Chapter VIII (1)

“Come on, you mad-cap. I’ll to the Alehouse with you presently, where, for one shot of fivepence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes.” _Two Gentlemen of Verona._ Act ii., sc. 5.

Whoe’er has travelled life’s dull round,
Where’er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome at an inn.
_Shenstone._

_ALE HOUSES: THEIR ORIGIN. — HOSPITALITY IN MEDIÆVAL TIMES. — OLD LONDON INNS AND TAVERNS. — ANECDOTES OF INNS AND INN KEEPERS. — CURIOUS SIGNS. — SIGN-BOARD AND ALE-HOUSE VERSES. — SIGN-BOARD ARTISTS. — ALE-HOUSE SONGS AND CATCHES._

“No, Sir;” said Dr. Johnson, “there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so much happiness is produced, as by a good tavern or inn.” The argument by which the great Doctor leads up to this oracular deliverance is as follows:—“There is no private house in which people can enjoy themselves so well as in a capital tavern. Let there be ever so great plenty of good things, ever so much grandeur, ever so much elegance, and ever so much desire that everybody should be easy, in the nature of things it cannot be; there must always be some degree of care and anxiety. The master of the house is anxious to entertain his guests, the guests are anxious to be agreeable to him, and no man but a very impudent dog indeed, can as freely command what is in another {183} man’s house as if it were his own; whereas, at a tavern there is a general freedom from anxiety. You are sure you are welcome, and the more noise you make, the more trouble you give, the more good things you call for, the welcomer you are. No servant will attend you with the alacrity which waiters do who are incited by the prospect of an immediate reward in proportion as they please.” The Doctor seems most conscientiously to have made his practice square with his preaching. Till the end of his life, although generally an abstemious man, he was regular in his attendance at the various taverns he patronised, and his burly figure was as well known amongst the frequenters of the inns and taverns of Fleet Street, as that of the most notorious roysterer of the time.

In his day the tavern—the London tavern especially—attained the highest point of social importance which it has ever reached; and many of those convivial and social functions, now for the most part discharged by the clubs and by private hospitality, were then considered to fell within its special province. During the last century the tavern gathered around its hospitable hearth those groups of savants and wits, which have been the starting points of many a scientific and literary society of the present day.

It is, of course, impossible for us in the space we are able to devote to the history of public hospitality in England, to do more than give a very slight sketch of the subject.

Most of the functions of the modern inn were in early days discharged by the hospitality of the Church. In the laws and constitutions of the various religious bodies are to be found directions to the clergy to observe the rites of hospitality, and a law of Ecgbright commands bishops and priests to have a house for the entertainment of strangers, not far from the church. The house here referred to would probably be the Almonry, where strangers and travellers, too poor or lowly to be entertained within the walls of the monastery, were fed and tended.

Persons of higher rank were received into the monastery, which was always furnished with a _hospitium_, or guest hall, for the entertainment of visitors and travellers. The importance of this monastic function may be judged from the size of some of the guest halls belonging to the larger religious bodies: one at Canterbury was a hundred and fifty feet long, and forty feet wide.

Visitors on their arrival at a monastery were met by the _hosteler_ in the _parletory_, and after receiving greeting were conducted to the guest hall, where they were refreshed with meat and drink according to their {184} rank and importance. A small present was usually given at the gate on arrival, but, save for that, the entertainment seems to have been free. The guests were allowed to stay on these terms for two days and two nights; but on the third day after dinner, unless prevented by sickness or other just cause, they were to depart in peace.

Many constitutions of religious houses enjoin that hospitality should be shown to all comers, clerical or lay, and we are told that in some cases this liberality was much abused. The heirs of persons who had made large donations to religious houses, when they could not injure the monks by means of law, did their best to ruin them by constant visits with large retinues, and thus literally eat them out of house and home; and to such lengths did this custom extend that, in the reign of Edward I., it was found necessary to pass certain laws restraining such abuses.

By the rules of the Benedictine order, an officer was appointed, called the _terrer_, whose duty it was to see that the guest-chambers were kept clean. He was always to have on hand two tuns of wine for the entertainment of strangers, and also provender for their horses; and four yeomen were appointed to attend upon strangers, that nothing might be wanting to pilgrims and travellers of whatever rank they might be. In the middle ages the denial of hospitality was looked upon as disgraceful, and an ancient anecdote is related of the revenge taken by a travelling minstrel upon his host, on account of the meagre nature of the entertainment afforded. The minstrel sought a night’s food and lodging at an Abbey, when the abbot, a parsimonious man, happened to be absent. The monk in attendance at the hospitium, acting upon instructions, gave the poor minstrel nothing but black bread and water and a bed of straw. Next morning the traveller proceeded on his way, and meeting the abbot in the course of the journey, took occasion to thank him in good set phrase for the princely hospitality dispensed at his house, enlarging upon the choice viands and costly presents he had received. The abbot hastened home in great rage, and caused the monk, whom he believed to be guilty of the lavish waste, to be flogged and dismissed from his office.

One of the few instances of the public hospitality of the religious orders surviving down to our own days is to be found at the Hospital of Saint Cross, Winchester, where whoever knocks at the porter’s lodge is entitled to a slice of bread and a mug of small beer—_very small_, if rumour lies not.

Side by side with this monastic hospitality were the shelter and {185} entertainment afforded at the houses of the nobility and gentry when their owners were absent; and when they were at home, the practice of keeping open house seems to have been by no means rare. The traveller of gentle blood would be entertained at the lord’s table, while the servant, the travelling mechanic, the disbanded soldier, and other wanderers of lowly rank, would find rest and refreshment in the keep.

