Chronicles of an Old Inn; Or, A Few Words about Gray's Inn

by Andrée Hope

GRAY'S INN.

About half-way down the great thoroughfare of Holborn, there is an old and somewhat gloomy gateway. That gateway is low and dark, but rarely silent, as from early dawn until late into the night it echoes and re-echoes with the thunder of the mighty traffic of the great street on which it opens.

From early dawn until late into the night may be heard the heavy roll of omnibuses, the sharp rattle of cabs, the hurried steps of vast multitudes of foot passengers.

Like the arteries of the living body, that as long as life endures receives fresh blood from the heart, are the main streets that lead from "the City," that heart of gigantic London; and from this great centre of the trade of Europe, the wondrous stream of commerce is for ever flowing.

Of these magnificent streets few are more striking to the stranger than the grand old thoroughfare of Holborn.

Its width, its length, the precipitous hill over which it passes, the noble viaduct that now eases the too rapid descent, the memories that are connected with this, one of the most ancient, as well as one of the most important streets of the English capital, render it more than ordinarily interesting to the foreigner, and to the stranger.

A few of the ancient houses are still in existence, and from their quaint old casements many royal pageants and many sorrowful processions have been witnessed.

Kings and Queens arrayed in gorgeous robes, blazing with costly jewels, and surrounded by glittering courtiers, have gaily moved onwards amid the blare of trumpets, and the shouts of admiring crowds, to partake of sumptuous Court festivals.

In awe-inspiring contrast to the gay trains, and to the beauty and mirth of the pleasure-seekers so joyously riding forward to fresh delight, other scenes have, alas! been too frequently witnessed from these same windows.

Amid the derisive cries of a savage rabble, or amid the gloomy silence of a suffering and oppressed people, other and ghastly processions have also passed this way.

Merciless guards and black-robed priests are here, and in their midst, watched with zealous and cruel care, are tottering and emaciated figures—martyrs on their way to Smithfield, prepared to seal by their blood the testimony they have borne to the truth of their faith.

Broken down by suffering, with a frame ofttimes racked by the torture it has undergone, many an heroic heart has still triumphed over the crushed and mangled body, and with uplifted hands and in fervid accents the Christian hero, even amidst the flames, praises God, who permits His faithful servant to testify, though in death, undying love and confidence in his Divine Father.

God be thanked, however, that these hideous old times have long since passed away, and that England is now, by her noble tolerance and enlightened Christianity, doing much to show the world that it is not by cruelty and persecution that our holy religion requires to be upheld.

Oldbourne, as it was called in olden times, was early one of the important thoroughfares in, or rather leading to the City of London, and although the traffic must in days of yore have been but a faint shadow of what it now is, still even as far back as the reign of Richard II. it was necessary to make special laws for its good ordering, by reason of the number of carts, wains, drays, and other conveyances that passed that way.

One old chronicler complains thus quaintly:

"The coachman rides behind his horses' tails," saith he, "he lasheth them, but looketh not before nor behind him. The drayman sitteth and sleepeth on his dray, and so letteth his horses lead him home."

For the better maintenance of safety, it seems that it had been ordered that the fore horse of every carriage should be led by hand; but we see that in old days, as indeed is sometimes the case now, such prudent regulations were but little regarded. So the same old chronicler mournfully adds: "These wise laws are not faithfully observed."

In these same old days coaches were unknown, but a singular kind of chariot, or large covered chair, slung upon wheels, and called a whirlicote, was used by ladies of high rank.

When Richard II. travelled from Kent to London, the King and all his Court rode on horseback, but the Queen Mother, being weak and sickly, made the journey in a whirlicote.

A new fashion came in vogue the following year, when King Richard married Princess Anne of Bohemia.

The fair young Queen made her first appearance in public arrayed in white robes embroidered in silver, so that "she shone in beauty and brightness like unto a sweet crescent moon," and to the admiration of all beholders, she rode gallantly at the King's left hand, seated sideways on her horse, on a machine called a side-saddle.

From that moment whirlicotes went out of fashion, and every woman who was young enough to mount a horse rode sideways like the Queen.

But centuries have passed away, each century, each year indeed, adding to the mighty stream of traffic, and now the roar of passing vehicles, the hurrying footsteps of thousands of foot passengers, cease not from early dawn until late into the night.

To the unaccustomed ear, to the unaccustomed eye, such overpowering noise, such perpetual movement, speedily becomes bewildering and even stupefying. Ear and eye alike are exhausted by the unwonted strain.

Very few, however, of the many who pass and repass that way, notice the low, dark archway already mentioned opening on the left-hand side of the street when proceeding towards the City. Turn down that archway, and ere twenty steps are made a different world is found. Not only indeed a different world, but a chance visitor might say with reason that he is out of the world, the sudden quiet, the sudden peace, is in such extraordinary contrast to the rush and hurry of the street he has left.

Instead of the blinding glare, the suffocating dust, the bewildering noise of Holborn, the quiet court to which this archway leads, rests in almost monastic calm. Lofty houses intercept the burning rays of the sun, and cast their soft gray shadows half across the square. Even the noise of the great street is softened to the ear, and becomes almost soothing, as the echoes of it fall and are gradually lost amid the thick old walls.

The maddening hubbub of carts, cabs, and hurrying feet fades into an indistinct murmur, like the throbbing of the waves of the great Atlantic when heard far away inland.

To one given to idle and desultory wanderings, and to idle and desultory thoughts, the quaint old nooks and corners that may often be found in the midst even of the most populous towns, have far more charms than the busier haunts of men, for to those who love to muse on bygone days there is a strange and constantly increasing fascination in the conventual quiet, the faded grandeur of many of these time-worn spots.

In truth, however, the old squares of that ancient Inn of Court called Gray's Inn, though quiet and retired, are by no means gloomy. Not only are they cool and restful in the glowing days of summer, but in their pleasant courts some remains may still be found of the sweet country sights, of the sweet country sounds that centuries ago made the drives and walks by Oldbourne Hill, with its pretty lanes and paths, and its fragrant hedgerows, the favourite resort, not only of the tired and heated citizens of London, but also of the great lords whose stately palaces were either grouped around Westminster, or stretched far along the picturesque river-bank then, as now, called the Strand.

No doubt the beautiful and rapidly flowing river had many charms, and we know from Pepys, that during the summer heats its broad bosom was covered with pleasure-boats and wherries.

In those days smoke did not darken, nor did evil smells and sights defile the waters of the sweet Thames. Fair gardens then bordered its banks, and trees and flowers dipped tendrils and branches into its waves.

Still, notwithstanding these attractions, the Londoners dearly loved Oldbourne Hill, where the fresh cool breezes came from the Kent and Surrey hills laden with the sweet scent of gorse and broom (that favourite badge of our Plantagenet Princes), and from the valleys and sunny slopes below came the richer perfumes of innumerable vineyards and hop-grounds.

It is difficult to realise, while wandering amongst the wilderness of houses that now surrounds and connects the cities of London and Westminster, that once fair fields and shady woods extended for miles, where now are only found grimy streets and dismal courts. Still more difficult is it to believe that within the last hundred years these same fair fields were dangerous to traverse after dark, by reason of the many footpads who infested the neighbourhood.

Beyond St. Pancras Church a bell was rung at stated hours, in order that foot passengers who wished to cross the meadows towards Hampstead and Highgate, or go to those suburbs called Camden and Somers Towns, should have the protection of an armed watchman. In those days few persons ventured abroad after nightfall without carrying some defensive weapon. Without gas, without police, London streets as well as London suburbs were fraught with danger.

Now, when dazzled by the glare of the streets, when wearied by the overpowering noise of the great town, a shady corner in quiet Gray's Inn Square seems doubly attractive.

The bright August sun shines fiercely on the opposite pavement. Its rays glint up and down the façade of the tall houses, here and there catching the angle of a projecting cornice, then reddening and almost beautifying some old smoke-blackened chimney.

Many are the beautiful though rarely-noticed spots of colour these rays bring to light.

