OLD INNS
The trend of popular legislation is in the direction of the
diminishing of the number of licensed premises and the destruction of
inns. Very soon, we may suppose, the "Black Boy" and the "Red Lion"
and hosts of other old signs will have vanished, and there will be a
very large number of famous inns which have "retired from business."
Already their number is considerable. In many towns through which in
olden days the stage-coaches passed inns were almost as plentiful as
blackberries; they were needed then for the numerous passengers who
journeyed along the great roads in the coaches; they are not needed
now when people rush past the places in express trains. Hence the
order has gone forth that these superfluous houses shall cease to be
licensed premises and must submit to the removal of their signs.
Others have been so remodelled in order to provide modern comforts and
conveniences that scarce a trace of their old-fashioned appearance can
be found. Modern temperance legislators imagine that if they can only
reduce the number of inns they will reduce drunkenness and make the
English people a sober nation. This is not the place to discuss
whether the destruction of inns tends to promote temperance. We may,
perhaps, be permitted to doubt the truth of the legend, oft repeated
on temperance platforms, of the working man, returning homewards from
his toil, struggling past nineteen inns and succumbing to the syren
charms of the twentieth. We may fear lest the gathering together of
large numbers of men in a few public-houses may not increase rather
than diminish their thirst and the love of good fellowship which in
some mysterious way is stimulated by the imbibing of many pots of
beer. We may, perhaps, feel some misgiving with regard to the
temperate habits of the people, if instead of well-conducted hostels,
duly inspected by the police, the landlords of which are liable to
prosecution for improper conduct, we see arising a host of ungoverned
clubs, wherein no control is exercised over the manners of the members
and adequate supervision impossible. We cannot refuse to listen to the
opinion of certain royal commissioners who, after much sifting of
evidence, came to the conclusion that as far as the suppression of
public-houses had gone, their diminution had not lessened the
convictions for drunkenness.
But all this is beside our subject. We have only to record another
feature of vanishing England, the gradual disappearance of many of its
ancient and historic inns, and to describe some of the fortunate
survivors. Many of them are very old, and cannot long contend against
the fiery eloquence of the young temperance orator, the newly fledged
justice of the peace, or the budding member of Parliament who tries to
win votes by pulling things down.
We have, however, still some of these old hostelries left; medieval
pilgrim inns redolent of the memories of the not very pious companies
of men and women who wended their way to visit the shrines of St.
Thomas of Canterbury or Our Lady at Walsingham; historic inns wherein
some of the great events in the annals of England have occurred; inns
associated with old romances or frequented by notorious highwaymen, or
that recall the adventures of Mr. Pickwick and other heroes and
villains of Dickensian tales. It is well that we should try to depict
some of these before they altogether vanish.
There was nothing vulgar or disgraceful about an inn a century ago.
From Elizabethan times to the early part of the nineteenth century
they were frequented by most of the leading spirits of each
generation. Archbishop Leighton, who died in 1684, often used to say
to Bishop Burnet that "if he were to choose a place to die in it
should be an inn; it looked like a pilgrim's going home, to whom this
world was all as an Inn, and who was weary of the noise and confusion
of it." His desire was fulfilled. He died at the old Bell Inn in
Warwick Lane, London, an old galleried hostel which was not demolished
until 1865. Dr. Johnson, when delighting in the comfort of the
Shakespeare's Head Inn, between Worcester and Lichfield, exclaimed:
"No, sir, there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by
which so much happiness is provided as by a good tavern or inn." This
oft-quoted saying the learned Doctor uttered at the Chapel House Inn,
near King's Norton; its glory has departed; it is now a simple
country-house by the roadside. Shakespeare, who doubtless had many
opportunities of testing the comforts of the famous inns at Southwark,
makes Falstaff say: "Shall I not take mine ease at mine inn?"; and
Shenstone wrote the well-known rhymes on a window of the old Red Lion
at Henley-on-Thames:--
Whoe'er has travelled life's dull road,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome at an inn.
Fynes Morrison tells of the comforts of English inns even as early as
the beginning of the seventeenth century. In 1617 he wrote:--
"The world 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
4d. and 6d. If a gentleman has his own chamber, his ways are
consulted, and he has music, too, if he likes."
[Illustration: The Wheelwrights' Arms, Warwick]
The literature of England abounds in references to these ancient inns.
If Dr. Johnson, Addison, and Goldsmith were alive now, we should find
them chatting together at the Authors' Club, or the Savage, or the
Athenæum. There were no literary clubs in their days, and the public
parlours of the Cock Tavern or the "Cheshire Cheese" were their clubs,
wherein they were quite as happy, if not quite so luxuriously housed,
as if they had been members of a modern social institution. Who has
not sung in praise of inns? Longfellow, in his _Hyperion_, makes
Flemming say: "He who has not been at a tavern knows not what a
paradise it is. O holy tavern! O miraculous tavern! Holy, because no
carking cares are there, nor weariness, nor pain; and miraculous,
because of the spits which of themselves turned round and round." They
appealed strongly to Washington Irving, who, when recording his visit
to the shrine of Shakespeare, says: "To a homeless man, who has no
spot on this wide world which he can truly call his own, there is a
momentary feeling of something like independence and territorial
consequence, when after a weary day's travel he kicks off his boots,
thrusts his feet into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn
fire. Let the world without go as it may; let kingdoms rise or fall,
so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time
being, the very monarch of all he surveys.... 'Shall I not take mine
ease in mine inn?' thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back
in my elbow chair, and cast a complacent look about the little parlour
of the Red Horse at Stratford-on-Avon."