In process of time, however, this custom of promiscuous entertainment seems to have fallen into disuse; the accommodation before provided by the castle or manor house being now afforded by a separate inn set up close by, and frequently kept by some worn-out servant of the castle, who would naturally bear upon his sign the arms of the dominant family, and would, for the purpose of entertaining travellers, be regarded as representing the lord. It is possible that to this custom, or the preceding one, may be attributed the use of the expression landlord, as signifying the host of an inn.

In towns, those of the citizens who had large enough houses frequently made a practice of receiving guests, and taking money for their pains, thus adding the profession of a host to their other callings. Persons who practised this letting of lodgings were called _herbergeors_ (_i.e._, harbourers), to distinguish them from the hostelers or innkeepers; and a further extension of the use of coats-of-arms for signs was thus brought about, the herbergeor frequently taking as his sign the arms of his most frequent or most influential guest. The _Liber Albus_ mentions both classes of entertainers, and records that by the regulations of the City of London herbergeours and hostelers must be freemen of the City, and persons of a strange land desirous of being herbergeour or hosteler within the City must dwell in the heart of the City and not upon the waterside of the Thames.

Although hospitality was so freely exercised by the monks and great landowners, it must not be imagined that inns were unknown. Even in Saxon days, to go no further back, inns and village alehouses seem to have existed. Bracton tells us of a regulation of Edward the Confessor that if any man lay a third night in an inn he was called a _third-night-awn-hinde_, that is to say, he was looked upon in the same light as a servant of the house would be, and the host was answerable for him if he committed any offence—a curious illustration of that local and vicarious responsibility for crime which was so prominent a feature of our ancient polity. In much later times a similar regulation is to be found applying to “hostelers” in the City of London. The _Liber Albus_ gives, as {186} one of the City rules, that no hosteler shall harbour a man beyond a day and a night, if he be not willing to produce such person to stand his trial, and in case such a person shall commit an offence, and absent himself, his host shall answer for him.

Goldsmith’s description of a village inn is probably as applicable to the old Saxon _eala-hus_ of a thousand years ago as it was to the alehouse of his own time, and as it is to many in the present day:—

Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired; Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news, much older than the Ale, went round. Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour’s importance to a poor man’s heart,

and the following descriptive verses of Leigh Hunt, entitled _The Village Alehouse, a Picture in Detail_, with but slight alterations, would serve equally as well:—

Dear ramblers all—an Alehouse sign
You’ll own as good a sight as greets ye;
When summer’s long, long mornings shine,
Where leisure reigns, and ‘All hail’ meets ye.

There rests the waggon in its track,—
A corn bag round each horse’s nose is;
There comes the miller and his sack:
And there at ease the beggar dozes.

There limps the ostler with his pails,
And there the landlord stalks inspector;
Two farmers there discuss their sales,
And drain by turns one goblet’s nectar.

Hay ricks are near and orchard fruit;
The cock’s shrill crow and flapping wing;
The low contented neigh of brute;
The pipe’s perfume, and tankard’s ding.

The fiddle’s scrape,—the milking cows,—
The snapping cork,—the roaring joke:—
The birds by thousands in the boughs:—
The creaking wheel and whip’s loud stroke. {187}

Sunshine strews all the kitchen floor,
Reposes on the home-field crop—
Blisters the Doctor’s fine new door,
And kisses copse and chimney top.

Clouds fleecy dot the blue immense—
Farm-houses—cities—vales—and streams—
And seats and parks and forests dense,
Sleep stretch’d afar, in floods of beams.

An inn or an alehouse, however, was at the time of the Conquest and for long after, far to seek. In the reign of Edward I. there were only three taverns in London, one in Chepe, one in Wallbrooke, and one in Lombard Street, and in country districts the proportion to the population would doubtless be as small, the want being supplied in the manner before alluded to. Even in the year 1552 the following list of the numbers of taverns allowed for the chief towns in England, no doubt shows a much smaller proportion to population than is seen at the present day. There were to be allowed forty in London, eight in York, four in Norwich, three in Westminster, six in Bristol, four in Hull, three in Shrewsbury, four in Exeter, three in Salisbury, four in Gloucester, four in Chester, three in Hereford, three in Worcester, three in Oxford, four in Cambridge, three in Southampton, four in Canterbury, three in Ipswich, three in Winchester, three in Colchester, and four in Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

Even parsonages seem to have been licensed as alehouses in very out-of-the-way districts. A survival of this custom, almost to our own times, is mentioned by Southey, who states that the parsonage house of Langdale was licensed as an alehouse, because it was so poor a living that the curate could not have otherwise supported himself.

The regulation previously mentioned as to the number of taverns, seems never to have been formally repealed; it could, however, only have been very slackly enforced, and doubtless soon became a dead letter. It was not, however, altogether forgotten, for in a letter from {188} the Lords in Council, in reply to a petition presented in the year 1618 by the parishioners of St. Mildred, in London, it is stated that “whereas the number of taverns had been limited to forty, and their places assigned,” there were then no less than four hundred in the City alone. The Lord Mayor and Common Council are therefore directed to put some restraint on this “enormous liberty of setting up taverns.”

