The larger mansions in London, which answer to noblemen’s “hôtels” in Paris, are few, and are not very imposing of their class. Of this grand and pretentious kind there are barely half a dozen. The old Northumberland House, with its well-known lion—now levelled—was perhaps the only one with historical associations. The Brothers Adam, who have done so much for the metropolis, do not seem to have been sufficiently appreciated in this line. Their work is found abundantly in the country and suburbs, in houses of “noblemen and gentlemen.” The speculator is ever casting hungry glances at these tempting morsels. One of the finest of these mansions, so interesting from its associations, was Chesterfield House, with its graceful façade, flanked by colonnades joining the two wings, its harmonious yet unpretending combination of spacious rooms and fine staircase. Of late years this mansion passed through all the vicissitudes of a “letting house,” and was finally disposed of to a wealthy magnate who is said to have shown much ability and skill in “exploiting” his purchase. In the gardens a row of magnificent mansions, stables, etc. was reared. The ground covered by the wings was also built over, and the house, shorn of its charming colonnades, now disposed against the blank brick walls at right angles to the main building, serves as a residence for the proprietor himself. It was whispered that this clever arrangement of the purchase had recouped the whole outlay, and that the mansion is now rent free. The room where, as the tradition runs, Johnson waited, is now lit with the electric light!
Devonshire House, whose gloomy and rather dilapidated wall is familiar to all who pass through Piccadilly, is “a neat, plain, well-proportioned brick building,” a description that well suits its unpretending merits. There is also Lansdowne House adjoining, on the north, which has a large expanse of garden and grounds. It is one of the earliest works of the Brothers Adam, and after their favourite pattern, a central block with a pediment and four columns, two lower wings adhering, as it were, to it. It is said that the reception apartments when thrown open for festivities will hold a larger number of guests than any other London house. It has its grand gallery, one hundred feet long, with a famous collection of statues and pictures. Perhaps, says a certain guide book, in an amusingly odd criticism, “there is no other collection in which the human countenance appears with such glorious attributes of mental expression and artistic execution.” It may be said, however, that this at least applies admirably to the famous Reynolds portrait of Sterne, with its very original attitude and Voltairean glance. The Duke of Westminster’s mansion in Upper Grosvenor Street had probably originally one of those dismal walls which excited Sir W. Chambers’s reprobation. There is now in front a striking, open colonnade, or “columniated screen,” as the architects call it, with two gateways, probably suggested by that in front of old Carlton House. Through this is seen the rather ordinary mansion itself, which somehow suggests an “hôtel” in the faubourg. Facing the park are the gardens, which have been curtailed by the erection of a somewhat ponderous gallery to hold the pictures. Here is one of the most famous London collections, with ten Claudes, eleven Rubenses, and seven Rembrandts, and over one hundred works by masters of the first and second rank. This is the remarkable feature in the case of these noble London mansions, viz., the curiosities of the picture gallery or art collection, suggesting the show palaces at Rome and Genoa. A sad specimen of failure, after abundant promise and lavish outlay, is offered by Apsley House. This was an old brick house which the Iron Duke purchased for nearly £10,000, and proceeded to patch and remodel, with the most unprofitable result. There are many stories of his dissatisfaction and disappointment at the result, and of the costly shifts to which he and his architect, Wyatt, were led to resort to. It was admitted that it would have been better and cheaper to have reared an entirely new edifice. Here is a gallery and many choice works of art, the most interesting of which is Canova’s colossal statue of Napoleon—the first object which greets the visitor.
Few would imagine that in that fast-decaying city, Dublin, are to be found some of the finest and most architectural specimens of the nobleman’s house. It is pitiable to see these stately piles falling into ruin, or turned to baser and, at least, unsuitable uses. There are some half a dozen still remaining, worthy of admiration from their beautiful proportion, noble and spacious apartments, and exquisite stucco. The Duke of Leinster’s in Merrion Square is now occupied by the Royal Dublin Society. Another, in William Street, belongs to a commercial firm; Lord Alborough’s, a name long associated with Mr. Holloway and the “cure of a bad leg of long standing,” with its private theatre and chapel forming two wings, has become a barrack. Lord Charlemont’s, in Rutland Square, designed by Sir W. Chambers, is a public office. The friezes, ceilings, and other decorative works in these places are truly astonishing and indeed incomparable, and, it is said, a number of Italian artists were brought over specially for the work. Nothing indeed shows the decay of taste so much as the contrast between the older patterns of chimneypiece and the new. Not many years ago there was a sort of bande noire established in Dublin, who bought up all these artistic fittings, with the result that almost every old house in the county was ruthlessly stripped of its adornments, which were taken away to embellish newly-built houses in London. One private gentleman, who was concerned in a building speculation, secured no less than forty or fifty chimney-pieces at one swoop!
