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TEMPLE BAR 
 THEN AND NOW 
 
 £ 
 
 A. EDWARD NEWTON 
 
 "oak knoll" 
 Daylesford, Pennsylvania 
 
<* 
 
 Copyright, 1915, by A. Edward Xewton 
 
 CLA41800» 
 
 r II 1915 
 
TEMPLE BAR THEN AND NOW 
 
 The King of England is not a frequent visitor to 
 the city of London, meaning by "the city" that square 
 mile or so of old London whose political destinies are 
 in the keeping of the Lord Mayor, of which the Bank 
 of England is almost the exact center, St. Paul's the 
 highest ground and Temple Bar the western boundary. 
 
 It might be said that the King is the only man in 
 England who has no business in "the city." His 
 duties are in the West End — in Westminster, but to 
 "the city" he goes on state occasions, and it so hap- 
 pened that several years ago I chanced to be in London 
 on one of them. 
 
 I had reached London only the night before, and I 
 did not know that anything out of the ordinary was 
 going on until over my breakfast of bacon and eggs — 
 and such bacon! — I unfolded my Times and learned 
 that their Majesties were that morning going in state 
 to St. Paul's Cathedral to give thanks for their safe 
 return from India. It was not known that they had 
 ever been in any great peril in India, but Royal prog- 
 resses are, I suppose, always attended with a certain 
 amount of danger; at any rate the King and Queen 
 had reached home safely and wanted to give thanks, 
 according to historic precedent, in St. Paul's, and the 
 ceremony was set for that very morning. 
 
1 
 
 Inquiring at the office of my hotel in Piccadilly, I 
 learned that the Royal procession would pass the door 
 in something over an hour and that the windows of a 
 certain drawing room were at my disposal. It would 
 have been more comfortable to view the Royal party 
 from a drawing room of the "Carlton," but what I 
 wanted to see would take place at Temple Bar, so my 
 breakfast dispatched, I sallied forth to take up my 
 position in the crowded street. 
 
 It was in February; a dark, gloomy, typical London 
 morning. The bunting and decorations, everywhere 
 apparent, had suffered sadly from the previous night's 
 rain and were flapping dismally in the cold, raw air, 
 and the streets, though crowded, wore a look of hope- 
 less dejection. 
 
 I am never so happy as in London. I know it well, 
 if a man can be said to know London well, and its 
 streets are always interesting to me, but the Strand is 
 not my favorite street. It has changed its character 
 sadly in recent years. The Strand no longer suggests 
 interesting shops and the best theatres, and I grieve to 
 think of the ravages that time and Hall Caine have 
 made in the "Lyceum," which was once Irving's, where 
 I saw him so often in his, and my, heyday. However. 
 my way took me to the Strand, and passing Charing 
 Cross I whispered to myself, "Fleet Street has a very 
 animated appearance; but the full tide of human ex- 
 
 
istence is at Charing Cross," but as I neared the site 
 of Temple Bar I observed that, for this morning, at 
 any rate, the tide was setting toward "the city." 
 
 My progress through the crowd was slow, but I 
 finally reached my objective point, the Griffin, which 
 marks the spot where for many centuries Temple Bar 
 stood. Taking up my position just in front of the 
 rather absurd monument, which forms an "island" 
 in the middle of the street, I waited patiently for the 
 simple but historic and picturesque ceremony to begin. 
 Before long the city dignitaries began to arrive. First 
 came the Sheriffs and Aldermen in coaches of state, 
 wearing their scarlet and ermine robes. Finally a 
 coach appeared, out of the window of which protruded 
 the end of the great Mace, emblem of "city" authority, 
 and at last the Lord Mayor himself in all his splendor, 
 in a coach so wonderful in its gold and color that one 
 might have supposed it had been borrowed from 
 Cinderella for the occasion 
 
 While I was wondering how many times and under 
 what varying conditions this bit of pageantry had been 
 enacted on this very spot, a slight wave of cheering 
 down the Strand apprised me the approach of the 
 Royal procession. The soldiers who lined both sides 
 of the street became, at a word of command, more 
 immovable than ever, standing at "attention," if that 
 is the word which turns men into statues. At the 
 
same time a band commenced the national anthem, 
 and this seemed the signal for the Mayor and his 
 attendants to leave their coaches and group them- 
 selves just east of the monument. A moment later 
 the Royal party, in carriages driven by postilions with 
 outriders, swept by, but the state carriage in which 
 sat the King and Queen was brought to a halt imme- 
 diately in front of the city party. 
 