Tiny atoms of green moss, and of those other hardy lichens that time gathers round about old tiles, glow like gems when caught by the flickering beams. Even the shade-loving lycopodiums, that as years roll on, softly carpet with their minute sprays all the damp, ugly spots into which the sun rarely penetrates, even these modest plants grow brighter and more beautiful as the unwonted warmth and sunshine steal into their secluded corners. With what delicacy and grace does not Nature soften and re-colour all the injuries that time and man's neglect so surely bring about!

As the hours wear on, the restfulness of the old precincts grows more and more sweet. The subdued roar of the great city rises and falls in measured cadence, and mingles quite pleasantly with the cawing of the rooks as they slowly wing their way home from their feeding grounds near Hampstead and Highgate, wheeling and cawing lazily as they circle round the old trees ere they settle themselves for the night.

An ancient rookery still exists in the gardens of the Inn, and the soft evening air, as it sways to and fro the branches of the tall elms in which the nests have been built, brings with it the delicious scent of newly-cut grass.

Well may the Benchers love their Inn. In no other place in London are there so many pleasant reminders of the fair country that once surrounded these Courts and Halls.

When seated in the gardens under the shade of the ancient trees, listening to the songs and chirpings of innumerable birds, it seems really incongruous that in so restful a spot, where so much speaks of quiet country life, weighty legal matters are for ever being transacted. Could we penetrate into the secrets of many of the old, dark houses that frown around, what tales of anxiety, of suffering, what histories of the trials that blight men's lives would come to light.

To the doctor and to the lawyer the deadly malady, the heart-crushing anxiety, must ever be told without reserve. No cruel symptom, no ugly detail, must be concealed. No man may keep a secret from such advisers. Lawyers as well as doctors must be told not only the truth, but the whole often hateful truth.

These old houses could indeed tell many mysterious, many marvellous tales, but silent as they are, their heavy, solid doorways, their long, narrow windows, their broad staircases and lofty rooms, are in themselves a history of the past. They are accurate though mute evidences of the time when they came into being. A faded grandeur still hangs about them, for they were built when land was not sold by the foot as it now is, and space was then a luxury comparatively easily purchased. So the staircases are broad, and the rooms large and lofty; but years have passed, centuries have passed, and staircases and passages have grown dusky and dim, and the handsome rooms devoted only to the stern purposes of life, and uncheered or graced by the softening presence of woman, have become shabby and harsh of aspect. So generation after generation of lawyers dwell here and pass away, each generation leaving an additional shadow of dusky shabbiness upon the poor old rooms.

The occupiers of the Inn are for the most part day dwellers only, doing their work in chambers, and leaving in the evening for their houses elsewhere.

Some few bachelors, however, make their home here, and when that is the case, the sets of chambers so occupied are the perfection of comfort. Those who have the good fortune to know these snug abodes, may well be eloquent as to their merits. The solid old mahogany tables, the exquisitely finished Chippendale chairs, are mellow with age, and glow with the rich gloss produced by much rubbing. Then the fireplaces, so hospitably deep and ample, where the ruddy flames can so well be seen as they dart up the great chimneys, casting their light upon the quaint masks and carvings that adorn the mantel-shelves; they make the ugly faces laugh as they are caught by the genial light.

The roomy arm-chairs, too, have assumed the cosy hollowness that speaks of constant use, and look most invitingly comfortable.

During summer the long narrow windows will be opened upon the bright and sunny garden, where great beds of mignonette and long lines of sweet-peas make the summer air full of fragrance; and not unfrequently on a warm, drowsy afternoon may be heard the soothing tones of a violoncello played by no unskilful hand, and perchance a tender old melody of Purcell or Glück, or one of the grand harmonies of Beethoven, adds yet another charm to the peace and restfulness of the place.

In short, in many parts of this pleasant Inn old age has attained that judicious number of years when men wisely discard mere show, and are content to seek and obtain intense comfort.

Some of the residents in Gray's Inn are Benchers, and these gentlemen are not only entitled to chambers, but during Term time an especial dinner is provided for them in the Great Hall; and as the Society always numbers amongst its members some of the most distinguished men of the day, it may readily be understood how interesting and attractive these meetings are.

Inns of Court were originally so called because the students belonging to them were bound to attend and serve the Courts of Judicature.

Anciently these colleges received none but the sons of noblemen, and of those gentlemen whose rank qualified them to do service to the King in his Court.

Fortescue affirms that in his time there were about two thousand students in the Inns of Court and of Chancery, all of whom were filii nobilium, or gentlemen born. But the rigidity of this rule was gradually relaxed, and in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, Sir Edward Coke reckons that not more than half the students then studying in the various Inns were of gentle birth.

These Inns of Court, that for centuries have been so justly famed for the education and introduction of men of learning in the law, are governed by masters, principals, Benchers, stewards, treasurers, and other officers.

Amongst their buildings are public halls for exercises, such as reading, declaiming, reciting, etc. At one time every student was compelled to attend and take part in these exercises for a certain number of years before he was admitted to plead at the Bar. At the present day, however, most of these regulations have fallen into disuse, and are no longer insisted upon.

The societies have not any judicial authority over their members, but they have certain orders and rules amongst themselves, which have by consent the force of laws.

For slight offences persons are excommoned, or put out of commons. For graver faults they forfeit their chambers, or, indeed, may be expelled the college. When an offender has been thus expelled, he can never be received by any of the other societies.

The members of these societies, or Inns, may be divided into Benchers, outer barristers, inner barristers, and students.

The Inns themselves are divided into, and are severally denominated, Inns of Chancery and Inns of Court.

The most ancient of the former is Thavies Inn, which was begun in the reign of Edward III. The other Inns of Chancery are New Inn, Symond's Inn, Clement's Inn, Clifford's Inn (once the property of Lord Clifford), Staples' Inn (so called because it had belonged to the Merchants of the Staple), Lion Inn (formerly an ordinary hostelry for travellers, bearing the sign of the Lion), Furnival's Inn, and Barnard's Inn.

Inns of Chancery were, in the earlier centuries, considered as a preparatory college for the younger students, who could here pursue the studies that would enable them to be admitted into the Inns of Court.

The four principal Inns of Court are the Inner Temple, the Middle Temple, Lincoln's Inn, and Gray's Inn.

Gray's Inn formerly belonged to Lord Gray, and Lincoln's Inn to the Earl of Lincoln. The Inner and Middle Temple, once the dwellings of the famous Knights Templar, were purchased about three hundred years ago by the then leading Professors of the Common Law.

There are also two other Inns, those of the Serjeants of the Law.

The general daily life in the Inns of Court during olden times, is described by Fortescue with much minuteness, and appears to have been both varied and attractive:

"On working days most of the students applied themselves to the study of the law, and on holy days to the study of Holy Scripture. At the same time, however, the students were not allowed to neglect lighter pursuits, for they learned to sing, and to exercise themselves in all kind of harmony, and they also made provision for the exercise and consequent health of the body, for they constantly practised dancing and other noblemen's pastimes. They did everything in peace and amity."

This last assertion appears somewhat startling in an age when scenes of brawling and fighting were of almost daily occurrence in the streets of London. However, it may be presumed that in these old times the heads of societies, having young men to take care of, did try to take care of them, and did not leave them quite so much to themselves as is the case in these modern days.

No doubt, there is much to be said in favour of training boys, as early as possible, to be self-dependent.

We are proud, and proud with reason, of "Our Boys." Still the most sanguine amongst us must admit that there is room for improvement in the system that is adopted in most of our schools and colleges.

It is the fashion now to deem that old heads can be seated on very young shoulders. These young fellows, scarcely more than children in years, are left to their own guidance, both morally and physically.

We may indeed glory in our boys in many respects. They are manly, honourable, brave, and truthful, with a truthfulness that makes many a parent's heart beat high with pride and pleasure; and yet, in how many households has not the sad knowledge come that the boys so loved, so gloried in, are ignorant and selfish—ignorant of most of the branches of useful knowledge, having tacitly been permitted to adopt habits of grievous self-indulgence?

