CHAPTER VIII.

“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. [Illustration: A Mediæval Innkeeper.] 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} [Illustration: 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.” [Illustration: Cornelius Caton.] 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. [Illustration: The George Inn, Salisbury.] 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. [Illustration: The Falcon Inn, Chester.] 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? [Illustration: The Tabard in 1722.] 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. [Illustration: The Boar’s Head.] 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. Dii, Deæque, lamentate cuncti, Simonis Vadloe funera defuncti, Sub signo malo bene vixit, mirabile! Si ad cœlum recessit gratias Diaboli. These lines may be thus rendered:— Apollo and the Muses nine, Bacchus the god of grapes and wine, Ceres the friend of “cakes and ale,” Assembled, list to my sad tale. Gods, goddesses, lament ye all, At Simon Wadlow’s funeral, He lived right well tho’ his sign was evil, If heaven he won, ’tis thanks to ‘the Devil.’ Our illustration depicts two innkeepers, who were probably Sim Wadlow’s contemporaries. {209} During the last century The Devil Tavern was the resort of the wits and literary men of the day. Addison and Dr. Garth often dined here; and Dr. Johnson here once presided at a supper that lasted till dawn peeped in at the windows. The inn was pulled down in the year 1788. [Illustration: Innkeepers, 1641.] Nearly opposite to the Devil stood the Cock Tavern, for centuries, and until a few months ago, when it was closed for alterations, frequented by the Templars. We hope that it was not for this reason that its internal arrangements were spoken of by the Laureate as— The haunts of _hungry sinners_, Old boxes, larded with the steam Of thirty thousand dinners. This Tavern, once known as the Cock and Bottle, and subsequently as the Cock Alehouse, was a noted house in the seventeenth century. The effigy of the Cock, which until recently used to stand over the door, was reputed to have been carved by the great Grinling Gibbons. At the time of the Plague of London the following advertisement appeared in the _Intelligencer_:—“This is to certify that the Master of the Cock and Bottle, commonly called the Cock Alehouse, hath dismissed his servants, and shut up his house for this long vacation, intending (God willing) to return at Michaelmass next, so that all persons who have any accounts {210} or farthings belonging to the said house are desired to repair thither before the 8th of this instant July, and they shall receive satisfaction.” The Cock, however, seems to have soon resumed its hospitality, for we read that Pepys shortly afterwards went “by water to the Temple, and then to the Cock Alehouse, and drank, and ate a lobster, and sang, and mighty merry. So almost night, I carried Mrs. Pierce home; and then Knipp and I to the Temple again, and took boat, it being darkish, and to Foxhall, it being now night, and a bonfire burning at Lambeth for the King’s coronation day.” A waiter at this house is commemorated in the well-known lines of Will Waterproof’s Monologue:— O plump head waiter at the Cock To which I most resort, How goes the time? ’tis five o’clock, Go fetch a pint of port. The old Cock alehouse is now no more; but the sign which for two hundred years has looked down upon the bustling Fleet Street crowds, together with the “old boxes” and carved oak over-mantel, have found a resting-place at “The Temple Bar,” on the other side of the way. The Mitre was the sign of several celebrated London Taverns, the most famous of all being that situated in Mitre Court, Fleet Street, where Dr. Johnson and Goldsmith, Boswell, and other lesser lights used to meet. It was here that Boswell first made acquaintance with the great Doctor. “He agreed to meet me in the evening at the Mitre. I called on him, and we went thither at nine. We had a good supper and port wine, of which he then sometimes drank a bottle. The orthodox, High Church sound of the Mitre,—the figure and manner of the celebrated Samuel Johnson—the extraordinary power and precision of his conversation, and the pride from finding myself admitted as his companion, produced a variety of sensations and a pleasing elevation of mind beyond what I had ever experienced.” The great name of Shakspere is also connected by tradition with this house. The old Globe Tavern in Fleet Street survived down to about the beginning of the present century. It was the favourite resort of Oliver Goldsmith, who took great delight in hearing a certain “tun of a man,” who frequented the house, sing the song entitled _Nottingham Ale_, in which Bacchus himself is said to have sprung from a barrel of that famous liquor:— {211} Fair Venus, the Goddess of beauty and love, Arose from the froth that swam on the sea, Minerva leap’d out of the cranium of Jove, A coy sullen slut, as most authors agree; Bold Bacchus they tell us, the prince of good fellows, Was his natural son, but attend to my tale, For they that thus chatter mistake quite the matter, He sprang from a barrel of Nottingham Ale, Nottingham Ale, boys; Nottingham Ale; no liquor on earth is like Nottingham Ale. This song was a great favourite in the eighteenth century, and was sung to the tune of “Lilabolero.” The Crown and Anchor in the Strand was one of the most famous houses in London during the first part of the present century. A tragic story is related of how one