Chapter IV: Index to the Engravings (2)

A very beautiful manuscript was once put into the hands of one of Dr. Aikin’s correspondents by a provincial bookseller, to whom it had been offered for publication. It consisted of two tragedies upon the subject of John Bunyan’s Holy War: they were the _composition_ of a lady, who had fitted together scraps from Shakspeare, Milton, Young’s Night Thoughts, and Erskine’s Gospel Sonnets, into the dramatic form, with no other liberty than that of occasionally altering a name. The lady Constance, for instance, was converted into lady Conscience: the whole speeches and scenes were thus introduced in a wholesale sort of cento. The ghost in Hamlet also did for a Conscience.[251]

[251] Athenæum.

* * * * *

GENTLEMEN OF THE PARISH.

Look up at the inscription on that venerable church defaced with plaster; what does it record? “_Beautified_ by Samuel Smear and Daniel Daub, churchwardens.” And so these honest gentlemen call disguising that fine, old, stone building, with a thick coat of lime and hair, or whitewash, _beautifying_ it!

What is the history of all this? Why the plain matter-of-fact is, that every parish officer thinks he has a right to make a round bill on the hamlet, during his year of power. An apothecary in office physics the poor. A glazier, first in cleaning, breaks the church-windows, and afterwards brings in a long bill for mending them. A painter repairs the commandments, puts new coats on Moses and Aaron, gilds the organ pipes, and dresses the little cherubim about the loft, as fine as vermilion, Prussian blue, and Dutch gold can make them. The late churchwardens chanced to be a silversmith and a woollen-draper; the silversmith new fashioned the communion plate, and the draper new clothed the pulpit, and put fresh curtains to the windows. All this might be done with some shadow of modesty, but to insult the good sense of every beholder with their _beautified_! Shame on them!

Dr. Burney tells of some parish officers, that they applied to Snetzler (a celebrated organ-builder) to examine their organ, and to make improvements on it--“Gentlemen,” said the honest Swiss, “your organ be wort von hondred pound, just now--well--I will spend von hondred pound upon it, and it shall then be wort fifty.”

* * * * *

_For the Table Book._

THE ANGLER.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

Das Wasser rauscht’, das Wasser schwoll, &c.

There was a gentle angler who was angling in the sea,
With heart as cool as only heart untaught of love can be;
When suddenly the water rush’d, and swell’d, and up there sprung
A humid maid of beauty’s mould--and thus to him she sung:

“Why dost thou strive so artfully to lure my brood away,
And leave them then to die beneath the sun’s all-scorching ray?
Couldst thou but tell how happy are the fish that swim below,
Thou wouldst with me, and taste of joy which earth can never know.

“Do not Sol and Diana both more lovely far appear
When they have dipp’d in Ocean’s wave their golden, silvery hair?
And is there no attraction in this heaven-expanse of blue,
Nor in thine image mirror’d in this everlasting dew?”

The water rush’d, the water swell’d, and touch’d his naked feet,
And fancy whisper’d to his heart it was a love-pledge sweet;
She sung another siren lay more ’witching than before,
Half pull’d--half plunging--down he sunk, and ne’er was heard of
more.

R. W. D.

* * * * *

CLOSING THE EYES.

_For the Table Book._

A GIPSY’S FUNERAL.

EPPING FOREST.

It was considered a mark of the strongest affection by the ancients, that a son, when his father was dying, should lean over him and receive his last gasp,

“and kiss his spirit into happy rest.”

The Jews, Greeks, and Romans, esteemed it a high privilege for the nearest relative to close the eyes of the deceased body; as in Genesis, when Jacob’s sun was setting, “_Joseph_ shall put his hands upon thine eyes.” And in another place,--“The memory of the father is preserved in _the son_.” Again, (contra) “I have _no son_ to keep my name in remembrance.” And in Homer, “Let not the _glory_ of his eyes depart, without the _tender hand_ to move it silently to peace.” Ovid says, “Ille _meos oculos_ comprimat, ille tuos.” The performing this ceremony was so valued, that to die without friends to the due observance of this affectionate and last testimony, was thought an irreparable affliction.

The sudden death of a man was attributed to Apollo; of a woman, to Diana. If any relation were present, a vessel of brass was procured, and beaten loudly in the ears of the deceased to determine the point. The ringing of bells by the Romans, and others to this day is practised. The Irish wake partakes also of this usage. When the moon was in eclipse, she was thought asleep, and bells were rung to wake her: the eclipse having past, and the moon recovered her light, faith in this noisy custom became strengthened. Euripides says, when Hyppolitus was dying, he called on his father to close his eyes, cover his face with a cloth, and put a shroud over the corpse. Cassandra, desirous of proving the Trojan cause better than that of the Greeks, eulogizes their happy condition in dying at home, where the obsequies might be performed for them by their nearest relatives. Medea tells her children she once hoped they would have performed the duty for her, but she must do it for them. If a father, or the mother died a widow, the children attended to it: if the husband died, the wife performed it; which the Greeks lamented could not be done if they died at Troy. The duty devolved on the sister if her brother died; which caused Orestes to exclaim, when he was to suffer death so far from his home--“Alas! how shall my _sister_ shroud me now?”

