
Great.

But before we reach Bartholomew Close we must pass
St. Bartholomew's Hospital, or Barts' as it is called, on the
south side of Smithfield, one of London's great temples of
healing. Its square in summer is quite a little park, with
its patients taking the air and the children playing among
them, and there is always a bustle of students and nurses
and waiting-maids, crossing and re-crossing from one grey
building to another.

The way to Bartholomew Close is through the hospital
to Little Britain, and so into this ramifying old-world
region, once a centre of printers (Benjamin Franklin practised
his trade there) and now given up to warehouses and offices
and in its narrow parts to small shops ; but never for an
instant belonging to the twentieth century or even the
nineteenth.

The church itself — St. Bartholomew the Great — is one of
the architectural jewels of the city. Not that it is so per-
fect or so beautiful ; but that it is so curious, so genuine,
so un-Wrenlike, so unexpected, so modest. I think its
humility and friendliness are its greatest charm. It hides
away behind West Smithfield's houses, with its own little
crazy graveyard before it, but keeps its door always open.
You enter and are in the middle ages.

I am not attempting to describe the church, which is
a very attractive jumble of architectural styles, with a
triforium that one longs to walk round, and noble doors,

TUDOR LONDON 127

and massive Norman pillars, and a devious ambulatory.
Indeed there is no need, for no London church is so often
depicted. On the morning I was last there it was like
students' day at the National Gallery, as many as four
young women being hard at work transferring different
aspects to paper, while two others were engaged on Prior
Bolton's window, which is a kind of private box in the
south side of the choir, built into one of the arches of the
triforium, where this prior, who flourished early in the
sixteenth century, may have sat.

An older relic still is the coloured tomb of the founder —
in the sanctuary — the merry and melodious Rahere, who
founded the Priory of St. Bartholomew in the reign of
Henry I. Seven Henries later it was of course dissolved.
Having loitered sufficiently in the church, one should walk
round its exterior and make a point of seeing the sexton's
house (to which I have already alluded) which clings to
the north wall as a child to its mother — the quaintest old
house in London, with its tiny Tudor bricks and infinitesimal
windows.

Cloth Fair begins here, a congeries of narrow streets and
dreadful old women, where once was the centre of the drapery
trade that now flourishes in St. Paul's Churchyard. From
Cloth Fair I passed into Smithfield's large vacancy, where
Bartholomew Fair — which was in its serious side a fair for
cloth — used to be held every Bartholomew's Day until
1855, when the law stepped in and said No. The pleasure
portion was the most extraordinary chaos of catchpenny
booths, theatricals, ferce nature?, wild beasts, cheap jacks
and charlatans that England has ever seen ; and I like
to think that Charles Lamb led William Wordsworth
through it in 1802.

" And were men and women really willing to burn for

128 A WANDERER IN LONDON

their faith ? " one asks, as one stands here amid the rail-
way vans. How strange, to-day, it all seems ! Unless
something very wonderful and miraculous happens there
will never be another martyr burnt at Smithfield. Martyr-
dom is out of fashion ; and yet that was only three hundred
and fifty years ago.

Through the fleshly horrors of Smithfield Market, where
Hebrew middlemen smoke large cigars, I advise no one to
wander : it is discipline enough for us to have been created
carnivorous; and Charterhouse Square, whither we are
now bound, can be reached easily by Long Lane and Hayne
Street, well outside the domain of the carcase and the
bloodstained porter.

To Charterhouse Square, a region of peace, within sound
of Aldersgate's commercial zeal, we are coming, not to see
its hotels for city men, or the Merchant Taylors' school, or
even the two very charming Georgian houses that are left,
but solely to explore the monastery that gives it its name.
After a curiously varied career, the Charterhouse is now
fixed (I hope for many centuries to come, although the
gate porter tells me alarming stories of offers from specu-
lative builders) as an almshouse for old gentlemen. It was
built in the fourteenth century as a monastery for Car-
thusians. Then came the dread Henry VIII with his
odd and implacable conscience, hardly less devastating
than the speculative builder or the modern County
Councillor, who cast out the monks and beheaded the
prior, and made the house a private residence for rich
courtiers — Sir Thomas Audley, Ix>rd North, the Duke of
Northumberland, the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk
in turn occupying it and entertaining there. But in 1611
Mr. Thomas Sutton bought it and endowed it with a sum
of ^£200,000 as a hospital and a school. In the school

IN THE TEMPLE GARDEN'S (FOUNTAIN COURT)

THE CHARTERHOUSE 129

forty boys were to be educated free, with sixty others who
paid fees ; in the hospital " eighty gentlemen by descent
and in poverty " were to be maintained — above the age of
fifty, if sound, but of forty, if maimed in war. Both in-
tentions were admirably realised, although changes have
come in. In 1872, for example, the school was moved to
Godalming, and in 1885 the number of pensioners was
reduced by twenty-five owing to loss of revenue. But the
fifty-five that remain could not spend their declining days
more sweetly and serenely than within these grey walls,
with their comfortable rooms and the best fires I saw in
London this last winter.

The Charterhouse is very beautiful, very quiet. Its most
famous pensioner, although an imaginary one, will always
be Colonel Newcome — a proper tribute to the genius of
Thackeray, who was educated at the school here. Among
its pensioners in real life have been such different dramatists
as Elkanah Settle and John Maddison Morton, the authof
of Box and Cox. Among famous schoolboys of the Charter-
house— old Carthusians, as we call them — some of whom
are celebrated in the little passage that leads to the chapel,
are John Leech and George Grote, Addison and Steele,
Crashaw and Blackstone, John Wesley and Sir Henry
Havelock.

The last time I went to the Charterhouse was the first
day of spring this year, and when I came out the sky was
so clear and the air so soft that I gave up all my other
plans, and turning into Aldersgate, walked all the way to
Highgate : up Aldersgate, which is now wholly commercial
but which in Tudor times was fashionable ; up the Goswell
Road (where Mr. Pickwick lodged with Mrs. Bardell) ; along
Upper Street, that fine old-world highway ; past Islington

Green, now a municipal enclosure ; through Highbury ; up
9

130 A WANDERER IN LONDON

the long Holloway Road (where I weakened and took a
tram) ; up Highgate Hill ; and so to that healthy northern
suburb where time still tarries. All this I did for old sake's
sake, because it was at Highgate, on the very top of the
hill, that I used to live — just north of the Grove, where
Carlyle heard Coleridge discourse endlessly of the sum-
jective and the om-jective.

To me Highgate is still London's most fascinating suburb,
for it has a quietness and an unpretentiousness that are
foreign to Hampstead. On how many sweet May evenings
have I walked along Hampstead Lane to the Spaniard's,
past Caen's dark recesses, where it is whispered badgers are
still to be found, and sitting in one of the tavern's arbours,
have heard the nightingale singing in Bishop's Wood. The
Spaniard's in those days, ten years ago, was one of the best
of the old London inns still surviving — without the German
waiter and the coloured wine glasses to bring in the false
new note. And I was never tired of leading my friends
thither to show them Dick Turpin's knife and fork in a case
on the wall. Sometimes we would walk on to Jack Straw's
Castle, along that fine high ridgeway across the Heath known
as the Spaniard's Road, and watch London twinkling far
away beneath us. Or disregarding Jack Straw's Castle
(where the Fourth Party were wont to recuperate and plan
new audacities), we would plunge down from Constable's Knoll
of Scotch firs, over rough sandy bridle paths, to the Bull and
Bush in the hollow at North End, and there find refreshment.

I am speaking of the spring and summer ; but Hamp-
stead Heath is not less attractive in winter too, and in
winter there used to be at the Bull and Bush a brew of
barley wine, as it was called, that was very warming.
Such brews are no longer common. What one misses from
London windows in winter is any alluring invitation to hot

THE OLD CORDIALS 131

cordial drinks. The publicans announce the commence-
ment of the goose club, but there is no longer any tidings
of mulled ale. It is sad but true that the Londoner's —
indeed I might say the Englishman's — first and last word
in alcoholic cheer is whisky. Even in the coldest weather
no stand is made for the genial beverages of the past. To
the end Dickens brewed punch and saw that it was good ;
but with Dickens, or very shortly after, passed away all
interest in that enkindling Christianising bowl.

And who now asks for a port wine negus ? But when I
first came to London in 1892, in the good old days when
Furnivall's Inn still stood, and Ridler's Hotel beamed
hospitably across Holborn, I used to frequent a little inner
sitting-room in that hostelry, where long clay pipes were
provided, and where a stately waiter, more like the then
Speaker of the House of Commons (now Lord Peel) than
any waiter has a right to be, used to bring a negus that
was worth drinking, with cinnamon floating on the top
like drift wood after a wreck.

Will there never come a mixer of hot and kindling
beverages who, perhaps taking a Dickensian name, will
wean the world from an undiscriminating devotion to
whisky ? Pineapple rum hot, with three lumps — nowhere
now can one drink this fragrant concoction. And the
other pleasantly-sounding comforters with which Mr. Pick-
wick and his friends and the people they met on the top
of coaches were wont to make themselves happy and aro-
matic— where are they ? All past, with the stage coaches
and the post chaise. This is an age of champagne and
whisky, motor-Gal's and religious novels. Mr. Pickwick
and his leisure and his punch are no more.

In Highgate and Hampstead I should love to linger :
but they are outside the radius so far as this book is con-

132 A WANDERER IN LONDON

oerned. Yet of Hampstead I must say a word here, if only
to correct the suggestion that it is pretentious. Pretentious
only in its modern roads — its Fitz John's Avenues, and so
forth : there is no pretentiousness about Church Row,
which, until the flats were built on the north side, was the
most beautiful English street I ever saw, or expect to see,
and is still well worth climbing a hill ten times as steep as
Hampstead's. With this early simple part of Hampstead,
and the little passages and cottages between Church Row
and the pond on the summit, the memory of Kate Green-
away is in my mind inseparably bound. To think of one
is to think of the other. One feels that she must have
lived here; as indeed she did — just below Church Row, in
Frognal, but not, I grieve to say, in an old house. Hamp-
stead has had many literary and artistic associations, from
Keats (in Well Walk) to George du Maurier (in the Grove)
but Kate Greenaway is my Hampstead symbol.

I remember what a shock it was to hear that she was
dead. For one had never thought of death in connection
with this serene and joyous artist. Her name had called
up for so long only pleasant, sunny associations : memories
of green meadows with grave little girls and boys a-maying ;
quiet, restful rooms (in Church Row !) with tiny fireplaces,
daffodils in blue vases on the high mantelpieces, and grave
little girls and boys a-playing ; and trim streets, where
everything was well-kept and well-swept, and all the roofs
were red and all the garden gates and fences green, and
more grave little girls carried dolls, and more grave little
boys rolled hoops, and very young mothers with high waists
gossiped over their grave little babies' infinitesimal heads.
Some such scenes as these had for twenty years been rising
before one whenever Kate Greenaway 's name was heard,
bringing with them a gentle breath of ancient repose and

CORNELIUS VAX DER GEEST
AFTER THE PICTURE BY VAN DYCK IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY

KATE GREENAWAY 133

simplicity and a faint scent of pot pourri. And to think
the hand that devised this innocent communism of quaint-
ness and felicity, this juvenile Arcadia, was still for ever!

That was in 1901, when for some years Miss Greenaway
had not been the power that once she was. Her greatest
triumphs were in the early eighties, when she illustrated
Ann and Jane Taylor's Original Poems, and wrote and
illustrated verses of her own writing, and put forth every
Christmas a little almanack, with scenes fitting to every
month and delicate and dainty borders of the old-world
flowers she loved best. It might almost be said that she
invented the daffodil. That was the time when flowers
were being newly discovered, and while the aesthetes were
worshipping the sunflower and the lily Miss Greenaway
was bidding the cheeriest little daisies spring from the
grass and the chubbiest little roses burst from the bushes,
and teaching thousands of uninitiated eyes how beautiful
the daffodil is. Wordsworth had done so before, it is
true; but between Wordsworth and Kate Greenaway
how wide a gulf of stuffy taste was fixed — the forties, the
fifties, the sixties, and the seventies ! Kate Greenaway
came like a fresh southern breeze after a fog. The
aesthetes were useful, but they were artificial : they never
attained to her open-air radiances. In the words of a
critic whom I was reading somewhere the other evening,
Kate Greenaway newly dressed the children of England ;
and the effects of her influence will probably never be lost.
And to a great extent she refurnished England too. There
is not an intelligent upholsterer or furniture dealer in the
country at this moment whose warehouses do not bare
witness to Miss Greenaway's unobtrusive, yet effectual,
teaching. She was the arch-priestess of happy simplicity.

As an illustrator of dramatic stories, such as the domestic
tragedies set forth by the sisters Taylor, or Bret Harte's

134 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Queen of Pi/ate Isle, or The Pied Piper of Hamelin, Miss
Greenaway was not quite successful. Her genius bent
rather to repose than action ; or, at least, to any action
more complex than skipping or dancing, picking flowers,
crying, or taking tea. (No one in the whole history of art
has drawn more attractive tea tables — old Hampstead tea
tables, I am sure.) Drama was beyond her capacity, and
her want of sympathy with anything unhappy or forceful
also unfitted her. Her pictures prove her the soul of
gentleness. Had she set out to make a tiger it would have
purred like the friendliest tabby ; nothing could induce
her pencil to abandon its natural bent for soft contours
and grave kindlinesses. Hence her crones were merely
good-natured young women doing their best — and doing it
very badly — to look old ; her witches were benevolent
grandmothers. To illustrate was not her metier. But to
create — that she did to perfection. She literally made a
new world where sorrow never entered — nothing but the
momentary sadness of a little child — where the sun always
shone, where ugliness had no place and life was always
young. No poet can do much more than this. It seems to
me that among the sweet influences of the nineteenth cen-
tury Kate Greenaway stands very high. The debt we owe
to her is beyond payment ; but I hope that some memorial
will be considered. Randolph Caldecott has a memorial in
the crypt of St. Paul's ; Lewis Can-oil in the Great Ormond
Street Children's Hospital ; Kate Greenaway ought to have
a group of statuary (in the manner of the Hans Christian
Andersen monument) in Church Row, Hampstead.

And now we must get back to the city again, but
before we do so let us, since it is Friday, turn our steps
to a very curious place on that day. I wonder how
Mr. Wilfred Whitten, that inveterate and glowing Metro-
politan, would reply to the question, Where, if anywhere,

THE CALEDONIA MARKET 135

in London is to be seen in this year of 1913 the best
approximation to a Hogarthian scene ? But let me share
v.ith all propounders of riddles (except a few unhappy ones
baffled by the cleverness or tactlessness of the company) the
triumph of supplying also the answer. The answer is the
Caledonia market on a Friday. I was last there on a bitter
afternoon, and the thought of Hogarth was continuous in
that vast concourse of dealers and bargain-hunters.

It was a killing day : an east wind swept the eminence :
Caledonia was at its sternest and wildest. The dealers
were blue with cold; their wives huddled over braziers;
every hot-chestnut man was hemmed in by a little warmth-
seeking crowd as closely as though he was in a fit ; on
the floor of this vast open space were spread the wares
of the day, all of which had been brought thither that
morning, and arranged to best advantage, and most of
which would have to be packed up and taken away
that evening. Horses and carts were anchored here and
there for the removal of the more prosperous merchants'
goods, the horses shivering in the blast ; for the rest there
were hand barrows by the hundred. The goods covered,
I suppose, several acres; and a hundred pounds would
have cleared the market. For the most part it was
rubbish — old iron, old clothes, old household utensils,
such curiosities as a pawnbroker lends nothing on, " dud "
Sheffield plate, tools, oleographs, and so forth, all huddled
together. But there were specialists too. One dealer, for
example, had nothing but old corsets, and if there is a less
engaging sight than a huddle of old corsets I hope never
to see it. Another had fire-irons and nothing else ;
another, painters' brushes which had seen their best days ;
another, odd pieces of wainscotting ; another, old umbrellas ;
and so forth. But these specialists were few ; the majority
of the stocks were miscellaneous.

136 A WANDERER IN LONDON

As to the dealers themselves, their general air was of a
willing receptivity rather than aggressive disburdenment
Here and there one proclaimed the merits of his wares ; the
majority shivered and watched. Perhaps it was the grey
chill of the day ; perhaps in warmer weather all are vocal.
Few of them were properly dressed for such bleakness ; all
had the cynical expression of the Londoner under Heaven's
ban; a Hogarthian plainness, if not ugliness, heightened
by the exposure, marked every face.

The bargain-hunters were more prosperous looking, and
happier because less cold, for they at any rate had the
the power of locomotion denied to one who wished either
to sell or preserve his wares. Rumour has it that many
of the articles which are offered for sale at this market
have been acquired by the most primitive means known
to acquisitive man ; and there is no doubt that among
the frequenters of the market are many who hold that
hands were made before title-deeds. The merchant there-
fore, even if he has given up hope of selling, must still be
rooted to his pitch.

Many of the crowd were as purely sight-seeing as mvself ;
but there were the intent ones too, with their string bags
or other bags, hoping always for a find, whether for their
own domestic use or to sell again : keen-eyed men and
women with long eager fingers.

For the real bargains, I am told, one must go early ;
and it is a reasonable precaution. But to what extent
the real bargain is obtainable I have no notion. Most
pei-sons, I find, have a remarkable story of Caledonian
luck ; but it has happened always to others, not to them-
selves. No doubt there have been coups, especially when
the dealer had the best reason for wishing that his own

THE VIRC.IN AND CHILD, WITH ST. JEROME AND ST. DOMINIC
AFTER THE PICTUKE BY F1LIPPINO LIPPI IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY

AN EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY SCENE 137

temporary ownership of the article should cease at the
earliest possible moment and the purchaser hurry away
with it ; but I not only saw with those eyes on that Friday
nothing that a collector of any taste would buy, but
nothing that any but a confirmed and undiscriminating
kleptomaniac would steal.

More fun was that partially covered portion of the
market where the stalls have new articles. This was a
downright fair, and the spirit of the fair prevailed. Every
household requisite was offered at I suppose a far cheaper
rate than a shopkeeper with his rent to pay could possibly
manage, and when you had bought your fill you could
eat winkles and cockles and mussels and shrimps or drink
hot coffee. Nothing lacking but roundabouts and cocoa-
nuts, and everywhere signs that buying and selling and
chaffering are still among the deepest of human joys, and
that London in the twentieth century, when put to it, can
reproduce the eighteenth with amazing fidelity. £

CHAPTER XII

CHEAPSIDE 'AND THE CITY CHURCHES

Crowded pavements -Sunday in the City — A receded tide of worshippers
— Temples of Cheery Ease — Two Weekday Congregations — St.
Stephen's, Walbrook — Bishopsgate Churches — The Westmiastei
Abbey of the City — Houndsditch toy shops — Postmen's Park — Bun
hill Fields — The City Road— Colebrooke Row and Charles Lamb-
London Pigeons — The Guildhall — The Lord Mayor in State — The
City and Literature — In the wake of John Gilpin — To Tottenham
and Edmonton — A Discovery and a Disillusionment.

WE are now in a part of London that really is too
busy to wander in. London neither likes you to
walk faster than itself nor slower ; it likes you to adopt its
own pace. In the heart of the city you cannot do this and
see anything. To study Cheapside and its narrow tribu-
taries, the very narrowness of which is eloquent of the past
and at the same time so much a part of the present that it
is used in a thoroughly British manner to imprison carts
and cartel's for five or six hours a day, you must choose a
Sunday ; but if you can loiter in these parts on a Sunday
without becoming so depressed as to want to scream aloud,
you are made of sterner stuff than I. For my part, I would
rather be actually bruised by the jostlings of Cheapside on
Monday than have solitary elbow room there on the day of
rest, when the cheerful shops are shut and the dreary tails

ring out. For the city on Sunday is to me a wilderness of

138

ST. PAUL'S FROM THE RIVER

THE CITY CHURCHES 139

melancholy. Church bells are tolerable only when one
hears a single peal : to hear many in rivalry is to suffer.

The city churches are many and are well cared for ; but
their day is over. During the week we are too busy making
money, or not making it, to spare time for religion ; while
on Sunday we are elsewhere. What do these churches
here ? one asks. Other gods reign here. I do not wish
to suggest that there are not city men who value the op-
portunity which the open doors of the churches give them
for a little escape from Mammon during the day ; but for
the most part the city church strikes one as a monument
to the obsolete. It belongs so completely to the period
when merchants not only made their money in the city
but lived there too ; before Sydenham Hill and Brighton,
Chislehurst and Weybridge were discovered. No one lives
in the city any longer, save the Lord Mayor and a few
caretakers ; and all the gentlemen who would once have
convoyed their wives and families up the aisles into the
lethargic pews are now either doing the same thing in the
suburbs or evading that duty on the golf links.

Times change : the city church remains, calm and self-
possessed, offering sanctuary to any one who needs it ;
but one cannot believe that were they all pulled down
to-morrow any one would really resent it except a few
simple-hearted old fashioned city gentlemen and an aesthetic
minority writing to the papers from Kensington, while the
competition for the sites on which to erect commodious and
convenient business premises would be instant and terrific.
Personally I rarely go into the city without spending a few
minutes in one or other of these abodes of peace ; but that
is a circumstance of no value, because I go to the city only
out of curiosity. I am not of it ; indeed I am lost in it and
I can find myself again only by resting a while in one of

140 A WANDERER IN LONDON

these very formal havens. Silent they are not : the roai
of the city cannot be quite shut out ; but one hears it only
as one hears in a shell the murmur of the sea.

Comfort — ecclesiastical comfort — is the note of the city
church. It reflects the mind of the comfortable citizen foi
whom it was built, who liked things plain but good, and
though he did not want so far to misbehave as to think of
religion as a cheerful topic, was still averse from Calvinistie
gloom. (In St. Michael's on College Hill, for instance, is
a notice over the door bearing the congenial promise to
the congregation : " Plenteousness within His palaces ".)
The city church, although unmistakably a temple for the
worship of the God of the Old Testament, has yet a hint
of the kindliness that would belong to the New if Christians
would only permit it. Take for example St. Mary Wool-
noth's, just by the Mansion House. It is light, almost
gay, but, I hasten to add, without a suggestion of the
gaudiness of Rome. The black woodwork and the coloured
walls have a pleasant effect. The pulpit is an interesting
example of the cabinetmaker's art. There is seating ac-
commodation for very few persons, and that guards against
overcrowding. The heating arrangements are good. St.
Botolph's. in Aldgate, at the corner of Houndsditch, is
another bright and cheery little church. This has a gallery
and some elaborate plaster work on the ceiling. Comfort
and well-being are strongly in evidence — not to the point
of decimating a golf links, of course, but comfort and well-
being none the less.

On Sundays these churches may be filled, for aught I
know ; but my experience of their week-day services is not
happy.

One of the most unexpected of London churches is St
Stephen's, Walbrook (behind the Mansion House), into the

MERCURY INSTRUCTING CUI'Il)

AFTER THE PICTURE BY CORREGCIO IN THE NATIONAL GA1.1.EKY

GREAT ST. HELEN'S 141

side of which a bookshop has been built Without, it is
nothing uncommon and its spire is ordinary Wren; but
within it is very imposing and rather fine, having a lofty
dome and a number of stately pillars. There is of course
no religious feeling in it, but as a piece of grandiose archi-
tecture it has merit. I do not, however, agree with a
London friend whose advice to me was to disregard all the
city churches so long as I saw this one. At the opposite
pole is St Ethelburga's in Bishopsgate Street Within, a
very modest shrinking little fane. Like All Hallows,
Barking, St. Ethelburga's escaped the Fire, and it stands,
a relic of Early English architecture, in the midst of the
busiest part of the city. But beyond its isolation, age
and simplicity, it has little to recommend it. The famous
city church of St. Helen's is in Great St. Helen's Place,
a little to the south, and it is worth visiting for the
tombs alone — for here lie London's greatest merchants,
from Sir Thomas Gresham downwards : it is the West-
minster Abbey of the city, the Valhalla of commerce. It
has, however, one poet too ; for the possibility that a
William Shakespeare who lived in the parish in 1598 was
the Swan of Avon has led an American gentleman to erect
a window to the dramatist.

Elsewhere I have said something of Norton Folgate and
Shoreditch, the northern continuation of Bishopsgate
Street. I might here remark that Houndsditch, which
really was once a ditch, just outside the wall, is now the
centre of the toy and cheap jewellery trade. It was in
a shop there, after much hunting, that I ran down one
of the old weather-cottages, with a little man and a
little woman to swing in and out and foretell rain and
shine — wrongly, for the most part, but picturesquely.

In Leadenhall Street one may see where Lamb's India

142 A WANDERER IN LONDON

House stood ; and Leadenhall Market, which fills several
estuaries here, is interesting for its live-stock shops, where
one may buy puppies and bantams, Persian cats and bull-
finches, and even, I believe, foxes for the chase — if one
sinks so low. Cornhill has two churches almost touching
each other — St. Peter's and St. Michael's — but neither is
interesting, although St. Michael's tower can catch the
sun very pleasantly.

For the most part the city church no longer has its
graveyard ; or if it has, the graves have been levelled and
a little green space for luncheon-hour recreation has been
made instead. One of the pleasantest of these is that
of St. Botolph Without, Aldersgate, which is known as
Postmen's Park. It is here that the late G. F. Watts,
the great painter, erected memorials to certain lowly heroes
and heroines not in either of the heroic services, who saved
Londoners' lives and perished in the effort. If any one
has a strong taste for graveyards he should certainly visit
Bunhill Fields at Finsbury — if only to lose it. A crazy
dirty place is this, with its myriad stones saturated with
London soot and all awry, and the hum of factories on the
northern side. Defoe's tomb is here, with an obelisk over
it, and here also lie Bunyan and Isaac Watts, and William
BJake and Thomas Stothard, two gentle old men who were
rivals only in their painting of Chaucer's Pilgrims ; but one
comes out in the depths of depression and had better
perhaps not have entered. Opposite is a little museum
of relics of John Wesley, whose statue is there too.
Another great spiritual man, George Fox, lies close by,
in the Friends' burial ground ; but the Friends' museum
is not here but in Devonshire House, in Bishopsgate Street
Without, where many very interesting prints and books
and pamphlets of the quiet folk may be seen.

CHARLES LAMB'S HOME 143

From Bunhill Fields one may climb the City Road on
a tram — the City Road, once important, once having its
place in the most popular comic song of the day, but now
a kind of wilderness. The Eagle is now an ordinary public
house, the Grecian's Corinthian period is over ; and when
I was here last, that most dismal sight, the demolition of
a church, was to be seen. But the City Road is worth
traversing if only for Colebrooke Row, at the end of
which, in the last house on the north side, adjoining
Duncan Terrace and next a ginger-beer factory, Charles
Lamb once lived, in the days before the New River was
covered over ; and it was down Lamb's front garden that
George Dyer walked when he fell into that stream.

Colebrooke Row is still old-fashioned ; hardly anything
has been done beyond covering the waterway. I des-
cended to the banks of the canal, which, in its turn, runs
at right angles beneath the New River, and talked with
the captain of the tug which pulls the barges through
the long low tunnel. And then I climbed to Cole-
brooke Row again and roamed about Upper Street and
all that is left of Islington Green, where a statue of Sir
Hugh Myddleton stands, and wondered at the success with
which Islington has kept itself a self-contained town en-
tirely surrounded by houses, and walked a while in Isling-
ton churchyard, and then descended the squalid heights
of Pentonville to King's Cross. I cannot call either
Peiitouville or Clerkenwell interesting, except for preserv-
ing so much of the London of a hundred years ago.

But meanwhile we are due in Cheapside again.

The British Museum has the first name for pigeons in
London — the pigeon being our sacred bird, our ibis — and
truly there are none bigger : they have breasts like cannon
balls; but the Guildhall's birds are even tamer. In

144 A WANDERER IN LONDON

crossing the courtyard in front of the Guildhall one really
has to step carefully to avoid treading on them, so casual
are they and so confident that you will behave.

The Guildhall has in its basement a collection of articles
relating to the history of the city, which are sufficiently
interesting to be well worth a visit Relics of Roman
occupation; old inn signs, including the Boar's Head in
Eastcheap which Falstaff frequented ; instruments of
punishment from Newgate ; old utensils and garments ;
prints and broadsheets ; and so forth. But the chief
collection of such articles is now to be seen at the London
Museum proper, which we have not yet reached.

The Lord Mayor's departure for or from the Guildhall is
a piece of civic pomp that never fails to please the tolerant
observer. He drives in a golden chariot, with four horses
to draw it and two footmen to stand behind ; while an
officer in a cocked hat, carrying a sword, rides on in front,
and mounted policemen serve as an escort The Lord
Mayor climbs in first, a figure of medieval splendour, in
robes and furs and golden chain, more like a Rabbi in a
Rembrandt picture than a London magistrate about to
send a costermonger to prison ; then another elderly and
august masquerader is pushed in ; and then the mace
bearer is added, holding that bauble so that its head is well
out of the window. The golden carriage, which is on cee
springs and was built to carry Cinderella and none other,
swings like a cradle as these medievalist sink into their
seats. The powdered footmen leap to their station at the
back ; the coachman (who has recently figured on the
London hoardings with a recommendation for metal polish,
and is more than conscious of his identity) cracks his whip ;
and the pageant is complete. Then the crowd of cynical
Londoners — porters, clerks, errand boys, business men, who

THE YOUNG MACAULAY 145

have, as Londoners always will, found time to observe the
spectacle (and it is all one to them whether it is a Lord
Mayor or a horse down) — melts, and the twentieth century
once more resumes its sway.

I am quite aware that I am treating the city too lightly ;
but it cannot be helped. One chapter is useless : it wants
many books. No sooner does one begin to burrow beneath
the surface of it into the past than one realises how fascinat-
ing but also how gigantic is the task before one. Reasons
of space, apart from other causes, have held my pen. The
literary associations of the city alone are endless. It is in
Threadneedle Street that Lamb's old South Sea House
srood ; in Leadenhall Street we have j ust seen the modern
representative of his East India House. It was in a house
in Birchin Lane that the infant Macaulay opening the
door to his father's friend Hannah More, asked her to step
in and wait while he fetched her a glass of old spirits, such
as they drank in Robinson Crusoe. It was at the corner
of Wood Street that Wordsworth's poor Susan imagined
herself in the country; and here still stands a famous
city tree, but its limbs are sadly lopped.

It was in Cheapside that John Gilpin lived. I once
made an interesting little journey from his house, which
properly was at the corner of Paternoster Row, opposite the
statue of Sir Robert Peel, in order to follow his great ride.
It was some years ago, before the present building super-
seded the old : the shop part was then a bookseller's, and
above were various tenants, among them an aged instructor
in the language of chivalry and Spain. It seemed to me
that it would be an amusing thing to proceed on foot from
John Gilpin's to the Bell of Edmonton, in the wake, so to
speak, of this centaur manque ; and indeed it was, and more
so, for it led to a grievous discovery.

146 A WANDERER IN LONDON

With the exception of the old parish churches that rise
here and there from the waste of newer masonry, there
now remains little between Cheapside and Tottenham that
the Gilpins would recognise. The course of the highway
is the same, but since their jaunt to Edmonton most of the
houses have been built, and rebuilt, and built again ; rail-
ways have burrowed under or leapt across the road ; tram
metals have been laid down ; fire-stations have arisen ; and
lamp-posts, like soldiers, have stepped out to line the pave-
ments. These changes would hold the Gilpins spellbound
were they suddenly re-incarnated to drive to Edmonton
again to-day. Most, perhaps, would they marvel at the
bicycles darting like dragon-flies between the vehicles, and
the onset of the occasional motor-car. Probably had
motor-cars come in in John Gilpin's day he would never
Jaave essayed that ride at all. If the braying of an ass were
too much for his horsemanship, what of the horn and the
exhaust pipe and the frantic machinery of the new vehicles ?
The press of people would amaze them too, and the loss of
green meadows sadden them. On the other hand, the
absence of turnpike gates and charges would go far to
restore gladness to Mrs. Gilpin's frugal mind.

By the time Tottenham was reached, however, they all
would be more at home again. The edge of their wonder
would have been taken off, and familiar landmarks cominor

9 O

into view would cheer them. The broad road of the
comfortable Tottenham of to-day was not broader in 1750,
which was, I estimate, approximately the date of the great
expedition. On the common I found two goats feeding,
and there were surely goats in 1750. The Cross stood then
where it now stands, albeit in the interim the renovator
may have touched it ; and there were of yore the roadside
trees, though not, j>erhaps, so severely pollarded as now.

THE BELL AT EDMONTON 147

Where there is absolutely no change at all, save faint
traces of age, is in the two rows of alms-houses — those of
Nicholas Reynards, built in 1736, and those of Balthazar
Sanchez, for eight poor men and women, built in 1600.
Many of the square red-brick houses on each side of the
road date from far earlier than 1750. He-re, for instance,
is one with a sundial bearing the year 1691. The inns,
too, are in many cases merely re-faced (how much to their
disadvantage!) but there are a few butchers' shops that
seem to have undergone no modification. Butchers are under
no compulsion to march with the times : civilization or no
civilization, meat is meat and you must have it.

North of Tottenham the air of prosperity disappears,
and a suggestion of squalor is perceptible. Deserted houses
are common, the inns are poverty-stricken, the impression
that one is in a decaying neighbourhood is unavoidable.
The Bell at Edmonton has now a stucco front, and if it
were not for the fresco depicting John Gilpin at full gallop,
one would deny that it could be the same house from
whose balcony Mistress Gilpin watched her husband. Ed-
monton itself is a mile farther on the road. More decay

•/

is here. A strip of the Wash is still left, and a butcher's
cart splashes through it, but the low level railway passes
over the larger portion. The Cross Keys looks hospitable,
but the largest house in the village, once a substantial
mansion graced with a sundial, is now surmounted by three
brass balls. The glory of Edmonton has departed. In-
deed there is no more emphatic example of a decayed
neighbourhood than this. Beautiful Georgian houses in
their own grounds, with spreading cedars on the lawn and
high fruit walls, can be rented at a ridiculously low
rate. Once they were the homes of retired citizens and
men of leisure and wealth ; now they have fallen to market

148 A WANDERER IN LONDON

gardeners. London is like that: she has no pity, no
sentiment, no care for the past. She will abandon and
forget old associations instantly, at the mere sound of the
words " convenience " and " utility " or " good form " ; she
will create a new residential neighbourhood almost in a
single night, and never give the old another thought.
It having been decreed that Liverpool Street is not a
gentleman"^ line — at least, that no gentleman travelling
from it can buy a ticket for any station nearer London
than (say) Bishop's Stortford — the decay of Edmonton
and Enfield, Waltham Cross and neighbourhood must
follow.

So much for the route. Now for my grievous discovery.
Briefly, my grievous discovery was this — that the Wash
is a mile farther from London than the Bell. To under-
stand its significance we must turn to the ballad of the
Gilpins. At present it sounds a little enough matter, and
yet, as will be seen, the reputation of a poet is thereby
jeopardised and another illusion threatened with extinc-
tion.

The chaise and pan- to contain Mrs. Gilpin and her three
children and Mrs. Gilpin's sister and her child, drew up
just three doors from John's shop, and the party took their
seats there. It was a bright morning in the summer of 1750
or thereabouts. Mr. Gilpin would have accompanied them,
but he was delayed by three customers whom he valued too
much to entrust to his apprentice. Then — after an inter-
val, say, of half an hour, — he started too. His horse began
by pacing slowly over the stones, but immediately the road
became smoother he trotted, and then, thinking very little
of his rider, broke into a gallop. Neither curb nor rein
being of any service, Mr. Gilpin took to the mane. This
gallop, as I understand the ballad, the horse kept up all

COWPER UNDER THE MICROSCOPE 149

the way to Edmonton and Ware and back again. But if
John proceeded at this breakneck pace, how is it that the
six persons in the chaise and pair reached Edmonton before
him, and were able to watch his mad career from the balcony?

How was it that Mi's. Gilpin reached the Bell first ? The
natural answer to this problem is that John Gilpin took
a roundabout course. Indeed, we know that he passed
through Islington, whence, presumably, the traveller to
Edmonton would proceed by way of the Seven Sisters
Road, or even the Essex Road, and so into Tottenham,
which from Cheapside is less direct a course than by way of
Threadneedle Street, Bishopsgate, Shoreditch, Kingsland
Road, and Stamford Hill. But Gilpin must have made a
wider detour even than this, because, according to the ballad,
he came to the Wash before he came to the Bell. This means
he was approaching Edmonton from the north, because as
the exploration of Edmonton revealed, the Wash is a mile
farther from London than the Bell. Very well, then ; Mrs.
Gilpin in a loaded chaise reached the Bell sooner than her
husband on a galloping horse, for the reason that he chose
a devious course ; and the poet's reputation is saved.

" Let me see, how was it," now whispers the devil's
advocate, " that John did not stop at Edmonton to dine ? "
Because, I reply, quoting the ballad,

" his owner had a house
Full ten miles off at Ware."

The horse, then, was making for his stable at Ware. But
Ware is thirteen miles farther north than Edmonton, on
the same road out of London. So, although horses that
run away to their own stables usually run straight, Mr.
Gilpin, when he passed the Bell, was riding south, full speed
in the direction of London again. Topography is conclu-
sive ; there is no argument against it. But, it may be

150 A WANDERER IN LONDON

urged, perhaps it was another Ware. That is unlikely,
for is not the Johnny Gilpin an inn just outside the town
to this day, and do not the people of Ware show the house
where the Calendar dwelt, now a draper's ? These un-
willing eyes have seen both. One word more. Edmonton
is seven miles from London, and Ware is thirteen from
Edmonton, twenty in all, and it is twenty miles back again.
John Gilpin's horse, a Calendar's hack, covered the distance
at a gallop with but one halt.

You see how much may proceed from a little. I had
merely intended to take a walk from Cheapside to Edmon-
ton and think of the merry ballad of John Gilpin on the
way. But by so doing I hit upon a great fraud, and
Cowper, most amiable of men that ever wore a nightcap,
stands convicted of having for upwards of a century hood-
winked his fellows by inducing them by poetical cunning to
believe in a ride that could never have been accomplished,
in a route that could never be followed. Sad is it when
faith in our household poets fails. One would begin to
wonder if the Royal George really sank, were it not for the
relics of it in Whitehall. William Tell was discredited
long ago, Robin Hood is no more than a myth, Shakespeare
is Bacon ; alas, that John Gilpin should go too 1

CHAPTER XIII

THE TOWER AND THE AMPHIBIANS

Tower Hill and its victims — All Hallows, Barking — Ainsworth's romance
—The Little Princes— St. John's Chapel— The Praise of Snuff— The
Armouries — The Jewels — The Tower Residences — Jamrach's — Well-
close Square — The Tower Bridge — Mr. Jacobs' Stories — Roofs and
Chimneys — Pessimism in a Train — Reverence for the Law — The
Ocean in Urbe — The most interesting terminus — Docks — Stepney
and Limehouse — China in London — Canal Life — " Thank you,
Driver " — An Intruder and the mot juste.

ON the way to the Tower from Mark Lane station one
crosses Tower Hill — perhaps, if the traffic permits,
walking over the very spot on which stood the old scaffold.
When I was last there a flock of pigeons was feeding
exactly where I judged it to have been — that scaffold on
which so many noble heads were struck from their shoulders,
from Sir Thomas More and Surrey the poet to Strafford
and Algernon Sidney, and a few ignoble ones, not the least
of which was Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat's, the last man to
be beheaded in England, the block on which he laid his
wicked old neck being still to be seen, full of dents, in the
Tower itself. Standing here it is extraordinary to think
that (in 1913) only 166 years have passed since it was
possible to behead a man publicly in broad day in the
middle of a London street. Only five generations : the
late Baroness Burdett-Coutts could have seen it.

Opposite Mark Lane Station, and at the corner of Great

151

152 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Tower Street, which leads into Little Tower Street, and
that in its turn into Eastcheap and the city proper, is All
Hallows Church, whither many of the victims of the Tower
Hill scaffold were earned for burial, among them the Earl
of Surrey, Bishop Fisher and Archbishop Laud. All three
were, however, afterwards removed elsewhere, Laud, for
example, to St. John's College, Oxford. William Penn,
who lived to speak contemptuously of churches as steeple-
houses, was baptised here in 1644, and the bloody Judge
Jeffreys, who harried Penn's sect so mercilessly, was manied
here to his first wife in the year following the Great Fire,
which spared All Hallows by a kind of miracle — just
thrusting out a tongue or two to lick up the porch and
then drawing them back. The church, though it has a new
spire, is, within, a fine example of medieval architecture,
and its brasses are among the best that London contains.
Among them is one of William Thynne and his wife,
Thynne being worthy of all commendation as the man re-
sponsible for the first printed collection of Chaucer's works
in 1532.

Another interesting Great Tower Street building, or
rather re-building, is the Czar's Head, an inn on the .same
side as the church, which stands on the site of an older inn
of that name to which Peter the Great, when learning at
Deptford to build ships, resorted with his friends. Mu«-
covy Court, out of Trinity Square, close by, derives its
style from the same monarch. Little Tower Street has
in a different way an equally unexpected association, for it
was in a house there that James Thomson, the poet of Tlic
Seasons, wrote "Summer".

Harrison Ainsworth's romance The Tower of London,
which I fear I should find a very tawdry work to-day,
twenty and more years ago stirred me as few novels now

VIRGIN AND CHILD
AFTER TH? WCTURE BY BOTTICELLI IX THE NATIONAL GALLERV

THE TOWER 153

are able to, and fixed the Tower for all time as a home
of dark mystery. Not even the present smugness of its
officialdom, the notice boards, the soldiers in its barracks,
the dryness of its moat or the formal sixpenny tickets of
admission, can utterly obliterate the impression of Ains-
worth's pages and Cruikshank's engravings. I still expect
to see Gog and Magog eating a mammoth pasty ; I still
look for Xit the dwarf; and in a dark recess fancy I hear *
the shuddering sound of the headsman sharpening his axe.
No need however for Ainsworth's fictions: — after reading
the barest outline of English history, the Tower's stones
run red enough. Anne Boleyn, Katherine Howard, Lady
Jane Grey, Sir Thomas More, the Earl of Essex — these are
a few who were beheaded in state within its walls ; but what
of the others who died secretly by force, like the little
Princes and Sir Thomas Overbury, and those other thou-
sands of prisoners unknown who ate their hearts out in the
cells within these nine-feet walls ?

The ordinary tickets admit only to the jewels and the
armour, but a written application to the Governor procures
an authorisation to see also the dungeons, in the company
of a warder. The room in the Bloody Tower in which the
little Princes were smothered is no longer shown, as it has
become part of a private dwelling ; but the window is
pointed out, and with that husk you must be satisfied.
Among the sights to which a special order entitles you is
the cell in which Raleigh wrote the Hutory of the World,
and that narrow hollow in the wall of the White Tower,
known as Little Ease, in which Guy Fawkes was immured
while waiting for justice and death.

St. John's Chapel, in the White Tower, has a naked
simplicity beyond anything I know, and a massiveness out
of all proportion to its si/e, which inspires both confidence

154 A WANDERER IN LONDON

and reverence. In its long life it has seen many strange
and moving spectacles — from the all-night vigils of the
Knights of the Bath, to Brackenburv's refusal at the altar
side to murder the little Princes and the renunciation by
Richard II of his crown in favour of Bolingbroke. I had
the history of this chapel from a gentle old Irish beef-eater
who sits in a chair and talks like a book. The names of
monarchs and accompanying dates fell from his tongue in
a gentle torrent until I stopped it with the question " Do
all the warders in the Tower take snuff?" He had never
been asked this before, and it knocked all the literature
and history out of him and re-established his humanity.
He became instantly an Irishman and a brother, confessed
to his affection for a pinch (as I had detected), and we
discussed the merits of the habit as freely as if the royal
body of Elizabeth of York had never lain in state within
a few yards of us, and no printed notice had warned me
that the place being holy I must remove my hat.

In the Tower armouries every kind of decorative use has
been made of old muskets, ramrods and pistols, resulting in
ingenious mural patterns which must strike the schoolboy
visitor as a most awful waste of desirable material The
armouries contain also some very real weapons indeed : to
students of the machinery of death they are invaluable.
The evolution of the sword and gun of all nations may be
traced here, hi glass cases which are so catholic as to con-
tain not only the corkscrew dagger of Java but the harpoon
gun of Nantucket. I think nothing impressed me more
than a long and sinister catchpole — surely the most un-
plea^nt weapon that ever assailed a man's comfort and
dignity. The models of knights in armour cannot but add
to the vividness of Ivanhoe. Among the more recent relics
is the uniform which the Duke of Wellington wore as the

THE JEWELS 155

Constable of the Tower, and the cloak, rolled up far too
tightly and squeezed under glass, in which Wolfe died on
the Heights of Abraham. It should be spread out. The
drums from Blenheim touch the imagination too.

But the best things about the Tower are the Tower
itself — its spaces and gateways, and old houses, and odd
cornel's, and grave, hopping ravens — and St John's Chapel.
Interesting as the armour no doubt is, I could easily dis-
pense with it, for there is something very irritating in being
filed past policemen in the pursuit of the interesting ; and
one sees better crown jewels in any pantomime. Of medi-
eval gravity one never tires ; but medieval ostentation and
gaudiness soon become unendurable. Yet I suppose more
people go to the Tower to see the jewels than to see any-
thing else. The odd fact that the infamous but courageous
Colonel Blood, by his historic raid on the regalia in 1671,
rose instantly from a furtive skulking subterraneous exist-
ence to a place at Court and £500 a year might have had
the effect of multiplying such attempts; but it does not
seem to have done so. No one tries to steal the crown to-
day. And yet precedent is rarely so much in the thiefs
favour.

But the Tower as a whole — that is fine. There is a
jumble of wooden walls and windows on one of the ramparts
overlooking the river, where I would gladly live, no matter
what the duties. What are the qualifications of the
Governor of the Tower I know not, but I am an applicant
for the post.

London's wild beasts, which now lend excitement to
Regent's Park, used to be kept at the Tower, and the old
guide books to it, a hundred and more years ago, are in-
clined to pay more attention to them than to history. A
living lion was more to the authors of these volumes (as to

156 A WANDERER IN LONDON

the sightseers also) than many dead kings. One such book
which lies before me now, dated 1778, begins with this
blameless proposition : "The Desire of seeing the Antiquities
and Rareties of our Country is allowed by all to be a laud-
able Curiosity : to point them out therefore to the Inquisi-
tive, and to direct their Attention to those Things that
best deserve Notice, cannot be denied its degree of Merit."
The guide then plunges bravely into history, but quickly
emerges to describe, with a degree of spirit rare in the
remainder of his work, the inhabitants of the menagerie.
The chief animals at that time were the lions Dunco,
Pompey, Dido, Caesar, Miss Fanny, Hector, Nero, Cleony
and Helen, and the tigers Sir Richard, Jenny, Nancy, and
Miss Groggery, who, " though a tigress, discovers no marks
of ferocity." The old custom of calling the lions after the
living monarchs of the day seems just then to have been
in abeyance. In 1834 the menagerie was transferred to
Regent's Park ; but I think they might have left a cage or
two for old sake's sake.

From the Tower, when I was there last, I walked to
Jamrach's, down what used to be the Ratcliffe Highway,
where De Quincey's favourite murderer Williams (who
must, said George Dyer, have been rather an eccentric
character) indulged in his famous holocaust a hundred years
ago. It is now St George's Street, and one reaches it by
the wall of St. Katherine's Dock, through the scent of
pepper and spice, and past the gloomy opening of Night-
ingale Lane, which has no reference to the beautiful singing
bird of May, but takes its name from the Knighten Guild
founded by King Edgar in the days when London was
Danish.

Jamrach's is not what it was, for the wild beast trade,
he tells me, no longer pays any one but the Germans.

JAMRACH'S 157

And so the tigers and leopards and panthers and lions and
other beautiful dangers are no more to be seen crouching in
the recesses of his cages ; and instead I had to be satisfied
with the company of parrots and macaws, the bul-bul of
Persia and the mynah of India, lemurs and porcupines,
cockatoos and blue Siberian kittens. These were in the
shop, and in the stables were Japanese deer, and some white
greyhounds from Afghanistan with eyes of milky blue, and
a cage of wild turkeys. And, more interesting still, in the
square at the back were six Iceland ponies, shaggy as a
sheep dog and ingratiating as an Aberdeen terrier, and so
small that they might be stabled under one's writing desk.

On this occasion I returned to Mark Lane station from
Jamrach's by way of Wellclose Square, which saw the birth
of Thomas Day, the author of Sandford and Merton^ and
was the site of the Magdalen Chapel of the famous Dr.
Dodd, who found Beauties in Shakespeare and was the
indefatigable friend of London's unfortunates until he took
to luxury and excesses, became a forger, and died, as we
saw in an earlier chapter, at Tyburn Tree. The square
was once the centre of Denmark in London and is still
associated with the sea, a school for seamen's children
standing where the old Danish church stood, and seamen's
institutes abounding hereabouts. Much of the square's
ancient character has been preserved, and on one house are
still to be seen some very attractive bas-reliefs of children
pursuing the arts. The rebuilder is, however, rapidly
drawing near, and already has cleared away a large tract
of old houses by the Mint.

Another reminder of the sea is the Trinity House in
Trinity Square, looking beyond the Tower to the river.
From these offices the Brothers of the Trinity House con-
trol our lighthouses and lightships.

158 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Into the Mint I have never penetrated ; but the Tower
Bridge I have climbed often, on clear days and misty.
The noblest bridge I know (although its stone work is but
veneer, and iron its heart), it is imposing however one sees
it, broadside, or obliquely, or looking down from the Bridge
Approach : with the roadway intact, or the bascules up to
let a vessel through. It is the only gateway that London
retains.

A few years ago the district over which the Tower Bridge
stands as a kind of sentinel, and of which the docks are the
mainstay, had no special significance. It was merely largely
populated by those that follow the sea or the seaman. But
since then has come Mr. Jacobs to make it real, and now
no one who knows his engaging stories can ever walk about
Wapping and Shadwell, Limehouse and Rotherhithe, with-
out recalling the humour of this writer. It is a high com-
pliment to a novelist and an indication of his triumph when
we can say that he has created a new world, although from
the circumstance that we say it only of the comic novelists,
it has, I suppose, also a suggestion of limitation. A novelist
whose characters for the most part behave like real people
escapes the compliment : their world is also ours. We do
not talk of Thackeray's world, of George Eliot's world.
But we talk often of Dickens' world, which means that
Dickens' love of eccentricity so impregnated his characters
as to give them all a suspicion of family resemblance, brand-
ing them of his world rather more perhaps than of ours.
Mr. Jacobs also thus stamps his seafaring men, so that we
are coming to talk of the Jacobs' world too. Not that he
— or not that Dickens — is false to life, but that both, liking
people to be as they like them, tone up life a little to please
their own sense of fun. It is one of the differences between
the realist and the romancist that the romancist wants to

THE JACOBS' WORLD 159

give himself pleasure as well as his reader. The realist is
more concerned to do only his duty.

I wish that one might enter the Jacobs' world now and
then instead of going to Switzerland or Scotland or the
other dull countries where one makes formal holiday. But
I fear it is not to be : I fear that the difference between
fact and Mr. Jacobs' presentation of it will never be bridged.
I have wandered much and listened much in Wapping and
Uotherhithe, but have heard no admirable sarcasms, have
met no skippers obviously disguised as women. I have
listened to night-watchmen, but they have told me no tales
like "The Money Box" or "Bill's Lapse". A lighterman
at Rotherhithe (on the green balcony of the Angel) once
told me a good story, but it is quite unfit for print and
belongs peculiarly and painfully to our own world. I have
heard the captains of barges and wherries exchanging re-
partees, but they were for the most part merely beastly.
It is sad but true : the Jacobs' world is not accessible.
Even if one followed Mr. Jacobs about, I doubt whether
one would come to it : none the less may one live in hope
as one wanders among the wharves and streets of this
amphibious district.

If one would explore it with any thoroughness one must
walk from the Tower to the East India Docks : it is all
there. But the quickest way to the East India Docks is to
take the train from Fenchurch Street — that almost secret
city terminus — to Blackwall.

If one were to ask a hundred people to name London's
most interesting railway terminus, some would choose Char-
ing Cross, some Waterloo, some Euston, some Paddington,
and so forth. Not one would say Blackwall ; and yet in its
way Blackwall is more interesting than any of these others.
It is at the end of one of the short grimy lines from

160 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Fenchurch Street, through Stepney and Poplar : one of the
lines which carry you on a raised rail level with the chim-
neys of small houses, all alike apparently for ever and ever,
broken only by a factory chimney, or a three-master, or the
glimmering spire of a white stone church. It is these miles
of chimneys which keep me out of East London and South
London, so oppressive are they, so desolating, so fatal to
any idealistic view of humanity. Doomed to live in such
squalor, such deserts of undersized similar houses, so that
the identification of one's home becomes more wonderful
than a bird's identification of its nest, how can we, one asks
oneself, be anything but larger ants? What future is
there for such groundlings ? Is it not monstrous that our
chances of eternity should be determined by conduct in an
infinitesimal span of years under conditions such as these —
with poverty and dirt and fog thrust on us from our birth
— not our own poverty and dirt, but so powerful as to
resist all efforts ?

One has the same gloomy atheistic oppression as one
comes into London on the South Eastern, and in fact on
every line where the carnage window is above these squalid
London roofs and chimneys. One gets it again on the
top of the Monument or St. Paul's or the tower of the
new Roman Catholic cathedral at Westminster, looking
down at the ceaseless activities of what surely must be
insects — so busy about trifles or nothing at all, so near the
ground, so near annihilation.

In a lighter mood I have sometimes as I looked out of
the window of a railway carnage in the country allowed
myself to dwell on the thought that there is not a square
inch of this green England through which we are passing
but possesses title-deeds reposing in some lawyer's safe.
The same thought if indulged in one of these London

SOUTH-EASTERN STANZAS 161

trains, cannot but land one in a feeling for the law which,
beginning with something like respect, must culminate in
reverence. Everything belongs to someone — that is the
truism which finally emerges. In the country, where there
are unfenced heaths and hills and commons, one can forget
it ; but never in a city, where for every open space a code
of regulations must be drawn up and displayed, and where
every house in a small terrace may have a different owner.
A further reflection is that although the lawyers may not
inherit the earth (indeed they are expressly excluded by
the beatitude), they will at any rate be indispensable at the
negotiations.

To come into London between the roofs of Bermondsey
on the South Eastern, as I do very often, has, however, its
compensations : for in the distance the shipping is always
to be seen to carry one's thoughts afar. It was on one
occasion, when this scene was new to me, that I found myself
composing these stanzas : —

Between New Cross and London Bridge,
I peered from a third-class " smoker,"

Over the grimy chimney pots
Into the yellow ochre.

When lo ! in a sudden lift of the fog

Up rose a brave three-master
With brand new canvas on every spar

As fair as alabaster.

And, gazing on that gallant sight,
In a moment's space, or sooner,
The smoke gave place to a southern breeze,

The train to a bounding schooner.
11

162 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Again the vessel stood to sea,

Majestic, snowy-breasted ;
Again great ships rode nobly by,

On purple waves foam-crested.

Again we passed mysterious coasts,

Again soft nights enwound us ;
Again the rising sun revealed

Strange fishermen around us.

The spray was salt, the air was glad —

When — bump — ! we reached the station :

But what did I care though fog was there,
With this for compensation ?

The interest of Blackwall station is its unique and ro-
mantic situation hard by the north bank of the Thames.
You get into the train at Fenchurch Street, and in the
company of shipping agents and mates, ships-chandlers and
stewards, emigrants and engineers, you travel through the
chimney pots and grime of London at its grimiest to this
ugly station. And suddenly, having given up your ticket,
you pass through a door and are in the open world and a
fresh breeze, with the river at your very feet — a wherry or
two beating up against the wind, a tug dragging out a
schooner, and a great steamer from Hong Kong looking
for her berth ! It is the completest change, and on a fine
day the most exhilarating.

And of all London termini Blackwall is most emphati-
cally a terminus, for another yard and your train would be
at the bottom of the East India Docks.

Docks are docks all the world over, and there is little
to say of the East India Docks that could not be said of
the docks at Barry in Wales, at Antwerp or Hamburg.

TOE CHINESE STREET 168

One is everywhere confronted by the same miracles of
berthing and extrication. Perhaps at the East India
Docks the miracles are more miraculous, for the leviathans
of Donald Currie which lie here are so huge, the water-
ways and gates so narrow.

The last time I was there I returned on foot — down
the East India Docks Road, through Poplar and Lime-
house and Stepney : past hospitals and sailors' homes and
Radical Clubs, and here and there a grave white church,
and here and there, just off the main thoroughfare, a
Board School with the side street full of children ; and
public houses uncountable, and foreign men on the pave-
ment.

Just by Jack's Palace, which is the newest of the sailors'
homes, at the corner of the West India Docks Road, I
met a little band of five Chinese sailors in dirty blue linen.
They were making, I suppose, for Limehouse Court, — an
odd little street which is given up to lodging houses and
grocers' shops kept by silent discreet Chinese who have
married English women and settled down in London.
They stand at their doors, these stolid Celestials, beneath
their Chinese signs, for any one to see, and are, I am told,
among the best citizens of the East End and the kindest
husbands.

A little west of Jack's Palace one ought to turn off to
the south just to see the barges in Limehouse Basin,
because it is here that they enter the river from Regent's
Canal, that sluggish muddy waterway upon which one is
always coming unexpectedly in the north-west district of
London, and by which, if one were so minded, one could
get right away into the heart of green England. Very
stealthily it finds its slow and silent way about London,
sometimes underground for quite long distances, as at

164 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Islington, where the barges are pulled through by a steel
hawser — almost scraping the sides and the roof as thev
go. By Regent's Park and at Paddington you may see
boys angling from the tow path ; but no one ever saw
them land a fish. I have long intended one day to strike a
bargain with a bargee and become his shipmate for a while
and see a little of England in this way ; but somehow the
opportunity never comes. Yet it should, for outside the
city — at Hemel Hempsted or Berkhampsted for example
— these craft are gay and smiling as any in Holland, and
the banks are never dull.

At the hospital just opposite the entrance to the East
India Docks and the Blackwall Tunnel — that curious
subterranean and subaqueous roadway beneath the Thames,
through which one may ride on the top of an omnibus,
as one rides beneath Kingsway in a tram — notice boards
are set up asking the drivers, for the sake of those that
are ill within, to walk their horses past the building.
That is a common enough request, but what gives it a
peculiar interest here is that the carter having complied
(or not) with the modest demand, is confronted at the
end of the facade by another board saying " Thank you,
driver."

In this and other of the poorer quarters of London,
where every one else is engaged in the struggle for life, one
feels a little that it is an impertinence to be inquisitively
wandering at all : that one has no right here unless one
is part of the same machine. A little bold Jewess, aged
nine or thereabouts, on her way home from school, seemed
to share this view, for she looked at me with impudently
scrutinising eyes (not ceasing the while to scratch her leg),
and then shouted something which I failed to understand
but which her companions enjoyed to the full. It was

A CRITIC 165

an epithet of scorn, I am sure, and it seemed to challenge
my right to be there, doing nothing but examining the
fauna of the district for superior literary purposes. And
I quite agreed with her. I left her still scratching her
leg, the triumphant heroine of her circle, the satisfied
author of the mot juste

CHAPTER XIV

WHITECHAPEL AND THE BORO'

East of Bishopsgate — A new London and a New People — Love and Death
— A Little Tragedy — The Female Lightning Extractor — A broad and
vivid Road — The Trinity Almshouses — Epping Forest — Victoria
Park — The Sandbank and the People's Palace — The Ghetto — Norton
Folgate — The Book Stalls of London — The Paris Quais — Over
London Bridge — St. Saviour's — Two Epitaphs — Debtors' Prisons —
Dickens and Chaucer — Guy's Hospital.