 The Lord Mayor, carrying his jeweled sword in his 
 hand, bowed low before his sovereign, who remained 
 seated in the open carriage. Words, I presume, were 
 spoken. I saw, rather than heard, the Lord Mayor 
 extend his greetings and tender his sword to the King, 
 who saluting, placed his hand upon its hilt and seemed 
 to congratulate the "city" upon its being in such safe 
 keeping. The crowd cheered, not very heartily, but 
 history was in the making, and the true Londoner, 
 although he might not like to confess it, still takes a 
 lively interest in these scenes which link him to the 
 past. 
 
 While the city officials, their precious sword — it was 
 a gift from Queen Elizabeth — still in their keeping, 
 were returning to their coaches and taking their places, 
 there was a moment's delay which gave me a good 
 opportunity of observing the King and his Consort. 
 He looked very like his photograph and equally like 
 his cousin, the Czar of Russia. He had a weak and 
 
utterly expressionless face and seemingly was much 
 bored by the proceedings. The Queen looked every 
 inch — not a Queen but a very plain English woman, 
 without either grace or beauty. She is not popular 
 in London. I have never heard her spoken of with 
 either affection or enthusiasm, but I noticed in the 
 description of the scene, in the papers next day, they 
 commented loyally upon what they termed the "gra- 
 cious charm of Queen Mary." 
 
 The Lord Mayor and his suite, having resumed 
 their places, were driven rapidly down Fleet Street 
 toward St. Paul's, the Royal party following them. 
 The whole ceremony at Temple Bar, the shadow of 
 former ceremonies hardly more real, had not occu- 
 pied much over five minutes. The crowd dispersed, 
 Fleet Street and the Strand immediately resumed 
 their wonted appearance except for the bunting and 
 decorations, and I was left to discuss with myself the 
 question, "What does this King business really mean?" 
 
 Many years ago Andrew Carnegie wrote a book, 
 "Triumphant Democracy," in which as I vaguely 
 remember he likened our form of government to a 
 pyramid standing on its base, while a pyramid repre- 
 senting England was standing on its apex. There is 
 no doubt whatever that a pyramid looks more com- 
 fortable on its base than on its apex, but let us drop 
 these facile illustrations of strength and weakness and 
 
ask ourselves, "In what way are we better oft', polit- 
 ically, than the English?" 
 
 In theory, the King, from whom no real authority 
 flows, may seem a little bit ridiculous, but in practice 
 how admirably the English have learned to use him. 
 If he is great enough to exert a powerful influence on 
 the nation for good, his position gives him an immense 
 opportunity. How great his power is we do not know 
 — it is not written down in books, but he has it. If, 
 on the other hand, he has not the full confidence of 
 the people, if they mistrust his judgment, his power 
 is circumscribed; wise men rule and Majesty does as 
 Majesty is told to do. "We think of our Prime 
 Minister as the wisest man in England for the time 
 being," says Bagehot. The English scheme of govern- 
 ment permits, indeed necessitates, her greatest men 
 entering politics, as we call it. Is it so with us? 
 
 Our plan, however excellent it may be in theory, in 
 practice results in our having constantly to submit 
 ourselves, those of us who must be governed, to capital 
 operations at the hands of amateurs who are selected 
 for the job by drawing straws. That we escape with 
 our lives is due rather to our hardy constitution than 
 to the skill of the operators. 
 