Last month I was gratified by observing the funereal attentions of the gipsy tribes to _Cooper_, then lying in state on a common, near Epping forest. The corpse lay in a tent clothed with white linen; candles were lighted over the body, on which forest flowers and blossoms of the season were strewn and hung in posies. Cooper’s wife, dressed in black, perceiving I did not wish to see the face of her husband, said in perfect naïveté, “Oh, sir, don’t fear to look at him, I never saw his countenance so _pleasant_ in all my life.” A wit might have construed this sentence otherwise; but too much kindness emanated from this scene of rustic association to admit of levity. Her partner was cold, and her heart beat the pulsations of widowhood. The picture would have caught an artist’s eye. The gipsy-friends and relations sat mutely in the adjoining tents; and, like Job and his comforters, absorbed their grief in the silence of the summer air and their breasts. When Cooper was put in his coffin, the same feeling of attachment pervaded the scene. A train of several pairs, suitably clothed, followed their friend to the grave, and he was buried at the neighbouring church in quiet solemnity.

In addition to this, I transcribe a notice from a MS. journal, kept by a member of my family, 1769, which confirms the custom above alluded to. “Here was just buried in the church, (Tring,) the sister of the queen of the gipsies, to whom it is designed by her husband, to erect a monument to her memory of 20_l._ price. He is going to be married to the queen (sister to the deceased.) He offered 20_l._ to the clergyman to marry him directly; but he had not been in the town a month, so could not be married till that time. When this takes place, an entertainment will be made, and 20_l._ or 30_l._ spent. Just above esquire Gore’s park these _destiny readers_ have a camp, at which place the woman died; immediately after which, the survivors took all her wearing apparel and burnt them, including silk gowns, rich laces, silver buckles, gold earrings, trinkets, &c.,--for such is their custom.”

J. R. P.

_June, 1827._

* * * * *

LITERARY INGENUITY.

Odo tenet mulum, madidam mappam tenet anna.

The above line is said, in an old book, to have “cost the inventor much foolish labour, for it is a perfect verse, and every word is the very same both backward and forward.”

* * * * *

ST. JAMES’S PARK.

’Twas June, and many a gossip wench,
Child-freighted, trod the central Mall;
I gain’d a white unpeopled bench,
And gazed upon the long canal.
Beside me soon, in motley talk,
Boys, nursemaids sat, a varying race;
At length two females cross’d the walk,
And occupied the vacant space.

In years they seem’d some forty-four,
Of dwarfish stature, vulgar mien;
A bonnet of black silk each wore,
And each a gown of bombasin;
And, while in loud and careless tones
They dwelt upon their own concerns,
Ere long I learn’d that Mrs. Jones
Was one, and one was Mrs. Burns.

They talk’d of little Jane and John,
And hoped they’d come before ’twas dark;
Then wonder’d why with pattens on
One might not walk across the park:
They call’d it far to Camden-town,
Yet hoped to reach it by and by;
And thought it strange, since flour was down,
That bread should still continue high.

They said last Monday’s heavy gales
Had done a monstrous deal of ill;
Then tried to count the iron rails
That wound up Constitution-hill;
This larum sedulous to shun,
I don’d my gloves, to march away,
When, as I gazed upon the one,
“Good heavens!” I cried, “’tis Nancy Gray.”

’Twas Nancy, whom I led along
The whiten’d and elastic floor,
Amid mirth’s merry dancing throng,
Just two and twenty years before.
Though sadly alter’d, I knew her,
While she, ’twas obvious, knew me not;
But mildly said, “Good evening, sir,”
And with her comrade left the spot.

“Is this,” I cried, in grief profound,
“The fair with whom, eclipsing all,
I traversed Ranelagh’s bright round,
Or trod the mazes of Vauxhall?
And is this all that Time can do?
Has Nature nothing else in store;
Is this of lovely twenty-two,
All that remains at forty-four?

“Could _I_ to such a helpmate cling?
Were such a wedded dowdy mine,
On yonder lamp-post would I swing,
Or plunge in yonder Serpentine!”
I left the park with eyes askance,
But, ere I enter’d Cleveland-row,
Rude Reason thus threw in her lance,
And dealt self-love a mortal blow.

“Time, at whose touch all mortals bow,
From either sex his prey secures,
His scythe, while wounding Nancy’s brow,
Can scarce have smoothly swept o’er yours;
By her you plainly were not known;
Then, while you mourn the alter’d hue
Of Nancy’s face, suspect your own
May be a _little_ alter’d too.”

_New Monthly Magazine._

* * * * *

ON CHANGE.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--We know that every thing in this world changes in the course of a few years; but what I am about to communicate to you is a change indeed.--“I’ve been roaming;” and in my city rounds I find the present residence and profession of the undernamed parties to be as follows:

ADAM is now an orange-merchant in Lower Thames-street; and a
counseller in Old-square, Lincoln’s-inn.

EVE is a stove-grate manufacturer in Ludgate-hill; and a
sheep-salesman at 41, West Smithfield.

CAIN is a builder at 22, Prince’s-row, Pimlico; and a surgeon, 154,
Whitechapel-road.

ABEL is a dealer in china at 4, Crown-street, Soho; and a glover at
153, St. John-street-road.

MOSES is a slopseller at 4, James-place, Aldgate; and a
clothes-salesman in Sparrow-corner, Minories.

AARON is a pawnbroker in Houndsditch, No. 129; and an oilman at
Aldgate.

ABRAHAM keeps a childbed-linen-warehouse at 53, Houndsditch; and is a
special pleader in Pump-court, in the Temple.

BENJAMIN is a fishmonger at 5, Duke’s-place.

MORDECAI keeps a clothes-shop near Shoreditch church.

ABSALOM is a tailor at No. 9, Bridge-road, Lambeth.

PETER is a cotton-dyer in Brick-lane.

I am, &c.,

SAM SAM’S SON.

* * * * *

~Anonymiana.~

THE JEWS-HARP.

