It lies not far from Temple-Bar.
Going to it, by the usual way, is like stealing from the heated plain
into some cool, deep glen, shady among the harboring hills.
Sick with the din and soiled with the mud of Fleet Street--where the
Benedick tradesmen are hurrying by, with ledger-lines ruled along their
brows; thinking upon rise of bread and fall of babies--you adroitly
turn a mystic corner--not a street--glide down a dim, monastic way,
flanked by dark, sedate, and solemn piles, and still wending on, give
the whole careworn world the slip, and, disentangled, stand beneath the
quiet cloisters of the Paradise of Bachelors.
Sweet are the oases in Sahara; charming the isle-groves of August
prairies; delectable pure faith amidst a thousand perfidies: but
sweeter, still more charming, more delectable, the dreamy Paradise of
Bachelors, found in the stony heart of stunning London.
In mild meditation pace the cloisters; take your pleasure, sip your
leisure, in the garden waterward; go linger in the ancient library;
go worship in the sculptured chapel; but little have you seen, just
nothing do you know, not the kernel have you tasted, till you dine
among the banded Bachelors, and see their convivial eyes and glasses
sparkle. Not dine in bustling commons, during term-time, in the
hall; but tranquilly, by private hint, at a private table; some fine
Templar's hospitality invited guest.
Templar? That's a romantic name. Let me see. Brian de Bois Gilbert was
a Templar, I believe. Do we understand you to insinuate that those
famous Templars still survive in modern London? May the ring of their
armed heels be heard, and the rattle of their shields, as in mailed
prayer the monk-knights kneel before the consecrated Host? Surely a
monk-knight were a curious sight picking his way along the Strand,
his gleaming corselet and snowy surcoat spattered by an omnibus.
Long-bearded, too, according to his order's rule; his face fuzzy
as a pard's; how would the grim ghost look among the crop-haired,
close-shaven citizens. We know indeed--sad history recounts it--that a
moral blight tainted at last this sacred Brotherhood. Though no sworded
foe might outskill them in the fence, yet the work of luxury crawled
beneath their guard, gnawing the core of knightly troth, nibbling the
monastic vows, till at last the monk's austerity relaxed to wassailing,
and the sworn knights-bachelors grew to be but hypocrites and rakes.
But for all this, quite unprepared were we to learn that
Knights-Templars (if at all in being) were so entirely secularized as
to be reduced from carving out immortal fame in glorious battling for
the Holy Land, to the carving of roast mutton at a dinner-board. Like
Anacreon, do these degenerate Templars now think it sweeter far to fall
in banquet hall than in war? Or, indeed, how can there be any survival
of that famous order? Templars in modern London! Templars in their
red-cross mantles smoking cigars at the Divan! Templars crowded in a
railway train, till, stacked with steel helmet, spear, and shield, the
whole train looks like one elongated locomotive!
No. The genuine Templar is long since departed. Go view the
wondrous tombs in the Temple Church; see there the rigidly-haughty
forms stretched out, with crossed arms upon their stilly hearts, in
everlasting undreaming rest. Like the years before the flood, the bold
Knights-Templars are no more. Nevertheless, the name remains, and the
nominal society, and the ancient grounds, and some of the ancient
edifices. But the iron heel is changed to a boot of patent-leather;
the long two-handed sword to a one-handed quill; the monk-giver of
gratuitous ghostly counsel now counsels for a fee; the defender of the
sarcophagus (if in good practice with his weapon) now has more than one
case to defend; the vowed opener and clearer of all highways leading
to the Holy Sepulchre, now has it in particular charge to check, to
clog, to hinder, and embarrass all the courts and avenues of Law; the
Knight-combatant of the Saracen, breasting spear-point at Acre, now
fights law-points in Westminster Hall. The helmet is a wig. Struck by
Time's enchanter's wand, the Templar is to-day a Lawyer.
But, like many others tumbled from proud glory's height, like the
apple, hard on the bough but mellow on the ground, the Templar's fall
has but made him all the finer fellow.
