The Quarters of Fashion.
THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE.--FASHIONABLE QUARTERS.--LONDON IN
1752.--ST. JAMES'S PALACE.--PAST AND PRESENT.--PALL MALL.--THE LAND
OF CLUBS.--MRS. GRUNDY ON THE CLUBS.--ST. JAMES'S PARK.--BUCKINGHAM
PALACE.--WATERLOO PLACE.--TRAFALGAR-SQUARE.
There is scarcely a nation so fond of green trees and green meadow-land
as the English. They adore the splendid trees of their parks as the
Druids did their sacred oaks; it is quite a pleasure to see that their
conquests of nature, and other successful efforts to train its agencies
to the weaving of woollen yarns, and the working of spinning-jennies,
have not deprived them of a sense for those beauties of nature which
cannot be reduced to capital and interest.
The English people are a gigantic refutation of that current untruth,
that over cultivation estranges us from nature. Fire, water, earth, and
air, are in England more than in any other part of the world, employed
in the service of capital. In England they fatten their fields with
manure which has travelled many thousands of miles, and which has been
collected from some barren rock on the ocean; in England nature is
compelled to produce water-lilies from the tropics, and fruit of various
kinds of unnatural size; in England they eat grapes from Oporto--plums
from Malta--peaches from Provence--pine-apples from Bermuda--bananas
from St. Domingo--and nuts from the Brazils. Whatever cannot be grown on
English soil is imported from other parts of the world; but,
nevertheless, the English retain their affection for the trees and
meadows, forests and shrubs of their own country. This law of nature,
which is partly influenced by dietetic considerations, may be observed
in any part of the metropolis. The best houses are always near the
squares and the parks. That part of Piccadilly which faces the Park is
elegant, expensive, and aristocratic; the other portion of that street,
which extends deep into the vast ocean of houses, assumes a business
aspect, and belongs to trade. But even that portion of Piccadilly which
is now inhabited by the aristocracy was a most wretched place about one
hundred years ago. There were a great many taverns whose fame was none
of the best; and, on review days, the soldiers from the neighbouring
barracks sat in front of the houses on wooden benches, whilst their hair
was being powdered, and their pig-tails tied up. During this interesting
operation, they laughed and joked with the maid-servants who passed that
way. As a natural consequence of these proceedings, the quarter was
avoided by the respectable classes.
From Piccadilly towards the north, and along the whole breadth of
Hyde-park is Park-lane, with its charming houses built in the villa
style, and similar to those of Brighton, for they have irregular
fantastic balconies, rotundas, and verandahs. In Brighton these
contrivances facilitate the view of the sea; here they help to a view of
the park. Palace-like in their interiors, and filled with all those
comforts which in English houses alone can be found in such beautiful
harmony, and yet so unassuming, they do not, by their exterior, overawe
the passers-by with the wealth of their inhabitants. Formerly this
street was Tyburn-lane. The very name reminds one of hanging and
quartering. At the present day, Park-lane, and all the streets around
it, are the head-quarters of wealth and aristocracy. Plate-glass
windows--powdered footmen--melancholy stillness--heavy carriages waiting
at small doors--no shops, omnibuses, or carts--in cold, rainy, winter
nights, perhaps here and there a woman and her child half-naked, and
more than half-starved, crouching down in some dark corner. Such is the
character of this part of the town, where, among old walls and green
squares stand the most splendid houses of the aristocracy; and which,
with few interruptions only, extends to the regions of Bond-street.
St. James's-street connects Piccadilly with Pall-mall. We are still in
the quarters of splendour, and we are approaching the land of clubs and
royalty. In the beginning of the 18th century there were a great many
theatres in and around St. James's. In the chronicles of those old
theatres, there is a deal of matter for the student of the life and
character of old London. The managers were speculators; the public were
credulous; there was a strong hankering after miracles, and a decided
predilection for noise. On the whole, people in those days were much the
same as they are now, but there was more coarseness, more massiveness,
and less grace. We go down St. James' Street, and reach the point where
it joins Pall Mall; there we stand, in front of St. James' Palace, an
old, black, and rambling building, with no interest, except what it
derives from the past; and even in the past, it was considered as a mere
appendage to Whitehall; and only after Whitehall was burned down, did
St. James' Palace become the real seat of royalty; and it continued to
be so until George IV. took up his residence at Buckingham Palace. At
the present day, the old palace is used for court ceremonies only; the
Queen holds her levees and drawing-rooms in it. In the three large
saloons there are, on such occasions, crowds of people who have the
_entrée_, in full dress, and great splendour, thronging round the
throne, which is ornamented with a canopy of red velvet, and a gold star
and crown. The walls are decorated with pictures of the battles of
Waterloo and Vittoria; in the back-ground are the Queen's apartments,
where she receives her ministers. The anti-chambers are filled with
yeomen of the guard, and court officials of every description. In the
court-yard are the state-carriages of the nobility; and the streets
around the park are thronged with crowds of anxious spectators.
