conception had a perfect airiness and magnificence; and we may be certain forms the ideal of London for persons at a distance. It is curious to think that within living memory there was a stately palace standing where the terraces now are—the well-known Carlton House, which displayed an open colonnade somewhat of the pattern of the Duke of Westminster’s house in Grosvenor Street. The problem set to the architect, Nash, was to make an attractive thoroughfare up to Portland Place, and thus join the new Regent’s Park with the Green Park. The Quadrant within living memory was far more imposing than it is now, owing to the lofty colonnade which ran in front of the shops. This, however, was found to interfere with trade and public order; it was accordingly removed: the line of the parapet may be still followed along the walls.[7] The cost of this important work was very little, scarcely a million and a half, which included all charges, purchase of ground, and goodwill, and the return in annual rentals was put at about thirty-five thousand pounds, which at three per cent, was a fair investment for so important a scheme. For his own residence the architect designed the old Gallery of Illustration, with its courtyard in front, which contained a long, well-designed gallery at the back, still to be seen, intended for the display of architectural objects. It is now a Club. The variety of patterns displayed in Regent Street does credit to the imagination of the designers; and the curious in styles will have no difficulty in identifying some houses that are the work of Sir John Soane, and which exhibit his special oddities. The impetuous Pugin used to describe the whole as “a nest of monstrosities.”

CHAPTER X.

LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS.

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.

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.

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.

CHAPTER XI.

THE OLD INNS—CLIFFORD’S, STAPLE, BARNARD’S, ETC.

AS we turn from the bustle and hurly-burly of Fleet Street, hard by St. Dunstan’s—an effective modern church—we see a retired alley, leading by a curious little archway into Clifford’s Inn. It is difficult to conceive the sudden surprise as we find ourselves in this forlorn inclosure. It might be a fragment of some decayed country town, or of some of those left-behind corners we come upon in an old Dutch or Flemish hamlet. Here are a few ragged, blighted trees, a little railed-in square without grass, inexpressibly unkempt, like a disused burial-ground, on which blink sadly the ancient crusted mansions surrounding the old “Chambers.” Behind us, and next the low entrance, is a sad-looking dining-hall—a small, steep-roofed little building that might hold a score of diners. Above it is the usual pert little lantern-clock. No doubt in the last century the Dutch tradition of such things survived. Its two or three blackened, well-grimed windows have a shining metallic look, and there are shadowy outlines and leadings which betoken armorial work and stained-glass emblems. Here are old, tattered, yet still serviceable houses, encrusted together, as it were, and toned into a deep copper colour; their tiled roofs are sinuous, with eaves shaggy as old eyebrows; while above is a picturesque form of dormer windows which suggest Nuremberg, coupled, half a dozen windows in a row together, under a low, tiled roof. Thus is there roof upon roof. The mellow gloomy tone of the whole is quite “Walkerish,” and would have pleased the lamented artist. In a corner are other retired white-plastered houses. The general solitude is rarely disturbed, save by some hurried messenger or man of business taking a fancied short cut from Chancery Lane to Fleet Street; the tailor, with his forlorn book of patterns displayed, seems little disturbed by customers. The Inn, however, is still inhabited, and the names of tenants are displayed at the doors. They look down into the forsaken and grassless “square”—so called—whose shaky gate of twisted iron excludes trespassers. The old Inn has remained in this precarious state for some years. The “Antients” have not found the way to sell their property—as they deem it. Some morning, however, the new clean hoarding will be found set up, and the “housebreakers” with their picks will be seen at their work. A Naboth’s Vineyard of this sort is a perpetual challenge to ingenuity to surmount all impediments.

Clement’s Inn is close by, just beside the Law Courts. The gardens of both touch each other, separated only by a railing, and have something of the air of the Temple Gardens in miniature. A little quaint, well-designed Queen Anne villa, as it might be called, juts into the centre, and seems a residence that might be coveted. A well-known dramatic critic lived with his family for some years in the inclosure, and has described to us the delightful sensation of looking out on this agreeable plaisaunce, where his children played, quite with the feeling that these were his own grounds: while close outside were Wych Street and the busy Strand. It is not surprising that the old Inn, with its close-like retirement, should have been affected by literary men and others of tranquil pursuits. It was in one of these places that the late Mr. Chenery lived in solitude, editing the Times from his modest chambers; and it was here, too, that he was seized with his last illness, and died, it was said, with but little attendance.

