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CHRONICLES OF AN OLD INN
Or,
A Few Words about Gray's Inn.
by
ANDRÉE HOPE.
London: Chapman & Hall,
Limited.
1887.
Charles Dickens and Evans,
Crystal Palace Press.
Dedicated
BY PERMISSION, AND WITH THE DEEPEST RESPECT,
TO
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS
THE DUKE OF CONNAUGHT,
Treasurer,
AND TO THE
HONOURABLE SOCIETY OF BENCHERS
OF GRAY'S INN.
PREFACE.
It is with feelings of much diffidence, even with alarm, that this
little book is given to the world. It was written to give pleasure to
many dear to the writer's heart, relatives and friends, most of whom
have already gone to that "Shadowy Land" to which we are all so fast
hastening.
They, alas! can no longer feel an interest in the pages written in
hours of much happiness and of cruel sorrow. Probably the literary
world, of whom the writer stands in trembling awe, will regard with
the same indifference a little work so crude and incomplete. But as
sometimes a rough sketch brings persons and places as vividly to
remembrance as highly finished pictures, perhaps these "In Memoriam
Chronicles of an Old Inn" may, in some degree, interest those who have
not time to read more skilfully written but longer histories.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
GRAY'S INN 1
THE TWO BROTHERS, ANTHONY AND FRANCIS BACON 70
SIR NICHOLAS BACON 93
SIR WILLIAM GASCOIGNE 103
LORD BURLEIGH 122
SIR EDWARD COKE 140
OTHER EMINENT LAWYERS 176
STEPHEN GARDINER 181
THE CHAPEL 231
ARCHBISHOP LAUD 241
BISHOP JUXON AND ARCHBISHOPS SHELDON AND WHITGIFT 246
CHRONICLES OF AN OLD INN;
OR,
A Few Words about Gray's Inn, London.
GRAY'S INN.
About half-way down the great thoroughfare of Holborn, there is an old
and somewhat gloomy gateway. That gateway is low and dark, but rarely
silent, as from early dawn until late into the night it echoes and
re-echoes with the thunder of the mighty traffic of the great street on
which it opens.
From early dawn until late into the night may be heard the heavy roll
of omnibuses, the sharp rattle of cabs, the hurried steps of vast
multitudes of foot passengers.
Like the arteries of the living body, that as long as life endures
receives fresh blood from the heart, are the main streets that lead
from "the City," that heart of gigantic London; and from this great
centre of the trade of Europe, the wondrous stream of commerce is for
ever flowing.
Of these magnificent streets few are more striking to the stranger than
the grand old thoroughfare of Holborn.
Its width, its length, the precipitous hill over which it passes, the
noble viaduct that now eases the too rapid descent, the memories that
are connected with this, one of the most ancient, as well as one of
the most important streets of the English capital, render it more than
ordinarily interesting to the foreigner, and to the stranger.
A few of the ancient houses are still in existence, and from their
quaint old casements many royal pageants and many sorrowful processions
have been witnessed.
Kings and Queens arrayed in gorgeous robes, blazing with costly
jewels, and surrounded by glittering courtiers, have gaily moved
onwards amid the blare of trumpets, and the shouts of admiring crowds,
to partake of sumptuous Court festivals.
In awe-inspiring contrast to the gay trains, and to the beauty and
mirth of the pleasure-seekers so joyously riding forward to fresh
delight, other scenes have, alas! been too frequently witnessed from
these same windows.
Amid the derisive cries of a savage rabble, or amid the gloomy silence
of a suffering and oppressed people, other and ghastly processions have
also passed this way.
Merciless guards and black-robed priests are here, and in their midst,
watched with zealous and cruel care, are tottering and emaciated
figures--martyrs on their way to Smithfield, prepared to seal by their
blood the testimony they have borne to the truth of their faith.
Broken down by suffering, with a frame ofttimes racked by the torture
it has undergone, many an heroic heart has still triumphed over the
crushed and mangled body, and with uplifted hands and in fervid accents
the Christian hero, even amidst the flames, praises God, who permits
His faithful servant to testify, though in death, undying love and
confidence in his Divine Father.
God be thanked, however, that these hideous old times have long since
passed away, and that England is now, by her noble tolerance and
enlightened Christianity, doing much to show the world that it is not
by cruelty and persecution that our holy religion requires to be upheld.
Oldbourne, as it was called in olden times, was early one of the
important thoroughfares in, or rather leading to the City of London,
and although the traffic must in days of yore have been but a faint
shadow of what it now is, still even as far back as the reign of
Richard II. it was necessary to make special laws for its good
ordering, by reason of the number of carts, wains, drays, and other
conveyances that passed that way.
One old chronicler complains thus quaintly:
"The coachman rides behind his horses' tails," saith he, "he lasheth
them, but looketh not before nor behind him. The drayman sitteth and
sleepeth on his dray, and so letteth his horses lead him home."
For the better maintenance of safety, it seems that it had been ordered
that the fore horse of every carriage should be led by hand; but we see
that in old days, as indeed is sometimes the case now, such prudent
regulations were but little regarded. So the same old chronicler
mournfully adds: "These wise laws are not faithfully observed."
