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palaces of peers to the mart of merchants, stand those quiet

walls which Law has delighted to honour by its presence.



What a world within a world is the Temple! how quiet are

its 'entangled walks,' as someone lately has called them, and



yet how close to the densest concourse of humanity! how

gravely respectable its sober alleys, though removed but by a



single step from the profanity of the Strand and the low

iniquity of Fleet Street! Old St Dunstan, with its bell-smiting



bludgeoners, has been removed; the ancient shops with their

faces full of pleasant history are passing away one by one;



the bar itself is to go--its doom has been pronounced

by The Jupiter; rumour tells us of some huge building



that is to appear in these latitudes dedicated to law,

subversive of the courts of Westminster, and antagonistic to



the Rolls and Lincoln's Inn; but nothing yet threatens

the silent beauty of the Temple: it is the mediaeval court



of the metropolis.

Here, on the choicest spot of this choice ground, stands a



lofty row of chambers, looking obliquely upon the sullied

Thames; before the windows, the lawn of the Temple Gardens



stretches with that dim yet delicious verdure so refreshing

to the eyes of Londoners. If doomed to live within the thickest



of London smoke you would surely say that that would be your

chosen spot. Yes, you, you whom I now address, my dear,



middle-aged bachelor friend, can nowhere be so well domiciled

as here. No one here will ask whether you are out or at home;



alone or with friends; here no Sabbatarian will investigate

your Sundays, no censorious landlady will scrutinise your



empty bottle, no valetudinarian neighbour will complain of

late hours. If you love books, to what place are books so



suitable? The whole spot is redolent of typography. Would

you worship the Paphian goddess, the groves of Cyprus are



not more taciturn than those of the Temple. Wit and wine

are always here, and always together; the revels of the Temple



are as those of polished Greece, where the wildest worshipper

of Bacchus never forgot the dignity of the god whom he adored.



Where can retirement be so complete as here? where can you

be so sure of all the pleasures of society?



It was here that Tom Towers lived, and cultivated with

eminent success the tenth Muse who now governs the periodical



press. But let it not be supposed that his chambers were

such, or so comfortless, as are frequently the gaunt abodes of



legal aspirants. Four chairs, a half-filled deal book-case with

hangings of dingy green baize, an old office table covered with



dusty papers, which are not moved once in six months, and an

older Pembroke brother with rickety legs, for all daily uses; a



despatcher for the preparation of lobsters and coffee, and an

apparatus for the cooking of toast and mutton chops; such



utensils and luxuries as these did not suffice for the well-being

of Tom Towers. He indulged in four rooms on the first floor,



each of which was furnished, if not with the splendour, with

probably more than the comfort of Stafford House. Every



addition that science and art have lately made to the luxuries

of modern life was to be found there. The room in which he



usually sat was surrounded by book-shelves carefully filled;

nor was there a volume there which was not entitled to its



place in such a collection, both by its intrinsic worth and

exterior splendour: a pretty portable set of steps in one corner



of the room showed that those even on the higher shelves were

intended for use. The chamber contained but two works of



art--the one, an admirable bust of Sir Robert Peel, by Power,

declared the individual politics of our friend; and the other,



a singularly long figure of a female devotee, by Millais, told

equally plainly the school of art to which he was addicted.



This picture was not hung, as pictures usually are, against the

wall; there was no inch of wall vacant for such a purpose:






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