“To the nobility and gentry by the casual exhibition, near the handsomely-curtained windows, of two or three elegant bonnets of the newest fashion, and some costly garments in the most approved taste.”
By the next turning (right) on the north side we come into Wimpole Street; on the east of which, at the corner of the third block, stands The West End Residence—No. 43—aforetime occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Boffin; which became, later on, the property of Mr. John Harmon and his wife. It is described as “a corner house, not far from Cavendish Square.” Near this house Silas Wegg—assuming some knowledge of its affairs—kept his street-stall. He was accustomed to refer to it as “Our House,” its (imaginary) inmates being Miss Elizabeth, Master George, Aunt Jane, and Uncle Parker.
Returning to Wigmore Street, we arrive by the next block at Welbeck Street, running transversely thereto. In this street was the London residence of Lord George Gordon, as referred to in the pages of “Barnaby Rudge.” The house is No. 64, the second from Wigmore Street on the left side. It is within the recollection of the present landlord that the old balcony—from which Lord George was wont to harangue the public—was many years since superseded by the present continuous railing.
We now come south into the West-end artery of Oxford Street, crossing same to Davies Street, by which we may soon reach Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, running east and west. On the south-eastern angle of its intersection stands Claridge’s Hotel. It will be remembered that on Mr. Dorrit’s return from the Continent, after the marriage of his daughter Fanny, “the Courier had not approved of his staying at the house of a friend, and had preferred to take him to an hotel in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square.” This was doubtless the establishment favoured by the Courier’s preference on that occasion; and where Mr. Merdle paid a state visit to Mr. Dorrit at breakfast-time the next morning; taking him afterwards in his carriage to the City.
Readers of “Dombey and Son” may be reminded that the Feenix Town House was situated in this same Brook Street; but no clue is afforded of its exact whereabouts. It is described as an aristocratic mansion of a dull and gloomy sort; and was borrowed by the Honourable Mrs. Skewton from a stately relative, on the occasion of her daughter’s marriage. Here also, in aftertime, the final interview between Florence and Edith took place.
Keeping on through Davies Street across Berkeley Square, we come through Berkeley Street to Piccadilly, in the close vicinity of Devonshire House, a mansion of fashionable and political repute, belonging to the Duke of Devonshire. Here, on the 27th of May 1851, in the great drawing-room and library, Dickens and his confrères of “The Guild of Literature and Art” performed, for the first time, Sir Bulwer Lytton’s comedy (written for the occasion) “Not so Bad as We Seem,” in the presence of the Queen, Prince Albert and a brilliant audience. The Duke not only afforded the necessary accommodation, but (as Mr. Forster writes), in his princely way, discharged all attendant expenses. Many distinguished authors and artists assisted at this performance, including Douglas Jerrold, Maclise, and John Leech.
Near at hand, on the eastern corner of the next turning down Piccadilly (Dover Street), is Hatchett’s Hotel, adjoining The White Horse Cellars, once a well-known coaching establishment. On the opposite side of the way stood in days of yore the old “White Horse Cellars,” of which Hazlitt writes:—
“The finest sight in the Metropolis is the setting out of the mail-coaches from Piccadilly. The horses paw the ground and are impatient to be gone, as if conscious of the precious burden they convey. There is a peculiar secrecy and despatch, significant and full of meaning, in all the proceedings concerning them. Even the outside passengers have an erect and supercilious air, as if proof against the accidents of the journey; in fact, it seems indifferent whether they are to encounter the summer’s heat or the winter’s cold, since they are borne through the air on a winged chariot.”
From this well-known Booking Office, Mr. Pickwick and his friends—accompanied by the fierce Dowler and his fascinating wife—started for Bath, one “muggy, damp, and drizzly morning, by the mail coach; on the door of which was displayed, in gilt letters of a goodly size, the magic name of ‘Pickwick’; a circumstance which seems to have occasioned some confusion of ideas in the mind of the faithful Sam, as evidenced by his indignant inquiry—‘An’t nobody to be whopped for takin’ this here liberty?’”