IT is a pious custom in some Catholic countries to honor the memory of
saints by votive lights burnt before their pictures. The popularity of
a saint, therefore, may be known by the number of these offerings.
One, perhaps, is left to moulder in the darkness of his little chapel;
another may have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart his
effigy; while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished at the shrine
of some beatified father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge
luminary of wax, the eager zealot, his seven-branched candlestick; and
even the mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied that sufficient
light is thrown upon the deceased unless he hangs up his little lamp
of smoking oil. The consequence is, that in the eagerness to enlighten,
they are often apt to obscure; and I have occasionally seen an unlucky
saint almost smoked out of countenance by the officiousness of his
followers.
In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakespeare. Every writer
considers it his bounden duty to light up some portion of his character
or works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion. The commentator,
opulent in words, produces vast tomes of dissertations; the common herd
of editors send up mists of obscurity from their notes at the bottom of
each page; and every casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight of
eulogy or research to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke.
As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the quill, I thought
it but proper to contribute my mite of homage to the memory of the
illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, sorely puzzled in what
way I should discharge this duty. I found myself anticipated in every
attempt at a new reading; every doubtful line had been explained a dozen
different ways, and perplexed beyond the reach of elucidation; and as
to fine passages, they had all been amply praised by previous admirers;
nay, so completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with panegyric
by a great German critic that it was difficult now to find even a fault
that had not been argued into a beauty.
In this perplexity I was one morning turning over his pages when I
casually opened upon the comic scenes of Henry IV., and was, in a
moment, completely lost in the madcap revelry of the Boar’s Head Tavern.
So vividly and naturally are these scenes of humor depicted, and with
such force and consistency are the characters sustained, that they
become mingled up in the mind with the facts and personages of real
life. To few readers does it occur that these are all ideal creations
of a poet’s brain, and that, in sober truth, no such knot of merry
roisterers ever enlivened the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap.
For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusions of poetry. A hero
of fiction that never existed is just as valuable to me as a hero of
history that existed a thousand years since and, if I may be excused
such an insensibility to the common ties of human nature, I would not
give up fat Jack for half the great men of ancient chronicle. What
have the heroes of yore done for me or men like me? They have conquered
countries of which I do not enjoy an acre, or they have gained laurels
of which I do not inherit a leaf, or they have furnished examples of
hair-brained prowess, which I have neither the opportunity nor the
inclination to follow. But, old Jack Falstaff! kind Jack Falstaff! sweet
Jack Falstaff! has enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment; he has
added vast regions of wit and good-humor, in which the poorest man may
revel, and has bequeathed a never-failing inheritance of jolly laughter,
to make mankind merrier and better to the latest posterity.
A thought suddenly struck me. “I will make a pilgrimage to Eastcheap,”
said I, closing the book, “and see if the old Boar’s Head Tavern still
exists. Who knows but I may light upon some legendary traces of Dame
Quickly and her guests? At any rate, there will be a kindred pleasure in
treading the halls once vocal with their mirth to that the toper enjoys
in smelling to the empty cask, once filled with generous wine.”
The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execution. I forbear to
treat of the various adventures and wonders I encountered in my travels;
of the haunted regions of Cock Lane; of the faded glories of Little
Britain and the parts adjacent; what perils I ran in Cateaton Street
and Old Jewry; of the renowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, the
pride and wonder of the city and the terror of all unlucky urchins; and
how I visited London Stone, and struck my staff upon it in imitation of
that arch-rebel Jack Cade.
Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry Eastcheap, that
ancient region of wit and wassail, where the very names of the streets
relished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane bears testimony even at the
present day. For Eastcheap, says old Stow, “was always famous for its
convivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well
baked, and other victuals: there was clattering of pewter pots, harpe,
pipe, and sawtrie.” Alas! how sadly is the scene changed since the
roaring days of Falstaff and old Stow! The madcap roisterer has given
place to the plodding tradesman; the clattering of pots and the sound of
“harpe and sawtrie,” to the din of carts and the accurst dinging of the
dustman’s bell; and no song is heard, save, haply, the strain of some
syren from Billingsgate, chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel.
I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. The only
relict of it is a boar’s head, carved in relief in stone, which formerly
served as the sign, but at present is built into the parting line of two
houses which stand on the site of the renowned old tavern.