 To keep the King out of mischief he may be set the 
 innocuous task of visiting hospitals, opening exposi- 
 tions or laying corner stones. Tapping a block of 
 
granite with a silver trowel he declares it to be "well 
 and truly laid," and no exception can be taken to the 
 masterly manner in which the work is done. Occa- 
 sionally, once a year or so, plain Bill Smith, who has 
 made a fortune in the haberdashery line, say, bends 
 the knee before him and at a tap of a sword across his 
 shoulders arises Sir William Smith. Bill Smith was 
 not selected for this honor by the King himself. Cer- 
 tainly not! The King probably never heard of him, 
 but the men who rule the nation, those in authority, 
 for reasons sufficient if not good, selected Smith for 
 "birthday honors," and he is given a stake in the 
 nation. 
 
 And so it goes. The Knight may become a Baronet, 
 the Baronet a Lord, the Lord a Duke, this last not 
 often now, only for very great service rendered the 
 empire, and with each advance in rank comes increase 
 of responsibility — in theory at least. Have our 
 political theories worked out so well that we are 
 justified in making fun of theirs as we sometimes do? 
 I think not. After our country has stood as well as 
 England has the shocks which seven or ten centuries 
 may bring it, we may have the right to say, "We 
 order these things better — at home." 
 
 While musing thus, the Strand and Temple Bar of 
 a century and a half ago rise up before me, and I notice 
 coming along the footway a tall, burly, old man walk- 
 
Temple Bar in Dr. Johnson's Time 
 
ing with a rolling gait, dressed in a brown coat with 
 metal buttons, knee breeches and worsted stockings, 
 with large silver buckles on his clumsy shoes. He 
 seems like a wise old fellow, so I approach him and tell 
 him who I am and of my perplexities. "What! Sir, 
 an American? They are a race of convicts who ought 
 to be thankful for anything we allow them short of 
 hanging," and then seeing me somewhat disconcerted 
 he adds less ferociously, "I would not give half a 
 guinea to live under one form of government rather 
 than another," saying which he turns into a court off 
 Fleet Street and is lost to view. It was only after he 
 had disappeared that I realized that I had been speak- 
 ing to Dr. Johnson. 
 
 Just when the original posts, bars and chains gave 
 way to the building known as Temple Bar, we have no 
 means of knowing. Honest John Stow, whose effigy 
 in terra cotta still looks down on us from the wall of 
 the Church of St. Andrew Undershaft, published his 
 famous "Survey of Elizabethan London" in 1598. 
 In it he makes scant mention of Temple Bar, and this 
 is the more remarkable from the fact that he describes 
 so accurately many of the important buildings and 
 gives the exact location of every court and lane, every 
 pump and well, in the London of his day. 
 
 Stow assures his readers that his accuracy cost him 
 many a weary mile's travel and many a hard-earned 
 
penny, and his authority has never been disputed. 
 He refers to the place several times but not to the gate 
 itself. "Why this is I have not heard, nor can I con- 
 jecture" to use a phrase of his, but we know that a 
 building known as Temple Bar must have been stand- 
 ing when the "Survey" appeared, for it is clearly indi- 
 cated in Aggas' pictorial map of London published a 
 generation earlier, otherwise we might infer that in 
 Stow's time it was merely what he terms it, a "barre" 
 separating the Liberties of London from Westminster 
 — the city from the shire. It is obvious that it gets 
 its name from that large tract known as the Temple, 
 which lies between Fleet Street and the river, long the 
 quarters of the Knights Templar, and for centuries 
 past the center of legal learning in England. 
 
 Referring to the "new Temple by the Barre," Stow 
 tells us that "over against it in the high streets stand- 
 eth a payre of stockes," and adds that the whole 
 street "from the Barre to the Savoy was commanded 
 to be paved in the twenty-fourth year of the reign 
 of "King Henry the Sixt," (this sturdy lad, it will be 
 remembered, began to "reign" when he was only nine 
 months old), with "tole to be taken towards the 
 charges thereof." This practice of taking "tole" 
 from all non-freemen at Temple Bar continued until 
 after the middle of the nineteenth century, and fine 
 confusion it must have caused. The charge of two 
 
 
pence each time a cart passed the city boundary finally 
 aroused such an outcry against the "city turnpike" 
 that it was done away with. 'Whoever received this 
 revenue must have heartily bewailed the passing of 
 the good old days, for a few years before the custom 
 was abandoned the toll collected amounted to over 
 seven thousand pounds per annum. 
 
