choicest spot of this choice ground, stands a lofty row
of chambers, looking obliquely upon the sullied Thames; before the
windows, the lawn of the Temple Gardens stretches with that dim yet
delicious verdure so refreshing to the eyes of Londoners. If doomed
to live within the thickest of London smoke you would surely say that
that would be your chosen spot. Yes, you, you whom I now address, my
dear, middle-aged bachelor friend, can nowhere be so well domiciled
as here. No one here will ask whether you are out or at home; alone
or with friends; here no Sabbatarian will investigate your Sundays,
no censorious landlady will scrutinise your empty bottle, no
valetudinarian neighbour will complain of late hours. If you love
books, to what place are books so suitable? The whole spot is
redolent of typography. Would you worship the Paphian goddess, the
groves of Cyprus are not more taciturn than those of the Temple.
Wit and wine are always here, and always together; the revels of the
Temple are as those of polished Greece, where the wildest worshipper
of Bacchus never forgot the dignity of the god whom he adored. Where
can retirement be so complete as here? where can you be so sure of all
the pleasures of society?

It was here that Tom Towers lived, and cultivated with eminent success
the tenth Muse who now governs the periodical press. But let it not
be supposed that his chambers were such, or so comfortless, as are
frequently the gaunt abodes of legal aspirants. Four chairs, a
half-filled deal book-case with hangings of dingy green baize, an old
office table covered with dusty papers, which are not moved once in
six months, and an older Pembroke brother with rickety legs, for all
daily uses; a despatcher for the preparation of lobsters and coffee,
and an apparatus for the cooking of toast and mutton chops; such
utensils and luxuries as these did not suffice for the well-being of
Tom Towers. He indulged in four rooms on the first floor, each of
which was furnished, if not with the splendour, with probably more
than the comfort of Stafford House. Every addition that science
and art have lately made to the luxuries of modern life was to be
found there. The room in which he usually sat was surrounded by
book-shelves carefully filled; nor was there a volume there which was
not entitled to its place in such a collection, both by its intrinsic
worth and exterior splendour: a pretty portable set of steps in one
corner of