The Jews-trump, or, as it is more generally pronounced, the Jew-trump, seems to take its name from the nation of the Jews, and is vulgarly believed to be one of their instruments of music. Dr. Littleton renders Jews-trump by _sistrum Judaicum_. But there is not any such musical instrument as this described by the authors that treat of the Jewish music. In short, this instrument is a mere boy’s plaything, and incapable of itself of being joined either with a voice or any other instrument. The present orthography seems to be a corruption of the French, _jeu-trump_, a trump to play with: and in the Belgick, or Low-Dutch, from whence come many of our toys, a _tromp_ is a rattle for children. Sometimes they will call it a _Jews-harp_; and another etymon given of it is _Jaws-harp_, because the place where it is played upon is between the jaws. It is an instrument used in St. Kilda. (Martin, p. 73.)

QUID PRO QUO.

“Give you a Rowland for an Oliver.” This is reckoned a proverb of late standing, being commonly referred to Oliver Cromwell, as if he were the Oliver here intended: but it is of greater antiquity than the protector; for it is met with in Hall’s Chronicle, in the reign of Edward IV. In short, Rolland and Oliver were two of Charlemagne’s peers. (See Ames’s Hist. of Printing, p. 47, and Ariosto.) Rolando and Orlando are the same name; Turpin calling him Roland, and Ariosto Rolando.

FATHER AND SON.

“Happy is the son whose father is gone to the devil,” is an old saying. It is not grounded on the supposition, that such a father by his iniquitous dealings must have accumulated wealth; but is a satirical hint on the times when popery prevailed here so much, that the priests and monks had engrossed the three professions of law, physic, and divinity; when, therefore, by the procurement either of the confessor, the physician, or the lawyer, a good part of the father’s effects were pretty sure to go to the church; and when, if nothing of that kind happened, these agents were certain to defame him, and adjudge that such a man must undoubtedly be damned.

LIVING WELL.

“If you would live well for a week, kill a hog; if you would live well for a month, marry; if you would live well all your life, turn priest.” This is an old proverb; but by turning priest is not barely meant becoming an ecclesiastic, but it alludes to the celibacy of the Romish clergy, and is as much as to say, do not marry at all.

COUNTRY DANCES.

The term “country dance” is a corruption of the French _contre danse_, by which they mean that which we call a country-dance, or a dance by many persons placed opposite one to another: it is not from _contrée_, but _contre_.

THE VINE.

The Romans had so much concern with the vine and its fruit, that there are more terms belonging to it, and its parts, its culture, products, and other appurtenances, than to any other tree:--

_Vitis_, the tree; _palmes_, the branch; _pampinus_, the leaf; _racemus_, a bunch of grapes; _uva_, the grape; _capreolus_, a tendril; _vindemia_, the vintage; _vinum_, wine _acinus_, the grape-stone.

POSTHUMOUS HONOUR.

Joshua Barnes, the famous Greek professor of Cambridge, was remarkable for a very extensive memory; but his judgment was not exact: and when he died, one wrote for him this

_Epitaph._

Hic jacet Joshua Barnes,
felicissimæ memoriæ,
expectans judicium.

* * * * *

THE KING’S ARMS.

When Charles II. was going home one night drunk, and leaning upon the shoulders of Sedley and Rochester, one of them asked him what he imagined his subjects would think if they could behold him in that pickle.--“Think!” said the king, “that I am my arms, supported by two beasts.”

Vol. II.--29.

Com. Kent, 13 miles from London, 3 from Bromley.--_Itinerary._]

When I designed with my friend W. a visit to the Dulwich gallery, which we did not effect, we did not foresee the consequence of diversion from our intent; and having been put out of our way, we strolled without considering “the end thereof.” Hence, our peradventure at the “Crooked Billet,” on Penge Common;[252] our loitering to sketch the “Bridge on the Road to Beckenham;”[253] the same, for the same purpose, at “the Porch of Beckenham Church-yard;”[254] the survey of “Beckenham Church;”[255] the view of its old Font in the public-house garden;[256] and the look at the hall of “Wickham Court,” and West Wickham church.[257] New and beautiful prospects opened to us from the latter village; and to the just enumerated six articles, and their engravings, respecting that part of the country, in the former volume of the _Table Book_, it is intended to add like abstracts of our further proceedings. In short, to be respectful and orderly, as one moiety of a walking committee, self-constituted and appointed, I take permission to “report progress, and ask leave to _go_ again.”

The “Crooked Billet” at Penge, and mine host of the “Swan” at West Wickham, have had visitors curious to trace the pleasant route, and remark the particulars previously described. While indulging the sight, there is another sense that craves to be satisfied; and premising that we are now penetrating further “into the bowels of the land,” it becomes a duty to acquaint followers with head-quarters. For the present, it is neither necessary nor expedient to nicely mark the road to “Keston Cross”--go which way you will it is an agreeable one. A Tunbridge or Seven-Oaks coach passes within a short half mile, and the Westerham coach within the same distance. If a delightful two hours’ lounging walk from Bromley be desired, take the turning from the Swan at Bromley to Beckenham church; go through the church-yard over a stile, keep the meadow foot-path, cross the Wickham road, and wander by hedge-row elms, as your will and the country-folk direct you, till you arrive at Hayes Common; then make for the lower or left-hand side of the common, and leaving the mill on the right, get into the cottaged lane. At a few hundred yards past the sheep-wash, formed in a little dell by the Ravensbourne, at the end of the open rise, stands “Keston Cross.”