[Illustration: Entrance to the Reindeer Inn, Banbury]
And again, on Christmas Eve Irving tells of his joyous long day's ride
in a coach, and how he at length arrived at a village where he had
determined to stay the night. As he drove into the great gateway of
the inn (some of them were mighty narrow and required much skill on
the part of the Jehu) he saw on one side the light of a rousing
kitchen fire beaming through a window. He "entered and admired, for
the hundredth time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and broad
honest enjoyment--the kitchen of an English inn." It was of spacious
dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly polished,
and decorated here and there with Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and
flitches of bacon were suspended from the ceiling; a smoke-jack made
its ceaseless clanking beside the fire-place, and a clock ticked in
one corner. A well-scoured deal table extended along one side of the
kitchen, with a cold round of beef and other hearty viands upon it,
over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard.
Travellers of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout
repast, while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two
high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim housemaids were
hurrying backwards and forwards under the directions of a fresh
bustling landlady; but still seizing an occasional moment to exchange
a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh with the group round the
fire.
Such is the cheering picture of an old-fashioned inn in days of yore.
No wonder that the writers should have thus lauded these inns! Imagine
yourself on the box-seat of an old coach travelling somewhat slowly
through the night. It is cold and wet, and your fingers are frozen,
and the rain drives pitilessly in your face; and then, when you are
nearly dead with misery, the coach stops at a well-known inn. A
smiling host and buxom hostess greets you; blazing fires thaw you back
to life, and good cheer awaits your appetite. No wonder people loved
an inn and wished to take their ease therein after the dangers and
hardships of the day. Lord Beaconsfield, in his novel _Tancred_,
vividly describes the busy scene at a country hostelry in the busy
coaching days. The host, who is always "smiling," conveys the pleasing
intelligence to the passengers: "'The coach stops here half an hour,
gentlemen: dinner quite ready.' 'Tis a delightful sound. And what a
dinner! What a profusion of substantial delicacies! What mighty and
iris-tinted rounds of beef! What vast and marble-veined ribs! What
gelatinous veal pies! What colossal hams! These are evidently prize
cheeses! And how invigorating is the perfume of those various and
variegated pickles. Then the bustle emulating the plenty; the ringing
of bells, the clash of thoroughfare, the summoning of ubiquitous
waiters, and the all-pervading feeling of omnipotence from the guests,
who order what they please to the landlord, who can produce and
execute everything they can desire. 'Tis a wondrous sight!"
[Illustration: The Shoulder of Mutton Inn, King's Lynn]
And then how picturesque these old inns are, with their swinging
signs, the pump and horse-trough before the door, a towering elm or
poplar overshadowing the inn, and round it and on each side of the
entrance are seats, with rustics sitting on them. The old house has
picturesque gables and a tiled roof mellowed by age, with moss and
lichen growing on it, and the windows are latticed. A porch protects
the door, and over it and up the walls are growing old-fashioned
climbing rose trees. Morland loved to paint the exteriors of inns
quite as much as he did to frequent their interiors, and has left us
many a wondrous drawing of their beauties. The interior is no less
picturesque, with its open ingle-nook, its high-backed settles, its
brick floor, its pots and pans, its pewter and brass utensils. Our
artist has drawn for us many beautiful examples of old inns, which we
shall visit presently and try to learn something of their old-world
charm. He has only just been in time to sketch them, as they are fast
disappearing. It is astonishing how many noted inns in London and the
suburbs have vanished during the last twenty or thirty years.
Let us glance at a few of the great Southwark inns. The old "Tabard,"
from which Chaucer's pilgrims started on their memorable journey, was
destroyed by a great fire in 1676, rebuilt in the old fashion, and
continued until 1875, when it had to make way for a modern "old
Tabard" and some hop merchant's offices. This and many other inns had
galleries running round the yard, or at one end of it, and this yard
was a busy place, frequented not only by travellers in coach or
saddle, but by poor players and mountebanks, who set up their stage
for the entertainment of spectators who hung over the galleries or
from their rooms watched the performance. The model of an inn-yard was
the first germ of theatrical architecture. The "White Hart" in
Southwark retained its galleries on the north and east side of its
yard until 1889, though a modern tavern replaced the south and main
portion of the building in 1865-6. This was a noted inn, bearing as
its sign a badge of Richard II, derived from his mother Joan of Kent.
Jack Cade stayed there while he was trying to capture London, and
another "immortal" flits across the stage, Master Sam Weller, of
_Pickwick_ fame. A galleried inn still remains at Southwark, a great
coaching and carriers' hostel, the "George." It is but a fragment of
its former greatness, and the present building was erected soon after
the fire in 1676, and still retains its picturesqueness.