When the young fellow has to enter upon his profession, when he has really to fight the battle of life, how often is it not found that the expensive education bestowed upon him (often at the cost of much self-denial from the rest of the family) is worth absolutely nothing?

Now that the fruit of so much learning has to be gathered, it is discovered that there is actually no fruit to gather; that, in order to be eligible even for the contest of these competitive examinations, a young man who has been at school for years has to learn the very rudiments of necessary knowledge, and must cram himself in a few months, and at a dire expenditure of money and health, in those very subjects that he has so long been nominally studying.

In how few schools are writing, English composition, arithmetic, geography, or modern languages thoroughly taught? And yet these are the very subjects absolutely essential for a candidate in a competitive examination.

Then again, with regard to those who study hard. How many and how sad are the cases where the student has broken down physically, because due care had not been taken of the bodily health, while the brain had been unduly taxed?

There are, doubtless, exceptional instances of genius so marvellous that work comes easily both to mind and body. These are the men who become eventually our great statesmen, our great lawyers; but these mighty ones are the exception, not the rule. Few, indeed, are they whose talents and whose powers enable them to overcome every difficulty.

For the most part the learned student sinks into a frail and over-sensitive man, whose weak physical strength breaks down under a too severe mental strain. Often, indeed, it does so on the very eve of victory.

One of the most touching, and yet one of the truest and most vivid pictures ever given to us by that great writer Bulwer, is the sorrowful story in "Pelham" of the gentle and learned scholar, a student so skilled in book learning that he had distanced all his compeers of the day, and yet so feeble in health, so deficient in what is called common-sense, that he was incapable of ruling his own household, or of coping with the every-day affairs of life.

Surely there must be some means by which those appointed to rule can exercise a discreet supervision over the boys and young men entrusted to their care. A supervision which, while not entrenching on their liberty, will yet lead into right ways those who are entering on the varied and dangerous paths of life.

Some wise writer has said: "More education is effected during the amusements of youth than is gained by all the studies to which teachers give such zealous care."

Now, in most places where boys are being trained, it seems a point of honour that out of school the masters shall never interfere, nor, indeed, in most cases do they appear.

Besides the practices of olden times already mentioned the ancient custom called "Moots" must not be forgotten.

Gray's Inn was especially conspicuous for those exercises, which Stow calls "Boltes," "Mootes," or "putting of cases," for the "Boltes" were conversational arguments addressed to or put to a student by a Bencher and two barristers in private.

Subsequently, when the student had become a sufficiently expert "Bolter," he was admitted to the "Mootes," where questions upon legal matters were debated by the students in the presence of the Benchers of the Society.

The object of these exercises was to promote the faculty of ready speaking, and, in order to secure this end, the disputants were kept in ignorance of the topic to be argued until called upon to discuss it.

The case, drawn up by the Reader, was laid upon the salt-cellar before meals; none were permitted to look into it under pain of expulsion from the Society.

These discussions were strictly legal, and the proceedings were conducted as nearly as possible in like manner to those of the Courts themselves. "About the end of the 17th century," says Lord Campbell, "Mootes fell into disuse, and they have now entirely ceased."

It is in such institutions as these Inns of Court and other similar communities, that the old feudal feeling respecting ancient servitors has been retained in much of its pristine integrity. Many of the old servants and inferior officers of Grays Inn may be said to belong to the place by right of descent. They were born within its precincts, they have been trained beneath the shadows of its old walls. In their youth they began their course of serving under the guidance of father, or grandfather, and now, in their old age, have in their turns some post of trust and responsibility confided to them.

There is something especially delightful and heart-stirring in the service of gray-headed men who have passed their lives in the same place, serving the same masters.

Shakespeare felt this, when, in describing old Adam in As You Like It, he makes the old man say:

Master, go on, and I will follow thee,

To the last gasp, with love and loyalty.

Most of the old servitors in Gray's Inn are well-educated, well-informed men, and are in general fully acquainted with the histories, traditions, and quaint biographies connected with the ancient Courts wherein their lives have been passed.

The chief objects of their pride and affection, are of course the Benchers. For the Benchers they entertain the profound reverence that so powerful a body of learned men is entitled to expect, and this respect is mingled at the same time with the affectionate solicitude that old servants have for kind and esteemed masters.

They feel a great interest in the students, although they regard them for the most part as wild young fellows, promising, no doubt, but still far from possessing the talents of former generations of lawyers. They will sometimes, indeed, shake their heads dolefully over the degeneracy of young men of to-day, when compared with the youth of the celebrated personages, whose names adorn the walls of the great hall.

Respecting the old buildings and old customs of the Inn they love to dilate for the hour together, and even the rooks come in for a share of their affection, and also for a considerable amount of anxiety, for this venerable community shows alarming symptoms of decay, the aërial colony having sadly diminished of late years.

In vain has the welfare of the infant progeny been tenderly watched over, latterly many unnatural parent rooks appear to have taken a dislike to their own offspring, and in that case peck the little ones to death without thought of parental duty.

One old gray-headed rook, who is always the first to arrive on the ground when feeding time has come, and who hops about with an uncommonly consequential air, from all accounts appears to be a perfect reprobate among his fellows. The number of wives he has cruelly injured, and the number of children he has kicked out of the nest have acquired for him the evil reputation of being the ringleader of the badly disposed of the feathered tribe.

Unfortunately, also, there is reason to fear that so bad an example has perverted several of the younger husbands and fathers. Infanticide has indeed of late so much increased, that it has now become a matter of grave consideration whether it will not be advisable to inflict the extreme punishment of the law upon the chief criminal. It is feared that it will be necessary to put this venerable gray head to death, as a terrible example to all rooks, and as a warning to all intending sinners.

Unhappily it must be admitted that the diminution of these interesting inhabitants of the higher regions is not altogether owing to their domestic delinquencies. It is, no doubt, partly caused by the rapid growth of London, and the great distance the rooks have now to traverse in order to arrive at their natural feeding grounds.

Another and deplorable cause arises from the decay and unavoidable destruction of some of the oldest trees.

In former years there was a very large rookery in the gardens of Gray's Inn. In 1875, however, storms and severe winters had so broken and damaged many of the largest trees that it was necessary to cut them down. This was done in March, and in April, to the consternation of the inhabitants of the Inn, the rooks departed in a body, as if indignant at being thus despoiled of a portion of their dominions.

For nearly a month not a bird appeared; then about six pair shyly returned, as if unwilling to quit for ever so fair and so peaceful a dwelling.

The other wanderers have never come back; but the little colony, though so much diminished from what it was in days of yore, still flourishes and indeed prospers.

There are more nests this spring than there have been for several past years, and it may therefore be hoped that this ancient rookery may long continue to be one of the charms and attractions of Gray's Inn.

Its existence undoubtedly mainly depends upon the durability of the grand and beautiful dwelling-places of the birds, the noble old elms, and unhappily such old elm trees are dangerous neighbours. With age their wood becomes not only brittle, but peculiarly liable to internal decay.

After the heavy rains that so often succeed dry summers, huge branches, sometimes the tree itself, will fall without warning. Such accidents not unfrequently occur in calm and quiet weather when danger is not suspected; the vicinity of elm trees is therefore perilous to life as well as to neighbouring buildings.

Besides rooks, many other birds, rare to London, may not unfrequently be found in the pleasant gardens of Gray's Inn.

Dun, or hooded crows, have occasionally been seen here, and even jackdaws sometimes come for a meal.

As for the starling, this clever bird knows where he is well off, he is therefore a very constant visitor. Many delicate little songsters too, who, having escaped from their cages, find that the liberty they have gained has only made them persecuted waifs and strays in the wilderness of London, seem to know, by intuition, that here they are not only in safety, but secure of a kind welcome.

Goldfinches, chaffinches, green and gray linnets, the lesser redpole, robins, willow-wren, even the song-thrush may from time to time be found here, and, perched on the lower branches of the trees, reward the kind hands that have given them food by pouring forth some of their sweetest and most touching songs.

