LIFE OF AN ARCHITECT.

THE last printed portion of these memoirs concluded with a description of the Architectural London, as it existed in 1827, when I was about to remove into Devonshire. The circumstances which suddenly arrested my life's record left that portion a broken chapter; and, surely, the best way of uniting what has been published with what is hereafter to appear, will be to commence my new series with the intended conclusion of the former part, which was dissevered from its pre-context, like the "-nity" that would have followed the "eter-" of Don Whiskerandos, had not "stern death cut short his being, and the noun, at once." I was describing the London of 1827, and had arrived at the concluding passages, which were to speak of the theatres, the Colosseum, and the then existing Diorama in the Regent's Park. The latter, I deeply regret to observe, is now no more. The shell of the building exists, as a Dissenting chapel; but, in the discontinuance of its former purpose, the metropolis has lost the most perfect exhibition of illusive art it ever possessed. It were well indeed if the Sydenham Palace could add the revival of such a Diorama to its attractions; and it is hoped this suggestion may not be thought wholly beneath the notice of the proprietors. The "cue" of my last paragraph was, "the frank from a member of parliament." The chapter thus concludes:

Drury Lane and Covent Garden Theatres were still exclusively the great homes of the "Legitimate Drama;" Kean, Macready, Young, and C. Kemble being their main tragic supports: but there had not been (nor has there appeared) any rival successor to Miss O'Neill. Drury Lane Theatre had been internally remodelled, to the diminution of the pit, by the architect Beazely, for Elliston; and the Russell-street colonnade, with the queer portico in Brydges-street, were also subsequently added. Fortunately, Wyatt's plans of this building are preserved in his quarto volume, published by Taylor in 1813. The exterior, as there shown, is of a character which evinces that economy of means which induced a minimum regard for outward display for the more essential accomplishment of internal beauty and perfection. Would that the interior had been preserved just as he left it, and that Mr. Elliston's 21,000l. had been spent in its external completion; for an imposing hexastyle portico might have been added to the box-entrance front, and the flanks of the theatre were susceptible of a cement covering of most telling and appropriately decorative character. Its general plan was the best devised of any theatre I have seen in Europe; and the reasonings on the motives which guided Mr. Wyatt in effecting the purpose proposed are philosophically propounded and well followed out. At the same time, it is desirable that the design for a theatre should be considered as separable from certain provisions which the architect then deemed in-separable from such a building. Mr. Macready did sufficient to prove that they are not necessary concomitants; and, indeed, unless this can be proved, the moralist must stand justified in his objections to the theatre. For the legitimate purpose of the drama no such thing as the " Saloon" is required. Facility of ingress and egress, with conveniences for the service of the real playgoer, are

all that can be desired; and these, as I have attempted to show, in designs since made, and published in "The Magazine of the Fine Arts," are compatible with the external circular form of the auditorial portion of such a building, which would at once proclaim it to be nothing else but a Theatre.

The then more important additions to the places of public amusement were the Colosseum, by D.Burton, in the Regent's Park, and the Diorama. The name of the former is its chief defect. It is really a large and impressive structure; but it is instantly rendered absurdly insignificant by its association with the gigantic amphitheatre of Vespasian. It may be colossal-for the Regent's Park; but it is ridiculously beneath the pretensions which alone could justify its name as the metropolitan giant. The veritable Coliseum was the colossus of Rome. The enclosing shell of Mr. Horner's panorama of London was never other than a very large building of its class. (By the way, I had been, some time before I went to Italy, in the said Horner's employ, making tracings from the sketches he took in his nest above the cross of St. Paul's! My trial lasted only for a fortnight or three weeks; after which I left him suddenly, without caring to receive any pay for services, with which he did not seem quite satisfied.) With all due admiration for this building as an architectural object, exception must be taken to the application of the sternly majestic Greek Doric portico to a mere show-place for the loungers and holidaymakers. The Corinthian of the Roman Pantheon (to the general form of which the building under notice bears much resemblance) would have been more in keeping with Mr. Horner's purpose, and more correctly associative with the glazed and leaded wooden dome of his edifice.

