THE PARADISE OF BACHELORS AND THE TARTARUS OF MAIDS.
I. THE PARADISE OF BACHELORS.
IT lies not far from Temple-Bar.
Going to it, by the usual way, is like steal-
ing from a heated plain into some cool, deep
glen, shady among harboring hills.
Sick with the din and soiled with the mud of
Fleet Street -- where the Benedick tradesmen are
hurrying by, with ledger-lines ruled along their
brows, thinking upon rise of bread and fall of
babies -- you adroitly turn a mystic corner -- not
a street -- glide down a dim, monastic way
flanked by dark, sedate, and solemn piles, and
still wending on, give the whole care-worn world
the slip, and, disentangled, stand beneath the
quiet cloisters of the Paradise of Bachelors.
Sweet are the oases in Sahara; charming the
isle-groves of August prairies; delectable pure
faith amidst a thousand perfidies: but sweeter,
still more charming, most delectable, the dreamy
Paradise of Bachelors, found in the stony heart
of stunning London.
In mild meditation pace the cloisters;
take your pleasure, sip your leisure, in the garden
waterward; go linger in the ancient library, go
worship in the sculptured chapel: but little have
you seen, just nothing do you know, not the
sweet kernel have you tasted, till you dine
among the banded Bachelors, and see their con-
vivial eyes and glasses sparkle. Not dine in
bustling commons, during term-time, in the
hall; but tranquilly, by private hint, at a pri-
vate table; some fine Templar's hospitably invited guest.
Templar? That's a romantic name. Let
me see. Brian de Bois Gilbert was a Templar,
I believe. Do we understand you to insinuate
that those famous Templars still survive in mod-
ern London? May the ring of their armed
heels be heard, and the rattle of their shields, as
in mailed prayer the monk-knights kneel before
the consecrated Host? Surely a monk-knight
were a curious sight picking his way along
the Strand, his gleaming corselet and snowy
surcoat spattered by an omnibus. Long-bearded,
too, according to his order's rule; his face fuzzy
as a pard's; how would the grim ghost look
among the crop-haired, close-shaven citizens?
We know indeed -- sad history recounts it -- that
a moral blight tainted at last this sacred Broth-
erhood. Though no sworded foe might out-
skill them in the fence, yet the worm of luxury
crawled beneath their guard, gnawing the core
of knightly troth, nibbling the monastic vow, till
at last the monk's austerity relaxed to wassail-
ing, and the sworn knights-bachelors grew to
be but hypocrites and rakes.
But for all this, quite unprepared were we to
learn that Knights-Templars (if at all in being)
were so entirely secularized as to be reduced
from carving out immortal fame in glorious bat-
tling for the Holy Land, to the carving of roast-
mutton at a dinner-board. Like Anacreon, do
these degenerate Templars now think it sweeter
far to fall in banquet than in war? Or, indeed,
how can there be any survival of that famous or-
der? Templars in modern London! Templars
in their red-cross mantles smoking cigars at the
Divan! Templars crowded in a railway train,
till, stacked with steel helmet, spear, and shield,
the whole train looks like one elongated loco-
motive!
No. The genuine Templar is long since de-
parted. Go view the wondrous tombs in the
Temple Church; see there the rigidly-haughty
forms stretched out, with crossed arm
upon their stilly hearts, in everlasting and undream-
ing rest. Like the years before the flood, the
bold Knights-Templars are no more. Never-
theless, the name remains, and the nominal society,
and the ancient grounds, and some of the
ancient edifices. But the iron heel is changed
to a boot of patent-leather; the long two-hand-
ed sword to a one-handed quill; the monk-giver
of gratuitous ghostly counsel now counsels for
a fee; the defender of the sarcophagus (if in
good practice with his weapon) now has more
than one case to defend; the vowed opener and
clearer of all highways leading to the Holy Sep-
ulchre, now has it in particular charge to check,
to clog, to hinder, and embarrass all the courts
and avenues of Law; the knight-combatant of
the Saracen, breasting spear-points at Acre, now
fights law-points in Westminster Hall. The
helmet is a wig. Struck by Time's enchanter's
Wand, the Templar is to-day a Lawyer.
But, like many others tumbled from proud
glory's height -- like the apple, hard on the bough
but mellow on the ground -- the Templar's fall
has but made him all the finer fellow.
I dare say those old warrior-priests were but
gruff and grouty at the best; cased in Birming-
ham hardware, how could their crimped arms
give yours or mine a hearty shake? Their
proud, ambitious, monkish souls clasped shut,
like horn-book missals; their very faces clapped
in bomb-shells; what sort of genial men were
these? But best of comrades, most affable of
hosts, capital diner is the modern Templar. His
wit and wine are both of sparkling brands.
The church and cloisters, courts and vaults,
lanes and passages, banquet-halls, refectories, li-
braries, terraces, gardens, broad walks, domicils,
and dessert-rooms, covering a very large space
of ground, and all grouped in central neighbor-
hood, and quite sequestered from the old city's
surrounding din; and every thing about the
place being kept in most bachelor-like particu-
larity, no part of London offers to a quiet wight
so agreeable a refuge.
The Temple is, indeed, a city by itself. A
city with all the best appurtenances, as the
above enumeration shows. A city with a park
to it, and flower-beds, and a river-side -- the
Thames flowing by as openly, in one part, as by
Eden's primal garden flowed the mild Euphrates.