During the last three winters the tiny tomtit, with his pretty blue head and delicate yellow breast, has made his appearance, and amongst the rarer visitors are fieldfares, redwings, and the great titmouse.

As for the pert little friendly sparrows, they are evidently aware that this is the land of plenty, so they hop about the old Courts with an assuming air of assured proprietorship; and from house-top, doorsill, and projecting eave, chirp condescending acknowledgments of the good things they enjoy.

But why linger in the old Courts when the soft west wind is murmuring so invitingly amongst the branches of the tall trees? Even the birds cannot remain quiet this bright summer's evening. See how they are flitting in and out the masses of dark green leaves, perching first here, then there, and peeping into every crack and crevice of the old bark. Now, many dart upwards to the topmost branches, whence they pour forth their summer gladness in a burst of joyous song.

Let us go to the pleasant gardens—gardens so pleasant, not only in themselves, but also charming with all the associations of past ages; so connected with the pleasant hours passed here by men both learned and celebrated in our history.

Every ancient tree has its story; every sunny grass-plot could relate a little romance.

How many a love tale has doubtless been told and listened to in these quiet alcoves? How many a courtly dame has gloried in the compliments paid to her beauty when walking on these smooth lawns?

There is every reason to believe that these gardens were designed and laid out in 1597 by Lord Bacon, who was then treasurer of Gray's Inn.

Do we not all know how dearly this great and clever man loved gardens? He says: "God Almighty first planted a garden; and, indeed, it is the purest of human pleasures; it is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man."

In the accounts of the Inn about that date appear the following items:

"4th July, 1597. Ordered that the summee of £7 15s. 4d. due to Mr. Bacon, for planting of elm trees in the walkes be paid next term;" and again, in the following year, there was an order made for the supply of more young elms, etc., the cost of which, as appears by Mr. Bacon's accounts, was £60 6s. 8d., a very large sum in those days.

We learn also from Howell's "Familiar Letters" and from Pepys' "Diary," that Gray's Inn Walks were at one time a fashionable promenade. Howell, writing from Venice in 1621, to a friend residing in Gray's Inn, says: "I hold your walks to be the pleasantest place about London, and that you have there the choicest society." Pepys seems to have frequently visited Gray's Inn Gardens as appears by his "Diary": "4th May, 1662. When church was done my wife and I walked to Gray's Inn to observe fashions of the ladies, because of my wife's making some clothes."

Cannot we picture to ourselves quiet Mrs. Pepys carefully scanning the gay apparel of the fine ladies as they passed to and fro? daintily walking with the little mincing French step that the fair Lady Castlemaine had brought into fashion? The good little wife absorbed in the many intricacies of plaits and puckers, weighing the several advantages to be obtained by the use of plain or damask stuffs, all unconscious, probably, that her volatile husband was as curiously scanning the black eyes and pretty faces that had such overpowering attractions for his wandering fancy.

Pepys again says:

"17th August, 1662. I was very well pleased with the sight of a fine lady that I have often seen walk in Gray's Inn Gardens."

Dryden, in his "Sir Martin Marall," 1661, makes the following reference to Gray's Inn Walks:

"Sir John Shallow. But where did you appoint to meet him?

"Mrs. Millicent. In Gray's Inn Walks."

Addison, in the Spectator, selects the terrace in Gray's Inn Gardens as the place where Sir Roger de Coverley enjoys his morning walk. He describes the dear old baronet as "hemming twice or thrice to himself with great vigour, for he loves to clear his pipes in good air, to make use of his own phrase, and is not a little pleased with any one who takes notice of the strength which he still exerts in his morning hems."

Charles Lamb, in his delightful "Essays of Elia," gives an interesting description of these gardens, adding, however, an indignant protest against the injury their beauty had received from the ugly pile of houses called Verulam Buildings, that had been recently erected. He says:

"I am ill at dates, but I think it is now better than five-and-twenty years ago that, walking in the gardens at Gray's Inn—they were then finer than they are now—the accursed Verulam Buildings had not encroached upon all the east side of them, cutting out delicate green crankles, and shouldering away one of two of the stately alcoves of the terrace. The survivor stands, gaping and relationless, as if it remembered its brother. They are still the best gardens of any of the Inns of Court—my beloved Temple not forgotten—have the gravest character, their aspect being altogether revered and law-breathing. Bacon has left the impress of his foot upon their gravel walks."

If the gardens give the summer charm to these old precincts, the grand old Hall is the glory, and may well be called the heart of Gray's Inn.

Seventy feet in length, thirty-five in width, and forty-seven in height, it is in truth a stately chamber, yet so harmonious are its proportions, so graceful are its details, that the spectator knows not which to admire most, the simple grandeur of its size, the delicate beauty of the old stained glass windows, or the rich deep colouring that time has given to the oaken panelling as well as to the heavy oaken furniture.

At the east end is a raised daïs, the place of honour, on which stands the table reserved for the Benchers and their guests.

The students dine in the body of the Hall, and the great black oak tables and settles that they use were placed here in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. As they were then, so they are now, and so they may probably remain for as many more hundred years.

In those good or bad old times, wood and labour were of comparatively little value, so furniture was then massive, and often decorated with a lavish richness of detail that a modern upholsterer would dread as much as he would admire, so great would be the modern cost both of the material and the work expended on it. How many remnants of the tables and chairs of this veneering age will there be in another century?

Near the daïs is a great oriel window, that beautiful characteristic of the Tudor period; the old coloured glass, rich with the armorial bearings of the Society, and emblazoned also with names well known and distinguished in our English history.

An elaborately carved oaken screen at the opposite end of the Hall conceals the entrance vestibule, and supports a Minstrel Gallery, another delightful adjunct to the large Halls of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.

The screen itself is of quaint but handsome design, and is especially interesting, as its decorations denote the period when it was erected. Short, thick Ionic columns, carved in arabesque with scroll ornaments, are surmounted by a range of semicircular arches. Above these is a balustrade of open carving enclosing the Minstrels' Gallery.

Fortunately restorations have not been needed, nor have alterations been made since the screen was placed here. As years have rolled on, therefore, the solid old oak has acquired that richness of tone and beauty of colouring that time alone can give.

Above the gallery is a large traceried window, and, as on the north and south walls are nine mullioned and transomed windows, the Great Hall is bright, well-lighted, and cheerful.

The great space between windows and floor is oak-panelled, and enriched by the coats of arms of members of the Society who have filled the office of treasurer.

There is something pleasant, but nevertheless sad, in reading over the names of many, honoured in their time, still honoured here in this venerable Inn of Court, but yet how long ago forgotten by the world without.

Forgotten long ago, although as English laws are founded on precedent, and not upon written codes, celebrated English lawyers probably make more mark upon English history than great men of other professions.

In every Government the Lord Chancellor is invariably a member of the Cabinet, and most of our leading statesmen have begun their career by studying, even if they have not practised, the profession of the Law. Still how very many there are, who, famous in their time, have passed away from all men's remembrance, and but for the names inscribed on these parental old walls, have struggled, gained the prize, and yet have again faded into the darkness from which they fought so hard to emerge.

Truly the glory of this world is but a shadow, nought but a faint glimmer of a brief and perishing light.

The fine open roof of the Hall, with its great hammer-beam timbers, is also a grand relic of the past; but the ancient reredos, or brass grate which once stood in the centre of the chamber, as well as its louvre—or smoke chimney—has been removed, and replaced by a modern stove. A great lapse from beauty, but, nevertheless, a change that contributes much to warmth and comfort.

The exterior of the building has, unhappily, been modernised, and, in accordance with the bad taste that prevailed during the greater part of the last century, the venerable brickwork has been covered with stucco.

It seems extraordinary that this miserable pretence of stone should at one time have been so universally adopted in England, because, while subject to the same discolouration and decay that injure stone in this damp climate, age does not bestow upon it either dignity or rich colouring.

Happily, fine brickwork is now beginning to be appreciated. Not only is it rich in point of colour, but, skilfully used, the most delicate ornamentation can be obtained. Witness, for instance, the glorious old church of San Ambrogio in Milan, and in many churches of towns in North Italy, where bricks have been used without any admixture of stone or marble.