I dare say those old warrior-priests were but gruff and grouty at the
best; cased in Birmingham hardware, how could their crimped arms give
yours or mine a hearty shake? Their proud, ambitious, monkish souls
clasped shut, like horn-book missals; their very faces clapped in
bomb-shells; what sort of genial men were these? But best of comrades,
most affable of hosts, capital diner is the modern Templar. His wit and
wine are both of sparkling brands.
The church and cloisters, courts and vaults, lanes and passages,
banquet-halls, refectories, libraries, terraces, gardens, broad walks,
domicils, and dessert-rooms, covering a very large space of ground,
and all grouped in central neighborhood and quite sequestered from the
old city's surrounding din; and everything about the place being kept
in most bachelor-like particularity, no part of London offers a quiet
wight so agreeable a refuge.
The Temple is, indeed, a city by itself. A city with all the best
appurtenances, as the above enumeration shows. A city with a park to
it, and flower-beds, and a riverside--the Thames flowing by as openly,
in one part, as by Eden's primal garden flowed the mild Euphrates.
In what is now the Temple Garden the old Crusaders used to exercise
their steeds and lances; the modern Templars now lounge on the benches
beneath the trees, and switching their patent-leather boots, in gay
discourse exercise at repartee.
Long lines of stately portraits in the banquet-halls, show what great
men of mark--famous nobles, judges, and Lord Chancellors--have in their
time been Templars. But all Templars are not known to universal fame;
though, if the having warm hearts and warmer welcomes, full minds and
fuller cellars, and giving good advice and glorious dinners, spiced
with rare divertisements of fun and fancy, merit immortal mention, set
down, ye muses, the names of R.F.C. and his imperial brother.
Though to be a Templar, in the one true sense, you must needs be a
lawyer, or a student at the law, and be ceremoniously enrolled as
member of the order, yet as many such, though they may have their
offices there, just so, on the other hand, there are many residents of
the hoary old domicils who are not admitted Templars. If being, say,
a lounging gentleman and bachelor, or a quiet, unmarried literary man,
charmed with the soft seclusion of the spot, you much desire to pitch
your shady tent among the rest in this serene encampment, then you must
make some special friend among the order, and procure him to rent, in
his name but at your charge, whatever vacant chamber you may find to
suit.
Thus, I suppose, did Dr. Johnson, that nominal Benedick and widower but
virtual bachelor, when for a space he resided here. So, too, did that
undoubted bachelor and rare good soul, Charles Lamb. And hundreds more,
of sterling spirits, Brethren of the Order of Celibacy, from time to
time have dined, and slept, and tabernacled here. Indeed, the place is
all a honeycomb of offices and domicils. Like any cheese, it is quite
perforated through and through in all directions with the snug cells of
bachelors. Dear, delightful spot! Ah! when I bethink me of the sweet
hours there passed, enjoying such genial hospitalities beneath those
time-honored roofs, my heart only finds due utterance through poetry;
and, with a sigh, I softly sing, "Carry me back to old Virginny!"
Such then, at large, is the Paradise of Bachelors. And such I found it
one pleasant afternoon in the smiling month of May, when, sallying from
my hotel in Trafalgar Square, I went to keep my dinner-appointment with
that fine Barrister, Bachelor, and Bencher, R.F.C. (he is the first and
second, and should be the third; I hereby nominate him), whose card I
kept fast pinched between my gloved forefinger and thumb, and every now
and then snatched still another look at the pleasant address inscribed
beneath the name, Number --, Elm Court, Templar.
At the core he was a right bluff, care-free, right comfortable, and
most companionable Englishman. If on a first acquaintance he seemed
reserved, quite icy in his air--patience; this champagne will thaw.
And, if it never do, better frozen champagne than liquid vinegar.
There were nine gentlemen, all bachelors, at the dinner. One was from
"Number --, King's Bench Walk, Temple"; a second, third and fourth,
and fifth, from various courts or passages christened with some
similarly rich resounding syllables. It was indeed a sort of Senate of
the Bachelors, sent to this dinner from widely-scattered districts,
to represent the general celibacy of the Temple. Nay it was, by
representation, a Grand Parliament of the best Bachelors in universal
London; several of those present being from distant quarters of the
town, noted immemorial seats of lawyers and unmarried men--Lincoln's
Inn, Furnival's Inn; and one gentlemen upon whom I looked with a sort
of collateral awe, hailed from the spot where Lord Verulam once abode a
bachelor--Gray's Inn.
