House-Hunting in London

I

IT will be understood at the outset that I knew I was about, to do a silly thing, but who can always be wise, or would be if he could? And it will be understood, too, that my wife and I had words about it — not bitter, briny, unforgettable words, but words deep and trenchant, nevertheless. She was for the country, while I was for the town: how we compromised and decided upon the — but I must not give away the plot of this little story.

It may be asked, why should one want to leave free and prosperous America and go over to settle in a country in which even the rich are not so rich as they seem, and the poor are so very poor that a man of feeling is appalled by the poverty he sees about him: the answer, however, is not far to seek. They know, in England, much better than we how to enjoy life, and our freedom is becoming a mere tradition — about the only tradition we have. We permit ourselves to be deprived of our rights, and those who complain about it are regarded as not. being '100 per cent Americans’ — a phrase which, the war over, is merely silly. The fact is, we have invented or developed a form of government in which a man can hardly take part and maintain his self-respect. It is difficult, to get good people to vote, whereas the crook votes early and often. When Thomas Jefferson talked, or rather wrote, — for he was no talker, — about till men being created equal, he must have known that he was writing nonsense. Men are not all equal, any more than all animals or all vegetables are: it is not worth while to labor the point; any man not feeding or hoping to feed at the public trough will admit it. And when one is told, as one sometimes is, that Jefferson meant ‘equal’ before the law, then one laughs heartily — if he has not forgotten how. But the subject is too painful.

There is no doubt, however, that if I were elected to work as hard for the next ten years as I have done for the last forty I should wish to stay where I am, — where labor is bounteously rewarded, — but as a certain amount of leisure seems to be coming my way, it was my idea to go where leisure is understood: in a word, I wanted to go to England, and my wife, who was for the country while I was for the town, was finally persuaded to look at some residences — not flats.

It is important to remember, in speaking of London, that the great city was once a group of little villages, each having characteristics of its own: its own church and shops, its own fashionable quarter, and its own slum. So it is that in modern London there is no one especially desirable quarter; there are hundreds of desirable quarters. Generally, one lives in the west and north, but I could be very happy in the south, or, for that matter, in the east, within easy reach of Wapping Old Stairs, on the top of which I like to sit and meditate, or look at the river with its varying pageant of shipping, without meditating. On one thing my wife and I were agreed: we did not want to cut any swath in the metropolis; that sort of life we would leave to ‘Mr. Hoggenheimer of Hoggenheimer House, Park Lane.’ We thought to live very simply and quietly with not more than three or four servants: as persons in reduced circumstances, as it were. This did not limit our choice of district, but it did mean that we must be satisfied with a small house — no great mansion for us. There are literally thousands of houses in London to be had for the proverbial song (not including taxes); indeed we found it not a little depressing to walk through certain districts in which almost every house bears a sign: ‘This valuable freehold property to be sold,’or ‘This property to be let for a term of years.’ Where had their owners gone? Alas! Into tiny cottages in the country or into flats in town.

But we were in search of the picturesque rather than the magnificent and our thoughts reverted to Jimmy Tregaskis’s little Georgian house in Hampstead in the Yale of Health, not far from Well Walk, in which Keats composed ‘The Eve of St. Agnes,’ to which my old friend had often welcomed us. It was just far enough from the Heath to escape the noise of the crowd on bank holidays: on a clear day one had a distant view of the dome of St. Paul’s, and if one wanted a mug of ale ‘drawn from the wood’ it could be had at Jack Straw’s Castle, about half a pint away; while The Spaniards was only another half a pint farther on. It was Charles Lamb who used to measure his walks by their thirst-creating length; by liquid measure, as it were: about a pint to the mile, as I remember. But the moment Jimmy decided to move nearer to his business some wise buyer came along and snatched up ’this desirable freehold,’ and it was not to be had.