Even after the wholesale clearance for the Law Courts, when an incredible number of streets and houses were swept away, there lingered, till last year almost, a number of tortuous alleys and passages; and urchins lay in wait to guide or direct the wayfarer who wished to gain Clare Market or Drury Lane. Here were some extraordinary houses, which “doddered” on, crutched up by stays and props; and a beautiful carved doorway, with garlands and a Cupid on each side as supporters, was lately to be seen here; but it was soon torn away—probably to be sold in Wardour Street. It was sketched by an artist, who set up his easel in presence of an admiring crowd, and engraved to illustrate the writer’s account of the place. The old hall of Clement’s Inn has, fortunately, been preserved—a bright, cheerful structure of red brick, compact and well balanced, with its tall, florid, and elaborately-adorned doorway at the top of a flight of steps. It has fallen into the hands of a printing firm, who have added on a piece at one end. Still, even as it stands, it is pleasant to see it, and it lends a gaiety to the inclosure. In the grass-garden used to stand the old sundial, supported by a bronze negro, which one morning, on the dissolution of the Inn, disappeared. There was a general clamour at the loss of the old favourite.

The dissolution of Clement’s Inn was one of those greedy acts of spoliation which seem almost incredible, but which have often occurred. It would appear now that the members of these bodies have some right to sell and divide among themselves the property of which they are virtually only trustees. A more amazing proposition could not be conceived. Some years since we read in a morning paper this “Bitter cry”:—“As I was passing through Clement’s Inn this morning I was astonished to see the negro sundial that has stood, or rather knelt, in the centre of the garden for over a century and a half, dismounted from its pedestal and lying ignominiously on its back on the grass. What had this ‘poor sable son of woe’ done to deserve such treatment? I found there had recently been a private auction amongst the members of the Honourable Society of the Inn, and that this well-known statue had been knocked down for £20 to one of the members, and that having been disposed of, the Inn itself, the pictures, plate, and other effects were now following in its wake. Surely Lord Clare, who brought this figure from Italy early in the year 1700, and presented it to the Inn, little contemplated its ultimately falling into the hands of a private individual.” This negro is well modelled and effective in his attitude, and it is pleasant to find that he has been restored, not to his original position, but to a good place on that agreeable plaisaunce, the gardens of the Temple, close to the river, and through the railings the passer-by can see the negro renewed and polished, still supporting his sundial.

In Wych Street, where Theodore Hook declared he was always regularly blocked up by a Lord Mayor’s coach at one end and a hearse or market-cart at the other, we find the entrances to two other Inns, Dane’s and New Inn—now “pretty old,” as Elia said of the New River. Dane’s deserves little attention, as it is a simple lane, lined with modern houses, somewhat of the Peabody type; the well-shuttered windows of New Inn, ranged along one side of Wych Street, suggest the long files of jalousied windows in some retired street in Calais or other French town. To visit the place on some dark evening, and with the lights twinkling from the windows, recalls this foreign air more strikingly. Enter, and it seems the inclosure of some tranquil old college. On the right there is a shadowed recess surrounded by old houses, from which projects the sound and solid old dining-hall, with its bold cornices and square windows, now lit up. Beside it are enclosed gardens and lawns. There is plenty of open area, plenty of breathing-room and apparent tranquillity: scattered lights are seen here and there: there is a general romantic and peaceful tone over the whole.

Yet more interesting and original is a visit to Staple Inn, into which we enter from Chancery Lane, meandering through it into Holborn. The variety and incongruity of the place is singularly piquant. There is the florid gateway, in modern but good taste, from which we descend by a flight of broad steps. The old Hall is garnished with two lanterns, one square and glazed, the other circular; with a quaint door at the side, over which is the usual sensible clock. There is another square beyond, on which the other side of the Hall displays itself; and thence we pass through a low, old-fashioned arch out into roaring Holborn. It seems almost dreamlike. This arch, with its ponderous wooden gates, is sunk in one of the well-known picturesquely-framed houses which front Gray’s Inn Lane or Road. They overhang the street in satisfactory style, and “hold their own,” as it is called, with Rouen. These have been restored and put in sound condition by the Prudential Assurance Company who purchased the Inn, and who it was expected would “develop the property” in the usual way. Fortunately, they have only repaired and improved it, and let it out to “desirable tenants.” Strange places are these old Inns. Not many years ago the little kitchen used to be busy periodically, when the “Antients” met to dine. These Antients were usually worthy tradesmen and solicitors, etc., of the neighbourhood; and pleasant evenings enough they spent. Houses were to be had for “a song,” and a pleasant Bohemian who lived there used to declare that at times his rent was quite forgotten.