The latter part of the sixteenth and the first half of the seventeenth centuries seem to have been remarkable for a great excess of alehouses, having regard to the wants of the population at the time. In 1591 a report of the Queen’s Council on the state of Lancashire and Cheshire states that the streets and alehouses are so crowded during service time that there was none in church but the curate and his clerk; that alehouses were innumerable, and that great abuses prevailed. In 1639 the Justices of Middlesex made presentment to the Council that there were twenty-four alehouses in Covent Garden, and that most of their keepers were chandlers who had got licensed surreptitiously at general meetings, and that the said Justices had reduced the number of the alehouses to _four_.

Old John Taylor, in _Drinke and Welcome_, gives evidence of the excessive facilities for drinking afforded at the fairs then so common. “Concerning the fructifying or fruitfulnesse of ale,” he says in his quaint way, “it is almost incredible, for twice every yeere there is a Faire at a small Towne called Kimbolton or Kimolton in Northamptonshire (as I take it), in which towne there are but thirty-eight Houses, which at the Faire time are encreased to thirty-nine _Alehouses_, for an old woman and her daughter doe in those dayes divide there one house into two, such is the operation and encreasing power of our English Ale.” Decker, writing in 1632, says that “a whole street is in some places but a continuous alehouse, not a shop to be seen between red lattice and red lattice.” This mention of the red lattice recalls the custom now extinct, but once well nigh universal, for the alehouses to have open windows to enable the guests to enjoy the fresh air. Privacy was ensured by a trellis or lattice, which was fixed in front of the window, and prevented a passer-by from seeing in, though those within could see out. Whether or not the red colour of the lattices was intended to harmonise with the noses of the frequenters may be considered a moot point; the page seems to have intended some such insinuation when he says of Bardolph, “He called me even now, my Lord, through a red lattice, and I could see no part of his face from the window; at last I spied his eyes and methought he had made two holes in the ale-wife’s new petticoat, and peeped through.” {189}

A merry new Ballad, bothe pleaſant and ſweet, In praiſe of a Blackſmith, which is very meet.

An Ale-Houſe Lattice.

“Of all the trades that ever I ſee
There is none which the Blackſmith compared may be.”
_Roxburghe Ballads._
]

{190}

So usual did the red lattice become that it was regarded as a distinctive mark, as shown in Marston’s _Antonio and Mellida_, in which occurs the passage, “As well known by my wit as an alehouse by a red lattice.” Green lattices were occasionally used, and the memory of them still survives in the sign of _The Green Lettuce_.

Another feature peculiar to old country inns was the ale-bench, a seat in front of the house where the thirsty wayfarer might rest and take his modest quencher. An ancient institution was the ale-bench. It is mentioned in the Anglo-Saxon poem _Beowulf_ and in the sixteenth century seems to have been considered the appropriate resting place of sententious and argumentative persons. One of the old Homilies (1547) alludes to those “which upon the ale-benches delight to set forth certain questions.”

Another institution of the old alehouse, corresponding in fact to the modern _bar_, was called the _ale-stond_, an allusion to which is to be found in _Marprelate’s Epistle_: “Therefore at length Sir Jefferie bethought him of a feat whereby he might both visit the ale-stond and also kepe his othe.”

In the sixteenth century the keeper of an alehouse was fancifully called an _ale-draper_. Chettle, in his _Kind-Hearts’ Dreame_ (1592), has the following:—“I came up to London and fell to be some tapster, hostler, or chamberlaine in an inn. Well, I got me a wife; with her a little money; when we are married seeke a house we must; no other occupation have I but an ale-draper.” _The Discoverie of the Knights of the Poste_ (1597) also contains an allusion to the phrase:—“‘So that nowe hee hath left brokery, and is become a draper.’ ‘A draper!’ quoth Freeman, ‘what draper? of woollin or of linnen?’ ‘No,’ qd he, ‘an ale-draper, wherein he hath more skil then in the other.’” Innkeepers in Whitby are denominated ale-drapers in the parish registers of last century.

In those good old days before the introduction of mail-coaches, to say nothing of the more modern means of transit, hospitality to the traveller was the rule in country districts. The Water Poet tells in his _Pennilesse Pilgrimage_ that he travelled “on foot from London to Edinburgh in Scotland, not carrying money to or fro, neither begging, borrowing or asking meat.” However, from what he goes on to relate, this description of his journey needs to be accepted with some slight reservation, for he gives a comical recital of how “from Stamford we _rode_ the next day to Huntingdon, where we lodged at the Post-master’s house at the signe of the Crowne.” The landlord appears, and “very {191} bountifully called for three quarts of wine and sugar and some jugges of beere. He did drink and begin healths like a horse-leach, and swallowed downe his cuppes without feeling, as if he had had the dropsie, or nine pound of spunge in his maw. In a word, as he is a Poste, he dranke poste, striving and calling by all means to make the reckoning great, or to make us men of great reckoning. But in his payment he was tyred like a jade, leaving the gentleman that was with me to discharge the terrible shott, or else one of my horses must have laine in pawne for his superfluous calling and unmannerly intrusion.”

The opinion of the great Doctor already quoted was not confined either to himself or to his times. Bishop Earle, writing in the seventeenth century of those social functions of the tavern or alehouse, now in a great measure discharged by the Clubs, sums up his description as follows:—“To give you the total reckoning of it, it is the busy man’s recreation, the idle man’s business, the melancholy man’s sanctuary, the stranger’s welcome, the inns of court man’s entertainment, the scholar’s kindness, and the citizens’ courtesy. It is the study of sparkling wits, and a cup of comedy their book; whence we leave them.”