The glory has passed from most of these London inns. Formerly their
yards resounded with the strains of the merry post-horn, and carriers'
carts were as plentiful as omnibuses now are. In the fine yard of the
"Saracen's Head," Aldgate, you can picture the busy scene, though the
building has ceased to be an inn, and if you wished to travel to
Norwich there you would have found your coach ready for you. The old
"Bell Savage," which derives its name from one Savage who kept the
"Bell on the Hoop," and not from any beautiful girl "La Belle
Sauvage," was a great coaching centre, and so were the "Swan with two
Necks," Lad Lane, the "Spread Eagle" and "Cross Keys" in Gracechurch
Street, the "White Horse," Fetter Lane, and the "Angel," behind St.
Clements. As we do not propose to linger long in London, and prefer
the country towns and villages where relics of old English life
survive, we will hie to one of these noted hostelries, book our seats
on a Phantom coach, and haste away from the great city which has dealt
so mercilessly with its ancient buildings. It is the last few years
which have wrought the mischief. Many of these old inns lingered on
till the 'eighties. Since then their destruction has been rapid, and
the huge caravanserais, the "Cecil," the "Ritz," the "Savoy," and the
"Metropole," have supplanted the old Saracen's Heads, the Bulls, the
Bells, and the Boars that satisfied the needs of our forefathers in a
less luxurious age.
Let us travel first along the old York road, or rather select our
route, going by way of Ware, Tottenham, Edmonton, and Waltham Cross,
Hatfield and Stevenage, or through Barnet, until we arrive at the
Wheat Sheaf Inn on Alconbury Hill, past Little Stukeley, where the two
roads conjoin and "the milestones are numbered agreeably to that
admeasurement," viz. to that from Hicks' Hall through Barnet, as
_Patterson's Roads_ plainly informs us. Along this road you will find
several of the best specimens of old coaching inns in England. The
famous "George" at Huntingdon, the picturesque "Fox and Hounds" at
Ware, the grand old inns at Stilton and Grantham are some of the best
inns on English roads, and pleadingly invite a pleasant pilgrimage. We
might follow in the wake of Dick Turpin, if his ride to York were not
a myth. The real incident on which the story was founded occurred
about the year 1676, long before Turpin was born. One Nicks robbed a
gentleman on Gadshill at four o'clock in the morning, crossed the
river with his _bay_ mare as soon as he could get a ferry-boat at
Gravesend, and then by Braintree, Huntingdon, and other places reached
York that evening, went to the Bowling Green, pointedly asked the
mayor the time, proved an alibi, and got off. This account was
published as a broadside about the time of Turpin's execution, but it
makes no allusion to him whatever. It required the romance of the
nineteenth century to change Nicks to Turpin and the bay mare to Black
Bess. But _revenir à nos moutons_, or rather our inns. The old "Fox
and Hounds" at Ware is beautiful with its swinging sign suspended by
graceful and elaborate ironwork and its dormer windows. The "George"
at Huntingdon preserves its gallery in the inn-yard, its projecting
upper storey, its outdoor settle, and much else that is attractive.
Another "George" greets us at Stamford, an ancient hostelry, where
Charles I stayed during the Civil War when he was journeying from
Newark to Huntingdon.
And then we come to Grantham, famous for its old inns. Foremost among
them is the "Angel," which dates back to medieval times. It has a fine
stone front with two projecting bays, an archway with welcoming doors
on either hand, and above the arch is a beautiful little oriel window,
and carved heads and gargoyles jut out from the stonework. I think
that this charming front was remodelled in Tudor times, and judging
from the interior plaster-work I am of opinion that the bays were
added in the time of Henry VII, the Tudor rose forming part of the
decoration. The arch and gateway with the oriel are the oldest parts
of the front, and on each side of the arch is a sculptured head, one
representing Edward III and the other his queen, Philippa of Hainault.
The house belonged in ancient times to the Knights Templars, where
royal and other distinguished travellers were entertained. King John
is said to have held his court here in 1213, and the old inn witnessed
the passage of the body of Eleanor, the beloved queen of Edward I, as
it was borne to its last resting-place at Westminster. One of the
seven Eleanor crosses stood at Grantham on St. Peter's Hill, but it
shared the fate of many other crosses and was destroyed by the
troopers of Cromwell during the Civil War. The first floor of the
"Angel" was occupied by one long room, wherein royal courts were held.
It is now divided into three separate rooms. In this room Richard III
condemned to execution the Duke of Buckingham, and probably here
stayed Cromwell in the early days of his military career and wrote his
letter concerning the first action that made him famous. We can
imagine the silent troopers assembling in the market-place late in the
evening, and then marching out twelve companies strong to wage an
unequal contest against a large body of Royalists. The Grantham folk
had much to say when the troopers rode back with forty-five prisoners
besides divers horses and arms and colours. The "Angel" must have seen
all this and sighed for peace. Grim troopers paced its corridors, and
its stables were full of tired horses. One owner of the inn at the
beginning of the eighteenth century, though he kept a hostel, liked
not intemperance. His name was Michael Solomon, and he left an annual
charge of 40s. to be paid to the vicar of the parish for preaching a
sermon in the parish church against the sin of drunkenness. The
interior of this ancient hostelry has been modernized and fitted with
the comforts which we modern folk are accustomed to expect.