Thomas Simpkin, the first landlord after the rebuilding of the house in 1790, on the occasion of an inaugural dinner, in leaning over a balcony to look into the street, broke the balustrade and, falling to the ground, was killed on the spot. Here were held the famous Westminster political meetings, and here the birthday of Fox was celebrated in 1794, when two thousand persons sat down to dinner. Many another tavern in this region so famous for houses of entertainment, brings back memories of the past, but space forbids us to linger over the recital. John Taylor, the Water Poet (poeta Aquaticus, as he was fond of calling himself), who was the author of many whimsical works in prose as well as verse, was a Thames waterman, and the keeper of an alehouse in Phœnix Alley, Long Acre. It is related of him that on the death of Charles I. he changed his sign, which had formerly been the Crown, into the Mourning Bush, as expressing his grief and loyalty. He was, however, soon compelled to take this sign down, and he then substituted the Poet’s Head, his own portrait, with this inscription:— There is many a head hangs for a sign; Then, gentle reader, why not mine? At the same time he issued the following poetical advertisement:— My signe was once a Crowne, but now it is Changed by a sudden metamorphosis. The Crowne was taken downe, and in the stead Is placed John Taylor’s, or the Poet’s Head. {212} A painter did my picture gratis make, And (for a signe) I hanged it for his sake. Now if my picture’s drawing can prevayle, ’Twill draw my friends to me, and I’ll draw ale. Two strings are better to a bow than one; And poeting does me small good alone. So ale alone yields but small good to me, Except it have some spice of poesie. The fruits of ale are unto drunkards such, To make ’em sweare and lye that drink too much. But my ale, being drunk with moderation, Will quench thirst and make merry recreation. My booke and signe were published for two ends, T’ invite my honest, civill, sober friends. From such as are not such I kindly pray, Till I send for ’em, let ’em keep away. From Phœnix Alley, the Globe Taverne neare The Middle of Long Acre, I dwell there. An old dodge of some of the London tavern-keepers was to hang up in a conspicuous place in the taproom, a notice to the effect that no one could have more than one glass at a sitting. The result of this notable device was the very opposite to what one might expect; it is thus quaintly told by old Decker, in his _Seven Deadly Sins, seven times pressed to death_: “Then you have another brewing called Huff’s ale, at which, because no man must have but a pot at a sitting, and so be gone, the restraint makes them more eager to come in, so that by this policie one may huffe it four or five times a day.” Last century was pre-eminently the century for Clubs, some literary some political, and some purely social, many partaking of all these characters. The October Club, which was so called on account of the quantities of October ale which the members drank, used to meet at the Bell Tavern, King Street, Westminster, and drink confusion to the Whigs. Swift was a member. “We are plagued here,” he writes to Stella, “with an October Club; that is a set of above a hundred Parliament men of the country, who drink October beer at home, and meet every evening at a tavern near the Parliament, to consult affairs and drive matters to extremes against the Whigs, to call the old Ministry to account, and get off five or six heads.” The Mug Houses, famous early in the last century, were distinguished {213} by the rows of pewter mugs placed in the window, or hung up outside as in the illustration, which is taken from the _Book of Days_. In _A Journey through England_ (1722) the original Mug-house is thus described: “But the most diverting and amusing of all is the Mug-house Club in Long Acre. They have a grave old gentleman, in his own gray hairs, now within a few months of ninety years old, who is their President, and sits in an arm’d chair some steps higher than the rest of the company, to keep the whole room in order. A harp plays all the time at the lower end of the room; and every now and then one or other of the company rises and entertains the rest with a song, and (by-the-by) some are good masters. Here is nothing drunk but ale, and every gentleman hath his separate Mug, which he chalks on the table where he sits as it is brought in; and everyone retires when he pleases as from a Coffee House. The Room is always so diverted with songs, and drinking from one table to another to one another’s healths, that there is no room for Politicks, or anything that can sow’r conversation. One must be there by seven to get Room, and after ten the Company are for the most part gone. This is a Winter’s amusement, that is agreeable enough to a Stranger for once or twice, and he is well diverted with the different Humours, when the Mugs overflow.” [Illustration: Mug House.] {214} A few years earlier, however, “Politicks” had much troubled this House and others of which it was the parent. “On King George’s accession,” says the _Mirror_, “the Tories had so much the better of the friends to the Protestant succession, that they gained the mobs on all public days to their side. This induced a set of gentlemen to establish Mug-houses in all the corners of this great city, for well affected tradesmen to meet and keep up the spirit of loylty to the Protestant succession, and to be ready, upon all tumults, to join their forces to put down the Tory mobs.” The frequenters of