 The first reference which seems to suggest a build- 
 ing dates back to the time when "Sweet Anne Bullen" 
 passed from the Tower to her coronation at West- 
 minster, at* which time the Fleet Street conduit poured 
 forth red wine and the city waits — or minstrels—" made 
 music like a heavenly noyse." We know, too, that it 
 was "a rude building," and that it was subsequently 
 replaced by a substantial timber structure of classic 
 appearance, with a pitched roof, spanning the street, 
 and gabled at each end. Old prints show us that it 
 was composed of three arches, a large central arch for 
 vehicular traffic, with smaller arches, one on each side 
 over the footway. All of the arches were provided 
 with heavy oaken doors, studded with iron, which could 
 be closed at night or when unruly mobs, tempted to 
 riot, threatened, and frequently carried out their 
 threat, to disturb the peace of the city. 
 
 The city proper terminated at Lud Gate, about half 
 way up Ludgate Hill, but the jurisdiction of the city 
 extended to Temple Bar, and those residing between 
 
Old Temple Bar. Demolished in 1666 
 
the two gates were said to be within the liberties of the 
 city and enjoyed its rights and privileges, among them 
 that of passing through Temple Bar without paying 
 toll. Although Lud Gate was the most important gate 
 of the old city, originally forming a part of the old 
 London wall, from time immemorial Temple Bar has 
 been the great historic entrance to the city. At 
 Temple Bar it was usual, upon an accession to the 
 throne, upon the proclamation of a peace or the over- 
 throw of an enemy, for a state entry to be made into 
 the city. The sovereign attended by his trumpeters 
 would proceed to the closed gate and demand entrance. 
 From the city side would come the inquiry, "Who 
 comes here?" and the herald having made reply, the 
 Royal party would be admitted and conducted to- the 
 Lord Mayor. 
 
 With the roll of years this custom became slightly 
 modified. When Queen Elizabeth visited St. Paul's 
 to return thanks for the defeat of the Spanish Armada, 
 we read that upon the herald and trumpeters having 
 announced her arrival at the Gate, the Lord Mayor 
 advanced and surrendered the city sword to the Queen, 
 who upon returning it to him proceeded to St. Paul's. 
 On this occasion, as on all previous occasions, the sov- 
 ereign was on horseback, Queen Elizabeth having de- 
 clined to ride, as had been suggested, in a vehicle 
 drawn by horses, on the ground that it was new fangled 
 
and effeminate. For James I, for Charles and Crom- 
 well and Charles II similar ceremonies were enacted, 
 the coronation of Charles II being really magnificent 
 and testifying to the joy of England in again having 
 a King. 
 
 Queen Anne enters the city in a coach drawn by 
 eight horses, "none with her but the Duchess of 
 Marlborough, in a very plain garment, the Queen full 
 of jewels," to give thanks for the victories of the Duke 
 abroad, and so the stately historic procession winds 
 through the centuries, always pausing at Temple Bar, 
 right down to our own time. 
 
 But to return to the actual "fabrick," as Dr. Johnson 
 would have called it: Soon after the accession of 
 Charles II we learn that old Temple Bar was marked 
 for destruction. It was of wood, and while "newly 
 paynted and hanged" for state occasions, it was felt 
 that something more worthy of the great city, to 
 which it gave entrance, should be erected. Inigo 
 Jones was consulted and drew plans for a new gate, 
 his idea being the erection of a really triumphal arch, 
 but dying soon after, his plan was abandoned. Other 
 architects with other plans came forward. At length, 
 the King became interested in the project and promised 
 money toward its accomplishment, but Charles II was 
 an easy promiser, and as the money he promised be- 
 longed to someone else, nothing came of it. While the 
 
project was being thus discussed, the plague broke out, 
 followed by the fire which destroyed so much of old 
 London, and public attention was so earnestly directed 
 to the rebuilding of London itself that the gate, for a 
 time, was forgotten. 
 
