GENERAL HISTORY OF INNS
The mediæval hostelries, generally planned in the manner of the old
galleried inns that finally went out of fashion with the end of the
coaching age, consisting of a building enclosing a courtyard, and entered
only by a low and narrow archway, which in its turn was closed at
nightfall by strong, bolt-studded doors, are often said to owe their form
to the oriental “caravanserai,” a type of building familiar to Englishmen
taking part in the Crusades.
But it is surely not necessary to go so far afield for an origin. The
“caravanserai” was originally a type of Persian inn where caravans put up
for the night: and as security against robbers was the first need of such
a country and such times, a courtyard capable of being closed when
necessary against unwelcome visitors was clearly indicated as essential.
Persia, however, and oriental lands in general, were not the only
countries where in those dark centuries robbers, numerous and bold, or
even such undesirables as rebels against the existing order of things,
were to be reckoned with, and England had no immunity from such dangers.
In such a state of affairs, and in times when private citizens were
careful always to bolt and bar themselves in; when great lords dwelt
behind moats, drawbridges, and battlemented walls; and when even
ecclesiastic and collegiate institutions were designed with the idea that
they might ultimately have to be defended, it is quite reasonable to
suppose that innkeepers were capable of evolving a plan for themselves by
which they and their guests, and the goods of their guests, might reckon
on a degree of security.
This was the type of hostelry that, apart from the mere tavern, or
alehouse, remained for so many centuries typical of the English good-class
inns. It was at once, in a sense--to compare old times with new--the hotel
and railway-station of an age that knew neither railways nor the class of
house we style “hotel.” It was the fine flower of the hostelling business,
and to it came and went the carriers’ waggons, the early travellers riding
horseback, and, in the course of time, as the age of wonderful inventions
began to dawn, the stage and mail-coaches. Travellers of the most gentle
birth, equally with those rich merchants and clothiers who were the
greatest travellers in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, inned at
such establishments. It was at one such that Archbishop Leighton ended. He
had said, years before, that “if he must choose a place to die in, it
should be an inn, it looking like a pilgrim’s going home, to whom this
world was an inn, and who was weary of the noise and confusion of it.” He
died, that good and gentle man, at the “Bell” in Warwick Lane, in 1684.
London, once rich in hostelries of this type, has now but one. In fine, it
is not in the metropolis that the amateur of old inns of any kind would
nowadays seek with great success; although, well within the memory of most
people, it was exceptionally well furnished with them. It was neither good
taste nor good business that, in 1897, demolished the “Old Bell,” Holborn,
a pretty old-world galleried inn that maintained until the very last an
excellent trade in all branches of licensed-victualling; and would have
continued so to do had it not been that the greed for higher ground-rent
ordained the ending of it, in favour of the giant (and very vulgar)
building now occupying the spot where it stood. That may have been a
remunerative transaction for the ground-landlord; but, looking at these
commercial-minded clearances in a broader way, they are nothing less than
disastrous. If, to fill some private purses over-full, you thus callously
rebuild historic cities, their history becomes merely a matter for the
printed page, and themselves to the eye nothing but a congeries of crowded
streets where the motor-omnibuses scream and clash and stink, and citizens
hustle to get a living. History, without visible ancient buildings to
assure the sceptical modern traveller that it is not wholly lies, will
never by itself draw visitors.
Holborn, where the “Old Bell” stood, was, until quite recent years, a
pleasant threshold to the City. There stood Furnival’s Inn, that quiet
quadrangle of chambers, with the staid and respectable Wood’s Hotel. Next
door was Ridler’s Hotel, with pleasant bay-window looking upon the street,
and across the way, in Fetter Lane, remained the “White Horse” coaching
inn; very much down on its luck in its last years, but interesting to
prowling strangers enamoured of the antique and out-of-date.
The vanished interest of other corners in London might be enlarged upon,
but it is too melancholy a picture. Let us to the Borough High Street,
and, resolutely refusing to think for the moment of the many queer old
galleried inns that not so long since remained there, come to that sole
survivor, the “George.”
You would never by mere chance find the “George,” for it has no frontage
to the street, and lies along one side of a yard not at first sight very
prepossessing, and, in fact, used in these days for the unsentimental
purposes of a railway goods-receiving depot. This, however, is the old
yard once entirely in use for the business of the inn.
