The Paradise of Bachelors and the Tartarus of Maids

by Herman Melville

  THE PARADISE OF BACHELORS AND THE TARTARUS OF MAIDS.

  I. THE PARADISE OF BACHELORS.

  IT lies not far from Temple-Bar.

  Going to it, by the usual way, is like steal-

  ing from a heated plain into some cool, deep

  glen, shady among harboring hills.

  Sick with the din and soiled with the mud of

  Fleet Street -- where the Benedick tradesmen are

  hurrying by, with ledger-lines ruled along their

  brows, thinking upon rise of bread and fall of

  babies -- you adroitly turn a mystic corner -- not

  a street -- glide down a dim, monastic way

  flanked by dark, sedate, and solemn piles, and

  still wending on, give the whole care-worn world

  the slip, and, disentangled, stand beneath the

  quiet cloisters of the Paradise of Bachelors.

  Sweet are the oases in Sahara; charming the

  isle-groves of August prairies; delectable pure

  faith amidst a thousand perfidies: but sweeter,

  still more charming, most delectable, the dreamy

  Paradise of Bachelors, found in the stony heart

  of stunning London.

  In mild meditation pace the cloisters;

  take your pleasure, sip your leisure, in the garden

  waterward; go linger in the ancient library, go

  worship in the sculptured chapel: but little have

  you seen, just nothing do you know, not the

  sweet kernel have you tasted, till you dine

  among the banded Bachelors, and see their con-

  vivial eyes and glasses sparkle. Not dine in

  bustling commons, during term-time, in the

  hall; but tranquilly, by private hint, at a pri-

  vate table; some fine Templar's hospitably invited guest.

  Templar? That's a romantic name. Let

  me see. Brian de Bois Gilbert was a Templar,

  I believe. Do we understand you to insinuate

  that those famous Templars still survive in mod-

  ern London? May the ring of their armed

  heels be heard, and the rattle of their shields, as

  in mailed prayer the monk-knights kneel before

  the consecrated Host? Surely a monk-knight

  were a curious sight picking his way along

  the Strand, his gleaming corselet and snowy

  surcoat spattered by an omnibus. Long-bearded,

  too, according to his order's rule; his face fuzzy

  as a pard's; how would the grim ghost look

  among the crop-haired, close-shaven citizens?

  We know indeed -- sad history recounts it -- that

  a moral blight tainted at last this sacred Broth-

  erhood. Though no sworded foe might out-

  skill them in the fence, yet the worm of luxury

  crawled beneath their guard, gnawing the core

  of knightly troth, nibbling the monastic vow, till

  at last the monk's austerity relaxed to wassail-

  ing, and the sworn knights-bachelors grew to

  be but hypocrites and rakes.

  But for all this, quite unprepared were we to

  learn that Knights-Templars (if at all in being)

  were so entirely secularized as to be reduced

  from carving out immortal fame in glorious bat-

  tling for the Holy Land, to the carving of roast-

  mutton at a dinner-board. Like Anacreon, do

  these degenerate Templars now think it sweeter

  far to fall in banquet than in war? Or, indeed,

  how can there be any survival of that famous or-

  der? Templars in modern London! Templars

  in their red-cross mantles smoking cigars at the

  Divan! Templars crowded in a railway train,

  till, stacked with steel helmet, spear, and shield,

  the whole train looks like one elongated loco-

  motive!

  No. The genuine Templar is long since de-

  parted. Go view the wondrous tombs in the

  Temple Church; see there the rigidly-haughty

  forms stretched out, with crossed arm

  upon their stilly hearts, in everlasting and undream-

  ing rest. Like the years before the flood, the

  bold Knights-Templars are no more. Never-

  theless, the name remains, and the nominal society,

  and the ancient grounds, and some of the

  ancient edifices. But the iron heel is changed

  to a boot of patent-leather; the long two-hand-

  ed sword to a one-handed quill; the monk-giver

  of gratuitous ghostly counsel now counsels for

  a fee; the defender of the sarcophagus (if in

  good practice with his weapon) now has more

  than one case to defend; the vowed opener and

  clearer of all highways leading to the Holy Sep-

  ulchre, now has it in particular charge to check,

  to clog, to hinder, and embarrass all the courts

  and avenues of Law; the knight-combatant of

  the Saracen, breasting spear-points at Acre, now

  fights law-points in Westminster Hall. The

  helmet is a wig. Struck by Time's enchanter's

  Wand, the Templar is to-day a Lawyer.

  But, like many others tumbled from proud

  glory's height -- like the apple, hard on the bough

  but mellow on the ground -- the Templar's fall

  has but made him all the finer fellow.

  I dare say those old warrior-priests were but

  gruff and grouty at the best; cased in Birming-

  ham hardware, how could their crimped arms

  give yours or mine a hearty shake? Their

  proud, ambitious, monkish souls clasped shut,

  like horn-book missals; their very faces clapped

  in bomb-shells; what sort of genial men were

  these? But best of comrades, most affable of

  hosts, capital diner is the modern Templar. His

  wit and wine are both of sparkling brands.