 Temple Bar had escaped the flames, but the rebuild- 
 ing of London occasioned by the fire gave Christopher 
 Wren his great opportunity. A new St. Paul's with 
 its "mighty mothering dome," a lasting monument to 
 his genius, was erected, and churches innumerable, 
 whose towers and spires still point the way to heaven, 
 instructions which we may suspect are neglected when 
 we see how deserted they are, but they serve, at least, 
 to add charm and interest to a ramble through the city. 
 
 Great confusion resulted from the fire, but London 
 was quick to see that order must be restored, and it is 
 much to be regretted that Wren's scheme for replanning 
 the entire burned district was not carried out. Fleet 
 Street was less than twenty-four feet wide at Temple 
 Bar, not from curb to curb, for there was none, but from 
 house to house. This was the time to rebuild London; 
 although something was done much was neglected, and 
 Wren was finally commissioned to build a new gate of 
 almost the exact dimensions of the old one. 
 
 The work was begun in 1670 and progressed slowly, 
 for it was not finished until two years later. What a 
 fine interruption to traffic its rebuilding must have 
 
occasioned! Constructed entirely of Portland stone, 
 the same material as St. Paul's, it consisted, like the 
 old one, of three arches, a large flattened center arch 
 with small semicircular arches on either side. Above 
 the center arch was a large window which gave light 
 and air to a spacious chamber within, while on either 
 side of the window were niches, in which were placed 
 statues of King James and his Queen, Anne of Den- 
 mark, on the city side and Charles I and Charles II 
 on the Westminster side. 
 
 The curious may wish to know that the mason was 
 Joshua Marshall, whose father had been master 
 mason to Charles I, that the sculptor of the statues was 
 John Bushnell, who died insane, and that the cost of 
 the whole, including the statues at four hundred and 
 eighty pounds, was but thirteen hundred and ninety- 
 seven pounds, ten shillings. 
 
 The fog and soot and smoke of London soon give the 
 newest building an appearance of age and mercifully 
 bring it into harmony with its surroundings. Almost 
 before the new gate was completed it had an appear- 
 ance of age, and before it had a chance to grow really 
 old there arose a demand for its removal altogether. 
 Petitions praying for its destruction were circulated 
 and signed. Verse, if not poetry, urging its retention 
 was written and printed. 
 
"If that Gate is pulled down, 'twixt the Court and the 
 
 City, 
 You'll blend in one mass, prudent, worthless and 
 
 witty. 
 If you league cit and lordling, as brother and brother, 
 You'll break order's chain, and they'll war with each 
 
 other. 
 Like the Great Wall of China, it keeps out the Tartars, 
 From making irruptions, where industry barters, 
 Like Samson's Wild Foxes, they'll fire your houses, 
 And madden your spinsters, and cousin your spouses. 
 They'll destroy in one sweep, both the Mart and the 
 
 Forum. 
 Which your fathers held dear, and their fathers before 
 
 'em." 
 
 But attacked by strong city men and defended only 
 by sentiment, Temple Bar still continued to impede 
 traffic and shut out light and air while the generations 
 who fought for its removal passed to their rest. It 
 became the subject of jokes and conundrums. Why 
 is Temple Bar like a lady's veil? it was asked, the 
 answer being that both must be raised (razed) for 
 busses. The distinction between a buss and a kiss, 
 suggested by Herrick, of whom the eighteenth century 
 city man never heard, would have been lost, but we 
 know that 
 
"Kissing and bussing differ both in this, 
 We buss our wantons and our wives we kiss." 
 
 No account of Temple Bar would be complete with- 
 out reference to the iron spikes above the center of the 
 pediment on which occasionally were placed the heads 
 of persons executed for high treason. This ghastly 
 custom continued down to the middle of the eight- 
 eenth century and gave rise to many stories, most of 
 them legendary, but which go to prove, were proof 
 necessary, that squeamishness was not a common 
 fault in the days of the Georges. 
 