Across the way is the "Angel's" rival the "George," possibly identical
with the hospitium called "Le George" presented with other property by
Edward IV to his mother, the Duchess of York. It lacks the appearance
of age which clothes the "Angel" with dignity, and was rebuilt with
red brick in the Georgian era. The coaches often called there, and
Charles Dickens stayed the night and describes it as one of the best
inns in England. He tells of Squeers conducting his new pupils through
Grantham to Dotheboys Hall, and how after leaving the inn the luckless
travellers "wrapped themselves more closely in their coats and cloaks
... and prepared with many half-suppressed moans again to encounter
the piercing blasts which swept across the open country." At the
"Saracen's Head" in Westgate Isaac Newton used to stay, and there are
many other inns, the majority of which rejoice in signs that are blue.
We see a Blue Horse, a Blue Dog, a Blue Ram, Blue Lion, Blue Cow, Blue
Sheep, and many other cerulean animals and objects, which proclaim the
political colour of the great landowner. Grantham boasts of a unique
inn-sign. Originally known as the "Bee-hive," a little public-house in
Castlegate has earned the designation of the "Living Sign," on account
of the hive of bees fixed in a tree that guards its portals. Upon the
swinging sign the following lines are inscribed:--
Stop, traveller, this wondrous sign explore,
And say when thou hast viewed it o'er and o'er,
Grantham, now two rarities are thine--
A lofty steeple and a "Living Sign."
The connexion of the "George" with Charles Dickens reminds one of the
numerous inns immortalized by the great novelist both in and out of
London. The "Golden Cross" at Charing Cross, the "Bull" at Rochester,
the "Belle Sauvage" (now demolished) near Ludgate Hill, the "Angel" at
Bury St. Edmunds, the "Great White Horse" at Ipswich, the "King's
Head" at Chigwell (the original of the "Maypole" in _Barnaby Rudge_),
the "Leather Bottle" at Cobham are only a few of those which he by his
writings made famous.
[Illustration: A Quaint Gable. The Bell Inn, Stilton]
Leaving Grantham and its inns, we push along the great North Road to
Stilton, famous for its cheese, where a choice of inns awaits us--the
"Bell" and the "Angel," that glare at each other across the broad
thoroughfare. In the palmy days of coaching the "Angel" had stabling
for three hundred horses, and it was kept by Mistress Worthington, at
whose door the famous cheeses were sold and hence called Stilton,
though they were made in distant farmsteads and villages. It is quite
a modern-looking inn as compared with the "Bell." You can see a date
inscribed on one of the gables, 1649, but this can only mean that the
inn was restored then, as the style of architecture of "this dream in
stone" shows that it must date back to early Tudor times. It has a
noble swinging sign supported by beautifully designed ornamental
ironwork, gables, bay-windows, a Tudor archway, tiled roof, and a
picturesque courtyard, the silence and dilapidation of which are
strangely contrasted with the continuous bustle, life, and animation
which must have existed there before the era of railways.
Not far away is Southwell, where there is the historic inn the
"Saracen's Head." Here Charles I stayed, and you can see the very room
where he lodged on the left of the entrance-gate. Here it was on May
5th, 1646, that he gave himself up to the Scotch Commissioners, who
wrote to the Parliament from Southwell "that it made them feel like
men in a dream." The "Martyr-King" entered this inn as a sovereign; he
left it a prisoner under the guard of his Lothian escort. Here he
slept his last night of liberty, and as he passed under the archway of
the "Saracen's Head" he started on that fatal journey that terminated
on the scaffold at Whitehall. You can see on the front of the inn over
the gateway a stone lozenge with the royal arms engraved on it with
the date 1693, commemorating this royal melancholy visit. In later
times Lord Byron was a frequent visitor.
On the high, wind-swept road between Ashbourne and Buxton there is an
inn which can defy the attacks of the reformers. It is called the
Newhaven Inn and was built by a Duke of Devonshire for the
accommodation of visitors to Buxton. King George IV was so pleased
with it that he gave the Duke a perpetual licence, with which no
Brewster Sessions can interfere. Near Buxton is the second highest inn
in England, the "Cat and Fiddle," and "The Traveller's Rest" at Flash
Bar, on the Leek road, ranks as third, the highest being the Tan Hill
Inn, near Brough, on the Yorkshire moors.