Old Izaak Walton had a lively appreciation of the comforts of an inn and the virtues of English ale. Piscator, of _The Complete Angler_, thus addresses the hostess of an inn: “Come, hostess, dress it (a trout) presently, and get us what other meat the house will afford, and give us some of your best barley wine, the good liquor that our honest forefathers did use to drink of; the drink which preserved their health, and made them live so long and do so many good deeds.”

The quaint old author of _The Haven of Health_ (1584) gives his readers directions how to find out the best alehouse in a strange town, and also some prudent maxims as to the behaviour there:—“But if you come as a stranger to any towne, and would faine know where the best ale is, you neede do no more than marke where the greatest noyse is of good fellows, as they call them, and the greatest repaire of beggars. But withall take good heed that malt bee not above wheat before you part. For it is worse to be drunke of Ale than wine, and the drunkenness indureth longer: by reason that the fumes and vapours of ale that ascend to the head, are more grosse, and therefore cannot be so soone resolved as those that rise up of wine.”

Malvolio is alluding to the custom of alehouse singing when he says: “Do you make an alehouse of my lady’s house, that ye squeak out your cozier’s catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice?”

The English custom of wives following their husbands to the ale {192} house is mentioned with reprehension by Gascoigne in _A Delicate Diet for Daintie-mouthed Droonkards_ (1576). “What woman,” he exclaims, “(even among the droonken Almaines), is suffered to follow her husband into the Alehouse or Beerhouse?” However, if we are to believe the author of the following verses, the practice does not always seem to have been unfavourable to temperance:—

BACCHANALIAN JOYS DEFEATED.

While I’m at the Tavern quaffing,
Well disposed for t’other quart,
Come’s my wife to spoil my laughing,
Telling me ’tis time to part:
Words I knew, were unavailing,
Yet I sternly answered, no!
’Till from motives more prevailing,
Sitting down she treads my toe:
Such kind tokens to my thinking,
Most emphatically prove
That the joys that flow from drinking,
Are averse to those of love.
Farewell friends and t’other bottle,
Since I can no longer stay,
Love more learn’d than Aristotle,
Has, to move me, found the way.

Many a tale is told of wordy passages of arms between travellers and innkeepers. Dame Halders, of Norwich, was a stingy ale-wife. Upon one occasion a passing pedlar begged of her a mug of water. “You had better,” said she, “have a jug of my home-brewed.” The pedlar complied and paid for it, remarking after tasting it that it was a very satisfying tipple. “Yes,” rejoined the dame, pleased at the supposed compliment uttered in the hearing of her country customers, “it’s my own brewing—nothing but malt and hops.” “Indeed,” exclaimed the pedlar; “what!—no water?” “O yes,” cried the dame, “I forgot the water.” “No,” quickly added the pedlar, “I’m d—d if you did.”

“I say,” a wag asked of a publican, “if we were to have a Coroner’s Inquest on your beer, what verdict should we arrive at?” “Give it up,” said Boniface. “Found drowned,” was the cruel reply.

“Have you a pair of steps?” asked a customer of an ale-wife, who was notorious for giving short measure. “Yes; what do you want it for?” {193} inquired the woman. “To go down and get at this ale,” was the reply pointing to the half-filled pewter.

It is not, however, always the host or the ale-wife who is made the object of these shafts of wit; as often as not it is Boniface who assumes the character of the joker. In illustration of his jests, the following extract is taken from the _Mirror_: “About half a century ago, when it was more the fashion to drink ale at Oxford than it is at present, a humorous fellow, of punning memory, established an alehouse near the pound, and wrote over his door, ‘Ale sold by the pound.’ As his ale was as good as his jokes, the Oxonians resorted to his house in great numbers, and sometimes staid there beyond the college hours. This was made a matter of complaint to the Vice-Chancellor, who was directed to take away his licence by one of the Proctors of the University. Boniface was summoned to attend, and when he came into the Vice-Chancellor’s presence he began hawking and spitting about the room; this the Chancellor observed, and asked what he meant by it. ‘Please your worship,’ said he, ‘I came here on purpose to _clear_ myself.’ The Vice-Chancellor imagined that he actually weighed his ale and sold it by the pound. ‘Is that true?’ ‘No, an’t please your worship,’ replied the wit. ‘How do you, then?’ said the Chancellor. ‘Very well, I thank you, sir,’ replied he; ‘how do you do?’ The Chancellor laughed, and said, ‘Get away for a rascal; I’ll say no more to you.’ The fellow departed, and crossing the quadrangle met the Proctor who laid the information. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘the Chancellor wants to speak to you,’ and returned with him. ‘Here, sir,’ said he when he came into the Chancellor’s presence, ‘you sent me for a _rascal_, and I’ve brought you the greatest that I know of.’”

There is a good tale told of a certain innkeeper, who, had he received the advantages of an university education, would certainly have taken high mathematical honours. To him came a traveller, who demanded a tankard of treble X. Thereupon the innkeeper, having hesitated a moment, left the tap-room, to reappear shortly afterwards with a foam-crowned pewter. The traveller tasted, and exclaimed angrily, “This is not what I ordered!” “It is,” shortly replied Boniface; and retired to avoid discussion. The traveller was a connoisseur in beer, and knew he had been given table ale. Calling the potboy, he questioned him “No, master kept no strong beer,” said the lad; “nothing more than double X.” The traveller then summoned the landlord, and the meeting was stormy. The traveller asserted, the host denied, and came off finally triumphant with, “I know I don’t keep treble X, {194} but I can make it. I just gave you half double X and t’other half single X, and if two and one don’t make three, my name’s not Boniface.”

