Part 84
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]
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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.
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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.
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We will just glean, for two or three minutes, from as many living writers who have gone pleasantly into inns, and so conclude.
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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.”----
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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.”
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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.
[256] p. 771.
[257] p. 811.
[258] Academy of Armory.
[259] Fosbroke’s Ency. of Antiquities.
[260] Henry IV. act ii. sc. 1.
[261] The Frankelein’s prologue. Chaucer.
[262] Spenser.
[263] Fosbroke’s Ency. of Antiquities.
[264] Ibid.
[265] Letters from Edinburgh, written in the years 1774 and 1775.
[266] Fosbroke.
[267] Ibid.
[268] See the derivation of this sign in the _Every-Day Book_.
[269] Academy of Armory, b. ii. c. 9.
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~Garrick Plays.~
No. XXV.
[From “Edward the Third,” an Historical Play, Author Unknown, 1597.]
_The King, having relieved the Castle of the heroic Countess of Salisbury, besieged by the Scots, and being entertained by her, loves her._
_Edward_ (_solus_.) She is grown more fairer far since I came hither: Her voice more silver every word than other, Her wit more fluent. What a strange discourse Unfolded she of David, and his Scots! Even thus, quoth she, he spake, and then spake broad With epithets and accents of the Scot; But somewhat better than the Scot could speak: And thus, quoth she, and answer’d then herself; For who could speak like her? but she herself Breathes from the wall an angel note from heaven Of sweet defiance to her barbarous foes.-- When she would talk of peace, methinks her tongue Commanded war to prison: when of war, It waken’d Cæsar from his Roman grave, To hear war beautified by her discourse. Wisdom is foolishness, but in her tongue; Beauty a slander, but in her fair face; There is no summer, but in her chearful looks; Nor frosty winter, but in her disdain. I cannot blame the Scots that did besiege her, For she is all the treasure of our land: But call them cowards, that they ran away; Having so rich and fair a cause to stay.
_The Countess repells the King’s unlawful suit._
_Countess._ Sorry I am to see my liege so sad: What may thy subject do to drive from thee This gloomy consort, sullome Melancholy? _King._ Ah Lady! I am blunt, and cannot strew The flowers of solace in a ground of shame. Since I came hither, Countess, I am wrong’d. _Coun._ Now God forbid that any in my house Should think my sovereign wrong! thrice-gentle king Acquaint me with your cause of discontent. _King._ How near then shall I be to remedy? _Coun._ As near, my liege, as all my woman’s power, Can pawn itself to buy thy remedy. _King._ If thou speak’st true, then have I my redress. Engage thy power to redeem my joys, And I am joyful, Countess; else I die. _Coun._ I will, my liege. _King._ Swear, Countess, that thou wilt. _Coun._ By heaven I will. _King._ Then take thyself a little way aside, And tell thyself, a king doth dote on thee. Say that within thy power it doth lie To make him happy, and that thou hast sworn To give him all the joy within thy power. Do this; and tell him, when I shall be happy. _Coun._ All this is done, my thrice-dread sovereign. That power of love, that I have power to give, Thou hast, with all devout obedience. Employ me how thou wilt in proof thereof. _King._ Thou hear’st me say that I do dote on thee. _Coun._ If on my beauty, take it if thou can’st; Though little, I do prize it ten times less: If on my virtue, take it if thou can’st; For virtue’s store by giving doth augment. Be it on what it will, that I can give, And thou can’st take away, inherit it. _King._ It is thy beauty that I would enjoy. _Coun._ O were it painted, I would wipe it off, And dispossess myself to give it thee; But, sovereign, it is soulder’d to my life: Take one, and both; for, like an humble shadow, It haunts the sunshine of my summer’s life. _King._ But thou may’st lend it me to sport withal. _Coun._ As easy may my intellectual soul Be lent away, and yet my body live, As lend my body (palace to my soul) Away from her, and yet retain my soul. My body is her bower, her court, her abbey. And she an angel pure, divine, unspotted; If I should lend her house, my Lord, to thee, I kill my poor soul, and my poor soul me. _King._ Didst thou not swear to give me what I would? _Count._ I did, my liege, so what you would, I could. _King._ I wish no more of thee, than thou may’st give: Nor beg I do not, but I rather buy; That is thy love; and for that love of thine In rich exchange, I tender to thee mine. _Coun._ But that your lips were sacred, my Lord, You would profane the holy name of love. That love, you offer me, you cannot give; For Cæsar owes that tribute to his Queen. That love, you beg of me, I cannot give; For Sara owes that duty to her Lord. He, that doth clip or counterfeit your stamp, Shall die, my Lord: and shall your sacred self Commit high treason ’gainst the King of Heaven, To stamp his image in forbidden metal, Forgetting your allegiance and your oath? In violating marriage’ sacred law, You break a greater Honour than yourself. _To be a King_, is of a younger house Than _To be married_; your progenitor, Sole-reigning Adam on the universe, By God was honour’d for a married Man But not by him anointed for a King. It is a penalty to break your statutes. Tho’ not enacted with your Highness’ hand; How much more to infringe the holy act, Made by the mouth of God, seal’d with his hand I know my Sovereign, in my Husband’s love, Doth but to try the Wife of Salisbury, Whether she will hear a wanton’s tale or no: Lest being guilty therein by my stay, From that, not from my liege, I turn away.
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_King._ Whether is her beauty by her words divine Or are her words sweet chaplains to her beauty? Like as the wind doth beautify a sail, And as a sail becomes the unseen wind, So do her words her beauties, beauty words.
