It was past twelve when the brougham stopped opposite the little passage in Fleet Street, by the side of St. Dunstan’s Church, leading to Clifford’s Inn. Of course the gate was locked—it always is after a certain hour—and the porter had to be roused from slumbers which, judging by the noise he made snoring, were deep indeed. At length he slowly emerged from his den, looked through the latch and opened the door.
‘Is Mr. Wentworth in?’ asked the actress.
‘I believe so, ma’am.’
‘Well, I will run up and see; but don’t go to sleep, there’s a good fellow. I shall be back directly.’
It was a lovely night, and the moon, at the full, lent an air of romance to the place. There was evidently a good deal of life and gaiety going on—perhaps far more than the authorities had any idea of—young men are fond of chambers, and young men at the time of which I write were fond of sowing wild oats in them, a remarkably unprofitable agricultural operation. By daylight no one could imagine anything of the kind went on, as one looks at the dull windows of the old building, or sees here and there a few lawyers’ clerks rushing along either on business or in pursuit of lunch. It is a handy residence for law students and pressmen, and in the daytime it looks as dull and respectable as anyone could desire.
In the reign of Queen Elizabeth the noble family of De Clifford granted to students of law a little plot of ground at the back of St. Dunstan’s Church, Fleet Street, between Fetter Lane and Chancery Lane. ‘There are three things for notice in Clifford’s Inn,’ writes Leigh Hunt: ‘its little bit of turf and trees, its quiet, and its having been the residence of Robert Puttock, author of the curious narrative of “Peter Wilkins,” with its Flying Women. Who he was is not known’—probably a barrister without practice—‘but he wrote an amiable and interesting book.’ As to the sudden and pleasant quiet in the little inn, it is curious to consider what a small remove from the street produces it. But even in the back room of a shop in the main street the sound of the carts and carriages becomes wonderfully deadened to the ear, and a remove like Clifford’s Inn makes it remote or nothing. Charles Lamb’s friend, the absent-minded Dyer, lived in Clifford’s Inn. The garden, now also in danger of being built over, forms part of the area of the Rolls, so called from the records kept there in rolls of parchment. It is said to have been the house of an eminent Jew, forfeited to the Crown—that is to say, that it was most probably taken from him, with all it contained, by Henry III., who made it a house for converts from the owner’s religion. As it may be supposed that most of these converted Jews were of doubtful character, for high-minded men are not to be won from the faith of their fathers by offers of board and lodging, we may imagine there were at one time a good many queer characters knocking about Clifford’s Inn, and life was not a little unconventional. It was so when Wentworth lived there, especially after business hours, when the respectable solicitors having offices on the ground-floor had gone home to Clapham or Highgate to dinner, leaving a few young ne’er-do-wells who lodged about there to run wild on the streets of London, then more full of snares than now, and to return to bed at unhallowed hours. The Serjeants’ Dining Hall has been dismantled; a new street has been cut through the Liberty of the Rolls. There are now few booksellers’ shops in front of St. Dunstan’s Church, and the two wild men of the wood who struck the hour with their clubs on the old church have moved elsewhere. What are we to expect of Clifford’s Inn but that it will soon be a thing of the past?
Curious characters lived in Clifford’s Inn. Opposite Wentworth resided a City curate, of whom he knew nothing save that he had a very red nose, was dressed in shabby black, and came in at all hours. Overhead resided an old bachelor, originally intended for the medical profession, but he did not take to it kindly, and as he had a little property of his own he preferred to vegetate in a cheap and yet scholarly way. It is a sad thing for a young man to have a little money, just enough to live on, nothing more. Unless he be very ambitious, it at once stops his career and prevents his making any attempt at rising in the world. ‘Why should I fret and fume?’ said Buxton, for that was his name; ‘if I get on, I only take the place that might be filled by a better man, and so leave him all the poorer. There are plenty of pushing fellows in the world; why should I add to their number? Why should I not take life easily, and content myself with my books and my pipe and with the study of mankind? Is success in life worth having? Is the game worth the candle?’ To the questions he gave a negative reply, and in the freedom of his unconventional life he rejoiced, and greatly did rejoice.
He and Wentworth were great cronies. They had both original ideas, and loved to discuss them. Moreover, he had saved Wentworth’s life. They had met in the old city of Hamburg in one of the most old-fashioned houses, in which they had apartments.
It was winter, and there was a fire in the old-fashioned German stove which nearly filled the apartment. The girl who attended the lodgers had lit the stove and left the flue closed up, and consequently when Wentworth came to his morning coffee and butterbrod the air of the tightly-closed apartment—it was an unusually cold season that winter—was too much for him. The fumes of the charcoal fire filled the room. Wentworth in his ignorance took his usual seat at the table, but in a few minutes was aware that he had a very peculiar sensation in his head. As he rose from the table to look at himself in the glass he fell prone on the floor.
Buxton heard the fall, and rushed into the room just in time to open the door and window and call for help, and when Wentworth recovered his consciousness he found he had been carried by the combined help of his landlady and Buxton to his bed. Thus a tragedy was averted, and, like the man in the ‘Arabian Nights,’ he felt that his life had been mercifully preserved on account of the greater misfortunes yet to befall him. After that, he and Buxton remained great friends.