[Illustration: The Bell Inn, Stilton]
Norwich is a city remarkable for its old buildings and famous inns. A
very ancient inn is the "Maid's Head" at Norwich, a famous hostelry
which can vie in interest with any in the kingdom. Do we not see there
the identical room in which good Queen Bess is said to have reposed on
the occasion of her visit to the city in 1578? You cannot imagine a
more delightful old chamber, with its massive beams, its wide
fifteenth-century fire-place, and its quaint lattice, through which
the moonbeams play upon antique furniture and strange, fantastic
carvings. This oak-panelled room recalls memories of the Orfords,
Walpoles, Howards, Wodehouses, and other distinguished guests whose
names live in England's annals. The old inn was once known as the
Murtel or Molde Fish, and some have tried to connect the change of
name with the visit of Queen Elizabeth; unfortunately for the
conjecture, the inn was known as the Maid's Head long before the days
of Queen Bess. It was built on the site of an old bishop's palace, and
in the cellars may be seen some traces of Norman masonry. One of the
most fruitful sources of information about social life in the
fifteenth century are the _Paston Letters_. In one written by John
Paston in 1472 to "Mestresse Margret Paston," he tells her of the
arrival of a visitor, and continues: "I praye yow make hym goode cheer
... it were best to sette hys horse at the Maydes Hedde, and I shall
be content for ther expenses." During the Civil War this inn was the
rendezvous of the Royalists, but alas! one day Cromwell's soldiers
made an attack on the "Maid's Head," and took for their prize the
horses of Dame Paston stabled here.
We must pass over the records of civic feasts and aldermanic
junketings, which would fill a volume, and seek out the old "Briton's
Arms," in the same city, a thatched building of venerable appearance
with its projecting upper storeys and lofty gable. It looks as if it
may not long survive the march of progress.
The parish of Heigham, now part of the city of Norwich, is noted as
having been the residence of Bishop Hall, "the English Seneca," and
author of the _Meditations_, on his ejection from the bishopric in
1647 till his death in 1656[43] The house in which he resided, now
known as the Dolphin Inn, still stands, and is an interesting
building with its picturesque bays and mullioned windows and
ingeniously devised porch. It has actually been proposed to pull down,
or improve out of existence, this magnificent old house. Its front is
a perfect specimen of flint and stone sixteenth-century architecture.
Over the main door appears an episcopal coat of arms with the date
1587, while higher on the front appears the date of a restoration (in
two bays):--
[43] It is erroneously styled Bishop Hall's Palace. An episcopal
palace is the official residence of the bishop in his cathedral
city. Not even a country seat of a bishop is correctly called a
palace, much less the residence of a bishop when ejected from his
see.
[Illustration: The "Briton's Arms," Norwich]
[Illustration: ANNO DOMINI 1615]
Just inside the doorway is a fine Gothic stoup into which bucolic
rustics now knock the fag-ends of their pipes. The staircase newel is
a fine piece of Gothic carving with an embattled moulding, a
poppy-head and heraldic lion. Pillared fire-places and other tokens of
departed greatness testify to the former beauty of this old
dwelling-place.
[Illustration: The Dolphin Inn, Heigham, Norwich]
We will now start back to town by the coach which leaves the "Maid's
Head" (or did leave in 1762) at half-past eleven in the forenoon, and
hope to arrive in London on the following day, and thence hasten
southward to Canterbury. Along this Dover road are some of the best
inns in England: the "Bull" at Dartford, with its galleried courtyard,
once a pilgrims' hostel; the "Bull" and "Victoria" at Rochester,
reminiscent of _Pickwick_; the modern "Crown" that supplants a
venerable inn where Henry VIII first beheld Anne of Cleves; the "White
Hart"; and the "George," where pilgrims stayed; and so on to
Canterbury, a city of memories, which happily retains many features of
old English life that have not altogether vanished. Its grand
cathedral, its churches, St. Augustine's College, its quaint streets,
like Butchery Lane, with their houses bending forward in a friendly
manner to almost meet each other, as well as its old inns, like the
"Falstaff" in High Street, near West Gate, standing on the site of a
pilgrims' inn, with its sign showing the valiant and portly knight,
and supported by elaborate ironwork, its tiled roof and picturesque
front, all combine to make Canterbury as charming a place of modern
pilgrimage as it was attractive to the pilgrims of another sort who
frequented its inns in days of yore.
[Illustration: Shield and Monogram on doorway of the Dolphin Inn,
Heigham]
[Illustration: Staircase Newel at the Dolphin Inn. From _Old Oak
Furniture_, by Fred Roe]
And now we will discard the cumbersome old coaches and even the
"Flying Machines," and travel by another flying machine, an airship,
landing where we will, wherever a pleasing inn attracts us. At
Glastonbury is the famous "George," which has hardly changed its
exterior since it was built by Abbot Selwood in 1475 for the
accommodation of middle-class pilgrims, those of high degree being
entertained at the abbot's lodgings. At Gloucester we find ourselves
in the midst of memories of Roman, Saxon, and monastic days. Here too
are some famous inns, especially the quaint "New Inn," in Northgate
Street, a somewhat peculiar sign for a hostelry built (so it is said)
for the use of pilgrims frequenting the shrine of Edward II in the
cathedral. It retains all its ancient medieval picturesqueness. Here
the old gallery which surrounded most of our inn-yards remains. Carved
beams and door-posts made of chestnut are seen everywhere, and at the
corner of New Inn Lane is a very elaborate sculpture, the lower part
of which represents the Virgin and Holy Child. Here, in Hare Lane, is
also a similar inn, the Old Raven Tavern, which has suffered much in
the course of ages. It was formerly built around a courtyard, but only
one side of it is left.