T ONDON east of Bishopsgate Street is another city
J — j altogether. It leads its own life, quite independent
of the west, has its own social grades, its own pleasures, its
own customs and code of morality, its own ambitions, its
own theatres and music halls, its own smart set. The
West End is in the habit of pitying the East : but the
young bloods of the Mile End Road, which is at once the
Bond Street, Strand and Piccadilly of this city, have as
much reason to pity the West End. Life goes quite as
merrily here: indeed, more so. There is a Continental
bustle in this fine road — a finer, freer road than the rest of
London can boast — and an infinitely truer feeling of
friendliness. People know each other here. Friends on
'buses whistle to friends on the pavements. Talkative
foreigners lend cheerfulness and picturesqueness. In the
summer the fruit stalls are almost continuous — in early
autumn purple with grapes. Nowhere else in London, in
England, is fruit so eaten. Sunday here is no day of

166

FUNEREAL POMP 167

gloom : to a large part of the population it is shopping day,
to a large part it is the only holiday.

There is no call to pity the Mile End Road or White-
chapel High Street. It is they rather than Bloomsbury
and Bayswater that have solved the problem of how to live
in London. If the art of life is, as I believe, largely the
suppression of self-consciousness, these people are artists.
They are as frank and unconcerned in their courtships as
the West Enders are in their shopping. They will embrace
on the top of a 'bus : anywhere. The last summer evening
I was in the Mile End Road Cupid was terrifically busy.

But the last winter day I was there, I remember, it was
the other end of life that was more noticeable ; for funeral
after funeral went by, all very ostentatious and all at the
trot. Most of them were babies' funerals: one carriage
only, with the poor little coffin under the box seat, and the
driver and bearer in white hat bands ; but one was imposing
indeed, with a glass hearse under bushes of plumes — an
ostrich-feather shrubbery, a splendid coffin snowed under
flowers, half a dozen mourning coaches filled with men and
women in the blackest of black, three four-wheelers, a
hansom or so, two crowded wagonettes of the kind that
licensed victuallers own and drive on Sundays, and a market
cart packed with what seemed to be porters from Spital-
fields market. I guessed the deceased to have been a fruit
salesman. He was going home well, as those that die in
the East End always do. No expense is spared then.

These many babies' funerals reminded me vividly of my
first visit to the East End twelve or thirteen years ago. A
girl of sixteen, a hand in an umbrella shop, unmarried, had
become a mother, and her baby had died under suspicious
circumstances. The case was in the papers, and a humani-
tarian friend of mine who was not well enough to go herself

168 A WANDERER IN LONDON

asked me to try and see the girl or her people and find out
if she needed anv help. So I went. The address was a
house in one of the squalid streets off the Commercial Road,
and when I called the landlady said that the girl was at
work again and would not be in for two hours. These
hours I spent roaming the neighbourhood, for some time
fascinated by the despatch, the cleverness, and the want of
principle of a woman who sold patent medicines from a
wagonette, and pulled out teeth for nothing by way of
advertisement. Tooth after tooth she snatched from the
bleeding jaws of the Commercial Road, beneath a naphtha
lamp, talking the while with that high-pitched assurance
which belongs to women who have a genius for business,
and selling pain-killers and pills by the score between the
extractions.

After a while I went back to the house and found the
little wan mother, a wistful but wholly independent child,
who was already perplexed enough by offers of help from
kindly aliens in that other London (to say nothing of local
missionaries), but had determined to resume her own life as
if nothing had happened. And so I came away, but not
before her landlord had pitched a tale of his own embarrass-
ments that far transcended, to his mind, any difficulty that
the girl might be in. And then I rode back to London on
a *bus, behind a second engineer who was taking a Lime-
house barmaid to the Tivoli.

I believe that an observant loiterer in the Mile End Road
would bring away a richer harvest than from any street in
London. There seems to nie always to be light there, and
it is so wide and open that one's eyes are not worried and
perplexed. Here also, and in its continuations, the White-
chapel High Street and Aldgate, one can reconstruct the
>ast almost more easily than anywhere in London. There

ST. DUXSTAN'S-IN-THE-EAST

ALMSHOUSES 169

are fewer changes; the width of the road has not been
tampered with ; some of the inns still retain their sign
posts with a swinging sign ; and many old houses remain —
such as those in Butchers' Row in Aldgate, one of the most
attractive collections of seventeenth century facades that
have been left. There is something very primitive and old-
English in the shops too, not only of the butchers, but the
ancient wine merchant's in the midst of them, whose old
whisky is very warming to the dealers who assemble for the
hay market in the middle of the road, just above here, three
mornings a week.

But the architectural jewel of the Mile End Road is the
Trinity Almshouses — a quiet square of snug little residences
dating from the seventeenth century, for old men who have
been mariners, and old women who are mariners' widows or
daughters — sixty and more of them. In the midst is a
grass plot, and at the end a chapel, and the Governor's
house is by one gate and the Reading Room by the other.
Home is the sailor, home from the sea, in this still back-
water ; and here he smokes and gossips till the end, within
sound of the roar not of his ancient element but of humanity.

On a fine Sunday afternoon in summer the Mile End is
crowded with vehicles — dog-carts, wagonettes, donkey-carts,
every kind of democratic carriage, on its way to Wanstead
and Epping and the River Lea, which is east London's
Jordan. Epping Forest is out of the scheme of this book,
or I could write of it with some fervour : of its fine seclu-
sion and its open air, its thickets of hornbeam and groves
of beech, its gorse and rivulets, its protected birds and deer,
its determined roads and shy footpaths, and its occasional
straggling Georgian towns with Victorian trimmings and
far too many inns. The Forest, although motor-cars rush
through it, is properly the last stronghold of the gig ; the

170 A WANDERER IN LONDON

bicycle also, which is fast disappearing from patrician
roads, may still be counted in its thousands here. Epping
Forest knows nothing of progress : with perfect content
and self-satisfaction it hugs the past and will hug it. It
is still almost of the days of Pickwick, certainly not more
recent than Leech.

The Sunday gigs and wagonettes, the donkey-carts and
bicycles are, as I say, on their way to Epping and the
open country : the trams and omnibuses are packed with
people bound for one of the cemeteries or Victoria Park.
This park, which lies between Hackney and Bethnal
Green, is a park indeed : an open space that is really used
and wanted, in a way that Hyde Park and Regent's Park
and St. James's Park are not wanted. London in its
western districts would still have air without them; but
Hackney and Bethnal Green would have nothing were it
not for Victoria Park. Battersea Park is made to do its
work with some thoroughness ; but it is a mere desolate
unpeopled waste compared with Victoria Park. Whether
the sand bank which a few years ago was placed there for
children to dig in, still remains, I know not ; but when I
was there last in warm weather, a few summers since, it was
more populous than an ant hill and the most successful
practical amelioration of a hard lot that had been known
— in a district which had just seen the total failure of the
People's Palace, that huge building in the Mile End Road
that was to civilize and refine this wonderful East End
nation, but which all too soon declined into a college and
a desert. I sometimes doubt indeed if it is not the Mile
End Road's destiny to civilize the rest of London. As I
have said, these people lead far more genuine and sensible
Jives — and to do that, though it may not be all civilizatioo,
is a long way towards it.

THE ADORATION OF THE KINGS
FROM THE FAINTING BY JAN DE .MABUSE IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY

JEWRY 171

There is no difficulty in naming the prevailing type in
Aldgate and Whitechapel High Street — olive skin, dark
hair, hook nose. Here the Jews predominate. But if you
would see them in their masses, unleavened by Christian,
go to Middlesex Street (which used to be called Petticoat
Lane) on Sunday, or Wentworth Street any day except
Saturday. Wentworth Street is almost impassable for its
stalls and chafferers. Save for its grime, it is impossible to
believe it in England and within a few minutes of the
Bank. The faces are foreign ; the clothes are foreign,
nearly all the women being wrapped in dark red shawls ;
the language is largely foreign, Yiddish being generally
known here; and many of the articles on the stalls are
foreign — from pickled fish and gherkins to scarfs of brilliant
hue. Most of the Jews one sees hereabouts have some
connection with the old clothes trade, the central exchange
of which is just off Houndsditch — in Phil's Buildings — for
the right to enter which you pay a penny, and once inside
would gladly pay five shillings to be let out. Yet I suppose
there are people who take season tickets.

Norton Folgate and Shoreditch are very different from
Whitechapel High Street and the Mile End Road. They
are quieter and much narrower. But they too have their
old houses, and a chemist at a corner, I notice, still retains
his old sign of a Golden Key. The London streets in the
days of the hanging signs and gables must have been very
picturesque. One does not see that we have gained any-
thing to compensate for their loss — electric light and roll
shutters do not count at all in the balance. Spital Square,
off Norton Folgate, has been little impaired by the rebuilder,
and some of its Georgian doors might open at any moment,
one feels, to allow a silk merchant in knee breeches to
step forth.

172 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Shoreditch, like Aldgate High Street, has its stalls :
many for whelks and oysters, which are steadily patronised,
quite as a matter of course, all day long, and a few for old
books. I bought for threepence when I was there last a
very unprincipled satire in verse on poor Caroline of Bruns-
wick, entitled Messalina; a work on Female Accomplishment
(as much unlike the other as a book could be) ; and Little
Henry and His Bearer. The Aldgate stalls are famous
for the bargains one may find there ; but one must look
long under unfavourable conditions, and I have had no
luck. The Faningdon Street stalls have served me better.
London having no quays, as Paris has, it is here and to the
Charing Cross Road that one must go for old books — to
Aldgate and Farringdon Street in particular. I wonder
that the West End has no street of stalls where one might
turn over books and prints.

The Embankment, since it leads nowhere, is utterly
neglected. The Londoner hates to be out of the swim,
and therefore he would rather be jostled hi Parliament
Street and Whitehall, the Strand and Fleet Street, on his
way to Blackfriars from Westminster, than walk direct but
unaccompanied beside the river. Hence a mile of good
broad coping on the Embankment wall is unused, where in
Paris it would be bright with trays of books and prints
and curiosities.

It is at Aldgate that on the east the city proper ends ;
but although the pump still stands, the gate is no more.
Chaucer was once the tenant of the dwelling-house over
the gate and, being a wine-merchant, of the cellars beneath
it. Mention of the poet reminds me that we have not yet
been to the Borough to see the Tabard ; and this is a good
opportunity — by 'bus — it will need two 'buses — to London
Bridge. Not the London Bridge of the old prints, with

LONDON BRIDGE 173

its houses and shops massed higher and thicker than any
on Firenze's Ponte Vecchio, but the very utilitarian struc-
ture that ousted it eighty years ago.

London Bridge is the highest point to which great vessels
can come : beyond are only tugs and such minor craft as
can lower their funnels or masts and so creep beneath the
arches. It has always typified London's business to me,
because when I used as a child to come to town on my way
to school, we came to London Bridge station, and the first
great excitement was to cross the river here : the second, to
lunch at Crosby Hall amid Tudor trappings. I still always
loiter on London Bridge — looking over at the bustling
stevedores and listening to the donkey engines and the
cranes. From this point the Tower Bridge is the gate of
London indeed, and the Tower indescribably solemn and
medieval. St. Dunstan's-in-the-East hangs in the sky, a
fairy spire, the only white and radiant thing amid the dun
and grey.

St. Saviour's, which is now grandly known as Southwark
Cathedral, is architecture of a different type, but it is
beautiful too and sits as comfortably as any brooding hen.
It is interesting both in its old parts and its new — very
new indeed, but harmonious, and carefully reproducing
what has been lost. In the vestry you may still see a
Norman arch or two from the twelfth century. After a
fire in the thirteenth century it was built again ; and again
and again since has it been enlarged and repaired. But it
should now rest a while, secure from masons. Be sure to
ask the verger for the story of St. Mary Overy, who founded
the priory of which this is the church : he tells it better
than I could, and believes it too. He will also give you
some interesting views on American glass as you stand
before the window presented by Harvard University, and

174 A WANDERER IN LONDON

will recite epitaphs to you, with much taste and feeling, in-
cluding the lines on the World's Nonsuch, a beautiful and
holy virgin of fourteen. Among these epitaphs is one upon
Lockyer, the Cockle and Holloway, Beecham and Carter of
his time — the middle of the seventeenth century : —

His Virtues and his Pills are so well known
That Envy can't confine them under Stone.
But they'll survive his dust and not expire
Till all things else at th' Universal Fire.

Yet where are the pills of Lockyer ? Where are the galleons
of Spain ? Of another worthy parishioner, Garrard a grocer,
it was written : —

Weep not for him, since he is gone before

To Heaven, where Grocers there are many more.

The church has old tombs and new windows, those in the
new nave being very happily chosen and designed : one to
Shakespeare, for his connection with Bankside and its
Theatres ; one to Massinger, who is buried here ; one to
John Fletcher, who is buried here too ; one to Alleyn the
actor ; one to Gower, the Father of English Poetry, who is
buried here and founded a chantry ; one to Chaucer, who
sent forth his pilgrims from the Tabard hard by ; and one
to Bunyan, erected with pennies subscribed by Southwark
children. Although the church is so lenient to literature
and the stage, no hero from the neighbouring bear pit and
bull baiting arena is celebrated here.

The Tabard to-day is just a new inn on the site of the
old and is not interesting ; but there is an inn close to it,
a few yards north, on the east side of the High Street,
which preserves more of old coaching London than any
that is now left, and is, I think, the only one remaining that
keeps its galleries. I mean the George. When I came to

THE DEBTORS 175

London the White Hart, a little to the north of this, still
retained its yard and galleries — just as in the days when
Samuel Weller was the boots here and first met Mr. Pick-
wick on his way to catch Jingle and Miss Wardle. So did
the Bull and the Bell in Holborn. But these have all been
renewed or removed, and the George is now alone. It
stands in its yard, painted a cheerful colour, and the coffee
room has a hot fire and high backed bays to sit in, and the
bar is a paradise of bottles. Surely the spirit of Dickens,
who so loved the Borough, broods here. Surely the ghosts
of Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen drop in now and then from
Lant Street, and it is not too far for Mr. Micawber's genial
spook to send for a bottle of something encouraging, from
the King's Bench prison.

A few other old houses remain in the High Street — the
Half Moon, with its flying bridge and old world stables,
and No. 152, with a window standing out as in the old
London prints ; and one generally has the feeling that one
is in a London of a many years earlier date than that across
London Bridge. Perhaps it is beer that keeps progress in
check, for the hop merchants congregate here.

The church of St. George the Martyr — brick and stone
(you see the spire in Hogarth's " Southwark Fair ") — brings
other memories of Dickens, for it was in the vestry here
that little Dorrit slept, while the prisoners who died in the
Marshalsea and King's Bench prison lie in its burial ground,
now partly built over. The King's Bench prison, which
existed so largely for debtors, had many illustrious visitors
besides Mr. Micawber, sent thither not only by the eternal
want of pence but also for some of the more positive offences.
Among them was John Wilkes (for libel), Haydon, who
painted his "Mock Election" here, William Combe, who
wrote Syntax's tours here, and William Hone, who edited

176 A WANDERER IN LONDON

his Table Book while in captivity. Hone was not in the
prison but in its " rules " — which included several streets
round about, but no public house and no theatre. Allevia-
tions were however found. The Dorrit family were in the
Marshalsea, which adjoined the King's Bench and had, like
all the debtors' prisons, a skittle alley in which the gentle-
men might, in Dickens's phrase, "bowl down their troubles".
If you walk into Leyton's Buildings, which is very old and
picturesque and has a noble timber yard at the end of it,
you will be within this prison area. The Marshalsea not
only harboured gentlemen who could not meet their bills,
but had a compound for smugglers also. Nearly three
hundred years ago some of the sweetest notes that ever
struck a bliss upon the air of a prison cell rose from the
Marshalsea, for here George Wither wrote his " Shepherd's
Hunting".

One should certainly walk up St. Thomas's Street, if
only to see the doorway of the house to the east of the
Chapter House, and also to peep into Guy's, so venerable
and staid and useful, and so populous with students and
nurses, all wearing that air of resolute and assertive good
health — more, of immortality — that always seems to
belong to the officers of a hospital. And yet — and yet —
John Keats was once a student at this very institution !

THE MOXL'MEXT

CHAPTER XV

HOLBORN AND BLOOMSBURY

The changing seasons — London at her best — Signs of Winter — True
Londoners — Staple Inn — Ely Place — Gray's Inn — Lord Bacon —
Dr. Johnson and the Bookseller — Bedford Row — The Foundling
Hospital — Sunday Services — Culture and Advanced Theology — The
Fifth Commandment — Queen Square — Edward Irving — Lord Thur-
low — Red Lion Square and the Painters — St. George's and the
Brewer — St. Giles's — Bloomsbury — Gower Street and the Wall Fruit
— Egypt and Greece in London.

I HAVE so often by a curious chance been in Holbom
on those days in February and October when the
certainty of spring and winter suddenly makes itself felt
that I have come to associate the changing seasons in-
separably with that road. One can be very conscious
there of the approach of spring, very sure that the reign
of winter is at hand. Why, I do not know, unless it is
that being wide and on high ground Holborn gives the
Londoner more than his share of sky, and where else
should we look for portents ?

I must confess to becoming very restless in London in
the early spring. As one hurries over the asphalt the
thought of primroses is intolerable. And London has a
way of driving home one's losses by its many flower-sellers
and by the crocuses and daffodils in the parks. But later
— after the first rapture is over and the primroses no
longer have to be sought but thrust themselves upon one
12 177

178 A WANDERER IN LONDON

— I can remain in London with more composure and wait
for the hot weather. London to my mind has four periods
when she is more than tolerable, when she is the most
desirable abode of all. These are May, when the freshness
of the leaves and the clarity of the atmosphere unite to
lend her an almost Continental brightness and charm ;
August at night; November at dusk when the presages
of winter are in the air ; and the few days before Christmas,
when a good-natured bustle and an electric excitement
and anticipation fill the streets. Were I my own master
(or what is called one's own master) I would leave London
immediately after Christmas and never set foot in her
precincts again till the first match at Lord's; and soon
after that I would be off again.

But November would see me back ; for although London
beneath a May sun is London at her loveliest, it is when
the signs of winter begin to accumulate that to me she
is most friendly, most homely. I admire her in May, but
I am quite ready to leave her : in November I am glad
that I shall not be going away for a long time. She
assumes the winter garb so cheerfully and naturally. With
the first fog of November ?he begins to be happy. " Now,"
one seems to hear her say, "now I am myself again.
Summer was all very well, but clear air and warmth are
not really in my line. I am a grey city and a dingy:
smoke is the breath of my life : stir your fires and let us
be comfortable and gloomy again." In the old days one
of the surest signs of winter in London was straw in the
'buses ; but there is not much of it now. The chestnut
roasters, however, remain : still as certain harbingers of the
winter as the swallows are of the summer. At the street
corners you see their merry little furnaces glowing through
the peep-holes, and if you will, and are not ashamed, you

SIGNS OF WINTER 179

may fill your pockets with two- penny worth, and thus, at
a ridiculously small expenditure, provide yourself with
food and hand-warmers in one. A foreign chestnut-
vendor whom I saw the other day in the Strand kept
supplies both of roast chestnuts and ice-cream on the
same barrow, so that his patrons by purchasing of each
could, alternately eating and licking, transport them-
selves to July or December, Spitzbergen or Sierra Leone.
The hot potato men are perennials, although perhaps they
ply their business with less assiduity in summer than
winter. I like best those over whose furnace is an arch
of spikes, each one impaling a Magnum Bonum — like the
heads that used to ornament Temple Bar. (" Behold the
head of a tater," as a witty lady once remarked.) The
sparrows now are a thought tamer than in summer, and
the pigeons would be so if that were possible. The chairs
have all gone from the parks.

From the fact that I have already confessed to a desire to
leave London for quite long periods, and from the confes-
sion which I now make that few pleasures in life seem to
me to surpass the feeling of repose and anticipation and
liberty that comes to one as one leans back in the carriage
of an express train steaming steadily and noiselessly out of
one of the great London stations, the deduction is easy that
I am but an indifferent Londoner. With the best inten-
tions in the world I cannot have deceived any reader into
thinking me a good one. I am too critical : the true
Londoner loves his city not only passionately but indis-
criminately. She is all in all to him. He loves every
aspect of her, every particular, because all go to the com-
pletion of his ideal, his mistress. None the less (although I
suggest that my travels would assist in disqualifying me),
his love does not prevent him from leaving her : you meet

180 A WANDERER IN LONDON

true Londoners all over the world ; indeed it is abroad that
you find them most articulate, for the London tendency to
ridicule emotion and abbreviate displays of sentiment (ex-
cept on the melodramatic stage) prevents them at home
from showing then* love as freely as they can do abroad.
At home they are sardonic, suspicious, chary of praise ; but
in the lonely places of the earth and in times of depression
all the Londoner comes out.

Every one knows how Private Ortheris, in Mr. Kipling's
story, went mad in the heat of India and babbled not of
green fields but of the Strand and the Adelphi arches,
orange peel, wet pavements and flaring gas jets ; and on
the day on which I am writing these words I find in a
paper a quotation from an article in a medical magazine, by
the lady superintendent of a country sanatorium for con-
sumptives, who says that once having a patient who was
unmistakably dying, and having written to his friends to
receive him again, they replied that his home off the Euston
Road was so wretched that they hoped she could keep
him ; which she would have done but for the man himself,
who implored her to send him back " where he could hear
once more the 'buses in the Euston Road". There, in
these two men, one in India and one dying in East Anglia,
speaks the true Londoner. No transitory visitor to the
city can ever acquire this love ; I doubt if any one can who
did not spend his childhood in it.

The Londoner speaking here is the real thing : the home
sickness which he feels is not to be counterfeited. It is not
the least sad part of Charles Lamb's latter days that he
was doomed to Enfield and Edmonton, and that when he
did get to London now and then it was peopled by ghosts
and knew him not. No wonder he shed tears to find that
St. Dunstan's iron figures — the wonders of his infancy, as

MISLEADING GABLES 181

those in Cheapside have been the wonders of ours — had
vanished. This is the real love of London, which I for one
cannot pretend to, much as I should value it. London is
neither my mother nor my step-mother; but I love her
always a little, and now and then well on the other side of
idolatry.

There is that other type of Londoner, too, that is in love
not with its sights and savours but with its intellectual
variety — a type fixed for me in an elderly man of letters of
considerable renown, the friend of some of the rarest spirits
in modern life, whom when, almost a boy, I was for the first
time in his company, I heard say that he " dared not leave
London for fear some new and interesting figure should
arrive during his absence and be missed by him." That
speaker was a true Londoner too.

Meanwhile what of Holborn and Bloomsbury ?

Holbom is chiefly remarkable for that row of old houses
opposite Gray's Inn Road which gives so false an impression
of this city to visitors who enter it at Euston or St. Pancras
or King's Cross, and speeding down the Gray's Inn Road
in their hansoms, see this wonderful piece of medievalism
before them. ."Is London like that?" they say; and
prepare for pleasures that will not be fulfilled. The houses,
which are piously preserved by the Prudential directors,
form the north side of Staple Inn, one of the quietest and
most charming of the small Inns of Court, with trees full of
sparrows, whose clamour towards evening is incredibly as-
sertive, and a beautiful little hall. It is all very old and
rather crazy, and it would be well for us now to see it as
often as we can, lest its knell suddenly sound and we have
not the chance again. Something of the same effect of
quietude is to be obtained in the precincts of the Mercers'
School, a little to the eafet, especially in the outer court ;

182 A WANDERER IN LONDON

but this is a very minute backwater. For quietude with
space you must seek Gray's Inn.

But before exploring Gray's Inn one might look into
Ely Place on the other side of the road, at the beginning
of Charterhouse Street, for it is old and historic, marking
the site of the palace where John of Gaunt died. Sir
Christopher Hatton, who danced before Elizabeth, secured
a part of the building and made himself a spacious home
there, a tenancy still commemorated by Hatton Garden,
close by, where the diamond merchants have their mart.
Ely Place, as it now stands, was built at the end of the
eighteenth century, but the chapel of the ancient palace
still remains, and has passed to the Roman Catholics, who
have made it beautiful. The crypt is one of the quietest
sanctuaries in London.

Gray's Inn has let the rebuilder in here and there, but he
has been well watched, and in a very little time, under
London's grimy influence, his work will fall into line with
the Inn's prevailing style. The large Square is still the
serene abode of antiquity — not too remote, but sufficiently
so for peace. The most illustrious of Gray's Inn's members
is Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam, who acted as its treasurer
and kept his rooms here to the end. He identified himself
with all the activities of the Inn, grave and gay, and helped
in laying out its gardens. To meditate upon the great
Chancellor most fittingly one must saunter at evening in
Gray's Inn Walk, beneath the trees, the descendants of
those which he planted with his own hand. It was here
perhaps that his own sage and melodious thoughts on
gardens came to him.

Among Gray's Inn's other illustrious residents for long or
short periods were Ritson the antiquary and vegetarian,
Oliver Goldsmith, Southey and Macaulay. It was behind

BEDFORD ROW 183

Gray's Inn that Mr. Justice Shallow fought with Sampson
Stockfish, a fruiterer. Tonson, the publisher and book-
seller, had his shop by Gray's Inn Gate in Holborn before
he moved to the Shakespeare's Head in the Strand.
Osborne, the bookseller of " impassive dulness," and " en-
tirely destitute of shame," whom Dr. Johnson knocked
down, had his shop here too. The story goes that the
Great Lexicographer there floored him with a folio and set
his learned foot upon his neck ; but this, it is sad to relate,
was not so. " Sir, he was impertinent to me and I beat
him. But it was not in his shop : it was in my own
chambers" — that is the true version. Booksellers (perhaps
from fear) have rather abandoned this neighbourhood now,
although there are a few in the little alleys about — in Red
Lion Passage for example, and in both Turnstile Streets ;
but curiosity shops abound.

Through Gray's Inn one may gain Bedford Row, which
might almost be a part of the inn itself, so quiet and
Georgian is it — the best-preserved and widest Georgian
street in London, occupied in its earliest days by aristo-
crats and plutocrats, but now wholly in the hands of the
Law. I like to think it was at No. 14 that Abernethy
fired prescriptions and advice at his outraged patients.
Bedford Row is utterly un-modern.

I noted as I passed through it one day recently a
carnage and pair of old-fashioned build drawn up before
one of the houses. It had the amplitude of the last
century's youth. There was no rumble, but had there
been one it would have seemed no excrescence. A coronet
was on the panel, and the coachman was aged and comfort-
able and serene. The footman by the door had also the
air of security that comes of service in a quiet and ancient
family. Suddenly from the sombre Georgian house emerged

184 A WANDERER IN LONDON

a swift young clerk with a sign to the waiting servants. The
coachman's back lost its curve, the venerable horses lifted
their ears, the footman stood erect and vigilant, as a little,
lively, be-ribboned lady and her portly and dignified man
of law appeared in the passage and slowly descended the
steps. The little lady's hand was on his arm ; she was
feeble and very old, and his handsome white head was bent
towards her to catch her final instructions. They crossed
the pavement with tiny steps, and with old-world gravity
and courtesy he relinquished her to the footman and bowed
his farewells. She nodded to him as the carriage rolled
steadily away, and I had a full glimpse of her face, hitherto
hidden by her bonnet. It wore an expression kindly and
relieved, and I felt assured that her mission had been rather
to add an unexpected and benevolent codicil than to dis-
inherit any one. It all seemed so rightly a part of the life
of Bedford Row.

By Great James Street, which is a northern continuation
of Bedford Row on the other side of Theobald's (pronounced
Tibbald's) Road, and, like it, Georgian and wainscotted with
oak and out-moded, one comes to Mecklenburgh Square
and the Foundling Hospital (known locally as the " Fond-
ling ") : the heart of old Bloomsbury. Visitors are shown
over the Hospital on certain days in the week ; and I think
I advise the visit to be made. It is a pleasant institution
to see, and on the walls of the long low rooms are some in-
teresting pictures — its founder, the good Captain Coram,
painted by Hogarth, who was closely associated with the
charity ; scriptural texts illustrating our duties to the
fatherless translated into paint by the same master and by
such contemporaries as Highmore, Wills and Havman ;
portraits of governors by the score ; and a portion of a
cartoon by Raphael. Here also may be seen medals belong-

JEAN ARNOI.FIM AND JEANNE, HIS WIFE
AFTER THE PICTURE BY JAN VAN EYCK IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY

LITTLE FOUNDLINGS 185

ing to foundlings who have become warriors ; cases of odd
trinkets attached to foundlings in the old days when these
poor little forlorn love-children were deposited in the per-
manent cradle at the gates ; signatures of kings ; old MSS. ;
and the keyboard and tuning fork that were used by the
great George Frederick Handel when he was organist here.
All these and other curiosities will be shown you by a
sturdy boy, who will then open the door suddenly upon
foundlings in class, and foundlings at play, the infant school
being packed with stolid and solid children all exactly alike
in their brown clothes and white pinafores and all pro-
foundly grateful for a visitor to stare at.

The boys for the most part become soldiers and sailors :
the girls go into service. In the early days the boys were
named after heroes of the battle field and the ocean, and
the girls after whom I know not, but St. Xita is their
patroness, one and all. To-day there may be a new system
of nomenclature ; but if not, one may exptct to find Drakes
and Rodneys, Nelsons and Collingwoods, Beresfords and
Fishers, Wellingtons and Havelocks, Gordons and Burna-
bys, Roberts and Kitcheners. The first boy baby admitted
was very prettily named Thomas Coram, and the first girl
baby Eunice Coram, after their kindly stepfather and step-
mother.