Before reaching this place on my first visit to it, the country people had indiscriminately called it “Keston _Cross_” and “Keston _mark_;” and lacking all intelligible information from them respecting the reason for its being so named, I puzzled myself with conjectures, as to whether it was the site of a cross of memorial, a market cross, a preaching cross, or what other kind of cross. It was somewhat of disappointment to me, when, in an angle of a cross-road, instead of some ancient vestige, there appeared a commodious, respectable, and comfortable-looking house of accommodation for man and horse; and, swinging high in air, its sign, the red-cross, heraldically, a cross _gules_; its form being, on reference to old Randle Holme, “a cross _molyne_, invertant;” to describe which, on the same authority, it may be said, that “this cross much resembles the molyne, or pomette; saving in this, the cut, or sawed ends, so turn themselves inward that they appear to be escrowles rolled up. Some term it _molyne_, the ends rolled up.”[258] So much for the sign, which I take to be a forgotten memorial of some old boundary stone, or land-mark, in the form of a cross, long since removed from the spot, and perhaps after it had become a “stump-cross;” which crosses were of so ancient date, that the Christians, ignorantly supposing them to have been dedicated to idolatrous purposes, religiously destroyed them, and their ancient names were soon forgotten: “this may be the reason why so many broken crosses were called stump-crosses.”[259] The observation is scarcely a digression; for the house and sign, commonly called “Keston Cross,” or “Keston mark,” stand on a site, which, for reasons that will appear by and by, the antiquary deems sacred. The annexed representation shows the direction of the roads, and the star * in the corner the angular situation of the house, cut out of Holwood, the estate of the late Mr. Pitt, which is bounded by the Farnborough and Westerham roads, and commands from the grounds of the enclosure the finest view towards the weald of Kent in this part of the county.

| |
| | Westerham
| |
* | |
---------------+ +---------------
Farnboro and 7 Wickham and
Oakes Croydon
---------------+ +---------------
| |
| | Bromley and
| | Lewisham
| |

“Keston Cross” I call “head-quarters,” because in this house you will find yourself “at home.” You may sparkle forth to many remarkable spots in the vicinage, and then return and take your “corporal refection,” and go in and out at will; or you may sit at your ease, and do nothing but contemplate in quiet; or, in short, you may do just as you like. Of course this is said to “gentle” readers; and I presume the _Table Book_ has no others: certain it is, that ungentle persons are unwelcome visitors, and not likely to visit again at “Keston Cross.” Its occupant, Mr. S. Young--his name is beneath his sign--will not be regarded by any one, who does himself the pleasure to call at his house, as a common landlord. If you see him seated beside the door, you estimate him at least of that order one of whom, on his travels, the chamberlain at the inn at Rochester describes to Gadshill as worthy his particular notice--“a franklin in the weald of Kent, that hath three hundred marks with him in gold--one that hath abundance of charge too.”[260] You take Mr. Young for a country gentleman; and, if you company with him, may perhaps hear him tell, as many a country gentleman would--bating obsolete phrase and versification--

I lerned never rhetorike certain;
Thing that I speke it mote be bare and plain:
I slept never on the mount of Pernaso,
Ne lerned Marcus Tullius Cicero.
Colours ne know I non, withouten drede,
But swiche colours as growen in the mede,
Or elles swiche as men die with, or peint;
Colours of rhetorike ben to me queinte;
My spirit feleth not of swiche matere:
But if you lust my tale shul ye here.[261]

In brief, if you “put up” at the “Red Cross,” and invite Mr. Young’s society, you will find him

---------------a franklin faire und free,
That entertaines with comely courteous glee.[262]

The house itself is not one of your bold looking inns, that if you enter you assure yourself of paying toll at, in regard of its roystering appearance, in addition to every item in your bill; but one in which you have no objection to be “at charges,” in virtue of its cheerful, promising air. You will find these more reasonable perhaps than you expect, and you will _not_ find any article presented to you of an inferior quality. In respect therefore of its self-commendations and locality, the “Cross” at Keston is suggested as a _point d’appui_ to any who essay from town for a few hours of fresh air and comfort, and with a desire of leisurely observing scenery altogether new to most London residents.

* * * * *

The classical ancients had inns and public-houses. Nothing is a stronger proof of the size and populousness of the city of Herculaneum, which was destroyed by an eruption of Mount Vesuvius on the 24th of August, A. D. 79, than its nine hundred public-houses. A placard or inscription, discovered on the wall of a house in that ruined city, was a bill for letting one of its public-houses on lease; and hence, it appears that they had galleries at the top, and balconies, or green arbours, and baths. The dining-rooms were in the upper story. Although it was the custom of the Romans to recline at their meals, yet when they refreshed themselves at these places they sat. The landlord had a particular dress, and landladies wore a _succinct_, or tucked up dress, and brought the wine in vases for the visitors to taste. They had common drinking vessels as with us, and sometimes the flaggons were chained to posts. In the inns on the roads there were both hot and cold meats. Until the time of Nero, inns provided every kind of delicacy: that emperor restricted them to boiled vegetables. Tiberius prohibited their selling any baker’s goods.

The company frequenting the ancient public-houses were usually artificers, sailors, drunken galli, thieves, &c. Chess was played, and the abacus, or chess-board, was made oblong. Hence came the common painted post still at the doors of our own public-houses, the sign of the chequer or chequers.[263] Sir William Hamilton presented to the Antiquarian Society a view of a street in Pompeii, another Italian city destroyed by Vesuvius, which contains the sign of the chequers, from whence there can be no doubt that it was a common one among the Romans.

* * * * *

Our Saxon ancestors had public-houses where they drank very hard out of vessels of earthenware, as the country people do still.