Associated with these places, and to cover their uselessness, the Antients received students and instructed them. In the last century this was actually carried out, and “Readers” gave lectures. And at Clement’s Inn, up to a recent period, a reader arrived regularly from the Temple, who however remained for but one evening, when he was invited to dine and was courteously entertained. There used to be a practice of holding what were expressively termed “moots and boults” in the hall after supper, when one of the Antients, learned in Coke, set points for discussion, which a student was required to answer. There was indeed something very quaint and interesting in the theory, at least, of these societies. There was a sacred division, of the upper table, where the “Antients” sat to the number of eight to a dozen. The lower tables, where the students sat, were fewer in number. Grace after dinner was not said, but rather acted. Four loaves, closely adhering together, a type of the Four Gospels, were held up by the chairman, who then raised them three times as symbolical of the Holy Trinity. They were then handed over to the butler, who hurried with them out of the hall with an affected haste, as though not to lose a moment. This ceremony is of extraordinary antiquity and of religious origin. The Antients had the privilege of electing persons from the lower class into their body, which was done after a number of years’ probation. It was impossible to discover any title or right in these persons beyond long custom, though trustees were appointed whose title was as shadowy. They dined together at certain intervals in the mysterious little halls, each person paying his own charges.

But the whole interest in the institution is easily discoverable, and rested on certain profits divided among the Antients, and these depended on the rooms in the Inn, which as they fell vacant were disposed of, each tenant paying a sum down, usually about £400, for his life use of the premises. This sum was divided among the Antients.

Furnival’s Inn, which faces its truly genuine companion opposite, Staple Inn, is sadly modern, having been rebuilt about a century ago. Yet there is an old fashion about it. There is a certain attractiveness in the comparatively old and old-fashioned hotel, which fills the further extremity, and which has an air of snugness and comfort with its trees in tubs and cheerful jalousies. This arises from the perfect repose and retirement, the shelter from the hum and noise of Holborn. Outside there is one of the genuine old taverns, Ridler’s Hotel, where people like Mr. Pickwick might descend. Its bow-windowed coffee room and glass-enclosed bars will be noted, as well as the dark stairs. There are very few of this pattern of tavern left, and where the old tavern life is pursued. There is one at the West End, in Glasshouse Street, which seems exactly what it must have been sixty years ago. There are the old “boxes,” the sanded floors, the coats and hats hung up, and the kettle on the hob.

But perhaps of all these places, “Barnard’s” is the quaintest and most old-fashioned, from its irregular and even straggling aspect. Entering from Holborn, by a simple doorway a little below its neighbour, Staple Inn, we pass the snug little porter’s room, for it is no lodge, facing which is the truly effective dining hall, though “hall” is too ambitious a term for what is really a largish room. Yet how old, rusted and crusted and original it seems, with its steep tiled roof, and elegant little lantern and clock! The windows glitter as with diamond panes, and we can see the patches of stained glass in the centre of each. A small, business-like porch is fitted on at the side, with its little iron gate in front, while round the tiny court are the good, sound old brick mansions. Beyond again is a glimpse of the trees, and a garden, rather forlorn it must be said; beside which is a strange accumulation of old framed houses, all white and overhanging. These must be of very great antiquity, and seem crazy enough. The life in these retreats must be strange, with a sort of monastic tinge. Here “chambers” and rooms, etc., are to be had at low rates.

