A long morning’s reading, a walk in the park, a pull on the river, a stretch up the hill to Hampstead, and a modest tavern dinner; a bachelor night passed here or there, in joviality, not vice (for Arthur Pendennis admired women so heartily that he never could bear the society of any of them that were not, in his fancy at least, good and pure); a quiet evening at home, alone with a friend and a pipe or two, and a humble potation of British spirits, whereof Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress, invariably tested the quality;—these were our young gentleman’s pursuits, and it must be owned that his life was not unpleasant. In term-time, Mr. Pen showed a most praiseworthy regularity in performing one part of the law-student’s course of duty, and eating his dinners in Hall. Indeed, that Hall of the Upper Temple is a sight not uninteresting, and with the exception of some trifling improvements and anachronisms which have been introduced into the practice there, a man may sit down and fancy that he joins in a meal of the seventeenth century. The bar have their messes, the students their tables apart; the benchers sit at the high table on the raised platform surrounded by pictures of judges of the law and portraits of royal personages who have honoured its festivities with their presence and patronage. Pen looked about, on his first introduction, not a little amused with the scene which he witnessed. Among his comrades of the student class there were gentlemen of all ages, from sixty to seventeen; stout grey-headed attorneys who were proceeding to take the superior dignity,—dandies and men about town who wished for some reason to be barristers of seven years’ standing,—swarthy, black-eyed natives of the Colonies, who came to be called here before they practised in their own islands,—and many gentlemen of the Irish nation, who make a sojourn in Middle Temple Lane before they return to the green country of their birth. There were little squads of reading students who talked law all dinner-time; there were rowing men, whose discourse was of sculling matches, the Red House, Vauxhall and the Opera; there were others great in politics, and orators of the students’ debating clubs; with all of which sets, except the first, whose talk was an almost unknown and a quite uninteresting language to him, Mr. Pen made a gradual acquaintance, and had many points of sympathy.
The ancient and liberal Inn of the Upper Temple provides in its Hall, and for a most moderate price, an excellent wholesome dinner of soup, meat, tarts, and port wine or sherry, for the barristers and students who attend that place of refection. The parties are arranged in messes of four, each of which quartets has its piece of beef or leg of mutton, its sufficient apple-pie and its bottle of wine. But the honest habitues of the hall, amongst the lower rank of students, who have a taste for good living, have many harmless arts by which they improve their banquet, and innocent ‘dodges’ (if we may be permitted to use an excellent phrase that has become vernacular since the appearance of the last dictionaries) by which they strive to attain for themselves more delicate food than the common every-day roast meat of the students’ tables.
“Wait a bit,” said Mr. Lowton, one of these Temple gourmands. “Wait a bit,” said Mr. Lowton, tugging at Pen’s gown—“the side-tables are very full, and there’s only three benchers to eat ten dishes—if we wait, perhaps we shall get something from their table.” And Pen looked with some amusement, as did Mr. Lowton with eyes of fond desire, towards the benchers’ high table, where three old gentlemen were standing up before a dozen silver dish-covers, while the clerk was quavering out a grace.
Lowton was great in the conduct of the dinner. His aim was to manage so as to be the first, a captain of the mess, and to secure for himself the thirteenth glass of the bottle of port wine. Thus he would have the command of the joint on which he operated his favourite cuts, and made rapid dexterous appropriations of gravy, which amused Pen infinitely. Poor Jack Lowton! thy pleasures in life were very harmless; an eager epicure, thy desires did not go beyond eighteen pence.
Pen was somewhat older than many of his fellow-students, and there was that about his style and appearance, which, as we have said, was rather haughty and impertinent, that stamped him as a man of ton—very unlike those pale students who were talking law to one another, and those ferocious dandies, in rowing shirts and astonishing pins and waistcoats, who represented the idle part of the little community. The humble and good-natured Lowton had felt attracted by Pen’s superior looks and presence—and had made acquaintance with him at the mess by opening the conversation.
“This is boiled-beef day, I believe, sir,” said Lowton to Pen.
“Upon my word, sir, I’m not aware,” said Pen, hardly able to contain his laughter, but added, “I’m a stranger; this is my first term;” on which Lowton began to point out to him the notabilities in the Hall.
“That’s Boosey the bencher, the bald one sitting under the picture and aving soup; I wonder whether it’s turtle? They often ave turtle. Next is Balls, the King’s Counsel, and Swettenham—Hodge and Swettenham, you know. That’s old Grump, the senior of the bar; they say he’s dined here forty years. They often send ’em down their fish from the benchers to the senior table. Do you see those four fellows seated opposite us? Those are regular swells—tip-top fellows, I can tell you—Mr. Trail, the Bishop of Ealing’s son, Honourable Fred Ringwood, Lord Cinqbar’s brother, you know. He’ll have a good place, I bet any money; and Bob Suckling, who’s always with him—a high fellow too. Ha! ha!” Here Lowton burst into a laugh.
“What is it?” said Pen, still amused.
“I say, I like to mess with those chaps,” Lowton said, winking his eye knowingly, and pouring out his glass of wine.