1 Bustard
Red game
Black game
1 Turtle, 120lb.
1 Land tortoise
72 Pots turtle, different prices
Vermicelli soup
British turtle
Giblet soup
Pease soup
Gravy soup
Soup Santé
Soup and bouillé
Mutton broth
Barley broth
3 Turbots
4 Cods
2 Brills
2 Pipers
12 Dories
2 Haddocks
14 Rock fish
18 Carp
12 Perch
4 Salmon
12 Plaice
17 Herrings
Sprats
122 Eels
Salt fish
78 Roach
98 Gudgeons
1 Dried salmon
_Venison_,--1 Haunch hevior
5 Haunches doe
5 Necks
10 Breasts
10 Shoulders
42 Hares
17 Pheasants
41 Partridges
87 Wild ducks
17 Wild geese
37 Teal
31 Widgeon
16 Bald coots
2 Sea pheasants
3 Mews
11 Veal burrs
1 Roasting pig
Oysters, stew’d & collop’d
Eggs
Hogs’ puddings
Ragoo’d feet and ears
Scotch’d collops
Veal cutlets
Harricoed mutton
Maintenon chops
Pork chops
Mutton chops
Rump steaks
Joint steaks
Pinbone steaks
Sausages
Hambro’ sausages
Tripe, cow heels, and knotlings
5 House lambs
_Veal_--3 Legs & loins
2 Breasts & shoulders
2 Heads
_Beef_--5 Rumps
3 Sirloins
5 Rounds
2 Pieces of 5 ribs each
7 Pinbones
Dutch & Hambro’d beef
_Mutton_--8 Haunches
8 Legs
8 Necks
11 Loins
6 Saddles
6 Chines
5 Shoulders
_Pork_--4 Legs
4 Loins
4 Chines
Sparibs
Half a porker
[COLD]
1 Boar’s head
1 Baron beef
2 Hams
4 Tongues
6 Chicken
4 Moor hens
2 Water drabs
7 Curlews
2 Bitterns
81 Woodcocks
149 Snipes
17 Wild Turkies
18 Golden plovers
1 Swan
5 Quists
2 Land rails
13 Galenas
4 Peahens
1 Peacock
1 Cuckoo
116 Pigeons
121 Larks
1 Sea magpye
127 Stares
208 Small birds
44 Turkies
8 Capons
19 Ducks
10 Geese
2 Owls
61 Chickens
4 Ducklings
11 Rabbits
3 Pork griskins
Hogs’ feet and ears
7 Collars brawn
2 Rounds beef
Collared veal
Collared beef
Collared mutton
Collared eels
Collared pig’s head
Dutch tongues
Bologna sausages
Paraguay pies
French pies
Mutton pies
Pigeon pies
Venison pasty
Sulks
430 Mince pies
13 Tarts
Jellies
Craw fish
Pickled salmon
Sturgeon
Pickled oysters
Potted partridges
Lobsters
52 Barrels Pyfleet & Colchester oysters
Milford & Tenby oysters
4 Pine apples
Could our ancestors take a peep from their graves at this bill of fare,
we may conceive what would be their astonishment at so great a variety
and abundance of provision for travellers at a single inn of our times;
in earlier days, wayfarers were, in many places, compelled to seek
accommodation from hospitable housekeepers, and knights were lodged in
barns.
* * * * *
A history of inns would be curious. It is not out of the way to observe,
that the old inns of the metropolis are daily undergoing alterations
that will soon destroy their original character. “Courts with
bedchambers, below and around the old inns, occur in the middle age, and
are probably of Roman fashion; for they resemble the barracks at
Tivoli.”[267] There are specimens of this inn-architecture still
remaining to be observed at the Bell Savage, Ludgate-hill; the
Saracen’s Head, Snow-hill; the George, and the Ram, in Smithfield;
the Bull and Mouth; the Swan and two necks;[268] the Green Dragon,
Bishopsgate-street, and a few others; not forgetting the Talbot inn, in
the Borough, from whence Chaucer’s pilgrims set out to the shrine of St.
Thomas à Becket, at Canterbury; of which there is a modern painting
placed in front of one of its galleries facing the street entrance.
Stow, in his time, calls it, under the name of the “Tabard,” “the most
ancient” of the inns on the Surrey side of London. In Southwark, he
says, “bee many faire innes for receit of travellers--amongst the which,
the most ancient is the _Tabard_, so called of the signe, which as wee
now terme it, is of a jacket, or sleevelesse coate, whole before, open
on both sides, with a square collar, winged at the shoulders; a stately
garment, of old time commonly worne of noblemen and others, both at home
and abroad in the wars; but then (to wit, in the warres,) their armes
embroidered, or otherwise depict upon them, that every man by his coat
of armes might bee knowne from others: but now these tabards are onely
worne by the heralds, and bee called their coats of armes in service.”
Stowe then quotes Chaucer in commendation of the “Inne of the Tabard:”--
It befelle in that season, on a day
In Southwerk, at the _Tabard_ as I lay
Ready to wend on my pilgrimage
To Canterbury with devout courage;
That night was come into that hostelrie
Well nine and twenty in a compagnie
Of sundry folke, by aventure yfalle
In felawsship, and pilgrimes were they alle,
That toward Canterbury wolden ride.