London, as I have hinted, does little enough for its guests
on Sundays ; but morning service at the Foundling Hospital
must certainly be grouped among its entertainments. We
are not as a people given to mingle much taste or charm
with our charity : we never quite forgive the pauper or the
unfortunate ; but there is charm here. Anyone that wishes
may attend, provided that he adds a silver coin to the
offertory (here emerging the shining usefulness of the three-
penny bit!). It has for some years been the custom to

186 A WANDERER IN LONDON

appoint as chaplain a preacher of some eloquence or intel-
lectual bravery, or both. I remember that the first sermon
I listened to in this square and formal Georgian temple
touched upon the difference that must always exist in the
experience of eye-witnesses, an illustration being drawn by
the divine from "the two bulky volumes on Persia by Mr.
George Curzon which doubtless many of you have read ". I
certainly had not read them ; and although the gods stand
up for bastards I doubt if any of his congregation proper
had ; but there they sat, row upon row, in their gallery,
all spick and span with their white caps and collars and
pink cheeks, and gave as little indication as might be that
they were intensely uninterested, if not positively chilled.
Perhaps they have their own human sermons too, when
the silver-edged stranger is not admitted. I hope so.

If the sermon is ever too advanced for the visitor (and I
seem to remember that now and again it was so in the
days of the gifted Momerie) he will always find the children
worth study. "Boy," said the terrible James Boyer of
Christ's Hospital to the youthful Samuel Taylor Coleridge
"boy, the school is your father: boy, the school is youl
mother . . . let's have no more crying." It was not quite
true of Coleridge, who had a real enough mother in Devon-
shire; but it is literally true of the children here. Yet
when the communion comes round their response to the
fifth commandment is as hearty as to any other, and as
free from apparent irony.

Before the Foundling Hospital was built, in 1739, there
were fields here, and in 1719 a very early cricket match
was played in them between the Men of Kent and the Men
of London for ^60. I know not which won. At No. 77
Guilford Street, in 1803, lived Sydney Smith. Although
in the centre of Queen Square, which leads out of Guilford

SCHOLARS' HOUSES 187

Street to the west, stands a statue of Queen Charlotte, the
enclosure was named after Queen Anne, in whose reign
it was built. Many traces of its early state remain.
Hospitals now throng here, where once were gentlemen
and scholars : among them Antony Askew, physician and
Grecian and the friend of all learning ; and Dr. Campbell of
the Biographia Britannica, whose house Dr. Johnson fre-
quented until the shivering fear came upon him that the
Scotsmen who flocked there might accuse him of borrowing
his good things from their countrymen. Another friend
of Johnson, Dr. Charles Burney, also lived in Queen Square.
In a house on the west side, an architect once told me, is
still to be seen a perfect example of an ancient English
well. Having no opening into Guilford Street except for
foot passengers, Queen Square remains one of the quietest
spots in London, and scholars might well live there now.
Perhaps they do. Such houses would naturally harbour
book -worms and scholiasts.

Few streets have changed less, except in residents, than
Gloucester Street, running between Queen Square and
Theobald's Road, which dates from Anne or George I and
has all its original architecture, with two centuries of dirt
added. It is long and narrow and gives in perfection the
old Bloomsbury vista. At No. 19 lodged Edward Irving,
the preacher, when he first came to London, little dreaming
perhaps that his followers some forty years later were to
build the cathedral of the Catholic and Apostolic, or
Irvingite, body in Gordon Square. Great Ormond Street,
reading out of Queen Square on the east, has much history
too, especially at No. 45, lately the working Men's College,
for it was here that Lord Chancellor Thurlow was living
when in 1784 the great Seal was stolen. Here also Thur-
low entertained the poet Crabbe and thought him " as like

188 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Parson Adams as twelve to a dozen ". Macaulay lived at
No. 50 from 1823 to 1831, but the house is now no more :
part of the Children's Hospital stands on its site. No. 44
Great Orrnond Street is one of the most attractive of the
old Georgian houses, with some fine iron work to increase
its charm.

From Great Ormond Street we gain Lamb's Conduit
Street, which, crossing Theobald's Road, becomes Red Lion
Street, an old and narrow street between Bedford Row and
Red Lion Square. No. 9 Red Lion Street is famous as
being the house in which the firm of William Morris first
began its existence and entered upon its career of revolu-
tionising taste in furniture and driving Victorian stuffiness
from our houses. At No. 17 Red Lion Square lodged
Burne- Jones and Rossetti. Haydon, another painter of
individuality, lived on the west side of the square ; and
Henry Meyer, at his studio at No. 3, in the spring of 1826,
gave sittings to a little dark gentleman in knee-breeches with
a fine Titian head "full of dumb eloquence," who had just
left the India House on a pension — Charles Lamb by name.
The picture may be seen at the India Office in Whitehall
to-day, commemorating if not the most assiduous of its
clerks the one who covered its official writing paper with
the best and tenderest literature.

Between Red Lion Square and the British Museum,
whither we are now bound, one object of interest alone is
to be seen — St George's Church in Hart Street, famous
for its pyramidal spire, culminating in a statue not of
George the Saint but of George the First ; placed there,
to London's intense amusement, by Hucks the brewer.
Hogarth, who liked to set a London spire in the back-
ground of his satirical scenes, has this in his terrible " Gin
Lane," just as St. Giles, close by, is in his "Beer Street".

STAPLE INN

ST. GILES'S 189

Munden the actor, whose grimaces and drolleries Lamb
has made immortal, was buried in the churchyard of St.
George's, now transformed into a recreation ground.
Above the old player with the bouquet of faces Bloomsbury
children now frolic.

St. Giles's-in-the-Fields is so near that we ought perhaps
to glance at it before exploring the Museum and the rest
of Bloomsbury. It is still in the midst of not too savoury
a neighbourhood, although no longer the obvious antipodes
to St. James's that it used to be in literature and speech.
When we want contrasts now we speak of the West End
and the East End. St Giles's is a dead letter. The present
church is not so old as one might think : much later than
Wren: and it is interesting rather for its forerunner's
name than for itself, and also for being the last resting
place of such men as George Chapman, who translated
Homer into swinging Elizabethan English, and the sweetest
of garden poets, Andrew Marvell.

Bloomsbury, which is the adopted home of the econ-
omical American visitor and the Hindoo student ; Blooms-
bury, whose myriad boarding-houses give the lie to the
poet's statement that East and West can never meet;
is bounded on the south by Oxford Street and High
Holborn ; on the north by the Euston Road ; on the east
by Southampton Row ; and on the west by Tottenham
Court Road. It has few shops and many residents, and
is a stronghold of middle class respectability and learning.
The British Museum is its heart : its lungs are Bedford
Square and Russell Square, Gordon Square and Woburn
Square : and its aorta is Gower Street, which goes on for
ever. La wy el's and law students live here, to be near the
Inns of Court ; bookish men live here, to be near the
Museum ; and Jews live here, to be near the University

190 A WANDERER IN LONDON

College School, which is n on -sectarian. Bloomsbury is
discreet and handy: it is near everything, and although
not fashionable, any one, I understand, may live there
without losing caste. It belongs to the Ducal House of
Bedford, which has given its names very freely to its streets
and squares.

To my mind Gower Street is not quite old enough to
be interesting, but it has had some very human inhabi-
tants of eminence, and has one or two still. Millais lived
with his father at No. 87 ; the great Peter de Wint, who
painted English cornfields as no one ever did before or since,
died at No. 40. In its early days Gower Street was famous
for — what? Its rural character and its fruit. Mrs.
Siddons lived in a house there, the back of which was
"most effectually in the country and delightfully pleasant" ;
while Lord Eldon's peaches (at the back of No. 42), Col.
Sutherland's grapes (at No. 33), and William Bentham's
nectarines were the talk of all who ate them.

Every one who cares for the beautiful sensitive art of
John Flaxman, the friend of Blake, should penetrate to
the dome of University College, where is a fine collection
of his drawings and reliefs. The College also possesses the
embalmed body of Jeremy Bentham. Other objects of
interest in this neighbourhood are the allegorical frescoes
at University Hall in Gordon Square, filled with portraits
of great Englishmen ; the memorial to Christina Rossetti in
Christ Church, Woburn Square ; and two unexpected and
imposing pieces of architecture — St. Pancras Church in the
Euston Road, and Euston station. Euston station, seen
at night or through a mist, is one of the most impressive
sights in London. As Aubrey Beardsley, the marvellous
youth who perished hi his decadence, used to say, Euston
station made it unnecessary to visit Egypt. I would not

A BLOOMSBURY ALIEN 191

add that St. Pancras Church makes it unnecessary to visit
Greece ; but it is a very interesting summary of Greek
traditions, its main building being an adaptation of the
Ionic temple of the Erectheion on the Acropolis at Athens,
its tower deriving from the Horologium or Temple of the
Winds, and its dependencies, with their noble caryatides,
being adaptations of the south portico of the Pandroseion,
also at Athens.

Bloomsbury, as I have said, gives harbourage to all
colours, and the Baboo law student is one of the commonest
incidents of its streets. But the oddest alien I ever saw
there was in the area of the house of a medical friend in
Woburn Square. While waiting on the steps for the bell
to be answered I heard the sound of brushing, and looking
down, I saw a small negro boy busily polishing a boot.
He glanced up with a friendly smile, his eyes and teeth
gleaming, and I noticed that on his right wrist was a broad
ivory ring. "So you're no longer an Abolitionist!" I
said to the doctor when I at last gained his room. " No "
he answered : " at least, my sister isn't. That's a boy my
brother-in-law has just brought from West Africa. He
didn't exactly want him, but the boy was wild to see
England, and at the last minute jumped on board."
"And what does the ring on his arm mean?" I asked.
" O, he's a king's son out there. That's a symbol of au-
thority. At home he has the power of life and death over
fifty slaves."

When I came away the boy was still busily at work, but
he had changed the boots for knife-cleaning. He cast
another merry smile up to me as I descended the steps —
the king's son with the power of life and death over fifty
slaves.

CHAPTER XVI

THE BRITISH MUSEUM AND SOHO

The Bloomsbury History ot the World — Great statuary — Julius Caesai
and Demeter — The Elgin Marbles — Terra-cotta and bronze — MSS. —
London's foreign quarter — Soho Square and Golden Square — Soho —
Cheap restaurants — The old artists' quarter — Wardour Street and
Berners Street — The great Hoax — Madame Tussaud's — Clothes
without Illusion — The Chamber of Horrors — Thoughts on the Killing
of Men — The Vivifying of Little Arthur — Waxworks at Night — An
Experience in the Edgware Road.

THE British Museum is the history of the world : in
its Bloomsbury galleries the history of civilization,
in its Cromwell Road galleries the history of nature. The
lesson of the Museum is the transitoriness of man and the
littleness of his greatest deeds. That is the burden of its
every Bloomsbury room. The ghosts of dead peoples, once
dominant, inhabit it ; the dust of empires fills its air.
One may turn in from Oxford Street and in half an hour
pass all the nations of the earth, commanding and servile,
cultured and uncouth, under review. The finest achiev-
ments of Greek Sculpture are here, and here are the painted
canoes of the South Sea islander ; the Egyptian Book of
the Dead is here, and here, in the Reading Room, is a copy
of the work you are now judiciously skipping ; the obelisk
of Shalmaneser is here, and here are cinematoscope recordn

of London street scenes

192

BLOOMSBURY'S RICHES 193

It is too much for one mind to grasp. Nor do I try.
The Roman Emperors, the Graeco-Roman sculptures, the
bronzes, the terra-cottas, the Etruscan vases, the gems,
the ceramics and glass, the prints, the manuscripts, the
Egyptian rooms — these, with the Reading Room, are my
British Museum. Among the other things I am too con-
scious of the typical museum depression : it is all so bleak
and instructive.

In vain for me have the archipelagos of the Pacific been
ransacked for weapons and canoes ; in vain for me have
spades been busy in Assyria and Babylonia. Primitive
man does not interest me, and Nineveh was not human
enough. Not till the Egyptians baked pottery divinely
blue and invented most of civilization's endearing ways did
the world begin for me ; but I could spare everything that
Egypt has yielded us rather than the Demeter of Cnidos,
the serenest thing in England, or the head of Julius Caesar.
For although at the Museum the interesting predominates
over the beautiful, the beautiful is here too ; more than the
beautiful, the sublime. For here are the Elgin Marbles:
the Three Fates from the Parthenon, and its bas-reliefs,
which are among the greatest works of art that man has
achieved. We may not have the Winged Victory of
Samothrace, or the Venus of Milo, the Laocoon or the
Dying Gladiator; but we have these, and we have the
Demeter and the Julius Caesar and the bronze head of
Hypnos.

One reaches the sculpture galleries by way of the Roman
Gallery, where the Emperors are, culminating in the Julius
Caesar, surely the most fascinating male head ever chiselled
from marble. I pause always before the brutal pugilistic
features of Trajanus, and the Caracal la, so rustic and de-
termined, and the mischievous charm of Julia Paula. In
13

194 A WANDERER IN LONDON

the Second Graeco-Roman room is a superb Discobolos,
and here also is a little beautiful torso of Aphrodite loosen-
ing her sandal — that action in which the great masters so
often placed her, that the exquisite contour of the curved
back might be theirs. My favourites in the Third Graeco-
Roman room are the head of Aphrodite from the Townley
collection — No. 1596 ; the boy extracting a thorn from his
foot, No. 1755 ; the head of Apollo Musagetes, No. 1548,
the beauty of which triumphs over the lack of a nose in the
amazing way that the perfect beauty of a statue will — so
much so indeed that one very soon comes not to miss the
broken portions at all. It is almost as if one acquires a
second vision that subconsciously supplies the missing parts
and enables one to see it whole ; or rather prevents one
from noticing that it is incomplete. I love also the head
in Asiatic attire — No. 1769 — on the same side, and the
terminal figure opposite — No. 1742 — on which the winds
and the rains have laid their softening hand.

But all these give way to the Ceres, or Demeter, in the
Greek ante-room. This is to me the most beautiful piece
of sculpture in the British Museum. It came from the
sanctuary of Demeter at Cnidos — a temple to worship in
indeed! I know of no Madonna in the painting of any
old master more maternal and serene and wise and holy
than this marble goddess from the fourth century B.C., a
photograph of which will be found on the opposite page.

In a case on the right of the Ephesus Room, as you
enter from this ante-room, are two gems — another little
Aphrodite, No. 1417, with a back of liquid softness; and
a dr.iped figure of the same goddess, from her temple at
Cyrene — the lower half only — the folds of the dress being
exquisite beyond words.

And so we enter the room which brings more people to

THE DEMETER OK CM DOS

AFTER THE STATUE IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM

TERRA-COTTA 195

Bloomsbury than any other treasure here — the room of the
Elgin Marbles, which certain sentimentalists would restore
to Greece but which I for one think better here. The
group of Fates is the most wonderful ; and it is difficult to
imagine how much more impressive they would be if they
were unmutilated. As it is, they have more dignity and
more beauty than the ordinary observer can witness un-
moved. Broken fragments as they are, they are the last
word in plastic art ; and one wonders how the Athenians
dared look at their temple in its perfection. On a lower
plane, but great and satisfying and beautiful beyond de-
scription, are some of the reliefs from the frieze— the per-
fection of the treatment of the horse in decorative art.
Such horses, such horsemen : life and loveliness in every
line.

From marble it is interesting to pass to terra-cotta :
from the sublime to the charming : from the tremendous
to the pretty. It is, however, charm and prettiness of a
very high order, some of the little figures from Tanagra
and Eretria being exquisite. Note in particular these
numbers for their grace and their quaintness : C. 299, an
aged nurse and child ; C. 278, mother and child ; C. 245,
a girl with a fan; C. 214, the writing lesson; C. 250, a
woman draped and hooded (this is reproduced in the ad-
mirable official catalogue) ; C. 308 a little girl, and C. 196r
a Cupid. The domesticity of so many of these figures —
the women with fans, the girls playing astragali, and so
forth — always brings to my mind that idyll of Theocritus
in which the two frivolous women chat together.

After the terra-cottas we come to the bronzes, chief
among which is the wonderful Hypnos from Perugia. Of
the treasures of these rooms I can say nothing : they are
endless. And so we pass on to the four Vase rooms, and

196 A WANDERER IN LONDON

then come to ancient Egypt, where everything that we do
now and deem novel and exciting (short of electricity and
motors) seems to have been old game.

Parallel with the Egyptian rooms are a series of smaller
rooms illustrating the history of religion, leading to the
Ethnographical Gallery, which leads in its turn to netsukeg
(the variety and perfection of which are alike bewildering),
ceramics and prints.

The collection of English and foreign pottery and porce-
lain and glass is fascinatingly displayed, and one may lose
oneself completelv here, whether it is before Lowestoft and
Chelsea or old Greek prismatic glass, Delft or Nankin,
Sevres or Wedgwood, Persian tiles or Rhodian plates.

One readies the ground floor again by way of the
Medieval Room, which contains many odd treasures but is
perhaps rather too much like an old curiosity shop, ^uch as
Balzac describes in the Peaude Chagrin or Stevenson in Mark-
heim. In the room at the end of the jx>rcelain gallery
an exhibition of drawings and engravings from the print
department is usually on view. At the moment at which
I write it is given up to mezzotints.

But before descending again, one ought to see the orna-
ments and gems — marvellous intaglios and cameos beyond
price from Egypt and Greece and Rome ; precious stones
of every variety, and wonderful imitations of precious stones
of everv varietv, which, false as they may be, are still quite
precious enough for me; gold work of all periods; the
famous Portland Vase of blue glass ; and frescoes from
Pompeii.

One of the most interesting things in the Hall of Inscrip-
tions on the way to the Reading Room is the slab of marble
which used to be hung outside a Roman circus, with the
words on it, in Latin: "Circus Full. Great Shouting.

WE ENTER SOHO 197

Doors Closed." Few things bring the modernity of
Romans, or the ancientry of ourselves, so vividly before
one.

A continuous exhibition of illuminated books, famous
MSS., letters and early printed books is held in the cases in
the library galleries to the right of the Entrance Hall.
Here one may see Books of Hours, Bibles and missals, with
quaint and patient drawings by Flemish and Italian
artists ; the handwriting of kings and scholars, Boer
generals and divines ; manuscripts of poems by Keats and
Pope, illustrating the laborious stages by which perfection
is reached ; an early story by Charlotte Bronte in a hand
too small to be legible to the naked eye ; a commonplace
book of Milton's ; and books from the presses of Caxton
and Gutenberg. Here also are manuscript pages of the
Iliad and the Odyssey from old Greek libraries, with com-
ments by old Greek scholars.

It is not until one has wandered in the British Museum
for some weeks that one begins to realise how inexhaustible
it is. To know it is impossible ; but the task of extracting
its secrets is made less difficult by acquiring and studying
its excellent catalogues, which are on sale in the Entrance
Hall. Apart from their immediate use they are very good
reading.

The quickest way to Soho from the Museum is down
Shaftesbury Avenue ; or one may fight one's way through
the blended odours of beer, pickles and jam, all in the mak-
ing, to Soho Square, and recover one's self-respect in the
Roman Catholic church of St. Patrick, which is there. So
Italian is its interior that you cannot believe you are in
London at all.

Soho proper lies between Oxford Street, Charing Cross
Road, Leicester Square and Warwick Street; but the

198 A WANDERER IN LONDON

corresponding parallelogram north of Oxford Street,
bounded by the Tottenham Court Road, the Euston Road
and Great Portland Street, is now almost equally foreign,
the pavements of Great Portland Street in particular being
very cosmopolitan. I have been told that in the Percy
Street and Cleveland Street neighbourhood many of the
great anarchist plots have been hatched ; certain it is that
London has offered as many advantages to the political
desperado as any city, except perhaps Geneva.

The foreign residents of Soho proper are almost exclus-
ively French ; north of Oxford Street we find Italians too
and Germans. Poorer Italians still, organ grinders from
Chiaveri, monkey boys from further south and ice cream
men from Naples live on Saffron Hill, by Leather Lane ;
Swiss mechanics live in Clerkenwell ; poor Jews live in White-
chapel, as we have seen ; middle class Jews in Maida Vale ;
rich Jews in Bayswater. American settlers are fond of
Hampstead ; American visitors like the Embankment hotels
or Bloomsbury. Although there are many exceptions, one
can generalise quite safely on London's settlements, not
only of foreigners, but of professional and artistic groups.
Thus the artists live in Chelsea, Kensington, St. John's
Wood and Hampstead ; the chief doctors are in and about
Harley Street ; Music Hall performers like to cross the
river on their way home ; musicians congregate about
Baker Street ; Kensington has many literary people.

In addition to Leicester Square, which is however far less
French than it used to be, Soho has two squares — Soho
Square and Golden Square. It is Soho Square which gives
the name to the district — " So ho ! " an old cry of the har-
riers, but why thus applied no one knows. The story that
it was previously called Monmouth Square and King's Square,
and changed to Soho Square after Sedgemoor, where "So

KENSINGTON I'Al.ACE FROM THE GARDENS

OLD COMPTON STREET 199

ho ! " was Monmouth's battle-call, is, I believe, disproved ;
the reverse being the fact — the battle-cry coming from the
neighbourhood. The Duke of Monmouth was the first
resident here — in 1681 — his house being on the south side,
between Frith Street and Greek Street. Other residents
in the Square were Sir Cloudesley Shovel, the admiral,
"Vathek" Beckford and Sir Joseph Banks, the botanist.
A statue of Charles the Second used to stand in the centre,
facing the house of his unlucky natural son. George the
Second still stands in Golden Square, half a mile to the
west, which a few years ago it would have been imperative
to visit, for it had, on the south side, one of the comeliest
of London's Georgian houses ; but that too has now gone
and the square is uninteresting. Miss Kilmansegg ought
to have lived here, but did not. Golden Square was,
however, the abode of Ralph Nickleby, and in real life,
among others, of Angelica Kautmann, the artist (Mrs.
Ritchie's charming "Miss Angel"), and Cardinal Wise-
man, who may or may not have been Bishop Blougram
who apologised.

Soho has never been the same since Shaftesbury Avenue
and the Charing Cross Road ploughed through her midst,
and to eat in her restaurants became a fashion. Before
those days she was a city apart, a Continental city within a
London city, living her own life ; but now she is open to
all. In fact you now see more English than French in her
Lisle Street and Gerrard Street and Old Compton Street
restaurants. It is the English who eat there, the French
and Italian proprietors who retire with fortunes. In the
old days Wardour Street may be said to have been the
main artery of Soho, but now her most characteristically
French street is Old Compton Street. Here are comestible
shops, exactly as in the Rue St. Honore, and the greatest

200 A WANDERER IN LONDON

profusion of cheap restaurants, most of which soon have
their day and disappear. Since the habit of eating away
from home has seized London, it has become quite a
pursuit to discover new eighteen-penny tables (Fh6te in this
neighbourhood. We now swap catalogues of their merits
as we used to swap stories.

Many of Soho's streets retain then* old character. Ger-
rard Street, for example, although the headquarters of
telephoning, is yet full of the past. One of the cheap
restaurants here is in Edmund Burke's old house ; a little
farther east, on the same side, at No. 4$, is the house where
Dryden died : it is now a publisher's office. Both have
tablets. At the corner of Gerrard Street and Greek Street,
at the Turk's Head, the " Literary Club " which Reynolds
founded used to meet. Here also the Artists' Club met ;
for a hundred and fifty years ago this was the centre of the
artists' quarter. Hogarth and Reynolds lived in Leicester
Square ; Hogarth's painting Academy was in St. Martin's
Lane. Reynolds, Wilson, Hayman and Gainsborough, met
at the Turk's Head with regularity and limited themselves
to half a pint of wine apiece. Sir Thomas Lawrence lived
in Greek Street, and there Wedgewood had show rooms.

Frith Street was the early home of Edmund Kean, and
Macready had lodgings there in 1816. At No. 6 (a tablet
marks the house) William Hazlitt died, in 1830. Charles
Lamb stood by his bed. " Well, I've had a happy life,"
Hazlitt said ; but he was bragging. He was buried at St.
Anne's, between Dean Street and Wardour Street.

The artists' quarter extended due north beyond Oxford
Street to Newman Street and Berners Street. Dean Street
was full of artists — Thornhill, Hayman, Hamilton, Bailey,
James Ward, all lived there, and Christie's auction rooms
were there too. It was Fanny Kelly, Lamb's friend, who

BERNERS STREET 201

built the Royalty Theatre. In Newman Street lived and
died Benjamin West — at No. 14; Stothard at 28. Fanny
Kemble was born in this street.

Berners Street is still one of the most sensible streets in
London, of a width that modern vestries have not had
the wit to imitate. With the Middlesex Hospital at the
end it has a very attractive vista. This also was given up
to the painters: Fuseli was at No. 13, Opie at No. 8,
Henry Bone, whose miniatures we saw at the Wallace
Collection, at 15. At No. 7 lived the wretched Fauntle-
roy, the banker and forger, whom Bernard Barton, the
Quaker poet, was urged by a mischievous friend never to
emulate. It was upon the lady at No. 54, a Mrs. Totting-
ham, that Theodore Hook played his dreary "Berners
Street hoax," which consisted in sending hundreds of trades-
men to her door at the same hour with articles she had not
ordered and did not want, including a hearse. David
Roberts, who painted cathedrals like an angel, did not live
here, but it was while walking along Berners Street that he
received the apoplectic stroke from which he died.

If I do not dally longer in this part of London it is
because I do not care much for it. It is a little seamy, and
after Berners Street no longer quite the real thing — not old
enough on the one hand, or clean enough on the other.
Let us look at the old curiosity shops of Great Portland
Street and so pass through the discreet medical district of
Harley Street and Welbeck Street to a British institution
which it would never do to miss — Madame Tussaud's.

The imposing red facade of Madame Tussaud's in
Marylebone Road must give the foreigner a totally false
impression of English taste in amusement ; for the exhibi-
tion does not really bear the intimate relation to the city
that its size might lead one to expect. Who goes to

A WANDERER IN LONDON

Madame Tussaud's I cannot say. All I know is that
whenever I have asked friends and acquaintances of my
own (as I have been doing lately) if they have been, they
reply in the negative, or date their only visit many years
ago. I wonder if men of eminence steal in now and then
to see what their effigies are like and what notice they are
drawing, as painters are said to lurk in the vicinity of
their canvases at the Royal Academy to pick up crumbs
of comfort. I wonder if Mr. Kipling has ever seen the
demure figure that smirks beneath his name; I wonder
if the late Dr. Barnardo really wore, " in the form," as the
spiritualists say, a collar such as he wears in his waxen
representation ? Has Lord Kitchener ever examined the
chest which his modeller has given him ? Were he to
do so he would probably feel as I always do in the presence
of the waxen — that they ought to be better. There is
hardly a figure in this exhibition that conveys any illusion
of life. Then* complexions are not right ; their hair is
not right. Their clothes are obviously the clothes of the
inanimate ; they have no notion what to do with their
hands.

Thinking it over, I have come to the conclusion that
not only the unreality, but also the eeriness, almost fear-
someness, of a waxwork, reside principally in its clothes.
A naked waxwork, though unpleasant, would not be so
bad : it is the clothes wanting life to vivify and justify it
that make it so terrible, just as clothes on a corpse add
to the horror of death. One wonders where the clothes
come from. Do they also, like the features and hair of
these figures, approximate to life, or are they chosen at
random? Mr. Burns, it is well known, relinquished one
of his blue serge suits in exchange for a new one ; but
the others? Mr. Balfour, for example? Are there under-

THE CHAMBER OF HORRORS

clothes too? Does the Tussaud establishment include a
tailor and a modiste ? To these questions I could no
doubt obtain a satisfactory reply by merely writing to the
exhibition ; but there are occasions when it is more amus-
ing to remain in the domain of conjecture. This is one.

I wandered into Madame Tussaud's a little while ago
entirely for the purpose of saying something about it in
this book. As it was a foggy day, I had some difficulty
in disentangling the visitors from the effigies; but when
I did so I saw that they wore a provincial air. I felt a
little provincial myself as I passed from figure to figure
and turned to the catalogue to see if I were looking at the
late Daniel Leno or Mr. Asquith.

The Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud's is
London's Cabaret des Neants, Ixmdon's Wiertz Museum.
Horrors are not encouraged in England, and London has
no other official collection of them, if we except the assem-
blage of articles of crime that Scotland Yard cherishes.
But jemmies and pistols and knives are not in themselves
horrors, whereas wax decapitated heads dropping blood,
coloured pictures of diseases, models of criminals being
tortured, a hangman and a condemned man on the scaffold
— these exist by virtue of their horrifying power, and you
are asked for an extra sixpence frankly as a payment for
shudders.

It is all ugly and coarse, and in part very silly, as when
you are confronted by a dock crammed with effigies of the
more notorious murderers (the only really interesting
murderers, of course, being those who have escaped detec-
tion or even suspicion : but how should Madame Tussaud's
patrons know this?) all blooming with the ruddy tints
of health. Seeing them packed together like this for
execration, one may reflect, not perhaps wholly without

204 A WANDERER IN LONDON

admiration and certainly with pity, that they are here
less because they were wicked than because they dared to
anticipate the laggard steps of Fate. One may be a little
perplexed too, if one knows anything of history, by the
disrepute into which this business of killing a man has
fallen. That these poor, shabby, impulsive, ill-balanced
creatures should be the only unlicensed shedders of blood
that are left ! And had Madame Tussaud lived in Iceland
in the twelfth century would she have modelled Gunnar
of Lithend and Scarphedinn to the same vulgar purposes ?
But one must not wholly deprecate. The exhibition as
a whole may be supplying a demand that is essentially
vulgar : many of its models may be too remote from life
to be of any real value : the Chamber of Horrors may be
beyond question a sordid and hideous accessory : yet in
the other scale must be put some of the work of Madame
Tussaud herself — her Voltaire, which is to me one of the most
interesting things in London, as his life mask at the Carna-
valet is one of the most interesting things in Paris ; a few
of her other heads belonging to the reign of Terror,
notably the Robespierre ; the very guillotine that shed so
much of France's best and bravest blood ; and the relics of
Napoleon. We must remember too that it is very easy
and very tempting to be more considerate for the feelings
of children than is necessary. Children have a beautiful
gift of extracting pure gold from baser material without
a stain of the alloy remaining upon them ; and we are apt
to forget this in our adult fulminations against vulgarity
and ugliness. For children Madame Tussaud's will always
be one of the ante-rooms to the earthly paradise, whether
they go or not. The name has a magic that nothing can
destroy. And though they should not, if I were taking
them, ever set foot in the subterranean Temple of Tur.