The very grotesque figure which adorns this page represents Cornelius Caton, landlord of the “White Lion,” Richmond, about the middle of last century. Beginning life as a potboy, he rose through various stages till he became landlord of the house. He was almost a dwarf, and his whimsical character and unfailing good humour brought him much custom. The illustration is taken from a very rare print.

The portrait of an old Cumberland landlord of the hard-drinking days is drawn in the following ballad, which was written by some wandering bard, in the album kept at the “Rising Sun,” Pooley Bridge:— {195}

Will Russell was a landlord bold,
A noble wight was he,
Right fond of quips and merry cranks,
And every kind of glee.

Full five and twenty years agone,
He came to Pooley Height,
And there he kept the Rising Sun,
And drunk was every night.

No lord, nor squire, nor serving man,
In all the country round,
But lov’d to call in at the Sun,
Wherever he was bound.

To hold a crack with noble Will,
And take a cheerful cup
Of brandy, or of Penrith ale,
Or pop, right bouncing up.

But now poor Will lies sleeping here,
Without his hat or stick,
No longer rules the Rising Sun,
As he did well when quick.

Will’s honest heart could ne’er refuse
To drink with ev’ry brother:
Then let us not his name abuse—
We’ll ne’er see sic another.

But let us hope the gods above,
Right minded of his merits,
Have given him a gentle shove
Into the land of spirits.

’Tis then his talents will expand,
And make a noble figure,
In tossing off a brimming glass,
To make his belly bigger.

Adieu, brave landlord, may thy portly ghost
Be ever ready at its heavenly post;
And may thy proud posterity e’er be
Landlords at Pooley to eternity. {196}

Rather profane the last verse; but, perhaps, not more so than the epitaph on one Matilda Brown:—

Here lies the body of Matilda Brown, Who while alive was hostess of the Crown. Her son-in-law keeps on the business still, Patient, resigned to the Eternal Will.

At King’s Stanley, in Gloucestershire, is the following epitaph to another hostess, one Ann Collins:—

’Twas as she tript from cask to cask,
In at a bung-hole quickly fell,
Suffocation was her task,
She had no time to say farewell.

The ancient George Inn, Salisbury, depicted in our illustration, was in the vicinity of the Royal residence at Clarendon, and four hundred years ago was one of the best and most commodious inns in the west of England. In the records of the Corporation of the town a lease of this house is found, dated April 9th, 1473; it is made to one John Gryme, a saddler, and contains a description of the rooms of the inn, and an inventory of furniture. The house contained at that date {197} thirteen guest chambers, viz.:—The Principal Chamber, the Earl’s Chamber, the Pantry adjoining, the Oxford Chamber, the Abingdon Chamber, the Squire’s Chamber, the Lombard’s Chamber, the Garret, the George, the Clarendon, the Understent, the Fitzwaryn, and the London Chamber.

There was also the _taberna_ or wine-cellar, the Buttery, the Tap House, the Kitchen, the Hostry, and the Parlour. The furniture, of which a full inventory is appended, seems to have been of a very homely type. No difference seems to have been made between the living and the sleeping rooms; each room was supplied with beds, the relative importance of which was measured by the number of _planks_ they contained, and the only other articles of furniture were tables on tressels for dining and forms of oak and beech for the guests to sit at table. The Principal room was distinguished by the possession of a cupboard, and each room contained three beds.

Another fine old inn is the Falcon of Chester. It is notable as a good example of old half-timbered work. {198}

Malone, in his _Supplement_ to Shakspere, mentions the fact that many of our old plays were acted in the yards of Carriers’ Inns, in which, he says, “in the beginning of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, the comedians, who then first united themselves in companies, erected an occasional stage. The form of these temporary play-houses seems to be preserved in our modern theatre. The galleries are in both ranged over each other, on three sides of the building. The small rooms under the lowest of these galleries answer to our present boxes; and it is observable that these, even in theatres which were built in a subsequent period, expressly for dramatic exhibitions, still retained their old name, and are frequently called rooms by our ancient writers. The yard bears a sufficient resemblance to the pit, as at present in use. We may suppose the stage to have been raised in this area, on the fourth side, with its back to the gateway of the inn, at which the money for admission was taken. Here, in the middle of the Globe, and, I suppose, of the other public theatres in the time of Shakespeare, there was an open yard or area, where the common people stood to see the exhibition, from which circumstances they are called groundlings, and by Ben Jonson, ‘the understanding gentlemen of the ground.’”

At the beginning of the present century the Angel at Islington was a typical, old-fashioned country inn, long and low, with deep overhanging eaves, and a central yard surrounded by double galleries, open to the air and communicating with the bedrooms. Travellers approaching London from the north would frequently remain at the Angel the night, rather than venture into London by dark along a road dangerous alike from its ruts and its footpads. Persons whose business took them to Islington after dark usually waited at an avenue, which then existed on the site of John Street, until a sufficient number of them had assembled to go on in safety to their destination, whither they were escorted by an armed patrol appointed for that purpose. What a striking picture of the insecurity of life and limb in districts close to the metropolis not one hundred years ago!