these houses formed themselves into Mug-house Clubs after the fashion of their prototype, and discussed their Whig sentiments— “While ale inspires and lends its kindly aid The thought perplexing labour to pursue.” Whenever Tory mobs assembled, these disorderly champions of order would sally forth and attack them with sticks and staves and divers other offensive weapons. “So many were the riots,” continues the _Mirror_, “that the police was obliged, by Act of Parliament, to put an end of this City strife, which had this good effect, that upon pulling down of the Mug-house in Salisbury Court, for which some boys were hanged on this Act, the City has not been troubled with them since.” A still earlier Club, more renowned than any for its marvellous powers of suction, was the Everlasting Club, instituted during the Parliamentary wars; it was so called because it sat night and day, one set of members relieving another. It is recorded of them early in the eighteenth century that “since their first institution they have smoked fifty tons of tobacco, drank thirty thousand butts of ale, one thousand hogsheads of red port, two hundred barrels of brandy, and _one kilderkine of small beer_. They sang old catches at all hours to encourage one another to moisten their clay, and grow immortal by drinking.” No work on the Curiosities of Ale and Beer would be complete without some notice of signboards. Their connection with taverns and alehouses is so ancient and intimate, and many of them are in themselves so exceedingly curious, that they may be said to constitute some of the chief curiosities of the subject. The history of signboards has been so exhaustively written by Mr. Larwood and Mr. Hotten that it would be superfluous, even if space did not forbid, to present to our readers anything but a slight sketch of so voluminous a subject. {215} Signboards at the present day may be said to inspire their historian with something of a melancholy feeling. A history of them is a history of a bygone art, which has long passed its zenith, which has served its purpose, and which is destined to decay more and more before the advance of modern education. Truly the glory of signboards is departed! Though one sees here and there a barber’s pole, a golden fleece, and a few other signs of divers trades, innkeepers and alehouse-keepers are the only persons who as a class keep to their old distinctive marks. Formerly, when persons who could read and write were few, every craft and occupation had its own peculiar sign, for the huge letters and notice-boards, now so common, would at that time have been of little use. There seems to be no doubt that we derived the signboard from the Romans; the old Latin proverb _Vino vendibili suspensa hedera non opus est_ finds its counterpart in the English _Good wine needs no bush_, and the common sign of the Bush is the lineal descendant of the old Roman bunch of ivy. In the excavations at Herculaneum and Pompeii many examples have been brought to light of signs appropriate to various trades: thus, a goat is the sign of a dairy; a mule driving a mill is the sign of a miller or baker; and two men carrying a large amphora of wine is the sign of the vintner, and brings to mind the well-known English sign of the _Two Jolly Brewers_ carrying a barrel of ale strung on a long pole. The ale-stake, which was a long pole either attached to the front of the house or standing in the road before the door, seems to have been the first sign in use with English ale-sellers. In early times every person who brewed ale for sale was, as has been already mentioned, compelled by law to exhibit the ale-stake as a signal to the local ale-conner that his services were required. Very early mention is to be found of these signs. In 1393 Florence North, a Chelsea ale-wife, was presented for neglecting to put up an ale-stake in front of her house. Similar allusions are to be found in many early writers. Chaucer’s Pardoner when asked to begin his tale— “It shall be donn,” quod he, “and that anoon. But first,” quod he, “here at this ale-stake, I will both drynke and byten on a cake.” The accompanying cut is taken from a manuscript of the fourteenth century. The figures are doubtless an ale-wife and a pilgrim. {216} “The ale-pole doth but signifie that there is good ale in the house where the ale-pole standeth,” writes an old author, “and will tell him that he muste go near the house and there he shall find the drinke, and not stand sucking the ale-pole in vayne.” And again:— For lyke as the jolly ale-house Is always knowen by the good _ale-stake_, So are proude jelots sone perceaved, to, By their proude folly, and wanton gate. [Illustration: An Ale-stake.] Skelton, writing of the fame of Elynour Rummynge’s “noppy ale,” alludes to the ale-pole thus:— Another brought her bedes Of jet or of cole, To offer to the _ale-pole_. [Illustration: Signboard and Bush.] In process of time it became usual for the publican to affix some further distinctive mark to his ale-stake. At first a mere bush or bunch of ivy seems to have been used, and in Scotland a wisp of straw long served the same purpose. In Chaucer’s time the bush had developed into an ale-garland of considerable size, as we are informed by the lines:— A garlond hadde he sette uhede As grete as it wer for an ale-stake. The signboard and bush shown above are taken from a print of Cheapside in 1638. {217} Porter’s _Angry Woman_ shows that a mere bush was still frequently used at that period (1599) by the passage: “I might have had a pumpe set