Hampstead is certainly one of the loveliest parts of London; a century ago it was a not too remote village much frequented by authors and artists in search of quiet and fresh air. Every inch calls to mind some pleasing memory: there once stood a famous tavern. The Upper Flask, patronized by Pope and Steele and celebrated by Richardson in Clarissa Harlowe. To this corner Johnson came with Goldsmith; and to that, Lamb and Coleridge, Keats and Leigh Hunt. It was to Jack Straw’s Castle that Dickens invited his future biographer, John Forster, to ‘ come for a red-hot chop and a good glass of wine,’ and it was from the tea gardens of The Spaniards that Mrs. Bardell was unsuspectingly conducted to Fleet Prison, there to meet and be released by Mr. Pickwick.

Reader, did you ever hear Albert Chevalier sing of Hampstead?

You did? Then you have not forgotten the pagan joy he put into that song: great artist, Chevalier! Several pleasant days were spent house-hunting on the Heath, but nothing came of it: the big houses were too big, the small too small, and the really desirable houses occupied by people who would not be dislodged. Finally we decided to turn our attention to another quarter.

It would, we thought, be pleasant to live within the shadow of St. James’s Palace. Only a stone’s throw from the Tudor gateway which gives entrance to the Palace is a small square called Pickering Place; few people know of its existence. To Pickering Place we addressed our steps. One might pass the entrance to it a hundred times without knowing it. On one side of the dark oak-lined passage that leads to it are the Messrs. Berry, the wine merchants, with the great beam-scales inside (you may go in and buy a bottle of— anything — and get weighed and have your weight recorded in stones and pounds in a book; they will show you where the Prince Regent and Charles Lamb, and others, did exactly the same thing); and on the other Locks, the hatters, with some remarkable-looking hats of the vintage of 1820 displayed in the windows. And when one finally enters the square he finds himself in a bit of the eighteenth century, and right in the heart of London. I saw at once that it was going to be difficult or impossible to get foothold in Pickering Place: there are only half a dozen houses in all, and they are, seemingly, occupied by contented and beauty-loving householders, as the buildings, though unimposing, are vine-covered and flowers grow profusely in well-cared-for window boxes. Especially do I congratulate the occupant of Number 5 upon his choice: the brass door plate has been so constantly polished that with difficulty one reads the name ‘Mr. Curtis Greene’ upon it, and learns that he is a Royal Academician. He knows, of course, that in the days of Charles James Fox this was one of the most notorious gambling hells in the town, and that the Honorable Charles dropped a lot of money there: doubtless there are still many golden guineas in the crevices under the floor. How quiet and peaceful is this small paved square with its old-world sundial in the centre! How full of memories this part — every part — of London is! This is its great inexhaustible charm — one can forget the present in the past. As we emerge there is Brooks’s, and White’s, and Boodle’s, all famous gambling places once, now fashionable clubs.

We were sorry not to get foothold in Pickering Place, for it would be so nice and handy for the Prince of Wales, who lives just across the way, to drop in on us for an informal cup of tea — or something stronger — any afternoon when he might be feeling lonely. And there was another reason why it would have just suited mo. It is only two minutes’ walk from Stable Yard (what queer names they have in London! — and they never change them), in which stands the magnificent Stafford House, now the London Museum: a place I love. I visited it first on the day it opened, years ago, and I have spent many hours in it since. Everything in it has been collected from the square twenty miles or so which is now London, which is and will ever be the homestead of the noble race that calls itself English. And there was yet another reason why we were sorry to leave the purlieus of St. James’s. When my grandchildren (whom I have taught to call me cousin — I think it’s much more refined for a man of my age to have cousins than grandchildren) come to visit me, I could have taken them down to guard-change at Buckingham Palace, only a short distance away, teaching them meanwhile some little poem from When We Were Very Young, the best book of verses for children ever written. But we’re on our way to Buckingham Palace, —

I could begin at the beginning and recite the whole book, but that would lead me to the King’s Breakfast, and

We were house-hunting, and we next went to the Adelphi, that interesting bit which lies between the Strand and the Thames, not far east of Charing Cross. Garrick lived on the terrace overlooking the river; his house is now the Savage Club. Years ago Joe Pennell had a charming flat at the top of a building not far away, which was so situated that one could look up the river to Westminster and down the river to London Bridge, but in a moment of irritation, and such moments were not unusual with Joe, he said he would give it up; whereupon Sir James Barrie took it. I think if we could have dispossessed Sir James we should have taken his flat, and we might perchance, maybe, one day, have met his neighbor, George Bernard Shaw, who lives just across the way, which might have been a pleasure but more likely would not have been. I fancy we might have found him a bit too outspoken, —