In these same old days coaches were unknown, but a singular kind of
chariot, or large covered chair, slung upon wheels, and called a
whirlicote, was used by ladies of high rank.
When Richard II. travelled from Kent to London, the King and all his
Court rode on horseback, but the Queen Mother, being weak and sickly,
made the journey in a whirlicote.
A new fashion came in vogue the following year, when King Richard
married Princess Anne of Bohemia.
The fair young Queen made her first appearance in public arrayed in
white robes embroidered in silver, so that "she shone in beauty and
brightness like unto a sweet crescent moon," and to the admiration
of all beholders, she rode gallantly at the King's left hand, seated
sideways on her horse, on a machine called a side-saddle.
From that moment whirlicotes went out of fashion, and every woman who
was young enough to mount a horse rode sideways like the Queen.
But centuries have passed away, each century, each year indeed, adding
to the mighty stream of traffic, and now the roar of passing vehicles,
the hurrying footsteps of thousands of foot passengers, cease not from
early dawn until late into the night.
To the unaccustomed ear, to the unaccustomed eye, such overpowering
noise, such perpetual movement, speedily becomes bewildering and even
stupefying. Ear and eye alike are exhausted by the unwonted strain.
Very few, however, of the many who pass and repass that way, notice the
low, dark archway already mentioned opening on the left-hand side of
the street when proceeding towards the City. Turn down that archway,
and ere twenty steps are made a different world is found. Not only
indeed a different world, but a chance visitor might say with reason
that he is out of the world, the sudden quiet, the sudden peace, is in
such extraordinary contrast to the rush and hurry of the street he has
left.
Instead of the blinding glare, the suffocating dust, the bewildering
noise of Holborn, the quiet court to which this archway leads, rests in
almost monastic calm. Lofty houses intercept the burning rays of the
sun, and cast their soft gray shadows half across the square. Even the
noise of the great street is softened to the ear, and becomes almost
soothing, as the echoes of it fall and are gradually lost amid the
thick old walls.
The maddening hubbub of carts, cabs, and hurrying feet fades into
an indistinct murmur, like the throbbing of the waves of the great
Atlantic when heard far away inland.
To one given to idle and desultory wanderings, and to idle and
desultory thoughts, the quaint old nooks and corners that may often
be found in the midst even of the most populous towns, have far more
charms than the busier haunts of men, for to those who love to muse on
bygone days there is a strange and constantly increasing fascination
in the conventual quiet, the faded grandeur of many of these time-worn
spots.
In truth, however, the old squares of that ancient Inn of Court called
Gray's Inn, though quiet and retired, are by no means gloomy. Not only
are they cool and restful in the glowing days of summer, but in their
pleasant courts some remains may still be found of the sweet country
sights, of the sweet country sounds that centuries ago made the drives
and walks by Oldbourne Hill, with its pretty lanes and paths, and its
fragrant hedgerows, the favourite resort, not only of the tired and
heated citizens of London, but also of the great lords whose stately
palaces were either grouped around Westminster, or stretched far along
the picturesque river-bank then, as now, called the Strand.
No doubt the beautiful and rapidly flowing river had many charms, and
we know from Pepys, that during the summer heats its broad bosom was
covered with pleasure-boats and wherries.
In those days smoke did not darken, nor did evil smells and sights
defile the waters of the sweet Thames. Fair gardens then bordered its
banks, and trees and flowers dipped tendrils and branches into its
waves.
Still, notwithstanding these attractions, the Londoners dearly loved
Oldbourne Hill, where the fresh cool breezes came from the Kent and
Surrey hills laden with the sweet scent of gorse and broom (that
favourite badge of our Plantagenet Princes), and from the valleys and
sunny slopes below came the richer perfumes of innumerable vineyards
and hop-grounds.
It is difficult to realise, while wandering amongst the wilderness
of houses that now surrounds and connects the cities of London and
Westminster, that once fair fields and shady woods extended for miles,
where now are only found grimy streets and dismal courts. Still more
difficult is it to believe that within the last hundred years these
same fair fields were dangerous to traverse after dark, by reason of
the many footpads who infested the neighbourhood.
Beyond St. Pancras Church a bell was rung at stated hours, in order
that foot passengers who wished to cross the meadows towards Hampstead
and Highgate, or go to those suburbs called Camden and Somers Towns,
should have the protection of an armed watchman. In those days few
persons ventured abroad after nightfall without carrying some defensive
weapon. Without gas, without police, London streets as well as London
suburbs were fraught with danger.
Now, when dazzled by the glare of the streets, when wearied by the
overpowering noise of the great town, a shady corner in quiet Gray's
Inn Square seems doubly attractive.
The bright August sun shines fiercely on the opposite pavement. Its
rays glint up and down the façade of the tall houses, here and there
catching the angle of a projecting cornice, then reddening and almost
beautifying some old smoke-blackened chimney.
Many are the beautiful though rarely-noticed spots of colour these rays
bring to light.