For the history of this little abode of good fellowship I was referred
to a tallow-chandler’s widow opposite, who had been born and brought up
on the spot, and was looked up to as the indisputable chronicler of the
neighborhood. I found her seated in a little back parlor, the window
of which looked out upon a yard about eight feet square laid out as a
flower-garden, while a glass door opposite afforded a distant view of
the street, through a vista of soap and tallow candles--the two views,
which comprised, in all probability, her prospects in life and the
little world in which she had lived and moved and had her being for the
better part of a century.
To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, from London
Stone even unto the Monument, was doubtless, in her opinion, to be
acquainted with the history of the universe. Yet, with all this, she
possessed the simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal communicative
disposition which I have generally remarked in intelligent old ladies
knowing in the concerns of their neighborhood.
Her information, however, did not extend far back into antiquity. She
could throw no light upon the history of the Boar’s Head from the time
that Dame Quickly espoused the valiant Pistol until the great fire of
London when it was unfortunately burnt down. It was soon rebuilt,
and continued to flourish under the old name and sign, until a dying
landlord, struck with remorse for double scores, bad measures, and
other iniquities which are incident to the sinful race of publicans,
endeavored to make his peace with Heaven by bequeathing the tavern to
St. Michael’s Church, Crooked Lane, toward the supporting of a chaplain.
For some time the vestry meetings were regularly held there, but it
was observed that the old Boar never held up his head under church
government. He gradually declined, and finally gave his last gasp about
thirty years since. The tavern was then turned into shops; but she
informed me that a picture of it was still preserved in St. Michael’s
Church, which stood just in the rear. To get a sight of this picture
was now my determination; so, having informed myself of the abode of
the sexton, I took my leave of the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, my
visit having doubtless raised greatly her opinion of her legendary lore
and furnished an important incident in the history of her life.
It cost me some difficulty and much curious inquiry to ferret out the
humble hanger-on to the church. I had to explore Crooked Lane and divers
little alleys and elbows and dark passages with which this old city is
perforated like an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers.
At length I traced him to a corner of a small court surrounded by lofty
houses, where the inhabitants enjoy about as much of the face of heaven
as a community of frogs at the bottom of a well.
The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bowing, lowly habit,
yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his eye, and if encouraged, would
now and then hazard a small pleasantry, such as a man of his low estate
might venture to make in the company of high churchwardens and other
mighty men of the earth. I found him in company with the deputy
organist, seated apart, like Milton’s angels, discoursing, no doubt,
on high doctrinal points, and settling the affairs of the church over a
friendly pot of ale; for the lower classes of English seldom deliberate
on any weighty matter without the assistance of a cool tankard to clear
their understandings. I arrived at the moment when they had finished
their ale and their argument, and were about to repair to the church
to put it in order; so, having made known my wishes, I received their
gracious permission to accompany them.
The church of St. Michael’s, Crooked Lane, standing a short distance
from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many fishmongers
of renown; and as every profession has its galaxy of glory and
its constellation of great men, I presume the monument of a mighty
fishmonger of the olden time is regarded with as much reverence by
succeeding generations of the craft, as poets feel on contemplating the
tomb of Virgil or soldiers the monument of a Marlborough or Turenne.
I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious men, to
observe that St. Michael’s, Crooked Lane, contains also the ashes of
that doughty champion, William Walworth, Knight, who so manfully clove
down the sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield--a hero worthy of
honorable blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on record famous for
deeds of arms, the sovereigns of Cockney being generally renowned as the
most pacific of all potentates.*
* The following was the ancient inscription on the monument
of this worthy, which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great
conflagration.
Hereunder lyth a man of Fame,
William Walworth callyd by name:
Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here,
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere;
Who, with courage stout and manly myght,
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard’s sight.
For which act done, and trew entent,
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent
And gave him armes, as here you see,
To declare his fact and chivaldrie.
He left this lyff the yere of our God
Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd.
An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the
venerable Stow. “Whereas,” saith he, “it hath been far spread abroad by
vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William
Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not Wat
Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this rash-conceived doubt by such
testimony as I find in ancient and good records. The principal leaders,
or captains, of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man; the
second was John, or Jack, Straw, etc., etc.”--STOW’S London.
Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately under the back
window of what was once the Boar’s Head, stands the tombstone of Robert
Preston, whilom drawer at the tavern. It is now nearly a century since
this trusty drawer of good liquor closed his bustling career and was
thus quietly deposited within call of his customers. As I was clearing
away the weeds from his epitaph the little sexton drew me on one side
with a mysterious air, and informed me in a low voice that once upon
a time, on a dark wintry night, when the wind was unruly, howling, and
whistling, banging about doors and windows, and twirling weathercocks,
so that the living were frightened out of their beds, and even the dead
could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of honest Preston,
which happened to be airing itself in the churchyard, was attracted
by the well-known call of “Waiter!” from the Boar’s Head, and made its
sudden appearance in the midst of a roaring club, just as the parish
clerk was singing a stave from the “mirre garland of Captain Death;” to
the discomfiture of sundry train-band captains and the conversion of an
infidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, and
was never known to twist the truth afterwards, except in the way of
business.
I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself for the
authenticity of this anecdote, though it is well known that the
churchyards and by-corners of this old metropolis are very much infested
with perturbed spirits; and every one must have heard of the Cock Lane
ghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia in the Tower which has
frightened so many bold sentinels almost out of their wits.
Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have been a worthy
successor to the nimbletongued Francis, who attended upon the revels of
Prince Hal; to have been equally prompt with his “Anon, anon, sir;”
and to have transcended his predecessor in honesty; for Falstaff, the
veracity of whose taste no man will venture to impeach, flatly accuses
Francis of putting lime in his sack, whereas honest Preston’s epitaph
lands him for the sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of his wine,
and the fairness of his measure.* The worthy dignitaries of the church,
however, did not appear much captivated by the sober virtues of the
tapster; the deputy organist, who had a moist look out of the eye, made
some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought up among
full hogsheads, and the little sexton corroborated his opinion by a
significant wink and a dubious shake of the head.
* As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I
transcribe it for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It
is no doubt, the production of some choice spirit who once
frequented the Boar’s Head.
Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise,
Produced one sober son, and here he lies.
Though rear’d among full hogsheads, he defy’d
The charms of wine, and every one beside.
O reader, if to justice thou ‘rt inclined,
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind.
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots,
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults.
You that on Bacchus have the like dependence,
Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance.
Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on the history of
tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet disappointed me in the
great object of my quest, the picture of the Boar’s Head Tavern. No
such painting was to be found in the church of St. Michael’s. “Marry and
amen,” said I, “here endeth my research!” So I was giving the matter
up, with the air of a baffled antiquary, when my friend the sexton,
perceiving me to be curious in everything relative to the old tavern,
offered to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, which had been
handed down from remote times when the parish meetings were held at the
Boar’s Head. These were deposited in the parish club-room, which had
been transferred, on the decline of the ancient establishment, to a
tavern in the neighborhood.
A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 Miles Lane,
bearing the title of The Mason’s Arms, and is kept by Master Edward
Honeyball, the “bully-rock” of the establishment. It is one of those
little taverns which abound in the heart of the city and form the centre
of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. We entered the barroom,
which was narrow and darkling, for in these close lanes but few rays of
reflected light are enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, whose
broad day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room was partitioned
into boxes, each containing a table spread with a clean white cloth,
ready for dinner. This showed that the guests were of the good old
stamp, and divided their day equally, for it was but just one o’clock.
At the lower end of the room was a clear coal fire, before which a
breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright brass candlesticks and
pewter mugs glistened along the mantelpiece, and an old fashioned clock
ticked in one corner. There was something primitive in this medley of
kitchen, parlor, and hall that carried me back to earlier times, and
pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble, but everything had that look
of order and neatness which bespeaks the superintendence of a notable
English housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might be
either fishermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the
boxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was ushered
into a little misshapen back room, having at least nine corners. It was
lighted by a sky-light, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, and
ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently appropriated
to particular customers, and I found a shabby gentleman in a red nose
and oil-cloth hat seated in one corner meditating on a half empty pot of
porter.
The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an air of profound
importance imparted to her my errand. Dame Honeyball was a likely,
plump, bustling little woman, and no bad substitute for that paragon
of hostesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted with an opportunity to
oblige, and, hurrying upstairs to the archives of her house, where
the precious vessels of the parish club were deposited, she returned,
smiling and courtesying, with them in her hands.
