This is the house where essayist William Hazlitt lived and died. Back in the early nineteenth century it was a cheap Soho lodging house, which got an unfavourable review from Hazlitt himself: in one of his deathbed essays he condemned it as an ‘unwholesome dungeon’. In a master stroke of irony, the house (and its two adjoining neighbours) have since been transformed into a luxurious hotel. In 1718 there were no elevators and there still aren’t, but they have updated the plumbing, installed bathrooms and replaced most of the candles with electricity. This place is full of creaky character, including a throne-style antique lavatory in one room, and many of the rooms have claw-footed baths and four-poster beds. You can even sleep in the room where Hazlitt died. Understandably, the place maintains an impressive literary pedigree: there is a tradition of visiting authors leaving a signed copy of their book in the hotel library.