One of Dickens’s happiest scenes describes Thavies Inn, a curious little recess at the Circus end of Holborn, “a narrow street of high houses, like an oblong cistern to hold the fog.” Of Barnard’s Dickens seems to have had a poor and disparaging opinion, for it is described (by Pip) as “the dingiest collection of shabby buildings ever squeezed together in a rank corner as a club for Tom Cats.” Staple Inn is really an interesting, pretty retirement; there is a strange charm in its trees and quaint old hall, which have evoked an abundance of sentiment, and prompted some graceful sketches. Many a stranger and hurried American enters by the effective archway, leaving the din of Holborn behind, and changing of a sudden to unexpected peace as of the country, anxious to trace the abode of the characters in Edwin Drood. Mr. Grewgius’s chambers can be identified as Number 10 in the inner quadrangle, for it is described as “presenting in black and white over its ugly portal the mysterious inscription of P. J. T., 1747. Perhaps John Thomas, or perhaps Joe Tyler, for a certainty P. J. T. was Pretty Jolly Too.” Landless’s rooms are given with a graphic touch which recalls the whole place: “The top set in the corner, where a few smoky sparrows twitter in the smoky trees as though they had called to each other, ‘let us play at country.’”

These old dining halls of the old inns have a certain character, with their lantern, clock and weather-cock; an honest dial generally, with bold gold figures that all the inn may read as it runs. Within, a business-like, snug chamber, with a great deal of panelling and a permanent “dinner” flavour. They really give a character or note to the little squares in which they stand. These places are gradually dwindling, and in a few years will be extinct. Close by Bream’s Buildings, out of Chancery Lane, there used to stand another inn, “Symonds’,” which it is hard to call up again, yet it disappeared only a score of years ago and figures a good deal in the legal scenery of Bleak House. “A little pale, wall-eyed, woe-begone inn, like a large dustbin of two compartments and a sifter. It looks as if Symonds were a sparing man in his day, and constructed his inn of building materials which took kindly to the dry rot and to dirt and all things decaying and dismal, and perpetuated Symonds’ memory with congenial sadness.”

I take from the St. James’s Gazette the letter of a reminiscent who refers very pleasantly to the poetry and people which Dickens has associated with the “old inns.” I may add that in the account referred to the connection of Dickens with the old inns was purposely omitted, as the article was purely descriptive, and special books have been devoted to “Dickens in London.”

“Time was when on an allusion to Barnard’s Inn it was impossible to keep one’s pen from writing of Pip and Herbert Pocket who had there once (once! they have still) their lodging. Or Staple Inn, and straightway one’s thoughts flew to Hiram Grewgius, and Neville, and Mr. Tartar, and ‘the flowers that grew out of the salt sea.’ Or Gray’s Inn, and one smiled over the recollection of Mr. Parkle and his friend, and of the gentleman who, by the help of the leeches and Mrs. Miggot, was restored to health. Or the late Lyon’s Inn, which should be as indissolubly connected with the name of Mr. Testator as ever it was with that of the unfortunate Mr. William Weare. Mention Furnival’s, and you speak of the place where the most part of ‘Pickwick’ was composed; Lincoln’s, and I drink to the memory of Miss Flite and Esther Summerson, of Richard and Ada.

“But my object in writing is to say that if any one after reading Mr. Fitzgerald’s paper should journey to those charming forgotten spots of which he speaks, let him walk to the end of the little square in Barnard’s Inn, and he will find, on looking beyond the south wall, that straight before him stands an old cowhouse of the time of George I. Often have I loitered about this quiet place, but never realized what that building was till one day an old man passed trundling a wheelbarrow. ‘All thet’s left of the farm,’ quoth he, nodding at the shed; and not till then was I conscious that at the close of the nineteenth century, in the heart of what Mr. Gosse calls ‘Londonland,’ there is still to be seen, suggestive of green meadows and syllabubs, such a countrified relic of the ancient inhabitants of Holborn.

“Also one should visit Clifford’s Inn, where once, somewhere high up on the fourth floor, George Dyer was to be found; which reminds me that, though the New River is covered over in Colebrooke Row, Lamb’s cottage exists pretty much as it did on the day when gentle G. D., staff in hand, plunged into the waters that rippled tranquilly along. Poor Dyer! Of all places, Clifford’s Inn is not the one where I would choose to live and die: rather Staple, with its bright little terrace; or Clement’s, bereft though it is of its sundial, the gift, brought from Italy, of Goldsmith’s Lord Clare. There is a mouldy air and a dismal about the quaint Tudor hall (the Inn’s principal ornament), where Sir Matthew Hale sat to settle the citizens’ claims after the Great Fire; and though the hammered iron railings and the gates and the trees would all come out charmingly enough in an American magazine, I don’t think even one of the admirable Yankee artists could make much of a picture of these dilapidated dreary mansions.