[Illustration: The Falstaff Inn, Canterbury]
There are many fine examples of old houses that are not inns in
Gloucester, beautiful half-timbered black and white structures, such
as Robert Raikes's house, the printer who has the credit of founding
the first Sunday-school, the old Judges' House in Westgate Street, the
old Deanery with its Norman room, once the Prior's Lodge of the
Benedictine Abbey. Behind many a modern front there exist curious
carvings and quaintly panelled rooms and elaborate ceilings. There is
an interesting carved-panel room in the Tudor House, Westgate Street.
The panels are of the linen-fold pattern, and at the head of each are
various designs, such as the Tudor Rose and Pomegranate, the Lion of
England, etc. The house originally known as the Old Blue Shop has some
magnificent mantelpieces, and also St. Nicholas House can boast of a
very elaborately carved example of Elizabethan sculpture.
We journey thence to Tewkesbury and visit the grand silver-grey abbey
that adorns the Severn banks. Here are some good inns of great
antiquity. The "Wheat-sheaf" is perhaps the most attractive, with its
curious gable and ancient lights, and even the interior is not much
altered. Here too is the "Bell," under the shadow of the abbey tower.
It is the original of Phineas Fletcher's house in the novel _John
Halifax, Gentleman_. The "Bear and the Ragged Staff" is another
half-timbered house with a straggling array of buildings and curious
swinging signboard, the favourite haunt of the disciples of Izaak
Walton, under the overhanging eaves of which the Avon silently flows.
The old "Seven Stars" at Manchester is said to be the most ancient in
England, claiming a licence 563 years old. But it has many rivals,
such as the "Fighting Cocks" at St. Albans, the "Dick Whittington" in
Cloth Fair, St. Bartholomews, the "Running Horse" at Leatherhead,
wherein John Skelton, the poet laureate of Henry VIII, sang the
praises of its landlady, Eleanor Rumming, and several others. The
"Seven Stars" has many interesting features and historical
associations. Here came Guy Fawkes and concealed himself in "Ye Guy
Faux Chamber," as the legend over the door testifies. What strange
stories could this old inn tell us! It could tell us of the Flemish
weavers who, driven from their own country by religious persecutions
and the atrocities of Duke Alva, settled in Manchester in 1564, and
drank many a cup of sack at the "Seven Stars," rejoicing in their
safety. It could tell us of the disputes between the clergy of the
collegiate church and the citizens in 1574, when one of the preachers,
a bachelor of divinity, on his way to the church was stabbed three
times by the dagger of a Manchester man; and of the execution of three
popish priests, whose heads were afterwards exposed from the tower of
the church. Then there is the story of the famous siege in 1642, when
the King's forces tried to take the town and were repulsed by the
townsfolk, who were staunch Roundheads. "A great and furious skirmish
did ensue," and the "Seven Stars" was in the centre of the fighting.
Sir Thomas Fairfax made Manchester his head-quarters in 1643, and the
walls of the "Seven Stars" echoed with the carousals of the
Roundheads. When Fairfax marched from Manchester to relieve Nantwich,
some dragoons had to leave hurriedly, and secreted their mess plate in
the walls of the old inn, where it was discovered only a few years
ago, and may now be seen in the parlour of this interesting hostel. In
1745 it furnished accommodation for the soldiers of Prince Charles
Edward, the Young Pretender, and was the head-quarters of the
Manchester regiment. One of the rooms is called "Ye Vestry," on
account of its connexion with the collegiate church. It is said that
there was a secret passage between the inn and the church, and,
according to the Court Leet Records, some of the clergy used to go to
the "Seven Stars" in sermon-time in their surplices to refresh
themselves. _O tempora!_ _O mores!_ A horseshoe at the foot of the
stairs has a story to tell. During the war with France in 1805 the
press-gang was billeted at the "Seven Stars." A young farmer's lad was
leading a horse to be shod which had cast a shoe. The press-gang
rushed out, seized the young man, and led him off to serve the king.
Before leaving he nailed the shoe to a post on the stairs, saying,
"Let this stay till I come from the wars to claim it." So it remains
to this day unclaimed, a mute reminder of its owner's fate and of the
manners of our forefathers.
[Illustration: The Bear and Ragged Staff Inn, Tewkesbury]
Another inn, the "Fighting Cocks" at St. Albans, formerly known as "Ye
Old Round House," close to the River Ver, claims to be the oldest
inhabited house in England. It probably formed part of the monastic
buildings, but its antiquity as an inn is not, as far as I am aware,
fully established.
The antiquary must not forget the ancient inn at Bainbridge, in
Wensleydale, which has had its licence since 1445, and plays its
little part in _Drunken Barnaby's Journal_.
[Illustration: Fire-place in the George Inn, Norton St. Philip,
Somerset]
Many inns have played an important part in national events. There is
the "Bull" at Coventry, where Henry VII stayed before the battle of
Bosworth Field, where he won for himself the English crown. There Mary
Queen of Scots was detained by order of Elizabeth. There the
conspirators of the Gunpowder Plot met to devise their scheme for
blowing up the Houses of Parliament. The George Inn at Norton St.