II

Being by now in a flat-hunting mood, the next day we turned our attention to the Albany; York House it was originally called, after that martial son of George III who distinguished himself by marching his army up a hill, then marching it down again. This historic event was regarded as sufficient to cause a statue of him to be erected (by public subscription) upon a tall column at the bottom of Regent Street — ' high up,’ we are told, ‘well out of reach of his creditors.’ Many of my readers will remember the Albany, that fine old mansion facing upon a small square a few minutes’ walk west on Piccadilly from the Circus: Sir Squire Bancroft, who lives a retired life since the death of his lady not long ago, resides on the ground floor to the left as one enters. Using the mansion as a thoroughfare and passing through, one enters a long covered walk from which, by short paths, one enters a substantial building in which are chambers, let to gentlemen, sometimes with their wives; but as gentlemen prefer blondes, so the Albany seems to prefer bachelors. In these chambers countless authors have lived and moved and had their being. The drawing-rooms are sumptuous, but the ‘household offices’ do not appeal to ladies, and the plumbing is archaic. ‘Lord Macaulay found it entirely satisfactory, madam,’ we were told upon my wife’s making objection. Byron lived here, and Bulwer—but why call the roll? A hundred years ago almost every literary man of note lived a part, perhaps the happiest part, of his life in the Albany, and I think with all my books and household gods about me I could spend my declining years very comfortably in such echoing surroundings; but I soon saw that it was not to be; took defeat gracefully, and said. ‘Let’s go to Chelsea.'

if it were not for the mists and fogs which come rolling in from the river, Chelsea would be an ideal place of residence. One never tires of the Thames, for the river has made London, and to watch the tide ebb and flow affords one the most delightful exercise. George Eliot lived in Chelsea, and Carlyle, and Rossetti, and Wilde, and Whistler. But we Americans, accustomed to our overheated houses, suffer extremely from the chill and penetrating dampness which pervades the English house during the fall and winter, and which a handful of smouldering coals in an open fireplace can hardly be expected to dissipate. So we did not consider a charming house in Cheyne Walk very seriously, but, the weather being warm, we did poke about very pleasantly for an entire day, and were almost induced by the charm of Chelsea Old Church to become parishioners; however, I reminded my wife that we were not very good churchgoers, were very critical in the matter of sermons, and that our friends would think us ‘balmy’ if we told them that we had been influenced in the choice of a house by its proximity to a church, even if it once was Sir Thomas More’s.

Then we decided to look at Queen Anne’s Gate, which we had first discovered, years ago, during a midnight ramble. One of the pleasantest walks one can take in London of a clear moonlight night — and they have such — is through St. James’s Street and the Mall, and across the bridge which is suspended over the ornamental water in St. James’s Park. As you stand about in the middle of the bridge, in front of you, rising out of the darkness and seemingly suspended in mid-air, are the towers and turrets and minarets of that group of public buildings which face upon Whitehall and Parliament Street, while behind you, in a blaze of artificial light, are the Victoria Memorial and Buckingham Palace. ‘Earth has not anything to show more fair,’ and it is quite accidental — not studied, as such a vista would be in Paris.