A curious custom, known as the Highgate Oath, held its ground for many a long year, and has only fallen into disuse within living memory. When a traveller passed through Highgate towards London for the first time he was brought before a pair of horns at one of the taverns, and there a mock oath was administered to him, to the effect that he would never drink small beer when he could get strong, unless he liked it better; that, with a similar saving clause, he would never drink gruel when he could command turtle soup; nor make love to the maid, when {199} he could court the mistress, unless he preferred the maid; with much more to the same effect. In the old coaching days scarcely a coach passed through Highgate without some of its occupants being initiated and we may well imagine that copious streams of ale would flow to “wet” the time-honoured custom. It is to this custom that Byron makes allusion in Childe Harold:—

. . many to the steep of Highgate hie; Ask ye, Bœotian shades, the reason why? ’Tis to the worship of the solemn horn, Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery, In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, And consecrate the oath with draught and dance till morn.

The privileges belonging to a freeman of Highgate who had taken the oath are described as follows:—“If at any time you are going through Highgate, and want to rest yourself, and you see a pig lying in the ditch, you have liberty to kick her out and take her place; but if you see three lying together, you must only kick out the middle one and lie between the two others.”

The custom is said to have been originated by a club of graziers who were wont to tarry at Highgate on their way to London, and who, in order to keep their company select, would admit none to their society before he had gone through a process of initiation, which consisted of kissing between the horns, one of their oxen brought to the door for the purpose.

Interesting as are many of our old country inns and village ale-houses, and numberless the tales that might be told of the doings within their time-stained walls; “of quips and cranks and wanton wiles”; of the village feast, the village minstrelsy, the “jocund rebeck’s” sound to ears long since deaf; the song; the toast pledged by lips long since cold—interesting as all these are, it is when we come to the history of our old London taverns, fragmentary though it be, that we really find ourselves face to face with the clearest pictures of the social life and customs of the past. It is here that memories gather thickest of the

Peals of genial clamour sent From many a tavern door, With twisted quirks and happy hits, From misty men of letters; The tavern hours of mighty wits— Thine elders and thy betters.

{200}

In the history of the old London taverns may be seen the habits, the customs, and the amusements of by-gone generations of Londoners. Innumerable pictures of society, and modes of life and thought, might be gathered from among the records of these houses of entertainment. For centuries before these days of telegraphs and newspapers, it was to the tavern that men resorted to hear the latest news, to exchange ideas and to refresh their minds, as well as bodies, after the labours of the day. It was here the traveller told his tale of marvels, of “contrees and the yles that ben beyond Cathay”; it was here the stay-at-home gathered what information he possessed of lands and nations over the seas.

Space forbids us to mention more than a very few of these old London Inns. That old Tabard—what a picture of fourteenth-century life does its very name recall! The earliest mention of this typical old Southwark Inn—an inn which after seeing all the changes and chances of five centuries, fell a victim but yesterday to that modern Vandal, the improver (save the mark!)—occurs in a register of the Abbey of Hyde, near Winchester, where we find that two tenements were conveyed by William de Ludegarsale to the Abbot in 1306, the site being described as extending in length from the common ditch of Southwark eastwards, as far as the royal way towards the west. This royal way was none other than the old Roman road which connected London with Kent and the south. Stow, writing three centuries later, thus mentions the inn and its sign: “From thence towards London Bridge,” he writes, “bee many faire Innes, for receit of travellers, by these signes, the Spurre, Christopher, Bull, Queen’s Head, _Tabard_, George, Hart, King’s Head, etc. Amongst the which the most ancient is the Tabard, so called of the signe, which as wee do now terme it, is of a Jacket or sleevelesse coate whole before, open on both sides, with a square collar, winged at the shoulders; a stately garment, of old time commonly worne of noblemen and others, both at home and abroad in the warres; but then, (to wit in the warres) their Armes embroidered, or otherwise depict upon them that every man by his coate of Armes might be knowne from others: But now these Tabards are onely worne by the Heralds, and bee called their coates of Armes in service. Of the Inne of the Tabard, Geffrey Chaucer Esquire, the most famous poet of England, in commendation thereof, writeth thus:—

“Byfel, that in that sesoun, on a day
In Southwark at the Tabard as I lay,
Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage, {201}

At night was come into that hostelrie
Wel nyne and twenty in a compainye,
Of sondry folk, by aventure i-falle,
In felawship and pilgrims were thei alle,
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryden.”

Then follows an unrivalled description of typical fourteenth-century society.

The Knight,
. . . . a worthy man,
That from the tyme that he first bigan
To ryden out, he lovede chyvalrye,
Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie.
* * * * *
He was a very perfight gentil knight.”

—The Squire, whose gay dress is thus described:—
Embrowded was he, as it were a mede
Al ful of fresshe flouers, white and reede—

—The Yeoman attending him, “clad in coote and hood of greene.”

—The “Nonne, a Prioresse,” so “symple and coy,” whose “gretteste
ooth was but by seynt Loy”:—
And Frensch sche spak ful faine and fetysly,
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe
For Frensch of Parys was to hire unknowe.

—The Sporting Monk, the prototype of the Hunting Parson of more
recent days:—
An outrydere that lovede venerye;
A manly man, to ben an abbot able.
Ful many a deynte hors hadde he in stable:
* * * * *
Greyhoundes he hadde as swifte as fowel in flight;
Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare
Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare.

