LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS.
In no part of London is there felt such a mixture of sensations as when
we enter Lincoln’s Inn Fields. There is a tone of old-fashioned repose
mixed with quaintness, and a “large air of neglect” too. There are
ancient houses enough and decayed chambers. The Square itself has a
certain pleasant old fashion, and is not trimmed up as are the modern
ones. It is rather an old garden run to seed. There is a tradition that
it is the exact area of the base of one of the Pyramids; but this has
been found by measurement not to be exact. I never pass the side of the
Fields that faces the Inn without examining with a deep interest the
range of mansions that line it, once inhabited by personages of state
and quality, now by clerks. These are of an architectural and stately
pattern, and though altered, cut up, subdivided, and otherwise
disfigured, can, by a little exercise of the imagination, be readily
restored to their former state.
The large bare and gaunt structure in Sardinia Street is the old Embassy
Chapel, which dates from the seventeenth century, and the sanctuary
portion of which is held to be the work of Inigo Jones. Its large
vaulted ceiling is certainly in his manner, and suggests the arcades at
Covent Garden. The faded old gilding and foreign decorations of the
interior, the painted pillars and capitals, and the curious tiers of
galleries, like the stern of a Spanish argosy, are interesting; and we
call up the turbulent nights of the Gordon Riots, when it was sacked and
set on fire. In one of the houses opposite Franklin lodged, with a pious
Catholic widow, when he was pursuing his trade as a humble printer. The
side of the Fields adjoining the chapel has a particular interest from
the stately houses before alluded to. We may note the large, well-carved
roses and fleur-de-lys which ornament them, and Inigo’s favourite type
of stone pilasters and capitals on a brick ground. The finest and most
picturesque old house to be seen in London, close by, in Great Queen
Street, is also his work, and almost as he left it. The roof and the
enriched capitals and bold cornices are very striking; but the lower
portion has long been a shop, which makes the whole look insecure. At
the corner of this street, and looking into the Fields, is the great
mansion of the notorious and intriguing old Duke of Newcastle, with its
courtyard in front and sweeping flight of steps--a very striking pile,
with its fine stairs and stately and spacious apartments, now devoted to
offices. A few doors lower down we are arrested by a large open paved
courtyard, with two enormous piers capped by gigantic vases of the most
massive and florid kind. Here there now appear to be two houses; but a
second glance shows us that this is another imposing mansion, with a
handsomely designed front, which the moderns have cut up into two: it
was, in fact, the residence of the Lindseys, Earls and Dukes of
Ancaster. Another mansion of theirs, even larger, is still to be seen on
the Chelsea Embankment, close to Battersea Bridge. Often from familiarly
we overlook much that is interesting; but this house in Lincoln’s Inn
Fields proclaims its ancient significance in a striking way. Next to it
is a granite mansion of the Lord Burlington era, with an elegant and
original semicircular portico, also divided into two houses.
There is a house here which has associations connected with Charles
Dickens, interesting and even romantic. This was the residence of John
Forster, so well described by Charles Dickens in his will as “my
_trusty_ friend.” The happy propriety of this word will not be
questioned by any one who knew John Forster well. I have many a letter
of his before me, addressed from this handsome residence from 1855 to
1860, the palmy days, when he and his friend were full of ardour and of
plans, in the “full swing,” as it is called, of success and reputation.
This house, No. 58, may be known by its handsome exterior and
architectural portico. Here, surrounded by his well-selected books, were
gathered the most celebrated _littérateurs_ of the day, and notably the
bright and amiable “Boz.” It was in 1844 that, hurrying home from
Switzerland, he fixed a particular night at these chambers for the
reading of the “Chimes.” This came round on a Monday, December 2nd, when
a number of his friends were assembled to hear the charming little story
read aloud by its gifted author, of which Mr. Forster writes in the
_Life_, “No detail remains in my memory, and all are now dead who were
present at it, excepting only Mr. Carlyle and myself.” These words were
written in 1873--but very soon Mr. Carlyle followed, and after Carlyle
the amiable writer himself.
Maclise sketched the scene, brilliant in its pencil outlines, every
stroke full of character, and the whole pervaded by a gentle humour. “It
will tell the reader all he can wish to know. He will see of whom the
party consisted, and may be assured, with allowance for a touch of
caricature, to which I may claim to be considered myself as the chief
victim, that in the grave attention of Carlyle, the eager interest of
Stanfield and Maclise, the keen look of poor Laman Blanchard, Fox’s rapt
solemnity, Jerrold’s skyward gaze, the tears of Harness and Dyce, the
characteristic points of the scene are sufficiently rendered.” Thus
wrote Forster of the scene. Nothing, too, is more gracefully romantic
than the figure of the inspired young author reading his work, a slight
“halo” round his head; and though the “trusty” owner of the rooms makes
good-natured protest against the mode in which he has been dealt with,
it is impossible not to recognise the likeness.
