Haunted London — The Strand (South Side) Part 2

[Illustration: ARUNDEL HOUSE, 1646. ] The story runs thus:--When the Countess Catherine was dying, she sent to the Queen to tell her that she had a secret to reveal, without disclosing which she could not die in peace.

The Queen came, and the countess then told her that when Essex was in the Tower, under sentence of death, he one morning threw a ring from his window to a boy passing underneath, hiring him to carry it to his friend Lady Scrope, the countess’s sister, and beg of her to present it in his name to the queen, who had promised to protect him whenever he sent her that keepsake, and who was then waiting for some such sign of his submission.

The boy not clearly understanding the message, brought the ring to the countess, who showed it to her husband, and he insisted on her keeping it.

The countess, having made this disclosure, begged her majesty’s forgiveness; but the queen answered, “God may forgive you, but I never can!

” and burst from the room in a paroxysm of rage and grief.

From that time Elizabeth became perturbed in mind, refused to eat or sleep, and died a fortnight after the countess.

Now this is absurd.

The queen never repented the death of that wrongheaded traitor, and really died of a long-standing disease which had well-defined symptoms.

[70] At Arundel House lodged that grave, wise minister of Henry IV.

of France, the Duc de Sully, then only the Marquis de Rosny.

He describes the house with complacency as fine and commodious, and having a great number of apartments on the same floor.

It was really a mean and low building, but commanding a fine prospect of the river and Westminster, so fine, indeed, that Hollar took a view of London from the roof.

The first night of his arrival Sully slept at the French ambassador’s house in Butcher Row adjoining, a poor house with low rooms, a well staircase lit by a skylight, and small casements.

[71] [Illustration: ARUNDEL HOUSE, 1646. ] In the time of James I. , in whose reign the earldom was restored to Thomas Howard, Arundel House became a treasury of art.

The travelled earl’s collection comprised thirty-seven statues, one hundred and twenty-eight busts, and two-hundred and fifty inscribed marbles, exclusive of sarcophagi, altars, medals, gems, and fragments.

Some of his noblest relics, however, he was not allowed to remove from Rome.

Of this proud and princely amateur of art Lord Clarendon speaks with too obvious prejudice.

He describes him as living in a world of his own, surrounded by strangers, and though illiterate, willing to be thought a scholar because he was a collector of works of art.

Yet the historian admits that he had an air of gravity and greatness in his face and bearing.

He affected an ancient and grave dress; but Clarendon asserts that this was all outside, and that his real disposition was “one of levity,” as he was fond of childish and despicable amusements.

Vansomer’s portraits of the earl and countess contain views of the statue and picture galleries.

[72] This illustrious nobleman, whom the excellent Evelyn calls “my noble friend,” died in 1646. At the Restoration his house and marbles were restored to his grandson, Mr. Henry Howard; the antiquities were then lying scattered about Arundel Gardens, and were neglected and corroding, blanching with rain, and green with damp, much to the horror of Evelyn and other antiquaries, who regarded their fate with alarm and pity.

The old Earl of Arundel (whom Clarendon disliked) had been a collector of art in a magnificent and princely way.

He despatched artist-agents to Italy, and even to Asia Minor, to buy pictures, drawings, statues, votive slabs, and gems.

William Petty collected sculpture for him at Paros and Delos, but the collections were lost off Samos in a storm.

He collected Holbein’s and Albert Dürer’s drawings, discovered the genius of Inigo Jones, and brought Hollar from Prague.

He left England just before the troubles, having received many affronts from Charles’s ministers, who had neglected to restore his ancient titles, went to Padua, and there died.

The marbles Mr. Evelyn induced Mr. Howard, in 1667, to send to the University of Oxford; the statues were also given to Oxford by a later descendant; and the earl’s library (originally part of that of the King of Hungary) Mr. Evelyn persuaded the Duke of Norfolk to bestow on the Royal Society.

[73] The old earl was, I suspect, a proud, soured, and a rather arrogant, formal person.

In a certain dispute about a rectory, he once said to King Charles I. : “Sir, this rectory was an appendant and a manour of mine until my grandfather unfortunately lost both his life and seven lordships, for the love he bore to your grandmother.

”[74] After the Great Fire of London, Mr. Howard lent the Royal Society rooms in his house.

In 1678 the palace was taken down, and the present Arundel, Surrey, Howard, and Norfolk streets were erected in its stead.