up with as good Marche beere as this was and nere set up an ale-bush for the matter,” and the _Country Carbonadoed_ (1632) shows that the bush had not yet become specialised to the use of the wine-seller. Referring to alehouses, it is stated that “if these houses have a boxe-bush, or an old post, it is enough to show their profession, but if they be graced with a signe compleat, it is a signe of good custome.” Towards the end of the seventeenth century, the ivy-bush, the sacred emblem of Bacchus, came to denote that wine as well as ale was sold within. In _Poor Robin’s Perambulation from Saffron Walden to London_ (1678) the author mentions that— Some ale-houses upon the road I saw, And some with bushes, showing they wine did draw. The following illustrations represent an ancient road-side alehouse and a hostel by night. The former is taken from a manuscript of the early part of the fifteenth century. The latter is from an illumination in the _Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_ in the Hunterian Library at Glasgow, and is of about the same date. In one a conventional bush appears above the door; while in the other there is both bush and sign. The absence of any night attire other than night-caps—the usual custom of the period—and the number of persons sleeping in one room, are noticeable. Night-caps were no doubt very necessary in an age when glass windows were little used. [Illustration: Ancient Alehouse.] The next step in the historical development of the signboard was the addition of a carved and painted effigy of a Swan, a Cock, a Hen, or some other bird or beast. The effigy was fixed in a hoop and hung from the end of the ale-pole, and it is suggested that the term “cock-a-hoop,” signifying a rather offensively jubilant demeanour, may be traced to the attitude of Chanticleer upon the ale-house hoop. Hazlitt gives a different origin to the phrase. Quoting from Blount’s Dictionary (1681), he says: “The Cock was the tap and being taken out {218} and laid on the hoop of the vessel, they used to drink up the ale as it ran out without intermission (in Staffordshire now called stunning a barrel of ale) and then they were _cock-on-hoop_ (_i.e._, at the height of mirth and jolity).” Old Heywood seems to support the latter derivation in the lines:— He maketh havok and setteth the cock on hoope; He is so lavies, the stooke beginneth to droope. From the painted effigy to the painted signboard was an easy step, and then began the signboard’s palmy days. If mine host were a man of small imagination, he might still be content with a bush or with the arms of some local magnate, but if he were a man of fancy, his imagination, in quest of a worthy sign, might revel unrestrained through the highways and byways of history ancient and modern, political and natural. The sign was and is usually painted on a board and suspended from the front of the house, or from a sign-post set up in the street in front of the door. In country places signboard ambition went so far as to erect a kind of triumphal arch in front of the house, from the centre of which the signboard swung. [Illustration: Night Scene in a Fifteenth-century Inn.] A good example of a signboard stretching across a street may be seen in the illustration of the Black Boy Inn, Chelmsford, which is taken from a print by Ryland of the date 1770. {219} Even as early as the reign of Henry V. the eagerness of the ale-house keepers to outstrip one another in the size of their signboards had become obnoxious to the authorities. The _Liber Albus_ contains a direction to the Wardmotes of the City of London, to make inquiry whether the ale-stake of any tavern “is longer or extends further than ordinary,” and the Common Council ordained that “whereas the ale-stakes projecting in front of taverns in Chepe, and elsewhere in the said City, extend too far over the King’s highways, to the impeding of riders and others, and by reason of their excessive weight, to the great deterioration of the houses to which they are fixed,” therefore the taverners are ordered that on pain of 40s. fine they shall not have a stake, bearing a sign or leaves extending over the King’s highway, of greater length than seven feet at most. [Illustration: The BLACK BOY INN] The restriction on the length of the projecting signboards seems to have been little regarded. Charles I., in his Charter to the City of London, granted on his accession to the throne, permits the use of suspended signs, and the Charter contains no mention of any restriction {220} as to size. The nuisance caused by the extravagant size of signboards at length became very great, and in the reign of Charles II. it was ordained that “in all the streets no signboard shall hang across, but that the sign shall be fixed against the balconies or some convenient part of the side of the house.” Even this specific regulation seems to have been generally disregarded, as we learn from an account written in 1719, by Misson, a French traveller. Speaking of the signs, he says: “At London, they are commonly very large, and jut out so far, that in some narrow streets they touch one another; nay, and run across almost quite to the other side. They are generally adorned with carving and gilding; and there are several that, with the branches of iron which support them, cost above a hundred guineas. . . . . Out of London, and particularly in villages, the signs of inns are suspended in the middle of a great wooden portal, which may be looked upon as a kind of triumphal arch to the honour of