The actual removal of these valuables was effected with great ease. The carts wended their innocent way through the dreary arches, in front of the "cottages," and passed out by a "right of way" underneath the Hotel Cecil, towards Blackfriars. Thus, the would-be thief was deluded of his prey. This "right of way" marks the bottom of Ivy Lane, which is still in existence. It runs from the Strand and denotes the boundary of the Duchy of Lancaster and the City of Westminster. Formerly, it was an open thoroughfare, but there is now, at the Strand entrance as well as at the bottom, a gate. At the river end, there was, in olden times, a bridge, or pier, called Ivy Bridge. But I think that there must have been, not only a bridge in the Strand, but that there was a stream which ran hence into the Thames. John Stow, in his "Survey of London," first published in 1598, speaks of "Ivy Bridge, in the High Street, which had a way under it leading to the Thames, the like as sometime had the Strand Bridge." Now, the Strand Bridge was over the stream of St. Clement's Well, and Strand Lane, like Ivy Lane, ran down to the river, and, like it, there was a pier at the end. I am the more certain that there must have been a river of sorts at the junction of Ivy Lane and the Strand, because to this day, as I found in the course of a recent investigation, a stream trickles under John Street and renders useless a large cellar. Nothing can stop it. It percolates now, just as it has done ever since the excavations made by the Brothers Adam in 1768. It is drained away, but it is just sufficient to create a damp atmosphere which is detrimental to the storing of wine.
Hundreds of thousands of bottles of wine—chiefly port, claret, and burgundy—are in bins here, and a most admirable place for the purpose it is. The underground Adelphi is absolutely dry—save for the one spot mentioned—and the temperature does not vary five degrees in the course of a year. Here, also, are many hundreds of cases of champagne, and here the jaded Londoner—if he be sufficiently favoured—might come and feast his eyes on some few dozens of bottles of "white port"—a wine which is not in fashion in these degenerate days, but which, I rejoiced to learn, is still sent hence to a certain royal household. Strange as it may seem, there is a strong air of royalty about these dimly-lit vaults. What between the secret entrance to the old premises of the great bankers—Messrs. Coutts are the bankers for his Majesty and for the Queen[1]—and the "white port" which gives its benefit to illustrious persons of royal lineage, there is a distinct feeling that one is moving on an exalted plane when, paradoxical as it may seem, we are in this subterranean place. The distinctly regal air which pervades these caves of silence may have given rise to a certain statement that hereabouts—half a dozen yards from the royal stock of "white port"—Lady Jane Grey was cast into a dungeon deep and carried thence to the dreaded Tower, there to be beheaded. But the "Nine Days' Queen" knew only her gardens and her flowers when she lived in Durham House—the predecessor of the Adelphi. Here, in May, 1553, the Duke of Northumberland married his son, Lord Guildford Dudley, to Lady Jane, in pursuance of his design for altering the succession from the Tudor to the Dudley family. The unfortunate girl of scarce seventeen summers certainly left Durham House for the Tower—but it was with great pomp and circumstance, in order to be proclaimed Queen. Her execution followed hard upon, but she knew not imprisonment in what is now the Adelphi. On the other hand, the haunt of a wretched woman is still to be seen in this gloomy spot. "Jenny's Holes" figure on the plan to this day, and are not likely to be obliterated therefrom. Into one or other of these places—recesses by the main arches—the outcast came to sleep and, finally, to die; some say, indeed, that she was murdered here. "Jenny" has no history, but the vague tradition of her misery still haunts these "dark arches." Nor is the story at all improbable. The "dark arches" are forbidding enough now, and, even in the day-time, the sparse gas jets only serve to make darkness visible. So recently as the early seventies, when Mr. George Drummond came into the property, cows were kept in the underground passages of the Adelphi.
Adelphi Terrace, Adam Street to the east, and John Street, which is parallel with the terrace and the Strand, and in between, still retain much of their old-world appearance. But at the western side of the Adelphi changes are afoot. There is a new building, facing the river, but stunted and barred from its proper height by that bugbear of the modern builder, "ancient lights." Then, again, the Caledonian Hotel, in Robert Street, has taken to itself a new storey, and has been transmogrified into modern flats with—oh, shade of Adam!—bath-rooms. The searcher after the picturesque in London architecture might do worse than descend from the Strand, past the Tivoli. He will then be on the site of one of the gateways of Old Durham House, and, turning to the right, he will see a bridge of beautiful design. It was built, in order to connect the Strand and Adelphi premises of the bank, by Thomas Coutts, who procured a special Act of Parliament for the purpose.
The entire Adelphi estate occupies a little over three acres and a quarter, divided as follows:—
| Superficial feet. | |
| Houses (only) | 78,400 |
| Roadways, terrace, and areas | 45,400 |
| Foreground | 19,200 |
| ———— | |
| 143,000 |
The names of two more noted inhabitants of the Adelphi have to be included in this "History." The learned Vicesimus Knox (1752-1821), who is best known to fame as the compiler of "Elegant Extracts" (1789), lived at No. 1, Adam Street. The first floor of the same house was the place of retirement, for a score of years, of George Blamire, barrister-at-law, "of very eccentric habits, but sound mind." John Timbs, in his "Curiosities of London," states that "no person was allowed to enter his chamber, his meals and all communications being left by his housekeeper at the door of his ante-room. He was found dead in an arm-chair, in which he had been accustomed to sleep for twenty years. He died of exhaustion, from low fever and neglect; at which time his rooms were filled with furniture, books, plate, paintings, and other valuable property." The eccentric habits are evident; but the "sound mind" is a little doubtful.
Finally, I may state that I have followed the fortunes of my book, and, after a brief excursion into the noisy part of the world on the other side of Charing Cross, have returned to the quiet and comparative solitude of the Adelphi, where tubes do not trouble and motor buses do not annoy. "Sir," said Dr. Johnson, "when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." And I think that there is no part of London of which a man can be in less apprehension of tiring than the Adelphi. It is of London, yet away from it; in the heart of the world, yet secluded. To know it is to love it.
Austin Brereton.
September, 1908.
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