unpleasant mood of suspense; the long tables spreading away and crowded with unfeeling diners, hundreds “feeding like one,” who would desire nothing better than a “break-down.” It is a curious, agitating feeling when, on a sudden hush, one has to rise with a “Mr. Chairman!” For a second every face is turned to see and wonder, and ask whose the face is seen indistinctly afar off.
Below is the “concert-room,” a fine, well-proportioned apartment. Around are many vast chambers: one where the gambling went on, and Charles Fox and Lord Carlisle lost huge sums. It is difficult to give an idea of the dismal impression left as we promenade these ghostly chambers. On the walls are a score and more of portraits—all of the one “Kit-kat” size, many by a forgotten artist—Knapton. These represent members of the still existing “Dilettante Society,” who used to meet in one of the rooms. Three of these pictures, of a large size, and exhibiting full-length groups, were the work of Sir Joshua, and are to be seen in the National Gallery. A history of this elegant club, which has published splendid folios, has been written by my friend, the late Sir F. Pollock.
And so we come out into old King Street again, to read once more on the prosaic board that the whole will be sold as “a going concern,” with its licence, goodwill, etc., and that this and a great deal more may be learned from the worthy auctioneers aforesaid.
There are plenty of these ghostly chambers in London, and the feeling on disturbing their antique solitude is a curious one. It is specially present when we invade the repose of the now disused Palaces, some of which are interesting places enough, but have a particularly forlorn and faded air.
No building has been so rudely, even coarsely, treated as the venerable old Palace, St. James’s, whose gate tower is so interesting and piquant a monument. Portions have been burnt and re-built; but the “restorations” seem always to have been carried out on the meanest and shabbiest fashion. Witness the meagre, skimpy colonnade in the courtyard; the wretched brickwork; the poor, “starved” rooms; the tottering chimneys “stuck on” outside, and the patched air of the whole. The old chambers within, though spacious and imposing enough, are strangely dingy, and seem not to have been painted or “refreshed” for a century. The place looks as though it were abandoned altogether, which no doubt it is. Yet a small sum judiciously laid out in the way of trimming or restoration would do much; were even mullioned windows substituted for the present unsightly and incongruous “sashes.”
Hard by is that great modern pile, Buckingham Palace, the work of George IV., which took the place of the pleasant old Buckingham House, which, as we can see from the prints, was something after the pattern of Marlborough House. This lumbering, uninteresting mass, though built of stone, is made more unattractive still by being painted over, owing to the decay of the material. Within there are many vast chambers of state which, on rare occasions of high festival, are lit up and crowded with rank, beauty, and fashion. The ball-room is a fine and richly-decorated apartment, and the grand staircase is “monumental” enough. No one who has not visited them can have an idea of the size, or apparent size at least, of the gardens and pleasure grounds behind, which have been artfully protected from vulgar observation by large raised banks and thick planting. It is a pity that this sacred preserve is not, as in continental cities, opened to the crowd; it would be an addition to the few agréments of London. It is now almost forgotten that in front of the palace, before the erection of the present façade, stood the Marble Arch, that curious freak of George IV., who, however, intended that it should be enriched with a spirited group on the top. The present situation, where it is useful as an omnibus station, seems unsuitable.
MILLAIS’S STUDIO.