The dissolution of Clement’s Inn was one of those greedy acts of spoliation which seem almost incredible, but which have often occurred. It would appear now that the members of these bodies have some right to sell and divide among themselves the property of which they are virtually only trustees. A more amazing proposition could not be conceived. Some years since we read in a morning paper this “Bitter cry”:--“As I was passing through Clement’s Inn this morning I was astonished to see the negro sundial that has stood, or rather knelt, in the centre of the garden for over a century and a half, dismounted from its pedestal and lying ignominiously on its back on the grass. What had this ‘poor sable son of woe’ done to deserve such treatment? I found there had recently been a private auction amongst the members of the Honourable Society of the Inn, and that this well-known statue had been knocked down for £20 to one of the members, and that having been disposed of, the Inn itself, the pictures, plate, and other effects were now following in its wake. Surely Lord Clare, who brought this figure from Italy early in the year 1700, and presented it to the Inn, little contemplated its ultimately falling into the hands of a private individual.” This negro is well modelled and effective in his attitude, and it is pleasant to find that he has been restored, not to his original position, but to a good place on that agreeable _plaisaunce_, the gardens of the Temple, close to the river, and through the railings the passer-by can see the negro renewed and polished, still supporting his sundial. In Wych Street, where Theodore Hook declared he was always regularly blocked up by a Lord Mayor’s coach at one end and a hearse or market-cart at the other, we find the entrances to two other Inns, Dane’s and New Inn--now “pretty old,” as Elia said of the New River. Dane’s deserves little attention, as it is a simple lane, lined with modern houses, somewhat of the Peabody type; the well-shuttered windows of New Inn, ranged along one side of Wych Street, suggest the long files of jalousied windows in some retired street in Calais or other French town. To visit the place on some dark evening, and with the lights twinkling from the windows, recalls this foreign air more strikingly. Enter, and it seems the inclosure of some tranquil old college. On the right there is a shadowed recess surrounded by old houses, from which projects the sound and solid old dining-hall, with its bold cornices and square windows, now lit up. Beside it are enclosed gardens and lawns. There is plenty of open area, plenty of breathing-room and apparent tranquillity: scattered lights are seen here and there: there is a general romantic and peaceful tone over the whole. [Illustration: GATEWAY, STAPLE INN]