Continuing your walk over the bridge and through the well-kept park, you cross Birdcage Walk and enter a lovely district known as Queen Anne’s Gate. For ten tourists reasonably at home in Chelsea, only one knows of the quaint charm of this forgotten quarter. Forgotten! By whom? Certainly not by a man who knows his London. A street with more charm than Old Queen Street hardly exists; it leads to a small square once called Queen Anne Square, which is very elegant indeed. When this district was laid out, in the days of Queen Anne (always called the ‘ Good ’ — why, I do not know), its residents, fearful that carriages on the way to Ranelagh would disturb their quiet, erected a stone wall and an iron railing across one end of the square, thus making it ‘no thoroughfare.’ Wall and railing have long since been removed, without imperiling, it would seem, the quiet and dignity of the neighborhood. One of the features of this exclusive quarter is that the houses on one side of Old Queen Street have, so to speak, two fronts; one front is upon the street, while the other — the back-front, as it is called — opens upon gardens in Birdcage Walk and overlooks St. James’s Park. My friend Louis Hind, the distinguished author of many charming books, occupies one of these happily disposed houses, and once when I dined with him tried to convince me of the wisdom of becoming a neighbor; but when he told me what distinguished company he was in I thought that I might be regarded as an intruder, with the Marquis of Bute on one side of me and Lord Ribblesdale on the other; but I need not have worried: neither of them would have known of my existence had I lived on his doorstep.

Of Lord Ribblesdale’s death I read not long ago, and I thought of the superb portrait of him by Sargent which hangs in the National Gallery. There he stands, in riding costume, a gentleman and a sportsman, breeding and refinement radiating from his keen but kindly face. He was Master of the King’s Buckhounds when he died, but I am told that his duties were not arduous and that he died from natural causes. Of the Marquis of Bute, Who’s Who tells me that he is John CrichtonStuart and his income is derived, in part, from one hundred and seventeen thousand acres of land in Scotland. It is men of his type who suffered most from the Great War and its effects. Aristocratic, wealthy, haughty, they hardly knew whence their wealth was derived. Their investments were made for them by their solicitors or their agents; all that they had to do was to live and spend money. They had a fine mansion in London which they occupied for a few weeks during the season, magnificent estates in the country, and a shooting box in Scotland. They traveled and shot big game; they rode to hounds, and they lived, not dangerously, nor yet like a lily of the field, but rather like a good, sound vegetable. They were — what they were; everyone knew all about them, not only to the third and fourth generation, but to the thirteenth. If there was anything that these men disliked more than an American, it was a newly created peer. ‘Ah, my lord,’ said one of them, not seeing the outstretched hand of a man who was approaching him, ’I know you are distinguished for making something, but I never can remember what.’ Alas! The English country gentleman and his lady and their children are suffering; wealth pours in upon them no more: they have sold their books, their pictures, their plate, and now their houses and lands are being taxed out of existence.

Returning to Old Queen Street, after this digression, one sees a statue of Queen Anne dressed in her robes of state with her sceptre and orb in her hands. This statue was, two centuries ago, erected upon a pedestal at the corner of one of the houses, which projects somewhat into the street, and the story goes that at midnight the good lady descends from her pedestal and strolls about the square to see that all is as it should be; but while we were in London, although we visited her square again and again, she remained immovable. Poor lady! Although she littered children like rabbits (she had seventeen of ’em), they all died young, and with her the Stuart line came to an end. We turned our backs reluctantly on this charming and quiet spot, which the twentieth century seems hardly to have touched: occasionally, to be sure, a motor car turns swiftly into the square, but of the awful tooting of horns and sounding of klaxons which accompany locomotion in this country there was absolutely none.

It would, of course, have been possible, by turning all our securities into cash, for us to have taken a house in a much finer quarter; in, say, St. James’s Square, which, it seems to me, is the most exclusive and aristocratic spot in London. But we could have remained there only for a year or two; by that time our funds would have been exhausted, and we should have had to begin life over again — at the bottom; and we questioned the wisdom of this. It would be very nice if the Duchess of Norfolk, who lives in the corner house, would take us up, but if she did not — what then? One is never so lonely as in a crowd. Into a certain sort of English society, and, in a way, very good society too, one can get as easily as into the stalls of a theatre, if one has the price. One has only to play a pretty still game of bridge — badly, as I should be sure to do. Fifty years ago the game was poker, and salesmen used to call the sport then so much in vogue ' playing a customer’s game.’ But into what may be called the best English society an American cannot get at any price, unless one marries into it, and I am not of the right sex to take on the job. Who ever heard of an American man marrying an English girl? Though I, for one, think I shall some day; for, as a class, I believe them to be less spoiled and better comrades than our own highly protected product.