WAXWORKS AT NIGHT 205

pitude, they would, I have very good reason to know, come
away from the study of kings and queens of England, and
the historical tableaux — the finding of Harold's body, and
the burning of the cakes by Alfred the Great, the execution
of Mary Queen of Scots and the death of Becket, the sign-
ing of Magna Charta and other scenes in Little Arthur —
with a far more vivid idea of English history and interest
in it than any schoolmaster or governess could give them.
And that is a great thing.

None the less, not willingly do these footsteps wander
that way again ; and I would sooner be the chairman of
the Society for Psychical Research's committee for the in-
vestigation of haunted houses than spend the night among
these silent, stony-eyed mockeries of humanity. Surely
they move a little at night. Very slowly, I am sure, very
cautiously. . . . You would hear the low grinding sound
of two glass eyes being painfully brought into focus. . . .

I could go mad in a waxwork exhibition. Once I nearly
did. It was in the Edgware Road, and the admission fee
was a penny. A small shop and house had been taken and
filled with figures, mostly murderers. The place was badly
lit, and by the time I had reached the top floor and had
run into a poisoner, Mrs. Hogg and Percy Lefroy Mapleton,
I was totally unhinged.

CHAPTER XVII

THE PARKS AND THE ZOO

London's Open Spaces — Slumberers — Park Characteristics — The Bulb*
— The Marble Arch Theologians — Kensington Gardens — The Little
White Bird — Regent's Park — The Zoo — Sunday in London — Sally
the Chimpanzee — Jumbo — London and Popular Songs — England
under Elephantiasis — The Relief of the Adipose — The Seals and Sea
lions — Feeding-time Evolutions — A rival to Man — Lord's — Fragrant
Memories — Dorset Square.

FOR those who have to get there, London's finest open
space — or "lung," as the leader- writers say — is
Hampstead Heath. But Hampstead Heath is a journey
for special occasions: the Parks are at our doors — Hyde
Park and Kensington Gardens, St. James's Park and Green
Park, Regent's Park and Battersea Park. What London
would be like without these tracts of greenery and such
minor oases as the gardens of her squares one cannot think.
In hot weather she is only just bearable as it is. (Once
again I apply the word London to a very limited central
area: for as a matter of fact there are scores of square
miles of houses and streets in the East End that have no
open space near them, Victoria Park having to suffice for
an immense and over-crowded district, whereas the West-
ender may if he likes walk all the way from Kensington to
Westminster under trees.)

Each of these parks has its own character ; but one sight

is common to all, and that is the supine slumberer. Even

206

HYDE PARK 207

immediately after rain, even on a sunny day in February
(as I have just witnessed), you will see the London work-
ing-man (as we call him) stretched on his back or on his
front asleep in every park. I have seen them in the Green
Park on a hot day in summer so numerous and still that
the place looked like a battle-field after action. Do these
men die of rheumatic fever, one wonders, or are the pre-
cautions which most of us take against damp superfluous
and rather pitifully self-protective ?

To come to characteristics, Battersea Park is for games ;
St. James's Park for water fowl ; the Green Park for re-
pose ; Hyde Park for fashion and horsemanship ; Kensing-
ton Gardens for children and toy boats ; and Regent's Park
for botany and wild beasts. You could put them all into
the Bois de Boulogne and lose them, but they are none the
worse for that; and in the early spring their bulbs are
wonderful. One has to be in London to see how beauti-
fully crocuses can grow among the grass.

T have said that Hyde Park is for fashion and horseman-
ship ; but it is for other things too — for meets of the Four-
in-Hand club (which still exists in spite of petrol) : for
flag-signalling : for oratory. Just within the park by the
Marble Arch is the battle-ground of the creeds. Here on
most afternoons, and certainly on Sundays, you may find
husky noisy men trimming God to their own dimensions or
denying Him altogether : each surrounded by a little knot
of listless inquisitive idlers, who pass from one to another
quite impartially. To be articulate being the beginning
and end of all Marble Arch orators, the presence of an
audience matters little or nothing. Now and then an
atheist tackles a neo-Christian speaker, or a Christian
tackles an atheist ; but nothing comes of it. Such good or
amusing things as we have been led to suppose are then

208 A WANDERER IN LONDON

said are (like the retorts of 'bus drivers) mostly the inven-
tion of the descriptive humourist in his study.

Unless you want very obvious space, an open sky and
straight paths enclosed by iron railings, or unless you want
to see fashionable people in carriages or in the saddle, my
advice to the visitor to Hyde Park is to walk along the
north side until he reaches the Serpentine, follow the east
bank of it (among the peacocks) to the bridge, and then
cross the bridge and loiter in Kensington Gardens. In this
way he will see the Serpentine at its best, remote from
the oarsmen and the old gentlemen who sail toy boats;
he will see all the interesting water fowl ; and he will
have been among trees and away from crowds all the time

Personally I would view with composure a veto pro-
hibiting me from all the parks, so long as I might have the
freedom of Kensington Gardens. Here one sees the spring
come in as surely and sweetly as in any Devonshire lane ;
here the sheep on a hot day have as unmistakable a violet
aura as on a Sussex down ; here the thrush sings (how he
sings !) and the robin ; here the daffodils fling back the
rays of the sun with all the assurance of Kew ; here the
hawthorns burst into flower as cheerily as in Kent ; here
is much shade, and chairs beneath it, and cool grass to
walk on. Here also is a pleasant little tea-house where I
have had breakfast in June in the open air as if it were
France ; while in winter the naked branches of the trees
have a perfectly unique gift of holding the indigo mist :
holding it, and enfolding it, and cherishing it.

Here also are dogs. In all the residential parts of
London dogs are very numerous, but Kensington Gardens
is the place if you would study them. Ordinary families
have one dog only ; but the families which use the Gardens
have many. There is one old gentleman with eight dachs-

DOGS AND THE GARDENS 209

hunds. And the children. . . . But here I refer you to
The Little White Bird, where you will find not only the
law of the Gardens by day, but are let into the secret
of Kensington Gardens by night, when the gates are
locked, and all is still, and Peter Pan creeps into his cockle
shell boat. . . . Peter himself, in bronze, triumphant on
a rock with fairies all about him, and little woodland
animals such as squirrels and rabbits to play with too,
now and for ever dominates the Serpentine, Sir George
Frampton's charming creation having been secretly unveiled
one spring night in 1911.

Regent's Park has the Botanical Gardens and the Zoo-
logical Gardens to add to its attractions. The Park itself
is green and spacious, yet with too few trees to shade it,
and too many wealthy private residents like unto moths
fretting its garment. The stockbroker who stealthily en-
closes strips of a Surrey common must have learned his
business in Regent's Park. But to any one who cares for
horticulture or wild beasts this is the neighbourhood to
live in — in one of the cool white terraces on the park's
edge, or thereabouts. When I first came to London I had
rooms near by, and every Monday morning I visited the
otter and the wombats and the wallabys — Monday being
a sixpenny day.

All that the Zoo needs to perfect it is the throwing open
of its doors on Sunday, the one day on which so many
Londoners have a chance of visiting it. Open on Sundays
it now is, it is true, but only for members and their friends,
who, being well-to-do, could go on any other day equally
well. London Sabbatarianism breaks down in the summer
so completely on the Thames, and in the winter in
Queen's Hall, the Sunday League concert rooms, the
cinema theatres, and the chief restaurants, that a few
steps more might surely be taken.
14

210 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Every frequenter of the Zoo has his favourite animals.
Personally I am most interested in the apes in the base-
ment of the ape-house, those almost too human creatures,
the King Penguin and the seals and sea-lions. The
elephant in England is soon learned ; the giraffes, so frail
and exotic, I always fear will die before I can get out ;
monkeys make me uneasy, and lions and tigers, pacing
behind their bars, are, however splendid, pathetic figures.
But the sea-lions and the seals do not suggest captivitv :
they frolic while 'tis May, and May is continual with them.
But I suppose the best time to see them is half-past three,
when they are fed. In their fine home, which is a veritable
mermaid's pool, with rocks and caverns and real depth
of water, they have room for evolutions of delight : and
as their keeper is a particularly sympathetic man with a
fine dramatic sense, this makes feeding-time a very enter-
taining quarter of an hour. It is worth making a special
effort to be there then, if only to see how one of these
nimble creatures can hurl itself out of the water to a rock
all in one movement. It is worth being there then to note
the astounding and rapturous celerity with which the sea-
lions can move in the water — beyond all trains and motor-
cars— and the grace of them in their properer element.

Seals and sea-lions, it is getting to be well known, are
the real aristocrats of the brute creation. One had
always heard this ; but it is only lately, since troupes of
them have been seen on the variety stage, that one has
realised it. When an ordinary wet seal from some chilly
northern sea — a thing that we kill to keep warm the
shoulders of rich men's wives — can balance a billiard cue
on its nose with as much intelligence as the superb Cinque-
valli, it is time to wonder if there is not some worthy
mental destiny for it more useful in its way than any com-
forting property of its fur. That most animals can be

£ <

THE SUPERMAN? 211

taught routine, I know; that they can be coached into
mechanical feats is a commonplace; but to get one to
understand the laws of gravity is a miracle. Not only in
a stationary position can this amphibian balance the cue,
but move flappingly along the stage with its precarious
burden and mount a pedestal. This is very wonderful.
And at the Music Hall where I saw this feat other things
happened too — displays of humour, well -reasoned games
of ball between two sea-lions while their trainer was off'
the stage, and so forth — which show that it is time for us
to revise our notions of these gentle creatures. Here is
a potential new force. It is undoubtedly time to clothe
our wives in other material, and think of the seal less as
a skin than a mind. We might try experiments. Suppose
the Lord Chancellor really were a Great Seal. . . .

Perhaps the seal is the superman of the future. In
any case it should be the subject of a scientific memoir.
When seals and sea-lions come nearer our own vaunted
abilities than any other member of the brute creation we
are entitled to be told why. " Go to the ant " was never
a piece of counsel that aroused me ; but " Go to the seal "
has logic in it.

When the summer comes it is not, however, Hyde Park
with its breadth of sky and its peacocks, not Kensington
Gardens with its trees and the Round Pond's argosies, not
Regent's Park even at sheep-shearing time, not St. James's
Park with its water fowl ; it is none of these that call me.
My open space then is Lord's cricket ground in St. John's
Wood (where acacias and lilac flourish). For the Oval, the
great south London ground, where Surrey used to beat all
comers and may do so again, I have never much cared : it is
not comfortable unless one is a member of the Club ; it is
too big nicely to study the game ; there are too many pot-
houses around it ; and I dislike gasometers. But Lord's I

212 A WANDERER IN LONDON

love, although I wish that one could see the game while
strolling as once one could. It is now too much of a
circus with raised seats. Still, sitting there at ease one
may watch minutely the best cricket in the world. It
was there that, scarlet with shame, I saw the Australian
team of 1896 dismissed on a good wicket for 18, one after
another falling to Pougher of Leicestershire, who had rarely
terrified batsman before, and terrified none after ; it was
there that I saw Mr. Webbe bowled by Mordecai Sherwin,
who took off the gloves for the purpose, leading to the
batsman's famous mot that he " felt as if he had been run
over by a donkey cart " ; it was there that I saw Mr.
Stoddart straight drive a ball from the nursery end along
the ground so hard that it rebounded forty measured
yards from the Pavilion railings ; it was there that I saw
three distinct hundreds scored in the University match of
1893; it was there that I saw Sir T. C. O'Brien and
Mr. F. G. J. Ford heroically pull the Surrey and Middlesex
match out of the fire in, I think, the same year. It was
there in 1912 that I saw the great little McCartney miss
his 100 by one run. But when Albert Trott at last
realised his ambition of hitting the ball clean over the
Pavilion I was not there. Perhaps some one will do it
again : cricket is full of thrills, and what man lias done
man can do.

I like to approach Lord's through Dorset Square, which
was the site of the original ground, because then I feel I
may be passing over the exact spot where Alexander, Duke
of Hamilton, was standing when he made his great drive
— a hit which sent the ball one hundred and thirty-two
yards before it touched earth. A stone was erected to
commemorate this feat. Where is it now ?

CHAPTER XVIII

KENSINGTON AND THE MUSEUMS

Two Burial Grounds — Kensington's Charm — Kensington's Babies —
Victorian Influence — Kensington Palace— The London Museum —
Holland House — Two Painters — The Model Buildings — The Albert
Memorial — Indian Treasures — Machinery for Miles — Heartrending
Bargains — A Palace of Applied Art— Raphael's Cartoons — Water
Colours — John Constable — The Early British Masters — The Jones
Bequest — The Stage and some MSS. — A Perfect One-man Collection
— The Natural History Museum.

TV^ENSINGTON in itself, no less than in its beautiful
1\^ name, is the most attractive of the older and con-
tiguous suburbs. The roads to it are the pleasantest in
London, whether one goes thither through the greenery of
the park and Kensington Gardens, deviously by the Serpen-
tine and among the trees, or by Kensington Gore, south of
the Park, or by the Bayswater Road, north of it.

The Bayswater route is the least interesting of the three,
save for its two burial grounds — one spreading behind the
beautiful little Chapel of the Ascension, which is opened
all day for rest and meditation and guards the old cemetery
of St. George's, Hanover Square, now no longer used, where
may be seen the grave of Laurence Sterne : and the other
the garden of the keeper's lodge at Victoria Gate, which is,
so far as I know, the only authorised burial ground for
dogs, and is crowded with little headstones marking the last
resting place of Tiny and Fido, Max and Prince and Teufel

213

214 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Kensington is of course no longer what it was ; but the
old Palace still stands on its eastern side, and Holland
House still stands on its western side, and Kensington
Square is not much injured on the south, and Aubrey
House is as beautiful as ever, on the very summit of the
hill, and Cam House and Holly Lodge (where Macaulay
died) are untouched, below it. It is true that Church
Street, which still has many signs of the past, is to be
widened, and that great blocks of flats have risen and are
rising — one of them to the obliteration of old Campden
House, and that Earl's Terrace and Ed ward es Square are
to be pulled down and built over in the next few years,
and that no doubt all Phillimore Terrace will soon be
shops. Yet active as the builder and rebuilder are they
have not been allowed to smirch this reserved and truly
aristocratic neighbourhood Notwithstanding all its flats
and new houses it still has its composure and is intel-
lectually contented. Kensington knows : you can teach it
nothing.

With Edwardes Square, by the way, will vanish perhaps
the best specimen of the small genteel square of a hundred
years ago that still exists : every house minute, and all
cheerful and acquainted with art. It is impossible to avoid
the impression as one walks through it that Leigh Hunt
once lived here — and as a matter of fact he did !

I said something in an earlier chapter about St. James's
Street and Pall Mall and Savile Row being men's streets.
Almost equally is the south pavement of Kensington High
Street a preserve of women. In fact Kensington is almost
wholly populated by women. Not until this year, I am
told, was a boy habv ever born there — and he, to emphasise
the exception and temper his loneliness, brought a twin
brother with him. Why girl babies should so curiously

VICTORIAN KENSINGTON 215

outnumber the boy babies of Kensington is a problem which
I cannot attempt to solve. The borough has plenty of
scientific men in it — from Dr. Francis Galton and Professor
Ray Lankester downwards — to make any hazardous con-
jectures of mine unnecessary ; but I would suggest with all
deference that the supply of girl babies may be influenced
(1) by the necessity of maintaining the feminine character
of the High Street, and (2) by fashion, the most illustrious
and powerful woman of the last hundred years having been
born at Kensington Palace. I rather lean to the second
theory, for Kensington being so much under the dominion
of the Victorian idea — with the Palace on the edge of it, the
amazing souvenir of the queen (a kind of granite candle) in
the High Street, her statue in the gardens, and a sight of
the Albert Hall and Memorial inevitably on one's way into
London or out of it — it is only natural that some deep im-
pression should be conveyed.

Although Kensington Palace began its royal career with
William and Mary, and it was Anne who directed Wren to
add the beautiful Orangery, the triumph of the building is
its association with Victoria. It was there that on May 24,
1819, she was born; and there that she was sleeping when
in the small hours of June 20, 1837, the Archbishop of
Canterbury and the Lord Chamberlain awakened her to hail
her queen — and " I will be good," she said, very prettily,
and kept her word. Both these historic rooms — the room
where she was born and the room where she slept — are
now incorporated in the London Museum here ; and
her toys you may see, her dolls' house and her dolls,
dear objects to the maternal sightseer, and also her
series of amazingly minute official uniforms, together
with pictures of herself, her ancestors and children, in
great numbers.

216 A WANDERER IN LONDON

The Palace is principally Wren's work and is staid and
comely save for a top hamper of stone on the south facade
which always troubles my eye. But the little old houses
north of the main building on the west are quite charming
and may be used as a collyrium. Of the charm of these
and many of Kensington's older houses and some of its
new I have spoken in the first chapter : although I said
nothing there in praise of the Princess Beatrice's stables,
which are exquisitely proportioned and always give me a
new pleasure.

When the first edition of this work was ready there was
ne> London Museum. I do not pretend that anything that
I then said about the want of one had any influence ; but
the fact remains that there is one to-day, and its model
was (as I suggested it should be) the Camavalet in Paris.
The London Museum is only in its infancy and will soon
be changing its quarters.1 The collection, as it now
stands, which owes much to generous lenders, is exceedingly
catholic, the word London acquiring in these rooms an
elasticity sometimes beyond belief, as when the cradle of
Henry V at Chepstow Castle is encountered, while a chair
in which Charles Dickens once sat to be photographed,
although it is true that the camera trained upon him was
in a London studio, is, one feels, lucky to be here. Some
mo-e personal relic of that greatest of Londoners might,
one would think, be obtained. No matter ; even if the
Directors' net is full of things that not every one would
call strictly metropolitan fish, they all make for entertain-
ment, and there is no real call for cavil. The personal relics
are naturally the most interesting — such as the Victorian
souvenirs 1 have already mentioned, augmented by many

1 Stafford House is to be its new home ; but at the present moment
(June, 1913) it is still at Kensington.

LONDON RELICS 217

articles of clothing, King Edward VII's first shoes and
first gloves and a tiny pair of buckskin breeches ; a pair
of gloves that old Sarah Jennings, Duchess of Marl bo rough,
wore ; the Duke of Kent's medicine chest, from which, no
doubt, the great Queen-Empress was more than once un-
comfortably dosed ; Dr. Johnson's chair from Thrale's (now
Barclay & Perkins's) brewery ; gambling counters from the
Field Club ; bone passes to the theatres ; a gold and
crystal ring which belonged to Queen Mary II, who once
resided here, so that it has returned to its old home ; a
little oil painting of the barges and boats returning from
Nelson's funeral in St. Paul's ; models of men-of-war which
James II once owned ; too many royal robes and dresses ;
three of Victoria's bonnets dated respectively 1851, 1887
and 1897; wedding-cake boxes belonging to the Royal
Family ; one of Edward VII's cigar cases, and I suppose
he had hundreds ; the Marquis of Hertford (" Lord
Steyne")'s dressing case; Phelps' costume as Wolsey in
Henry VIII, and Sir Herbert Beerbohrn Tree's in the same
part ; twenty-one plates from Nell Gwynne's kitchen, and
Sir Thomas Gresham's steel yard. These come to memory
as I write. In addition, countless pictures and prints,
including an interesting series of suggested reconstructions
of London and Londoners in early and prehistoric times,
in which we see the palaeolithic Londoners and the neo-
lithic Londoners pursuing their daily avocations amid
mammoths and savagery. That they are truly the ancestors
of the present race is easily proved by a visit to a bargain-
sale counter in Oxford Street

Before descending to the Orangery and the Annexe,
look again from the windows over the pleasant grounds
of Kensington Palace, which now include a formal sunken
garden, and away to the Round Pond with its busy

218 A WANDERER IN LONDON

naval life. One has but to narrow the vision a little, and
it is the Solent in Cowes Week. And away beyond is
the City of London smoking above the grimness. Truly
Kensington Gardens forms a very delectable oasis. " How
thick the tremulous sheep-cries coine ! " wrote Matthew
Arnold, there, half a century ago, and it is still true ; one
may indeed even see the sheep sheared beneath the elms ;
and quite one of the most unexpected and charming things
to do in London on a June morning is to have breakfast
outside the pavilion near the Princes Gate entrance.

The Orangery now preserves specimens of the obsolete —
or nearly obsolete — passenger vehicles of London : a four-
wheeler, a hansom, and so forth. The Annexe is more
interesting, for here is the great iron door from Newgate
prison, with the shackles again hanging over it ; and here
is the famous Roman galley from the bed of the Thames,
reconstructed with the tenderest care. Here also are two
or three cells from Wellclose prison set up again with
exactitude, and wax prisoners to show how it was done;
and a very miserable sight for the young these prisoners
are. On the wooden walls are carved many names still
decipherable, among which I noticed those of Edward
Burk, William Thompson, E. Lovemann and Francis
Britain Peto. Little did any of them think, hacking away
out of sheer boredom two or more centuries ago, that their
names would get into a book in the year 1913.

Another rare possession of Kensington is Holland House,
which stands half-way up the hill, half a mile to the west
of the Palace, and may be seen dimly through the trees
from the main road and, hiding behind its cedar, more
or less intimately through the iron gates in Holland
Walk. Holland House is the nearest country mansion to
London ; while in the country itself are none superior

HOLLAND HOUSE 219

in the picturesque massing of red brick and green copper,
and none stored more richly with great memories. It was
built in 1607: James the First stayed there in 1612;
in 1647 Cromwell and Fairfax walked up and down in
the meadow before the house discussing questions of state ;
William Penn lived there ; Addison died there, exhibiting
his fortitude in extremis to the dissolute Earl of Warwick.
At last the house came to Henry Fox, Lord Holland,
father of Charles James Fox and grandfather of the
famous Lord Holland, the third, who made it a centre
of political and literary activity and who now sits in his
chair, in bronze, under the trees close to the high road,
for all the world to see. A statue of Charles James Fox
stands nearer the house.

Of the great days of Holland House less than a hundred
years ago let the occupant of the neighbouring Holly Lodge
tell — in one of his fine flowing urbane periods : — " The time
is coming when perhaps a few old men, the last survivors
of our generation, will in vain seek amidst new streets
and squares and railway stations for the site of that dwell-
ing which was in their youth the favourite resort of wits
and beauties, of painters and poets, of scholars, philosophers
and statesmen. They will then remember with strange
tenderness many objects once familiar to them, the avenue
and the terrace, the busts and the paintings, the carving,
the grotesque gilding, and the enigmatical mottoes. With
peculiar fondness they will recall that venerable chamber
in which all the antique gravity of a college library was so
singularly blended with all that female grace and wit could
devise to embellish a drawing-room. They will recollect,
not unmoved, those shelves loaded with the varied learning
of many lands and many ages, and those portraits in which
were preserved the features of the best and wisest English-

220 A WANDERER IN LONDON

men of two generations. They will recollect how many
men who have guided the politics of Europe, who have
moved great assemblies by reason and eloquence, who have
put life into bronze and canvas, or who have left to posterity
things so written as it shall not willingly let them die, were
then mixed with all that was loveliest and gayest in the
society of the most splendid of capitals. They will re-
member the peculiar character which belonged to that
circle, in which every talent and accomplishment, every art
and science, had its place. They will remember how the
last debate was discussed in one corner, and the last comedy
of Scribe in another: while Wilkie gazed with modest ad-
miration on Sir Joshua's Baretti, while Mackintosh turned
over Thomas Aquinas to verify a quotation : while Talley-
rand related his conversations with Ban-as at the Luxem-
bourg, or his ride with Lannes over the field of Austerlitz.
They will remember, above all, the grace, and the kindness
far more admirable than grace, with which the princely
hospitality of that ancient mansion was dispensed."

Within Holland House I have never set foot, but I know
its gardens — English and Dutch and Japanese — and I know
how beautiful they are, and when one is in them how in-
credible it seems that London is only just across the way,
so to speak.

A little west of Holland Park, in Holland Park Road, is
Leighton House, the stately home of the late Lord Leigh-
ton, which has been made over to the people as a permanent
memorial of the artist. Here one may see his Moorish hall
and certain personal relics, and some of his very beautiful
drawings and water colour sketches of Greece and the
southern seas. Exhibitions of pictures are from time to
time held here. In Melbury Road, until recently, might
be seen on Sunday afternoons a little collection of the

SOUTH KENSINGTON'S MASONRY

paintings of G. F. Watts, but these are now dispersed. In
Lisgar Terrace, however, a few minutes farther west, is the
Garden Studio of the late Sir Edward Burne-Jones, the
friend and contemporary of these artists, where a number
of his drawings and paintings are permanently preserved,
to be seen on certain days by any one who presents a visit-
ing-card. Here are the studies for many famous pictures,
here are pencil sketches, and a few unfinished works. No
modern had a more sensitive pencil than this master, and
the Garden Studio should be sought for its drawings
alone, apart from its other treasures.

To pass from the true Kensington to South Kensington
is to leave gold for silver. South Kensington is all wealth
and masonry. Here are houses at a thousand a year and
buildings that assault the heavens. The Albert Memorial
is the first of a long chain of ambitious edifices so closely
packed together as to suggest that they are models in a
show yard and if you have the courage you may order
others like them. Albert Memorial, Albert Hall, the
Imperial Institute, the Royal College of Music, the Natural
History Museum, the School of Science and Art, the Vic-
toria and Albert Museum, Brompton Oratory — these, to-
gether with enormous blocks of flats, almost touch each
other: a model memorial, a model concert hall, model
museums, model flats, model institutes, and so forth.

By the way, the groups of statuary at the four corners
of the base of the Albert Memorial, symbolising Europe,
Asia, Africa and America, always seem to me very felicitous
and attractive. The bison and the cow, the elephant and
the camel, are among the kindliest animals that stone ever
shaped. I have an artist friend who wishes to treat the
Round Pond in a similar spirit, and set up groups to cele-
brate Grimm and Andersen and Kate Greenaway and Lewis

222 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Carroll — since the Round Pond is the children's Mediter-
ranean. A very pretty project it seems to me ; too pretty
ever to be carried out.

One thinks of the Victoria and Albert Museum as the
Museum at the corner of Exhibition Road and the Crom-
well Road only: but that is only part of it. The
Museum extends into the Imperial Institute, where one
may walk for miles, as it seems, among the wonders of the
East I cannot describe these riches : all I can say is that
India, China, Japan, Persia, Egypt and Turkey have given
of their best — in pottery and carving, glass and porcelain,
embroidery and tapestry, bronze and jade. But nothing
is to my imagination more interesting and quickening than
the first thing that one sees on entering the east door in
Imperial Institute Road — the facade of two houses in teak
from Ahmadabad in Gujarat. This is old domestic India
at a blow. They are wonderful : nothing else in the ex-
hibition is so unexpected.

Crossing Exhibition Road to the Art Museum we may
prepare for real pleasure once more : for this is one of the
most fascinating museums in the world — filled with beauty
and humanity. Not a mummy in it, not a South Sea
trophy, not a fossil. All is friendly and all interesting.
It is South Kensington's mission to instruct England
in domestic beauty. Everything that is most beautiful
and wonderful in architecture and furniture, sculpture and
metal work, jewellery and embroidery, potter)- and glass,
may here be studied either in the original or in facsimile.
The best goldsmith's work in the world is here in electro-
type, the best sculpture in casts. The Venus of Milo is
here, and the Laocoon, the Elgin Fates, the Marble Faun,
Michael Angelo's giant David : everything famous except
the Winged Victory of Samothrace, Donatello's great

THE VICTORIA AND ALBERT MUSEUM

equestrian statue at Padua and Verrocchio's great eques-
trian statue at Venice ; I have not found those.

It is of course impossible to write of any museum ade-
quately, even in a whole volume, and I have but a few
pages. But this I can say, that there are at South Ken-
sington original works of decorative art — carvings,
enamels, lace, pottery, metal vessels, sculpture, glass —
before which one can only stand entranced, so beautiful
are they. The lace and embroidery alone are worth a long
journey. The Delia Robbias are worth a longer. The
Museum furthermore is made the despair of every collector
by the custom — a very interesting one and a very valuable
one — but often devastating in its triumph — of appending
to many of its treasures the price that was paid for it.
Some are high ; but the bargains ! The bargains are
heart-breaking.

The Victoria and Albert Museum has been largely rebuilt
since this book was written, and its new imposing facade has
quite changed the neighbourhood, while from any distance
its dome is nobly visible. The complete rearrangement of
the treasures of this most wonderful museum will take long,
but certain rooms are now fixed, among them the galleries
on the right of the main entrance given to Renaissance
sculpture, to which I always go first and where I remain
longest For here are certain great works the possession
of which will always make us envied, even by Berlin, where
Herr Bode has brought together so magnificent an assem-
blage of kindred masterpieces. At South Kensington Dona-
tello may be studied in all his periods and in all his media :
light relief, deep relief, marble, terra-cotta and bronze.
Here is the Madonna and laughing Child of Antonio Ros-
sellino, which I have reproduced for this edition. (Hen*
Bode, I may say, attributes it to Desiderio da Settignano.)

224- A WANDERER IN LONDON

Some beautiful examples of Mino da Fiesole are also here •
r i

several Verrocchios, among them a youthful John the
Baptist, illustrating the Leonardo type, as we call it
perfectly — Leonardo having studied in Verrocchio's work-
shop. The great and rare master himself has a relief here
entitled an " Allegory of Discord ".