It must not be supposed that the noble and dignified old Hall of Gray's Inn has been used solely for the pleasures of the table.

Many a gay masque, many a joyous revel has been held within its ancient walls.

Royalty itself has frequently honoured by its presence the balls, banquets, marriage feasts, and other "merrie makings" given by the Honourable Society of Gray's Inn.

Queen Elizabeth came here soon after her accession to the throne.

The fair maiden Queen, then in the early bloom of youth, deigned to tread a measure on the floor of the Hall, and her beauty and grace so turned the heads of some of the more impressionable students, that two of them became raving mad from love for their Royal and unapproachable mistress.

Knowing how hopeless their passion was, these luckless young fellows resolved to put themselves to death. They could not endure their cruel torment; like the Persians, they declared their hearts were burnt up with fire, and that life had become but a burden to them.

The legend, however, only relates their sufferings, their struggles, and their desperate purpose. It is silent as to whether these fatal intentions were ever carried into execution. It may be hoped, therefore, that these love-sick youths recovered in time from their love fit. The study of the law does not tend to foster romance, and hard work in most cases is an effectual panacea against the blighting effects of hopeless passion.

Standing in the old Hall, we can see, in fancy, the grand and picturesque entertainment. We can see the young and graceful, though somewhat stern-faced girl, queening it so royally amongst her enthusiastic admirers. How happy she is now in her consciousness of youth, and consequent beauty, in her royal dignity, a Queen at last in her glorious kingdom. Above all, especially happy in being at length free, no longer in daily terror of a prison or a scaffold. No longer dreading to have to seal by her blood her resolve to keep intact her royal position as heir to the throne, safe at last from the terror of being called on to lay down her life ere she would abjure her religion for that of her bigot sister Mary.

No wonder the young Sovereign was then bright and happy.

It is sad to think of the changes that years brought about. It is sad to think of the suspicious, cold-hearted, merciless old woman, signing not only the death warrant of the beautiful cousin of whom she was so jealous, but also the death warrants of the men whom she had professed to love.

Truly it may be said that envy, malice, and uncharitableness are the vices to which the great and prosperous are peculiarly exposed. Greatness and prosperity eventually produce the very whips that scourge those who have not been constantly chastened by care and sorrow; for the Almighty bestows His good gifts far more equally than we mortals can in general either perceive or understand.

There is a peace of heart in lowly stations that the great can but seldom enjoy. The biography of celebrated monarchs and statesmen sufficiently shows that no rank, however exalted, is exempt from mortifications and annoyances, trying alike to temper and to pride, and it is very evident from such histories that the noblest of all governments, the government of oneself, is far more difficult of attainment for the exalted than for the humbler inhabitants of earth.

Not only during Queen Elizabeth's reign, but at a much earlier period, the Inns of Court had been celebrated for the magnificence of their masques and revels.

The first entertainment of this kind, of which there is any certain record, took place at Gray's Inn in the year 1525.

Hall in his chronicle thus speaks of it:

"A Plaie at Gray's Inn. This Christmas was a goodly disguising played at Gray's Inn, which was compiled by John Roo, Serjeant at the Law, twenty years past. This plae was so set forth with rich and costly apparel, and with strange devices of masks and morrisches, that it was highly praised by all men, except by the Cardinal (Wolsey), who imagined the play was devised of him. In a great fury he sent for Master Roo, and took from him his Coif, and sent him to the Fleet, and afterwards he sent for the young gentlemen that played in the play, and highly rebuked and threatened them, and sent one of them, called Master Moyle of Kent, to the Fleet, but by means of friends Master Roo and he were delivered at last.

"This play sore displeased the Cardinal, and yet it was never meant for him; wherefore many wise men grudged to see him take it so to heart; and even the Cardinal said the King (Henry VIII.) was highly displeased at it, and spake nothing of himself."

This unfortunate play seems to have made a great stir at the time, for not only Hall, but Fox, in his "Acts and Monuments," thus alludes to the performance when writing of a certain Simon Fish, who also belonged to Gray's Inn. Fox says:

"It happened the first year this gentleman came to London to dwell, which was about the year of our Lord, 1525, that there was a certain play, or interlude, made by one M. Roo, of the same Inn, gentleman, in which play partly was matter against the Cardinal Wolsey; and when none durst take upon them to play that part which touched the said Cardinal, this aforesaid Mr. Fish took upon him to do it. Whereupon great displeasure ensued against him on the Cardinal's part, insomuch as he, being pursued by the said Cardinal the same night that this tragedy was played, was compelled of force to avoid his own house, and so fled over the sea to Tindal."

It is singular that neither Hall nor Fox makes any mention of the name of the play that had such unhappy results for the luckless gentlemen who took part in it.

The powerful Cardinal was a dread enemy. He brooked neither insult nor slight, and, when angered, was apt to carry out his vengeance with a completeness that, at the least, brought ruin on his victims. Happy indeed were they did they escape with their lives.

The two offenders on this occasion paid a heavy price for their night's amusement. Their professional prospects were destroyed for ever, their names were erased from the list of Gray's Inn, and never again appeared on it. To Roo, a Serjeant in the Law of twenty years' standing, such a penalty must have been a cruel blow.

Hard work seems to have been seasoned with much amusement in the merry days of Queen Bess, for at no period do we read of so many masques, revels, and such like entertainments as during the reign of our maiden Queen.

Men of all ages and ranks, even those devoted to the learned and severe study of the law, indulged themselves to the full in these amusements. Judges and statesmen condescended to arrange and fashion the festivities, and occasionally indeed took part in them, nothing daunted by the fact that they not unfrequently ended in brawls and fighting. Men fought fiercely too in these turbulent times, and the arms then in common use were formidable weapons. It was the custom to carry bucklers with a point or poke, as it was called, in the centre, from ten to twelve inches in length. Every haberdasher sold these bucklers, and their use became so much abused, that, in the eighth year of Elizabeth, a proclamation was issued prohibiting the sale of any of which the poke exceeded two inches in length. At the same time, the length of swords was limited to one yard and half a quarter, nor was any dagger to have a blade above twelve inches long.

In the records we have respecting many of these gay doings and magnificent festivals, Gray's Inn and the Temple appear to have taken the lead, and at last a sort of union was entered into between the two Inns. Over the great gates of the gardens of the Inner Temple appears the "Griffin" of Gray's Inn, whilst over the principal entrance in Gray's Inn Square, is carved in bold relief the "Winged Horse" of the Inner Temple.

A curious pamphlet, published in 1594, commemorates this union. It is entitled, "Gesta Grayorium, or the History of the High and Mighty Prince, Henry Prince of Purpoole, etc."

It gives a very detailed account of a grand masque that took place on the 20th December, with a minute description of the rich and quaint costumes worn by the actors who took part therein.

There is reason to think that Lord Bacon himself organised this revel, and also assisted in its preparation.

On the said 20th December, it being St. Thomas's Eve, the Prince of Purpoole, as he is termed (Purpoole being the name of the property on which Gray's Inn was built), accompanied by a long train of courtiers and followers, marched in procession from his lodgings in the Inn to the Great Hall, where all things had with fitting dignity been prepared for his reception.

Here he seated himself on a magnificent throne, having over his head a canopy made of rich cloth of state. His great Lords and Councillors grouped themselves around him. Below the daïs were seated his learned council and his learned lawyers, while the numerous officers and attendants of his Court were arranged becomingly in their proper places.

The narrator dilates with much enthusiasm on the magnificence and beauty of the spectacle, and we can well believe the effect must have been fine. Still, in these prosaic days, we find it difficult to understand the Lord High Chancellor and the Queen's Judges of the High Court of Justice giving much thought and time to an entertainment of this description.

However, there is no doubt that in these same riotous, fighting, turbulent, and yet romantic times such spectacles did excite prodigious interest. Our chronicler continues to relate, that common report had so cried up the merits of this especial performance, that the expectation of strangers, both English and foreign, was greatly excited, insomuch that it became necessary to repeat it, and to have many grand nights especially arranged for the entertainment of distinguished strangers.