The Anglo-Saxons had the _eala-hus_, ale-house, _win-hus_, wine-house, and _cumen-hus_, or inn. Inns, however, were by no means common houses for travellers. In the time of Edward I. lord Berkeley’s farm-houses were used for that purpose. Travellers were accustomed to inquire for hospitable persons, and even go to the king’s palaces for refreshment. John Rous, an old traveller, who mentions a celebrated inn on the Warwick road, was yet obliged to go another way for want of accommodation.[264]

* * * * *

Mr. Brand supposes, that the chequers, at this time a common sign of a public-house, was originally intended for a kind of draught-board, called “tables,” and that it showed that there that game might be played. From their colour, which was red, and the similarity to a lattice, it was corruptly called _the red_ lettuce, a word frequently used by ancient writers to signify an alehouse. He observes, that this designation of an alehouse is not altogether lost, though the original meaning of the word is, the sign being converted into a _green_ lettuce; of which an instance occurs in Brownlow-street, Holborn.

* * * * *

In “A Fine Companion,” one of Shackerly Marmion’s plays, we read of “A waterman’s widow at the sign of the Red _Lattice_ in Southwark.” Again, in “Arden of Faversham,” 1592, we have

--“his sign pulled down, and his _lattice_ born away.”

Again, in “The Miseries of Inforc’d Marriage,” 1607:

--“’tis treason to the _Red Lattice_, enemy to the signpost.”

It were needless to multiply examples of this sign beyond one in Shakspeare. Falstaff’s page, speaking of Bardolph, says, “He called me even now, my lord, through a red _lattice_, and I could see no part of his face from the window.”

A writer in the Gentleman’s Magazine for June 1793, says, “It has been related to me by a very noble personage, that in the reign of Philip and Mary the then earl of Arundel had a grant to license public-houses, and part of the armorial bearings of that noble family is _a chequered board_: wherefore the publican, to show that he had a license, put out that mark as part of his sign.” On this, Mr. Brand inquires why the publicans take but a part of the Arundel arms, and why this part rather than any other? Another writer in the Gentleman’s Magazine for September 1794, says, “I think it was the great earl Warrenne, if not, some descendant or heir near him, not beyond the time of Rufus, had an exclusive power of granting licenses to sell beer: that his agent might collect the tax more readily, the door-posts were painted in chequers; the arms of Warren then, and to this day.” We may, however, reasonably refer all these “_modern_ instances” to ancient times; and derive the publican’s sign of the chequers from the great authors of many of our present usages, the old Romans.

* * * * *

Mons. Jorevin, a French traveller, who journeyed through England in the reign of Charles II., stopped at the Stag inn, at Worcester, in the High-street, and he describes the entertainment of himself and a friend with whom he supped, so as to acquaint us somewhat with the entertainments in inns at that time. “During supper he (his friend) sent for a band of music, consisting of all sorts of instruments: among these the harp is the most esteemed by the English. According to the custom of the country the landladies sup with the strangers and passengers, and if they have daughters they are also of the company, to entertain the guests at table with pleasant conceits, where they drink as much as the men. But what is to me the most disgusting in all this is, that when one drinks the health of any person in company, the custom of the country does not permit you to drink more than half the cup, which is filled up, and presented to him or her whose health you have drank. Moreover, the supper being finished, they set on the table half a dozen pipes and a packet of tobacco for smoking, which is a general custom, as well among women as men, who think that without tobacco one cannot live in England, because, say they, “it dissipates the evil humours of the brain.” It appears from a “Character of England,” printed in 1659, “that the ladies of greatest quality suffered themselves to be treated in these taverns, and that they drank their _crowned cups_ roundly, danced after the fiddle, and exceeded the bounds of propriety in their carousals.”

* * * * *

If a description of Scottish manners, printed about fifty years ago, may be relied on, it was then a fashion with females at Edinburgh to frequent a sort of public-house in that city. The writer says: “January 15, 1775.--A few evenings ago I had the pleasure of being asked to one of these entertainments by a lady. At that time I was not acquainted with this scene of ‘high life below stairs;’ and therefore, when she mentioned the word ‘oyster-cellar,’ I imagined I must have mistaken the place of invitation: she repeated it, however, and I found it was not my business to make objections; so agreed immediately. I waited with great impatience till the hour arrived, and when the clock struck away I went, and inquired if the lady was there.--‘O yes,’ cried the woman, she has been here an hour, or more.’ The door opened, and I had the pleasure of being ushered in, not to one lady, as I expected, but to a large and brilliant company of both sexes, most of whom I had the honour of being acquainted with. The large table, round which they were seated, was covered with dishes full of oysters and pots of porter. For a long time I could not suppose that this was the only entertainment we were to have, and I sat waiting in expectation of a repast that was never to make its appearance. The table was cleared, and glasses introduced. The ladies were now asked whether they would choose brandy or rum punch? I thought this question an odd one, but I was soon informed by the gentleman who sat next me, that no wine was sold here, but that punch was quite ‘the thing;’ and a large bowl was immediately introduced. The conversation hitherto had been insipid, and at intervals: it now became general and lively. The women, who, to do them justice, are much more entertaining than their neighbours in England, discovered a great deal of vivacity and fondness for repartee. A thousand things were hazarded, and met with applause; to which the oddity of the scene gave propriety, and which could have been produced in no other place. The general ease with which they conducted themselves, the innocent freedom of their manners, and their unaffected good-nature, all conspired to make us forget that we were regaling in a cellar, and was a convincing proof that, let local customs operate as they may, a truly polite woman is every where the same. When the company were tired of conversation they began to dance reels, their favourite dance, which they performed with great agility and perseverance. One of the gentlemen, however, fell down in the most active part of it, and lamed himself; so the dance was at an end for that evening. On looking at their watches, the ladies now found it time to retire; the coaches were therefore called, and away they went, and with them all our mirth. The company were now reduced to a party of gentlemen; pipes and politics were introduced: I took my hat and wished them good night. The bill for entertaining half a dozen very fashionable women, amounted only to two shillings apiece. If you will not allow the entertainment an elegant one, you must at least confess that it was cheap.”[265]

* * * * *

It may be amusing to wander for a moment to another place of public entertainment, for the sake of a character of it two centuries ago, by bishop Earle.