Bacchus.” About the middle of last century various Acts of Parliament were passed, the result of which was that London signboards have from that time been fixed to the face of the house, and are no longer allowed to project over the street. We must go to the country districts, and best of all to one of our old cathedral towns, to see really old-fashioned signs. In some cases a signboard may still be seen hanging beneath beautifully scrolled iron work, from which in more artistic days the “ale-house painted signs” depended. Even in such a stronghold of conservative and antiquarian feeling as a cathedral city, these relics of the past are yearly becoming more and more scarce, though in those out-of-the-world places, where a change in the situation of the parochial pump must be preceded by about a proportionate amount of discussion as would attend the proposal to make a new underground railway for London, the removal of an old signboard is usually a matter causing grave public agitation. The authors of the _History of Signboards_ have given an account of the demolition of the time-honoured sign of Sir John Falstaff, which for many a generation had gladdened the hearts of the good citizens of Canterbury. However, as a matter of fact, the signboard was only removed to be repainted, and in spite of the orders of Local Boards and City Authorities, in spite of law suits and various other disagreeable attempts at persuasion, the owner of the house has persisted in maintaining in its place this fine old sign with its elaborate iron-work, and there to this day may the gallant knight be seen, with sword and buckler, ready to make instant assault on those men in buckram, or on any other foes. {221} The close connection that existed between the profession of host and the signboard, may be judged from the fact that the publican who was deprived of his licence also had his sign removed by the minions of the law. _A New Way to Pay Old Debts_ illustrates this fact in the lines— For this gross fault I here do damn thy licence, Forbidding thee ever to tap or draw; For instantly I will in mine own person Command the constables to pull down thy sign. In 1629 one Price was forbidden to open a certain house in Leadenhall Street as a tavern, “whiche house was heretofore never used for a taverne, and standeth unfitly for that purpose, being neare unto the Church and two auncient tavernes already neere unto the same in the same streete.” Price, however, persisted, and accordingly the Common Council issued orders for the closing of his doors and the taking down of his bush. Probably the most elaborate signboard that ever existed, a marvel even in the palmy days of signs, was hung before The White Hart at Scole, in Norfolk. Sir Thomas Brown mentions it in the year 1663. “About three miles further,” he says, “I came to Scoale, where there is a very handsome inne, and the noblest signnepost in England, about and upon which are carved a great many stories as of Charon and Cerberus, Actæon and Diana, and many others; the signe itself is a White Hart, which hanges downe carved in a stately wreath.” This king of signboards was built in the year 1655 by James Peck, a merchant of Norwich, and is said to have cost over £1,000. It was in existence up till the end of the last century. Goldsmith, in making some comments on the influence of signs, relates how “an alehouse keeper, near Islington, who had long lived at the sign of the French King, upon the commencement of the last war, pulled down his old sign and put up that of the Queen of Hungary. Under the influence of her red face and golden sceptre, he continued to sell ale, till she was no longer the favourite of his customers; he changed her, therefore, some time ago, for the King of Prussia, who may probably be changed in turn for the next great man that shall be set up for vulgar admiration.” An anecdote is related which illustrates the danger incurred by altering a sign. It seems that the landlord of the Magpie and Crown in Aldgate, a house famous for its ale, was minded to discard {222} the Magpie and to have his house known by the sign of the Crown only. He did so, and the results were disastrous, for the customers fancied that the Crown ale did not taste as good as that formerly sent out from the Magpie and Crown, and the custom fell off. The landlord died, and the business came into the hands of a waiter of the house, one Renton, who restored the Magpie to his old place on the signboard, and with such good effect that on his death the ex-waiter left behind him an estate worth some £600,000, chiefly the produce of the Magpie and Crown ale. Space only permits that we should mention a very few of the more curious signs in use. The Pig and Whistle is said to be a corruption of the old sign the Peg and Wassail, alluding to the peg-tankards introduced in Saxon times. The Goose and Gridiron is a whimsical variation on the Swan and Harp, which was once common, the inartistic execution of the latter sign no doubt affording the suggestion. The Tumbling Down Dick is supposed to be a derisive sign commemorating the fall of Richard Cromwell. Then Dick, being lame, rode holding the pummel, Not having the wit to get hold of the rein; But the jade did so snort at the sight of a Cromwell, That poor Dick and his kindred turn’d footmen again. The Crooked Billet is a sign for which it is difficult to suggest an explanation. It is generally represented by a rough untrimmed stick hanging before the door. Near Bridlington is one such, to which are appended the following