There are other houses hard by which illustrate curious mutations of life. Here, for instance, is a handsome mansion, built by Mr. Beresford Hope for his private residence, and from the designs of a French architect, one of the rare specimens in town. In time it passed from his hands, and is now the Junior Athenæum Club. Further on, an imposing stone mansion, crescent-shaped in its façade, and of classical character, was, I believe, built by the late “Marquis of Steyne”--or Hertford, rather--at, of course, great cost, and equally, of course, never inhabited by him. For thirty or forty years, I believe, it remained in this ghostly condition, until his strange, eccentric course came to a close, and more rational successors arrived. Passing on, we reach Cambridge House, once the mansion of the ever-popular Palmerston. There is something dignified, yet unpretending, in this house, not to say classical; it seems suited to a prime minister. Here were those parties and receptions, where the adroit hostess was supposed to have the art of cementing political ties. It is now a club, and enormous additions have been made on the ground behind. Few know that it was in this row that the Hamiltons and Lord Nelson lodged when they came to London, and where the hero’s weakness was exhibited in most open and unbecoming manner, which has been good-naturedly glossed over by his countrymen. The White Horse Cellar, a most interesting old place for its traditions, lingered on, bow windows and all, till a few years back. The revival of the old coaching days saved it. But now it has been fashioned into a new modern hotel. There is hardly a more exhilarating and original spectacle to be seen than occurs here in the full “swing” of the season, at the close of a summer’s day, between six and seven o’clock. At this time gather elegants in glossy hats and frock-coats with waists, ebony sticks with silver knobs, like miniature “black rods;” together with wiry elderly gentlemen, like the curious water-colour portraits that used to be seen in Sams’ old shop at the foot of St. James’s Street. A few years ago “Sams” was swept away, with all his curious water-colour noblemen in tight trousers and strange hats, and a vast Dutch house has taken its place. The coach seers are all well shaven, and wear check cravats. Some stand on the steps, others on the _pavé_. Less aristocratic beings cluster there too, straws in the mouth, or emerge from the cellar below. Now the clock hand is within a quarter of an inch of the hour, and hark! the faint winding of a horn from the Knightsbridge direction, then another nearer, from the Strand side. The coaches are coming up true to their time--to a minute. There they are--the bright yellow, the dark, the grey panelled: the policeman puts back the traffic; up they roll, well laden; ladies bright and cheerful; the scarlet guard; the coachman confident and secure, and bringing up his team with exquisite nicety, as