The few marbles that remained were removed to Tart Hall, Westminster, and to Cuper’s Gardens across the river.

[75] Tart Hall was the residence of the Countess of Arundel: Cuper’s Gardens belonged to a gardener of the Earl of Arundel.

The Duke of Norfolk originally intended to build a more magnificent house on the old site, and even obtained an act of Parliament for the purpose; but fashion was already setting westward, and the design was abandoned.

[76] In Arundel Street lived Rymer, the historical antiquary, who died here in 1715; John Anstis, the Garter king-at-arms, resided here in 1715-16;[77] also Mrs. Porter, the actress, “over against the Blue Ball.

” Gay, in his delightful _Trivia_ sketches the “long Strand,” and pauses to mourn over the glories of Arundel House.

His walk is from “the Temple’s silent walls,” and he stays to look down at the site of the earl’s mansion-- ----“That narrow street, which steep descends, Whose building to the shining shore extends;

Here Arundel’s famed structure rear’d its frame-- The street alone retains an empty name;

Where Titian’s glowing paint the canvas warm’d, And Raphael’s fair design with judgment charm’d, Now hangs the bellman’s song, and pasted here The coloured prints of Overton appear;

Where statues breathed, the work of Phidias’ hands, A wooden pump or lonely watch-house stands;

There Essex’ stately pile adorned the shore;

There Cecil’s, Bedford’s, Villiers’--now no more.

” In the Strand, between Arundel and Norfolk Streets, in the year 1698, lived Sir Thomas Lyttelton, Speaker of the House of Commons, and father of Pope’s friend, and the author of the _History of Henry the Second_, a ponderous and pompous work.

Next door to him lived the father of Bishop Burnet--a remarkable person, for he was a poor but honest lawyer, born at Edinburgh in 1643. A

bookseller of the same name--a collateral descendant of the bishop whom Swift hated so cordially--afterwards occupied the house.

At the south-west corner of Norfolk Street, near the river, in his wild days lodged the Quaker Penn, son of Cromwell’s stout Bristol admiral.

He had been twice beaten and turned out of doors by his father for his fondness for Nonconformist society and prayer-meetings, and for refusing to stand uncovered in the presence of Charles II.

or of the Duke of York, of whom later he became the suspected favourite.

We do not generally associate the grave and fanatic Penn with a gay and licentious court, nor do we portray him to ourselves as slinking away from hawk-eyed bailiffs;

and yet the venerated founder of repudiating Pennsylvania chose this house when he was sued for debts, as being convenient for slipping unobserved into a boat.

In the eastern entrance he had a peep-hole, through which he could reconnoitre any suspicious visitor.

On one occasion a dun, having sent in his name and waited an unconscionable time, knocked again.

“Will not thy master see me?

” he said to the servant.

The knave was at least candid, for he replied: “Friend, he _has_ seen thee, and he does not like thee.

”[78] In Norfolk Street, in Penn’s old house, afterwards resided for thirty years that truly good man, Dr. Richard Brocklesby, who in early life, during the Seven Years’ War, had practised as an army surgeon.

He was a friend of Burke and Dr. Johnson.

To the former he left, or rather gave, a thousand pounds, and to the latter he offered an annuity of a hundred pounds a year, to enable him to travel for his health, and also apartments in his own house for the sake of medical advice, which Johnson affectionately and gratefully declined.

The doctor was one of the most generous and amiable of men; he attended the poor for nothing, and had many pensioners.

He died the day after returning from a visit to Burke at Beaconsfield.

He had been warned against the fatigue of this journey, but had replied with true Christian philosophy, “My good friend, where’s the difference whether I die at a friend’s house, at an inn, or in a post-chaise?

I hope I am prepared for such an event, and perhaps it would be as well to elude the anticipation of it.

” Dr. Brocklesby was ridiculed by Foote, but Foote attacked virtue quite as often as vice.

He was the physician who had attended Lord Chatham when he was struck down by illness in the House of Lords, a short time before his death.

In January 1698 Peter the Great arrived from Holland, and went straight to a house prepared for him in Norfolk Street, near the water side.

On the following day he was visited by King William and the principal nobility.

Incommoded here by visitors, the Czar removed to Admiral Benbow’s house at Deptford, where he could live more retired.

This Deptford house was Sayes Place, afterwards the Victualling Office, and had once belonged to the celebrated John Evelyn.

