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LIVING IN THE ideal chamber life in London is, of course, to be found in the Temple or any other of the law inns. The kind of ex istence passed by the inhabitants of these hospitia is unique. The young freshman in stalling himself in college rooms feels a de licious sense of independence take possession of him as he surveys the tiny domicile in which for a year or two he will play the host and petty king according to his own free will. But his will is not really so free, after all. He comes to find, although these college days make the greenest memory in any man's life, that inside the precincts of a university a young fellow has to surrender a consider able portion of his liberty, and is, in some re spects, more under authority than if he were within the paternal mansion. The young student at Paris, flitting in and out of his mansarde in the Latin quarter, is indeed about as irresponsible a creature as the spar row nestling in the walls of the house; but next week his garret may be the abode of a market porter or a milliner. His quarters have not been reserved through centuries for the occupation of educated bachelors, and he may be turned out of them at any moment at the mere caprice of the landlord, who comes monthly for his rent. The Inns of Court and Chancery, however, are the great republic of bachelordom. Dat ing from the days when monkery flourished in our land, they have survived that monastic system, and in themselves preserve all the characteristics of what may be termed lay monasticism. Within the walls of these buildings, once you are admitted as a tenant, and provided you will pay the rather exorbi tant rent, you are free to live in whatever manner of single blessedness you may choose. You are a High Church-man; fit up one of your rooms as an oratory if you like, and your neighbor who practises an esoteric Buddhism will not quarrel with you, or even take the trouble to find out what you are

CHAMBERS. about. You are a somewhat sceptical Bohe mian; on Sunday morning throw open your window and enjoy your dressing-gown, cigar, and " Observer," while the " blessed mutter of the Mass " and the sweet choir strains from the adjoining church waft themselves to your ears. You are free, if such is your mind, to enjoy the music in this fashion, and read the theatrical news while the clergyman delivers his discourse. You may keep a servant or servants to wait upon you, or you may, like a good independent gentleman, require no more assistance than the laundress can render in half an hour daily. You black your own boots with Nubian blacking; you become an expert at omelettes, and even venture at times to cook cosey little suppers for two or three. Generally, however, your eating is all done outside, in the restaurants. There are six or seven very respectable places of the kind, so near that to step out to any one of them is hardly more trouble than to walk downstairs to one's ordinary private dining-room. No con ventionality governs your hours. Rise when you please; there is no household to consult. Dine when you please; there is no cook in your establishment to mutter about joints be ing burned, and sauces wasted, because the master has not returned in time. Stay out as late as you please; the night porter is paid for nothing else than welcoming you with a civil smile at four or five in the morn ing, and is not likely to give warning because you keep him out of bed so long. Your abode is twenty times safer by night than any West-End mansion, for it is well walled in, and no burglar can pass the sentinel at the gates. No rumble of traffic disturbs your sleep. Your rest is as secluded as that of a friar in his cell. Is not all this the very ideal of liberty and bachelor bliss? To-morrow you may wish to start away for Switzerland or the moors. Your bag is packed; you call a cab, and slam your double doors behind you, perfectly as sured that all your goods and chattels are