lines:— When this comical stick grew in the wood Our ale was fresh and very good; Step in and taste, O do make haste, For if you don’t ’twill surely waste. On the other side is the verse:— When you have viewed the other side, Come read this too before you ride, And now to end we’ll let it pass; Step in, kind friends, and take a glass. The Bull and Mouth, a favourite London sign in former days, and one still to be found, is represented by a huge gaping mouth and a small black bull just within its verge. This sign dates from the time of {223} Henry VIII., and celebrates his capture of Boulogne Harbour, or Boulogne Mouth. The Beetle and Wedge at first sight seems a very strange association, but when we remember Shakspere’s line, Filip me with a three-man beetle, the matter is clear enough. The “three-man beetle” was a hammer or mallet wielded by three men and used for pile driving. The three Lubberheads is a corruption of the three Libbards’ Heads, “libbard” being a popular form of the word leopard; Falstaff is “invited to dinner at the Libbard’s Head in Lumbert Street to Master Smooth’s the silkman.” The Two Pots was the sign under which the far-famed ale-wife, Eleanor Rumyng, brewed her “noppy ale” at Leatherhead, where, according to Skelton, she made thereof fast sale, To travellers, to tinkers, To sweaters, to swinkers, And all good ale drinkers. The Stewponey Inn, between Kinver and Stourbridge, might suggest to some that the Parisian Hippophagic Society was not much of a novelty after all. It is therefore rather disappointing to find that the name is a popular version of the Stourponte Inn, so called from a bridge over the Stour hard by. The Four Alls, though probably once the sign of a house frequented by the fraternity of Cobblers, now generally presents itself in the following lines with suitable illustrations:— The Ploughman works for All, The Parson prays for All, The Soldier fights for All, And the Farmer pays for All. It seems sad to think that in some places a pessimistic Publican has added a fifth “All,” the picture representing the Prince of Darkness, rampant, and looking anything but “a gentleman,” with the grim legend writ beneath that he “takes All.” Old Pick-my-Toe would seem to be a popular perversion of the Roman fable of the faithful slave who carried his message before he stooped to remove the thorn which was all the while in his foot. The Shoe and Slap was an old sign, the “Slap” being a lady’s shoe with a loose sole. {224} A poetical landlord or a poetical customer has frequently produced verses, more or less appropriate, for a signboard. We give a selection of these effusions. At an inn at Norwich, known as the Waterman, kept by a barber, this couplet is written under the sign:— Roam not from pole to pole, but step in here, Where nought excels the shaving but the beer. At an Inn at Collins’ End, where the unfortunate King Charles, while a prisoner at Caversham, is said to have played at bowls, are these lines:— Stop, traveller, stop; in yonder peaceful glade, His favourite game the royal martyr played; Here stripped of honours, children, freedom, rank, Drank from the bowl and bowled for what he drank; Sought in a cheerful glass his cares to drown, And changed his guinea ere he lost his crown. The Robin Hood and Little John is not an uncommon sign in that part of the country which was the scene of their exploits, and where their fame still lingers. The sign is frequently accompanied with a rhyme, of which the following is a specimen:— To Gentlemen and Yeomen good, Come in and drink with Robin Hood, If Robin Hood is not at home, Come in and drink with Little John. A tale is told of how a poor author, who was once staying at the sign of the White Horse on the Old Bath Road, after partaking rather heartily of the good cheer provided, found that he could not discharge the _shot_. In recompense to his host for letting him off, he wrote beneath his signboard the lines:— My White Horse shall beat the Bear, And make the Angel fly; Shall turn the Ship quite bottom up, And drink the Three Cups dry. In consequence, it is alleged, of this facetious praise of his own house at the expense of his rivals, mine host got a good deal of their custom. On one of the windows of the same White Horse was written:— {225} His liquor’s good, his pot is just, The Landlord’s poor, and cannot trust; For he has trusted to his sorrow, So pay to-day, he’ll trust to-morrow. These lines occur on the signboard of the Waggon and Horses, Brighton:— Long have I travelled far and near, On purpose to find out good beer, And at last I’ve found it here. The couplet, written on a signboard at Chadderton, near Manchester, seems, at any rate from the outside of the Inn, to be what a logician might call a _non sequitur_:— Although the engine’s smoke be black, If you walk in I’ve ale like sack. The following doggerel inscription is said in the _Year Book_ to have been written over the door of an ale house between Sutton and Potton, in Bedfordshire:— Butte Beere, Solde Hear, by Timothy Dear. Cum. tak. a. mugg of mye. trinker. cum trink. Thin. a. ful. Kart. of mye. verry. stron. drink Harter, that. trye. a. cann. of mye. titter, cum. tatter And. wynde. hup. withe, mye. sivinty-tymes weaker, thin, water. At Creggin, Montgomeryshire, the Rodney Pillar Inn is distinguished by a double signboard, on one side of which is the following verse:— Under these trees, in sunny weather, Just try a cup of ale, however; And if in tempest, or in storm, A couple then to make you warm: But when the day