  The church and cloisters, courts and vaults,

  lanes and passages, banquet-halls, refectories, li-

  braries, terraces, gardens, broad walks, domicils,

  and dessert-rooms, covering a very large space

  of ground, and all grouped in central neighbor-

  hood, and quite sequestered from the old city's

  surrounding din; and every thing about the

  place being kept in most bachelor-like particu-

  larity, no part of London offers to a quiet wight

  so agreeable a refuge.

  The Temple is, indeed, a city by itself. A

  city with all the best appurtenances, as the

  above enumeration shows. A city with a park

  to it, and flower-beds, and a river-side -- the

  Thames flowing by as openly, in one part, as by

  Eden's primal garden flowed the mild Euphrates.

  In what is now the Temple Garden the old Cru-

  saders used to exercise their steeds and lances;

  the modern Templars now lounge on the benches

  beneath the trees, and, switching their patent-

  leather boots, in gay discourse exercise at re-

  partee.

  Long lines of stately portraits in the banquet-

  halls, show what great men of mark -- famous

  nobles, judges, and Lord Chancellors -- hav
e in

  their time been Templars. But all Templars

  are not known to universal fame; though, if

  the having warm hearts and warmer welcomes,

  full minds and fuller cellars, and giving good

  advice and glorious dinners, spiced with rare

  divertisements of fun and fancy, merit immor-

  tal mention, set down, ye muses, the names of

  R. F. C. and his imperial brother.

  Though to be a Templar, in the one true

  sense, you must needs be a lawyer, or a student

  at the law, and be ceremoniously enrolled as

  member of the order, yet as many such, though

  Templars, do not reside within the Temple's

  precincts, though they may have their offices

  there, just so, on the other hand, there are many

  residents of the hoary old domicils who are not

  admitted Templars. If being, say, a lounging

  gentleman and bachelor, or a quiet, unmarried,

  literary man, charmed with the soft seclusion of

  the spot, you much desire to pitch your shady

  tent among the rest in this serene encampment,

  then you must make some special friend among

  the order, and procure him to rent, in his name

  but at your charge, whatever vacant chamber

  you may find to suit.

  Thus, I suppose, did Dr. Johnson, that nom-

  inal Benedick and widower but virtual bachelor,

  when for a space he resided here. So, too, did

  that undoubted bachelor and rare good soul,

  Charles Lamb. And hundreds more, of ster-

  ling spirits, Brethren of the Order of Celibacy,

  from time to time have dined, and slept, and

  tabernacled here. Indeed, the place is all a

  honeycomb of offices and domicils. Like any

  cheese, it is quite perforated through and through

  in all directions with the snug cells of bachelors.

  Dear, delightful spot! Ah! when I bethink

  me of the sweet hours there passed, enjoying

  such genial hospitalities beneath those time-

  honored roofs, my heart only finds due utterance

  through poetry; and, with a sigh, I softly sing,

  "Carry me back to old Virginny!"

  Such then, at large, is the Paradise of Bach-

  elors. And such I found it one pleasant after-

  noon in the smiling month of May, when, sally-

  ing from my hotel in Trafalgar Square, I went

  to keep my dinner-appointment with that fine

  Barrister, Bachelor, aud Bencher, R. F. C. (he

  is the first and second, and should be the third;

  I hereby nominate him), whose card I kept

  fast pinched between my gloved forefinger and

  thumb, and every now and then snatched still

  another look at the pleasant address inscribed

  beneath the name, "No. -- , Elm Court, Tem-

  ple."

  At the core he was a right bluff, care-free,

  right comfortable, and most companionable En-

  glishman. If on a first acquaintance he seemed

  reserved, quite icy in his air -- patience; this

  Champagne will thaw. And if it never do,

  better frozen Champagne than liquid vinegar.

  There were nine gentlemen, all bachelors, at

  the dinner. One was from "No. -- , King's

  Bench Walk, Temple;" a second, third, and

  fourth, and fifth, from various courts or passages

  christened with some similarly rich resounding

  syllables. It was indeed a sort of Senate of the

  Bachelors, sent to this dinner from widely-scat-

  tered districts, to represent the general celibacy

  of the Temple. Nay it was, by representation,

  a Grand Parliament of the best Bachelors in

  universal London; several of those present be-

  ing from distant quarters of the town, noted

  immemorial seats of lawyers and unmarried

  men -- Lincoln's Inn, Furnival's Inn; and one

  gentleman, upon whom I looked with a sort of

  collateral awe, hailed from the spot where Lord

  Verulam once abode a bachelor -- Gray's Inn.

  The apartment was well up toward heaven.

