Another of these old derelict places is Kensington Palace. This, with its “dependences,” still remains a very “lively” bit of architecture, rather original in its design; the irregular façade being judiciously broken up. The various offices, stables, guard-houses, etc., even the little entrance gate on the Kensington Road, have a welcome piquancy, and are most effective in their way. Here we have the true old-fashioned tone. A portion is inhabited; and, with the pretty gardens, has the air of a flourishing country house; but the state chambers are all chilly, darkened, and given over to desolation. It is truly a pity that these fine old places could not be utilized as picture galleries or museums, like Hampton Court; the very fact of free circulation, and the visits of the public, would preserve them and save them from rusting away.[29]
The wanderer or walker in London will find a district close by the Palace very welcome and pleasing—the well-known Campden Hill. For a spot so embedded in town it has a curious rural note of its own, an old-fashioned air, as though it declined altogether to go with the times. The air, too, is tempered and softened; there are numbers of pretty places, with their spreading grounds, old trees, and older villas. Those persons who have been fortunate enough to secure ground here in good time are to be envied. The curious part is that it is bounded all round by the most uninviting prosaic districts—on one side by the frowsy Notting Hill Gate, on the other by the common high road to Hammersmith, all crowded with omnibuses and carts. But ascend the gentle hill, from whatever direction, and you find yourself puzzled by the antique simplicity and suburban air of the place. Of course there are eyesores and blemishes—the dreadful waterworks in the very centre, to say nothing of numerous modern “Follies,” fantastic freaks in the way of enormously tall houses, and other monstrosities. Coming up the broad cross road which joins Notting Hill and Kensington, we ascend a sort of sheltered lane, with all sorts of ancient tenements, somewhat “shaky,” each with its garden and enclosing wall, such as one might encounter at Kew or Chiswick. Many of these have been judiciously adapted and added to by the thriving artist or littérateur. This portion may be called the town side of Campden Hill; and here are also the modern builders’ terraces.
ALMA TADEMA’S FORMER STUDIO.
Here stands the modern Campden House; but a far more interesting structure is the old, “Little Campden House,” with its heavy roof and eaves, and old-fashioned air, but with an abandoned look, presenting no tangible idea to the present generation, yet in its day it and its enterprising owner furnished much talk and speculation in artistic circles. Mr. Wooler was passionately fond of theatricals, and the private theatre in his house became celebrated, the owner himself gravitating towards the genuine stage.
A striking evidence of the luxury of our time is found in the magnificent, and even sumptuous, workshops in which our painters pursue their labours. This was prompted by the great artistic revival which occurred nearly twenty years ago, when there was the “sensation” auctions at “Christie’s,” and the works of modern artists were fetching enormous prices. All the great painters designed and built themselves these luxurious temples. Unluckily, many of lesser light, and lesser ability, followed the example, often with disastrous results. The craze abated; prices have fallen rapidly, and numbers of these handsome structures now stand tenantless. Holland Park, and the district adjoining Melbury Road, etc., is the locality favoured; and there is undoubtedly a kind of old-fashioned, semi-rural tone about the place that justifies the selection. There are also a few in St. John’s Wood.
The House of the President of the Royal Academy is, as might be expected from one of such taste and training, the most striking and effective. Here we see the effect of a marked personality; and there is even something sympathetic in the structure. It has often been described, by Mrs. Haweis and others; but more as though it were some glittering museum, of whose treasures an inventory is given. As we stand before it, in Holland Park Road, we are struck by the fashion in which it harmonizes with the locality; the sequestered lane, the old-fashioned scraps of garden, where the good old trees live and thrive, and the lingering old houses. There is a kind of gentle tone over the scene, and a pleasant, retired air. The house, though not large, has an air of monumental solidity; severe in style, built of bricks, which are beautiful from their rich and almost roseate hue—though we are inclined to make a somewhat diffident protest against the overhanging room, supported on iron columns, which has lately been projected at one side. This somewhat enfeebles the solid and stately air of the whole. Behind there is a delightful garden, not walled round, or “trimmed” up, but separated by a hedge or paling from the road. There are old trees and grass, and a general rustic laissez faire.
The interior is a poetical dream, Oriental or Moorish in its magnificence. With exquisite art the studio is planned as the “note” or central feature of the whole; the stairs, the halls, and vestibule all prepare the visitor for the main attraction.