Unhappily however, then, as is sometimes the case now, the crowd of spectators greatly exceeded the space provided for their accommodation. The multitude of beholders, indeed, was so considerable that there was not convenient room for those who were actors. Many of the performers among the Templarians (as they were then called) left the Hall so displeased and angry that their discontent resulted in blows, and the fighting became so furious that the next day it was found necessary to have an inquiry into the cause of "these disorders."

Nothing daunted, however, by the ill-success of their opening night, the revellers organised another grand performance on the 3rd January following, in honour of a great number of ambassadors, knights, ladies, and other worshipful personages, amongst whom were the Lord Keeper, the Lords Shrewsbury, Burleigh, Cumberland, most of the officers of State and of the Queen's household, and it is said all these guests had convenient places and very good entertainment.

The Temple and Gray's Inn were now reconciled and had become friendly again, so the day after this entertainment the Prince of Purpoole, accompanied by the "Ambassadors of Templaria," and attended by eighty gentlemen of Gray's Inn and the Temple (each of them wearing a plume on his head), dined in state with the Lord Mayor at Crosby Place.

The next grand night was upon Twelfth Night, on which occasion there was again a great company of lords, ladies, and knights; and at Shrovetide the Prince and his company visited Queen Elizabeth at Greenwich.

After the performance Her Majesty "willed the Lord Chamberlain that the gentlemen should be invited on the next day, and that he should present them to her," which was done, and Her Majesty gave them her hand to kiss, with most gracious words of commendation to them, "particularly and in general of Gray's Inn, as an house that she was much beholden unto, for that it did always study for some sports to present unto her."

The same night there was fighting at "Barriers," at which the Prince behaved so valiantly and skilfully that the prize, a jewel set with seventeen diamonds and four rubies, was presented to him by the Queen.

The following order of Pension, to defray the expenses of the above entertainment, was made on February 9th, 37th Elizabeth.

"At this Pension it is ordered that every Reader of this House, towards the charges of the shows and sports before Her Majesty at Shrovetide last year, shall pay ten shillings, and every Ancient six shillings and eightpence, and every Utter Barrister five shillings, and every other Gentleman of this Society, three shillings and sixpence before the end of this term."

There is a tradition in Gray's Inn that the screen already mentioned under the gallery in the Great Hall, as well as the dining tables now used in the Hall, were given to the Society by that Queen as tokens of Her Majesty's regard.

Queen Elizabeth's memory is still held in much affection by the ever loyal subjects in Gray's Inn, and on the Grand Day of each term "the glorious, pious, and immortal memory of good Queen Bess" is still solemnly given in Hall.

In 1613, "the Maske of Flowers was presented by the Gentlemen of Graie's Inn, in the Banqueting House, at the Court of Whitehall, on the occasion of the marriage of the Earle of Somerset with the Lady Frances, daughter of the Earl of Suffolk."

In "The Court and Times of King James I.," there is a letter from I. Chamberlaine, dated 23rd December, 1613, in which he says:

"Sir Francis Bacon prepares a masque to honour their marriage which will stand him in above £2,000, and, although he has been offered some help by the House, and especially by Mr. Solicitor Sir Henry Yelverton, who would have sent him £500, yet he would not accept it."

The story of this masque was published the following year, with a dedication "to the verie honourable Sir Francis Bacon, His Majesty's Attorney-General."

The dedication states:

"That you have graced in general the Societies of the Innes of Court in continuing them still as third persons with the nobility and Court, in doing the King honour, and particularly Graie's Inne, which, as you have formerly brought to flourish both in the ancienter and younger sort by countenancing virtue in every quality, so now you have made a notable demonstration thereof in the lighter and less serious kind."

The members of this learned Society did not always, it appears, amuse themselves in so discreet a manner, for there is a letter in the same book, "The Court and Times of James I.," relating that:

"The gentlemen of Gray's Inn, to make an end of Christmas, on Twelfth Night, at the dead time of the night, shot off all the chambers (small cannon), which they had borrowed from the Tower, being as many as filled four carts.

"The King, awakened by this noise, started out of his bed, and cried: 'Treason! treason!' So the City was in an uproar, in such sort, as it is said, that the whole Court was raised, and almost in arms, the Earl of Arundel running to the bed-chamber, with his sword drawn, as to rescue the King's person."

The following sketch of a ticket of admission to the masque at Gray's Inn on the 2nd February, 1682, is taken from Nichol's "Progresses of Elizabeth:"

This entertainment is thus alluded to by Luttrell in his diary:

"On Saturday the 4th inst., the revells began at Graie's Inn. On 23rd January, Sir Richard Gipps, master of the revells at Graie's Inn, attended by his revellers and comptrollers, went to Whitehall in one of His Majesty's coaches, with several noble men's coaches, and six horses, to invite the King and Queen, the Duke (York) and Duchesse, and the rest of the Court, to a mask at Graie's Inn, on Candlemas Day; and accordingly there was great preparation that day, diverse of the nobility and gentry in masks attended, who danced in the Hall, and afterwards were entertained with a splendid banquet."

Evelyn had already spoken of these revels in terms of contempt and disapprobation, terming them "solemn fooleries," and regretting that the King countenanced them and the deep play that usually concluded the evening. He says:

"6th January, 1661-2.—This evening, according to custome, His Majesty opened the revells (at Lincoln's Inn) of that night, by throwing the dice himself in the privy chamber, where was a table set on purpose, and lost his £100 (the year before he won £1,500). The ladies also plaid very deepe.... Sorry I am that such a wretched custome as play to that excess should be countenanced in a Court that ought to be an example of virtue to the rest of the Kingdom."

During the troubled reign of James II., and during the first year of that of William III., men's minds were too harassed by political anxieties to allow them much time, or indeed inclination, to indulge in such costly and somewhat tedious entertainments. Money was scarce in England, and the few who had any, cautiously concealed even the semblance of riches, not knowing what changes a few years might produce.

Who, indeed, could predict with reasonable probability what King would rule over the land, or, indeed, which Church would gain the supremacy?

From this period these masques fell into disrepute, and the last record of so many gay revels is in 1773, on the occasion of Mr. Talbot being elevated to the woolsack.

After a long and elaborate dinner, every member of each mess had a flask of claret, besides the usual allowance of port and sack.

The Benchers then all assembled in the Great Hall, and a large ring was formed round the fireplace, when the Master of the Revels taking the Lord Chancellor by the right hand, he with his left took Mr. Justice Page, who, joined to the other Serjeants and Benchers, danced about the coal fire according to the old ceremony three times, while the ancient song, accompanied with music, was sung by one Tony Aston, dressed as a barrister.

It is difficult to understand so dignified a personage as the Lord High Chancellor inaugurating his accession to office by such an after-dinner dance.

Perhaps the extra flask of claret, following the usual port wine and sack, may have had something to do with so singular a proceeding.

At any rate, after this remarkable festival, all such hilarious proceedings ceased, and henceforward the great dinners were given with all befitting and solemn dignity.

If the grand old Hall may be deemed the heart of Gray's Inn, then the jewelled crown that is the noblest ornament of this time-honoured abode of learning may be said to have been created by the distinguished men who have grown up under her fostering care, whose studies have been matured within the shelter of her old walls.

Names are inscribed here—on the panels, on the windows, in the hall—the very sight of which must fire the heart of many a student with pride and hope.

However poor he may be, however lowly his birth, however destitute he may be of everything, save of the divine spark of genius and of that safest attendant upon genius—resolute perseverance—the path of success is open to him.

The Temple of Fame is before him. He may seize the prize it contains, if he will; but the road is steep and hard to climb, and the thorns that beset it are many and sharp.

What stories might be told of the early struggles, of the early hardships of many of those who have ultimately attained the highest places in the State and in the Law!

How many of those whose names will never die while England has a history, might relate how keen, nay, how terrible had been their sufferings when they first started in their career.

With what difficulty they obtained even necessary clothing. How hard it was to earn the daily bread. How many sacrifices had to be made, how many privations endured, ere the books could be bought that were absolutely essential for their legal studies.