The Diorama, a more finished example of illusive art than the Panorama, is housed in a building of far less architectural pretension. Here, indeed, "the end crowns all." We pass through the simple doorway of what appears to be a private residence, and find ourselves rapt in mute admiration before a scene, which is only not positively deceptive because we know it to be a picture. We know we are not in Switzerland, nor at Jerusalem, because we have paid money at the door, and remain convinced that we are sitting in a dark theatre within forty feet of the Regent's Park. I shall never forget the enchanting effect of one especial presentment. It was that of the destruction of a Swiss village by the fall of an avalanche during the night. As the scene first opened we looked upon the calm and solemn beauty of a moonlight night. At the foot of a darklyshadowed mountain, rising close on the right, was a cottage; its inmates shut up-but not yet at rest-since the window was radiant with the light within. In the nearer foreground was a small lake or tarn, its dark water the stiller and blacker for the snow which had recently melted into its gloomy depth. From the left a road extended miles onward, along the bed of a valley, one side of which was seen elevating its mighty and snow-capped masses, strikingly varied with strong lights and shadows as the surfaces were towards or from the moon. Half-way up the valley were seen a few of the houses and the lofty watch-tower of the village, beyond which the lesser mountains faded into distance, while the loftier Alps far behind still exhibited their silver summits in placid immensity. The near foreground was for the most part covered with recently-fallen snow, from which some rocky fragments and prostrate

timber emerged, with a partial exhibition of their own colours. No figure was seen; but the deep foot-marks along the main part of the road, and up to the cottage door, and the evidence on the door-step of some one having just stamped the snow from his feet, showed how moving life had recently formed part of the picture. The sky is clear above, and all is still. No-there is a phantom-obscurity stealing over the distance, and we hear, or fancy we hear, a delicate breathing, as of a coming wind. A sound, like the sigh of fearful apprehension, is now distinctly recognised. A small continuous note swells into an audible whistle; sinks again; again increases to more than its former quality; falls again; rises into loudness, and swells-swells into a hissing moan, which becomes a hoarse roar. The sky is overcast; the moon fades: clouds come moving on; the winds are increasing in their loudness, and lashing their coursers into speed; the sky is dark; the moon is seen no more; the whole landscape is nearly shrouded in the tragic robe of gloom. The light of the cottage window disappears. The village and its tower are imperceptible; no-the tower is seen again-or rather its place for a bright beacon-light gleams in its lantern. And now, louder and louder swell the winds, till Hurricane asserts his fullest power! Darker and darker grows the night, till we look up into the black sky, as it were "the pall of a past world!" Only the light of the beacon is now distinct. Hark! distant thunder! The winds are losing their might in its mightier volume! Lightning flashes across the darkness; and, after a brief pause, peals forth a crackling crash, which changes into a deep, prolonged bellow, whose reverberations battle with the rocky ranks of the valley, and die to be succeeded by another and another, till the functions of sight are utterly lost in the one sense of hearing! The warning bell is heard from the watch-tower! Its light has disappeared. A dull heavy sound, not like either wind or thunder, seems to indicate some final and fearful catastrophe! The storm gradually subsides. Flakes of snow begin to fall, and the fall increases, till the aspect before the eye is that of white network moving downward over a black velvet robe. The snow-fall diminishes; ceases. A ghostly grey appears above the dark distant mountains. But it is no ghost of the night; it is the birth of the morning. It becomes a streak of silver brightness. The entire remote sky is an expanse of light. The objects of the vast landscape, more especially the nearest, gradually reassume their forms. The snow-tops of the distance rise in all their majesty. The spectator shivers with the chill of the hour. Some struggling sunbeams irradiate the vanishing clouds; the mountain summits delicately gleam with a warmer light; the near objects in the foreground are all sharp in their distinctness; but the footsteps to the cottage door and the door-step have disappeared under a smooth and uniform surface of snow. And now we see the village tower—at least, the top of it; and no more than that; for the snow is nearly up to its watch-chamber; and the remainder of it, with the whole of the village around, lies buried under the avalanche, which was, indeed, the "final and fearful catastrophe," vaguely apprehended when that mysterious sound, "not like either wind or thunder," pierced" the fearful hollow of our ear!" And now placidly rises the morning, till restored day, in its chilly infancy, descends into the valley again, to behold what is-and what is not!

Here was the process by which the most finished art, and the most cunning mechanism, had wrought the representation of a physical drama, illustrated by scenic effects, wondrously illusive in truth's semblance. It was a drama without any openly perceptible personal actors, but we saw them in our mind's eye; their sudden fears, their horrors, and their pale yielding to destruction, were all before us. Such was this Tragedy of the Alps, as performed in the theatre of the Diorama; of all illusions by far the most striking one ever achieved by artificial magic upon my senses. It was, indeed

-A most majestic vision, and

Harmonious charmingly.

