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.

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.