  I know not how many strange old stairs I climb-

  ed to get to it. But a good dinner, with famous

  company, should be well earned. No doubt our

  host had his dining-room so high with a view to

  secure the prior exercise necessary to the due

  relishing and digesting of it.

  The furniture was wonderfully unpretending,

  old, and snug. No new shining mahogany,

  sticky with undried varnish; no uncomfortably

  luxurious ottomans, and sofas too fine to use,

  vexed you in this sedate apartment. It is a

  thing which every sensible American should

  learn from every sensible Englishman, that glare

  and glitter, gimcracks and gewgaws, are not in-

  dispensable to domestic solacement. The Amer-

  ican Benedick snatches, down-town, a tough

  chop in a gilded show-box; the English bach-

  elor leisurely dines at home on that incompar-

  able South Down of his, off a plain deal board.

  The ceiling of the room was low. Who wants

  to dine under the dome of St. Peter's? High

  ceilings! If that is your demand, and the higher

  the better, and you be so very tall, then go dine

  out with the topping giraffe in the open air.

  In good time the nine gentlemen sat down to

  nine covers, and soon were fairly under way.

  If I remember right, ox-tail soup inaugurated

  the affair. Of a rich russet hue, its agreeable

  flavor dissipated my first confounding of its main

  ingredient with teamster's gads and the raw-

  hides of ushers. (By way of interlude, we here

  drank a little claret.) Neptune's was the next

  tribute rendered -- turbot coming second; snow-

  white, flaky, and just gelatinous enough, not too

  turtleish in its unctuousness.

  (At this point we refreshed ourselves with a

  glass of sherry.) After these light skirmishers

  had vanished, the heavy artillery of the feast

  marched in, led by that well-known English

  generalissimo, roast beef. For aids-de-camp we

  had a saddle of mutton, a fat turkey, a chicken-

  pie, and endless other savory things; while for

  avant-couriers came nine silver flagons of hum-

  ming ale. This heavy ordnance having departed

  on the track of the light skirmishers, a picked

  brigade of game-fowl encamped upon the board,

  their camp-fires lit by the ruddiest of decanters.

  Tarts and puddings followed, with innumer-

  able niceties; then cheese and crackers. (By

  way of ceremony, simply, only to keep up good

  old fashions, we here each drank a glass of good

  old port.)

  The cloth was now removed, and like Blu-

  cher's army coming in at the death on the field

  of Waterloo, in marched a fresh detachment of

  bottles, dusty with their hurried march.

  All these manoeuvrings of the forces were su-

  perintended by a surprising old field-marshal (I

  can not school myself to call him by the inglo-

  rious name of waiter), with snowy hair and nap-

  kin, and a head like Socrates. Amidst all the

  hilarity o
f the feast, intent on important busi-

  ness, he disdained to smile. Venerable man!

  I have above endeavored to give some slight

  schedule of the general plan of operations. But

  any one knows that a good, genial dinner is a

  sort of pell-mell, indiscriminate affair, quite

  baffling to detail in all particulars. Thus, I

  spoke of taking a glass of claret, and a glass of

  sherry, and a glass of port, and a mug of ale --

  all at certain specific periods and times. But

  those were merely the state bumpers, so to

  speak. Innumerable impromptu glasses were

  drained between the periods of those grand im-

  posing ones.

  The nine bachelors seemed to have the most

  tender concern for each other's health. All the

  time, in flowing wine, they most earnestly ex-

  pressed their sincerest wishes for the entire well-

  being and lasting hygiene of the gentlemen on

  the right and on the left. I noticed that when

  one of these kind bachelors desired a little more

  wine (just for his stomach's sake, like Timothy),

  he would not help himself to it unless some

  other bachelor would join him. It seemed held

  something indelicate, selfish, and unfraternal, to

  be seen taking a lonely, unparticipated glass.

  Meantime, as the wine ran apace, the spirits of

  the company grew more and more to perfect

  genialness and unconstraint. They related all

  sorts of pleasant stories. Choice experiences in

  their private lives were now brought out, like

  choice brands of Moselle or Rhenish, only kept

  for particular company. One told us how mel-

  lowly he lived when a student at Oxford; with

  various spicy anecdotes of most frank-hearted

  noble lords, his liberal companions. Another

  bachelor, a gray-headed man, with a sunny face,

  who, by his own account, embraced every op-

  portunity of leisure to cross over into the Low

  Countries, on sudden tours of inspection of the

  fine old Flemish architecture there -- this learn-

  ed, white-haired, sunny-faced old bachelor, ex-

  celledin his descriptions of the elaborate splen-

  dors of those old guild-halls, town-halls, and

  stadthold-houses, to be seen in the land of the

  ancient Flemings. A third was a great fre-

  quenter of the British Museum, and knew all

  about scores of wonderful antiquities, of Oriental

  manuscripts, and costly books without a dupli-

  cate. A fourth had lately returned from a trip

  to Old Granada, and, of course, was full of Sar-