“Then, on your way west, stay at Somerset House, where there is a certain wreathed and domed room I wot of which will repay you for a somewhat toilsome ascent up a fine staircase. This gallery was built by Chambers for the use of the Academy (you will recollect Ramberg’s picture, engraved by Martin, of a Private View here in 1787), and Reynolds has been here before you, and here he delivered his Discourses; and all the great men and women of the first half of the century have passed over this threshold, including the famous Dr. Parr, who tells how he came in the Princess of Wales’s train.”

Ever new and welcome are the charming gardens and squares of the two Temple Inns, so charmingly irregular in their disposition. The peaceful tranquillity of the region is extraordinary; one could wander there for an hour, gazing across the fair grounds at the glistening Thames, which bounds this view, and the barges and steamers slowly gliding past. The straggling diversity of the buildings, old and new mingled together, is not unpleasing, to

say nothing of the arcades, the stately halls, libraries, and the fortress-like church. The well-known, prettily-named “Fountain Court” has its reputation for picturesqueness—has been sketched by Dickens with a true feeling of its charm—the fountain, ever rippling softly, with the terrace and the few old trees shading the old red brick, in a Dutch-like fashion, is truly unique. We love the various old courts and meandering passages. “Brick Court,” where poor “Goldy” had his rooms. The hall here is magnificent and imposing, and its elaborate roof second only to that of Westminster Hall and Hampton Court Banqueting Room.

As we stray on and on we come to one of the most quaint and attractive residences conceivable, the residence of Dr. Vaughan, the Master of the Temple, with its pleasing garden in front raised on a terrace, its green jalousies, and general rural air, though its rear is but a few yards from the Strand. Those who relish genuine old English houses, well framed and overhanging the path, will wander here into the Temple Lane, on turning out of the Strand. Curious are the dark and somewhat crazy twisting stairs. Many years ago there was yet another row of these ancient houses standing, among which were Dr. Johnson’s chambers; the door-case and its frame were actually sold by auction by Messrs. Puttick. The ponderous gate-house is said to be the design of Inigo Jones. The soi-disant Cardinal Wolsey’s palace is a curious relic enough, more curious still from being now in the hands of an enterprising hairdresser. Without admitting its lofty claims, the carvings and wrought ceilings are interesting.

But to find the true monastic air of retirement, with something of the tone of an ancient park or grounds long forsaken, commend us to Gray’s Inn. From the din and roar of the noisy, clattering Holborn, we can escape by arches and alleys, and then of a sudden find ourselves in this still, sequestered retreat. We wander along a quaint flagged lane, by the old chambers propped on stout pillars, or a short arcade, with glimpses of the green plaisaunce seen through old well-wrought iron railings. Most effective are the elaborate iron gates and piers that open on the gardens. Here we have the welcome rooks, the few survivors of the tribe in London.[8]

The somewhat bare and gaunt squares are set off by the old Hall and Chapel, disfigured, however, by modern plastering and other garnishing in the Nash manner. It is a pity that the honest old brick could not be restored to view. The hideous modern platitude, known as Verulam Buildings, and which excited Elia’s indignant lamentations, is of course hopeless, and must be endured. Curious as an instance of antique squalor and dilapidation is the row of buildings on the west side of Gray’s Inn Road. Some years ago there was a delightful entertainment given here, which proves that the practical spirit of the age has not wholly extinguished the poetical sense. A “Masque of Flowers” was presented in the old Hall under the direction of Mr. Arthur à Beckett, performed by a bevy of fair maidens and brave youths, most of whom—as was fitting—were connected with the profession of the law. The old squares became ablaze with light and crowded with gallant company, the unfrequented lanes well filled with “coaches” from the West End. It was altogether a pleasant and appropriate festival.

CHAPTER XII.

DICKENS IN LONDON.