The “Honest Shippen” of Pope--William Shippen, M. P.

--lived also in Norfolk Street: a brave, honest man, in an age when nearly every politician had his price.

It was of him Sir Robert Walpole remarked “that he would not say who was corrupted, but he would say who was not corruptible, and that was Shippen.

” Mortimer, a rough, picturesque painter, who was called “the English Salvator Rosa,” and imitated that unsatisfactory artist in a coarse, sketchy kind of way, dwelt in this street.

At No. 21 lived Albany Wallis, a friend and executor of Garrick.

In this street also Addison makes that delightful old country gentleman, Sir Roger de Coverley, put up before he goes to Soho Square.

[79] At No. 8, in 1795, lived Samuel Ireland, the father of the celebrated literary impostor; and here were shown to George Chalmers, John Kemble, and other Shaksperian scholars, the forged plays which the public ultimately scented out as ridiculous.

In 1796 Mr. W.

H.

Ireland published a full confession of his forgeries, fully exonerating his father from all connivance in his foolish fraud, claiming forgiveness for a boyish deception begun without evil intention and without any thought of danger.

“I should never have gone so far,” he says, “but that the world praised the papers too much, and thereby flattered my vanity.

”[80] After the failure of “Vortigern,” the father, Mr. S.

Ireland, still credulous, had written a pamphlet, accusing Malone, his son’s chief assailant, of mean malice and unbearable arrogance.

The true story of the forgery is this.

W.

H.

Ireland, then only eighteen, was articled to a solicitor in New Inn, where he practised Elizabethan handwriting for the sake of deceiving credulous antiquaries.

A forged deed exciting the admiration of his father, who was a collector of old tracts and a worshipper of Shakspere, led him to continue his deceptions, and to pretend to have discovered a hoard of Shaksperian MSS.

A fellow clerk, one Talbot, afterwards an actor, discovering the forgeries, Ireland made him an accomplice.

They then produced a “Profession of Faith,” signed by Shakspere, which Dr. Parr and Dr. Warton (brother of the poet) declared contained “finer things” than all the Church Service.

This foolish praise set the secretive lawyer’s clerk on writing original verse,--a poem to Anne Hathaway, and the play of “Vortigern,” the most recklessly impudent of all his impostures.

Boswell was the first to propose a certificate to be signed by all believers in the productions.

Dr. Parr, thinking Boswell’s writing too feeble, drew up another, which was signed by twenty-one noblemen, authors, and “celebrated literary characters.

” Boswell, characteristically enough, previous to signing his name, fell on his knees, and, “in a tone of enthusiasm and exultation, thanked God that he had lived to witness this discovery, and exclaimed that he could now die in peace.

”[81] Lords Kinnaird, Somerset, and Lauderdale were the noblemen.

There were also present Bindley, Valpy, Pinkerton, Pye the poet laureate, Matthew Wyatt, and the present author’s grandfather, the Rev. Nathaniel Thornbury, an intimate friend of Jenner and of Dr. Johnson, who had at this time been twelve years dead.

The elder Ireland, in his pamphlet, alludes to the solemn and awful manner in which, before crowds of eminent characters, his son attested the genuineness of his forgeries.

“I could not,” says the honest fellow, “suffer myself to cherish the slightest suspicion of his veracity.

”[82] Singularly enough Mr. Albany Wallis--(a solicitor, I believe), of Norfolk Street,--who had given to Garrick a mortgage deed bearing Shakspere’s signature, became the most ardent believer in the unprincipled young clerk’s deceptions.

The terms agreed upon for Ireland’s forgery of “Vortigern” was £300 down, and a division of the receipts, deducting charges, for sixty nights.

The play, however, lived only one night, for which the Irelands received their half, £103. The commentators Malone and Steevens remained sceptical, and Kemble was suspicious and cold in the cause, though he was to be the hero;

but the gulls and quidnuncs were numerous enough to cram the house, and that most commonplace of poets, Sir James Bland Burges, wrote the prologue.

The final damnation of the play was secured by a rhapsody of Vortigern’s, a patch-work thing from “Richard II.

” and “Henry IV.

” The fatal line-- “And when the solemn mockery is o’er,” convulsed the house.

[83] Mr. W.

H.

Ireland in later life was editor of the _York Herald_, and died in 1835. [84] Another eminent historical antiquary, Dr. Birch, lived in Norfolk Street.

