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: