THE KNIGHTS OF THE TEMPLE.
[Illustration]
Colleges, schools, and inns of court, still have some respect for
antiquity, and maintain a great number of the customs and institutions
of our ancestors, with which those persons who do not particularly
regard their forefathers, or perhaps are not very well acquainted with
them, have long since done away. A well-ordained work-house or prison
is much better provided with the appliances of health, comfort, and
cleanliness, than a respectable Foundation School, a venerable College,
or a learned Inn. In the latter place of residence men are contented
to sleep in dingy closets, and to pay for the sitting-room and the
cupboard, which is their dormitory, the price of a good villa and
garden in the suburbs, or of a roomy house in the neglected squares
of the town. The poorest mechanic in Spitalfields has a cistern and an
unbounded supply of water at his command; but the gentlemen of the inns
of court, and the gentlemen of the universities, have their supply of
this cosmetic fetched in jugs by laundresses and bedmakers, and live
in abodes which were erected long before the custom of cleanliness and
decency obtained among us. There are individuals still alive who sneer
at the people and speak of them with epithets of scorn. Gentlemen, there
can be but little doubt that your ancestors were the Great Unwashed:
and in the Temple especially, it is pretty certain, that, only under
the greatest difficulties and restrictions, the virtue which has been
pronounced to be next to godliness could have been practiced at all.
Old Grump, of the Norfolk Circuit, who had lived for more than thirty
years in the chambers under those occupied by Warrington and Pendennis,
and who used to be awakened by the roaring of the shower-baths which
those gentlemen had erected in their apartments--a part of the contents
of which occasionally trickled through the roof into Mr. Grump's
room--declared that the practice was an absurd, newfangled, dandyfied
folly, and daily cursed the laundress who slopped the staircase by which
he had to pass. Grump, now much more than half a century old, had indeed
never used the luxury in question. He had done without water very well,
and so had our fathers before him. Of all those knights and baronets,
lords and gentlemen, bearing arms, whose escutcheons are painted upon
the walls of the famous hall of the Upper Temple, was there no
philanthropist good-natured enough to devise a set of Hummums for the
benefit of the lawyers, his fellows and successors? The Temple historian
makes no mention of such a scheme. There is Pump Court and Fountain
Court, with their hydraulic apparatus, but one never heard of a bencher
disporting in the fountain; and can't but think how many a counsel
learned in the law of old days might have benefited by the pump.
Nevertheless, those venerable Inns which have the Lamb and Flag and
the Winged Horse for their ensigns, have attractions for persons who
inhabit them, and a share of rough comforts and freedom, which men
always remember with pleasure. I don't know whether the student of law
permits himself the refreshment of enthusiasm, or indulges in poetical
reminiscences as he passes by historical chambers, and says, "Yonder
Eldon lived--upon this site Coke mused upon Lyttleton--here Chitty
toiled--here Barnwell and Alderson joined in their famous labors--here
Byles composed his great work upon bills, and Smith compiled his
immortal leading cases--here Gustavus still toils, with Solomon to aid
him;" but the man of letters can't but love the place which has been
inhabited by so many of his brethren, or peopled by their creations as
real to us at this day as the authors whose children they were--and Sir
Roger de Coverley walking in the Temple Garden, and discoursing with Mr.
Spectator about the beauties in hoops and patches who are sauntering
over the grass, is just as lively a figure to me as old Samuel Johnson
rolling through the fog with the Scotch gentleman at his heels on their
way to Dr. Goldsmith's chambers in Brick Court; or Harry Fielding, with
inked ruffles and a wet towel round his head, dashing off articles at
midnight for the Covent Garden Journal, while the printer's boy is
asleep in the passage.
If we could but get the history of a single day as it passed in any one
of those four-storied houses in the dingy court where our friends Pen
and Warrington dwelt, some Temple Asmodeus might furnish us with a queer
volume. There may be a great parliamentary counsel on the ground-floor,
who drives off to Belgravia at dinner time, when his clerk, too, becomes
a gentleman, and goes away to entertain his friends, and to take his
pleasure. But a short time since he was hungry and briefless in some
garret of the Inn; lived by stealthy literature; hoped, and waited, and
sickened, and no clients came; exhausted his own means and his friends'
kindness; had to remonstrate humbly with duns, and to implore the
patience of poor creditors. Ruin seemed to be staring him in the face,
when, behold, a turn of the wheel of fortune, and the lucky wretch in
possession of one of those prodigious prizes which are sometimes drawn
in the great lottery of the Bar. Many a better lawyer than himself does
not make a fifth part of the income of his clerk, who, a few months
since, could scarcely get credit for blacking for his master's unpaid
boots. On the first-floor, perhaps, you will have a venerable man whose
name is famous, who has lived for half a century in the Inn, whose
brains are full of books, and whose shelves are stored with classical
and legal lore. He has lived alone all these fifty years, alone and for
himself, amassing learning, and compiling a fortune. He comes home now
at night alone from the club, where he has been dining freely, to the
lonely chambers where he lives a godless old recluse. When he dies, his
Inn will erect a tablet to his honor, and his heirs burn a part of his
library. Would you like to have such a prospect for your old age, to
store up learning and money, and end so? But we must not linger too long
by Mr. Doomsday's door. Worthy Mr. Grump lives over him, who is also an
ancient inhabitant of the Inn, and who, when Doomsday comes home to read
Catullus, is sitting down with three steady seniors of his standing, to
a steady rubber at whist, after a dinner at which they have consumed
their three steady bottles of Port. You may see the old boys asleep
at the Temple Church of a Sunday. Attorneys seldom trouble them, and
they have small fortunes of their own. On the other side of the third
landing, where Pen and Warrington live, till long after midnight, sits
Mr. Paley, who took the highest honors, and who is a fellow of his
college, who will sit and read and note cases until two o'clock in the
morning; who will rise at seven and be at the pleader's chambers as soon
as they are open, where he will work until an hour before dinner-time;
who will come home from Hall and read and note cases again until
dawn next day, when perhaps Mr. Arthur Pendennis and his friend Mr.
Warrington are returning from some of their wild expeditions. How
differently employed Mr. Paley has been! He has not been throwing
himself away: he has only been bringing a great intellect laboriously
down to the comprehension of a mean subject, and in his fierce grasp of
that, resolutely excluding from his mind all higher thoughts, all better
things, all the wisdom of philosophers and historians, all the thoughts
of poets; all wit, fancy, reflection, art, love, truth altogether--so
that he may master that enormous legend of the law, which he proposes
to gain his livelihood by expounding. Warrington and Paley had been
competitors for university honors in former days, and had run each other
hard; and every body said now that the former was wasting his time and
energies, while all people praised Paley for his industry. There may
be doubts, however, as to which was using his time best. The one could
afford time to think, and the other never could. The one could have
sympathies and do kindnesses; and the other must needs be always selfish.
He could not cultivate a friendship or do a charity, or admire a work
of genius, or kindle at the sight of beauty or the sound of a sweet
song--he had no time, and no eyes for any thing but his law-books. All
was dark outside his reading-lamp. Love, and Nature, and Art (which is
the expression of our praise and sense of the beautiful world of God),
were shut out from him. And as he turned off his lonely lamp at night,
he never thought but that he had spent the day profitably, and went to
sleep alike thankless and remorseless. But he shuddered when he met his
old companion Warrington on the stairs, and shunned him as one that was
doomed to perdition.
It may have been the sight of that cadaverous ambition, and
self-complacent meanness, which showed itself in Paley's yellow face,
and twinkled in his narrow eyes, or it may have been a natural appetite
for pleasure and joviality, of which it must be confessed Mr. Pen was
exceedingly fond, which deterred that luckless youth from pursuing
his designs upon the Bench or the Woolsack with the ardor, or rather
steadiness, which is requisite in gentlemen who would climb to those
seats of honor. He enjoyed the Temple life with a great deal of relish:
his worthy relatives thought he was reading as became a regular student;
and his uncle wrote home congratulatory letters to the kind widow at
Fairoaks, announcing that the lad had sown his wild oats, and was
becoming quite steady. The truth is, that it was a new sort of
excitement to Pen, the life in which he was now engaged; and having
given up some of the dandyfied pretensions, and fine-gentleman airs
which he had contracted among his aristocratic college acquaintances,
of whom he now saw but little, the rough pleasures and amusements of a
London bachelor were very novel and agreeable to him, and he enjoyed
them all. Time was he would have envied the dandies their fine horses
in Rotten Row, but he was contented now to walk in the Park and look
at them. He was too young to succeed in London society without a better
name and a larger fortune than he had, and too lazy to get on without
these adjuncts. Old Pendennis fondly thought he was busied with law
because he neglected the social advantages presented to him, and, having
been at half a dozen balls and evening parties, retreated before their
dullness and sameness; and whenever any body made inquiries of the
worthy major about his nephew, the old gentleman said the young rascal
was reformed, and could not be got away from his books. But the major
would have been almost as much horrified as Mr. Paley was, had he known
what was Mr. Pen's real course of life, and how much pleasure entered
into his law studies.
[Illustration][**moved up from 301]
A long morning's reading, a walk in the Park, a pull on the river, a
stretch up the hill to Hampstead, and a modest tavern dinner; a bachelor
night passed here or there, in joviality, not vice (for Arthur Pendennis
admired women so heartily that he never could bear the society
of any of them that were not, in his fancy at least, good and pure);
a quiet evening at home, alone with a friend and a pipe or two, and
a humble potation of British spirits, whereof Mrs. Flanagan, the
laundress, invariably tested the quality; these were our young
gentleman's pursuits, and it must be owned that his life was not
unpleasant. In term-time, Mr. Pen showed a most praiseworthy regularity
in performing one part of the law-student's course of duty, and eating
his dinners in Hall. Indeed, that Hall of the Upper Temple is a sight
not uninteresting, and with the exception of some trifling improvements
and anachronisms which have been introduced into the practice there, a
man may sit down and fancy that he joins in a meal of the seventeenth
century. The bar have their messes, the students their tables apart; the
benchers sit at the high table on the raised platform, surrounded by
pictures of judges of the law and portraits of royal personages who have
honored its festivities with their presence and patronage. Pen looked
about, on his first introduction, not a little amused with the scene
which he witnessed. Among his comrades of the student class there were
gentlemen of all ages, from sixty to seventeen; stout gray-headed
attorneys who were proceeding to take the superior dignity--dandies and
men-about-town who wished, for some reason, to be barristers of seven
years' standing--swarthy, black-eyed natives of the Colonies, who came
to be called here before they practiced in their own islands--and many
gentlemen of the Irish nation, who make a sojourn in Middle Temple Lane
before they return to the green country of their birth. There were
little squads of reading students who talked law all dinner-time; there
were rowing men, whose discourse was of sculling matches, the Red House,
Vauxhall, and the Opera; there were others great in politics, and
orators of the students' debating clubs; with all of which sets, except
the first, whose talk was an almost unknown and a quite uninteresting
language to him, Mr. Pen made a gradual acquaintance, and had many
points of sympathy.
The ancient and liberal Inn of the Upper Temple provides in its Hall,
and for a most moderate price, an excellent wholesome dinner of soup,
meat, tarts, and port wine or sherry, for the barristers and students
who attend that place of refection. The parties are arranged in messes
of four, each of which quarters has its piece of beef or leg of mutton,
its sufficient apple-pie and its bottle of wine. But the honest habitues
of the hall, among the lower rank of students, who have a taste for good
living, have many harmless arts by which they improve their banquet,
and innocent "dodges" (if we may be permitted to use an excellent
phrase that has become vernacular since the appearance of the last
dictionaries) by which they strive to attain for themselves more
delicate food than the common every-day roast meat of the students'
tables.
"Wait a bit," said Mr. Lowton, one of these Temple gourmands. "Wait a
bit," said Mr. Lowton, tugging at Pen's gown--"the tables are very full,
and there's only three benchers to eat ten side dishes--if we wait,
perhaps we shall get something from their table." And Pen looked with
some amusement, as did Mr. Lowton with eyes of fond desire, toward the
benchers' high table, where three old gentlemen were standing up before
a dozen silver dish-covers, while the clerk was quavering out a grace.
Lowton was great in the conduct of the dinner. His aim was to manage so
as to be the first, a captain of the mess, and to secure for himself
the thirteenth glass of the bottle of port wine. Thus he would have the
command of the joint on which he operated his favorite cuts, and made
rapid, dexterous appropriations of gravy, which amused Pen infinitely.
Poor Jack Lowton! thy pleasures in life were very harmless; an eager
epicure, thy desires did not go beyond eighteen-pence.
Pen was somewhat older than many of his fellow-students, and there was
that about his style and appearance which, as we have said, was rather
haughty and impertinent, that stamped him as a man of _ton_--very
unlike those pale students who were talking law to one another, and
those ferocious dandies, in rowing shirts and astonishing pins and
waistcoats, who represented the idle part of the little community. The
humble and good-natured Lowton had felt attracted by Pen's superior
looks and presence--and had made acquaintance with him at the mess by
opening the conversation.
"This is boiled-beef day, I believe, sir," said Lowton to Pen.
"Upon my word, sir, I'm not aware," said Pen, hardly able to contain his
laughter, but added, "I'm a stranger; this is my first term;" on which
Lowton began to point out to him the notabilities in the Hall.
"That's Boosey the bencher, the bald one sitting under the picture and
aving soup; I wonder whether it's turtle? They often ave turtle. Next
is Balls, the king's counsel, and Swettenham--Hodge and Swettenham, you
know. That's old Grump, the senior of the bar; they say he's dined here
forty years. They often send 'em down their fish from the benchers to
the senior table. Do you see those four fellows seated opposite us?
Those are regular swells--tip-top fellows, I can tell you--Mr. Trail,
the Bishop of Ealing's son, Honorable Fred. Ringwood, Lord Cinqbar's
brother, you know. _He'll_ have a good place, I bet any money; and Bob
Suckling, who's always with them--a high fellow, too. Ha! ha!" Here
Lowton burst into a laugh.
"What is it?" said Pen, still amused.
"I say, I like to mess with those chaps," Lowton said, winking his eye
knowingly, and pouring out his glass of wine.
"And why?" asked Pen.
"Why! they don't come down here to dine, you know, they only make
believe to dine. _They_ dine here, Law bless you! They go to some of the
swell clubs, or else to some grand dinner party. You see their names in
the 'Morning Post' at all the fine parties in London. Why, I bet any
thing that Ringwood has his cab, or Trail his Brougham (he's a devil
of a fellow, and makes the bishop's money spin, I can tell you) at the
corner of Essex-street at this minute. They dine! They won't dine these
two hours, I dare say."
"But why should you like to mess with them, if they don't eat any
dinner?" Pen asked, still puzzled. "There's plenty, isn't there?"
"How green you are," said Lowton. "Excuse me, but you _are_ green. They
don't drink any wine, don't you see, and a fellow gets the bottle to
himself, if he likes it, when he messes with those three chaps. That's
why Corkoran got in with 'em."
"Ah, Mr. Lowton, I see you are a sly fellow," Pen said, delighted with
his acquaintance: on which the other modestly replied, that he had lived
in London the better part of his life, and of course had his eyes about
him; and went on with his catalogue to Pen.
"There's a lot of Irish here," he said; "that Corkoran's one, and I
can't say I like him. You see that handsome chap with the blue neck-cloth
and pink shirt, and yellow waistcoat, that's another; that's Molloy
Maloney of Ballymaloney, and nephew to Major-general Sir Hector O'Dowd,
he, he," Lowton said, trying to imitate the Hibernian accent. "He's
always bragging about his uncle; and came into Hall in silver-striped
trowsers the day he had been presented. That other near him, with the
long black hair, is a tremendous rebel. By Jove, sir, to hear him at
the Forum it makes your blood freeze; and the next is an Irishman, too,
Jack Finucane, reporter of a newspaper. They all stick together, those
Irish. It's your turn to fill your glass. What! you won't have any port?
Don't like port with your dinner? Here's your health." And this worthy
man found himself not the less attached to Pendennis because the latter
disliked port wine at dinner.
It was while Pen was taking his share of one of these dinners, with his
acquaintance Lowton as the captain of his mess, that there came to join
them a gentleman in a barrister's gown, who could not find a seat, as
it appeared, among the persons of his own degree, and who strode over
the table, and took his seat on the bench where Pen sate. He was dressed
in old clothes and a faded gown, which hung behind him, and he wore a
shirt, which, though clean, was extremely ragged, and very different
to the magnificent pink raiment of Mr. Molloy Maloney, who occupied
a commanding position in the next mess. In order to notify their
appearance at dinner, it is the custom of the gentlemen who eat in the
Upper Temple Hall to write down their names upon slips of paper, which
are provided for that purpose, with a pencil for each mess. Lowton wrote
his name first, then came Arthur Pendennis, and the next was that of
the gentleman in the old clothes. He smiled when he saw Pen's name, and
looked at him. "We ought to know each other," he said. "We're both
Boniface men; my name's Warrington."
"Are you St---- Warrington?" Pen said, delighted to see this hero.
Warrington laughed--"Stunning Warrington--yes," he said. "I recollect
you in your freshman's term. But you appear to have quite cut me out."
"The college talks about you still," said Pen, who had a generous
admiration for talent and pluck. "The bargeman you thrashed, Bill Simes,
don't you remember, wants you up again at Oxbridge. The Miss Notleys,
the haberdashers--"
"Hush!" said Warrington--"glad to make your acquaintance, Pendennis.
Heard a good deal about you."
The young men were friends immediately, and at once deep in
college-talk. And Pen, who had been acting rather the fine gentleman on
a previous day, when he pretended to Lowton that he could not drink port
wine at dinner, seeing Warrington take his share with a great deal of
gusto, did not scruple about helping himself any more, rather to the
disappointment of honest Lowton. When the dinner was over, Warrington
asked Arthur where he was going.
"I thought of going home to dress, and hear Grisi in Norma," Pen said.
"Are you going to meet any body there?" he asked.
Pen said, "No--only to hear the music, of which he was very fond."
"You had much better come home and smoke a pipe with me," said
Warrington--"a very short one. Come, I live close by in Lamb Court, and
we'll talk over Boniface and old times."
They went away; Lowton sighed after them. He knew that Warrington was
a baronet's son, and he looked up with simple reverence to all the
aristocracy. Pen and Warrington became sworn friends from that night.
Warrington's cheerfulness and jovial temper, his good sense, his rough
welcome, and his never-failing pipe of tobacco, charmed Pen, who found
it more pleasant to dive into shilling taverns with him, than to dine
in solitary state among the silent and polite frequenters of the
Polyanthus.
Ere long Pen gave up the lodgings in St. James's, to which he had
migrated on quitting his hotel, and found it was much more economical to
take up his abode with Warrington in Lamb Court, and furnish and occupy
his friend's vacant room there. For it must be said of Pen, that no man
was more easily led than he to do a thing, when it was a novelty, or
when he had a mind to it. And Pidgeon, the youth, and Flanagan, the
laundress, divided their allegiance now between Warrington and Pen.