is very cold. Then taste a mug a twelvemonth old. On the reverse are these lines:— Rest and regale yourself, ’tis pleasant, Enough is all the present need, That’s the due of the hardy peasant, Who toils all sorts of men to feed. {226} Then muzzle not the ox when he treads out the corn, Nor grudge honest labour its pipe and its horn. Another queer old inscription is the following:— John Uff Sells good ale and that’s enough; A mistake here, Sells foreign spirits as well as beer. At a public-house in Devonshire the landlord has painted outside his door, “Good beer sold here, but don’t take my word for it;” and at the Bell Inn, Oxford, kept by John Good, are these lines:— My name, likewise my ale, is Good, Walk in and taste my own home brew’d, For all that know John Good can tell That like my sign it bears the Bell. One more example of Boniface’s wit must conclude this notice of Signboard poesy. At a public-house in Sussex, the sign of which is the White Horse, there is painted under the figure of that animal the couplet:— To the roadsters who enter a welcome he snorts, While they fill up his quarters and empty his quarts. In addition to signboard verses, inscriptions within the alehouse are by no means uncommon. Burns, who was fond of this style of composition, inscribed these lines on the window of the Globe Tavern at Dumfries:— The grey-beard, old wisdom, may boast of his treasures, Give me with gay folly to live; I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures, But Folly has raptures to give. Dowie’s Tavern, in Libberton’s Wynd, Edinburgh, was the favourite resort of Burns, and is said by the able recorder of the _Traditions of Edinburgh_ “to have been formerly as dark and plain an old-fashioned house as any drunken lawyer of the last century could have wished to nestle in.” {227} Dowie’s was much resorted to by the Lords of Session for “Meridians,” as well as in the evening for its Edinburgh ale. The ale was Younger’s. That brewer, together with his friends, instituted a Club there, which they sportively called the “College of Doway.” Johnnie Dowie is described as having been the sleekest and kindest of landlords. Nothing could equal the benignity of his smile when he brought in a bottle of “the Ale” to a company of well-known and friendly customers. It was a perfect treat to see his formality in drawing the cork, his precision in filling the glasses, his regularity in drinking the healths of all present in the first glass (which he always did, and at every successive bottle), and then his douce civility in withdrawing. Johnnie always wore a cocked hat, and buckles at knees and shoes, as well as a crutched cane.[52] Not so polished as Burns’ verses, but perhaps more suited to the Genius loci, are the lines written up in a certain old tap-room:— He that doath upon the table sit, A pot of porter shall for-fe-it. [52] Hone’s Year Book. The following additional specimens of tap-room verse are typical of their kind, and may be said to contain the be-all and end-all of the host’s proverbial philosophy. The first is taken from an Inn at Sittingbourne, where it hangs framed and glazed over the door:— Call frequently, Drink moderately, Pay honourably, Be good company, Part friendly, Go home quietly. The second is longer, but perhaps not quite so comprehensive:— All you that bring tobacco here, Must pay for pipes as well as beer; And you that stand before the fire, I pray sit down by good desire; {228} That other folks as well as you, May see the fire and feel it too. Since man to man is so unjust, I cannot tell what man to trust: My Liquor’s good, ’tis no man’s sorrow, Pay to-day. I’ll trust to-morrow. It may not be amiss to devote a few lines to the signboard artists. The following passage in _Whimzies: or a New Cast of Characters_ (1631) gives an early example of the way in which many a village signboard has been painted. “He (a painter) bestowes his Pencile on an aged piece of decayed canvas in a sooty ale-house, when _Mother Redcap_ must be set out in her Colours. Here hee and his barmy Hostess drew both together, but not in like nature; she in _Ale_, he in _Oyle_, but her commoditie goes better downe, which he meanes to have his full share of, when his worke is done. If she aspire to the Conceite of a Signe, and desire to have her Birch-pole pulled downe, he will supply her with one.” It seems that in the last century, the palmy days of signboards, the best signs were produced by the coach-painters, who derived their skill from the custom amongst the wealthy of having their coach panels decorated with a variety of subjects. Artists of renown have lent their genius to this branch of art. Hogarth painted a sign called the Man loaded with Mischief, and this sign is still in existence in an alehouse in Oxford Street; it represents a man bearing on his back and shoulders a woman, a magpie and an ape. A similar painting may be seen before an inn on the road to Madingley, about a mile from Cambridge. Richard Wilson, R.A., painted a sign called The Loggerheads, which has given its name to a village near Mold, in North Wales. The Royal Oak, by David Cox, which is the sign of an inn at Bettws-y-Coed, is well known to all lovers of North Wales, and was a few years ago the subject of a law-suit. At Wargrave, a pretty Thames-side village near Henley, is an inn called the George and Dragon. One side of its sign was painted by Mr. G. D. Leslie, R.A., who has chosen the battle with the dragon for his subject. The other side was painted by Mr. Hodgson, A.R.A., and is a