 To refer, however briefly, to the taverns which clus- 
 tered east and west of Temple Bar and to the authors 
 who frequented them, would be to stop the progress of 
 this paper — and begin another. Dr. Johnson only 
 voiced public opinion when he said that a tavern chair 
 is a throne of human felicity. For more than three 
 centuries within the shadow of Temple Bar there was 
 an uninterrupted flow of wine and wit and wisdom 
 with doubtless some wickedness. From Ben Jonson, 
 whose favorite resort was "The Devil," adjoining the 
 Bar on the south side, down to Tennyson, who fre- 
 quented "The Cock," on the north, came the same 
 cry, for good talk and good wine. 
 
"O plump head-waiter at the Cock, 
 To which I most resort, 
 How goes the time? 'Tis five o'clock, 
 Go fetch a pint of port." 
 
 This does not sound like the author of Locksley Hall, 
 but it is, and while within the taverns, "the chief 
 glory of England, its authors," were writing and 
 talking themselves into immortality, just outside there 
 ebbed and flowed beneath the arches of Temple Bar, 
 east in the morning and west at night, the human 
 stream which is one of the wonders of the world. 
 
 Meantime the importance of Temple Bar as a city 
 gate was lessening; "a weak spot in our defenses," a wit 
 calls it, and points out that the enemy can dash around 
 it through the barber shop, one door of w r hich opens 
 into the city, the other into the "suburbs," but down 
 to the last it continued to play a part in city functions. 
 In 1851 it is lit with twenty thousand lamps as the 
 Queen goes to a state ball in Guildhall. A few months 
 later it is draped in black as the remains of the Iron 
 Duke pauses under its arches for a moment on the way 
 to their final resting place in St. Paul's Cathedral. 
 In a few years we see it draped with the colors of 
 England and Prussia when the Princess Royal, as the 
 bride of Frederick William, gets her "Farewell" and 
 "God Bless You" from the city on her departure for 
 
Berlin. Five years pass and the young Prince of 
 Wales and his beautiful bride, Alexandra, are received 
 with wild applause by the mob as their carriage halts 
 at Temple Bar, and once again when in February, 
 1872, Queen Victoria, the Prince and Princess of 
 Wales and their Court go to St. Paul's to return 
 thanks for the Prince's happy recovery from a dan- 
 gerous illness. 
 
 With this event the history of Temple Bar in its 
 old location practically ceases. It was to continue for 
 a few years longer a "bone in the throat of Fleet 
 Street," but at last its condition became positively 
 dangerous, its gates were removed because of their 
 weight and its arches were propped up with timbers. 
 Finally, in 1877, its removal by the Corporation of 
 London was decided upon, and Temple Bar, from time 
 immemorial one of London's most notable landmarks, 
 disappears, and "the Griffin" on an "island" rises in 
 its stead. 
 
 "The ancient site of Temple Bar has been dis- 
 figured by Boehm with statues of the Queen and the 
 Prince of Wales so stupidly modeled that they look 
 like statues out of a Noah's Ark. It is bad enough 
 that we should have German Princes foisted upon us, 
 but German statues are worse." In this manner 
 George Moore refers to the Memorial commonly called 
 the "Griffin," which shortly after the destruction of the 
 
old gate was erected on the exact spot where Temple 
 Bar formerly stood. 
 
 It is not a handsome object; indeed, barring the 
 Albert Memorial it may be said to represent Victorian 
 taste at its worst. It is a high, rectangular pedestal, 
 running lengthwise with the street, placed on a small 
 island which serves as a refuge for pedestrians crossing 
 the busy thoroughfare. On either side are niches in 
 which are placed the life-size marble figures described 
 by Moore, but this is not all. There are bronze 
 tablets let into the masonry showing in basso-rilievo 
 incidents in the history of old Temple Bar, with por- 
 traits, medallions and other things. This base pedes- 
 tal, if so it may be called, is surmounted by a smaller 
 pedestal on which is placed a heraldic dragon or griffin 
 — a large monster in bronze, which is supposed to guard 
 the gold of the city. 
 