THE TAVERN, 1628,

Is a degree, or (if you will) a pair of stairs above an ale-house, where men are drunk with more credit and apology. If the vintner’s nose be at the door, it is a sign sufficient, but the absence of this is supplied by the ivy-bush: the rooms are ill breathed like the drinkers that have been washed well over night, and are smelt-to fasting next morning. It is a broacher of more news than hogsheads, and more jests than news, which are sucked up here by some spungy brain, and from thence squeezed into a comedy. Men come here to make merry, but indeed make a noise; and this musick above is answered with the clinking below. The drawers are the civilest people in it, men of good bringing up; and howsoever we esteem of them, none can boast more justly of their high calling. ’Tis the best theater of natures, where they are truly acted, not played; and the business, as in the rest of the world, up and down, to wit, from the bottom of the cellar to the great chamber. A melancholy man would find here matter to work upon, to see heads as brittle as glasses, and often broken; men come hither to quarrel, and come hither to be made friends: and if, Plutarch will lend me his simile, it is even Telephus’s sword that makes wounds and cures them. It is the common consumption of the afternoon, and the murderer or maker-away of a rainy day. It is the torrid zone that scorches the face, and tobacco the gunpowder that blows it up. Much harm would be done, if the charitable vintner had not water ready for these flames. A house of sin you may call it, but not a house of darkness, for the candles are never out; and it is like those countries far in the north, where it is as clear at mid-night as at mid-day. 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 citizen’s courtesy. It is the study of sparkling wits, and a cup of canary their book, whence we leave them.

* * * * *

Bishop Earle, in his character of a “Poor Fiddler,” describes him as “in league with the tapsters for the worshipful of the inn, whom he torments next morning with his art, and has their names more perfect than their men.” Sir John Hawkins, who cites this in his History of Music, also abstracts a curious view of the customs at inns, from Fyne Moryson’s “Itinerary,” rather later in the same age:--

“As soone as a passenger comes to an inne, the seruants run to him, and one takes his horse and walkes him till he be cold, then rubs him, and giues him meate, yet I must say that they are not much to be trusted in this last point, without the eye of the master or his seruant to ouersee them. Another seruant giues the passenger his priuate chamber, and kindles his fier, the third puls of his bootes, and makes them cleane. Then the host or hostesse visits him, and if he will eate with the host, or at a common table with others, his meale will cost him sixepence, or in some places but foure pence, (yet this course is lesse honourable, and not vsed by gentlemen): but if he will eate in his chamber, he commands what meate he will according to his appetite, and as much as he thinkes fit for him and his company, yea, the kitchen is open to him, to command the meat to be dressed as he best likes; and when he sits at table, the host or hostesse will accompany him, or if they haue many guests, will at least visit him, taking it for curtesie to be bid sit downe: while he eates, if he haue company especially, he shall be offred musicke, which he may freely take or refuse, and if he be solitary, the musitians will giue him the good day with musicke in the morning. It is the custome, and no way disgracefull, to set vp part of supper for his breakefast: in the euening or in the morning after breakefast, (for the common sort vse not to dine, but ride from breakefast to supper time, yet comming early to the inne for better resting of their horses) he shall haue a reckoning in writing, and if it seeme vnreasonable, the host will satisfie him, either for the due price, or by abating part, especially if the seruant deceive him any way, which one of experience will soone find. I will now onely adde, that a gentleman and his man shall spend as much, as if he were accompanied with another gentleman and his man; and if gentlemen will in such sort ioyne together, to eate at one table, the expences will be much deminished. Lastly, a man cannot more freely command at home in his owne house, than hee may doe in his inne; and at parting, if he giue some few pence to the chamberlin and ostler, they wish him a happy iourney.”

* * * * *

Through a most diligent collector of archæological authorities, we find in the time of Elizabeth only eight-pence paid at an inn for a physician all night; and in the time of Charles II. only two-pence for a man and horse at Bristol.[266]

* * * * *

Bristol has now attained to so great wealth and prosperity, as to provide inns of importance equal perhaps to any in the kingdom. A friend, who sojourned there at the undermentioned date, hands me a printed document, which he received from his landlord, Mr. John Weeks; it is so great a curiosity, as bespeaking the opulence of that ancient city, and the spirit of its great innkeeper, that I cannot refrain from recording it.

BUSH TAVERN.