And if it is thus hard for those who win, what tales of bitter woe and anguish might be written of those who labour and fail. Of those who, having both talent and application, yet lack, alas! the peculiar genius that enables the great lawyer to grasp a subject or legal point with a rapidity, and a perspicuity that is truly marvellous to the unlearned!

What hours of anxious study, what fevered days and terrible nights must the unsuccessful, struggling man endure. Conscious, in all probability, of his own deficiencies, and yet hoping on—ever hoping on, not daring to confess even to himself that the studies of years have been of no avail, that the tree is barren, and will never bear fruit.

These are the unhappy men who eventually sink into the crowd of poor legal hacks. These are indeed the jackals who must cater and work for the lions of their order.

Note.—Those who are interested in the history and customs of this old Inn of Court are referred to an admirable work on the subject, namely, "Notes on Gray's Inn," by W. R. Douthwaite, Esq., librarian.

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THE TWO BROTHERS,
ANTHONY AND FRANCIS BACON.

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The most notable of the many distinguished names recorded in Gray's Inn is that of Francis Bacon, afterwards Lord Verulam, Viscount St. Albans, and Lord High Chancellor of England.

The son of a distinguished and learned gentleman, he was also happy in having in his mother a woman alike remarkable for her piety, her domestic virtues, and her great learning. Accomplished in no common degree in the charming arts of music and painting, few scholars of the day excelled Lady Bacon in intimate knowledge of Latin and Greek.

Francis, her second son, was born in 1561, and so early gave tokens of such exceptional talent that when very young he was honoured by the notice of Queen Elizabeth. Whatever the faults, errors, and meannesses of Queen Elizabeth as a woman, in her character of sovereign, in one respect at least, she showed herself to be well worthy to wear a crown, well worthy to govern a great people, inasmuch as she possessed to a rare extent that inestimable quality in those who have to rule, the power of appreciating genius.

Under no reign has learning been more fostered, under no reign have talented men so clustered round the throne, as during the reign of this maiden Queen.

Elizabeth appreciated the powers of, and knew when she had a distinguished statesman, and though she might ill-treat him, show herself most niggardly towards him, not unfrequently betraying cruel ingratitude, yet she ever respected his talents and caused them to be respected by others.

Both Francis Bacon and his elder brother Anthony were educated at Trinity College, Cambridge.

Anthony was a man of good and even brilliant parts, but being the eldest son of Sir Nicholas Bacon, who, besides a great legal position, had large landed estates in several of the midland counties, young Anthony was not destined to any profession. He spent much of his time in travelling, and thus became personally acquainted with most of the learned persons of the age.

In 1579, being then twenty-one, to the annoyance of his family he resolved to reside entirely in Paris, and there he remained for some years. He then went to Bourges and Geneva, and, at the latter place, lodged in the house of the celebrated Theodore Beza.

From Geneva he successively removed to Montpellier, Marseilles, Bordeaux, and Montauban, having become by this time a sort of recognised Government correspondent, constantly communicating to the English ministry intelligence of any importance.

In 1585 he went to Bearn on a visit to Henry of Navarre, afterwards the great Henry IV. of France, and here made acquaintance with the learned Lambert Dansens, who, as a mark of esteem, dedicated several of his works to his English friend.

Here, too, began for poor Sir Anthony the great romance of his life. It was at this Court that he became acquainted with a beautiful French lady, whose many charms and winning graces broke the poor baronet's heart. With some rare and gifted natures love is an integral part of life. When it is clear that love must die, life in a great measure dies too, and so it was with Sir Anthony Bacon.

His love was unsuccessful; so, sore-hearted and with broken health he left the scene of his brief happiness and of his enduring grief, and returned to England, never again to leave it. He took up his residence at Essex House, and after a time rallied sufficiently from his disappointment to resume his correspondence with some of his foreign friends. Amongst these his most constant and valued correspondent was King Henry IV. of France; but the sorrowful love romance had destroyed the most brilliant portion of his existence, and Sir Anthony never quite recovered from the pain he had then suffered.

His more celebrated brother was framed in harder mould. Before Francis was seventeen he had not only traversed the whole circle of the liberal arts as then taught, but he had begun to perceive how fallacious was the recognised philosophy of the day. And these fallacies he subsequently effectually exposed.

When the time came for leaving Cambridge, his father sent him first to France, and afterwards allowed him to make, what was called, the grand tour.

So well did he profit by his travels, that he wrote a general view of the state of Europe before he was nineteen.

He had intended carrying his researches still farther abroad, projecting a journey to Egypt and India, but the death of his father obliging him to return to England, he applied himself to the study of Common Law at Gray's Inn.

Even in these early days, the lucidity of his reasoning, the keenness of his intellect attracted the notice of many leading men.

The Earl of Essex in particular, who was a great discerner of merit, became his intimate friend, and endeavoured, though unsuccessfully, to procure for Bacon the office of Queen's Solicitor.

Failing in this, Lord Essex, to console his protégé under such a disappointment, generously conferred on him a present of land to the value of £1,800.

Notwithstanding, however, the friendship of so powerful a patron, and notwithstanding the favour with which the Queen already regarded him, young Francis had, during the earlier years of his career, many obstacles to contend against.

Talents so remarkable, such great patronage, and especially the favour of the monarch, created a host of enemies, all of whom decried the young aspirant with the spiteful bitterness and venom of envy. They represented him as an essentially unpractical enthusiast, whose head was filled with philosophical and speculative ideas. As one far more likely therefore to perplex, than to forward public business.

So many cabals resulted in his being unable to obtain for a considerable period either office or preferment, and he was over forty years of age before Lord Burleigh, who was then Lord Treasurer, bestowed upon him the place of Registrar to the Star Chamber.

This appointment was worth about £1,600, but its duties were both onerous and unpleasant. It so happened that to Bacon they became especially distasteful, for the critical moment arrived when he had to decide whether he would resign his preferment, or disregard every sacred claim of honour and friendship.

Unhappily the choice he made at this juncture has tarnished for ever a name, that in other respects he rendered so illustrious, and ultimately it, in fact, proved the ruin of this great and gifted man.

Even in the events of this world, how often do our own faults become the very lashes that scourge us. How frequently does the evil we have done to others return upon us fourfold.

"Cast thy bread upon the waters," says the preacher, "and after many days it shall come back to thee," and this applies to evil as well as to good deeds.

During the larger part of Queen Elizabeth's reign, both in Court and State, two great parties were for ever struggling to obtain supremacy.

The two Cecils were at the head of one of these parties.

The leader of the other was first the Earl of Leicester, and subsequently, his son-in-law, the Earl of Essex.

Bacon's undoubted genius excited both the jealousy and the dislike of his relatives, the Cecils, and the intimate friendship he had formed with Lord Essex also much increased their covert animosity, although they did not care to exhibit it openly against so near a connection.

Still, though outwardly courteous, Bacon was well aware that in them he had formidable enemies, and he knew that his future prosperity mainly depended upon his being able to convert these enemies into friends.

Essex, with the generosity that was his distinguishing characteristic, had not only exerted himself strenuously on his friend's behalf, but had also, as already mentioned, by a noble gift, sought to console him for his disappointment in failing to obtain place.

But after years of prosperity and power, the fatal day came when the favourite was to share the fate of most Royal favourites, Essex was disgraced and fell into deep misfortune.

That a man could write as Bacon afterwards wrote of "Friendship," and of "Honour and Reputation," and yet permit himself, at the base dictates of ambition, to desert, nay, even to betray his earliest and most generous friend, must seem to every noble heart a fact almost incredible; but it is unhappily an undoubted fact, that when Essex was at the bar of the House of Lords to be tried for his life. Bacon, in his professional capacity, appeared against his generous and affectionate friend and patron.

Nor was even this the extent of his unworthy treason.

For some time previously, and also after the unhappy favourite had expiated his follies by a shameful death, discontent and irritation had been spreading amongst all classes, and the Government grew daily more and more unpopular.