With such a guide the old streets and houses long since demolished and being fast demolished every day, revive before us; with them rises the oldfashioned London, its humours, its society of fifty years ago. One of the results of this association is that as we walk through some of these old-world quarters, such as Goswell Street or “Lant Street, Boro’” (where Bob Sawyer gave his party), the whole Pickwick, or rather Dickens flavour seems to pour out, and the figures live again. It is not surprising that this connection between the gifted writer and the old bricks of London should have become a study, and a very engaging study, and in antiquaries’ accounts of the great city it is now become customary to trace the haunts and localities of the places described in his novels. In an unpretending but lively little book Mr. Allbut has undertaken this labour of love, and furnished a very useful little handbook to the Dickens explorer. From this one might profitably glean a few passages. It will be noted what a poetical instinct the great writer had in this respect, and he caught the true “note” as it were of making selection of what was best fitted for his purpose. This power of vividly imprinting the locality on the mind might be illustrated by that dismal gate and alley, “Tom all alone’s,” of which the site only remains in Bedfordbury, just out of Chandos Street, where the huge Peabody Buildings rise, though it has been claimed for other localities. Indeed, close to the upper end of Shaftesbury Avenue there is a strange forlorn alley with a dilapidated tottering old inclosure beyond, which would exactly serve for the original. And in Russell Court, that curious winding passage leading to the pit door of “Old Drury,” we fancy we see the gate of the dismal burial ground on whose steps Lady Deadlock was found. It still looks exactly as in the print, “with houses looking on on every side, save where a reeking little tunnel of a court gives access to the iron gate.” This depressing intramural burial ground has been garnished up into a recreation inclosure, and is but a trifle less gloomy than a cheerful mortuary house built at one side.

Dickens always delighted in the mystery attendant on banks and their cashiers, old mouldy mercantile houses where yet a large and safe business was done; and these things he could interpret and give significance to, just as Wordsworth and the later poets did with their favourite district. When Temple Bar was removed in 1878, there was removed with it a building which touched it, and was as old and grimy, Child’s venerable bank. It is difficult to call up either structure now, though the frequent “omnibus outside” may have occasionally turned his eyes to the blackened walls and to the windows in the Bar, a sort of store room where were kept stacked away all the old account books of the firm. The late Peter Cunningham was allowed, I believe, to rummage here, and discovered some curious documents, among which were cheques drawn by Nell Gwynne, who kept her account with the Childs or the predecessors of the firm. Speaking of the old house Dickens says, in the “Tale of Two Cities”:

“Tellson’s Bank, by Temple Bar, was an old-fashioned place even in the year 1780. It was very small, very dark, very ugly, very incommodious. Any one of the partners would have disinherited his son on the question of rebuilding Tellson’s. Thus it had come to pass that Tellson’s was the triumphant perfection of inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson’s down two steps, and came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little counters; where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet Street, and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper and the shadow of Temple Bar.”

Dickens just lived to see the extraordinary wholesale reformation that took place in the construction of the Holborn Viaduct, with the levelling and sweeping away of some of his most popular localities. The Holborn Valley before lay between two steep hills, of which Snow Hill was one, and on Snow Hill was “The Saracen’s Head,” where Mr. Squeers invariably put up. This old hostelry stood close to St. Sepulchre’s Church, on the ground, Mr. Allbut states, now covered by the new police office.

“The Wooden Midshipman,” one of the most effective and playful conceits of Dickens, might be pointed out as an illustration of his mode of illustrating stories. Take away the little figure from the associations of Cap’n Cuttle and Sol Gills, and much life and colour seems abstracted. Only so late as the close of 1881 the “Midshipman” was flourishing at a house in Leadenhall Street, nearly opposite the India House. In that year some tremendous operations in demolition and re-erection were being carried out, and the “Wooden Midshipman” received notice to quit. A pleasant writer, Mr. Ashby Sterry, with a specially delicate touch, and who has written some “Tiny Travels”—so called—because they are merely visits to places familiar and close at hand, often more enjoyable than the official far-off showplaces—heard of what was going to be done, and made a hasty pilgrimage to take a last look. He tells us how he was affected. “With his quadrant at his round black knob of an eye, and his figure in the old attitude of indomitable alacrity, the midshipman displayed his elfin small clothes to the best advantage, and, absorbed in scientific pursuits, had no sympathy with worldly concern. When I was a boy, the very first book of Dickens’s that I read was ‘Dombey and Son.’ Passing down Leadenhall Street shortly afterwards, I noted the ‘Wooden Midshipman,’ and at once ‘spotted’ it as the original of Sol Gills’s residence. The description is so vivid and exact that it is unmistakable.” This was the old-established firm of Norie and Wilson, nautical instrument makers, established since 1773, and which, as it seems to me, had a thoroughly Dickens flavour—that name Norie. The firm had associations with Nelson, kept up diligently their old-fashioned connections, and took pride in their Midshipman.