The apartment was well up toward heaven; I know not how many strange
old stairs I climbed to get to it. But a good dinner, with famous
company, should be well earned. No doubt our host had his dining-room
so high with a view to secure the prior exercise necessary to the due
relishing and digesting of it.
The furniture was wonderfully unpretending, old, and snug. No new
shining mahogany, sticky with undried varnish; no uncomfortably
luxurious ottomans, and sofas too fine to use, vexed you in this sedate
apartment. It is a thing which every sensible American should learn
from every sensible Englishmen, that glare and glitter, gimcracks and
gewgaws, are not indispensable to domestic solacement. The American
Benedick snatches, down-town, a tough chop in a gilded show-box; the
English bachelor leisurely dines at home on that incomparable South
Down of his, off a plain deal board.
The ceiling of the room was low. Who wants to dine under the dome of
St. Peter's? High ceilings! If that is your demand, and the higher the
better, and you be so very tall, then go dine out with the topping
giraffe in the open air.
In good time the nine gentlemen sat down to nine covers, and soon were
fairly under way.
If I remember right, ox-tail soup inaugurated the affair. Of a rich
russet hue, its agreeable flavor dissipated my first confounding of its
main ingredient with teamster's gads and the rawhides of ushers. (By
way of interlude, we here drank a little claret.) Neptune's was the
next tribute rendered--turbot coming second; snow-white, flaky, and
just gelatinous enough, not too turtleish in its unctuousness. (At this
point we refreshed ourselves with a glass of sherry.) After these light
skirmishers had vanished, the heavy artillery of the feast marched
in, led by that well-known English generalissimo, roast beef. For
aids-de-camp we had a saddle of mutton, a fat turkey, a chicken-pie,
and endless other savory things; while for avant-couriers came nine
silver flagons of humming ale. This heavy ordnance having departed
on the track of the light skirmishers, a picked brigade of game-fowl
encamped upon the board, their camp-fires lit by the ruddiest of
decanters.
Tarts and puddings followed, with innumerable niceties; then cheese
and crackers. (By way of ceremony, simply, only to keep up good old
fashions, we here each drank a glass of good old port.)
The cloth was now removed; and like Blucher's army coming in at the
death on the field of Waterloo, in marched a fresh detachment of
bottles, dusty with their hurried march.
All these manoeuvrings of the forces were superintended by a surprising
old field marshal (I can not school myself to call him by the
inglorious name of waiter), with snowy hair and napkin, and a head like
Socrates. Amidst all the hilarity of the feast, intent on important
business, he disdained to smile. Venerable man!
I have above endeavored to give some slight schedule of the general
plan of operations. But any one knows that a good, general dinner is
a sort of pell-mell, indiscriminate affair, quite baffling to detail
in all particulars. Thus, I spoke of taking a glass of claret, and a
glass of sherry, and a glass of port, and a mug of ale--all at certain
specific periods and times. But those were merely the state bumpers,
so to speak. Innumerable impromptu glasses were drained between the
periods of those grand imposing ones.
The nine bachelors seemed to have the most tender concern for each
other's health. All the time, in flowing wine, they most earnestly
expressed their sincerest wishes for the entire well-being and lasting
hygiene of the gentlemen on the right and on the left. I noticed that
when one of these kind bachelors desired a little more wine (just for
his stomach's sake, like Timothy), he would not help himself to it
unless some other bachelor would join him. It seemed held something
indelicate, selfish and unfraternal to be seen taking a lonely,
unparticipated glass. Meantime, as the wine ran apace, the spirits of
the company grew more and more to perfect genialness and unconstraint.