—The easy-going Friar, who “sweetely herde confessioun”:—
And pleasant was his absolucioun
* * * * *
He knew the tavernes well in every toun,
And everych hostiler and tappestere. {202}

—The Merchant with his forked beard and “Flaundrisch bevere hat”—The Clerk of Oxenford—The Sergeant of Law, “war and wys”—The Franklin—The Ploughman—The Cook, and every other of that goodly company—How fresh their pictures are to-day! Each touch, each tint, as clear, as bright, as though the great father of English poetry had but yesterday laid aside his pencil! And then the Host, none other than the Henry Bayley of the Tabard, who represented the borough of Southwark in Parliament in 1376, and again in 1378, how interesting it is to observe his demeanour, as depicted by Chaucer. Quite at his ease, and on an equality with his guests, he talks with them, jests with them, in person presides over the table, acts as umpire and judge of the tales they tell upon the journey, and generally behaves more like a man who entertains his friends than a landlord serving his guests; and, be it remembered, these guests were not by any means of the lowest rank of life:

A seemly man our hoste was withal, For to have ben a marshall in an hall, A large man he was with eyen steep, A fairer burgess was there none in Chepe: Bold of his speeche, and wys and well y-taught, And of manhood him lackede righte noughte.

The old Tabard was partly burnt down in the great Southwark fire in 1676, and on rebuilding the ruined portion “that ignorant landlord or tenant,” Aubrey tells us, “instead of the ancient sign of the Tabard put up the Talbot or doge.” In this condition it remained until a few years ago, when, despite the protests of the antiquarian world, despite the pages of remonstrance with which the newspapers and magazines were filled, it was pulled down, and is now replaced by a tall brick building. Had we not enough and to spare of these tall brick buildings?

At the time when Knight wrote his _History of London_, the original house was sufficiently complete for him to leave us a description of the old arched entrance to the inn-yard, the balustraded galleries on which the bedrooms opened, the gabled roofs, the panelled rooms, and last, {203} but not least, the Pilgrim’s room, which tradition said was the veritable scene of the supper on the night before the guests set out upon their world-famed pilgrimage.

John Lydgate, a Benedictine monk of Bury St. Edmunds, writing about the same time as Chaucer, mentions that Cornhill was in his time noted for its taverns, where was “wine one pint for a pennie, and bread to drink it was given free at every tavern.”

In a black-letter sheet entitled _Newes from Bartholomew Fayre_, of probably the early part of the seventeenth century, some of the most famous inns of London are thus whimsically enumerated:—

There has been great sale and utterance of wine, Besides Beer, Ale, and Hippocrass fine, In every country, region, and Nation, Chiefly at Billings-gate, at the Salutation; And Boreshead near London Stone, The Swan at Dowgate, a tavern well knowne; The Mitre in Cheap, and the Bull-head, And many like places that make noses red; The Boreshead in Old Fish Street, Three Cranes in the Vintree And now, of late, Saint Martin’s in the Sentree; The Windmill in Lothbury, the Ship at the Exchange, King’s Head in New Fish Street, where Roysters do range; The Mermaid in Cornhill, Red Lion in the Strand, Three Tuns in Newgate Market, in Old Fish Street the Swan.

Most of these hostelries, famous in their day and generation, were swept away in the Great Fire of London.

The Boar’s Head in Eastcheap, “near London stone,” was one of the oldest inns in London. It stood near the site whereon the statue to William IV. in King William Street has been erected. It was there that Prince Hal and “honest Jack Falstaff” played their wildest pranks. Carved oak figures of the two worthies stood at the door of the house until the Great Fire; and the proud inscription, “This is the chief tavern in London,” appeared upon the signboard until the house was finally pulled down in 1831, to make way for the approaches of London Bridge. In the year 1718 one James Austin, the inventor of “Persian inkpowder,” whatever that may have been, desiring to entertain his chief customers, and also, no doubt, to advertise his wonderful powder, issued invitations for a Brobdingnagian repast to be partaken of at the Boar’s Head. The feast was to consist of an enormous plum-pudding, weighing 1,000 lbs., {204} and the best piece of an ox roasted; this wonderous pudding was put to boil on Monday, May 12th, in a copper at the Red Lion Inn in Southwark, where it had to boil for fourteen days. As soon as this mighty feat of cookery was accomplished, a triumphant procession was formed, and the pudding set out on its journey, escorted by a band playing _What lumps of pudding my mother gave me_; but, alas, for the vanity of all things human! the tempting dish had not proceeded far upon its way, when the mob, goaded to madness by the savoury odour of the pudding, fell upon the escort, and, having put them to the rout, tore the pudding in pieces, and devoured it there and then.

Some years ago a great mound of rubbish in Whitechapel, supposed to be the carted remains of the City after the Great Fire, was cleared away, and the relic, of which we give a representation, was discovered. It is an oak carving, dated at the back 1568, and had a name written upon it which was found to correspond with that of the landlord of the Boar’s Head, Eastcheap, in that year.

A ballad, which assigns to each inn its particular class of customers, is introduced by Thomas Heywood into his _Rape of Lucrece_:—

The Gintry to the King’s Head,
The Nobles to the Crown,
The Knights unto the Golden Fleece,
And to the Plough the Clowne. {205}

The Churchman to the Mitre,
The Shepherd to the Star,
The Gardiner hies him to the Rose,
To the Drum the Man of War.

The Huntsman to the White Hart,
To the Ship the Merchants goe,
And you that doe the Muses love,
The sign called River Po.

The Banquer out to the World’s End,
The Fool to the Fortune hie,
Unto the Mouth the Oyster-wife,
The Fiddler to the Pie.

