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- 3547
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- 2026-01-30T20:47:56.336Z
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- 3484
- text
- men of mark--famous nobles, judges, and Lord Chancellors--have in their
time been Templars. But all Templars are not known to universal fame;
though, if the having warm hearts and warmer welcomes, full minds and
fuller cellars, and giving good advice and glorious dinners, spiced
with rare divertisements of fun and fancy, merit immortal mention, set
down, ye muses, the names of R.F.C. and his imperial brother.
Though to be a Templar, in the one true sense, you must needs be a
lawyer, or a student at the law, and be ceremoniously enrolled as
member of the order, yet as many such, though they may have their
offices there, just so, on the other hand, there are many residents of
the hoary old domicils who are not admitted Templars. If being, say,
a lounging gentleman and bachelor, or a quiet, unmarried literary man,
charmed with the soft seclusion of the spot, you much desire to pitch
your shady tent among the rest in this serene encampment, then you must
make some special friend among the order, and procure him to rent, in
his name but at your charge, whatever vacant chamber you may find to
suit.
Thus, I suppose, did Dr. Johnson, that nominal Benedick and widower but
virtual bachelor, when for a space he resided here. So, too, did that
undoubted bachelor and rare good soul, Charles Lamb. And hundreds more,
of sterling spirits, Brethren of the Order of Celibacy, from time to
time have dined, and slept, and tabernacled here. Indeed, the place is
all a honeycomb of offices and domicils. Like any cheese, it is quite
perforated through and through in all directions with the snug cells of
bachelors. Dear, delightful spot! Ah! when I bethink me of the sweet
hours there passed, enjoying such genial hospitalities beneath those
time-honored roofs, my heart only finds due utterance through poetry;
and, with a sigh, I softly sing, "Carry me back to old Virginny!"
Such then, at large, is the Paradise of Bachelors. And such I found it
one pleasant afternoon in the smiling month of May, when, sallying from
my hotel in Trafalgar Square, I went to keep my dinner-appointment with
that fine Barrister, Bachelor, and Bencher, R.F.C. (he is the first and
second, and should be the third; I hereby nominate him), whose card I
kept fast pinched between my gloved forefinger and thumb, and every now
and then snatched still another look at the pleasant address inscribed
beneath the name, Number --, Elm Court, Templar.
At the core he was a right bluff, care-free, right comfortable, and
most companionable Englishman. If on a first acquaintance he seemed
reserved, quite icy in his air--patience; this champagne will thaw.
And, if it never do, better frozen champagne than liquid vinegar.
There were nine gentlemen, all bachelors, at the dinner. One was from
"Number --, King's Bench Walk, Temple"; a second, third and fourth,
and fifth, from various courts or passages christened with some
similarly rich resounding syllables. It was indeed a sort of Senate of
the Bachelors, sent to this dinner from widely-scattered districts,
to represent the general celibacy of the Temple. Nay it was, by
representation, a Grand Parliament of the best Bachelors in universal
London; several of those present being from distant quarters of the
town, noted immemorial seats of lawyers and unmarried men--Lincoln's
Inn, Furnival's Inn; and one gentlemen upon whom I looked with a sort
of collateral awe, hailed from the spot where Lord Verulam once abode a
bachelor--Gray's Inn.
The apartment was well up toward heaven; I know not how many strange
old stairs I climbed to get to it. But a good dinner, with famous
company, should be well earned. No doubt our host had his dining-room
so high with a view to secure the prior exercise necessary to the due
relishing and digesting of it.
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