The chambers and stables weren wide, &c.
Chaucer, whom it pleases to Stowe to call “the most famous poet of
England,” relates
------------ shortly in a clause
Th’ estat, th’ araie, the nombre, and eke the cause,
Why that assembled was this compagnie
In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrie,
That hight the _Tabard_, faste by the Bell.
In course of time the original name of the sign seems to have been lost,
and its meaning forgotten. The “Tabard” is corrupted or perverted into
the “Talbot” inn; and as already, through Stowe, I have shown the
meaning of the Tabard, some readers perhaps may excuse me for adding,
that the Talbot, which is now only a term for an armorial bearing, is
figured in heraldry as a dog, a blood-hound, or hunting hound.[269]
* * * * *
[Illustration: ~William Blake, Ostler at Keston Cross.~]
After thus beating up inns and public-houses generally, we will return
for a moment to “Keston Cross.” To this pleasant house there is attached
a delightful little flower and fruit-garden, with paddocks,
poultry-yard, outhouses, and every requisite for private or public use;
all well-stocked, and, by the order wherein all are kept, bespeaking the
well-ordered economy of the occupant’s mind. The stabling for his own
and visitors’ horses is under the management of an ostler of long
service: and it must not be forgotten, that the rooms in the house are
marked by its owner’s attachment to horses and field-sports. In the
common parlour, opposite the door, is a coloured print of the burial of
a huntsman--the attendants in “full cry” over the grave--with verses
descriptive of the ceremony. A parlour for the accommodation of private
parties has an oil painting of the old duke of Bolton, capitally
mounted, in the yard of his own mansion, going out, attended by his
huntsman and dogs. There are other pictures in the same taste,
particularly a portrait of one of Mr. Young’s horses.
The ostler at “Keston Cross” is the most remarkable of its obliging,
humble servants. The poor fellow has lost an eye, and is like the
“high-mettled racer” in his decline--except that he is well used. While
looking about me I missed W., and found he had deemed him a picturesque
subject, and that he was in the act of sketching him from behind the
door of the stable-yard, while he leaned against the stable-door with
his corn-sieve in his hand. I know not why the portrait should not come
into a new edition of Bromley’s Catalogue, or an appendix to Granger:
sure I am that many far less estimable persons figure in the
Biographical History of England. As an honest man, (and if he were not
he would not be in Mr. Young’s service,) I craved my friend W. to
engrave him on a wood-block; I have no other excuse to offer for
presenting an impression of it, than the intrinsic worth of the
industrious original, and the merit of the likeness; and that apology it
is hoped very few will decline.
* * * * *
Dr. Johnson derives “ostler” from the French word “hostelier,” but
“hostelier” in French, now spelt “hotelier,” signifies an innkeeper, or
host, not an ostler; to express the meaning of which term the French
word is wholly different in spelling and pronunciation. It seems to me
that “ostler” is derived from the word “hostel,” which was formerly
obtained from the French, and was in common use here to signify an inn;
and the innkeeper was from thence called the “hosteller.” This was at a
period when the innkeeper or “hosteller” would be required by his guests
to take and tend their horses, which, before the use of carriages, and
when most goods were conveyed over the country on the backs of horses,
would be a chief part of his employment; and hence, the “hosteller”
actually became the “hostler,” or “ostler,” that is, the horse-keeper.
* * * * *
We will just glean, for two or three minutes, from as many living
writers who have gone pleasantly into inns, and so conclude.
* * * * *
Washington Irving, travelling under the name of “Geoffrey Crayon, gent.”
and reposing himself within a comfortable hostel at Shakspeare’s
birth-place, says:--“To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide
world which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of
something like independence and territorial consequence, when, after a
weary day’s travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into
slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world
without go as it may; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the
wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch
of all he surveys. The arm chair is his throne, the poker his sceptre,
and the little parlour, of some twelve feet square, his undisputed
empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the
uncertainties of life; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a
cloudy day; and he who has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of
existence, knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and moments
of enjoyment. ‘Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?’ thought I, as I
gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow chair, and cast a
complacent look about the little parlour of the Red Horse, at
Stratford-on-Avon.”----
* * * * *
ELIA, to illustrate the “astonishing composure” of some of the society
of “friends,” tells a pleasant anecdote, which regards a custom at
certain inns, and is therefore almost as fairly relatable in this place,
as it is delightfully related in his volume of “Essays:”--“I was
travelling,” says ELIA, “in a stage-coach with three male quakers,
buttoned up in the straitest non-conformity of their sect. We stopped to
bait at Andover, where a meal, partly tea apparatus, partly supper, was
set before us. My friends confined themselves to the tea-table. I in my
way took supper. When the landlady brought in the bill, the eldest of my
companions discovered that she had charged for both meals. This was
resisted. Mine hostess was very clamorous and positive. Some mild
arguments were used on the part of the quakers, for which the heated
mind of the good lady seemed by no means a fit recipient. The guard came
in with his usual peremptory notice. The quakers pulled out their money,
and formally tendered it--so much for tea--I, in humble imitation,
tendering mine--for the supper which I had taken. She would not relax in
her demand. So they all three quietly put up their silver, as did
myself, and marched out of the room, the eldest and gravest going first,
with myself closing up the rear, who thought I could not do better than
follow the example of such grave and warrantable personages. We got in.