The next room is given to the Delia Robbias — look
particularly at the Child in No. 5633 by Andrea, and also
at his little bagpiper in a corner — and to Michael
Angelo's Cupid or Apollo ; and in the next are wax
sketches that might be from Michael Angelo's hand and
might have been done for his giant " David " at Florence.
John of Bologna, his pupil, is also here, and at the far end
are two interesting heads by a modern of genius — Bas-
tianini. But the head of a woman attributed to the
school of Michael Angelo (No. 8538) is the most fascinat-
ing thing here, with its air of mischievous disdain. Below
is more sculpture — French, ecclesiastical and so forth,
with one distinguished case given to our own superb
Alfred Gilbert, containing his exquisite "Perseus Arm-
ing," in bronze, and his silver " Victory ".

Above these galleries are those in which the Salting Be-
quest is now displayed. We have seen the pictures which
this most generous of testators left to the National Gallery ;
at the British Museum are his drawings ; here are his
porcelain, his carvings, his miniatures. They fill five rooms
and alone form a monument of one man's taste and catholic
acquisitiveness. All that I can say here is that everything
is worth study, and that for those visitors who do not care
so much for beauty as for human interest the miniatures
offer a feast of delight, for not only are they very excep-
tional specimens but several are portraits of exceedingly
pretty women. In a side case is an early painting by

GEORGE SALTING 225

Nicholas Milliard of a courtly gentleman leaning against a
tree, which has great charm, and here too are a couple of
very entertaining leaves from a book of hours by Simon
Benninck. The bronze medal portraits in other cases of
the same room are also profoundly interesting, and it is
worth mentioning here that elsewhere in the Museum are
many hundreds of the best of these reproduced faithfully
in electrotype as well as original. George Salting, I might
say, was an Australian of great wealth who settled in
London and devoted his life — he was unmarried — to
the pursuit of the beautiful in art He left all his
treasures to the nation.

Other neighbouring galleries are devoted to carpets, in-
cluding a prayer carpet from the mosque at Ardabil, dated
1540. That would be the date of completion ; for these
carpets take many families many years to weave. Here
too is much lovely tapestry. Close by are fine specimens
of architecture, including wonderful slate doorways from
Genoa, re-erected here ; the pretty brick doorway of
Keats's school at Enfield ; the facade of Paul Pindar's
house in Bishopsgate Without ; a chimney piece from
North Italy by Tullio Lombardi, with the chase in full
swing carved upon it ; and many other exciting and sug-
gestive examples for the young architect of the day, who,
however, judging by ordinary results, does not come to
South Kensington as he should, any more than the
modern carpet weavers come here, or ironsmiths, or sculp-
tors, or any other of those craftsmen and artists for whose
inspiration and impulse the Museum exists.

Other ground-floor galleries contain examples of the
best furniture of all times, with a few reconstructed rooms
— one in white pine from Great George Street, Westmin-
ster; one from a farm bouse near Alencon, with painted
15

226 A WANDERER IN LONDON.

panelling ; one in old oak from Sizergh Castle, Westmore-
land, with a lovely plaster ceiling ; and one from the old
palace at Bromley-by-Bow. And everything makes one
wonder what happened to English taste before English
taste was sporadically born again.

In the great galleries of casts, as I have said, work of
the finest Renaissance sculpture of the world is repro-
duced, including not only statues but tombs, monuments,
statues, altars and ciboria. Elsewhere are the reproduc-
tions of classical statuary. Ghiberti's Baptistery gates are
reproduced in painted plaster, but the wonderful earlier
gates from Hildesheim Cathedral, done early in the
eleventh century, are reproduced in electrotype precisely
like bronze.

I say no more here, for at the catalogue desk a sixpenny
book can be obtained which gives a complete bird's-eye
view of all the collections, and one has but to study this
for a little while before beginning the tour to understand
one's way about and rightly appreciate the extent of the
riches gathered here. This catalogue desk is indeed a
place to examine very thoroughly, since for a few shillings
one may acquire there a valuable library.

Lastly let me say that in so far as it is definitely arranged,
I know of no Museum better arranged or less tiring than
are the new galleries at South Kensington, which have free
lifts to every floor.

South Kensington, in addition to its own water colour
collection and its Raphael cartoons, has had many valuable
bequests, chief among them being the Dyce and Forster
books, MSS. and pictures, the Sheepshanks collection of
British paintings, the Jones bequest, the lonides bequest,
and the Constable sketches given by Miss Isabel Constable.
These, with its wonderful Art Library (which is open to

<1

THE WATER-COLOURISTS 227

the public), its representative water colours, and its collec-
tions of etchings and Japanese prints, make it a Mecca of
the art student and connoisseur of painting.

When it comes to value I suppose that the Raphael
cartoons are worth all the rest of the Museum put to-
gether. To me as I have said, they are finer than any-
thing of his at the National Gallery, and by the possession
of them London, for all its dirt, can defy Rome and
Florence and Paris. They have the Laocb'on and the
David and the Venus of Milo : we have the Elgin
marbles, and Leonardo's " Holy Family," and the Raphael
cartoons.

It is to South Kensington pre-eminently that one
must go to study the history of English water colour
painting ; but I must confess to some sadness in the pro-
ceeding. The transitoriness of water colour has a de-
pressing effect. Standing before a great oil painting of
the remote past, a Velasquez, for example, a Rembrandt,
or a Leonardo, one thinks only of the picture. But an
old water colour painting makes me think of the dead
artist. Velasquez might be living now for all the impres-
sion of decay that his work brings : but David Cox is
bevond question in the grave. To pass from room to room
at South Kensington among these fading pictures is to be-
come very gloomy, very tired. Better to look at the work
only of one or two men and then pass something else —
Bonington for example. There is no sense of decay about
Bonington's water colours. His "Verona" is one of
the great things here. Nor is there any sense of decay
about William James Mliller, another great artist who
died young and whose "Eastern Burial Ground" and
" Venice " no one should miss. The harvesting scenes of
Peter de Wint, a few David Coxes, John Varley's " Moel

228 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Hebog," Callow's " Leaning Tower of Bologna " and a
view of the South Downs by Copley Fielding — these also
stand out in one's memory as great feats. Many Turners
are here too, but for Turner's water colours the basement
of the National Gallery is the place.

The Constable room is another of South Kensington's
unique treasures. I would not say that his best work is
here: but he never painted anything, however hurriedly,
that had not greatness in it, and some of these sketches
are Titanic. It is necessary to visit South Kensington if
one would know this painter thoroughly — his power over
weather, his mileage, his trees and valleys, his clouds and
light. There is a little sketch here called "Spring" which
I associate in my mind with the "Printenips" of Rousseau
at the Thorny-Thierry collection in the Louvre : they are
wholly different, yet each is final. There is a fishing boat
here on Brighton Beach which could not be finer. And
the many sketches of Dedham Vale (Constable's Fontaine-
bleau) are all wonderful. You may see here his gift of
finding beauty where he was. He did not need to travel
over land and sea : while other painters were seeking
Spain and Italy, Constable was extracting divinity from
Hampstead Heath, compelling the Vale of Health to tell
him its secret.

The Sheepshanks Collection of works by late Georgian
and Victorian painters is interesting for its fine examples of
less known masters as well as its famous works. In addition
to Turner's " Royal Yacht Squadron at Cowes," a scene of
golden splendour, five lovely Wilsons, two spacious and
glorious landscapes by Peter de Wint, among the finest
landscapes ever painted in England, three excellent Mor-
lands, another divine view of Mousehold Heath by Old
Crome, Gainsborough's beautiful " Queen Charlotte," and

LITERARY RELICS 229

representative examples of the anecdotal school, Leslie and
Webster and Landseer, the collection has an exquisite view
of the Thames from Somerset House by Paul Sandby, three
very interesting Ibbetsons, a good David Roberts, a Henry
Dawson, very Wilsonic, a George Smith of Chichester, two
William Collins and a Joshua Shaw.

The Jones Bequest, which fills a long gallery, is a kind of
minor Wallace Collection — pictures, minatures and furni-
ture, with a florid French tendency. Among the pictures
are water colours by Turner and Copley Fielding, two
beautiful Guardis opposite a rather similar Wilson, who in
his turn is brought to one's mind by a George Smith of
Chichester, a rich autumnal John Linnell, a Reynolds, a
Gainsborough, a charming Vanloo — children playing musi-
cal instruments — and some interesting Tudor portraits, in-
cluding Henry VIII, probably by Holbein, and Mary Queen
of Scots.

To get the full value of the Dyce and Forster pictures
one must be more interested in the history of the stage
than I am ; but here and there among them is something
great with a more general appeal, such as Sir Joshua's
portrait of himself. In one of the cases are some very
human relics in the shape of the original MSS. of Dombey
and Son, Bleak House, Oliver Twist and other of Dickens'
novels, including Edwin Drood, which is open at the last
page as his hand left it on the day he was stricken down
to write no more. In another case is a sonnet of Keats,
and in a further room is Joseph Severn's charcoal
drawing of the poet's head, in Rome, just before his
death.

The very interesting collection of oil paintings, draw-
ings and etchings formed by the late Constantine Alex-

230 A WANDERER IN LONDON

ander lonides, one of England's wealthy Greek residents,
is to be seen at South Kensington. A small collection
representing the good taste of one humane connoisseur
offers perhaps the perfect conditions to the lover of art :
and these we have in the lonides Bequest. The paint-
ings are in one room, the drawings and engravings in the
other, in the centre of which is a screen wholly given to
the burin and needle of Rembrandt of the Rhine, the
greatest master that ever forced copper to his will. A
visitor to London bent upon the study of Rembrandt's
etchings would go naturally to the Print Room of the
British Museum ; but they have there no better impressions
than some of these that Mr. lonides brought together.
The record of one of the most astonishing achievements in
the history of man is unfolded as one turns the pages of
this central screen, for, after Shakespeare (who died when
the great artist was ten), no human imagination has created
so much of human character as Rembrandt of the Rhine.
Here we are looking at only a portion of his work — his
etchings : but words fail one to put the right epithets even
to these. And there remains the work with the brush !
Here is a second state of the " Hundred Guelder piece,"
" Christ Healing the Sick," and close by it a fourth state of
that amazing work " Our Lord Before Pilate " : here too in
perfect condition are the portraits of gentlemen by a gentle-
man— the "Young Haaring," the "Ephraim Bonus," the
" John Asselyn," the " Burgomaster Jan Six " at his win-
dow, and the etcher himself at work with a pencil. Mr.
lonides' interest in etching extended to living masters too —
here are Whistler and Legros, Strang and Rodin. Parti-
cularly here is Millet, with his " Gleaners," his " Shepher-
dess Knitting,"and other examples of simplicity and sincerity

THE IONIDES COLLECTION 231

and power. And though the locus classics for Flaxman is
University College in Gower Street, the lonides' Flaxmans
should be asked for particularly, and also his collection of
drawings by Alphonse Legros, one of the most illustrious
of our French adopted sons, whose home has been in
England for many years, but whose genius is still far too
much a matter of the coterie.

The first painting to take the eye as one enters the
second lonides room is Bonington's " Quay " on the screen
— an exquisite thing. Of Bonington one can never see
too much, and here also is his oil painting of "La Place
des Molards, Geneva," injured by its very common gilt
frame. (Like so many of the best pictures, it does not
want gilt at all.) On other screens, which are given up
to water colours, are drawings by that great master Henri
Daumier, too little of whose work is accessible to the
English picture lover. There are thirteen in all, of which
the " Wayside Railway Station " is perhaps the greatest,
and " The Print Collector," which it is amusing to compare
with Meissonier's at the Wallace Collection, the most
finished. Another fascinating drawing is a sketch of
Antwerp by Hervier, a French artist of much accomplish-
ment and charm who is also too little known in England.
I mention the oil paintings as they occur in the rather
confusing catalogue, where the advantages both of alpha-
betical and numerical arrangement are equally disdained
in favour of a labyrinthine scheme of division into nation-
alities and sub-divisions into oil and water colour and
engravings. Guardi, whom we saw to such advantage at
the Wallace Collection, has here a decorative treatment
of a fair in the Piazza of St. Mark at Venice (No. 101),
with a sky above it of profound blue. One of the most

232 A WANDERER IN LONDON

charming of the old Dutch pictures is a landscape b\
Philip cle Koninck (No. 86) which is, I think, the best work
by him that I have seen ; while of the new Dutch ex-
amples there is a beautiful little hay wagon by Matthew
Maris (No. 90). The brothers Antoine and Louis Le
Nain, of whom very few examples are to be found in
England, have two pictures here, very curious and modern
when one realises that they are nearly three hundred years
old (Nos. 17 and 18). Corot is not quite at his best in
either of his two pictures, although both are beautiful,
but Courbet's " Immensite " (No. 59) — sea and sand at
sunset — is wonderful. Courbet was always great. Diaz'
"Baigneuse" (No. 60) is as he alone could have painted
it, and Georges Michel, another French painter whose
appearance on English walls is too infrequent, has a beauti-
ful "Mill" (No. 67) that might have been derived direct
from Constable and Linnell, yet is individual too. Millet's
great picture here, "The Wood Sawyers" (No. 47), I do
not much like : it has the air of being painted to be sold ;
but the other three are very interesting, especially perhaps
the "Landscape" (No. 172) in the manner of Corot.
Rousseau's spreading Fontainebleau tree (No. 54) is per-
haps the flower of the Barbizon contribution.

Before leaving the Victoria and Albert Museum I should
like to mention its admirable library of books on art which
anyone may consult on paying sixpence.

The Natural History Museum, the great building to
the West, in the Cromwell Road, is a Museum in the
fullest sense of the word : almost everything in it is stuffed.
But its interest cannot be exaggerated. Life was never
so tactfully, prettily and successfully counterfeited as it
is in the galleries on the ground floor, just to the left of

NATURAL HISTORY 233

the entrance, which contain the cases of British birds with
their nests. It needs no learning in ornithology, no
scientific taste, to appreciate these beautiful cases, where
everything that can be done has been done to ensure
realism — even to the sawing down of a tree to obtain a
titmouse's nest in one of its branches. Here you may
see how sand martins arrange their colonies, and here
peep into the nest of the swallows beneath the eaves ; but
as to whether Mr. Barrie is right in thinking that they
build there in order to hear fairy stories, or Hans Andersen
is right in holding that their intention is to tell them,
the catalogue says nothing. The Museum takes all nature
for its province — from whales to humming birds, a case
of which occurs charmingly at every turn : from extinct
mammoths to gnats, which it enlarges in wax twenty-
eight times — to the size of a creature in one of Mr. Wells'
terrible books — in order that the student may make no
mistake.

Perhaps the most interesting gallery in the whole building
is that on the third floor devoted to men and apes, which
illustrates not only the Darwinian theory (there is a statue
of Darwin on the stairs) but also the indecency of science>
for surely it is something worse than bad manners thus to
expose the skulls of gentlemen and monkeys. The gentle-
men it is true are for the most part foreigners and heathen ;
but none the less I came away with a disagreeable feeling
that the godhead had been tarnished. The most interesting
single case in the Museum is perhaps that in the great hall
illustrating " Mimicry," where you may see butterflies so like
leaves that you do not see them : caterpillars like twigs :
and moths like lichen. Between these and the extinct
monster, the Diplodocus-Carnegii — which is as long as an

234 A WANDERER IN LONDON

excursion train and seems to have been equally compounded
of giraffe, elephant and crocodile, all stretched to breaking
point — one can acquire, in the Cromwell Road Museum,
some faint idea of the resource, ingenuity and insoluble
purposes ot Nature

CHAPTER XIX

CHELSEA AND THE RIVER

Beautiful Chelsea — Turner's Last Days — St. Luke's — Chuich Street —
Cheyne Row's Philosopher — The Carlyles and an Intrusion — Don
Saltero's — The Publican and the Museum — Rossetti's breakfast —
The Physick Garden — The Royal Hospital — The Pensioners' coats —
London's disregard of its river — The Gulls — Speed — Whistler and
the Thames again — The National Gallery of British Art — "Every
picture tells a Story" — Old Favourites — Great English Painters —
The New Turners — Watts and Millais — The Chantrey Bequest — A
Sea-piece — Lambeth Palace.

/'""CHELSEA has not allowed progress to injure it essenti-
^<~/ ally. Although huge blocks of flats have arisen, and
Rossetti's house at No. 16 Cheyne Walk has been rebuilt
and refaced, and some very strange architectural freaks may
be observed in the neighbourhood of No. 73 (fantastic
challenges to the good taste of the older houses in the
Walk), the Embankment still retains much of its old
character and charm. London has no more attractive
sight than Cheyne Walk in Spring, when the leaves are a
tender green and through them you see the grave red bricks
and white window frames of these Anne and Georgian
houses, as satisfactory and restful as those of the Keizei-s-
gracht in Amsterdam.

The Walk has had famous inhabitants. To the far
western end (at No. 119) Turner retreated in his old age;
and here he lived alone as Mr. Booth, — or, as the neighbours

235

236 A WANDERER IN LONDON

called him, Admiral Booth, deeming him a retired sailor —
hoping never to be found by his friends again, and it is
here that, huddled in a dressing-gown, he would climb to
the roof at day-break to watch the sun rise. And here he
died in 1851, aged nearly eighty. Sir Thomas More, whose
house stood where Beaufort Row now is — to the west of
Battersea Bridge — still lends his name to the neighbour-
hood ; while his body rests in Chelsea Old Church, as St.
Luke^s is called — a grave solid building of red brick and
stone, with a noble square tower on which a sundial and a
clock dwell side by side, not perhaps in perfect agreement
but certainly in amity. More's wife Joan is also buried
here ; and here lie the mother of Fletcher the dramatist,
and the mother of George Herbert the divine poet, whose
funeral sermon was preached in the church by Dr. Donne,
and listened to by the biographer both of her son and of
her celebrant — Izaak Walton.

Church Street, Chelsea, should be explored by any one
who is interested in quaint small houses, beginning with a
fine piece of square Anne work in the shape of a free school
that appears now to be deserted and decaying. Swift,
Arbuthnot and Atterbury all lived in Church Street for a
while.

Cheyne Row, close by on the east, is made famous by
the house — No. 5 — in which Carlyle lived from 1834 until
1881, there writing his French Revolution and Frederick
the Great, and there smoking with Tennyson and Fitz-
Gerald. Private piety has preserved this house as a place
of pilgrimage. It is certainly very interesting to see the
double-walled study where the philosopher wrote, and to
realise that it was by this kitchen fire that he sat with
Tennyson ; to look over his books and peer at his pipes
and letters and portraits ; and yet I had a feeling of in-

BONIFACE AS COLLECTOR 237

discretion the while. If there is any man's wash-hand-
stand and bath, any woman's bed and chair, that I feel
there is no need for me or the public generally to see, they
are Mr. and Mre. Carlyle's. I seemed to hear both of
them distilling suitable epithets. It is not as if' one could
read the books or examine the letters : everything is under
lock and key. There the house is, however, exactly as it
was left, and better a thousand times that it should be a
show for the curious than that it should be pulled down.
And at any rate it contains Carlyle's death mask and a cast
of his hands after death — very characteristic hands ; and
his walking stick is on the wall.

The famous Don Saltero's Museum was at 18 Cheyne
Walk. It is now no more ; and where are its curiosities ?
Where ? Saltero was one Salter, a barber, who opened a
coffee house here in 1695 and relied on his collection of
oddities to draw custom. It was a sound device and should
be followed. (All innkeepers should display a few curio-
sities • and indeed a few do. I know of one at Feltham in
Sussex, and another in Camden Town ; while it was in an
East Grinstead hostel that I saw Dr. Johnson's chair from
the Essex Head. At Dirty Dick's in Bishopsgate Street
are a few ancient relics, and Henekey's, by Gray's Inn, has
an old lantern or so. But the innkeeper is not as a rule
alive to his opportunities.) At the end of the eighteenth
century Don Saltero's collection was dispersed. Chelsea in
those days was famous also for its buns and its china. It
makes neither now. Why is it that these industries de-
cay ? Why is it that one seems to be always too late ?

It was at No. 16 Cheyne Walk that Rossetti lived, and
it was here that Mr. Meredith was to have joined him, and
would have done so but for that dreadful vision, on a bright
May morning at noon, of the poet's breakfast — rashers cold

238 A WANDERER IN LONDON

and stiff, and two poached eggs " slowly bleeding to death "
on them. In the garden at the back Rossetti kept his wild
beasts. At No. 4 died Daniel Maclise, and, later, George
Eliot. Passing the row of wealthy houses of \\hich old Swan
House and Clock House are the most desirable, we come to
the Botanic Garden of the Royal Society of Apothecaries,
with its trim walks and bewigged statue of Sir Hans Sloane
in the midst. Here Linnaeus himself once strolled ; but
we cannot do the same, for the Physick Garden, as it used
to be called, is private : yet one may peep through its gate
in Swan Walk for another view of it — Swan Walk, whose
square houses of an earlier day are among the most at'
tractive in London.

Close by, however, are the Royal Hospital's gardens,
which are free to all and constitute Chelsea and Pimlico's
public park, filled, whenever the sun is out, with children
at play. The Hospital itself, which a pleasant tradition
ascribes to Nell Gwynn's kindly impulse but history credits
to Charles the Second (his one wise deed perhaps), is
Wren's most considerable non-ecclesiastical building in
London. One would not ask it to be altered in any re-
spect, such dignity and good sense has it ; while the sub-
sidiary buildings — officers' quarters and so forth — have
charm too, with their satisfying proportions and pretty
dormer windows. To be taken round the great hall by an
old Irish sergeant is a very interesting experience : past the
rows of tables where little groups of veterans, nearly all of
them bearded, and all, without exception, smoking, are
playing cards or bagatelle or reading, one of them now
and then rising to hobble to the fire for a light for his
pipe, over their heads hanging the flags won from a
hundred battle-fields, and all around the walls portraits of
great commanders. It is a noble hall. On the raised

MRS. COLMANN

AFTER THE PICTURE BV ALFRED STEVENS IN THE TATE GALLERY

THE THAMES 239

platform at the end is a collection of medals belonging to
old Hospitallers who left no kin to claim these trophies,
and portraits, among them one of the Iron Duke, who lay
here in state after his death, on a table which is still held
sacred. In the chapel are more flags. The old soldiers
are a more picturesque sight in summer than winter, for
in winter their coats are dark blue, but in summer bright
seal-let, and these very cheerfully light up the neighbour-
ing streets and the grave precincts of their home.

In an earlier chapter I have said something of Whistler's
discovery of the river at Chelsea. Certainly it is here that
the urban Thames has most character. By London Bridge
it is busier and more important and pretentious ; by the
Embankment it is more formal and well behaved ; but at
Chelsea it is at its best : without the fuss and the many
bridges of its city course ; without the prettiness and
flannels of its country course : open, mysterious, and always
beautiful with the beauty of gravity.

The Thames never seems to me to belong to London as
it should. It is in London, but it is not part of London's
life. We walk beside it as little as possible ; we cross it
hurriedly without throwing it more than a glance ; we
rarely venture on it. London in fact takes the Thames
for granted, just as it takes its great men. If it led any-
where it might be more popular ; but it does not. It can
carry but few people home, and those are in too much of a
hurry to use it ; nor can it take us to the theatre or the
music hall. That is why a service of Thames steamers
will never pay. No one fishes in it from the sides, as Par-
isian idlers fish in the Seine ; no one rows on it for pleasure ;
no one, as I have already said, haunts its banks in the
search for old books and prints. Our river is not interest-
ing to us : its Strand, one of our most crowded streets, has

240 A WANDERER IN LONDON

to be a hundred yards inland to become popular. We do
not even with any frequency jump into the Thames to
end our woes. Living; and dying we avoid it.

The only non-utilitarian purpose to which we put the
river is to feed the gulls from its bridges. During the past
few years the feeding of these strange visitants has become
quite a cult, so much so that on Sundays the boys do a
roaring trade with penny bags of sprats. There is a fas-
cination in watching these strong wilful birds with the cruel
predatory eye and the divinely pure plumage as they swoop
and soar, dart and leap, after a crumb or a fish. Every
moment more gulls come and more, materialised out of
nowhere, until the air just seethes with beating wings and
snapping beaks. In summer they find food enough on the
sea shore: it is only in winter that they come up the
Thames in any numbers for London's refuse and charity.

When walking from Chelsea towards Westminster one
day in the early spring of this year I saw these gulls at
rest. They were on the shore of the Battersea side (some-
where near the spot where Colonel Blood hid in the rushes
to shoot Charles II. as he bathed) — hundreds strong,
beautiful white things against the grey mud. It was a
fine afte1 noon and the sun made their whiteness still more
radiant

While I was standing watching them, and realising how
beautiful the Chelsea river is, I was once again struck by
the impression of great speed which one can get from river
traffic moving at really quite a low rate. A tug came by
drawing three or four empty barges. Until this invasion
of unrest set in the river had been a perfect calm — not a
movement on the surface, nothing but green water and
blue sky, and the gulls, and Battersea Park's silent and
naked trees. Suddenly this irruption. The tug was

WHISTLER AGAIN 241

making perhaps twelve knots (I have no means of judging)
but the effect was of terrific swiftness. She seemed with
her attendant barges to flash past. I imagine the narrow-
ness of the river to have something to do with this illusion,
because at sea, where a much higher rate is attained, there
is no sense of speed at all. (It is true that steamers which
were as far apart as the eye could reach a few minutes ago
will meet and leave each other in an incredibly short space
of time ; but the impression then filling the mind is not so
much of the speed of the boats as of the mysterious defeat
of distance.) And the quality of the speed of this tug
boat had nothing of brutality or insolence in it, as a motor-
car has : it had gaiety, mirth, a kind of cheery impudence.
It soothed as well as astonished.

On the same afternoon I was minded to enter the Tate
Gallery just to look at Whistler's exquisite nocturne of old
Battersea Bridge, which is the perfect adaptation to an
English subject of the methods of the Japanese print and
conveys the blue mystery of a London night on the river
as no other painter has ever done. I have seen all Whistler's
work : I have seen his portrait of his mother, and his
portrait of Carlyle, and his portrait of Miss Alexander.
I have seen his wonderful waves and his decorations for the
Peacock Room. I have seen his Princesse du Pays de
la Porcelaine and his Connie Gilchrist ; his etchings (the
Black Lion Wharf stands before me as I write) and his
Songs on Stone ; and masterly as it all is, I believe that his
Ix>ndon river pictures are his finest work — are the work he
was born to do above all other men. In his portraits
artifice is visible as well as art ; in his best river scenes art
conquers artifice.

The Tate Gallery is in forlorn and depressing Pimlico. on

the river boundary of that decayed district, just beyond
16

242 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Vauxhall Bridge, which for so long has been closed, and
hard by that yard of ruined ships whose logs warm so many
Londoners and whose historic figure-heads thrill so many
boys. It is a fortunate thing — although embarrassing to
the historian (but a form of embarrassment that one cannot
resent) — that the Tate Gallery and the National Gallery
are continually receiving additions. I write here of the
Tate as it is in the spring of 1913, without reference to
the loans with which it is constantly being enriched.

Built as the home of modern British art, and nobly
fulfilling that destiny, the Tate has become in particular
a monument to the genius of Turner, Sir Henry Tate's
generosity having been supplemented by that of the late
Joseph Duveen, the art dealer, to which we owe the new
and superb Turner wing. How art dealers normally
dispose of their wealth I know not ; but undoubtedly
Sir Joseph set them an example in symmetrical public
benefaction.

Let us walk through the Tate Gallery in the order
of its many rooms.

In No. I we find certain of the great landscape painters
some of whom are also to be seen to better advantage in
Trafalgar Square — Crome and his pupil Stark, Linnell, and
above all Constable, in whose work we are so rich not only
here and in Trafalgar Square, but also at South Kensington,
where he has a room all to himself, and Burlington House.
No. 1236 and 1245, notable for its Barbizon qualities,
before Barbizon, are especially fine. We pass on in Room
II to the old subject painters with so many of whose
pictures the engravers have already made us familiar.
Here are Wilkie and Webster, Mulready and Landseer
and here also is Bonington, for whose best, however, one
must go to Hertford House. Room III belongs to thepre-

MODERN MASTERS 243

Raphaelites, and, since it often has valuable examples on
loan, one should make a point of visiting it periodically.
Millais, Rossetti and Burne-Jones are its giants ; but
here also are Holman Hunt, who has been called the
greatest force of the School, and that powerful uncom-
promising man of genius MadoK Brown, and the curiously
minute Dyce, and the exquisite William Hunt, and, out
of place here but none the less splendid, Cecil Lawson,
who painted " The Harvest Moon," that superb English
landscape over which one can see both Rembrandt and
Rubens displaying enthusiasm. Room IV is more mis-
cellaneous. It has both Albert Moore, the delicate and
dreamy, and the direct and vigorous Sam Bough ; Fred
Walker's very English tenderness, Frith's metallic "Derby
Day," a flaming sunset by Linnell, and Mason's beautiful
" Cast Shoe," wherein the sunset behaves more as it
should. Here also is that fine colourist M tiller, in whose
watercolours this Gallery is elsewhere so rich, many of
them being in Room V, where the lovely Whistler nocturne
hangs, together with choice recent acquisitions, including
a superb Callow, Muirhead Bone's " Great Gantry," that
marvellous pencil drawing, and examples of Swan and
BrabazoR. And so we come to the nine Turner rooms.
Of Turner my pen can say little. Before his variety
and grandeur words seem very trivial. Enough to state
that in Room V my favourites are 462, 485, 496 and 524,
and that I think 1991 in Room VII the most beautiful
thing in the whole Gallery. The Tate possesses sufficient
Turner paintings and drawings to occupy 140 pages of its
catalogue, and since from time to time those on view are
changed or interchanged with Trafalgar Square it is un-
profitable to say more of them here. Of the extraordinary
value of this collection there can be no question; and it

244 A WANDERER IN LONDON

is peculiarly interesting to come to it, as I have done,
direct from Turner's house in Cheyne Walk, where I had
been thinking of the old man's last days and his passionate
rapture in the rising of the sun over the river. Most of
these pictures embody his attempts to translate some of
that rapture into paint — once again to celebrate the orb
whose light to him was life, religion, all.