Tiny atoms of green moss, and of those other hardy lichens that time
gathers round about old tiles, glow like gems when caught by the
flickering beams. Even the shade-loving lycopodiums, that as years
roll on, softly carpet with their minute sprays all the damp, ugly
spots into which the sun rarely penetrates, even these modest plants
grow brighter and more beautiful as the unwonted warmth and sunshine
steal into their secluded corners. With what delicacy and grace does
not Nature soften and re-colour all the injuries that time and man's
neglect so surely bring about!
As the hours wear on, the restfulness of the old precincts grows more
and more sweet. The subdued roar of the great city rises and falls in
measured cadence, and mingles quite pleasantly with the cawing of the
rooks as they slowly wing their way home from their feeding grounds
near Hampstead and Highgate, wheeling and cawing lazily as they circle
round the old trees ere they settle themselves for the night.
An ancient rookery still exists in the gardens of the Inn, and the soft
evening air, as it sways to and fro the branches of the tall elms in
which the nests have been built, brings with it the delicious scent of
newly-cut grass.
Well may the Benchers love their Inn. In no other place in London
are there so many pleasant reminders of the fair country that once
surrounded these Courts and Halls.
When seated in the gardens under the shade of the ancient trees,
listening to the songs and chirpings of innumerable birds, it seems
really incongruous that in so restful a spot, where so much speaks
of quiet country life, weighty legal matters are for ever being
transacted. Could we penetrate into the secrets of many of the old,
dark houses that frown around, what tales of anxiety, of suffering,
what histories of the trials that blight men's lives would come to
light.
To the doctor and to the lawyer the deadly malady, the heart-crushing
anxiety, must ever be told without reserve. No cruel symptom, no ugly
detail, must be concealed. No man may keep a secret from such advisers.
Lawyers as well as doctors must be told not only the truth, but the
whole often hateful truth.
These old houses could indeed tell many mysterious, many marvellous
tales, but silent as they are, their heavy, solid doorways, their
long, narrow windows, their broad staircases and lofty rooms, are
in themselves a history of the past. They are accurate though mute
evidences of the time when they came into being. A faded grandeur
still hangs about them, for they were built when land was not sold
by the foot as it now is, and space was then a luxury comparatively
easily purchased. So the staircases are broad, and the rooms large and
lofty; but years have passed, centuries have passed, and staircases
and passages have grown dusky and dim, and the handsome rooms devoted
only to the stern purposes of life, and uncheered or graced by the
softening presence of woman, have become shabby and harsh of aspect. So
generation after generation of lawyers dwell here and pass away, each
generation leaving an additional shadow of dusky shabbiness upon the
poor old rooms.
The occupiers of the Inn are for the most part day dwellers only, doing
their work in chambers, and leaving in the evening for their houses
elsewhere.
Some few bachelors, however, make their home here, and when that is the
case, the sets of chambers so occupied are the perfection of comfort.
Those who have the good fortune to know these snug abodes, may well
be eloquent as to their merits. The solid old mahogany tables, the
exquisitely finished Chippendale chairs, are mellow with age, and glow
with the rich gloss produced by much rubbing. Then the fireplaces, so
hospitably deep and ample, where the ruddy flames can so well be seen
as they dart up the great chimneys, casting their light upon the quaint
masks and carvings that adorn the mantel-shelves; they make the ugly
faces laugh as they are caught by the genial light.
The roomy arm-chairs, too, have assumed the cosy hollowness that speaks
of constant use, and look most invitingly comfortable.
During summer the long narrow windows will be opened upon the bright
and sunny garden, where great beds of mignonette and long lines of
sweet-peas make the summer air full of fragrance; and not unfrequently
on a warm, drowsy afternoon may be heard the soothing tones of a
violoncello played by no unskilful hand, and perchance a tender old
melody of Purcell or Glück, or one of the grand harmonies of Beethoven,
adds yet another charm to the peace and restfulness of the place.
In short, in many parts of this pleasant Inn old age has attained that
judicious number of years when men wisely discard mere show, and are
content to seek and obtain intense comfort.
Some of the residents in Gray's Inn are Benchers, and these gentlemen
are not only entitled to chambers, but during Term time an especial
dinner is provided for them in the Great Hall; and as the Society
always numbers amongst its members some of the most distinguished men
of the day, it may readily be understood how interesting and attractive
these meetings are.
Inns of Court were originally so called because the students belonging
to them were bound to attend and serve the Courts of Judicature.
Anciently these colleges received none but the sons of noblemen, and of
those gentlemen whose rank qualified them to do service to the King in
his Court.
Fortescue affirms that in his time there were about two thousand
students in the Inns of Court and of Chancery, all of whom were _filii
nobilium_, or gentlemen born. But the rigidity of this rule was
gradually relaxed, and in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, Sir Edward
Coke reckons that not more than half the students then studying in the
various Inns were of gentle birth.
These Inns of Court, that for centuries have been so justly famed for
the education and introduction of men of learning in the law, are
governed by masters, principals, Benchers, stewards, treasurers, and
other officers.
Amongst their buildings are public halls for exercises, such as
reading, declaiming, reciting, etc. At one time every student was
compelled to attend and take part in these exercises for a certain
number of years before he was admitted to plead at the Bar. At the
present day, however, most of these regulations have fallen into
disuse, and are no longer insisted upon.
The societies have not any judicial authority over their members, but
they have certain orders and rules amongst themselves, which have by
consent the force of laws.
For slight offences persons are excommoned, or put out of commons. For
graver faults they forfeit their chambers, or, indeed, may be expelled
the college. When an offender has been thus expelled, he can never be
received by any of the other societies.
The members of these societies, or Inns, may be divided into Benchers,
outer barristers, inner barristers, and students.
The Inns themselves are divided into, and are severally denominated,
Inns of Chancery and Inns of Court.
The most ancient of the former is Thavies Inn, which was begun in
the reign of Edward III. The other Inns of Chancery are New Inn,
Symond's Inn, Clement's Inn, Clifford's Inn (once the property of
Lord Clifford), Staples' Inn (so called because it had belonged to
the Merchants of the Staple), Lion Inn (formerly an ordinary hostelry
for travellers, bearing the sign of the Lion), Furnival's Inn, and
Barnard's Inn.
Inns of Chancery were, in the earlier centuries, considered as a
preparatory college for the younger students, who could here pursue the
studies that would enable them to be admitted into the Inns of Court.
The four principal Inns of Court are the Inner Temple, the Middle
Temple, Lincoln's Inn, and Gray's Inn.
Gray's Inn formerly belonged to Lord Gray, and Lincoln's Inn to the
Earl of Lincoln. The Inner and Middle Temple, once the dwellings of
the famous Knights Templar, were purchased about three hundred years
ago by the then leading Professors of the Common Law.
There are also two other Inns, those of the Serjeants of the Law.
The general daily life in the Inns of Court during olden times, is
described by Fortescue with much minuteness, and appears to have been
both varied and attractive:
"On working days most of the students applied themselves to the study
of the law, and on holy days to the study of Holy Scripture. At the
same time, however, the students were not allowed to neglect lighter
pursuits, for they learned to sing, and to exercise themselves in all
kind of harmony, and they also made provision for the exercise and
consequent health of the body, for they constantly practised dancing
and other noblemen's pastimes. They did everything in peace and amity."
This last assertion appears somewhat startling in an age when scenes of
brawling and fighting were of almost daily occurrence in the streets of
London. However, it may be presumed that in these old times the heads
of societies, having young men to take care of, did try to take care of
them, and did not leave them quite so much to themselves as is the case
in these modern days.
No doubt, there is much to be said in favour of training boys, as early
as possible, to be self-dependent.
We are proud, and proud with reason, of "Our Boys." Still the most
sanguine amongst us must admit that there is room for improvement in
the system that is adopted in most of our schools and colleges.
It is the fashion now to deem that old heads can be seated on very
young shoulders. These young fellows, scarcely more than children in
years, are left to their own guidance, both morally and physically.
We may indeed glory in our boys in many respects. They are manly,
honourable, brave, and truthful, with a truthfulness that makes many a
parent's heart beat high with pride and pleasure; and yet, in how many
households has not the sad knowledge come that the boys so loved, so
gloried in, are ignorant and selfish--ignorant of most of the branches
of useful knowledge, having tacitly been permitted to adopt habits of
grievous self-indulgence?
When the young fellow has to enter upon his profession, when he has
really to fight the battle of life, how often is it not found that
the expensive education bestowed upon him (often at the cost of much
self-denial from the rest of the family) is worth absolutely nothing?
Now that the fruit of so much learning has to be gathered, it is
discovered that there is actually no fruit to gather; that, in order
to be eligible even for the contest of these competitive examinations,
a young man who has been at school for years has to learn the very
rudiments of necessary knowledge, and must _cram_ himself in a few
months, and at a dire expenditure of money and health, in those very
subjects that he has so long been _nominally_ studying.
In how few schools are writing, English composition, arithmetic,
geography, or modern languages thoroughly taught? And yet these are the
very subjects absolutely essential for a candidate in a competitive
examination.
Then again, with regard to those who study hard. How many and how sad
are the cases where the student has broken down physically, because due
care had not been taken of the bodily health, while the brain had been
unduly taxed?
There are, doubtless, exceptional instances of genius so marvellous
that work comes easily both to mind and body. These are the men who
become eventually our great statesmen, our great lawyers; but these
mighty ones are the exception, not the rule. Few, indeed, are they
whose talents and whose powers enable them to overcome every difficulty.
For the most part the learned student sinks into a frail and
over-sensitive man, whose weak physical strength breaks down under a
too severe mental strain. Often, indeed, it does so on the very eve of
victory.
One of the most touching, and yet one of the truest and most vivid
pictures ever given to us by that great writer Bulwer, is the sorrowful
story in "Pelham" of the gentle and learned scholar, a student so
skilled in book learning that he had distanced all his compeers of
the day, and yet so feeble in health, so deficient in what is called
common-sense, that he was incapable of ruling his own household, or of
coping with the every-day affairs of life.
Surely there must be some means by which those appointed to rule can
exercise a discreet supervision over the boys and young men entrusted
to their care. A supervision which, while not entrenching on their
liberty, will yet lead into right ways those who are entering on the
varied and dangerous paths of life.
Some wise writer has said: "More education is effected during the
_amusements_ of youth than is gained by all the _studies_ to which
teachers give such zealous care."
Now, in most places where boys are being trained, it seems a point
of honour that out of school the masters shall never interfere, nor,
indeed, in most cases do they appear.
Besides the practices of olden times already mentioned the ancient
custom called "Moots" must not be forgotten.
Gray's Inn was especially conspicuous for those exercises, which Stow
calls "Boltes," "Mootes," or "putting of cases," for the "Boltes" were
conversational arguments addressed to or put to a student by a Bencher
and two barristers in private.
Subsequently, when the student had become a sufficiently expert
"Bolter," he was admitted to the "Mootes," where questions upon legal
matters were debated by the students in the presence of the Benchers of
the Society.
The object of these exercises was to promote the faculty of ready
speaking, and, in order to secure this end, the disputants were kept in
ignorance of the topic to be argued until called upon to discuss it.
The case, drawn up by the Reader, was laid upon the salt-cellar before
meals; none were permitted to look into it under pain of expulsion from
the Society.
These discussions were strictly legal, and the proceedings were
conducted as nearly as possible in like manner to those of the Courts
themselves. "About the end of the 17th century," says Lord Campbell,
"Mootes fell into disuse, and they have now entirely ceased."
It is in such institutions as these Inns of Court and other similar
communities, that the old feudal feeling respecting ancient servitors
has been retained in much of its pristine integrity. Many of the old
servants and inferior officers of Grays Inn may be said to belong to
the place by right of descent. They were born within its precincts,
they have been trained beneath the shadows of its old walls. In their
youth they began their course of serving under the guidance of father,
or grandfather, and now, in their old age, have in their turns some
post of trust and responsibility confided to them.
There is something especially delightful and heart-stirring in the
service of gray-headed men who have passed their lives in the same
place, serving the same masters.
Shakespeare felt this, when, in describing old Adam in _As You Like
It_, he makes the old man say:
Master, go on, and I will follow thee,
To the last gasp, with love and loyalty.
Most of the old servitors in Gray's Inn are well-educated,
well-informed men, and are in general fully acquainted with the
histories, traditions, and quaint biographies connected with the
ancient Courts wherein their lives have been passed.
The chief objects of their pride and affection, are of course the
Benchers. For the Benchers they entertain the profound reverence that
so powerful a body of learned men is entitled to expect, and this
respect is mingled at the same time with the affectionate solicitude
that old servants have for kind and esteemed masters.
They feel a great interest in the students, although they regard them
for the most part as wild young fellows, promising, no doubt, but still
far from possessing the talents of former generations of lawyers. They
will sometimes, indeed, shake their heads dolefully over the degeneracy
of young men of to-day, when compared with the youth of the celebrated
personages, whose names adorn the walls of the great hall.
Respecting the old buildings and old customs of the Inn they love to
dilate for the hour together, and even the rooks come in for a share
of their affection, and also for a considerable amount of anxiety, for
this venerable community shows alarming symptoms of decay, the aërial
colony having sadly diminished of late years.
In vain has the welfare of the infant progeny been tenderly watched
over, latterly many unnatural parent rooks appear to have taken a
dislike to their own offspring, and in that case peck the little ones
to death without thought of parental duty.
One old gray-headed rook, who is always the first to arrive on the
ground when feeding time has come, and who hops about with an
uncommonly consequential air, from all accounts appears to be a perfect
reprobate among his fellows. The number of wives he has cruelly
injured, and the number of children he has kicked out of the nest have
acquired for him the evil reputation of being the ringleader of the
badly disposed of the feathered tribe.
Unfortunately, also, there is reason to fear that so bad an example
has perverted several of the younger husbands and fathers. Infanticide
has indeed of late so much increased, that it has now become a matter
of grave consideration whether it will not be advisable to inflict the
extreme punishment of the law upon the chief criminal. It is feared
that it will be necessary to put this venerable gray head to death,
as a terrible example to all rooks, and as a warning to all intending
sinners.
Unhappily it must be admitted that the diminution of these interesting
inhabitants of the higher regions is not altogether owing to their
domestic delinquencies. It is, no doubt, partly caused by the rapid
growth of London, and the great distance the rooks have now to traverse
in order to arrive at their natural feeding grounds.
Another and deplorable cause arises from the decay and unavoidable
destruction of some of the oldest trees.
In former years there was a very large rookery in the gardens of Gray's
Inn. In 1875, however, storms and severe winters had so broken and
damaged many of the largest trees that it was necessary to cut them
down. This was done in March, and in April, to the consternation of the
inhabitants of the Inn, the rooks departed in a body, as if indignant
at being thus despoiled of a portion of their dominions.
For nearly a month not a bird appeared; then about six pair shyly
returned, as if unwilling to quit for ever so fair and so peaceful a
dwelling.
The other wanderers have never come back; but the little colony, though
so much diminished from what it was in days of yore, still flourishes
and indeed prospers.
There are more nests this spring than there have been for several past
years, and it may therefore be hoped that this ancient rookery may long
continue to be one of the charms and attractions of Gray's Inn.
Its existence undoubtedly mainly depends upon the durability of the
grand and beautiful dwelling-places of the birds, the noble old elms,
and unhappily such old elm trees are dangerous neighbours. With age
their wood becomes not only brittle, but peculiarly liable to internal
decay.
After the heavy rains that so often succeed dry summers, huge branches,
sometimes the tree itself, will fall without warning. Such accidents
not unfrequently occur in calm and quiet weather when danger is not
suspected; the vicinity of elm trees is therefore perilous to life as
well as to neighbouring buildings.
Besides rooks, many other birds, rare to London, may not unfrequently
be found in the pleasant gardens of Gray's Inn.
Dun, or hooded crows, have occasionally been seen here, and even
jackdaws sometimes come for a meal.
As for the starling, this clever bird knows where he is well off, he is
therefore a very constant visitor. Many delicate little songsters too,
who, having escaped from their cages, find that the liberty they have
gained has only made them persecuted waifs and strays in the wilderness
of London, seem to know, by intuition, that here they are not only in
safety, but secure of a kind welcome.
Goldfinches, chaffinches, green and gray linnets, the lesser redpole,
robins, willow-wren, even the song-thrush may from time to time be
found here, and, perched on the lower branches of the trees, reward the
kind hands that have given them food by pouring forth some of their
sweetest and most touching songs.
During the last three winters the tiny tomtit, with his pretty blue
head and delicate yellow breast, has made his appearance, and amongst
the rarer visitors are fieldfares, redwings, and the great titmouse.
As for the pert little friendly sparrows, they are evidently aware that
this is the land of plenty, so they hop about the old Courts with an
assuming air of assured proprietorship; and from house-top, doorsill,
and projecting eave, chirp condescending acknowledgments of the good
things they enjoy.
But why linger in the old Courts when the soft west wind is murmuring
so invitingly amongst the branches of the tall trees? Even the birds
cannot remain quiet this bright summer's evening. See how they are
flitting in and out the masses of dark green leaves, perching first
here, then there, and peeping into every crack and crevice of the old
bark. Now, many dart upwards to the topmost branches, whence they pour
forth their summer gladness in a burst of joyous song.
Let us go to the pleasant gardens--gardens so pleasant, not only in
themselves, but also charming with all the associations of past ages;
so connected with the pleasant hours passed here by men both learned
and celebrated in our history.
Every ancient tree has its story; every sunny grass-plot could relate a
little romance.
How many a love tale has doubtless been told and listened to in these
quiet alcoves? How many a courtly dame has gloried in the compliments
paid to her beauty when walking on these smooth lawns?
There is every reason to believe that these gardens were designed and
laid out in 1597 by Lord Bacon, who was then treasurer of Gray's Inn.
Do we not all know how dearly this great and clever man loved gardens?
He says: "God Almighty first planted a garden; and, indeed, it is
the purest of human pleasures; it is the greatest refreshment to the
spirits of man."
In the accounts of the Inn about that date appear the following items:
"4th July, 1597. Ordered that the summee of £7 15s. 4d. due to Mr.
Bacon, for planting of elm trees in the walkes be paid next term;" and
again, in the following year, there was an order made for the supply
of more young elms, etc., the cost of which, as appears by Mr. Bacon's
accounts, was £60 6s. 8d., a very large sum in those days.
We learn also from Howell's "Familiar Letters" and from Pepys' "Diary,"
that Gray's Inn Walks were at one time a fashionable promenade. Howell,
writing from Venice in 1621, to a friend residing in Gray's Inn, says:
"I hold your walks to be the pleasantest place about London, and that
you have there the choicest society." Pepys seems to have frequently
visited Gray's Inn Gardens as appears by his "Diary": "4th May, 1662.
When church was done my wife and I walked to Gray's Inn to observe
fashions of the ladies, because of my wife's making some clothes."
Cannot we picture to ourselves quiet Mrs. Pepys carefully scanning the
gay apparel of the fine ladies as they passed to and fro? daintily
walking with the little mincing French step that the fair Lady
Castlemaine had brought into fashion? The good little wife absorbed
in the many intricacies of plaits and puckers, weighing the several
advantages to be obtained by the use of plain or damask stuffs, all
unconscious, probably, that her volatile husband was as curiously
scanning the black eyes and pretty faces that had such overpowering
attractions for his wandering fancy.
Pepys again says:
"17th August, 1662. I was very well pleased with the sight of a fine
lady that I have often seen walk in Gray's Inn Gardens."
Dryden, in his "Sir Martin Marall," 1661, makes the following reference
to Gray's Inn Walks:
"_Sir John Shallow._ But where did you appoint to meet him?
"_Mrs. Millicent._ In Gray's Inn Walks."
Addison, in the _Spectator_, selects the terrace in Gray's Inn Gardens
as the place where Sir Roger de Coverley enjoys his morning walk. He
describes the dear old baronet as "hemming twice or thrice to himself
with great vigour, for he loves to clear his pipes in good air, to make
use of his own phrase, and is not a little pleased with any one who
takes notice of the strength which he still exerts in his morning hems."
Charles Lamb, in his delightful "Essays of Elia," gives an interesting
description of these gardens, adding, however, an indignant protest
against the injury their beauty had received from the ugly pile of
houses called Verulam Buildings, that had been recently erected. He
says:
"I am ill at dates, but I think it is now better than five-and-twenty
years ago that, walking in the gardens at Gray's Inn--they were then
finer than they are now--the accursed Verulam Buildings had not
encroached upon all the east side of them, cutting out delicate green
crankles, and shouldering away one of two of the stately alcoves of
the terrace. The survivor stands, gaping and relationless, as if it
remembered its brother. They are still the best gardens of any of
the Inns of Court--my beloved Temple not forgotten--have the gravest
character, their aspect being altogether revered and law-breathing.
Bacon has left the impress of his foot upon their gravel walks."
If the gardens give the summer charm to these old precincts, the grand
old Hall is the glory, and may well be called the heart of Gray's Inn.
Seventy feet in length, thirty-five in width, and forty-seven in
height, it is in truth a stately chamber, yet so harmonious are its
proportions, so graceful are its details, that the spectator knows not
which to admire most, the simple grandeur of its size, the delicate
beauty of the old stained glass windows, or the rich deep colouring
that time has given to the oaken panelling as well as to the heavy
oaken furniture.
At the east end is a raised daïs, the place of honour, on which stands
the table reserved for the Benchers and their guests.
The students dine in the body of the Hall, and the great black oak
tables and settles that they use were placed here in the reign of Queen
Elizabeth. As they were then, so they are now, and so they may probably
remain for as many more hundred years.
In those good or bad old times, wood and labour were of comparatively
little value, so furniture was then massive, and often decorated with
a lavish richness of detail that a modern upholsterer would dread as
much as he would admire, so great would be the modern cost both of the
material and the work expended on it. How many remnants of the tables
and chairs of this veneering age will there be in another century?
Near the daïs is a great oriel window, that beautiful characteristic
of the Tudor period; the old coloured glass, rich with the armorial
bearings of the Society, and emblazoned also with names well known and
distinguished in our English history.
An elaborately carved oaken screen at the opposite end of the Hall
conceals the entrance vestibule, and supports a Minstrel Gallery,
another delightful adjunct to the large Halls of the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries.
The screen itself is of quaint but handsome design, and is especially
interesting, as its decorations denote the period when it was erected.
Short, thick Ionic columns, carved in arabesque with scroll ornaments,
are surmounted by a range of semicircular arches. Above these is a
balustrade of open carving enclosing the Minstrels' Gallery.
Fortunately restorations have not been needed, nor have alterations
been made since the screen was placed here. As years have rolled on,
therefore, the solid old oak has acquired that richness of tone and
beauty of colouring that time alone can give.
Above the gallery is a large traceried window, and, as on the north and
south walls are nine mullioned and transomed windows, the Great Hall is
bright, well-lighted, and cheerful.
The great space between windows and floor is oak-panelled, and enriched
by the coats of arms of members of the Society who have filled the
office of treasurer.
There is something pleasant, but nevertheless sad, in reading over the
names of many, honoured in their time, still honoured here in this
venerable Inn of Court, but yet how long ago forgotten by the world
without.
Forgotten long ago, although as English laws are founded on precedent,
and not upon written codes, celebrated English lawyers probably make
more mark upon English history than great men of other professions.
In every Government the Lord Chancellor is invariably a member of the
Cabinet, and most of our leading statesmen have begun their career by
studying, even if they have not practised, the profession of the Law.
Still how very many there are, who, famous in their time, have passed
away from all men's remembrance, and but for the names inscribed on
these parental old walls, have struggled, gained the prize, and yet
have again faded into the darkness from which they fought so hard to
emerge.
Truly the glory of this world is but a shadow, nought but a faint
glimmer of a brief and perishing light.
The fine open roof of the Hall, with its great hammer-beam timbers, is
also a grand relic of the past; but the ancient _reredos_, or brass
grate which once stood in the centre of the chamber, as well as its
_louvre_--or smoke chimney--has been removed, and replaced by a modern
stove. A great lapse from beauty, but, nevertheless, a change that
contributes much to warmth and comfort.
The exterior of the building has, unhappily, been modernised, and, in
accordance with the bad taste that prevailed during the greater part of
the last century, the venerable brickwork has been covered with stucco.
It seems extraordinary that this miserable pretence of stone should at
one time have been so universally adopted in England, because, while
subject to the same discolouration and decay that injure stone in
this damp climate, age does not bestow upon it either dignity or rich
colouring.
Happily, fine brickwork is now beginning to be appreciated. Not only
is it rich in point of colour, but, skilfully used, the most delicate
ornamentation can be obtained. Witness, for instance, the glorious old
church of San Ambrogio in Milan, and in many churches of towns in North
Italy, where bricks have been used without any admixture of stone or
marble.
It must not be supposed that the noble and dignified old Hall of Gray's
Inn has been used solely for the pleasures of the table.
Many a gay masque, many a joyous revel has been held within its ancient
walls.
Royalty itself has frequently honoured by its presence the balls,
banquets, marriage feasts, and other "merrie makings" given by the
Honourable Society of Gray's Inn.