Not Prospero's exhibition of that "vanity of his art," wherewith he entranced the souls of Ferdinand and Miranda, was more wonderful to them than this dioramic presentment was to me and the fair friend who accompanied me; for it was a thing which to a lone and unparticipating spectator would have been painfully exquisite. But she felt it as I did; and, possibly remembers it as I do; in which case, she will recollect how she suddenly clung to my arm when the dark tragedy was at its highest, and how she said it was perhaps very silly to be so influenced by a thing which she knew to be unreal;" an unphilosophical remark, since it was the truthful representation of a truth too frequently realised; and it brought home to her perception a dreadful fact, of which she had hitherto been ignorant or mindless. The greatest realities of life are but as "dreams" to a being destined for futurity; and their imitations, "if imagination amend them," are no less than such realities, if they do not immediately involve our own persons in their action. Here, in truth, is the secret of the drama's influence. A person of gentle and humane mind does not seek entertainment in witnessing real suffering, woe, or horror; but his very gentleness and humanity impel him to be sympathetically interested in their fictitious enactment; and his pleasure is afforded in the artistic skill and feeling with which the mimic performance is marked.

And, now, adieu to thee, London, which hast been, with brief exception, for ten years, my varied-tempered guardian; lodging me in homes of all grades, from ground-floor to garret: and in conditions of all kinds, from despairing misery to cheering comfort! Adieu to the constant companionship of the friends of my youth-to the lively lads, whom I shall hereafter meet on rare and distant occasions, changed into sober husbands and fathers, anxious to know "what on earth they are to do with their boys!" Adieu to many a young mother and miss in her teens, whom I may not see again, till the former wears grandmother's grey, and the latter can hardly find time to come down from her " plagues" in the nursery! Adieu to others again, who may reappear as portly bachelors, passing their time between continental and London sojourns, in the full enjoyment of their late fathers' means of easy independence; or as buxom old maids, none the worse, apparently, for having no nursery to go into, unless it be in the capacity of a matronly aunt! Adieu to St. Paul's, which stimulated me to become an architect; to Edward Lapidge, my first professional tutor; and to John Soane, my last! Adieu to John Britton, who first knew me when I was

a boy, and who was then about the age which I am now; who was ever my kindly remembering friend, and in whose company I had the pleasure of dining on the 6th of September, 1853, he being then all alive, and likely to live, in his 82nd year! Adieu to the pit crush of the theatres, which I used conscientiously to encounter, to keep up in my mind the "balance of power" between Edmund Kean and William Charles Macready! Adieu to the Shakspeare Reading Club, from whose influence I imbibed that love for the great drama, which has ever since been the pleasurable enjoyment of my literary leisure, and divided, with architecture, the poor efforts of my industry and zeal as a public lecturer in the West of England! Adieu to my fifteen-penny dinners in Rupert-street, the sweetest memory of which has reference to the kiss which I gave to the waitingmaid, when I met her one day coming up the stairs with both hands employed in the support of a tower of covered plates, including " a beef, two muttons, a turkey, three plum-puddings, and a cheese!" Adieu to No. 2, Duke-street, Adelphi, and to all hopes of preferment as an architect metropolitan; and, once more, adieu to thee, LONDON, thou smoky-faced, fog-breathing, and " stony-hearted stepmother," who, having done all thy limited means and thy own large family enable thee to do for one not born within the sound of Bow bells, dost now dismiss him, at the age of twenty-five, with his baffled ambition and his brass door-plate, to seek, "in stronds afar remote," another home and new hopes!

JOURNEY TO DEVONSHIRE, AND TOUR THROUGH THE COUNTY.

THE literary occupation, to which I have referred in a former chapter, was of a topographical character, and I was happily enabled to make it serve the purpose of a most agreeable tour. The first step in my journey was from London to a pleasant little town in Surrey, on the road to Portsmouth; and here a somewhat remarkable incident occurred.

I was standing within the large entrance and coach-passage of the inn. A young man of gentlemanly appearance, and interesting from an expression of melancholy which pervaded his pale and handsome countenance, came down from the first floor, and passed me in his way towards the street. The ostler, and two or three of his companions, were reading a placard which had been just pasted against the passage-wall. The young stranger, looking over their shoulders, seemed also to peruse the placard, and then went forth. At this moment a handsome carriage drove into the passage, and remained there for some time, while the travellers alighted and the luggage was being removed. Never was there a more busy turn-out of pretty laughing girls and heavy portmanteaus. The inn was instantly all gaiety and bustle; and, indeed, the little town generally seemed all astir with the life occasioned by such an import of fashion and beauty.

Scarcely, however, were the new inmates fairly housed in their "apartments," and the carriage drawn into the stable-yard, when the lively cheerfulness of the scene was changed for tragic gloom of the deepest dye! Several men, in the dress of cricketers, came slowly forward, labouring under the load of a lifeless body, which I instantly recognised as that of the young stranger whom I had previously noticed. He was taken up

VOL. XLII.

G