BILL OF FARE FOR CHRISTMAS, 1800

1 Bustard
Red game
Black game
1 Turtle, 120lb.
1 Land tortoise
72 Pots turtle, different prices
Vermicelli soup
British turtle
Giblet soup
Pease soup
Gravy soup
Soup Santé
Soup and bouillé
Mutton broth
Barley broth
3 Turbots
4 Cods
2 Brills
2 Pipers
12 Dories
2 Haddocks
14 Rock fish
18 Carp
12 Perch
4 Salmon
12 Plaice
17 Herrings
Sprats
122 Eels
Salt fish
78 Roach
98 Gudgeons
1 Dried salmon
_Venison_,--1 Haunch hevior
5 Haunches doe
5 Necks
10 Breasts
10 Shoulders
42 Hares
17 Pheasants
41 Partridges
87 Wild ducks
17 Wild geese
37 Teal
31 Widgeon
16 Bald coots
2 Sea pheasants
3 Mews
11 Veal burrs
1 Roasting pig
Oysters, stew’d & collop’d
Eggs
Hogs’ puddings
Ragoo’d feet and ears
Scotch’d collops
Veal cutlets
Harricoed mutton
Maintenon chops
Pork chops
Mutton chops
Rump steaks
Joint steaks
Pinbone steaks
Sausages
Hambro’ sausages
Tripe, cow heels, and knotlings
5 House lambs
_Veal_--3 Legs & loins
2 Breasts & shoulders
2 Heads
_Beef_--5 Rumps
3 Sirloins
5 Rounds
2 Pieces of 5 ribs each
7 Pinbones
Dutch & Hambro’d beef
_Mutton_--8 Haunches
8 Legs
8 Necks
11 Loins
6 Saddles
6 Chines
5 Shoulders
_Pork_--4 Legs
4 Loins
4 Chines
Sparibs
Half a porker

[COLD]

1 Boar’s head
1 Baron beef
2 Hams
4 Tongues
6 Chicken
4 Moor hens
2 Water drabs
7 Curlews
2 Bitterns
81 Woodcocks
149 Snipes
17 Wild Turkies
18 Golden plovers
1 Swan
5 Quists
2 Land rails
13 Galenas
4 Peahens
1 Peacock
1 Cuckoo
116 Pigeons
121 Larks
1 Sea magpye
127 Stares
208 Small birds
44 Turkies
8 Capons
19 Ducks
10 Geese
2 Owls
61 Chickens
4 Ducklings
11 Rabbits
3 Pork griskins
Hogs’ feet and ears
7 Collars brawn
2 Rounds beef
Collared veal
Collared beef
Collared mutton
Collared eels
Collared pig’s head
Dutch tongues
Bologna sausages
Paraguay pies
French pies
Mutton pies
Pigeon pies
Venison pasty
Sulks
430 Mince pies
13 Tarts
Jellies
Craw fish
Pickled salmon
Sturgeon
Pickled oysters
Potted partridges
Lobsters
52 Barrels Pyfleet & Colchester oysters
Milford & Tenby oysters
4 Pine apples

Could our ancestors take a peep from their graves at this bill of fare, we may conceive what would be their astonishment at so great a variety and abundance of provision for travellers at a single inn of our times; in earlier days, wayfarers were, in many places, compelled to seek accommodation from hospitable housekeepers, and knights were lodged in barns.

* * * * *

A history of inns would be curious. It is not out of the way to observe, that the old inns of the metropolis are daily undergoing alterations that will soon destroy their original character. “Courts with bedchambers, below and around the old inns, occur in the middle age, and are probably of Roman fashion; for they resemble the barracks at Tivoli.”[267] There are specimens of this inn-architecture still remaining to be observed at the Bell Savage, Ludgate-hill; the Saracen’s Head, Snow-hill; the George, and the Ram, in Smithfield; the Bull and Mouth; the Swan and two necks;[268] the Green Dragon, Bishopsgate-street, and a few others; not forgetting the Talbot inn, in the Borough, from whence Chaucer’s pilgrims set out to the shrine of St. Thomas à Becket, at Canterbury; of which there is a modern painting placed in front of one of its galleries facing the street entrance. Stow, in his time, calls it, under the name of the “Tabard,” “the most ancient” of the inns on the Surrey side of London. In Southwark, he says, “bee many faire innes for receit of travellers--amongst the which, the most ancient is the _Tabard_, so called of the signe, which as wee 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 wars; but then (to wit, in the warres,) their armes embroidered, or otherwise depict upon them, that every man by his coat of armes might bee knowne from others: but now these tabards are onely worne by the heralds, and bee called their coats of armes in service.” Stowe then quotes Chaucer in commendation of the “Inne of the Tabard:”--

It befelle in that season, on a day
In Southwerk, at the _Tabard_ as I lay
Ready to wend on my pilgrimage
To Canterbury with devout courage;
That night was come into that hostelrie
Well nine and twenty in a compagnie
Of sundry folke, by aventure yfalle
In felawsship, and pilgrimes were they alle,
That toward Canterbury wolden ride.
The chambers and stables weren wide, &c.

Chaucer, whom it pleases to Stowe to call “the most famous poet of England,” relates

------------ shortly in a clause
Th’ estat, th’ araie, the nombre, and eke the cause,
Why that assembled was this compagnie
In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrie,
That hight the _Tabard_, faste by the Bell.

In course of time the original name of the sign seems to have been lost, and its meaning forgotten. The “Tabard” is corrupted or perverted into the “Talbot” inn; and as already, through Stowe, I have shown the meaning of the Tabard, some readers perhaps may excuse me for adding, that the Talbot, which is now only a term for an armorial bearing, is figured in heraldry as a dog, a blood-hound, or hunting hound.[269]

* * * * *

After thus beating up inns and public-houses generally, we will return for a moment to “Keston Cross.” To this pleasant house there is attached a delightful little flower and fruit-garden, with paddocks, poultry-yard, outhouses, and every requisite for private or public use; all well-stocked, and, by the order wherein all are kept, bespeaking the well-ordered economy of the occupant’s mind. The stabling for his own and visitors’ horses is under the management of an ostler of long service: and it must not be forgotten, that the rooms in the house are marked by its owner’s attachment to horses and field-sports. In the common parlour, opposite the door, is a coloured print of the burial of a huntsman--the attendants in “full cry” over the grave--with verses descriptive of the ceremony. A parlour for the accommodation of private parties has an oil painting of the old duke of Bolton, capitally mounted, in the yard of his own mansion, going out, attended by his huntsman and dogs. There are other pictures in the same taste, particularly a portrait of one of Mr. Young’s horses.