The “George,” as it now stands, is the successor of a pre-Reformation inn
that, formerly the “St. George,” became secularised in the time of Henry
the Eighth, when saints, even patron saints, were under a cloud. It is an
exceedingly long range of buildings, dating from the seventeenth century,
and in two distinct and different styles: a timbered, wooden-balustraded
gallery in two storeys, and a white-washed brick continuation. The long
ground-floor range of windows to the kitchen, the bar, and the
coffee-room, is, as seen in the illustration, protected from any accidents
in the manœuvring of the railway waggons by a continuous bulkhead of
sleepers driven into the ground. It is pleasing to be able to bear witness
to the thriving trade that continues to be done in this sole ancient
survivor of the old Southwark galleried inns, and to note that, however
harshly fate, as personified by rapacious landlords, has dealt with its
kind, the old-world savour of the inn is thoroughly appreciated by those
not generally thought sentimental persons, the commercial men who dine and
lunch, and the commercial travellers who sleep, here.
But, however pleasing the old survivals in brick and stone, in timber and
plaster, may be to the present generation, we seem, by the evidence left
us in the literature and printed matter of an earlier age, to have
travelled far from gross to comparatively ideal manners.
[Illustration: THE LAST OF THE OLD GALLERIED INNS OF LONDON: THE “GEORGE,”
SOUTHWARK. _Photo by T. W. Tyrrell._]
The manners common to all classes in old times would scarce commend
themselves to modern folk. We get a curious glimpse of them in one of a
number of Manuals of Foreign Conversation for the use of travellers,
published towards the close of the sixteenth century in Flanders, then a
country of great trading importance, sending forth commercial travellers
and others to many foreign lands. One of these handy books, styled, rather
formidably, _Colloquia et dictionariolum septem linguarum_, including, as
its title indicates, conversation in seven languages, was so highly
successful that seven editions of it, dating from 1589, are known. The
traveller in England, coming to his inn, is found talking on the subject
of trade and civil wars, and at length desires to retire to rest. The
conversation itself is sufficiently strange, and is made additionally
startling by the capital W’s that appear in unconventional places. “Sir,”
says the traveller, “by your leave, I am sum What euell at ease.” To which
the innkeeper replies: “Sir, if you be ill at ease, go and take your rest,
your chambre is readie. Jone, make a good fier in his chambre, and let him
lacke nothing.”
Then we have a dialogue with “Jone,” the chambermaid, in this wise:
_Traveller_: My shee frinde, is my bed made? is it good?
“Yea, Sir, it is a good feder bed, the scheetes be very cleane.”
_Traveller_: I shake as a leafe upon the tree. Warme my kerchif and bynde
my head well. Soft, you binde it to harde, bryng my pilloW and cover mee
Well: pull off my hosen and Warme my bed: draWe the curtines and pinthen
With a pin.
Where is the camber pot?
Where is the priuie?
_Chambermaid_: FolloW mee, and I Will sheW you the Way: go up streight,
you shall finde them at the right hand. If you see them not you shall
smell them Well enough. Sir, doth it please you to haue no other thing?
are you Wel?
_Traveller_: Yea, my shee frinde, put out the candell, and come nearer to
mee.
_Chambermaid_: I Wil put it out When I am out of the chamber. What is your
pleasure, are you not Well enough yet?
_Traveller_: My head lyeth to loWe, lift up a little the bolster, I can
not lie so loWe.--My shee friende, kisse me once, and I shall sleape the
better.
_Chambermaid_: Sleape, sleape, you are not sicke, seeing that you speake
of kissyng. I had rather die then to kisse a man in his bed, or in any
other place. Take your rest in God’s name, God geeue you good night and
goode rest.
_Traveller_: I thank you, fayre mayden.
In the morning we have “Communication at the oprysing,” the traveller
calling to the boy to “Drie my shirt, that I may rise.” Then, “Where is
the horse-keeper? go tell him that hee my horse leade to the river.”
Departing, our traveller does not forget the chambermaid, and asks, “Where
is ye maiden? hold my shee freend, ther is for your paines. Knave, bring
hither my horse, have you dressed him Well?” “Yea, sir,” says the knave,
“he did Wante nothing.”