The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco-box of gigantic
size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked at their stated
meetings since time immemorial, and which was never suffered to be
profaned by vulgar hands, or used on common occasions, I received it
with becoming reverence, but what was my delight at beholding on
its cover the identical painting of which I was in quest! There was
displayed the outside of the Boar’s Head Tavern, and before the door was
to be seen the whole convivial group at table, in full revel, pictured
with that wonderful fidelity and force with which the portraits of
renowned generals and commodores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for
the benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake,
the cunning limner had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal and
Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs.
On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly obliterated,
recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the use of
the vestry meetings at the Boar’s Head Tavern, and that it was “repaired
and beautified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767.” Such is a
faithful description of this august and venerable relic, and I question
whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated his Roman shield, or
the Knights of the Round Table the long-sought San-greal, with more
exultation.
While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame Honeyball,
who was highly gratified by the interest it excited, put in my hands
a drinking-cup or goblet which also belonged to the vestry, and was
descended from the old Boar’s Head. It bore the inscription of having
been the gift of Francis Wythers, Knight, and was held, she told me, in
exceeding great value, being considered very “antyke.” This last opinion
was strengthened by the shabby gentleman with the red nose and oilcloth
hat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal descendant from the
variant Bardolph. He suddenly aroused from his meditation on the pot of
porter, and casting a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, “Ay, ay!
the head don’t ache now that made that there article.”
The great importance attached to this memento of ancient revelry by
modern churchwardens, at first puzzled me; but there is nothing sharpens
the apprehension so much as antiquarian research; for I immediately
perceived that this could be no other than the identical “parcel-gilt
goblet,” on which Falstaff made his loving but faithless vow to Dame
Quickly, and which would, of course, be treasured up with care among the
regalia of her domains, as a testimony of that solemn contract.*
* “Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting
in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal
fire, on Wednesday, in Whitsun-week, when the prince broke
thy head for likening his father to a singing man at
Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy
wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst
thou deny it?”--Henry IV., Part 2.
Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the goblet had been
handed down from generation to generation. She also entertained me
with many particulars concerning the worthy vestrymen who have seated
themselves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient roisterers of
Eastcheap, and, like so many commentators, utter clouds of smoke in
honor of Shakespeare. These I forbear to relate, lest my readers should
not be as curious in these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the
neighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap, believe that Falstaff and his
merry crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there are several
legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant among the oldest
frequenters of the Mason’s Arms, which they give as transmitted down
from their forefathers; and Mr. M’Kash, an Irish hair-dresser, whose
shop stands on the site of the old Boar’s Head, has several dry jokes
of Fat Jack’s, not laid down in the books, with which he makes his
customers ready to die of laughter.
I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some further inquiries, but
I found him sunk in pensive meditation. His head had declined a little
on one side; a deep sigh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach,
and, though I could not see a tear trembling in his eye, yet a moisture
was evidently stealing from a corner of his mouth. I followed the
direction of his eye through the door which stood open, and found it
fixed wistfully on the savory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping
richness before the fire.
I now called to mind that in the eagerness of my recondite
investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. My bowels
yearned with sympathy, and putting in his hand a small token of my
gratitude and goodness, I departed with a hearty benediction on him,
Dame Honeyball, and the parish club of Crooked Lane--not forgetting my
shabby, but sententious friend, in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose.
Thus have I given a “tedious brief” account of this interesting
research, for which, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, I can
only plead my inexperience in this branch of literature, so deservedly
popular at the present day. I am aware that a more skilful illustrator
of the immortal bard would have swelled the materials I have touched
upon to a good merchantable bulk, comprising the biographies of William
Walworth, Jack Straw, and Robert Preston; some notice of the eminent
fishmongers of St. Michael’s; the history of Eastcheap, great and
little; private anecdotes of Dame Honeyball and her pretty daughter,
whom I have not even mentioned; to say nothing of a damsel tending the
breast of lamb (and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a comely lass
with a neat foot and ankle);--the whole enlivened by the riots of Wat
Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of London.
All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by future commentators,
nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box, and the “parcel-gilt goblet”
which I have thus brought to light the subject of future engravings,
and almost as fruitful of voluminous dissertations and disputes as the
shield of Achilles or the far-famed Portland Vase.