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_Coun._ He hath sworn me by the name of God To break a vow made in the name of God. What if I swear by this right hand of mine To cut this right hand off? the better way Were to profane the idol, than confound it.
_Flattery._
---- O thou World, great nurse of flattery, Why dost thou tip men’s tongues with golden words And poise their deeds with weight of heavy lead, That fair performance cannot follow promise? O that a man might hold the heart’s close book And choke the lavish tongue, when it doth utter The breath of falsehood, not character’d there!
_Sin, worst in High Place._
An honourable grave is more esteemed, Than the polluted closet of a king; The greater man, the greater is the thing, Be it good or bad, that he shall undertake. An unreputed mote, flying in the sun, Presents a greater substance than it is; The freshest summer’s day doth soonest taint The loathed carrion, that it seems to kiss; Deep are the blows made with a mighty axe; That sin does ten times aggravate itself, That is committed in a holy place; An evil deed done by authority Is sin, and subornation; deck an ape In tissue, and the beauty of the robe Adds but the greater scorn unto the beast; The poison shews worst in a golden cup; Dark night seems darker by the light’ning flash; Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds. And every Glory, that inclines to Sin, The shame is treble by the opposite.
C. L.
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~Poetry.~
_For the Table Book._
SONNET TO MISS KELLY,
ON HER EXCELLENT PERFORMANCE OF BLINDNESS, IN THE REVIVED OPERA OF ARTHUR AND EMMELINE.
Rare artist, who with half thy tools, or none, Canst execute with ease thy curious art, And press thy powerful’st meanings on the heart Unaided by the eye, expression’s throne! While each blind sense, intelligential grown Beyond its sphere, performs the effect of sight, Those orbs alone, wanting their proper might, All motionless and silent seem to moan The unseemly negligence of nature’s hand, That left them so forlorn. What praise is thine, O mistress of the passions!--artist fine!-- Who dost our souls against our sense command; Plucking the horror from a sightless face, Lending to blank deformity a grace.
C. LAMB.
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VOLUNTEER REMINISCENCES.
_To the Editor._
SHAM-FIGHTS AND INVASION.
Dear Sir,--Some agreeable recollections induce me to pen a few circumstances for the _Table Book_, which may kindle associations in the many who were formerly engaged in representing the “raw recruit,” and who are now playing the “old soldier” in the conflict of years. I do not travel out of the road to take the “Eleven city regiments” into my battalion, nor do I call for the aid of the “Gray’s-inn sharpshooters,” (as lawyers are,) and other gents of the “sword and sash,” who then emulated their brethren in “scarlet and blue.”--Erecting my canteen at Moorgate, I hint to other quilldrivers to extend _their_ forces when and where their memories serve. Inkshed, not bloodshed, is my only danger--my greatest failing is a propensity (I fear) to digress and enlarge, till I may not bring the numbers of my muster-roll within proper discipline. Being on my guard, however, I take the succeeding specimens from a spot filled with chapels of several persuasions, the “London Institution,” and well-built houses, with a pleasant relief of verdure in the centre for nursery maids and romping children.
_Moorfields_, alas! has no fields! Where the “Beth’lem hospital” raised its magnificent but gloomy front, with old Cibber’s statues of “Raving and Melancholy Madness” siding the centre entrance, no vestiges remain, except the church and parts of London Wall, leading from Broker-row to the Albion chapel, commonly called the Plum-cake. Who that knew the crossing from Finsbury-square to Broad-street remembers not the open-barred window at which “Mad Molly” daily appeared, singing, and talking inconsistencies of love, confinement, and starvation? Who that stood before the massive building heard not the tones of agony, and felt not deep pity for the poor reasonless creatures?
----In Moorfields, when Buonaparte threatened this country with invasion, the beat of drum and the shrillings of the fife brought corps of gentlemen volunteers into rank and file, to show how much a “nation of shopkeepers” could do. Ladies in clusters assembled here to witness the feats of their soldier-like heroes--sanctioning with their presence, and applauding with their smiles, the defenders of their domiciles.
The “Bank gentlemen,” distinguished by their long gaiters, and therefore called black-legs, went farther off and exercised before bank-hours, in the Tenter-ground beyond the Vinegar-yard.
The East India Company’s three regiments (the best soldiers next to the foot-guards) drilled in a field which lay in the way on the one side to the Rosemary Branch, (noted for a water-party or fives’ match,) and the White Lead Mills, whose windsails are removed by the steam Quixotes of the day. On the other side, skirted the once pleasant path, leading from the Shepherd and Shepherdess across the meadow either to Queen’s Head-lane, the Britannia, or the Almshouses, near the Barley Mow, Islington. The East India field is now divided into gardens and snug arbours, let to the admirers of flowers and retreats.
Lackington’s “Temple of Fame” was a temple of knowledge. This splendid place and its winding shelves of books caught the passing eye with astonishment at the success and skill of the once humble owner of a bookstall in Chiswell-street. Here Finsbury’s “child of lore and catalogue-maker” wrote a “book,” abounding with quotations from authors, and refuted his own words in after-life by publishing his “Confessions.” Lackington was, however, a man of deep judgment in his business, and no every-day observer of the manners and variations of his contemporaries.
Then, the “Artillery Company” attracted well-dressed people on Wednesday evenings, and from Finsbury-side to Bunhill-row there was a promenade of fashionables from Duke’s-place and Bevis Marks, listening to a band of music and the roar of cannon till dusk.