These are the moments when that gloomy building is lighted up with the
splendour of modern royalty; at all other times, night and day, red
grenadiers pace to and fro in front of the dark walls. The court-yards
are given up to the gambols of birds, cats, and children; but every
morning, a military band of music plays in the colour court.
Pall Mall is one of the most splendid streets in London; its splendour
is chiefly owing to the club houses. There are, in this street, the
Oxford and Cambridge Club, the Army and Navy Club, the Carlton, the
Reform, the Travellers', and the Athenæum. Besides these, there are in
London a large number of club-houses, of which it may generally be said,
that their chief end and aim is to procure a comfortable home by means
of association, in as cheap and perfect a manner as possible.
But the words, "as cheap and perfect as possible," convey quite a
different idea to the German to what they do to the Englishman. A short
explanation may not, perhaps, be out of place at this point.
A younger son of an old house, with an income of, say from two to four
hundred pounds, cannot live, and do as others do, within the limits of
that income. He can neither take and furnish a house, nor can he keep a
retinue of servants or give dinners to his friends. The club is his
home, and stands him in the place of an establishment. At the club,
spacious and splendidly furnished saloons are at his disposal; there is
a library, a reading-room, baths, and dressing-rooms. At the club he
finds all the last new works and periodicals; a crowd of servants attend
upon him; and the cooking is irreproachable. The expenses of the
establishment are defrayed by the annual contributions and the entrance
fees. But, of course, neither the annual contributions nor the
entrance-fees, pay for the dinners and suppers, the wines and cigars, of
the members. Members do dine at the clubs: indeed, the providing of
dinners is among the leading objects of these establishments, and the
dinners are good and cheap, compared to the extortionate prices of the
London hotels. The club provides everything, and gives it at cost price;
a member of a good club pays five shillings for a dinner, which in an
hotel would be charged, at least, four times that sum.
The _habitués_ of the London Clubs would be shocked if they were asked
to pass their hours and half-hours in our German coffee and
reading-rooms; and, on the other hand, persons accustomed to the
bee-hive life of Vienna coffee-houses consider the London Clubs as dull
though handsome edifices. Lordly halls, splendid carpets, sofas,
arm-chairs, strong, soft, and roomy, in which a man might dream away his
life; writing and reading-rooms tranquil enough to suit a poet, and yet
grand, imposing, aristocratic; doors covered with cloth to prevent the
noise of their opening and shutting, and their brass handles resplendent
as the purest gold; enormous fire-places surrounded by slabs of the
whitest marble; the furniture of mahogany and palisander; the staircases
broad and imposing as in the _palazzos_ of Rome; the kitchens _chefs
d'oeuvre_ of modern architecture; bath and dressing-rooms got up with
all the requirements of modern luxury; in short, the whole house full of
comfortable splendour and substantial wealth. All this astonishes but
does not dazzle one, because here prevails that grand substantial taste
in domestic arrangements and furniture, in which the English surpass all
other nations, and which it is most difficult to imitate, because it is
most expensive.
The influence which club-life exercises on the character of Englishmen
is still an open question among them. The majority of the fairer portion
of Her Majesty's subjects hate and detest the clubs most cordially. Mrs.
Grundy is loud in her complaints, that all that lounging, gossiping, and
smoking deprives those "brutes of men" of the delight they would
otherwise take in her intellectual society, and that club dinners make
men such epicures, they actually turn up their noses at cold mutton. And
even when at home, Mr. Grundy is always dull, and goes about sulking
with Mrs. Grundy. To be sure, all he wants is to pick a quarrel, and go
and spend his evening in that "horrid club." But there are some women
who presume to differ from the views of this admirable type of old
English matrons. They are fond of clubs, and hold a man all the more
fitted for the fetters of matrimony after yawning away a couple of years
in one of these British monasteries. The club-men, say these ladies,
make capital husbands; for the regulations of the club-houses admit of
no domestic vices, and these regulations are enforced with such
severity, that a woman's rule appears gentle ever afterwards.
The windows of almost all the club-houses in Pall Mall have the most
charming views on St. James's Park. It is the smallest of all the parks;
but it is a perfect jewel amidst the splendid buildings which surround
it on all sides. On its glassy lake fine shrubs, and beeches, and
ash-trees on the banks throw their trembling shadows; tame water-fowl of
every description swim on it or waddle on the green sward near, and eat
the crumbs which the children have brought for them. The paths are
skirted with flower-beds, with luxurious grass-plots behind them; and on
sunny days these grass-plots are crowded with happy children, who prefer
this park to all others, for the water-birds are such grateful guests,
and look so amiable and stupid, and are so fond of biscuits, and never
bite any one. And the sheep, too, are altogether different from all
other sheep in the world; they are so tame and fat, and never think of
running away when a good child pats their backs, and gives them some
bread to eat. And there are green boats, and for one penny they take you
over to the other side; and the water, too, is green, much greener than
the boat; and there is no danger of horses and carriages, and children
may run and jump about without let or hindrance, and there are such
numbers of children too. In short, there is no saying how much pleasure
the London children take in St. James's Park.