The ostler at “Keston Cross” is the most remarkable of its obliging, humble servants. The poor fellow has lost an eye, and is like the “high-mettled racer” in his decline--except that he is well used. While looking about me I missed W., and found he had deemed him a picturesque subject, and that he was in the act of sketching him from behind the door of the stable-yard, while he leaned against the stable-door with his corn-sieve in his hand. I know not why the portrait should not come into a new edition of Bromley’s Catalogue, or an appendix to Granger: sure I am that many far less estimable persons figure in the Biographical History of England. As an honest man, (and if he were not he would not be in Mr. Young’s service,) I craved my friend W. to engrave him on a wood-block; I have no other excuse to offer for presenting an impression of it, than the intrinsic worth of the industrious original, and the merit of the likeness; and that apology it is hoped very few will decline.

* * * * *

Dr. Johnson derives “ostler” from the French word “hostelier,” but “hostelier” in French, now spelt “hotelier,” signifies an innkeeper, or host, not an ostler; to express the meaning of which term the French word is wholly different in spelling and pronunciation. It seems to me that “ostler” is derived from the word “hostel,” which was formerly obtained from the French, and was in common use here to signify an inn; and the innkeeper was from thence called the “hosteller.” This was at a period when the innkeeper or “hosteller” would be required by his guests to take and tend their horses, which, before the use of carriages, and when most goods were conveyed over the country on the backs of horses, would be a chief part of his employment; and hence, the “hosteller” actually became the “hostler,” or “ostler,” that is, the horse-keeper.

* * * * *

We will just glean, for two or three minutes, from as many living writers who have gone pleasantly into inns, and so conclude.

* * * * *

Washington Irving, travelling under the name of “Geoffrey Crayon, gent.” and reposing himself within a comfortable hostel at Shakspeare’s birth-place, says:--“To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of something like independence and territorial consequence, when, after a weary day’s travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world without go as it may; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of all he surveys. The arm chair is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little parlour, of some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncertainties of life; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day; and he who has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence, knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoyment. ‘Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?’ thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow chair, and cast a complacent look about the little parlour of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon.”----

* * * * *

ELIA, to illustrate the “astonishing composure” of some of the society of “friends,” tells a pleasant anecdote, which regards a custom at certain inns, and is therefore almost as fairly relatable in this place, as it is delightfully related in his volume of “Essays:”--“I was travelling,” says ELIA, “in a stage-coach with three male quakers, buttoned up in the straitest non-conformity of their sect. We stopped to bait at Andover, where a meal, partly tea apparatus, partly supper, was set before us. My friends confined themselves to the tea-table. I in my way took supper. When the landlady brought in the bill, the eldest of my companions discovered that she had charged for both meals. This was resisted. Mine hostess was very clamorous and positive. Some mild arguments were used on the part of the quakers, for which the heated mind of the good lady seemed by no means a fit recipient. The guard came in with his usual peremptory notice. The quakers pulled out their money, and formally tendered it--so much for tea--I, in humble imitation, tendering mine--for the supper which I had taken. She would not relax in her demand. So they all three quietly put up their silver, as did myself, and marched out of the room, the eldest and gravest going first, with myself closing up the rear, who thought I could not do better than follow the example of such grave and warrantable personages. We got in. The steps went up. The coach drove off. The murmurs of mine hostess, not very indistinctly or ambiguously pronounced, became after a time inaudible--and now my conscience, which the whimsical scene had for a while suspended, beginning to give some twitches, I waited, in the hope that some justification would be offered by these serious persons for the seeming injustice of their conduct. To my great surprise, not a syllable was dropped on the subject. They sate as mute as at a meeting. At length the eldest of them broke silence, by inquiring of his next neighbour, ‘Hast thee heard how indigos go at the India House?’ and the question operated as a soporific on my moral feeling as far as Exeter.”

* * * * *

Finally, from the “Indicator” we learn, that to Mr. Leigh Hunt “a tavern and coffee-house is a pleasant sight, from its sociality; not to mention the illustrious club memories of the times of Shakspeare and the Tatlers. The rural transparencies, however, which they have in their windows, with all our liking of the subject, would perhaps be better in any others; for tavern sociality is a town-thing, and should be content with town ideas. A landscape in the window makes us long to change it at once for a rural inn; to have a rosy-faced damsel attending us, instead of a sharp and serious waiter; and to catch, in the intervals of chat, the sound of a rookery instead of cookery. We confess that the commonest public-house in town is not such an eyesore to us as it is with some. It may not be very genteel, but neither is every thing that is rich. There may be a little too much drinking and roaring going on in the middle of the week; but what, in the mean time, are pride and avarice, and all the unsocial vices about? Before we object to public-houses, and above all to their Saturday evening recreations, we must alter the systems that make them a necessary comfort to the poor and laborious. Till then, in spite of the vulgar part of the polite, we shall have an esteem for the Devil and the Bag o’ Nails; and like to hear, as we go along on Saturday night, the applauding knocks on the table that follow the song of ‘Lovely Nan,’ or ‘Brave Captain Death,’ or ‘Tobacco is an Indian Weed,’ or ‘Why, Soldiers, why,’ or ‘Says Plato why should man be vain,’ or that judicious and unanswerable ditty, commencing

Now what can man more desire
Nor sitting by a sea-coal fire;
And on his knees, &c.”

[252] Vol. i. p. 670.

[253] p. 702.

[254] p. 715.

[255] p. 766.