Interspersed with our house-hunting, we drank tea — oceans of tea. When is it not ‘time for tea’ in England? And the question always arose, where? Should we go to Buszard’s, or to Rumpelmeyer’s in St. James’s, or Stewart’s at the corner of Bond Street and Piccadilly? I prefer Stewart’s as less foreign, — more English, — and there is a long leathern bench in the Bond Street window, where, if one is lucky, one can get a seat; and the tall young Englishwoman will remember that we want ‘China tea,’ without asking. What experiences she must have had during the war, poor thing! But, as she once said to us, ‘We are a sturdy race and will survive.’ No doubt about it.

III

There is another fine quarter just behind the Langham Hotel, once much frequented by Americans but now become ‘residential’ and ‘British,’ but we found it rather too stately and gloomy for our taste. This part of London was laid out by the Prince Regent, afterward George IV. It was his wish that the park which bears his name should be connected with his residence, Carlton House, and Regent Street was the result. The undertaking was entrusted to John Nash, an architect, whose work was monotonous but had a dignity which we have come to look upon as English. Nash’s Regent Street has just about disappeared; I am rather sorry that it has, for the new Regent Street has no character of its own, although it is rather magnificent. One age destroys what a former created, and calls it ‘progress’; it is not always so. It is to Nash that we owe the stucco that covers so many of London’s houses; under his influence it became the rage, and this finish was applied alike to all buildings, old or new. Fine old brick surfaces, mellowed and discolored by time, were plastered over to be in the fashion, and London is only now beginning to escape from the character imposed upon it by the Regent’s favorite. Nash’s penchant for stucco gave rise to the epigram: —

But houses of his time are as out of date as a bustle: they are magnificent, in a way, but too large and inconvenient to suit the needs of the present generation. To man them an immense staff of servants, ready and willing to spend twelve or fourteen hours a day climbing interminable flights of stairs, is required. It is not difficult to understand why the houses in Portland Place go a-begging. Would not an elevator and a telephone help matters? They would; but have you ever used a ‘lift’ or a telephone in London? They are still regarded as nuisances rather than conveniences.

About this time Tinker, — dear old Tink, — of Yale, turned up in London, and we informed him of our plan and insisted upon his help. But all that we found while working together was a wonderful ' pub.’ It was while we were poking into little odd nooks and corners of the town, east of Temple Gardens, late one night that we stumbled upon the finest public house in London — so fine that I feel we have no right to keep our discovery to ourselves. Let the announcement then be made, that when a man has raised a thirst it is no longer necessary that he should ship himself somewhere east of Suez: he has only to go to The Black Friar at 174 Queen Victoria Street. There he will find something that will astonish and delight him. Some man — his name to me unknown — commissioned an architect, H. FullerClark, to build for him such a thirstsatisfying emporium as I believe exists nowhere else out of the Arabian Nights. It is a small establishment, divided, like all Gaul, into three parts. One is a Tap Room, partaking, except in its form and decoration, of the nature of an ordinary public house; the next is a Ladies’ Bar(!); and the third, and most gorgeous room, is the Saloon Bar. All are built of varicolored marbles and mosaic in which are set panels decorated, in high or low relief, with drinking scenes and mottoes full of humor, but in perfect taste. It is a rich man’s whim. ‘My master does not drink ’imself,’ confided to us Mrs. Halliwell, the ‘ Manageress,’ ‘ but when ’e taikes me to the raices, as ’e sometimes does, h’it’s always a pint of champagne for me while ’e ’as ’is lemonade; h’I’ve a good master and h ’I serves ’im as well as h’I know ’ow.’ No doubt she does, and, Reader, she will serve you well, too. When you are next in that part of London, call on my friend the Manageress; don’t be afraid. Have a glass of white port; it will cost you only sixpence, and you will take away a pleasant memory — always a good thing to do. I have never yet met a Londoner who knew of the existence of The Black Friar.