They related all sorts of pleasant stories. Choice experiences in their
private lives were now brought out, like choice brands of Moselle or
Rhenish, only kept for particular company. One told us how mellowly he
lived when a student at Oxford; with various spicy anecdotes of most
frank-hearted noble lords, his liberal companions. Another bachelor, a
gray-headed man, with a sunny face, who, by his own account, embraced
every opportunity of leisure to cross over into the Low Countries,
on sudden tours of inspection of the fine old Flemish architecture
there--this learned, white-haired, sunny-faced old bachelor,
excelled in his descriptions of the elaborate splendors of those old
guild-halls, town-halls, and stadhold-houses, to be seen in the land
of the ancient Flemings. A third was a great frequenter of the British
Museum, and knew all about scores of wonderful antiquities, of Oriental
manuscripts, and costly books without a duplicate. A fourth had lately
returned from a trip to Old Granada, and, of course, was full of
Saracenic scenery. A fifth had a funny case in law to tell. A sixth
was erudite in wines. A seventh had a strange characteristic anecdote
of the private life of the Iron Duke, never printed, and never before
announced in any public or private company. An eighth had lately been
amusing his evening, now and then, with translating a comic poem of
Pulci's. He quoted for us the more amusing passages.
And so the evening slipped along, the hours told, not by a water-clock,
like King Alfred's but a wine-chronometer. Meantime the table seemed
a sort of Epsom Heath; a regular ring, where the decanters galloped
round. For fear one decanter should not with sufficient speed reach
his destination, another was sent express after him to hurry him; and
then a third to hurry the second; and so on with a fourth and fifth.
And throughout all this nothing loud, nothing unmannerly, nothing
turbulent. I am quite sure, from the scrupulous gravity and austerity
of his air, that had Socrates, the field marshal, perceived aught of
indecorum in the company he served, he would have forthwith departed
without giving warning. I afterward learned that during the repast,
an invalid bachelor in an adjoining chamber enjoyed his first sound
refreshing slumber in three long weary weeks.
It was the very perfection of quiet absorption of good living, good
drinking, good feeling, and good talk. We were a band of brothers.
Comfort--fraternal, household comfort, was the grand trait of the
affair. Also, you would plainly see that these easy-hearted men had no
wives or children to give an anxious thought. Almost all of them were
travelers, too; and without any twinges of their consciences touching
desertion of the fireside.
The thing called pain, the bugbear styled trouble--those two legends
seemed preposterous to their bachelor imaginations. How could men
of liberal sense, ripe scholarship in the world, and capacious
philosophical and convivial understanding--how could they suffer
themselves to be imposed upon by such monkish fables? Pain! Trouble!
As well talk of Catholic miracles. No such thing.--Pass the sherry,
Sir.--Pooh, pooh! Can't be!--The port, Sir, if you please. Nonsense;
don't tell me so.--The decanter stops with you, Sir, I believe.
And so it went.
Not long after the cloth was drawn our host glanced significantly upon
Socrates, who, solemnly stepping to a stand, returned with an immense
convolved horn, a regular Jericho horn, mounted with polished silver,
and otherwise chased and curiously enriched; not omitting two lifelike
goat's heads, with four more horns of solid silver, projecting from
opposite sides of the mouth of the noble main horn.
Not having heard that our host was a performer on the bugle, I was
surprised to see him lift this horn from the table, as if he were about
to blow an inspiring blast. But I was relieved from this, and set
quite right as touching the purposes of the horn, by his now inserting
his thumb and forefinger into its mouth; whereupon a slight aroma was
stirred up, and my nostrils were greeted with the smell of some choice
Rappee. It was a mull of snuff. It went the rounds. Capital idea this,
thought I, of taking snuff about this juncture. This goodly fashion
must be introduced among my countrymen at home, further ruminated I.
The remarkable decorum of the nine bachelors--a decorum not to be
affected by any quantity of wine--a decorum unassailable by any degree
of mirthfulness--this was again set in a forcible light to me, by now
observing that, though they took snuff very freely, yet not a man so
far violated the proprieties, or so far molested the invalid bachelor
in the adjoining room as to indulge himself in a sneeze. The snuff was
snuffed silently, as if it had been some fine innoxious powder brushed
off the wings of butterflies.
But fine though they be, bachelors' dinners, like bachelors' lives,
can not endure forever. The time came for breaking up. One by one
the bachelors took their hats, and two by two, and arm-in-arm they
descended, still conversing, to the flagging of the court; some going
to their neighboring chambers to turn over the Decameron ere retiring
for the night; some to smoke a cigar, promenading in the garden on the
cool riverside; some to make for the street, call a hack and be driven
snugly to their distant lodgings.