The taverns of the seventeenth century seem in many cases to have occupied the upper part of a house, the lower portion being devoted to some other trade. Izaak Walton’s _Complete Angler_ was to be “sold at his shopp in Fleet Street, under the King’s Head Tavern.” Bishop Earle, who wrote in the early part of that century, seems to signify that there was often a tavern above and an alehouse below. “A tavern,” he says, “is a degree or (if you will) a pair of stairs above an alehouse where men are drunk with more credit and apology. . . . Men come here to be merry, and indeed make a noise, and the music above is answered with a clinking below.”

Amongst the inns and taverns frequented by Shakspere may be mentioned the Falcon Tavern, by the Bankside, which was the place of meeting of the mighty poets and wits of the Elizabethan age—of Shakspere, Ben Jonson, Marlowe, Massinger, Ford, Beaumont, Fletcher, Drayton, Herrick, and a host of lesser names. An assemblage, indeed, unique in any country or in any age! Here took place those “wit combats,” of which Fuller speaks, between Shakspere and Ben Jonson, “which two I behold like a Spanish great galleon, and an English man-of-war; Master Jonson (like the former) was built far higher in learning; solid, but slow, in his performances. Shakspere, like the English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about, and take advantage of all winds by the quickness of his wit and invention.”

An example of the kindly passages of wit between these two great spirits has come down to us, having been preserved from the oblivion that shrouds the bulk of them by Sir Nicholas Lestrange, in his {206} _Merry Passages and Jests_. The passage, in the compiler’s own words is as follows:—“Shakspere was god-father to one of Ben Jonson’s children; and after the christening, being in a deep study, Jonson came to cheer him up, and asked him why he was so melancholy. ‘No, faith, Ben,’ (says he), ‘not I; but I have been considering a great while what should be the fittest gift for me to bestow upon my god-child; and I have resolved at last.’ ‘I prythee what?’ says he, ‘I ’faith, Ben, I’ll e’en give him a dozen good Latin spoons (_i.e._ latten, an inferior metal), and thou shalt translate them.’” Whether the Spanish great galleon could bring his guns to bear upon his nimble antagonist in this encounter is left unrecorded; but we can imagine that the great scholar would not be without a retort to a jest which was directed against his classic learning by one who had “little Latin and less Greek.”

The great poet seems to have had many god-children. Of one, Sir William Davenant, while yet a boy, the following tradition remains. The father of Sir William was host of the Crown at Oxford, and at this house Shakspere would frequently lodge on his journeys between Stratford-on-Avon and London. Malicious rumour had it that the lad was of a closer relationship than that of god-son only, and upon one occasion, on the poet’s arrival at Oxford, the boy, who was sent for to meet him, was asked by a grave master of one of the colleges whither he was going. “Home,” said the lad, “to see my god-father.” “Fie, child,” said the don, “why art thou so superfluous? Hast not thou yet learnt not to use the name of God in vain?”

The Mermaid, in Bread Street, was often the place of meeting of these convivial wits. Beaumont, then a mere lad, addressing Jonson in verse, writes:—

—What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been So nimble and so full of subtle flame, As if that everyone from whence they came Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And had resolved to live a fool the rest Of his dull life: . . . . We left an air behind us, which alone Was able to make the two next companies Right witty;—though but downright fools, mere wise.

Sir Walter Raleigh established a literary club at this house in the year, 1603. Amongst the members were Shakspere, Jonson, Beaumont Fletcher, Selden, Donne, and many scarcely less illustrious names. Herrick, in graceful lyrics, bears witness to similar sparkling gatherings of a somewhat later date, and to other houses where they were held:—

Ah, Ben! Say how, or when, Shall we thy guests, Meet at those lyric feasts Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun? Where we such clusters had, As made us nobly wild, not mad; And yet each verse of thine Out-did the meat, out-did the wine.

Ben Jonson, in inviting a friend to sup with him at the Mermaid, promises him—

A cup of pure Canary wine, Which is the Mermaid’s now, but shall be mine.

The Swan at Charing Cross, however, was the house where Jonson was always most sure of getting the best draught of his favourite liquor.

Aubrey relates that the poet was upon one occasion dining with King James, and when called upon to say grace produced the following lines:—

Our King and Queen, the Lord God blesse, The Palsgrave and the Lady Besse, And God blesse every living thing That lives and breathes and loves the King. God blesse the Councill of Estate, And Buckingham the fortunate. God blesse them all, and keep them safe, And God blesse me, and God blesse Ralph.

Whereupon “the King was mighty inquisitive to know who this Ralph was. Ben told him ’twas the drawer at the Swanne Taverne by Charing Crosse, who drew him good canarie. For this drollerie his Ma^{tie.} gave him an hundred pounds.”

The legend of St. Dunstan, who, being tempted of the devil in bodily form, took the prince of darkness by the nose, and

With redhot tongs he made him roar Till he was heard three miles or more, {208}

was commemorated on the signboard of a celebrated inn in Fleet Street, which was called “The Devil” for short. The old inn stood on the site now occupied by Child’s Bank, and it was there that the meetings of the celebrated Apollo Club were held, and rare Ben Jonson, with other kindred spirits, passed the sparkling wine and still more sparkling jest. Here over the entrance of the Apollo Chamber were inscribed the well-known lines beginning

Welcome all who lead or follow To the oracle of Apollo.

Sim Wadlow, whom Jonson dubbed “the king of skinkers,”[51] was one of the famous landlords of this house. The following epitaph on this notorious character is recorded by Camden in his _Remaines_:—

[51] Skinkers = tapsters; from the old English verb schenchen, to
pour out.

Apollo et cohors Musarum, Bacchus vini et uvarum, Ceres pro pane et cervisia, Adeste omnes cum tristitia.