Philip, Somerset, took part in the Monmouth rebellion. There the Duke
stayed, and there was much excitement in the inn when he informed his
officers that it was his intention to attack Bristol. Thence he
marched with his rude levies to Keynsham, and after a defeat and a
vain visit to Bath he returned to the "George" and won a victory over
Faversham's advanced guard. You can still see the Monmouth room in the
inn with its fine fire-place.
The Crown and Treaty Inn at Uxbridge reminds one of the meeting of the
Commissioners of King and Parliament, who vainly tried to arrange a
peace in 1645; and at the "Bear," Hungerford, William of Orange
received the Commissioners of James II, and set out thence on his
march towards London and the English throne.
The Dark Lantern Inn at Aylesbury, in a nest of poor houses, seems to
tell by its unique sign of plots and conspiracies.
Aylesbury is noted for its inns. The famous "White Hart" is no more.
It has vanished entirely, having disappeared in 1863. It had been
modernized, but could boast of a timber balcony round the courtyard,
ornamented with ancient wood carvings brought from Salden House, an
old seat of the Fortescues, near Winslow. Part of the inn was built by
the Earl of Rochester in 1663, and many were the great feasts and
civic banquets that took place within its hospitable doors. The
"King's Head" dates from the middle of the fifteenth century and is a
good specimen of the domestic architecture of the Tudor period. It
formerly issued its own tokens. It was probably the hall of some guild
or fraternity. In a large window are the arms of England and Anjou.
The George Inn has some interesting paintings which were probably
brought from Eythrope House on its demolition in 1810, and the "Bull's
Head" has some fine beams and panelling.
[Illustration: The Green Dragon Inn, Wymondham, Norfolk]
Some of the inns of Burford and Shrewsbury we have seen when we
visited those old-world towns. Wymondham, once famous for its abbey,
is noted for its "Green Dragon," a beautiful half-timbered house with
projecting storeys, and in our wanderings we must not forget to see
along the Brighton road the picturesque "Star" at Alfriston with its
three oriel windows, one of the oldest in Sussex. It was once a
sanctuary within the jurisdiction of the Abbot of Battle for persons
flying from justice. Hither came men-slayers, thieves, and rogues of
every description, and if they reached this inn-door they were safe.
There is a record of a horse-thief named Birrel in the days of Henry
VIII seeking refuge here for a crime committed at Lydd, in Kent. It
was intended originally as a house for the refreshment of mendicant
friars. The house is very quaint with its curious carvings, including
a great red lion that guards the side, the figure-head of a wrecked
Dutch vessel lost in Cuckmen Haven. Alfriston was noted as a great
nest of smugglers, and the "Star" was often frequented by Stanton
Collins and his gang, who struck terror into their neighbours,
daringly carried on their trade, and drank deep at the inn when the
kegs were safely housed. Only fourteen years ago the last of his gang
died in Eastbourne Workhouse. Smuggling is a vanished profession
nowadays, a feature of vanished England that no one would seek to
revive. Who can tell whether it may not be as prevalent as ever it
was, if tariff reform and the imposition of heavy taxes on imports
become articles of our political creed?
[Illustration: The Star Inn, Afriston Sussex. Fred Roe, 16 Sep 97]
Many of the inns once famous in the annals of the road have now
"retired from business" and have taken down their signs. The First and
Last Inn, at Croscombe, Somerset, was once a noted coaching hostel,
but since coaches ceased to run it was not wanted and has closed its
doors to the public. Small towns like Hounslow, Wycombe, and Ashbourne
were full of important inns which, being no longer required for the
accommodation of travellers, have retired from work and converted
themselves into private houses. Small villages like Little Brickhill,
which happened to be a stage, abounded with hostels which the ending
of the coaching age made unnecessary. The Castle Inn at Marlborough,
once one of the finest in England, is now part of a great public
school. The house has a noted history. It was once a nobleman's
mansion, being the home of Frances Countess of Hereford, the patron of
Thomson, and then of the Duke of Northumberland, who leased it to Mr.
Cotterell for the purpose of an inn. Crowds of distinguished folk have
thronged its rooms and corridors, including the great Lord Chatham,
who was laid up here with an attack of gout for seven weeks in 1762
and made all the inn-servants wear his livery. Mr. Stanley Weyman has
made it the scene of one of his charming romances. It was not until
1843 that it took down its sign, and has since patiently listened to
the conjugation of Greek and Latin verbs, to classic lore, and other
studies which have made Marlborough College one of the great and
successful public schools. Another great inn was the fine Georgian
house near one of the entrances to Kedleston Park, built by Lord
Scarsdale for visitors to the medicinal waters in his park. But these
waters have now ceased to cure the mildest invalid, and the inn is now
a large farm-house with vast stables and barns.
It seems as if something of the foundations of history were crumbling
to read that the "Star and Garter" at Richmond is to be sold at
auction. That is a melancholy fate for perhaps the most famous inn in
the country--a place at which princes and statesmen have stayed, and
to which Louis Philippe and his Queen resorted. The "Star and Garter"
has figured in the romances of some of our greatest novelists. One
comes across it in Meredith and Thackeray, and it finds its way into
numerous memoirs, nearly always with some comment upon its unique
beauty of situation, a beauty that was never more real than at this
moment when the spring foliage is just beginning to peep.