representation of St. George refreshing himself with a pot of beer after the mighty encounter. Not often, however, has the signboard been so fortunate as to obtain the attention of such masters of the limner’s art. {229} In the vast majority of cases the village sign-painter has been a person of limited ideas and but small skill, painting and re-painting the old familiar patterns. The following tale is related illustrative of this conservative bent of the sign-painter’s mind. A pious old couple, who had taken a Public wherein they hoped peacefully to end their days, determined that they would not have any of your common wordly signs, such as the Crown, the Blue Boar, and the like, but something of a quite uncommon and even of a quasi-religious nature, and after much cogitation their choice fell upon the title of the Angel and Trumpet. The village sign-painter was summoned to the conclave, and the case was solemnly opened to him. Landlord: “Well, John, me and my missis have been thinking about this sign, and we hear as you’re up to painting amost anythink.” Sign Painter (with proper professional pride): “Yes, mister, I can do you pretty well what you like; the Red Lion, and so as that.” L.: “No, John, that a’n’t quite what we wants. Me and my missis has been a-thinking as we’d like to have the Angel and Trumpet. Now, can you do it?” S. P. (doubtfully): “Well, mister, I can do un; but you’d better by half have the Red Lion; it’s a dell a thirstier sign.” L. (with decision): “No, John, we must have the Angel and Trumpet, so if you can’t do un, say so, and we must get some un as can.” S. P. (driven to bay): “All right; I’ll paint the Angel and Trumpet, but (aside) I specs it’ll be a good dell like the Red Lion.” Unfortunately the history breaks off at this point, and we are left in doubt as to the result. The troubles of the unfortunate sign-painter may be imagined; the unwilling hands striving to depict the benign features of the angel; the fierce and truculent visage of the lion making its appearance, whether the artist would or not. The unskilfulness of the signboard painter has even been considered of sufficient importance to form the subject of a Royal Proclamation. Our good Queen Bess, with that vigour of language which endeared her to the hearts of her faithful subjects, and proved her to be her father’s daughter, issued an order, “that portraits of herself, made by unskilful and common painters, should be knocked in pieces, and cast into the fire.” The reasons for this summary treatment, and also a promised remedy for the woes of her faithful subjects, thus deprived of the counterfeit presentment of her most gracious Majesty, are set forth in a proclamation shortly afterwards issued. “Forasmuch” said this weighty {230} document, “as thrugh the natural desire that all sorts of subjects and people, both noble and mean, have to procure the portrait and picture of the Queen’s Majestie, great nomber of Paynters, and some Printers, and Gravers, have already, and doe daily, attempt to make in divers manners portraictures of hir Majestie, in paynting, graving and prynting, wherein is evidently shown, that hytherto none have sufficiently expressed the naturall representation of hir Majestie’s person, favor, and grace . . . . “Therfor”—after much more to the same effect—“hir Majestie being as it were overcome with the contynuall requests of hir Nobility and Lords, whom she can not well deny, is pleased that for their contentations, some coning persons, mete therefore, shall shortly make a pourtraict of hir person or visage,” and, in short, that her loving subjects shall be enabled to take copies thereof, but in the meantime shall perpetrate no further libellous “pourtraicts,” under pains and penalties. The phrase “to grin like a Cheshire cat” is said to have originated from the well-meant but inartistic attempts of a sign-painter of that county to depict a Lion Rampant. This chapter may be appropriately concluded with one of the best examples of the alehouse catch of former days: _Bryng us in good Ale_, contained in the Ipswich Song Book (Sloane Collection of MSS.). Our readers will be better able to comprehend the verses, if they bear in mind that ys as a termination is used where we should now use es, s, se or ce. BRYNG US IN GOOD ALE. Bryng us in good ale, and bryng us in good ale, For our blyssyd lady sak, bryng us in good ale Bryng us in no browne bred, for that is mad of brane, Nor bryng us in no whyt bred, for therein is no game. But bryng us in good ale, etc. Bryng us in no befe, for ther is many bonys, But bryng us in good ale, for that goth downe at onys. And bryng us in, etc. Bryng us in no bacon, for that is passyng fate, But bryng us in good ale, and give us i-nough of that. But bryng us in, etc. {231} Bryng us in no mutton, for that is often lene, Nor bryng us in no trypes, for they be syldom clene. But bryng us in, etc. Bryng us in no eggys, for ther ar many shelles, But bryng us in good ale, and give us nothing ellys. But bryng us in, etc. Bryng us in no butter, for therin are many herys, Nor bryng us in no pygge’s flesch, for that will make us borys. But bryng us in, etc. Bryng us in no podynges, for therein is al Gode’s good, Nor bryng us in no venesen, for that is not for our blod. But bryng us in, etc. Bryng us in no capon’s flesch for that is ofte der, Nor bryng us in no doke’s flesch for thei slober in mer (mire). But bryng us in good ale, and bryng us in good ale, For our blyssyd lady sak, bryng us in good ale. [Illustration] {232} [Illustration]