I have always had a warm spot in my heart for Leigh Hunt, and his two books on London, The Town and The Old Court Suburb, are two of the pleasantest I know. It was while rereading this latter that we decided to do a day’s house-hunting in the neighborhood of Kensington Palace. With a little more wealth at our disposal, or a little less judgment, we should, I think, have taken one of those fine mansions in the Palace Gardens. How delightfully situated they are, overlooking the quaint old palace with its memories of Anne and William and Mary. Leigh Hunt is quite right when he says that Windsor is a place to receive monarchs in, Buckingham to see fashion in, but Kensington is the place to drink tea in. Queen Anne died and Queen Victoria was born in this palace, which owes much of its charm to Sir Christopher Wren. And it was especially lucky in escaping the plastering attentions of John Nash.

Half a dozen large, fine houses overlooking Kensington Palace are, or were, obtainable; they are just a pleasant walk from one’s club in Piccadilly, assuming that one could secure membership in a desirable club, which is by no means certain. The walks in London in every direction are fascinating; in our cities one wants to hurry from one part to another with one’s eyes shut. In London, every street, every nook and corner, teems with interest. Now we are passing the Naval and Military Club, familiarly known as the ‘In and Out Club,’ from the words on its gateposts; it was formerly the residence of Lord Palmerston. Old Q., the scamp, lived farther on. That great mansion is the town house of the Rothschilds. Now we approach Apsley House, the gift of the nation to the Duke of Wellington, and if one walks far enough one comes upon Holland Park with its famous house, where, a hundred years ago, politics and literature flourished as never before or since.

IV

But we were getting just a little tired of house-hunting in London; my wife was insistent upon the country, but before going we took one last look at some houses in Park Row — not Park Lane, mind you; that’s a very different matter. The similarity of names in London is very confusing: there are streets, and rows, and terraces, and gardens, all of the same name, and ' Duke ’ streets are scattered all over the place. Park Lane is the acme of swelldom, while Park Row is a tiny street behind my friend Sir Algernon Tudor-Craig’s marvelous heraldic china shop, situated at 100 Knightsbridge. Up a narrow court, which widens as it goes, is a cluster of charming little houses, any one of which would have suited us, but Number 6 was our first choice. Here again, as in Old Queen Street, some of the houses had two fronts, one looking down the narrow street upon the turmoil and traffic of Knightsbridge just before it becomes Kensington Road; the other overlooks Hyde Park. ‘It might be a little noisy,’ said my wife. ‘ But we can see swelldom riding in Rotten Row from the back-front windows,’ said I; ‘it might improve my style to ride in the park of a morning.’ ‘No doubt it would,’ replied my wife, ‘but if I rode as you do I should prefer to do it where no one would see me.’ This I thought a little unkind; for, although my theory is perfect, due to a course in horsemanship which I took by correspondence, — and for which my word, supported by a diploma, is sufficient evidence, — for personal reasons I never stay on a horse’s back for more than a few moments. In which respect I am not unlike the Prince of Wales. ‘Well, if you can get Number 6, with its tiny garden, I shall be satisfied,’ said my lady. I fancy she knew that it would be impossible. And so it proved to be. ‘Not to be had for love or money,’ said the estate agent to whom we applied; ‘the people who occupy it are very rich, are in London only occasionally, and don’t want to go to a hotel when they are.’ That settled the matter.

Throughout our house-hunting, something told me that we should ultimately settle in the country, but I was sorry to give up the idea of living in London. It is a man’s city: in every way and always one’s comfort is considered there as it is nowhere else in the world. Englishmen have given much thought to the matter of living, and we could hardly do better than imitate them. But if I were a woman I should wish to go to America and be spoiled. Men are scarce in England; so many of them gave their lives for their country in the war that husbands are at a premium. Judge how pleased a girl is — she gets two new frocks a year — when she hears that a fine young fellow on whom she has had her eye ‘is going to marry an American!’ And ‘all Americans are rich.’ Employment is hard to find: typists receive starvation wages, and maids revolt from spending hours on their knees polishing other people’s brasses; they would much prefer to be powdering their noses, poor dears. Is it any wonder that Mrs. Warren’s profession — the oldest profession in the world — is so generously recruited in London?