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- 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 Templars, do not reside within
the Temple’s precincts, 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-honoured 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, ‘No. --, Elm Court, Temple.’
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
‘No. --, 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 gentleman, 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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