 We do not look for beauty in Fleet Street, and we 
 know that only in the Victorian sense is this monument 
 a work of art, but it has the same interest for us as a 
 picture by Frith — it is a human document. Memories 
 of the past more real than the actual present crowd 
 upon us, and we turn under an archway into the 
 Temple Gardens, glad to forget the artistic sins of 
 Boehm and his compeers. 
 
 Ask the average Londoner what has become of old 
 Temple Bar and he will look at you in blank amaze- 
 
ment, and then, with an effort of memory, say, 
 "They've put it up somewhere in the north." And 
 so it is. 
 
 Upon its removal the stones were carefully numbered 
 with a view to re-erection, and there was some discus- 
 sion as to where the old gate should be located. It is 
 agreed now that it should have been placed in the 
 Temple Gardens, but for almost ten years the stones, 
 about one thousand in number, were stored on a piece 
 of waste ground in the Farrington Road. Finally, 
 they were purchased by Sir Henry Meux, the rich 
 brewer, whose brewery, if out of sight, still indicates 
 its presence by the strong odor of malt, at the corner of 
 Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. Sir Henry 
 Meux was the owner of a magnificent country seat, 
 "Theobald's Park," near Waltham Cross, about 
 twelve miles north of London, and he determined to 
 make Temple Bar the principal entrance gate to this 
 historic estate. 
 
 So to Theobald's Park, anciently "Tibbals," I bent 
 my steps one morning. Being in a reminiscent mood, 
 I had intended to follow in the footsteps of Izaak 
 Walton, from the site of his shop in Fleet Street just 
 east of Temple Bar, and having in the words of the 
 gentle angler "stretched my legs up Tottenham Hill," 
 taken the old high road into Hertfordshire, but the 
 English spring having opened with more than its 
 
customary severity I decided to go by rail. It was 
 raining gently but firmly when my train reached its 
 destination, Waltham Cross, and I was deprived of the 
 pleasure I had promised myself of reaching Temple 
 Bar on foot. An antique fly, drawn by a super- 
 annuated horse, was secured at the railway station, 
 and after a short drive I was set down before old 
 Temple Bar, the gates of which were closed as securely 
 against me as ever they had been closed against an 
 unruly mob in its old location. 
 
 Driving along a flat and monotonous country road 
 one comes on the old gate almost suddenly and ex- 
 periences a feeling not of disappointment but of sur- 
 prise. The gate does not span the road, but is set 
 back a little in a hedge on one side of it, and seems 
 large for its setting. One is prepared for a dark, grimy 
 portal, whereas the soot and smoke of London have 
 been erased from it, and instead one sees an antique, 
 creamy-white structure tinted and toned with the 
 green of the great trees which overhang it. Prowling 
 about in the drenching rain I looked in vain for some 
 sign of life. I shouted to King James who looked 
 down on me from his niche, and receiving no reply 
 addressed his Consort, inquiring how I was to secure 
 admittance. 
 
 A porter's lodge on one side, almost hidden in the 
 trees, supplied an answer to my question, and giving 
 
a lusty pull at the bell the door was opened and a slat- 
 ternly woman appeared and inquired my business. 
 "To see over Temple Bar," I replied. "Hutterly 
 himpossible," she said, and I saw at once that tact and 
 a coin were required. I used both. " Go up the drive 
 to the great 'ouse and hask for the clerk (pronounced 
 dark) of the works, Mr. 'Arrison, 'e may let ye hover." 
 I did as I was told and had little difficulty with Mr. 
 Harrison. The house itself was undergoing extensive 
 repairs and alterations. It had recently passed under 
 the will of Lady Meux to its present owner, together 
 with a fortune of five hundred thousand pounds in 
 money. 
 