With Room XV we come to the greater moderns — Mr.
Sargent, Legros, Charles Furse, Mr. Sargent's " Carnation,
Lily, Lily, Rose," still holding its own in spite of all its
imitators. Room XVI is a very charming little hall of
bronzes, with Onslow Ford's adorable "Folly" as its chief
treasure, and in Room XVII we find the remarkable collec-
tion of the works of G. F. Watts given by him to the nation,
of which " Love and Life " and " Love and Death " always
please me most. The opposite room, XVIII, is similarly
given to another great and various artist, Alfred Stevens,
painter, sculptor and masterly draughtsman, who died in
1875, for further examples of whose diverse and vigorous
genius one must go to South Kensington and also to
St Paul's, where his monument to Wellington, as completed
by Mr. Tweed, now stands. Everything done by Stevens
has the impress of a strong personality, but for me his most
engaging works are his portrait of Mrs. Collmann and his
lion for the British Museum railing, which may be seen
in modern reproduction, fulfilling its true purpose, in
Chancery Lane, opposite the Record Office.

Rooms XIX to XXV are given to purchases under
the Chantrey Bequest, and it is as though a procession of
old Academies had filed through, three or four pictures
dropping out of each and remaining prisoners. There are
a few very fine things here and many that are only
mediocre. Orchardson's " Napoleon on the ' Bellerophon ' "

LAMBETH PALACE 245

remains in the mind, and both of Mr. Amesby Brown's
landscapes, but particularly 2738, and Mr. Shannon's
" Flower Girl," and Mr. Tuke's " August Blue ". Upstairs
is a room of odds and ends from the windows of which
one may again see how true to his river was Whistler ;
and in various passages are good old water colours, among
which I particularly like one of Miiller's Avon sketches.

And so, following the river at its dreariest along Gros-
venor Road, we come to Westminster ; but I would like
first to cross over and look at Lambeth Palace, secure in
its serene antiquity, where the Archbishop of Canterbury
lives. This one may do by inquiring for permission by
letter to the Primate's chaplain. There is a little early
English chapel here, dating from the thirteenth century,
which is one of the most beautiful things in London ; and
the cicerone is full of kindly interest in his visitors, and
of a very attractive naive pleasure, ever being renewed,
in his work as the exhibitor. The great names here are
Boniface, who built the chapel, Chicheley, who built the
tower, Howley, who built the residential portion and did
much restoring, and such moderns as Tait and Benson,
who beautified where they could. It was Archbishop
Tait, for example, who set up the present windows,
which follow in design those which Laud erected or
amended, and which the Puritans broke on seeing, as
they thought, popery in them. Laud also gave the
screen, and from this Palace he went by barge — in the old
stately manner of the primates — to his death. It seems
to be a point of honour with the archbishops to leave
some impress of their own personality on the Palace.
Archbishop Benson's window in the little ante-room, or
vestry, to the chapel could hardly be more charming ; and
the inlaid marble floor to the altar with which the present

246 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Archbishop's name is associated is a very magnificent
addition.

Long rows of Archbishops painted by the best portrait
painters of their day — Holbein, Van Dyck, Lely, Hogarth,
Reynolds, Romney, Gainsborough — hang on the walls of
the dining hall ; but the German tourist who was making
the tour of the rooms at the time that I was would not
look at them. All his eyes were for the Archbishop's
silver, and in particular a crumb-scoop in the form of a
trowel.

CHAPTER XX AND LAST

WESTMINSTER AND WHITEHALL

Anne's Gate and Mansions — The new Cathedral — The Inverted
Footstool — Origins of street names — The Abbey — Writing on the
Tombs— The Guides— Henry VII's Chapel— Cromwell's body— Wax-
works— A window's vicissitudes — The Houses of Parliament — Lon-
don's Police — Extinct Humour — London's street wit — Whitehall —
Relics of Napoleon and Nelson — The Deadly Maxims — The End.

DESPITE the rebuilder Westminster is still very good
to wander in, for it has the Abbey and the little old
streets behind the Abbey, and St. James's Park, and Queen
Anne's Gate, that most beautiful stronghold of eighteenth
century antiquity — while close by it, to emphasise its beauty
and good taste, are Queen Anne's Mansions. I always
think that one gets a sufficiently raw idea of the human
rabbit-warren from the squares of paper and marks of stairs
and floors and partitions that are revealed on the walls
when a house is in course of demolition : a sight very
common in London ; but I doubt if the impression of man's
minuteness and gregariousness is so vivid as that conveyed
by the spectacle of Queen Anne's Mansions by St. James's
Park station — surely the ugliest block of buildings out of
America, and beyond doubt the most aggressively populous.
Westminster's architectural variety is by no means ex-
hausted in the buildings I have named, for between the
Army and Navy Stores and Victoria station (which I
fancy is Pimlico) is the wonderful new Byzantine Roman

247

248 A WANDERER IN LONDON

Catholic Cathedral, a gigantic mass of elaborate brickwork
which within is now merely the largest barn in England
but will one day be lustrous with marble. It is character-
istic of London methods that a building so ambitious and
remarkable as this should have been packed into an en-
closed space from which a sight of it as a whole from any
point of view is impossible. Its presence here, in the very
heart of flat-land, would be hardly less amazing to the simple
intelligence of George III than was that of the apple
within the dumpling. One is conscious that it is vast and
domineering and intensely un-English, but of its total effect
and of its proportions, whether good or bad, one knows
nothing. The lofty tower is of course visible from all
points. Sometimes it has mystery and sometimes not, the
effect depending upon the amount of it that is disclosed.
From Victoria station I have seen it through a slight haze
wearing an unearthly magical beauty ; and again from
another point it has been merely a factory chimney with a
desire for sublimity.

Whatever opinion one may hold as to the architectural
scheme of the new cathedral, there can be no doubt as to
its nobility as sheer building, and no question of the splen-
did courage behind its dimensions. It appears to me to
conquer by vastness alone, and I seem to discern a certain
giim humour in these people setting as near their old time
Westminster cathedral as might be this new and flauntingly
foreign temple, in which the Abbey and St. Margaret's could
both be packed, still leaving interstices to be filled by a
padding of city churches.

For one of London's oddest freaks of ecclesiastical archi-
tecture you have only to seek Smith Square, just behind the
Abbey, and study the church ot St. John the Evangelist,
the peculiar oddity of which is its four belfries, one at each

CHARLES CHURCHILL 249

corner. I used to be told when I lived within sound of its
voice that the shape of this church was due to a passionate
kick on the part of the wealthy lady who endowed it, and
who, in disgust at the plans submitted by her architect,
projected the footstool across the room. "There," said
she, pointing to it as it lay upside down, "build it like
that " ; and the architect did. That is the Westminster
legend, and it is probably false — a derivative from the
church's shape rather than the cause of it. St. John's,
however, has something more interesting to offer than its
design, for it was here that the scathing author of Ttie
Rosciad and other satires — Charles Churchill, who was born
close by in Vine Street (now Romney Street) and educated
close by at Westminster School — held for a while the posi-
tion of curate and lecturer, in succession to his gentle old
father. Churchill's name is forgotten now, but during the
four years in which he blazed it was a menace and a power.

Smith Square still contains two or three of Westminster's
true Georgian houses, of which there were so many when I
lived in Cowley Street twelve years ago. New roads and
new buildings, including the towering pile of offices and
flats which the Ecclesiastical Commissioners have just
erected, as reckless of the proportions of this neighbourhood
as of its traditions, have ruined Westminster. Barton Street
still holds out ; but for how long ? Either Dean's Yard
must go soon or the flat-projectors will die of broken hearts.

Barton Street took its name from Barton Booth, the
actor, who invested his savings in property at Westminster.
Cowley Street is named after Barton's native village in
Middlesex, and has no association with Cowley the poet,
although when I lived there I used to be told that it was
from him that it took its style. Such is oral tradition !
There is indeed no need to invent any origin for London's

2.50 A WANDERER IN LONDON

street names : their real origin is interesting enough. Why
Mount Street? Because Oliver's Mount, a point in the
fortification lines round I^ondon made by the Parliamentar-
ians in 1643, stood here. Why Golden Square? Because
in the neighbourhood was an inn called "The Gelding,"
which gave its name to the square and was then modified
by the inhabitants because they did not like it Why Hay
Hill ? Because the Aye or Eye brook once ran there :
hence also the two Brook Streets. But the local tradition
probably involves a load of dried grass. Why Westbourne
Grove ? Because of the West Bourne, another stream,
now flowing underground into the Serpentine.

Why Covent Garden ? Because it was the garden, not
for the sale but for the culture of vegetables, belonging to
the Convent : that is, the Abbey of Westminster. Why
Chelsea ? Because the river used to cast up a " chesel "
of sand and pebbles. Selsey in Sussex is the same word.
Why Cheapside? Because at the east end of it was a
market place called Cheaping. Why the Hummums ?
Merely a Londonisation of Hammam, or Turkish Bath,
which it was before it became a hotel. Why the Isle of
Dogs ? Because when Greenwich was a royal resort the
kennels were here. Why the Strand ? Because it was on
the shore of the Thames. Why Bayswater ? Because one
of William the Conqueror's officers, Bainardus of Normandy,
became possessed of the land hereabout (as of Baynard's
Castle in Sussex) and one of his fields at Paddington was
called Baynard's Water or Watering. Why Pall Mall?
Because the old game of Pall Mall was played there.
Why Birdcage Walk? Because Charles II had an aviary
there. Why Storey's Gate? Because Edward Storey,
keeper of the aviary, lived hard by. Why Millbank ?
Because a water mill stood where St. Peter's wharf now

CHARLES AND THE ABBEY 251

is turned by the stream that ran through the Abbey
orchard (the Abbey orchard !) down Great College Street.
This was one of the streams that made Thorney Island, on
which Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament
stand. It is an island no longer, because the streams which
divided it from the main land have been dammed and built
over ; but an island it was, its enisling waters being the
Mill Bank stream, the Thames, a brook which ran down
Gardiner's Lane, and, on the east, the Long Ditch in
Prince's Street. Why was Westminster so called ? Be-
cause St. Paul's was the parent and the Abbey was its
western dependency — the west minster.

And here, by way of Dean's Yard, we enter the Abbey,
which really needs a volume to itself. Indeed the more I
think about it the more reluctant my pen is to behave at
all. An old children's book which I happen to have been
glancing at this morning, called Instructive Rambles in
London and the adjacent Villages, 1800, puts the case in
a nutshell. "On entering the Abbey the grandeur and
solemnity of the whole struck them forcibly ; and Charles,
addressing his father, said, ' By the little I already see, sir,
I should think that instead of a single morning it would
take many days, nay even weeks, to explore and examine
into all the curious antiquities of this building'." His
father agreed with him, and so do I. Equally true is it
that it would take many weeks to record one's impressions.
To say nothing would perhaps be better: merely to re-
mark " And here we enter the Abbey " and pass on. But
I must, I think, say a little.

So much has it been restored, and so crowded is it (to
the exclusion of long views), that one may say that the
interest of the more public part of the Abbey resides rather
in its associations with the dead than in its architecture.

252 A WANDERER IN LONDON

To see it as a thing of beauty one must go east of the
altar — to the exquisite chapel of Henry VII. The Abbey
proper has nothing to show so beautiful as this, grave and
vast and impressive as it is ; but even with this its real
wonderfulness comes from its dead. For if we except the
great soldiers and sailors and painters who lie at St. Paul's,
and the great poet at Stratford on Avon, almost all that
is most august and illustrious in English history and litera-
ture reposes here.

Entering by the north transept you come instantly upon
the great statesmen, the monument to Chatham, at first
only a white blur in the dim religious light, being so close
to the door. Palmerston, Canning and Gladstone are near
by. The younger Pitt and Fox lie here too, but their
monuments are elsewhere. We have seen so many of
Fox's London residences : this is the last. Beneath the
north aisle of the nave lie also men of science — Newton
and Darwin and Herschel. In the south aisle of the
nave are the graves or monuments of various generals and
governors. Kneller,1 the painter, Isaac Watts, who wrote
the hymns, John and Charles Wesley and Major Andre.

Poets' Corner, which is a portion of the south transept,
loses something of its impressiveness by being such a huddle
and also by reason of certain trespassers there : a fault due
to lax standards of taste in the past. Had it been realised
that the space of Westminster Abbey was limited, the
right of burial there would long ago have been recognised
as too high an honour to be given indiscriminately to all
to whom the label of poet was applied. We now use the
word with more care. The Rev. William Mason and
Nicholas Rowe, John Phillips and St. Evremond, even

J Kneller refused to be buried in the Abbey : " They do bury such
fools there," he said.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY

THE CHAPELS 253

Gay and Prior, strike one in the light of interlopers.
Only by dying when they did could they have found their
way hither. And certain of the monuments are far too
large, particularly that to John, Duke of Argyll and
Greenwich, by the exuberant Roubilliac, — no matter how
Canova may have admired it. The plain slabs that cover
Johnson and Dickens, Browning and Tennyson, are more
to one's liking ; or such simple medallions as that to Jenny
Lind. Shakespeare and Milton are only commemorated
here ; but Chaucer and Spenser, Jonson (" O rare Ben Jon-
son " runs his epitaph) and Dryden, Gray and Cowley — all
these and many others lie at Westminster. Ben Jonson
was buried standing, near the north wall of the nave, in
eighteen inches of ground square. His inscription cost
eighteen-pence.

So far all has been free ; but the choir is not free (ex-
cept on Mondays), and you must be conducted there
officially. The Abbey guides are good and not impatient
men, with quite enough history for ordinary purposes and
an amusing pride in their powers of elocution. They lead
their little flock from chapel to chapel, like shepherds in
the East, treading as familiarly among the dust of kings
as if it were the open street.

The first chapel, St. Benedict's, has only one queen, and
she a poor unhappy slighted creature — Anne of Cleves;
the second chapel, St. Edmund's, has none, the Jane
Seymour that lies here being the daughter of the Pro-
tector Somerset. Yet here are many noble bodies, not-
ably the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury ; and Eleanor
de Bohun beneath a fine brass ; and the little sister and
brother of the Black Prince, with tiny alabaster figures of
themselves atop, who died as long ago as 1340. Here also,
a modern among these medievalists, lies the author of Zanoni

S54- A WANDERER IN LONDON

and My Novel. A crusader by the doorway testifies to the
old laxity of rules regarding visitors, for he is cut all over
with names and initials and dates — just as the backs of the
figures in the Laocoon group beneath the Vatican are
scribbled by Italian sightseers. How many persons know
who it was that first scratched his initials on an Abbey
tomb ? Of all men, Izaak Walton, who cut his monogram
on Casaubon's stone in the south transept in 1658.

The next chapel, St. Nicholas's, is the burial place of
the Percys, a family which still has the right to lie here.
Here also are the parents of the great Duke of Bucking-
ham, in marble on the lid of their tomb, and in dust
below it ; and here lies the great Burleigh. Both this
chapel and that of St. Edmund call for coloured glass.

We come now to the south aisle of Henry VIFs chapel
and get a foretaste of the glories of that shrine. A very
piteous queen lies here, Mary Queen of Scots, brought
hither from Peterboro' by her son James I, and placed
within this tomb. Charles the Second Lies here also, and
William and Mary and Anne and General Monk, and
here is a beautiful bronze of the mother of Henry VII.
In the north aisle is dust still more august, for here is the
tomb of Elizabeth, erected bv James I with splendid im-
partiality. Her sister, Queen Mary, lies here too, but
the guide is himself more interested, and takes care that
you are more interested, in the marble cradle containing
the marble figure of the little Sophia, the three-day-old
daughter of James I ; in the tomb of the little Lady Mary ;
and in the casket containing the remains of the murdered
princes, brought hither from the Tower. A slab in the
floor marks the grave of Joseph Addison, the creator of
Sir Roger de Coverley, who wrote in the Spectator a passage
on the Abbey and its mighty dead which should be in

HENRY VIPS CHAPEL 255

every one's mind as they pass from chapel to chapel of this
wonderful choir.

And so we come to the Abbey's most beautiful part —
Henry VII's chapel, which is London's Sainte Chapelle.
It is perhaps the most beautiful chapel in England, and
beyond question the most wonderful, since not only is it
an architectural jewel but it holds the dust of some of our
greatest monarchs. If Henry VII had done nothing else
he would live by this. Woodwork and stonework are
alike marvellous, but the ceiling is the extraordinary thing
— as light almost as lace, and as delicate. Not the least
beautiful things here are the two stone pillars supporting
the altar above the grave of Edward VI. Henry VII's
tomb is in the chantry at the back of the altar, and in the
same vault lies James I. George II and the Guelphs who
are buried here have no monuments, but the blackguard
Duke of Buckingham whom Fenton stabbed is celebrated by
one of the most ambitious tombs in the Abbey, with every
circumstance of artificial glory and a row of children to
pray for him and women to weep. The Duke of Richmond,
another friend of James I, is hardly less floridly commemor-
ated— close to the tomb of Dean Stanley.

A slab in the next chapel or bay marks the grave where
Cromwell lay. After the Restoration, however, when the
country entered upon a new age of gold under Charles II,
one of the first duties of the Londoner was to remove
the Protector's body and treat it as of course it so richly
deserved. It was therefore decapitated : the trunk was
thrown into a pit at Tyburn and the head was set up on
Westminster Hall so firmly that it was more than twenty
years before it fell during a high wind. Charles the Second
having reigned quite long enough, it was perhaps felt that
justice had been done; so the skull was not returned to its

256 A WANDERER IN LONDON

pinnacle but allowed to pass into reverent keeping. Crom-
well's statue may now be seen, with a lion at his feet, in the
shadow of Westminster Hall. The wheel has come full
circle : he is there.

Compared with the chapel of Edward the Confessor be-
hind the high altar, to which we now come, that of Henry
VII is in age a mere child. Here we pass at once to the
thirteenth century, Edward I being the ruling spirit. His
tomb is here — the largest and plainest in the Abbey — and
here lies his wife Eleanor, for whom the Crosses were built
— one of the prettiest thoughts that a King ever had — a
cross at every place where her body rested on its way from
the North to London, Charing's Cross being the last.
Edward the Confessor lies in the shrine in the midst :
Henry V in that to the north of it, and preserved above
are the saddle, the sword and helmet that he used at Agin-
court. But popular interest in this chapel centres in the
coronation chair that is kept here, in which every king and
queen has sat since Edward I.

We come lastly to the chapel of St. John the Evangelist,
crowded with tombs, of which by far the most beautiful,
and in some ways the most beautiful in the Abbey, is that
of Sir Francis Vere, copied from Michael Angelo : four
warriors holding a slab on which are the dead knight's
accoutrements. A cast of this tomb is in South Kens-
ington. The guide, however, draws attention rather to
Roubilliac's masterpiece — in which Death, emerging from
a vault, thrusts a dart at Mrs. Nightingale, while Mr.
Nightingale interposes to prevent the catastrophe. At
Fere la Chaise this would seem exceedingly happy and ap-
propriate; but it suits not our austere Valhalla. Hidden
away behind the great tomb of Lord Norris are statues of
John Philip Kemble and his illustrious sister Mrs. Siddoas

WESTMINSTER'S WAXWORKS 2-57

With the possible exception of the Voltaire and one or
two of the heads from the Reign of Terror, there is nothing
at Madame Tussaud's so interesting as the waxworks be-
longing to the Dean and Chapter of Westminster, hidden
away up a winding stair over the next chapel — Abbot
Islip's. These one should certainly make an effort to see,
for they are very quaint and they probably approximate
very closely to life. The Charles the Second one can believe
in absolutely, and Elizabeth too. Nelson ought not to be
there at all, since he was buried at St. Paul's and these
figures were originally made to rest upon the Abbey graves
until the permanent memorial was ready ; but all the sight-
seers being diverted from Westminster to St. Paul's, after
Nelson's funeral, the wise Minor Canons and lay vicars (who
took the waxwork profits) set up a rival Nelson of their
own. It is a beautiful figure anyway.

In the cloisters, which to my mind are more alluring to
wander in than the Abbey itself, are other tombs, for never
were the dead so packed as they are here. Among those
that lie here, chiefly clerical, are a few Thespians : Foote
and Betterton and Mrs. Bracegirdle and Aphra Behn, and
here lies Milton's friend who wrote a sweet book of airs,
Mr. Henry Lawes, and the prettiest of short epitaphs is
here too : "Jane Lister, dear childe, 1688". The cloisters
lead to the ancient Chapter House, an octagonal room
dating from the thirteenth century, which once was all the
Parliament house England had, and to the Chamber of the
Pyx, where the royal jewels were kept before they went to
the Tower ; and from the cloisters you gain the residences
of the Canons of the Abbey, where all live in the odour
and harmony of sanctity. The Deanery hides round the
corner to the left as you enter from Dean's Yard, from
which you also gain Westminster School, where Ben JonsoD
17

A WANDERER IN LONDON

and George Herbert, Dryden and Prior, Sir Christopher
Wren and Gibbon, Warren Hastings and Cowper, were
educated — the only historic public school left in London.

St. Margaret's, the little church under the shadow of the
Abbey, like its infant child, must be visited for one of the
finest windows in England, so rich and grave — a window
with a very curious history. It was given by the magis-
trates of Dordrecht to Henry VII for his Chapel in the
Abbey, but as he died before it could be erected, Henrv
VIII presented it to Waltham Abbey, little thinking how
soon he was going to dissolve that establishment. The
last Abbot transferred it to New Hall in Essex, which
passed through many hands — Sir Thomas Boleyn's, Queen
Elizabeth's, the Earl of Sussex's, the great Duke of Buck-
ingham's, Oliver Cromwell's and General Monk's. It was
during General Monk's ownership of New Hall that the
window was taken from its place and buried in the ground
for fear it should be broken by Roundheads, who had a
special grudge against glass and the noses of stone saints
It was disinterred when all was safe, but did not reach St
Margaret's until 1758. In this church Sir Walter Raleigh
is buried, and here was married Samuel Pepys and (for the
second time) John Milton. Latimer preached Lenten
sermons here before Edward VI ; and it was in the church-
yard that Cowper, a boy at Westminster School, was
etanding when a sexton digging a grave threw out a skull
which hit him on the leg and began that alarm of his con-
science which the sinister eloquence of John Newton was
to maintain with such dire results.

Of the Houses of Parliament I find myself with nothing
to say. They are, I often think, beautiful ; and then I
wonder if they are, or are merely clever. Certainly if the
Victoria Tower is the right size the Clock Tower is too
ilender. The best view is from the embankment walk by

AT ST. STEPHEN'S 259

St. Thomas's hospital : seen across the water the long low
line of delicate stone is very happy and the central spire
could not be more charming. And yet should there be so
much ornament, so much daintiness? Should not our
senate, should not our law courts, be plain honest buildings
innocent of fantastic masonry and architectural whimsies ?
Somerset House, Hampton Court, Chelsea Hospital, St.
James's Palace, the old Admiralty — should we not adhere
to their simplicity, their directness ? Yet the Houses of
Parliament lighted up make a fascinating picture postcard
for the young.

Years ago, when I lived in Cowley Street and still
reverenced men and senators, I used on my way home at
night to loiter a little in Parliament Square in the hope of
seeing the demigods whom our caricaturists had made it so
easy to recognise : Sir William Harcourt with a thousand
chins ; Mr. Gladstone submerged in his collar ; Mr. Bowles
with his wooden legs and iron hooks. Those were great
days, when a Member of Parliament was something exalted
and awful. But now all is changed. I am older and the
House is transformed. Members of Parliament are three
a penny, and knowing quite a number personally, I loiter
in Parliament Square no more.

The whole British Empire is administered between
Parliament Square and Trafalgar Square. All the Govern-
ment offices are here ; and whatever Parliament may be
doing, their work goes on j ust the same.

New Scotland Yard is here too : on the light, a huge
square red building which was planned for an opera house,
abandoned when its foundations were all built, and then
was bought by the Government for a central police station.
(The two other new opera houses which have been erected

260 A WANDERER IX LONDON

in London in recent times are now music halls.) Having
need for larger premises, the authorities have just built a
second block, which is joined to the parent edifice by one
of the most massive bridges in London — a very fine arch
indeed, as impressive as the little Venetian flying passage
between the Grand Hotel and its annexe at Charing Cross
is delicate and fanciful.

Without its police London could not be London. They
are as much landmarks as its public buildings, and are
almost as permanent and venerable. The Londoner has a
deep respect for his police, and not a little fear too ; it is
only on the Music Hall stage that they are ridiculed. A
policeman on duty is often assaulted in a rage, but he is
never made fun of. Probably no public servant so quickly
assumes dignity and importance. I suppose that before
they are policemen they are ordinary, impulsive, even foolish,
country youths of large stature (the only London policeman
I ever knew in the chrysalis stage was a high-spirited fast
bowler) ; but instantly the uniform and the boots are donned
they become wise and staid, deliberate and solid, breathing
law and order. It is one of the best examples of the
triumph of clothes. I am not sure but that a policeman's
helmet is not a better symbol of London than the dome of
St. Paul's : they are indeed rather similar.

The policeman as a preserver of order is less noticeable in
London than as a friend, a counsellor, a preserver of the
amenities. He regulates the traffic, and from his glove
there is no appeal. He takes old ladies and nursemaids
across the road, he writes in his book the particulars of
collisions, he conveys the victims of motor-cars to the
hospital, he tells strangers the way to the Abbey. The
London policeman is indeed the best friend of the foreigner
and the provincial. They need never be at a loss if t

VIRGIN AND CHILI)
AFTER THE PICTURE BY ANDREA DEL SARTO IN THE WALLACE COLLECTION

THEODORE HOOK 261

policeman is in sight, and they will not do amiss if they
address him as " Inspector ".

London, as I have said, fears its policemen. Drink now
and then brings a man into open defiance, and on Boat
Race night the young barbarians of Oxford and Cambridge
import into the West End a certain exuberance foreign to
this grey city ; but for the most part the policeman's life is
uneventful, and his authority is unchallenged. The practi-
cal joker who used to overturn the Charleys in their boxes
(that thin and tedious jest) is extinct. We have no high
spirits any more : they have gone out, they are not good
form. Theodore Hook, who stands for the highest of all,
would die of ennui could he visit again glimpses of a
London moon : Theodore Hook, some of whose " ordinary
habits," I read in a work on the London of his day, " were
to hang pieces of meat on the bell-handles of suburban
villas, in the evening, so that during the night every stray
dog that happened to pass would give a tug ; by this
means the bell would be set ringing five times an hour to
the consternation of the family, who, with candles in hand,
might in vain search the garden, or peep into the road for
the cause. He would cut signboards in half, and affix the
odd pieces to each other, so that the signboard owners next
day would have the pleasure of witnessing their various
occupations interpreted by the most ridiculous announce-
ments in the world. He would stitch his friend's clothes up
in such a fashion that when, on the following morning, the
friend got into them, the conclusion that he would at once
jump to was that he had from some extraordinary and
unaccountable cause become fearfully swelled during the
night — a conclusion which Hook would take care to confirm
by expressing his great concern at his friend's appearance,
and entreating him to be allowed to call a doctor."

262 A WANDERER IN LONDON

These were some of his "ordinary habits." What a
man ! He would also " carry a Highlander from a tobac-
conist's shop, after dark, and stagger with it towards a cab,
in which he would deposit the painted figure, giving the
cabman the address perhaps of some influential person, and
bidding him drive carefully as the gentleman inside was a
nobleman slightly intoxicated." But this kind of ebullient
Londoner is quite extinct, as I have said, and I suppose that
it is that kill-joy the policeman who has made him so. The
police have come in since Hook's time : perhaps he made
them imperative. Nothing can so dispirit a practical joker
as the large firm hand of the law. The law may to some
extent have become a respecter of persons, but it still has
no nose for a joke. The law refers all jokers to the
scrutiny of the police station, which brings to bear upon
them a want of sympathy more than Caledonian.

London can still produce the wag in great numbers, but
his efforts are entirely verbal and are too little his own. It
is the habit to extol the street wit of London ; but with
the best wish in the world, I for one have heard very little
of it. For the most part it consists in repeating with or
without timeliness some catchword or phrase of the Music
Halls. It was customary to credit the old 'bus drivers
with an apt and ready tongue ; but my experience was
that their retorts were either old or pointless. Show me
a 'bus driver, I used to say, and I will show you a man
who is not wittv. If he were he would not be a 'bus

m

driver. The new chauffeur drivers are too busy for any
form of speech witty or otherwise.

The drivers of London all dip into the same long-filled
reservoir of sarcasm, from which no new draught has
emerged these fifty years. But tradition made the 'bus
driver witty, just as it made the late Herbert Campbell
funny ; and it will persist.

OUR MORGUE 263

As noticeable as the London driver's want of real wit
is his want of freemasonry. Every driver's hand is turned
against every other. No policy of vexatiousness is too
petty for one to put in practice against another: they
"bore," they impede, they mock, they abuse each other;
while owing to the laxity of police supervision, the narrow-
ness of every London street is emphasised by the selfishness
with which the middle of the road is kept. It ought to
be compulsory for all slow moving vehicles — all that do
not want to pass others — to hug the near kerb. As it is,
they keep far too near the middle and reduce the width
of the roadway by nearly half.

To return for a moment to the police, if you would know
them at their most charming you must leave an umbrella
in a cab and then go to Scotland Yard to recover it ; for
the men who have charge of this department (which is the
nearest thing to the Paris Morgue that London possesses)
are models of humorous urbanity. Surrounded for ever by
dead umbrellas, harassed day by day by the questions of a
thousand urgent incoherent ladies, they are still composed
and grave and polite. A visit to the adjoining office for
lost miscellaneous property will convince one in a moment
that there is nothing that human beings are unable to
leave behind them in a London cab.

The old Palace of Whitehall consists now only of the
great banqueting hall from which Charles I walked to the
scaffold on the tragic morning of January 30, 1649. It
was through the second window from the north end, and
the scaffold was built out into the street : old prints com-
memorate the event — the shameful event, may I never
cease to think it. There is one such print in the hall itself,
in the same case with the king's beautiful silk vest that he
wore on the fatal day.