At length the clamours of the people became so loud and deep, not only against ministers, but also against the Queen herself, that it was deemed necessary to make a formal vindication of the proceedings of the Administration.

For this end all the blame, all the obloquy of every administrative failure must be thrown upon the dead man.

Bacon accepted the discreditable, nay, disgraceful duty that had been assigned to him. He allowed himself to vilify the name of his benefactor, his early friend. He agreed to cast the odium of treason upon one from whom he had accepted gifts, and for whom he had professed, and professed for years, the most ardent friendship.

In a skilful and masterly paper he justified the proceedings of the Government, and drew up a declaration of the treason of which Essex had been found guilty, and for which he had duly suffered.

Bacon retained his place. He had assured his career. He had forced the world to recognise his transcendent abilities; but ambition must have indeed hardened the heart of this man, ere she could console him for having thus cast from him every sentiment of gratitude, and affection, for having thus forsworn the honourable fealty that he owed to his benefactor and his friend.

From this moment, however, Bacon rose steadily, and, after the accession of James I., having published a brilliant pamphlet in favour of uniting the two kingdoms of England and Scotland, he rapidly obtained considerable honour.

In 1616 he was sworn of the Privy Council. He then devoted himself to reducing, and, in fact, recomposing the laws of England.

When Attorney-General he distinguished himself by his endeavours to restrain duelling, a practice at that time very frequent and very fatal.

In 1617 he was appointed Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, and the following year he was raised to the woolsack, and created Lord Verulam.

In the midst of these honours, and notwithstanding, also, the press of business, he did not forget his studies in philosophy, but in 1620 he published his great work, "Novum Organum." In 1621 he was advanced to the dignity of Viscount, and as Lord St. Albans he appeared with great splendour at the opening of Parliament.

But he had now arrived at the culminating point of his triumphs, and at the very moment when his power seemed greatest and his position most stable, his fall was near.

A very few months after Parliament had assembled, a committee of the House of Commons was appointed to inquire into the abuses that existed in the Courts of Justice; and, ere many sittings had taken place, the Chancellor was openly accused of corrupt practices.

The King, ever pusillanimous, and shrinking from giving support to a falling man, sent for Bacon, and, it is said, positively enjoined him to submit to his peers, promising to reward him afterwards!

The Chancellor, although he could have had but little faith in such promises, and foresaw his approaching ruin if he did not plead for himself, resolved, however, to obey the Royal command.

He was silent therefore under the accusations brought against him, and on the 3rd May, 1621, the House of Lords gave judgment against him, pronouncing upon him the following severe sentence:

"That he was to pay a fine of £40,000, and be confined a prisoner in the Tower, during the King's pleasure. That he should for ever be incapable of holding any place, office, or employment in the State, and that he should never again sit in Parliament, nor come within the verge of the Court."

At this distance of time the world judges him more leniently than he was then judged by his peers.

Greed of money had never been one of Bacon's failings. He loved power, place, and the good things that money can procure. He also loved his ease, and the affection and good-will of those about him; but of the gold itself he took little or no heed.

It was, in fact, to this carelessness, and to an amiability that he carried to the extent of selfish weakness that he owed his fall. For years all that he possessed had been at the service of those about him, and unhappily he was surrounded by, and had bestowed his kindness on persons, who were not only unworthy of it, but who had basely abused the confidence he had reposed in them.

We are told by Rushworth, that the Chancellor (Bacon) treasured up nothing for himself or his family, but that he was so over-indulgent to his servants, that this indulgence reached the point of conniving at their evil doings. Both his servants and his dependents were therefore profuse and extravagant, and had at their command whatever he was master of.

Too late did Bacon perceive his error. It is related that, one day during his trial, he passed through a room where several of his servants were sitting. They rose up respectfully to salute him as he went by, but said the Chancellor, "Sit down, my masters, for your rise has been my fall."

There seems little reason now to doubt that the gifts the Chancellor was accused of taking had been enforced, and received by these underlings.

It was these lamentable gifts that had caused him to be suspected of injustice, and yet it was subsequently proved that his decrees had been made for the most part with so much equity, that not one of them was ever reversed as unjust.

"It was peculiar to this man," says one of his numerous biographers, "to have nothing narrow or selfish in his composition. He gave away without concern whatever he possessed, and believing other men to be of the same mould, he received with as little consideration."

This opinion is probably correct in the main, but the greatest admirers of this talented and in many respects exceptionally great man, must admit that, ere he could have become unmindful of the honourable fealty he owed to his dead friend, the greed of power must have been strong in his heart, and that it was a selfish reluctance to take trouble that made him disregard one of the most stringent duties of the great, not only to be just themselves, but to ascertain that injustice is not practised by their subordinates.

After a short period of imprisonment the fallen Chancellor was released from the Tower. The King ultimately remitted his fine; and, after the death of James, he was again summoned to attend Parliament in the first year of the reign of Charles I., but never again after his degradation did Bacon take part in active life.

At first, indeed, after his release from prison, he found himself in extreme poverty. All he valued in this world had gone from him. Place, position, money, and, above all, that consideration from others which had been so dear to his heart.

So great at one time was his pecuniary distress, that he wrote a pathetic letter to King James, entreating His Majesty's assistance. "Lest," as he expresses it, "he should be reduced to carry a wallet, and after having lived only to study, be forced to study to live."

Notwithstanding the sorrowfulness of the letter, there lurks within it a vein of the humour that rendered him so delightful a companion, and through it all can be perceived the indomitable spirit of the man, that, even in the bitterest moment of his shattered fortunes, rose superior to the ruin that had overtaken him.

The energy that had made him so powerful in his public career did not desert him in his retirement.

With all the ardour of his great heart, he loved his country home, his quiet lodgings in Gray's Inn, and the studies to which, during the last years of his life, he wholly devoted himself. It was at this period that he wrote some of his most important English and Latin works; and from these it is evident that his thoughts were as free, and as vigorous, as they had ever been during the earliest and most brilliant years of his career.

Although he had been unhappy in having had many false and unworthy friends, one, at least, loved him faithfully to the end; and it was by him, Sir Thomas Meanty, his secretary, that the monument was erected to his memory in St. Michael's Church, St. Albans.

Many have written the biography of this distinguished man, but the best evidences of his life are the works he has given to the world: works replete with noble thoughts; works so grand, that they make us the more regret that there should be even one flaw to tarnish the golden lustre that shines around the name of one so brilliant, so illustrious.

It was in chambers in Coney Court, now called Gray's Inn Square, that Bacon passed his last years, and where he wrote several of his greatest works.

The aspect of these old houses—indeed, of these old chambers—bears traces, not only of the storms and sunshine that have passed over them in all this lapse of time, but they also speak to us powerfully of the vicissitudes of human life, and of the changes that are taking place around us yearly, nay, hourly.

What anxiety and distress, what joy and what pain, have not these old walls witnessed.

How many hearts have beat high with hope, or have been racked with anguish in the thoughtful gloom of many of these shadowy rooms.

Bacon himself, though he bore so brave a front before the world, must have had many torturing recollections and regrets as he paced up and down these ancient chambers. But then, again, what noble thoughts came to cheer and support him as he overcame the keenness of his pain, and fixed his mind on objects higher and grander than the passing events of human life.

Thus generation after generation pass away, with all their joys and all their fears.

Each human being departs, and his name is no more known even in the spot where he dwelt; but still the great squadrons of mankind are ever advancing, with the same delights, the same anxieties as those who have left this earth many hundreds of years ago; thus every place is filled and emptied, and filled again in endless rotation.

Truly life is but a magic-lantern, and the players therein are but fleeting shadows.

Bacon died on Easter Sunday, the 9th of April, 1626, being then sixty-six years of age.

In the December previous he had with his own hand written his will. In it he writes:

"For my burial, I desire it may be in St. Michael's Church near St. Albans. There was my mother buried, and it is the parish church of my mansion house at Gorhambury, and it is the only Christian church within the walls of Old Verulam. For my name and memory, I leave it to men's charitable speeches, and to foreign nations, and to the next ages."

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