John Forster was the last of the cultured, refined school of literary
men, well trained by a rigorous course in all the schools--journalism,
politics, biography, theatrical and artistic criticism. No man had a
nicer taste in all matters of art. His judgment of a player, a poem, a
book, a picture, was ever excellent, fortified by judicious remark and
reasons that were a ready instruction. Most of all, he was one of the
heartiest appreciators of _humour_, and of a good thing. I shall not
forget, as a choice entertainment, how he one night read aloud to a
small circle, Ben Jonson’s _Every Man in his Humour_, with such fine
elocution and excellent dramatic power, principally bringing out the
Kitely passages, which he himself had performed on some famous
occasions. It was simply masterly. This same spirit directed him in the
qualification of his taste for pictures, rare MSS., bindings, books,
sketches, and the like.
[Illustration: SIR JOHN SOANE’S MUSEUM.]
On the opposite side of the Fields is the strange Soane Collection,
given to the public under eccentric conditions, which seem contrived to
discourage all access. Capriciously selected days, during certain months
of the year, as capriciously selected, ensure that no one, without
inquiry or trouble, can ascertain the proper time for a visit. Not more
than twenty persons are to be admitted at a time, and none at all on
rainy days. Such are, or at least were, the testator’s rules.
Through this museum and the strange crowded miscellany which is packed
into it, one must always wander with mixed feelings of astonishment,
puzzle, amusement, pity, bewilderment and admiration. At times we might
be looking at the choicest cabinets of a dainty collection, so elegant
and precious are the things collected; at another, at the heterogeneous
gathering found in a marine dealer’s shop. This is the secret of the
extraordinary feeling as we go from room to room. It is a museum in a
private house. Every inch of space, every corner, every bit of wall is
literally “stuck over” with scraps and odds and ends of sculpture and
fragments. All seem to have been as fish to the owner’s net. Medals,
coins, casts, drawings, engravings, models in cork and in wood, books,
paintings, broken bits of sculpture, stained glass, sarcophagi,
“cinerary urns,” bronzes, gems, Etruscan vases, MSS., busts, with a
hundred oddities, are all gathered into the heterogeneous mass. This
variety is what gives the collection its charm, everything is so
conveniently placed under the eye: a contrast to the _ennui_ of
wandering through vast halls, as we have to do in great public museums,
where you _stare_ but do not look; while there is such an air of
snugness, that the whole has a charm of its own, not to say fascination.
You walk through a private house. Some of the pictures have the highest
merit, such as Hogarth’s fine series of the “Election,” which are
interesting as having been in the possession of Garrick, and purchased
at Mrs. Garrick’s sale in 1823 for 1,650 guineas--a great price then.
There are fine Canalettis and Turners, and many pleasing pictures by
inferior artists. Of course the great attraction is the famous Belzoni
sarcophagus, purchased for £2,000.
But with all these evidences of good taste there is an extraordinary
mixture of fantastic, if not eccentric, things, which seems incredible
in a man thus cultivated. Thus, on the basement floor there is a sort of
theatrical or Vauxhall imitation of a monk’s cell, contrived by some
arrangement of old stones and tawdry stained glass, of the yellow tint
which was in high fashion for hall lamps and greenhouses forty or fifty
years ago, and so delighted was the owner with his contrivance that he
thus expatiated on the result:--
“Returning from the oratory, you proceed to the _Parloir_ (as he calls
it) of Padre Giovanni. The scriptural subjects represented on glass are
suited to the destination of the place, and increase its sombre
characters. The other works of intellectual and highly-gifted talent,
combined with the statues, etc., _impress the spectator with reverence
for the monk_. From Padre Giovanni’s room the ruins of a monastery
arrest the attention. The interest created in the mind of the spectator
on visiting the abode of this monk will not be weakened _by wandering
among the ruins of this once noble monastery_. The tomb of the monk,
_composed_ from the remains of an old ornament, _adds to the gloomy
scenery of this hallowed place_. The pavement, _composed of the tops and
bottoms of broken bottles found among the gravel dug out_ for the
foundation of the monastery, furnishes an admirable lesson of simplicity
and economy, and _shows the unremitting assiduity of the pious monk_.
