Close by Waterloo Bridge rises that stately and imposing range of buildings, Somerset House. This vast pile, designed by Chambers, was erected with little trouble or fuss, and in a comparatively short time. In our day we must have “committees,” and competitions and discussions, and a distracted responsibility ending in complete confusion or uncertainty, and for the result such a comparative failure as the New Law Courts. Much of the riverside effect is lost owing to the Embankment, for the terrace rose actually straight out of the river, and now seems rather purposeless. We are so familiar with our public buildings that it becomes difficult to criticise them seriously. Somerset House, taken as a public office, with its vast accommodation and its stately river front, will hold its own with any similar building in Europe. It is interesting, too, as being the work of the last English architect who attempted to carry out the sort of classical style inherited from Inigo Jones, and introduced from Italy. The entrance, or covered ways from the Strand, have been admired by architects. It is a curious instance of the small value of allegorical decoration, that the great heads which form the keystones of the arches were intended to signify the great English rivers, and were the work of one of the most eminent sculptors of his time—Wilton—while in some of the medallions are to be recognized likenesses of the Georges. We may lament that this pure Grecian style, always effective, has so completely fallen out of favour, not its least merit being its always continuing sound and in respectable repair. Chambers has left his mark all over the kingdom; and in Dublin there are some majestic buildings, notably Trinity College Hall and Chapel, and Charlemont House, from his designs.
Sculptors and painters have always been fond of sketching the picturesque additions which the river’s banks afford, and Mr. Whistler has been very successful in depicting the banks of Chelsea and Battersea, as well as the old encrusted shanties and warehouses beyond London Bridge.
London is held in high favour by the sketcher, and certainly offers attractions not to be found elsewhere. As Mr. Arthur Severn tells us, much that is beautiful in the way of landscape is still left, but Londoners, “in their money-making and slavery to fashion,” are blind to it. “How many people are there who think of looking at the view from one of our London bridges, at the picturesque groups of sailing barges, at the curious effects of light behind, and the towers of Westminster in the distance? How many men wending their way homewards from the City on the top of an omnibus in summer ever thought of noting the flood of golden haze in Oxford Street, a street which from its position is peculiarly adapted for the study of sunlight effects? Here, on a midsummer afternoon, our eyes may be opened to one of the greatest truths in Turner’s work, his great knowledge of the artistic treatment of light.
“When the declining orb flushes all the stream, and the black barges come sailing smoothly down or pass across the broad water-way, their tawny sails enriching the already golden glow, and the picture is backed up in the distance by dark masses of indistinct wharves, chimneys, spires, and towers, those of Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament being the most shapely and conspicuous, we have surely a subject unrivalled of its kind, demanding the utmost artistic skill for even its most meagre reproduction; and, again, there is often a peculiar freshness in the breeze that follows the tide from the sea, and the sky seems to open up unwonted depths. This appearance is caused by the innumerable tender gradations of light.”
Not many years ago the banks close to Somerset House were attractive enough, owing to certain old hotels, the Arundel and others, whose quaint bow windows and galleries hung over the river. These lingered on till recently, but their place has been taken by a row of very effective Dutch-looking houses with cupolas and mullioned windows. These hotels and lodging-houses are in high favour with a particular class of visitors to town, and we fancy that this living over the river has almost the flavour of a foreign city. During festivals such as the Derby week, all the little river streets are filled to overflow—the hotels, overfull themselves, billet their guests about; and we see the group of travellers led away by the Boots, to some of these “succursals.”