On the Continent, too, there are parks; they are larger, and are taken
more care of, and by far more ornamental than the London parks. But all
strangers who come to London must find that their imperial and royal
palace gardens at home, with all their waterworks, and Chinese pagodas,
Greek temples, and artificial romanticisms, do not make anything like
that cheerful, refreshing, tranquillising, and yet exciting impression
which the parks of England produce. It is certainly not the climate
which works this miracle, nor is it a peculiarity of the soil, for fine
meadow-land there is in plenty on the banks of the Rhine and the Danube.
The English alone know how to handle Nature, so that it remains nature;
they alone can here and there take off a tree, and in another place add
some shrubs, without, therefore, forcing vegetation into the narrow
sphere of arbitrary and artificial laws. Our great gardens at home want
wide open grassplots; where such are, the shrubs and plantations
encroach upon them; none are allowed to leave the paths and walk over
the grass, and the public are confined to, and crowded on, the
sand-covered paths, whence they may look at the clumps of trees, and the
narrow empty clearances between them. On such spots in England you find
the most splendid cattle; children are playing there, and men and women
come and go, giving life, movement, and colouring to the landscape; and,
since parks are but imitations of nature, life, movement, and colour are
absolutely necessary to them.
This life on the green sward in the very heart of the metropolis gives
the parks a rural and idyllic aspect; while, on the other hand, it
suggested the saying, that all England gives one the idea of a large
park.
At the western end of St. James's park is the Queen's palace--a stately
building not a grand one; though extensive enough to astonish those
strangers who have read in the newspapers that Her Britannic Majesty
complains of want of houseroom. And here it ought to be remarked, that,
during the present reign alone not less than £150,000 have been voted by
parliament for the extension and improvement of Buckingham Palace.
Thanks to so large a sum of money, the palace is now both comfortable
and splendid, with its _façade_ overlooking the Green park and St.
James's park, with the armorial lion and unicorn, which have lately been
placed on the gates in so exquisitely ludicrous a manner, that they turn
their backs, at one and the same time, upon one another, the palace, and
the queen. To the south, the palace commands a view of the ocean of
houses yclept Pimlico; to the north it overlooks the shady groves and
meadow grounds of Hyde-park; and on its northern side are splendid
gardens nearly as large as St. James's park. Thus is Buckingham Palace
situated in the midst of green trees, and removed as far as possible
from the smoky atmosphere of the metropolis. And yet they say that the
site is not so healthy as might be wished; and the royal family pass
only a few months in the year in this their official residence. They
prefer Windsor, the valleys of Balmoral, and Osborne (the most charming
of marine villas) in the Isle of Wight.
We return to Pall Mall, and passing Marlborough House (at one time the
residence of King Leopold of Belgium), we enter St. James's square; and
passing the famous house at the corner of King-street from the steps of
which George IV., on the night of the 20th June, 1818, proclaimed the
news of the victorious battle of Waterloo, we proceed in an eastern
direction, and, emerging from Pall Mall enter an open place--the end of
Regent-street--whence broad stone stairs lead down into St. James's
park. This is Waterloo-place, surrounded by columned mansions. On each
side of the broad stone stairs are rows of stately palace-like houses.
One of them serves as an asylum to the Prussian Embassy, and another is
interesting to the continental visitor because it is Lord Palmerston's
town-house. In front of the stairs is the Duke of York's column, of
which very little can be said, except that it is ninety-four feet high,
and some years ago the jumping down from the top and being smashed on
the broad stones at its base, was a fashionable mode of committing
suicide. It's a pity that none of the poor wretches ever thought of over
throwing and jumping down with the statue of the Duke of York, for it
stands ridiculously high, and the impression it makes on that bad
eminence is by no means agreeable.
We cross Waterloo-place, and passing Her Majesty's theatre and the
Haymarket on our left, we hail the equestrian statue of George III.
Again the houses recede, and again a gigantic column with a dwarfish man
on its top pierces the skies. Then another George--the fourth of the
name--on an iron horse, and there are two fountains, and there is also
the National Gallery, and St. Martin's Church, and the lion looking down
from Northumberland House upon the street noise and the streams of life
and traffic which here cross and recross in all directions. We are at
the foot of the Nelson column, in Trafalgar-square, which native
enthusiasm and foreign scoffers say is like the _Place de la Concorde_
at Paris. And here we stop for the present. Politeness induces us to say
as little as possible of Trafalgar-square. Besides it is high time to
introduce our readers to a friend of Dr. Keif's, to whom we propose
devoting the next chapter.