Anciently people of note and position, with large acquaintance among their
own class, expected, when they travelled, to be received at the country
houses along their route, if they should so desire, and still, at the
close of the seventeenth century, and at the beginning of the eighteenth,
the custom was not unknown. Even should the master be away from home, the
hospitality of his house was not usually withheld. From these old and
discontinued customs we may, perhaps, derive that one by no means
obsolete, but rather still on the increase, of guests “tipping” the
servants of country houses.
This possibility of a traveller making use of another man’s house as his
inn was fast dying out in England in the time of Charles the Second.
Probably it had never been so abused in this country as in Scotland, where
innkeepers petitioned Parliament, complaining, in the extraordinary
language at that time obtaining in Scotland, “that the liegis travelland
in the realme quhen they cum to burrowis and throuchfairís, herbreis thame
not in hostillaries, but with their acquaintance and friendis.”
An enactment was accordingly passed in 1425, forbidding, under a penalty
of forty shillings, all travellers resorting to burgh towns to lodge with
friends or acquaintances, or in any place but the “hostillaries,” unless,
indeed, they were persons of consequence, with a great retinue, in which
case they personally might accept the hospitality of friends, provided
that their “horse and meinze” were sent to the inns.
When the custom of seeking the shelter, as a matter of course, of the
country mansion fell into disuse, so, conversely, did that of naming inns
after the local Lord of the Manor come into fashion. Then, in a manner
emblematic of the traveller’s change from the hospitality of the mansion
to that of the inn, mine host adopted the heraldic coat from the great
man’s portal, and called his house the “---- Arms.” It has been left to
modern times, times in which heraldry has long ceased to be an exact
science, to perpetrate such absurdities as the “Bricklayers’ Arms,” the
“Drovers’ Arms,” and the like, appropriated to a class of person unknown
officially to the College of Heralds.
According to Fynes Morison, who wrote in 1617, we held then, in this
country, a pre-eminence in the trade and art of innkeeping: “The world,”
he said, “affords not such inns as England hath, for as soon as a
passenger comes the servants run to him: one takes his horse, and walks
him till he be cold, then rubs him and gives him meat, but let the master
look to this point. Another gives the traveller his private chamber and
kindles his fire, the third pulls off his boots and makes them clean; then
the host or hostess visits him--if he will eat with the host--or at a
common table it will be 4_d._ and 6_d._ If a gentleman has his own
chamber, his ways are consulted, and he has music, too, if he likes.”
In short, Morison wrote of English inns just anterior to the time of
Samuel Pepys, who travelled much in his day, and tells us freely, in his
appreciative way, of the excellent appointments, the music, the good fare
and the comfortable beds he, in general, found.
But this era in which Morison wrote was a trying time for all innkeepers
and taverners. The story of it is so remarkable that it repays a lengthy
treatment.
In our own age it is customary to many otherwise just and fair-minded
people to look upon the innkeeper as a son of a Belial, a sinner who
should be kept in outer darkness and made to sit in sackcloth and ashes,
in penance for other people’s excesses. On the one side he has the
cormorants of the Inland Revenue plucking out his vitals, and generally,
if it be a “tied” house, on the other a Brewery Company, selling him the
worst liquors at the best prices, and threatening to turn him out if he
does not maintain a trade of so many barrels a month. Always, from the
earliest times, he has been the mark for satire and invective, has been
licensed, sweated, regulated, and generally put on the chain; but he
probably had never so bad a time as that he experienced in the last years
of James the First. Already innkeepers were licensed at Quarter Sessions,
but in 1616 it occurred to one Giles Mompesson, the time-serving Member of
Parliament for the rotten borough of Great Bedwin, in Wiltshire, that much
plunder could be extracted from them and used to replenish the Royal
Exchequer, then at a low ebb, if he could obtain the grant of a monopoly
of licensing inns, over-riding the old-established functions in that
direction of the magistrates.