The son of a Quaker tradesman at Clerkenwell, he became a London clergyman and an historian, famous for his Sunday evenings’ conversaziones, and was killed by a fall from his horse in 1766. He seems to have been a most pleasant, generous, and honest man.

He edited Bacon’s _Letters and Speeches_, and Thurloe’s _State Papers_, etc. His chief work was his _Memoirs of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth_.

He left books, manuscripts, and money to the British Museum, for which let all scholars bless the good man’s memory.

He appears to have been a student of boundless industry, as from the Lambeth Library alone he transcribed with his own hand sixteen quarto volumes.

He was rector of St. Margaret Pattens in Fenchurch Street.

Dr. Birch must have been a kind husband, for his wife on her deathbed wrote him the following tender letter:-- “This day I return you, my dearest life, my sincere, hearty thanks for every favour bestowed on your most faithful and obedient wife, HANNAH BIRCH.

” We leave it to the watchful cynic to remark that the doctor had been married only one year.

It was of this worthy book-worm that Johnson said--“Yes, sir, he is brisk in conversation, but when he takes up the pen it benumbs him like a torpedo.

” Strype describes Surrey Street as replenished with good buildings, especially that of Nevison Fox, Esq.

, towards the Strand, “which is a fine, large, and curious house of his own building,” and the two houses that front the Thames, that on the east side being the Hon. Charles Howard’s, brother to the Duke of Norfolk.

Both of these houses had pleasant though small gardens towards the Thames.

[85] In 1736 died here George Sale, the useful translator of the Mohammedan Bible, the Koran, that strange compound of pure prayers and impure plagiarisms from the laws of Moses.

Sale had published his Koran in 1734, and in the year of his death he joined Paul Whitehead, Dr. Birch, and Mr. Strutt, in founding a “Society for the Encouragement of Learning.

” He spent many years in writing for the _Universal History_, in which Bayle’s ten folio volumes were included.

Edward Pierce, a sculptor, son of a painter of altar-pieces and church-ceilings, and a pupil of Vandyke, lived at the corner of Surrey Street, and was buried in the Savoy.

He helped Sir Christopher Wren to build St. Clement’s church, and carved the four guardian dragons on the Monument of London.

The statue of Sir William Walworth at the fishmongers’ Hall is from his hand, and so is the bust of Thomas Evans in the hall of the painters and stainers.

He executed also busts of Cromwell, Wren, and Milton.

[86] The charming actress, Mrs. Bracegirdle, lived in Howard Street.

She was the belle and toast of London; every young man of mode was, or pretended to be, in love with her; and the wits wrote verses upon her beauty, in imitation of Sedley and Waller.

Congreve tells us that it was the fashion to avow a tenderness for her.

Rowe, in an imitation of an ode of Horace, urges the Earl of Scarsdale to marry her (though he had a wife living) and set the town at defiance.

Among this crowd of admirers was a Captain Hill, a half-cracked man-about-town, a drunken, profligate bully, of low character, and a friend of the infamous duellist, Lord Mohun.

One of Mrs. Bracegirdle’s favourite parts was Statira, her lover Alexander being her friend and neighbour, the eminent actor Mountfort.

Cibber describes him in this character as “great, tender, persistent, despairing, transported, amiable.

” Hill, “that dark-souled fellow in the pit,” as Leigh Hunt calls him, mistook the frantic extravagance of stage-passion for real love, and in a fit of mad jealousy swore to be revenged on Mountfort, and to carry off the lady by force.

Lord Mohun, always ready for any desperate mischief, agreed to help him in his design.

On the night appointed the friends dined together, and having changed clothes, went to Drury Lane Theatre at six o’clock; but as Mrs. Bracegirdle did not act that night, they next took a coach and drove to her lodgings in Howard Street.

They then, finding that she had gone to supper with a Mr. Page, in Princes Street, Drury Lane, went to his house and waited till she came out.

She appeared at last at the door, with her mother and brother, Mr. Page lighting them out.

Hill immediately seized her, and endeavoured, with the aid of some hired ruffians, to drag her into the coach, where Lord Mohun sat with a loaded pistol in each hand; but her brother and Mr. Page rushing to the rescue, and an angry crowd gathering, Hill was forced to let go his hold and decamp.

Mrs. Bracegirdle and her escort then proceeded to her lodgings in Howard Street, followed by Captain Hill and Lord Mohun on foot.