In what is now the Temple Garden the old Cru-
saders used to exercise their steeds and lances;
the modern Templars now lounge on the benches
beneath the trees, and, switching their patent-
leather boots, in gay discourse exercise at re-
partee.
Long lines of stately portraits in the banquet-
halls, show what great men of mark -- famous
nobles, judges, and Lord Chancellors -- hav
e 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 immor-
tal 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 nom-
inal Benedick and widower but virtual bachelor,
when for a space he resided here. So, too, did
that undoubted bachelor and rare good soul,
ling 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 Bach-
elors. And such I found it one pleasant after-
noon in the smiling month of May, when, sally-
ing from my hotel in Trafalgar Square, I went
to keep my dinner-appointment with that fine
Barrister, Bachelor, aud 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, Tem-
ple."
At the core he was a right bluff, care-free,
right comfortable, and most companionable En-
glishman. 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-scat-
tered 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 be-
ing 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 climb-
ed 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.
The furniture was wonderfully unpretending,
old, and snug. No new shining mahogany,
sticky with undried varnish; no uncomfortably
luxurious ottomans, and sofas too fine to use,
vexed you in this sedate apartment. It is a
thing which every sensible American should
learn from every sensible Englishman, that glare
and glitter, gimcracks and gewgaws, are not in-
dispensable to domestic solacement. The Amer-
ican Benedick snatches, down-town, a tough
chop in a gilded show-box; the English bach-
elor leisurely dines at home on that incompar-
able South Down of his, off a plain deal board.
The ceiling of the room was low. Who wants
to dine under the dome of St. Peter's? High
ceilings! If that is your demand, and the higher
the better, and you be so very tall, then go dine
out with the topping giraffe in the open air.
In good time the nine gentlemen sat down to
nine covers, and soon were fairly under way.
If I remember right, ox-tail soup inaugurated
the affair. Of a rich russet hue, its agreeable
flavor dissipated my first confounding of its main
ingredient with teamster's gads and the raw-
hides of ushers. (By way of interlude, we here
drank a little claret.) Neptune's was the next
white, flaky, and just gelatinous enough, not too
turtleish in its unctuousness.
(At this point we refreshed ourselves with a
glass of sherry.) After these light skirmishers
had vanished, the heavy artillery of the feast
marched in, led by that well-known English
generalissimo, roast beef. For aids-de-camp we
had a saddle of mutton, a fat turkey, a chicken-
pie, and endless other savory things; while for
avant-couriers came nine silver flagons of hum-
ming ale. This heavy ordnance having departed
on the track of the light skirmishers, a picked
brigade of game-fowl encamped upon the board,
their camp-fires lit by the ruddiest of decanters.
Tarts and puddings followed, with innumer-
able niceties; then cheese and crackers. (By
way of ceremony, simply, only to keep up good
old fashions, we here each drank a glass of good
old port.)
The cloth was now removed, and like Blu-
cher's army coming in at the death on the field
of Waterloo, in marched a fresh detachment of
bottles, dusty with their hurried march.
All these manoeuvrings of the forces were su-
perintended by a surprising old field-marshal (I
can not school myself to call him by the inglo-
rious name of waiter), with snowy hair and nap-
kin, and a head like Socrates. Amidst all the
hilarity o
f the feast, intent on important busi-
ness, he disdained to smile. Venerable man!
I have above endeavored to give some slight
schedule of the general plan of operations. But
any one knows that a good, genial dinner is a
sort of pell-mell, indiscriminate affair, quite
baffling to detail in all particulars. Thus, I
spoke of taking a glass of claret, and a glass of
sherry, and a glass of port, and a mug of ale --
all at certain specific periods and times. But
those were merely the state bumpers, so to
speak. Innumerable impromptu glasses were
drained between the periods of those grand im-
posing ones.
The nine bachelors seemed to have the most
tender concern for each other's health. All the
time, in flowing wine, they most earnestly ex-
pressed their sincerest wishes for the entire well-
being and lasting hygiene of the gentlemen on
the right and on the left. I noticed that when
one of these kind bachelors desired a little more
wine (just for his stomach's sake, like Timothy),
he would not help himself to it unless some
other bachelor would join him. It seemed held
something indelicate, selfish, and unfraternal, to
be seen taking a lonely, unparticipated glass.
Meantime, as the wine ran apace, the spirits of
the company grew more and more to perfect
genialness and unconstraint. They related all
sorts of pleasant stories. Choice experiences in
their private lives were now brought out, like
choice brands of Moselle or Rhenish, only kept
for particular company. One told us how mel-
lowly he lived when a student at Oxford; with
various spicy anecdotes of most frank-hearted
noble lords, his liberal companions. Another
bachelor, a gray-headed man, with a sunny face,
who, by his own account, embraced every op-
portunity of leisure to cross over into the Low
Countries, on sudden tours of inspection of the
fine old Flemish architecture there -- this learn-
ed, white-haired, sunny-faced old bachelor, ex-
celledin his descriptions of the elaborate splen-
dors of those old guild-halls, town-halls, and
stadthold-houses, to be seen in the land of the
ancient Flemings. A third was a great fre-
quenter of the British Museum, and knew all
about scores of wonderful antiquities, of Oriental
manuscripts, and costly books without a dupli-
cate. A fourth had lately returned from a trip
to Old Granada, and, of course, was full of Sar-