The stone structure at the head of the monk’s grave _contains the
remains of Fanny, the favoured companion, the delight, the solace of his
leisure hours_, whose portrait, painted by James Ward, R.A., may be seen
in the breakfast-room.” All which nonsense about “_Parloirs_” and Padre
Giovanni and his faithful dog can only cause a smile.
Leaving the “ruins,” turn we now, as the old guide book would put it, to
the “monument court”: “in the centre is an architectural _Pasticico_, of
about thirty feet high, composed of an extraordinary miscellaneous
jumble, the pedestal upon which the cast of the Belvedere Apollo was
placed, a marble capital of Hindoo architecture, a capital in stone like
that at Tivoli, and another of a Gothic sort. These are surmounted by
various architectural groups placed one upon the other, _and the whole
is terminated by a pineapple_.”
This small, cramped, and inconvenient tenement is worth considering as a
curiosity from the ingenuity with which the owner has contrived to make
the most of his space and materials. One room has no less than seven
doors, one communicating with the vestibule, the other with the front
room, whilst that on each side of the fireplace opens into a small book
cabinet lighted from above; these latter most happily contrived. The
Picture Cabinet gives a happy effect to a vista from the gallery; one
critic says “it is perfectly fascinating in its result.”
Passing into the inclosure of the old Inn adjoining, we cannot but
admire the “elderly repose,” (Elia’s phrase), the old-fashioned air of
the green, and the fine sound old houses over which the great tower of
the Law Courts lifts itself. The line of houses that look on the small
square--like an old-fashioned garden--have a pleasing air of
tranquillity. A sort of low booth or shop projects here with odd effect,
and serves as the headquarters of a volunteer corps. Turning by it into
a narrow passage, we find ourselves in a little retired inclosure, with
a tiny walled garden which belongs to an old sequestered house; and,
going on further, we find some decrepit gabled mansions peering down at
us; and beyond, some gloomy passages leading out into Chancery Lane,
lined with finely-crusted mansions, the back of the old Inn, while an
ancient tavern, the Old Ship, rears itself conspicuously. All this
miscellany is oddly antique, and Dickens like.
At the other end of the Fields the unclean disorderly passages about
Clare Market still “flourish”--if that term be appropriate. Here are two
extraordinary old taverns: one black with age, its upper stories
overhanging the pavement and propped up with rude beams of old wood
serving as columns. This is the Old “George IV.” The other is “The Black
Jack,” whose name is significant evidence of its antiquity. One or other
of the taverns is associated with the immortal Pickwick, and is presumed
to be the Magpie and Stump, where Lowten, Perker’s clerk, spent many
convivial hours. These grimed old places are quite in harmony with the
traditions of Jack Sheppard and Joe Miller, which haunt them. Both will
soon be gone. In Chancery Lane, almost facing Carey Street, is an arch,
through which we get a glimpse of the old Rolls Chapel, which seems a
ghostly place and abandoned.
Lincoln’s Inn itself is an attractive building enough. The old heavy
brick gateway, grimed and encrusted with the dirt of centuries, has an
air of impressive gloominess. All the old buildings adjoining it on one
side have been levelled and replaced by these Elizabethan gabled
structures. The venerable gate itself is now menaced, it is said, by
Lord Grimthorpe, and indeed, but for protests, would have been improved
away. There is no reason, however, why it should not be restored. A
consummation to be wished is, that some modified system of restoration
could be introduced, that is, by introducing new bits here and there
where there is weakness. But no--the work must be thorough, and from the
ground.
[Illustration: OLD GATEWAY, LINCOLN’S INN.]
The old, interior court of Lincoln’s Inn, daily traversed by hundreds of
incurious clerks, is charming from the delicately-designed corner towers
the little windows perched up and down, the pleasing irregularity, and
general rusted tones of the old brick. Even the modern hall which faces
the gate has a quaint and becoming air of old fashion, and is in
keeping. But the plaster should be stripped away and the brick revealed.
Close by, on the right, is the characteristic chapel, which rises so
curiously on its arches, with fan-work of Inigo’s design, while beyond
we have glimpses of the trees and sward of the “fayre gardens.” The new
modern chambers are in an excellent Elizabethan style, and, through the
obliging aid of London smut, already begin to harmonize with the rest;
and though the stately “Stone Buildings” close by are of quite a
different style and pattern, the mixture is not unpleasing. In half a
century or so the whole mass will have been well blended together. The
effect is extraordinary when one suddenly turns out of the narrow,
crowded, noisy Chancery Lane, with its lines of omnibuses, cabs and
carts, into this college-like seclusion, where scarcely a sound can be
heard.
[Illustration: A CORNER IN LINCOLN’S INN.]