On knocking at the door, as it was said, to beg Mrs. Bracegirdle’s pardon, they were refused admittance; upon which they sent for a bottle of wine to a neighbouring tavern, which they drank in the street, and then began to patrol up and down with swords drawn, declaring they were waiting to be revenged on Mountfort the actor.

Messengers were instantly despatched to warn Mountfort, both by Mrs. Bracegirdle’s landlady and his own wife, but he could not be found.

The watch were also sent for, and they begged the two ruffians to depart peaceably.

Lord Mohun replied, “He was a peer of the realm, that he had been drinking a bottle of wine, but that he was ready to put up his sword if they particularly desired it: but as for his friend, he had lost his scabbard.

” The cautious watch then went away.

In the meantime the unlucky Mountfort, suspecting no evil, passed down the street on his way home, heedless of warnings.

On coming up to the swordsmen, a female servant heard the following conversation:-- Lord Mohun embraced Mountfort, and said-- “Mr. Mountfort, your humble servant.

I am glad to see you.

” “Who is this?

--Lord Mohun?

” said Mountfort.

“Yes, it is.

” “What brings your lordship here at this time of night?

” Lord Mohun replied-- “I suppose you were sent for, Mr. Mountfort?

” “No, indeed, I came by chance.

” “Have you not heard of the business of Mrs. Bracegirdle?

” “Pray, my lord,” said Hill, breaking in, “hold your tongue.

This is not a convenient time to discuss this business.

” Hill seemed desirous to go away, and pulled Lord Mohun’s sleeve; but Mountfort, taking no notice of Hill, continued to address Lord Mohun, saying he was sorry to see him assisting Captain Hill in such an evil action, and begging him to forbear.

Hill instantly gave the actor a box on the ear, and on Mountfort demanding what that was for, attacked him sword in hand, and ran him through before he had time to draw his weapon.

Mountfort died the next day of the wound, declaring with his last breath that Lord Mohun had offered him no violence.

Hill fled from justice, and Lord Mohun was tried for murder, but unfortunately acquitted for want of evidence.

That fortunate poet, Congreve, whom Pope declared to be one of the three most honest-hearted and really good men in the Kit-cat Club, lived for some time in Howard Street, where he was a neighbour and frequent guest of Mrs. Bracegirdle.

Congreve, on becoming acquainted with the Duchess of Marlborough, removed from Howard Street to a better house in Surrey Street, where he died, January 19, 1729. The career of this son of a Yorkshire officer had been one long undisturbed triumph.

His first play had been revised by Dryden and praised by Southerne.

Besides being commissioner of hackney-coach and wine licences, he also held a place in the Pipe Office, a post in the Custom House, and a secretaryship in Jamaica.

He never quarrelled with the wits: both Addison and Steele admired and praised him, and Voltaire eulogises his comedies.

It was here that Voltaire, while lodging in Maiden Lane, visited the gouty and nearly blind dramatist, then infirm and on the verge of life.

“Mr. Congreve,” he says, “had one defect, which was his entertaining too mean an idea of his profession--that of a writer--though it was to this he owed his fame and fortune.

He spoke of his works as of trifles that were beneath him, and hinted to me in our first conversation that I should visit him upon no other footing than that of a gentleman who led a life of plainness and simplicity.

I answered, that _had he been so unfortunate as to be a mere gentleman_ I should never have come to see him; and I was very much disgusted at so unseasonable a piece of vanity.

” The body of Congreve lay in state in the Jerusalem Chamber, and was afterwards interred with great solemnity in Henry VII.

’s Chapel.

The Duke of Bridgewater and the Earl of Godolphin were amongst those who bore the pall.

The monument was erected by the Duchess of Marlborough, to whom the favoured poet had left £10,000. Above his body-- “The ancient pillars rear their marble heads To bear aloft the arch’d and pond’rous roof, By its own weight made steadfast and immoveable.

”[87] Congreve’s bequest to the duchess of all his property, except £1000, including £200 to Mrs. Bracegirdle (a legacy afterwards cancelled), created much scandal.

The shameless bookseller, Curll, instantly launched forth a life of Congreve, professing to be written by one Charles Wilson, Esq.

, but generally attributed to Oldmixon.

The duchess’s friends were alarmed, and Arbuthnot interfered.

Upon being told that some genuine letters and essays were to be published in the work, Mrs. Bracegirdle or the duchess[88] cried out with defiant affectation and a dramatic drawl, “Not one single sheet of paper, I dare to swear.

