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.