Whitehall now contains some of the most interesting

264- A WANDERER IN LONDON

relics in the world ; but it is a Museum whose interest is
now and then almost too poignant. I, for one, simply
cannot look with composure at the Napoleon relics from
Longwood, least of all at the chair in which he always sat.
The mere thought of that caged eagle at St. Helena is
almost more than one can bear : and these little intimate
tokens of his captivity are too much. Yet for stronger
eyes there they are at Whitehall, including the skeleton of
his favourite horse Marengo.

Here also are relics of Nelson — the last letter he wrote
to his dearest Emma, in his nervous modern hand, just
before Trafalgar, expressing the wish soon to be happy
with her again ; the clothes he used to wear ; his purse ; a
portion of the Union Jack that covered him on the Victory,
for pieces of which his sailors fought among each other ;
the telescope he put to his blind eye ; the sword he was
using when his arm was wounded ; the mast of the Vic-
tory, with a cannon ball through it ; and a hundred other
souvenirs of England's most fascinating hero, the contem-
plation of which is lifted by the magic of his personality,
the sweetness and frailty of it, above vulgar curiosity.

To pass from Nelson to Wellington is like exchanging
summer for winter : poetry for prose : romance for science ;
yet it must be done. Here among other things is Welling-
ton's umbrella, the venerable Paul Pry gamp which he
carried in his political days in London, even as Premier,
and which is as full of character as anything of his that I
ever saw, and wears no incongruous air amid such tokens
of his military life as the flags around the gallery which he
captured from the French. No one really knows the Iron
Duke until he has seen this umbrella. Such an umbrella !
If one were confronted with it as a stranger and asked to
name its owner, Wellington would ta the last man one would

THE OLD ADMIRALS 265

think of; yet directly one is told it was Wellington's, one
says, " Whose else could it be ? Wellington's. Of course."

Among other treasures in this Museum are the jaws of
famous or infamous sharks, one of which was thirty-seven
feet long ; wonderful models of boats made under difficulties
by French prisoners out of mutton bones and such unlikely
material — the French prisoners vying always with the
patient Chinese carver of cherry stones for the champion-
ship of the world in ingenuity ; Cromwell's sword ; Drake's
snuff box and walking stick ; relics of Sir John Moore ;
relics of Sir John Franklin ; relics of Collingwood ; a model
of the first battleship to carry guns, the prettiest, gayest,
most ingratiating j unk of a boat, which put to sea to guard
our shores in 1486 ; two bottles of port from the Royal
George, no doubt intended for the refreshment of the brave
Kempenfeldt ; and very interesting plans of the battles of
Trafalgar and Waterloo. All these and many other ob-
jects are displayed with much pride and not a little simple
eloquence by an old soldier. Certainly there is in London
no more interesting room than this : not only for its history
but its present possessions.

Beneath, in the vaults, is a museum of artillery. Old
guns and modern guns, naval guns and field guns, models
of forts, shells and grenades, and all the paraphernalia of
licensed killing may be studied here under the guidance
of another old soldier, whose interest in his work never
flags, and who shows you with much gusto how to work
a Maxim gun which fires 670 rounds a minute, and at
2000 yards can be kept playing backwards and forwards
on a line of men four hundred yards long. " Acts like a
mowing machine," says the smiling custodian. " Beautiful !
Cuts 'em down like grass. Goes through three at once
sometimes, one behind the other." It was with the unique

266 A WANDERER IN LONDON

and perplexing capabilities of this machine, perfected A.D.
1904, in my mind, that I emerged into Whitehall again,
and was conscious instantly on the other side of the way
of the Horse Guard sentries, each motionless on his steed.
"I know what's in store for you," I thought to myself.
" Cut's 'em down like grass. . . . Goes through three at
once sometimes." Such things make it almost a work of
supererogation to be born : reduce a mother's pangs to
a travesty ; at least when she is the mother of a soldier.
How odd it all is ! — Nature on the one hand building us
up so patiently, so exquisitely, cell on cell, and on the
other Sir Hiram Maxim arranging for his bullets to go
through three at once ! It is too complicated for me. I
give it up.

And so, through the obvious and comparatively unper-
plexing traffic of Whitehall, we come to Charing Cross
again and to the end of these rambles, not because there
is no more to say (for I have hardly begun yet) but because
one must not go on too long. As a Londoner of Londoners,
whose knowledge of the town, it has been put on record,
was extensive and peculiar — far more so than mine will
ever be — once remarked, the art of writing a letter is to
leave off at such a point as will " make them wish there
was more ". And when one is writing a book one would
like to do the same.

THE VICTORIA TOWER, HOUSE OF LORDS

INDEX

The namts of painters are omitted from this Index

Abernethy, 183

Ackermann, and his Repository, 104
Adam, the Brothers, 91
Addison, death of, aig

— on the Abbey tombs, 254
Adelphi, the, go, 91, 93
Ainsworth's The Tower of London,

152, 153
Albert Memorial, 62, 215, 221

— Hall, 215, 221
Aldersgate Street, 129
AJdgate, 168, 171, 172

Alien, a princely, in Bloomsbury,
191

Ambassadors' Yard, 45

Americans, 112, 189

Anarchists, 198

Apsley House, 2-4

Archbishops at Lambeth Palace,
345. 246

Architecture in London, 4-8, 18, 48,
56, 91, 99, 103, 104, 109, no,
113, 123, 125-127, 141, 152, 169,
181, 183, 187, 188, 190, 216,
221, 235, 236, 2 »5, 247-249, 255,
259, 260

Astor Estate Office, 7, n, 90, 91

Aubrey House, 14, 214

— Walk, 12

" Auld Robin Gray," 38

B

Babies, Kensington, 215

Bacon, Francis, and Gray's Inn, 182

Bartholomew Close, 126

Bartholomew Fair, 127
Beardsley, Aubrey, 190
Bedford, Duke of, and Bloomsbury,

190

Beggars' Opera, The, in
Bentham, Jeremy, embalmed, 190
Berkeley Square, 33, 38, 39
Beverages of the past, 130, 131
Billingsgate, 123

Birkbeck Bank, its bas-reliefs, 62
Bishop's Wood, 130
Blenheim, battle of, relics of, at the

Tower, 155

Blood, Colonel, 154, 240
Bloomsbury, 181, 184-191
Blucher in London, 45
Bohemia, Queen of, portrait of, 64
Booth, Barton, 249
Borough, 172, 175
Botanical Gardens, 209
Boyer, James, and Coleridge, 186
Bracegirdle, Mrs., in
Brick Court, Temple, 108
British Museum —

Roman Emperors, 193

Graeco- Roman sculptures, 193,
194

Greek ante-room, 194

Ephesus Room, 194

Elgin Marbles, 195

Terra-cottas, 195

Bronzes, 195

Ancient Egypt, 196

Pottery, 196

Medieval Room, 196

Gems, 196

Hall of Inscriptions, 196

Books and MSS., 197
67

268

INDEX

Bronte, Charlotte, 197
Brownrigg, Mrs., 25
Bruiser, a modern, 95
Buckingham, ist Duke of, 254, 255,

258

Bull and Bush, the, 130
Bunhill Fields, 142, 143
Bunyan, portrait of, 64
— memorial window to, 174
Burglars, a theory, 10
Burke, Edmund, 200
Burlington Arcade, 50
Burne-Jenes, Sir E., 188, 221
Butchers, superior to the march of

time, 169
Butchers' Row, 54

Caldecott, Randolph, memorial to,

134

Caledonia Market, 135-137
Carlton House Terrace, 45
Carlyle, T., and his bootmaker, 44

— statue of, 62

— death mask of, 65

— Boehm's bust of, 65
Carving in wood, 223
Cathedrals —

New Roman Catholic, 6, 248, 249
St. Paul's, 118, 119, 121, 122,

251, 260
Southwark (St. Saviour's), 173,

i?4

Central Criminal Court, new, 124

Chantrey Bequest, 244

Chapel of the Ascension, 213

Charing Cross, a

Charles I., his statue decorated,

59

— execution of, 263, 264
Charterhouse, the, 128, 129

— School, 129

— Square, 128
Chauffeurs, 15

Cheapside and John Gilpin, 145
Chelsea, 235-240

— Hospital, 238, 239
Chemists, change and decay in, 53
Cheshire Cheese, the, 112
Cheyne Row, 236

— Walk, 235, 237

Children's Hospital, Great Ormond

Street, 134, 188
Children and Madame Tussaud's,

204, 205

— and Kensington Gardens, 207,

208, 209, 222

Chinese at Blackwall, 163
Chop House, the, 100, 101, 112
Christie's, 200

— Rooms, 47

Christy Minstrels (Moore and Bur-
gess), 50

Church Bells, 138, 139

Churches —

All Hallows, Barking, 141, 152
Bow, 91

Christchurch, Woburn Square, 190
St. Bartholomew the Great, 123,

125-127

St. Benet's, 122
St. Botolph's, Aldgate, 140
St. Botolph Without, Aldersgate,

142

St. Bride's, Fleet Street, 90, 113
St. Clement Danes, 104, 112
St. Dunstan's-in-the-East, 113,

"3, 173

St. Dunstan's-in-the-West, 113
St. Ethelburga, Bishopsgate

Street, 141

St. George the Martyr, 175
St. George's, Hart Street, i8S,

189

St. Giles'-in-the-Fields, 189
St. Helen's, 141
St. James's in Garlickhithe, 122
St. James's, Piccadilly, 48
St. John's, Westminster, 6, 248,

278
St. Luke's, Chelsea (Chelsea Old

Church), 236

St. Magnus the Martyr, 123
St. Margaret's, Westminster, 248,

258
St. Mark's, North Audley Street,

57
St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, 56, 58,

103

St. Mary-le-Strand, 103, 104
St. Mary Woolnoth, 140
St. Michael's, College Hill, 123,

140

INDEX

269

Churches — con f. —

St. Michael's, Cornhill, 142

St. Pancras, 190, 191

St. Patrick's, Soho, 197

St. Paul's, Covent Garden, 95

St. Peter's, Cornhill, 142

St. Sepulchre's, 124, 125

St. Stephen's, Walbrook, 140
Churchill, Charles, 249
City, beginning of, 107

— churches, 139-141

— merchants, burial place of, 141
Civilisation, modernity of, 33, 34
Clifford's Inn, 107

Cloth Fair, 126, 127

Clothes, the triumph of, 261

Clubs, 44, 46

Cock Lane ghost, 125

Cogers' Club, 100, 114

Colebroke Row, 143

Coleridge and Boyer, 186

Congreve's Love for Love, in

Constable of Tower, desirable post,

155

Coram, Captain, 184, 185
Coronation chair, 256
County Councillors, demolishing

nature of, 96, 103, 104
Covent Garden, 90, 94, 96, 97

contrasted with the Paris

Halles, 94

the porters at, 94, 95

Cowper and his John Gilpin, 145-

150
Crabbe, his likeness to Parson

Adams, 187, 188
Cricket, 178, 186, an, 212
Cromwell, 61, 65, 219, 255, 256, 258
Crosby Hall, 173
Crown Office Row, Temple, 108
Crystal Palace, seen from Fleet

Street, 116

Dean's Yard, 249, 251, 258
Defoe, burial place of, 142
Demeter, the, of Cnidos, 193, 194
Demon Distributor, the, 54
Dickens, Charles, and London, 20

— and punch, 131

— and his world, 158

Dickens, his MSS., 229

Diplodocus-Carnegii, 233

Disraeli, his statue decorated, 59

— birthplace of, 91

Docks, East India, 159, 162-164

Dodd, Dr., 25, 157

Dogs, 208, 213

Don Saltero's Museum, 237

Dorset Square, 212

Dryden, 97, 200

Duke of York's column, 61

Dyce and Forster collection, 229

Dyer, George, 143, 156

East End, its character and people,
166-170

Economy, London and Paris con-
trasted, 94

Edmonton and John Gilpin's ride,
145-150

Edward I., his tomb, 256

and Queen Eleanor's Crosses,

256

Edwardes Square, 214

Egyptian Hall, 50

Elgin Marbles, 106, 193, 195, 227

Elizabeth, and Mary Queen of
Scots' death warrant, 109

Elliston, 99

Ely Place, and chapel, 182

Embankment, 172

Epitaphs, 174

Epping Forest, 169, 170

Essex Head, the, 99

Evans's Rooms (in Thackeray's
day), 95

Examination paper in London topo-
graphy, 115, 117, 118

Executions, 24, 124, 125

— and sinister customs, 124, 125

— at the Tower, 151, 153

Fauntleroy, 201

Fawkes, Guy, in the Tower, 153
Fen ton, Lavinia, Duchess of Bolton
in

Fire, the great, 122, 123

Flower- sellers, 55

270

INDEX

Fogs, varieties of, 21-23

Foreigners in London, 101, 198

Foundling Hospital, 184-186

Fox, George, 142

Fragonard, 28

French sailors in London, 1905, 56,

57

Fruit-growing in London, 190
Funerals, East End, 167

Garrick, death of, 91
Gay's Trivia, 34. 35
Gilpin, John, a disillusionment, 145-

150
Gladstone, unveiling of the statue

of, 59, 60

Golden Square, 198, 199, 250
Goldsmith, Oliver, 108
Gordon Square, 187
Government Offices, 259
Gray's Inn, 182, 183
Greenaway, Kate, 132-134
Griffin, the, 104, 106
Grosvenor Square, 33, 38, 40.
Guildhall, and its London relics,

144

Gunnings, the Miss, 36
Guy's Hospital, 176

H

Hamilton, Duke of, Alexander, 212

Hamilton Place, 13, 14

Hampstead, 130

— Heath, 206, 228

Handel and the Foundling Hospital,

185

Hansom cab drivers, 20-21
Hatton Garden, 182
Hay Hill, 39
Hazlitt, death of, 200
Highgate, 130
Highlander, wooden, last survivals

of, 53

Highwayman's riding feat, 38

Hoby the bootmaker, 44

Hogarth and the Foundling Hospi-
tal, 184

flogg, his lift of Shelley quoted, 37

Holborn, and the changing seasons,
177

Holland, third Lord, 219

Holly Lodge, 214, 219

Home, French and English sense
of, contrasted, 59

Hook, Theodore, 201, 261, 262
; Hot potato men, 179

Houndsditch, 141

Houses, London and country, con-
trasted, 8

— covetable, 9-13, 33, 155, 238

— stately, 33

— staid, 43

— small and quaint, 236

— smallest and quaintest, 12, 13.

137

— old, 169

Hucks, the brewer, 188
Humour in London, 262
Hyde Park Corner, 2
Hypnos, 193, 195

I

Imperial Institute, 221, 222

Innkeepers and curiosities, 237

Innocents' Corner, 254

Inns, old, 174, 175

Institute of Painters in Water

Colours, 48, 62
lonides Bequest, 230
Irving, Edward, 187
— Sir Henry, 98, 99
Islington, 143

Jack's Palace, 163

Jack Straw's Cas;le, 130

Jackson of Bond Street, 95

Jacobs, Mr., and his world, 158, 159

Jamrach's, 156, 157

Jeffreys, Judge, 152

Jessopp, Dr., on the London gaze,
116

Jewellers, London and Paris, con-
trasted, 52

Jews, 165, 171, 189, 190

Johnson, Dr., and Lord Chesterfield,
40,41

— — on wsalth, 47

INDEX

371

Johnson, Dr., his church, and tablet

to, 104
and a walk down Fleet Street,

112, 113

memorial in St. Paul's, lai

and Osborne, 183

and Dr. Campbell, 187

Jones Bequest, 229

Jonson, Ben, and bricklaying, no

Julius Cassar, 193

K

Keats, John, 132, 176
Keith, Rev. Alexander, 36
Kelly, Fanny, aoo, 201
Kensington, 213-221

— Gardens, 13, 206-209

— its character, 214

— Palace, 215-216
Gardens, 11-12

— South, 221

— Square, 214

— routes to, 213

King Edward Memorial, 45
King's Bench prison, 175
Kingsley, Charles, his dictum on

houses, 10
Kingsway, 96, no, 164

Lamb, Charles, and Russell Street,

97

— and Temple Bar, 105, 106

— and the Temple, 108, 109

— at Colebrooke Row, 143

— and the iron figures of St. Dun-

stan's, 180

— Meyer's portrait of, 188

— and Hazlitt's' death, 200

— and Fauntleroy, 201
Lambeth Palace, 245, 246
Lanes with odd names, 122
Laureates and their poems, 45
Law courts, 104
Leadenhall Market, 142
Leeds, Duchess of, stanza on, 47
Leighton, Lord, 121, 220
Lincoln's Inn, 107, 109, no
Chapel, no

Fields, no-ill

Lincoln's Inn, Fields, Theatre, no,

in, 141

Gateway, no

Lister, Jane, " dear childe," 257
Little White Bird, The, 209
Lockyer's pills, 174
Londoners, their attitude towards

traffic, 15, 16

— of the past, 34

— new types of, 53, 54

— and the Strand, 89

— the best of, Pepys, 93

— and new thoroughfares, yj

— their submission to foreigners,
101

— their attitude towards grievances,

101, 102

— their zest for demolition, 103-

105

— a Londoner of, Lamb, 109

— unchangeable, in

— their gaze, 115

— their ignorance of London, 1 16

— their present tastes, 132

— their zest for any spectacle, 145

— in squalid conditions, 160

— in the East End, 166

— their dislike of being out of the

swim, 173

— the true, 179-181, 213

— their attitude to the police, 260,

261

London Bridge, 172, 173

Lord Mayor, 139

and civic pomp, 144

Lovat, Lord, Simen Fraser, exe-
cution of, 151

Lowe, Sir Hudson, 57

M

Macaulay, his infant hospitality to
Hannah More, 145

— quoted, 219, 220
Maiden Lane, 96, 107
Mall, the new, 45
Marble Arch, 24, 207
Marriage made easy, 36
Marahalsea, 175, 176
Martyrs, 127, 128
Marvell, Andrew, 96, 189

Mary Queen of Scots, tomb of, 254

INDEX

Maskelyne and Cook, 50 Xftr Arabian Nigkls, 20

Maxim, Sir Hiram, 266 New River, 143

Mayfair, 32, 33, 35 Newgate, 24, 124, 125, 144

Meredith, Mr., 237 Newspapers and offices, 107

Meyer, Henry, his portrait of Lamb, Nightingale monument, 205

1 68

Millbank, 250, 351
Miller, Joe, 104
Miniatures, 30
Monmouth, Duke of, and Soho

Square, 198, 199
Monument, the, 125
Monuments, anomalies in, 121, 122
Moore, Sir John, monument to, 121
More, Hannah, 145
More, Sir Thomas, burial-place of,

i No. i London, 35
! Norton Folgate, 53
November in London, 178

"OldQ," 14, 48

Olivia, 98

Omnibuses, best view of, 102, 103

— and sign of winter, 178

Omnibus drivers, 14, 262

236 j Opera Houses, 259

Morris, Captain, his song on Pall j Oratory, open-air, 207

Mall, 46

Motor care, 52, 120, 121, 261
Motor omnibuses, 4
Much Ado About Nothing. 98
Munden, burial-place of, 189
Murder, decadence of, 204
Murray, John, 40
Museums —

British, 192-197

Guildhall, 144

London, 216-217

Natural History, 232-234

Soane, 111-112

South Kensington, 221-232

United Sen-ice, 264-266

Victoria and Albert, 323-225
Myddleton, Sir Hugh, statue of, 143 Park Lane, 23-24

Parliament, 259
N

Organs, n

Ortheris, Private, 180

Osborne, his book shops, 183

Pall Mall, 43, 45

Paris, the quay, 172

Parks, their characteristics, 206, 207

— Battersea, 170, 206, 207, 240

— Green, 2, 14, 42, 102, 103, 207

— Hyde, 3, 10, 170, 206-208, 211

— Regent's, 155, 156, 164, 207-209,

211

— St. James's, 21, 45, 170, 207, 211

— Victoria, 170, 306

Napoleon, relics of, 204, 264
National Gallery —

British school, 66-72

Italian, 73-79

Venetian, 77-79

Early Flemish, 80-82

Later Flemish, 84-88

German, 82-83

French, 84
Nelson, and Lady Nelson, 42, 43

— column, 56, 57

— burial-place of, 122

— wax effigy at Westminster, 257

— relics of, 264

— Hill and St. Paul's, 119

— Houses of, 251, 359

— Members of, 259

— Square, 259

Patmore, Coventry, portrait of, 63

Patriotism, English and French,
contrasted, 59

Peacocks, 208, 211

Peel, Sir Robert, statue of, 145

Penn, William, 152, 219

Pentonville, 143

Pepys, 92, 93, no
j Peter the Great, 92
j Ptttr Pan, 13, 209

Phil's Buildings, Houndsditch, 171
I Piccadilly, 14, 48, 49-51, 103, 116

INDEX

273

Pickwick, Mr., 129, 131
Pictures in London, 3, 25-30, 42, 43,
in, 112, 184, 220

— "best " and " favourite," 66, 67
Picture Galleries —

Diploma, 49

National Portrait, 62-65

National, 66-88

South Kensington, 221-232

Tate, 242-244

Wallace Collection, 25-31
Pigeons, 179

Pindar, Peter (Dr. Wolcot), 96
Poets in the Abbey, 252

— discredited, 149-150
Policemen, 260-263
Person, 96

Porters' resting-place by the Green
Park, 14

— their physiognomy, 94

— and boxing, 95
Postman's Park, 142

Practical jokers, extinction of, 262
Princes, the little, 153, 254
Pudding, a famous, 112

Quack, a feminine, 168
Queen Anne's Gate, 247

Mansions, 247

Queen's Walk, 42

Railway termini, the most interest-
ing, 159, 162

Raphael, his cartoons, 226, 227
Record Office lodge, 13
Regent, the, waylaid by footpads,

39

and Sheridan's death, 51

Regent's Canal and barges, 163, 164
Restaurants, 100, 199, 200
Reynolds, relics of, at the Diploma

Gallery, 49
Ridler's Hotel, and port wine negus,

131

Rogers, Samuel, 15, 38, 43

Roman Catholic Cathedral, new,

160
Roman Catholics, 120, 182

if

Rossetti, 235, 237, 238
Roubilliac, 253, 256, 257
Round Pond, 222

Royal George, the, relics at White-
hall, 150, 265
Roofs and chimneys, 160

St. Bartholomew's Hospital, 126

St. Clement's Inn, 103

St. Giles and St. James, an obsolete
contrast, 189

St. James's Hall, 50

Palace, 44, 45

Place, 43

Square, 46

St. John's Wood, 211

St. Paul's Cathedral, 90, 115, 118-
122, 160

Salting, Mr. George, 31, 224

Savile Row, 50, 214

Savoy Chapel, 90, 93, 94

Scaffolding and cranes, picturesque-
ness of, 5-6

Scotland Yard, new, 259, 263

" Screevers," 58

Sculptors of St. Paul's, 121

Sea-gulls, 240

Seals and sea-lions, 211

Serpentine, 21

Shakespeare, " Chandos " portrait of,

6.5

— window to, in St. Helen's Church,

141

Shallow, Mr. Justice, 103, 183, 215

Sheepshanks collection, 228

Shelley, 37

Sheridan, 51

Shepherd Market, 33

Sheppard, Jack, 25

Shipping, 161, 162, 173

Shops, 39, 41, 44, 48, 51-55, 169

— changes in, 52, 53

— old, 113

— live stock, 142

— curiosity, 183, 201

Siddons, Mrs., her rural house in

Gower Street, 190
Simpson's, too
Slumberers (in the parks), 207
Smith, John, resuscitated, 25

274

INDEX

Smith Square, 248, 249
Smithfidd, 126-128

— Market, 127
Soane Museum, 111-112
Society of Arts, and tablets, gi, 97
Socrates and Bond Street, 51
Soho, 197-200

— Square, 197
Somerset House, 90
Sotheby's, 99
Spaniard's, the, 130
Sparrows, 179
Spires, 175, iSS

Spring in London, 177, 178

Stained glass, 123, 173, 174

Stanley, Dean, 255

Staple Inn, iSi

Statues, 58-62, go

* — English and French, value of,

contrasted, 59
Steeplejack and Nelson's column,

57

Sterne, burial-place of, 213
Stevens, Alfred, his lions, no
Stevenson, R. L., 20
Strand, 89, 90, 93, 100, 102-104, 107
Streets —

Adam, 91

Albemarle, 40

Arlington, 42, 43

Arundel, 93, 99

Audley, South, 9, 4

Barton, 4, 249

Beaufort, 9

Berkeley, 2, 15, 38

Bishopsgate, 141

— Without, 142

Bolton, 44

Bond, 39, 47, 48, 51, 52, 54

Bouverie, 116

Bow, 97, 98

Boyle, 50

Broad, 107

Brook, 41

Bruton, 9

Buckingham, 91-93

Burlington, Old, 50

Bury, 47

Cannon, 3

Charles, 39

Charterhouse. 182

Chesterfield, 39

I Streets — cont. —

Church, Chelsea. 236

— Kensington, 52, 214
Clarges, 37
Cleveland, 198
College, Great, 251
Compton, Old, 199, 200
Cork, 50

Cowley, 249, 255

Curzon, 9, 36-38

Dean, 200

Dover, 39

Down, 103

Duke, St. James, 25, 47

— Strand, 91
Endell, 97
Essex, 90, 99
Farm, 40
Firringdon, 172

Fleet, 2, 8, 105-108, 112, 113, 116

Frith, 199, 200

Gerrard, 199, 200

Giltspur, 125

Gloucester, 187

Godliman, 122

Gower, 17, 189, 190

Greek, 199, 200

Grosvenor, 40, 41

Half Moon, 37

Harley, 198, 201

Hertford, 35

High Street, Borough, 175

Holywell, 52

James, Adelphi, 91

James, Great, 184

Jermyn, 6, 40, 47

John, Adelphi, 91

Kensington High, 214, 215

King, 47

Lant, 175

Leadenhall, 141, 145

Middlesex, 171

Mount, 40, 250

Newgate, 124

Newman, 201

Norfolk, 99

Ormond, Great, 187, 188

Oxford, 55, 124, 192, 198

Parliament, 172

Percy, 198

Portland, Great, 198, 201

Red Lion, 188

275

Streets — font. —
Regent, 7, 45, 55
Russell, 97
Sherwood, 13
St. George's, 156
St. James's, 44, 45
St. Thomas's, 176
Stratton, 15
Thames, Upper, 122, 123

— Lower, 123
Threadneedle, 145
Tilney, 24
Tower, Great, 152

— Little, 152
Villiers, 91, 92
Wardour, 52, 199
Wentworth, 171
White Horse, 35
Wood, 171
Young, 12

Narrowness of, 7, 263
Men's, 43, 44, 214
Cosmopolitan, 89, 90, 198
Best old London, 113
Fallacy, concerning, 115
Joys of the crowd, 124, 144
Richest for the observer, 168
The best Georgian, 183, 184
French, 199, 200

The most sensible, 201
Women's 314

Origin of names of, 249, 250
Good to wander in, 247
Suicide, Thames not popular for,

240

Sunday, 138, 166, 167,169-171, 209,
240

Tabard, the, 172, 174
Tailors, their headquarters, 50
Tate Gallery, 242-244
Temple, the, and Lamb, 97
Temple, 107-109

— Church, 108

— Middle Temple Hall, 109

— Bar, 105, 106, no, 179
Tennyson, grave of, 253
Terriss, the murder of, 96
Terry, Miss Ellen, 98, 99
Thackeray, 108, 129, 160

Thames, the, 239-241, 245
Theobald's Park, 105, 106
Thomson, James, and The Seasons,

152

Thurlow, Lord, 187, 188
Tobacconists, new and old, 52, 53
Tonson, his bookshops, 183
Tottenham, and John Gilpin's ride,

146-147
Tower, the, 151-155

— best things of, 155

— menagerie, 155, 156

— old guide-books to, 155, 156
Trafalgar Square, 56

Trinity Almshouses, Mil eEnd Road,
169

— House, the, 157
Trott, Albert, 212

Turk's Head, the, Soho, and artists,
200

Turner, J. M. W., his parents' mar-
riage, 96

— birthplace of, 96

— burial-place of, 122

— at Chelsea, 235
Turpin, Dick, relic of, 130
Tussaud, Madame, 201-205, 257
Tyburn, 24

Vanes, 90, 91, 124

Victoria, Queen, and Kensington,

215

— Statue, 45

Violanti, his feat from St. Martin's

spire, 58
Voltaire, 204

W

Walpole, Horace, 33, 38, 42
Walton, Izaak, 254
Ware, and John Gilpin's ride, 149
Water colours, 227
Waterloo, effect of battle of, on
London, 7-8

— Bridge, 90
Watts, G. F., 221
Weather-cottages, 141
Wellclose Square, its sea associa-
tions, 157

276

INDEX

Wellington, Duke of, statues of, 3

— and ladies' smoking, 13

— and his bootmaker, 44

— monument in St. Paul's, 121, 122

— relic of, at the Tower, 154, 155

— his umbrella, 264, 265
Wesley, John, 129
Westminster, 172, 245, 247-259

— Abbey, 251-258

— chief interest in, 251, 252

— Henry VII.'s Chapel, 252, 254-

256

— guides, 253

— sightseers, 253, 254

— chapels, 253-256

— waxworks, 257

— cloisters and Chapter House, 257,

258

— School, 258

Wheatley and Cunningham, 41
Whistler, 22, 239, 241
Whitehall, 44, 45, 263-266

Whita Hart, the, Southwark, 175
Whittington, Dick, burial-place of,

123

Wild, Jonathan, 25
Will's Coffee House, 97
Williams, the murderer, 156
Wither, George, in the Marshalsea,

176

Woffington, Peg, portrait of, 64
Wolfe, 63, 155

Wolsey, Cardinal, his palace, 113
Wordsworth's poor Susan, 145
Wren, Sir Christopher, 103, 106,

118, 119, 215, 216

York, Water Gate, 93

Z
Zoological Gardens, 209

ABERDEEN: THE UNIVERSITY PRESS

A SELECTION OF BOOKS

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CONTENTS

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PAGE

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'3

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14

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M

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IS

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