” The duchess, who raised a monument in the Abbey to her brilliant but artificial friend, is said to have had a wax image of him made to place on her toilette table.

“To this she would talk as to the living Mr. Congreve, with all the freedom of the most _polite_ and unreserved conversation.

”[89] Strand Lane used formerly to lead to a small landing-pier for wherries, called Strand Bridge.

In Stow’s time the lane passed under a bridge down to the landing-place.

[90] A writer in the _Spectator_ describes how he landed here on a summer morning, arriving with ten sail of apricot boats, consigned to Covent Garden,[91] after having first touched at Nine Elms for melons.

In this lane there is a fine Roman bath which, if indeed Roman, is the most western relic of Roman London, the centre of which was on the east end of the Royal Exchange.

No. 165 has been long used as a warehouse for the sale of Dr. Anderson’s pills.

Dr. Patrick Anderson was physician to Charles I. , and as early as 1649 a man named Inglis sold these quack pills at the Golden Unicorn, over against the Maypole in the Strand.

Tom Brown says, “There are at least a score of pretenders to Anderson’s Scotch pills, and the Lord knows who has the true preparation.

” Brown died in 1704. Sir Walter Scott used to tell one of his best stories about these pills.

It dwelt on the passion for them entertained by a certain hypochondriacal Lowland laird.

Bland or rough, old or young, no visitor at his house escaped a dose--“joost ane leetle Anderson;” and his toady “the doer” used always to swallow a brace.

[92] The Turk’s Head Coffee-house stood on the site of No. 142 Strand.

Dr. Johnson used to sup at this house to encourage the hostess, who was a good civil woman, and had not too much business.

July 28, 1763, Boswell mentions supping there with Dr. Johnson; and again, on August 3, in the same year, just before he set out for his wildgoose chase in Corsica.

[93] No. 132 was the shop of a bookseller named Bathoe.

The first circulating library in London was established here in 1740. Jacob Tonson, Dryden’s grinding publisher and bookseller, lived at the Shakspere’s Head, over against Catherine Street, now No. 141 Strand, from about 1712 till he died, in 1735-6. Tonson seems to have been rough, hard, and penurious.

The poet and publisher were perpetually squabbling, and Dryden was especially vexed at his trying to force him to dedicate his translation of Virgil to King William, and when he refused, making the engraver of the frontispiece aggravate the nose of Æneas till it became “a hooked promontory,” like that of the Protestant king.

It was to Tonson’s shop at Gray’s Inn, however, that Dryden, on being refused money, probably sent that terrible triplet to the obdurate bibliopole:-- “With leering looks, bull-faced, and freckled fair, With two left legs, and Judas-colour’d hair, And frowsy pores that taint the ambient air.

”[94] “Tell the dog,” said Dryden to his messenger, “that he who wrote those can write more.

” But Tonson was perfectly satisfied with this first shot, and surrendered at discretion.

The irascible poet afterwards accused him of intercepting his letters to his sons at Rome, and he confessed to Bolingbroke on one occasion that he was afraid of Tonson’s tongue.

[95] Tonson’s house, since rebuilt, was afterwards occupied by Andrew Millar, the publisher and friend of Thomson, Fielding, Hume, and Robertson, and after his death by Thomas Cadell, his apprentice, and the friend and publisher of Gibbon the historian.

The _Seasons_, _Tom Jones_, and the Histories of Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon were first published at this house.

Millar was a Scotchman, and distinguished his shop by the sign of Buchanan’s Head, afterwards the badge of Messrs. Blackwood.

The _Illustrated London News_, whose office is near Somerset House, was started in 1842 by Mr. Herbert Ingram, originally a humble newsvendor at Northampton; an industrious man, who would run five miles with a newspaper to oblige an old customer.

In the first year he sold a million copies; in the second, two; and in 1848, three millions.

Dr. Mackay, the song-writer, wrote leaders; Mr. Mark Lemon aided him; Mr. Peter Cunningham collected his column of weekly chat; Thomas Miller, the basket-maker poet, was also on his staff.

Mr. Ingram obtained a seat in Parliament, and was eventually drowned in a steamboat collision on Lake Michigan.

[Illustration: PENN’S HOUSE, NORFOLK STREET, 1749. ] [Illustration: SOMERSET HOUSE FROM THE RIVER, 1746. ] CHAPTER IV.