An imposing pile of building rises on one side of Piccadilly, between the Arcade and the Albany, whose great archway leads to the most popular of exhibitions, that of the Royal Academy. This pretentious and florid mass is already grey and ancient-looking. Yet not many years back its place was filled by a long, prison-like, well-grimed, and very dead wall, literally blackened with the dirt of a century, and more. In the centre was a huge, massive gateway, that might have opened into Newgate. This forlorn-looking place was old Burlington House, which seemed as though no one ever lived in, or entered it. Few supposed that within there was a building and architectural combination of an original order, which had often excited the admiration of connoisseurs—the work of the dilettante Earl of that name, whose skill is still to be admired in the spacious York Assembly Rooms, for which he furnished designs. In his alterations of his house in Piccadilly there was much pleasing grace. It was of only two stories, which can still be noticed, but they are now groaning under the superimposed third story laid on them by the modern architect. They seem to protest——
Lie heavy on him, earth, for he
Laid many a heavy load on thee.
Those who about twenty years ago passed by its grim portals might have wondered how this monastic air could have recommended itself to the English nobility, for it was to be noted that all the great houses in London, with an exception or two, preserved this air of hostile and barricaded exclusion. Long ago Sir William Chambers, the architect of Somerset House, after remarking how in Italy and France the gates of palaces are always of open ironwork, so as to allow the house within to be seen, added this pleasant criticism:—
“In London many of our noblemen’s palaces towards the street look like convents; nothing appears but a high wall, with one or two large gates, in which there is a hole for those who choose to go in or out, to creep through: if a coach arrives the wide gate is opened indeed, but this is an operation that requires time. Few in this city suspect that behind an old brick wall in Piccadilly there is one of the finest pieces of architecture in Europe.” Here he alludes to the well-known colonnade, which, on the conversion of the place to its present purposes, was carted away ignominiously to Battersea Park.
It was a happy and original idea of the noble architect’s. For as he looked from the windows of his house, his nice artistic sense was offended by the blank space of the wall in which his gateway was pierced, and he filled it up with this imposing semicircular colonnade, which must have formed a stately and ennobling object for the eye to rest on. Horace Walpole gives this natural account of the surprise produced on its first introduction to him. “I had not only,” he says, “never seen it, but had never heard of it. I was invited to a ball at Burlington House; as I passed under the gate at night, it could not strike me. But at daybreak, looking out of the window to see the sun rise, I was surprised at the vision of the colonnade that fronted me. It seemed one of those edifices in fairy tales that are raised by genii in a night time.” Of another mansion planned by Lord Burlington, but since destroyed, Lord Chesterfield said in his lively way: “That to be sure he could not live in it, but intended to take the house over against it, to look at it.” This was as handsome a compliment as the sarcastic peer could offer. But there were other additions to be supplied to the scene. The house itself was flanked on each side with stately dependences joined to it by corridors, a system of arrangement to which the older architects were partial.
Some forty or fifty years ago, one of the Cavendish family remodelled the house, abolished the gardens, and allowed the familiar Arcade to be cut through them; while not many years ago the final change was made, and the house, purchased by Government, was given over to what may be styled the Artistic and Scientific Societies. The beautiful colonnade was levelled and carried off to Battersea Park, where the stones now lie piled on each other, and are decaying away. The late Mr. Ferguson, an admirable, critical architect, has pointed out the shocking, meagre, treatment that the house has received—the new story being heavier than the one underneath, and the monstrous stone arcade placed in front, as if on purpose to even further shorten the story below. Any unprofessional person can see for himself how discordant is all this, but “the job,” as it may be called, was not done by the architect of the new buildings. “Burlington House, at present, is only remarkable as an example to show how easy it is to destroy even the best buildings by ill-judged additions or alterations; an upper story has been added more solid, with an order taller than that in which it stands, so as utterly to crush what was a piano nobile of the building. The result is, that what a few years ago was one of the most elegant is now one of the very worst architectural examples in the metropolis.”
Another interesting pursuit for the “Traveller in London” is the visiting of old houses where famous persons have lived or died. It is a curious sensation, this, of halting before some cenotaph of this kind, especially when it wears its old habit, and has not been altered. You think how many times they ascended those steps and entered the always open door. There was his room—there his study. In most instances the reflection is, how poor, how mean the tabernacle! Never did this recur with such force as on a visit to Enfield to Charles Lamb’s old house—a poor, stricken little dwelling—one in a mean cluster, so straitened and small, with a little doorway through which you could scarce squeeze. Yet here he gave parties, and lived amid madness and misery. Friends came down from London to see him. The Society of Arts has furnished aid in this direction, and like some Old Mortality goes round London recording, and keeping alive, these memories by fixing pretty, circular tablets on the front of the more notable mansions. This good work is being gradually extended, but it takes time; for it entails negotiation with the proprietors, some of whom are slow to understand what is intended. But, in truth, if one were to diligently search the “lives” and “memoirs,” an enormous list could be made. The American, Mr. L. Hutton, has done this recently, with singular painstaking. The difficulty is, however, that in the last century “numbers” were not in fashion, and people gave generally the name only of the street. Sir H. Wood, the secretary of the Society, has given an account of his pleasant labours, by which it would appear that the complete list of tablets to the present time is as follows:—