Some forty or fifty years ago, one of the Cavendish family remodelled the house, abolished the gardens, and allowed the familiar Arcade to be cut through them; while not many years ago the final change was made, and the house, purchased by Government, was given over to what may be styled the Artistic and Scientific Societies. The beautiful colonnade was levelled and carried off to Battersea Park, where the stones now lie piled on each other, and are decaying away. The late Mr. Ferguson, an admirable, critical architect, has pointed out the shocking, meagre, treatment that the house has received--the new story being heavier than the one underneath, and the monstrous stone arcade placed in front, as if on purpose to even further shorten the story below. Any unprofessional person can see for himself how discordant is all this, but “the job,” as it may be called, was not done by the architect of the new buildings. “Burlington House, at present, is only remarkable as an example to show how easy it is to destroy even the best buildings by ill-judged additions or alterations; an upper story has been added more solid, with an order taller than that in which it stands, so as utterly to crush what was a _piano nobile_ of the building. The result is, that what a few years ago was one of the most elegant is now one of the very worst architectural examples in the metropolis.” Another interesting pursuit for the “Traveller in London” is the visiting of old houses where famous persons have lived or died. It is a curious sensation, this, of halting before some cenotaph of this kind, especially when it wears its old habit, and has not been altered. You think how many times they ascended those steps and entered the always open door. There was his room--there his study. In most instances the reflection is, how poor, how mean the tabernacle! Never did this recur with such force as on a visit to Enfield to Charles Lamb’s old house--a poor, stricken little dwelling--one in a mean cluster, so straitened and small, with a little doorway through which you could scarce squeeze. Yet here he gave parties, and lived amid madness and misery. Friends came down from London to see him. The Society of Arts has furnished aid in this direction, and like some Old Mortality goes round London recording, and keeping alive, these memories by fixing pretty, circular tablets on the front of the more notable mansions. This good work is being gradually extended, but it takes time; for it entails negotiation with the proprietors, some of whom are slow to understand what is intended. But, in truth, if one were to diligently search the “lives” and “memoirs,” an enormous list could be made. The American, Mr. L. Hutton, has done this recently, with singular painstaking. The difficulty is, however, that in the last century “numbers” were not in fashion, and people gave generally the name only of the street. Sir H. Wood, the