 Many years ago Henry Meux had married the beauti- 
 ful and charming Valerie Langton, an actress, a Gaiety 
 girl, in fact, but they had had no children, and when he 
 died in 1900 the title became extinct. Thereafter 
 Lady Meux, enormously wealthy, without relatives, 
 led a retired life, chiefly interested in breeding horses. 
 A chance courtesy paid her by the wife of Sir Hed worth 
 Lambton, who had recently married, together with the 
 fact that he had established a reputation for ability 
 and courage, decided her in her thought to make him 
 her heir. 
 
 Sir Hedworth, a younger son of the Earl of Durham, 
 had early adopted the sea as his profession. He had 
 distinguished himself in the bombardment of Alexan- 
 
dria, and had done something wonderful at Ladysmith. 
 He was a hero, no longer a young man, without means 
 —who more fitting to succeed to her wealth and name? 
 In 1911 Lady Meux died, and this lovely country seat, 
 originally a hunting lodge of King James, subsequently 
 the favorite residence of Charles I and with a long list 
 of royal or noble owners, became the property of the 
 gallant sailor. All that he had to do was to forget that 
 the name Meux suggested a brewery and exchange it 
 for his own, and the great property was his. It reads 
 like a chapter out of a romance. Thus it was that the 
 house was being thoroughly overhauled for its new 
 owner at the time of my visit. 
 
 But I am wandering from Temple Bar. Armed with 
 a letter from Mr. Harrison I returned to the gate. 
 First, I ascertained that the span of the center arch, 
 the arch through which for two centuries the traffic 
 of London had passed, was but twenty-one feet "in 
 the clear" as an architect would say; next, that the 
 span of small arches on either side was only four feet 
 six inches. No wonder that there was always "con- 
 gestion" at Temple Bar. I was also anxious to see the 
 room above, the room in which formerly Messrs. 
 Child, when it had adjoined their banking house, had 
 stored their old ledgers and cash books. Keys were 
 sought and found, and I was admitted. The room 
 was bare except for a large table in the center, on 
 
which were quill pens and an inkstand in which the 
 ink had dried up years before. One other thing 
 there was, a visitor's book, which like a new diary had 
 been started off bravely years before, but in which no 
 signature had recently been written. I glanced over 
 it and noticed a few well-known names; English names, 
 not American, such as one usually finds, for I was off 
 the beaten track of the tourist. The roof was leaking 
 here and there, and little pools of water were forming 
 on the floor. It was as cold as a tomb. I wished 
 that a tavern, the "Cock," the "Devil" or any other 
 had been just outside as in the old days when Temple 
 Bar stood in Fleet Street. The slatternly woman 
 clanked her keys; she, too, was cold. I had seen all 
 there was to see. The beauty of Temple Bar is in 
 the exterior and most of all in its wealth of literary 
 and historic association. I could muse elsewhere 
 with less danger of pneumonia, so I said farewell to the 
 Kings in their niches, who in this suburban retreat 
 seemed like monarchs retired from business, and re- 
 turned to my cab. The driver was asleep in the rain. 
 I think the horse was, too. I roused the man and he 
 roused the beast, and we drove almost rapidly back to 
 the station, no not to the station but to a public house 
 close by it, where hot water and accompaniments were 
 to be had. "When is the next train up to London?" 
 I asked an old man at the station. "In ten minutes, 
 
but you'll find it powerful slow." I was not deceived; 
 it took me over an hour to reach London. 
 
 As if to enable me to bring this story to a fitting 
 close, I read in the papers only a few days ago this: 
 "Vice Admiral Sir John Jellicoe was today promoted to 
 the rank of Admiral, and Sir Hedw T orth Meux, who 
 until now has been commander-in-chief at Ports- 
 mouth, was appointed Admiral of the Home Fleet." 
 Good luck be with him; accepting the burdens which 
 properly go with rank and wealth, he is at this moment 
 cruising somewhere in the cold North Sea in command of 
 perhaps the greatest fleet ever assembled. Upon the 
 owner of Temple Bar, at this moment, devolves the 
 duty of keeping watch and ward over England. 
 
 A. E. N. 
 

 
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