Queen Elizabeth came here soon after her accession to the throne.
The fair maiden Queen, then in the early bloom of youth, deigned to
tread a measure on the floor of the Hall, and her beauty and grace so
turned the heads of some of the more impressionable students, that two
of them became raving mad from love for their Royal and unapproachable
mistress.
Knowing how hopeless their passion was, these luckless young fellows
resolved to put themselves to death. They could not endure their cruel
torment; like the Persians, they declared their hearts were burnt up
with fire, and that life had become but a burden to them.
The legend, however, only relates their sufferings, their struggles,
and their desperate purpose. It is silent as to whether these fatal
intentions were ever carried into execution. It may be hoped,
therefore, that these love-sick youths recovered in time from their
love fit. The study of the law does not tend to foster romance, and
hard work in most cases is an effectual panacea against the blighting
effects of hopeless passion.
Standing in the old Hall, we can see, in fancy, the grand and
picturesque entertainment. We can see the young and graceful,
though somewhat stern-faced girl, queening it so royally amongst her
enthusiastic admirers. How happy she is now in her consciousness of
youth, and consequent beauty, in her royal dignity, a Queen at last in
her glorious kingdom. Above all, especially happy in being at length
free, no longer in daily terror of a prison or a scaffold. No longer
dreading to have to seal by her blood her resolve to keep intact her
royal position as heir to the throne, safe at last from the terror of
being called on to lay down her life ere she would abjure her religion
for that of her bigot sister Mary.
No wonder the young Sovereign was then bright and happy.
It is sad to think of the changes that years brought about. It is sad
to think of the suspicious, cold-hearted, merciless old woman, signing
not only the death warrant of the beautiful cousin of whom she was so
jealous, but also the death warrants of the men whom she had professed
to love.
Truly it may be said that envy, malice, and uncharitableness are
the vices to which the great and prosperous are peculiarly exposed.
Greatness and prosperity eventually produce the very whips that scourge
those who have not been constantly chastened by care and sorrow; for
the Almighty bestows His good gifts far more equally than we mortals
can in general either perceive or understand.
There is a peace of heart in lowly stations that the great can but
seldom enjoy. The biography of celebrated monarchs and statesmen
sufficiently shows that no rank, however exalted, is exempt from
mortifications and annoyances, trying alike to temper and to pride,
and it is very evident from such histories that the noblest of all
governments, the government of oneself, is far more difficult of
attainment for the exalted than for the humbler inhabitants of earth.
Not only during Queen Elizabeth's reign, but at a much earlier period,
the Inns of Court had been celebrated for the magnificence of their
masques and revels.
The first entertainment of this kind, of which there is any certain
record, took place at Gray's Inn in the year 1525.
Hall in his chronicle thus speaks of it:
"A Plaie at Gray's Inn. This Christmas was a goodly disguising played
at Gray's Inn, which was compiled by John Roo, Serjeant at the Law,
twenty years past. This plae was so set forth with rich and costly
apparel, and with strange devices of masks and morrisches, that it
was highly praised by all men, except by the Cardinal (Wolsey), who
imagined the play was devised of him. In a great fury he sent for
Master Roo, and took from him his Coif, and sent him to the Fleet, and
afterwards he sent for the young gentlemen that played in the play, and
highly rebuked and threatened them, and sent one of them, called Master
Moyle of Kent, to the Fleet, but by means of friends Master Roo and he
were delivered at last.
"This play sore displeased the Cardinal, and yet it was never meant for
him; wherefore many wise men grudged to see him take it so to heart;
and even the Cardinal said the King (Henry VIII.) was highly displeased
at it, and spake nothing of himself."
This unfortunate play seems to have made a great stir at the time, for
not only Hall, but Fox, in his "Acts and Monuments," thus alludes to
the performance when writing of a certain Simon Fish, who also belonged
to Gray's Inn. Fox says:
"It happened the first year this gentleman came to London to dwell,
which was about the year of our Lord, 1525, that there was a certain
play, or interlude, made by one M. Roo, of the same Inn, gentleman,
in which play partly was matter against the Cardinal Wolsey; and when
none durst take upon them to play that part which touched the said
Cardinal, this aforesaid Mr. Fish took upon him to do it. Whereupon
great displeasure ensued against him on the Cardinal's part, insomuch
as he, being pursued by the said Cardinal the same night that this
tragedy was played, was compelled of force to avoid his own house, and
so fled over the sea to Tindal."
It is singular that neither Hall nor Fox makes any mention of the name
of the play that had such unhappy results for the luckless gentlemen
who took part in it.
The powerful Cardinal was a dread enemy. He brooked neither insult nor
slight, and, when angered, was apt to carry out his vengeance with a
completeness that, at the least, brought ruin on his victims. Happy
indeed were they did they escape with their lives.
The two offenders on this occasion paid a heavy price for their night's
amusement. Their professional prospects were destroyed for ever, their
names were erased from the list of Gray's Inn, and never again appeared
on it. To Roo, a Serjeant in the Law of twenty years' standing, such a
penalty must have been a cruel blow.