Associated with these places, and to cover their uselessness, the Antients received students and instructed them. In the last century this was actually carried out, and “Readers” gave lectures. And at Clement’s Inn, up to a recent period, a reader arrived regularly from the Temple, who however remained for but one evening, when he was invited to dine and was courteously entertained. There used to be a practice of holding what were expressively termed “moots and boults” in the hall after supper, when one of the Antients, learned in Coke, set points for discussion, which a student was required to answer. There was indeed something very quaint and interesting in the theory, at least, of these societies. There was a sacred division, of the upper table, where the “Antients” sat to the number of eight to a dozen. The lower tables, where the students sat, were fewer in number. Grace after dinner was not said, but rather acted. Four loaves, closely adhering together, a type of the Four Gospels, were held up by the chairman, who then raised them three times as symbolical of the Holy Trinity. They were then handed over to the butler, who hurried with them out of the hall with an affected haste, as though not to lose a moment. This ceremony is of extraordinary antiquity and of religious origin. The Antients had the privilege of electing persons from the lower class into their body, which was done after a number of years’ probation. It was impossible to discover any title or right in these persons beyond long custom, though trustees were appointed whose title was as shadowy. They dined together at certain intervals in the mysterious little halls, each person paying his own charges.
But the whole interest in the institution is easily discoverable, and rested on certain profits divided among the Antients, and these depended on the rooms in the Inn, which as they fell vacant were disposed of, each tenant paying a sum down, usually about £400, for his life use of the premises. This sum was divided among the Antients.
Furnival’s Inn, which faces its truly genuine companion opposite, Staple Inn, is sadly modern, having been rebuilt about a century ago. Yet there is an old fashion about it. There is a certain attractiveness in the comparatively old and old-fashioned hotel, which fills the further extremity, and which has an air of snugness and comfort with its trees in tubs and cheerful jalousies. This arises from the perfect repose and retirement, the shelter from the hum and noise of Holborn. Outside there is one of the genuine old taverns, Ridler’s Hotel, where people like Mr. Pickwick might descend. Its bow-windowed coffee room and glass-enclosed bars will be noted, as well as the dark stairs. There are very few of this pattern of tavern left, and where the old tavern life is pursued. There is one at the West End, in Glasshouse Street, which seems exactly what it must have been sixty years ago. There are the old “boxes,” the sanded floors, the coats and hats hung up, and the kettle on the hob.
But perhaps of all these places, “Barnard’s” is the quaintest and most old-fashioned, from its irregular and even straggling aspect. Entering from Holborn, by a simple doorway a little below its neighbour, Staple Inn, we pass the snug little porter’s room, for it is no lodge, facing which is the truly effective dining hall, though “hall” is too ambitious a term for what is really a largish room. Yet how old, rusted and crusted and original it seems, with its steep tiled roof, and elegant little lantern and clock! The windows glitter as with diamond panes, and we can see the patches of stained glass in the centre of each. A small, business-like porch is fitted on at the side, with its little iron gate in front, while round the tiny court are the good, sound old brick mansions. Beyond again is a glimpse of the trees, and a garden, rather forlorn it must be said; beside which is a strange accumulation of old framed houses, all white and overhanging. These must be of very great antiquity, and seem crazy enough. The life in these retreats must be strange, with a sort of monastic tinge. Here “chambers” and rooms, etc., are to be had at low rates.
One of Dickens’s happiest scenes describes Thavies Inn, a curious little recess at the Circus end of Holborn, “a narrow street of high houses, like an oblong cistern to hold the fog.” Of Barnard’s Dickens seems to have had a poor and disparaging opinion, for it is described (by Pip) as “the dingiest collection of shabby buildings ever squeezed together in a rank corner as a club for Tom Cats.” Staple Inn is really an interesting, pretty retirement; there is a strange charm in its trees and quaint old hall, which have evoked an abundance of sentiment, and prompted some graceful sketches. Many a stranger and hurried American enters by the effective archway, leaving the din of Holborn behind, and changing of a sudden to unexpected peace as of the country, anxious to trace the abode of the characters in Edwin Drood. Mr. Grewgius’s chambers can be identified as Number 10 in the inner quadrangle, for it is described as “presenting in black and white over its ugly portal the mysterious inscription of P. J. T., 1747. Perhaps John Thomas, or perhaps Joe Tyler, for a certainty P. J. T. was Pretty Jolly Too.” Landless’s rooms are given with a graphic touch which recalls the whole place: “The top set in the corner, where a few smoky sparrows twitter in the smoky trees as though they had called to each other, ‘let us play at country.’”
These old dining halls of the old inns have a certain character, with their lantern, clock and weather-cock; an honest dial generally, with bold gold figures that all the inn may read as it runs. Within, a business-like, snug chamber, with a great deal of panelling and a permanent “dinner” flavour. They really give a character or note to the little squares in which they stand. These places are gradually dwindling, and in a few years will be extinct. Close by Bream’s Buildings, out of Chancery Lane, there used to stand another inn, “Symonds’,” which it is hard to call up again, yet it disappeared only a score of years ago and figures a good deal in the legal scenery of Bleak House. “A little pale, wall-eyed, woe-begone inn, like a large dustbin of two compartments and a sifter. It looks as if Symonds were a sparing man in his day, and constructed his inn of building materials which took kindly to the dry rot and to dirt and all things decaying and dismal, and perpetuated Symonds’ memory with congenial sadness.”
I take from the St. James’s Gazette the letter of a reminiscent who refers very pleasantly to the poetry and people which Dickens has associated with the “old inns.” I may add that in the account referred to the connection of Dickens with the old inns was purposely omitted, as the article was purely descriptive, and special books have been devoted to “Dickens in London.”
BARNARD’S INN.