THE RED DRAWING ROOM, DORCHESTER HOUSE.
There are other houses hard by which illustrate curious mutations of life. Here, for instance, is a handsome mansion, built by Mr. Beresford Hope for his private residence, and from the designs of a French architect, one of the rare specimens in town. In time it passed from his hands, and is now the Junior Athenæum Club. Further on, an imposing stone mansion, crescent-shaped in its façade, and of classical character, was, I believe, built by the late “Marquis of Steyne”—or Hertford, rather—at, of course, great cost, and equally, of course, never inhabited by him. For thirty or forty years, I believe, it remained in this ghostly condition, until his strange, eccentric course came to a close, and more rational successors arrived. Passing on, we reach Cambridge House, once the mansion of the ever-popular Palmerston. There is something dignified, yet unpretending, in this house, not to say classical; it seems suited to a prime minister. Here were those parties and receptions, where the adroit hostess was supposed to have the art of cementing political ties. It is now a club, and enormous additions have been made on the ground behind. Few know that it was in this row that the Hamiltons and Lord Nelson lodged when they came to London, and where the hero’s weakness was exhibited in most open and unbecoming manner, which has been good-naturedly glossed over by his countrymen.
The White Horse Cellar, a most interesting old place for its traditions, lingered on, bow windows and all, till a few years back. The revival of the old coaching days saved it. But now it has been fashioned into a new modern hotel. There is hardly a more exhilarating and original spectacle to be seen than occurs here in the full “swing” of the season, at the close of a summer’s day, between six and seven o’clock. At this time gather elegants in glossy hats and frock-coats with waists, ebony sticks with silver knobs, like miniature “black rods;” together with wiry elderly gentlemen, like the curious water-colour portraits that used to be seen in Sams’ old shop at the foot of St. James’s Street. A few years ago “Sams” was swept away, with all his curious water-colour noblemen in tight trousers and strange hats, and a vast Dutch house has taken its place. The coach seers are all well shaven, and wear check cravats. Some stand on the steps, others on the pavé. Less aristocratic beings cluster there too, straws in the mouth, or emerge from the cellar below. Now the clock hand is within a quarter of an inch of the hour, and hark! the faint winding of a horn from the Knightsbridge direction, then another nearer, from the Strand side. The coaches are coming up true to their time—to a minute. There they are—the bright yellow, the dark, the grey panelled: the policeman puts back the traffic; up they roll, well laden; ladies bright and cheerful; the scarlet guard; the coachman confident and secure, and bringing up his team with exquisite nicety, as a river steamer captain puts his vessel alongside. What fine horses and fine harness! Coachman, copper-coloured by the sun and the dusty roads of Dorking, flings down his reins and strides in, as if every second was precious, to keep some appointment in the office. The metal ladder is put up, the ladies assisted down. It has been a delicious day among the velvet greens of Dorking.[5]
The large detached building near St. James’s Hall, erst the shop of Attenborough—name of good and evil omen to many—had become a haunt for exhibitions. The first was in the “old days,” that is what time the wonderful Sarah brought over all her models and pictures, and with a pleasing, harmless vanity exhibited them. The scene of her first reception there comes back on us—the wiry creature, leaning on her crutch stick, flanked by a certain lad, receiving the company. The curious specimen of the Parisian confidential man-servant—exactly like those on the stage—who took the tickets—was interesting in his way. He gave the idea that he knew secrets, and, better still, could be trusted with them. The motley nature of the crowds was also amusing; consisting of “swells,” artists, press, all in a jumble. Not undramatic was the meeting of the tall German Ambassador and the diva. There was a theatrical trickiness in the show, though there were one or two works at the most that were of extraordinary merit—the Drowned Boy, and the heads of Girardin and Busnach.
On a balmy morning there is nothing more agreeable than a walk in the Green Park, and the happy mortals, or immortals, who own the houses that look into it—Salisburys, Ellesmeres, Spencers, e tutti quanti—may be envied as you walk. There are a few trees, and there are generally some lazy mortals seated on the green chairs under their shade, and perhaps sleeping. We look up at the house that seems all bow-window, and call up “old Rogers,” who was there but yesterday, with his breakfasts, his exquisitely choice pictures, his epicurean tastes, his social life, which he may be said to have created, and his stories, which in his old age and decay he used to repeat in a strange formal way, and always in the same words.[6] After his death, when he was an enormous age, he was of course speedily forgotten; his treasures, more speedily still, were sold by auction, with his elegant house.
Nothing more piteous can be conceived than the closing years of a veteran breakfast giver. Crabb Robinson describes his final efforts in this line with a sort of dismal but doubting satisfaction. The rôle of professional breakfast and dinner giver—i.e., of one who wishes to have a reputation for these things—must be an unsatisfactory one, and bring but poor return. It is ever recurring, and the thing has to be done over again; for, alas! nothing is so true as that the stomach has no memory.
We may glance up Bond Street, the Rue de la Paix of London, at the house occupied by Messrs. Agnew. Bond Street is specially devoted to the craze for picture exhibitions, where there are a half-dozen, including the Grosvenor and Doré Galleries. The portico of the Grosvenor Gallery was originally that of some palace in Italy, and is admired for its elegance. It was purchased by the owner, and set up here. In the South Kensington Museum is the screen and balcony of a church, a beautiful work, which had been torn down and condemned, and was rescued in the same manner. Here is found the home of the Fine Art Society; and above, Goupil’s, a model of elegance. Note the bronze decorations of the era and the rich tone of the interior. In Bond Street, too, is Long’s Hotel, lately rebuilt, an historic house, celebrated in fashion and fiction. There is an old novel called “Six Weeks at Long’s,” and it is probably the scene of the fight between Nickleby and Sir Mulberry Hawk. Opposite, where a number of new shops stand, used to be the Clarendon, a fashionable dining place forty years ago.
At the corner of Grafton Street stands a big house, unpretending and old-fashioned. Here, at “No. 22A,” resides Henry Irving, the favourite and fashionable tragedian. His rooms are rich and luxurious, as becomes so conspicuous a person. In Bond Street we find the agents who enabled the impoverished aristocrat to enjoy the pleasures of the theatre, for here has flourished time out of mind the great “Mitchell.” The annals of the Mitchell House might be about as interesting as those of the Christies. It was Mitchell who introduced the French plays, and engaged the famous Ballerinas. His shop even to this hour preserves the old tradition, and the windows are filled with the graceful lithographs, after Chalon and D’Orsay, of Mario, Grisi, Cerito, Taglioni, together with little plastic figures of Tamburini, Paganini, and other artists. It is enough to look at one of the figurantes to see what an exquisite art dancing was in these old exploded days. It was then literally the poetry of motion. There is now motion enough, but no poetry. The ghosts of these personages must haunt this place. There are still on sale here that curious series of likenesses of his contemporaries executed by D’Orsay, a vast number. They are clever, but amateurish, and not such rigid, literal likenesses as the photographers have accustomed us to.
Returning to Piccadilly we pass into the regions that branch away, Duke Street, Bury Street, King Street, and the rest, and enter Bachelor Land, where every old house has been furbished up, and made to take the shape of apartments for gentlemen. The class of persons who lodge here are notoriously exigeant—old gentlemen coming to town to enjoy themselves, and requiring all their comforts to precede them. Apartment letting here, therefore, becomes almost scientific, and would astonish the rude operators elsewhere. The retired butler and retired lady’s maid, who have joined their fortunes, “work like horses.” The grandfather of Brummel, the dandy, was a retired servant of Lord Liverpool’s, and kept one of these lodging houses in Bury Street.