Here too is the little grimed terrace over the station of the underground railway company, who, beside their locomotives, have to keep stationary engines, both here and at Victoria Station, pumping day and night, otherwise the line would be flooded. It is amusing to recall the flourishing of the papers when the line was opened; the beatific vision that was dwelt on of the terrace being crowded with votaries of the dolce far, gazing placidly on the waters, smoking and communing. Nothing of the sort took place, it is needless to say. No one was at the pains of ascending the steps to gain, or cared to be enclosed in a sort of yard; and the Company soon had gates attached and shut it up. Hard by Waterloo Bridge used to be moored a dilapidated old hulk in which the River Police used to dwell, uncomfortably, as it may be imagined. It, however, added a nautical flavour. With the march of events came a change. They are now moved to one of the unoccupied barge piers—a pleasant, sheltered, floating tenement where they have abundant flowers and almost a garden. From the steamers passing by they appear to be very comfortable and happy. The old sheer hulk has been taken away and a more sightly training ship substituted, through whose ports can be seen a handsome piece of cannon; and of a summer’s evening a crowd lines the balustrade of the Embankment watching the sailors at drill. At another of these unoccupied or disused piers the Humane Society has its house, not at all unneeded, for the ghastly dramatic elements associated with a great river are never lacking here. The habitué who takes his daily walk by this route to the City is certain, periodically, to see the slow-moving boat close under the walls, with the man in the stern casting the drag, and if he wait a reasonable time may see the “body of a fine young man,” or some unhappy, draggled woman brought up. Sometimes the police boat, or “tub,” of the Humane Society is seen pulling with frantic haste to the piers of the arches, invariably too late to recover the poor wretch whom the man patrolling the little pier has seen—strange vision!—flying down to the waters from the parapets of Waterloo Bridge.
Some years ago there was a strange floating structure at Charing Cross; it was one of the undertakings literally “floated” amid the flowery acclamations of the papers, which spun whole cocoons of columns anent the advantages that were to accrue; the town bathing, and learning swimming; general cleanliness and strength of the population improved, while numerous other establishments would follow, etc. Notwithstanding these prophecies the thing languished from the first—the town looked coldly on. It then took a strange freak, and some ingenious Professor—was it Gamgee?—devised some mysterious process by which, with the aid of steam engines and acids circulating below, artificial ice could be formed. Skating accordingly took place, but somehow that did not flourish, and the somewhat ungainly tabernacle, daily rising and falling with the tide, then reverted to its old function of a swimming bath. It has long since been removed.
The cluster of buildings at Blackfriars Bridge, and indeed the whole view here, with the widening river and St. Paul’s dome rising majestically, is fine and noble. The City of London School is a satisfactory work of good proportions, filling its site worthily; but the same cannot be said of its neighbour, the Sion College Library, which affects much and is decidedly poor in the result. The Royal Hotel fills in the corner admirably, and is perhaps the only hotel of importance in London “run” upon foreign lines. It must be pleasant to live there for a season perhaps, and it is likely the sojourner would have quite a new and different idea of London from the conventional one. The Moorish building facing it, and now the headquarters of the Salvation Army, has an excellent and piquant effect. An extraordinary and unusual arrangement will be noticed here, viz., that of three bridges crossing the river almost side by side.
Returning now to the Strand, in Garrick Street, close to Covent Garden, we find the most interesting Club in London—a sort of theatrical museum—The Garrick Club. Its wonderful collection of portraits of actors, and of dramatic scenes, is truly extraordinary, and we can fancy no more pleasant entertainment for a person of cultured theatrical tastes than to be “taken over” the club on the privileged Wednesday, by some well-skilled person, and to be shown all that is curious.
The club was originally a sort of convivial resort for actors and literary men, and met originally in a cosy house in King Street, Covent Garden. It expanded into its present handsome club house—not, it is said or lamented, without losing its original cachet. The pictures were mostly collected by Charles Matthews “the elder,” of facetious memory, and he seems to have embarrassed himself by the sacrifices he made to secure them. In his difficulties he was induced to exhibit them with the hope of making a little money, and he comments with bitter sarcasm on the result of the experiment. It was astonishing, he said, how passionately eager every one was to see them when they were at his home—and strangers used every art to obtain admission. But when they were offered for exhibition, no one was inclined to pay a shilling to see them. Mr. Durrant Cooper bought the collection, and lent them to the club, in the hope that it would buy them; but, as its resources did not enable it to do so, he most generously gave it as a free gift.