“A more popular little officer in his own domain than our friend it would be difficult to find. At one time the Little Man used to get his knuckles severely abraded by passing porters carrying loads, and was continually being sent into dock to have a fresh set of knuckles provided. Old pupils, who had become distinguished naval officers, would pop in to inquire what had become of the genius of the place, and many have been the offers to buy him outright and remove him. Several Americans have been in lately and have offered his proprietors very large sums if they might be allowed to purchase him and take him to New York. It is furthermore on record that King William the Fourth on passing through Leadenhall Street to the Trinity House raised his hat to him as he passed by.” All this is quaint enough. But before this account appeared he had been already taken away carefully, and set up at his new quarters, No. 156, Minories, where he still continues to take his observations. But he is sadly out of keeping. The old shop is described as being curiously appropriate, so snug, and so unobtrusive, so ancient and conservative in its fittings. On the eve of the levelling of the place, the visitor was invited in by the owner, “It is with a sad heart,” he says, “that I accept the courteous invitation of Mr. Wilson to take a last look at the premises, and listen to much curious gossip about the old shop and its frequenters. The interior of the shop, with its curious desks and its broad counter, is fully as old-fashioned as its exterior.” He then went upstairs, passing up “a panelled staircase with a massive handrail and spiral balusters to the upper rooms. I look in at Walter’s chamber, and see the place in the roof where Rob the Grinder kept his pigeons. I spend some time in a cheerful panelled apartment, which at one time was the bedchamber of Sol Gills.” There is something, however, too remote in thus identifying minutely the various rooms and scenes; for Dickens, as the writer has shown, like all good writers, “abstracted” in all his creations or adoptions, and would have found a loss of power had he copied strictly. It was the tone of the place that inspired him. When I myself came by that way a little later, the whole was gone.

Again, many have noted in the vicinity of Clare Market, in Portsmouth Street, the old overhanging shop devoted to the sale of waste paper and bones. Some years ago it was boarded up and shored up, and it became known of a sudden that the original of Dickens’s “Old Curiosity Shop” was doomed to “demolition.” Then was witnessed one of those strange rushes after “fads” so peculiar to the Londoner. “All day long on Saturday the narrow pavements of Portsmouth Street—that quaint southwestern outlet from Lincoln’s Inn Fields—were besieged by a crowd of sympathetic sight-seers, who had journeyed there from all parts of London ‘to worship at the shrine of Little Nell.’ They stood four deep in front of the ‘Crooked Billet,’ staring curiously over the way at the rickety old timber house with a projecting story, on the plaster face of which was boldly inscribed, ‘The Old Curiosity Shop’, Immortalised by Charles Dickens. Here and there among them was an artist, busy with pencil and note-book taking down sketches of the tumble-down old place; and one could not fail to distinguish the noisy demonstration of the American traveller, as he demanded to know, with nasal eagerness, ‘If that really was the home of Little Nell.’ For a year or two past, at any rate, it had been one of the stock visiting places of American tourists. ‘They went there to worship,’ a neighbouring shopkeeper said; ‘took off their hats when they got through the doorway, and asked questions about Quilp and the Grandfather as if they had been actual persons. The ladies were the worst. I have known them get down on their knees and burst out crying about Little Nell.’ Miss Mary Anderson might have been seen there more than once, with her heart full of tenderness for the little maiden; and so delighted was the fair American with the ancient dwelling and its overhanging story that the doors of the Lyceum were opened to the fortunate occupant whenever she chose to go.” The place had been condemned by the Board of Works, but that body moved very slowly, or there had been a reprieve. With American shrewdness, the American actress, Lotto, brought this scene into an adaptation of the story she was about to play.