Giles Mompesson was no altruist, or at the best a perverted one, who put
his own interpretation upon that good old maxim, “Who works for others
works for himself.” He foresaw that while such a State monopoly, under
his own control, might bring a bountiful return to the State, it must
enrich himself and those associated with him. He imparted the brilliant
idea to that dissolute royal favourite, George Villiers, Duke of
Buckingham, who succeeded in obtaining him a patent for a special
commission to grant licenses to keepers of inns and ale-houses. The patent
was issued, not without great opposition, and the licensing fees were left
to the discretion of Mompesson and his two fellow-commissioners, with the
only proviso that four-fifths of the returns were to go to the Exchequer.
Shortly afterwards Mompesson himself was knighted by the King, in order,
as Bacon wrote, “that he may better fight with the Bulls and the Bears and
the Saracen’s Heads, and such fearful creatures.” Much virtue and power,
of the magisterial sort, in a knighthood; likely, we consider, King and
commissioners, and all concerned in the issuing of this patent, to impress
and overawe poor Bung, and therefore we, James the First, most sacred
Majesty by the grace of God, do, on Newmarket Heath, say, “Rise, Sir
Giles!”
The three commissioners wielded full authority. There was no appeal from
that triumvirate, who at their will refused or granted licenses, and
charged for them what they pleased, hungering after that one-fifth. They
largely increased the number of inns, woefully oppressed honest men, wrung
heavy fines from all for merely technical and inadvertent infractions of
the licensing laws, and granted new licenses at exorbitant rates to
infamous houses that had but recently been deprived of them. During more
than four years these iniquities continued, side by side with the working
of other monopolies, granted from time to time, but at last the gathering
storm of indignation burst, in the House of Commons, in February, 1621.
That was a Parliament already working with the leaven of a Puritanism
which was presently to leaven the whole lump of English governance in a
drastic manner then little dreamt of; and it was keen to scent and to
abolish abuses.
Thus we see the House, very stern and vindictive, inquiring into the
conduct and working of the by now notorious Commission. In the result
Mompesson and his associates were found to have prosecuted 3,320
innkeepers for technical infractions of obsolete statutes, and to have
been guilty of many misdemeanours. Mompesson appealed to the mercy of the
House, but was placed under arrest by the Sergeant-at-Arms while that
assembly deliberated how it should act. Mompesson himself clearly expected
to be severely dealt with, for at the earliest moment evaded his arrest
and was off, across the Channel, where he learnt--no doubt with cynical
amusement--that he had been “banished.”
The judgment of the two Houses of Parliament was that he should be
expelled the House, and be degraded from his knighthood and conducted on
horseback along the Strand with his face to the horse’s tail. Further, he
was to be fined £10,000, and for ever held an infamous person.
Meanwhile, if Parliament failed to lay the chief offender by the heels, it
did at least succeed in putting hand upon, and detaining, one of his
equally infamous associates, himself a knight, and accordingly susceptible
of some dramatic degradation, beyond anything to be possibly wreaked upon
any common fellow. Sir Francis Mitchell, attorney-at-law, was consigned to
the Tower, and then brought forth from it to have his spurs hacked off and
thrown away, his sword broken over his head, and himself publicly called
no longer knight, but “knave.” Then to the Fleet Prison, with certainty on
the morrow of a public procession to Westminster, himself the central
object, mounted, with face to tail, on the back of the sorriest horse to
be found, and the target for all the missiles of the crowd: a prospect and
programme duly realised and carried out.
Mompesson we may easily conceive hearing of, and picturing, all these
things, in his retreat over sea, and congratulating himself on his prompt
flight. But he was, after all, treated with the most extraordinary
generosity. The same year, the fine of £10,000 was assigned by the House
to his father-in-law (which we suspect was an oblique way of remitting it)
and in 1623 he is found petitioning to be allowed to return to England. He
was allowed to return for a period of three months, on condition that it
was to be solely on his private affairs, but he was no sooner back than
he impudently began to put his old licensing patent in force again. On
August 10th he was granted an extension of three months, but overstayed
it, and was at last, February 8th, 1624, ordered to quit the country
within five days. It remains uncertain whether he complied with this, or
not, but he soon returned; not, however, to again trouble public affairs,
for he returned to Wiltshire and died there, obscurely, about 1651. He
lives in literature, in Massinger’s play, _A New Way to pay Old Debts_, as
“Sir Giles Overreach.”