The motor and changing habits account for the evil days upon which the
hostelry has fallen. Trains and trams have brought to the doors almost
of the "Star and Garter" a public that has not the means to make use
of its 120 bedrooms. The richer patrons of other days flash past on
their motors, making for those resorts higher up the river which are
filling the place in the economy of the London Sunday and week-end
which Richmond occupied in times when travelling was more difficult.
These changes are inevitable. The "Ship" at Greenwich has gone, and
Cabinet Ministers can no longer dine there. The convalescent home,
which was the undoing of certain Poplar Guardians, is housed in an
hotel as famous as the "Ship," in its days once the resort of Pitt and
his bosom friends. Indeed, a pathetic history might be written of the
famous hostelries of the past.
Not far from Marlborough is Devizes, formerly a great coaching centre,
and full of inns, of which the most noted is the "Bear," still a
thriving hostel, once the home of the great artist Sir Thomas
Lawrence, whose father was the landlord.
[Illustration: Courtyard of the George Inn, Norton St. Philip
Somerset]
It is impossible within one chapter to record all the old inns of
England, we have still a vast number left unchronicled, but perhaps a
sufficient number of examples has been given of this important feature
of vanishing England. Some of these are old and crumbling, and may die
of old age. Others will fall a prey to licensing committees. Some have
been left high and dry, deserted by the stream of guests that flowed
to them in the old coaching days. Motor-cars have resuscitated some
and brought prosperity and life to the old guest-haunted chambers. We
cannot dwell on the curious signs that greet us as we travel along the
old highways, or strive to interpret their origin and meaning. We are
rather fond in Berkshire of the "Five Alls," the interpretation of
which is cryptic. The Five Alls are, if I remember right--
"I rule all" [the king].
"I pray for all" [the bishop].
"I plead for all" [the barrister].
"I fight for all" [the soldier].
"I pay for all" [the farmer].
One of the most humorous inn signs is "The Man Loaded with Mischief,"
which is found about a mile from Cambridge, on the Madingley road. The
original Mischief was designed by Hogarth for a public-house in Oxford
Street. It is needless to say that the signboard, and even the name,
have long ago disappeared from the busy London thoroughfare, but the
quaint device must have been extensively copied by country
sign-painters. There is a "Mischief" at Wallingford, and a "Load of
Mischief" at Norwich, and another at Blewbury. The inn on the
Madingley road exhibits the sign in its original form. Though the
colours are much faded from exposure to the weather, traces of
Hogarthian humour can be detected. A man is staggering under the
weight of a woman, who is on his back. She is holding a glass of gin
in her hand; a chain and padlock are round the man's neck, labelled
"Wedlock." On the right-hand side is the shop of "S. Gripe,
Pawnbroker," and a carpenter is just going in to pledge his tools.
[Illustration: "The Dark Lantern" Inn, Aylesbury 16 Aug 1902]
The art of painting signboards is almost lost, and when they have to
be renewed sorry attempts are made to imitate the old designs. Some
celebrated artists have not thought it below their dignity to paint
signboards. Some have done this to show their gratitude to their
kindly host and hostess for favours received when they sojourned at
inns during their sketching expeditions. The "George" at Wargrave has
a sign painted by the distinguished painters Mr. George Leslie, R.A.,
and Mr. Broughton, R.A., who, when staying at the inn, kindly painted
the sign, which is hung carefully within doors that it may not be
exposed to the mists and rains of the Thames valley. St. George is
sallying forth to slay the dragon on the one side, and on the reverse
he is refreshing himself with a tankard of ale after his labours. Not
a few artists in the early stages of their career have paid their
bills at inns by painting for the landlord. Morland was always in
difficulties and adorned many a signboard, and the art of David Cox,
Herring, and Sir William Beechey has been displayed in this homely
fashion. David Cox's painting of the Royal Oak at Bettws-y-Coed was
the subject of prolonged litigation, the sign being valued at £1000,
the case being carried to the House of Lords, and there decided in
favour of the freeholder.
Sometimes strange notices appear in inns. The following rather
remarkable one was seen by our artist at the "County Arms," Stone,
near Aylesbury:--
"A man is specially engaged to do all the cursing and swearing
that is required in this establishment. A dog is also kept to do
all the barking. Our prize-fighter and chucker-out has won
seventy-five prize-fights and has never been beaten, and is a
splendid shot with the revolver. An undertaker calls here for
orders every morning."
Motor-cars have somewhat revived the life of the old inns on the great
coaching roads, but it is only the larger and more important ones
that have been aroused into a semblance of their old life. The cars
disdain the smaller establishments, and run such long distances that
only a few houses along the road derive much benefit from them. For
many their days are numbered, and it may be useful to describe them
before, like four-wheelers and hansom-cabs, they have quite vanished
away.
[Illustration: Spandril. The Marquis of Granby Inn, Colchester]