Latterly it is becoming a pleasant hobby, notably in the case of the Americans, to diligently follow in the footsteps of Dickens, and visit and identify all the scenes he placed in his novels. Year by year these are disappearing. Numerous pleasant articles have appeared in American magazines, with pretty illustrations, and carried out in a very fond and tender spirit. Indeed, this culte of Dickens is growing every day; but it will be a serious loss when all his houses and haunts have been pulled down. There will be a link lost then between him and us.[9] We have only to walk to the Marble Arch, and there we see his last town residence, No. 5, Hyde Park Place, a solemnly genteel, if not monotonous, residence, that belonged to Mr. Gibson. It is astonishing, indeed, how every step, turn, and corner in London is somehow associated with this great master of fiction—chambers, old streets, slums, etc. The secret is, he delighted himself to associate his fancies with some particular locality, and this feeling inspired him. There is a remarkable passage in his life where he deplores the difficulty of writing, when far away from the bustle and motion of London streets. It will be remembered how he set off to “choose a house” for Sampson Brass in Bevis Marks. It is impossible to look at Bevis Marks now without calling up that strange character. You feel he must have lived there. So with Lant Street, Borough, the residence of Mr. Sawyer, and which has the suitable dinginess: all this is pleasant to the pedestrian, the scenery being so much in keeping. In a few years, when everything is altered and pulled down, we shall have only the site left by which to recall old associations.

Near the bottom of Parliament Street, and almost opposite the Home Office, is a narrow lane leading into Cannon Row, whence could be long seen the rear of the unfinished Opera house. At the corner stands a third-rate public-house, suggesting one of the extraordinary incidents in London, where meanness and opulence are ever side by side. This public-house is associated with the hardships of Dickens’s boyhood, in a very characteristic recollection, which he relates himself. “I remember, one evening (I had been somewhere for my father, and was going back to the Borough over Westminster Bridge), that I went into a public-house in Parliament Street, which is still there, though altered, at the corner of the short street leading into Cannon Row, and said to the landlord behind the bar, ‘What is your very best—the very best—ale, a glass?’ For the occasion was a festive one, for some reason: I forget why. It may have been my birthday, or somebody else’s. ‘Twopence,’ says he. ‘Then,’ says I, ‘just draw me a glass of that, if you please, with a good head to it.’ The landlord looked at me in return, over the bar, from head to foot, with a strange smile on his face; and instead of drawing the beer, looked round the screen and said something to his wife, who came out from behind it, with her work in her hand, and joined him in surveying me. Here we stand, all three, before me now, in my study in Devonshire Terrace. The landlord in his shirt-sleeves, leaning against the bar window-frame; his wife, looking over the little half-door; and I, in some confusion, looking up at them from outside the partition. They asked me a good many questions, as what my name was, how old I was, where I lived, how I was employed, etc., etc. To all of which, that I might commit nobody, I invented appropriate answers. They served me with the ale, though I suspect it was not the strongest on the premises; and the landlord’s wife, opening the little half-door and bending down, gave me a kiss that was half-admiring and half-compassionate, but all womanly and good, I am sure.”

When a bachelor, he lived in Furnival’s Inn, No. 15, on the right as you enter, but on his marriage removed to 48, Doughty Street. In this clean little street there is a prim monotony, every house being of the same cast—small, and suited for a clerk and his family. These seem indeed miniature Wimpole Street houses; but they have a snug, comfortable air, and it is something to pause before No. 48 and think of “Oliver Twist” and “Nicholas Nickleby” written in this study. With increasing prosperity he moved from this humble but snug quarter to a more pretentious mansion, “Tavistock House,” where he lived for ten years. There are three houses standing together in this rather forlorn-looking waste, which stands in a cul de sac, and his is the first. “In Tavistock Square,” says Hans Andersen, “stands Tavistock House. This and the strip of garden in front of it are shut out from the thoroughfare by an iron railing. A large garden, with a grass plat and high trees, stretches behind the house and gives it a countrified look in the midst of this coal and gas steaming London. In the passage from street to garden hung pictures and engravings. Here stood a marble bust of Dickens, so like him, so youthful and handsome; and over a bedroom door were inserted the bas-reliefs of Night and Day, after Thorwaldsen. On the first floor was a rich library, with a fireplace and a writing table, looking out on the garden; and here it was that in winter Dickens and his friends acted plays.” Turning out of the road one is struck by the rather stately air of the mansion. During these ten years he made it re-echo with his gaiety and cheery spirit. It had, however, a damp or dampish air, which all such edifices seem to contract. The trees and the verdure generally do not flourish. Later it become the residence of Mrs. Georgina Weldon, née the beautiful Miss Treherne.