The steps went up. The coach drove off. The murmurs of mine hostess, not
very indistinctly or ambiguously pronounced, became after a time
inaudible--and now my conscience, which the whimsical scene had for a
while suspended, beginning to give some twitches, I waited, in the hope
that some justification would be offered by these serious persons for
the seeming injustice of their conduct. To my great surprise, not a
syllable was dropped on the subject. They sate as mute as at a meeting.
At length the eldest of them broke silence, by inquiring of his next
neighbour, ‘Hast thee heard how indigos go at the India House?’ and the
question operated as a soporific on my moral feeling as far as Exeter.”
* * * * *
Finally, from the “Indicator” we learn, that to Mr. Leigh Hunt “a tavern
and coffee-house is a pleasant sight, from its sociality; not to mention
the illustrious club memories of the times of Shakspeare and the
Tatlers. The rural transparencies, however, which they have in their
windows, with all our liking of the subject, would perhaps be better in
any others; for tavern sociality is a town-thing, and should be content
with town ideas. A landscape in the window makes us long to change it at
once for a rural inn; to have a rosy-faced damsel attending us, instead
of a sharp and serious waiter; and to catch, in the intervals of chat,
the sound of a rookery instead of cookery. We confess that the commonest
public-house in town is not such an eyesore to us as it is with some. It
may not be very genteel, but neither is every thing that is rich. There
may be a little too much drinking and roaring going on in the middle of
the week; but what, in the mean time, are pride and avarice, and all the
unsocial vices about? Before we object to public-houses, and above all
to their Saturday evening recreations, we must alter the systems that
make them a necessary comfort to the poor and laborious. Till then, in
spite of the vulgar part of the polite, we shall have an esteem for the
Devil and the Bag o’ Nails; and like to hear, as we go along on Saturday
night, the applauding knocks on the table that follow the song of
‘Lovely Nan,’ or ‘Brave Captain Death,’ or ‘Tobacco is an Indian Weed,’
or ‘Why, Soldiers, why,’ or ‘Says Plato why should man be vain,’ or
that judicious and unanswerable ditty, commencing
Now what can man more desire
Nor sitting by a sea-coal fire;
And on his knees, &c.”
[252] Vol. i. p. 670.
[253] p. 702.
[254] p. 715.
[255] p. 766.
[256] p. 771.
[257] p. 811.
[258] Academy of Armory.
[259] Fosbroke’s Ency. of Antiquities.
[260] Henry IV. act ii. sc. 1.
[261] The Frankelein’s prologue. Chaucer.
[262] Spenser.
[263] Fosbroke’s Ency. of Antiquities.
[264] Ibid.
[265] Letters from Edinburgh, written in the years 1774 and 1775.
[266] Fosbroke.
[267] Ibid.
[268] See the derivation of this sign in the _Every-Day Book_.
[269] Academy of Armory, b. ii. c. 9.
* * * * *
~Garrick Plays.~
No. XXV.
[From “Edward the Third,” an Historical Play, Author Unknown, 1597.]
_The King, having relieved the Castle of the heroic Countess of
Salisbury, besieged by the Scots, and being entertained by her, loves
her._
_Edward_ (_solus_.) She is grown more fairer far since I came
hither:
Her voice more silver every word than other,
Her wit more fluent. What a strange discourse
Unfolded she of David, and his Scots!
Even thus, quoth she, he spake, and then spake broad
With epithets and accents of the Scot;
But somewhat better than the Scot could speak:
And thus, quoth she, and answer’d then herself;
For who could speak like her? but she herself
Breathes from the wall an angel note from heaven
Of sweet defiance to her barbarous foes.--
When she would talk of peace, methinks her tongue
Commanded war to prison: when of war,
It waken’d Cæsar from his Roman grave,
To hear war beautified by her discourse.
Wisdom is foolishness, but in her tongue;
Beauty a slander, but in her fair face;
There is no summer, but in her chearful looks;
Nor frosty winter, but in her disdain.
I cannot blame the Scots that did besiege her,
For she is all the treasure of our land:
But call them cowards, that they ran away;
Having so rich and fair a cause to stay.
_The Countess repells the King’s unlawful suit._
_Countess._ Sorry I am to see my liege so sad:
What may thy subject do to drive from thee
This gloomy consort, sullome Melancholy?
_King._ Ah Lady! I am blunt, and cannot strew
The flowers of solace in a ground of shame.
Since I came hither, Countess, I am wrong’d.
_Coun._ Now God forbid that any in my house
Should think my sovereign wrong! thrice-gentle king
Acquaint me with your cause of discontent.
_King._ How near then shall I be to remedy?
_Coun._ As near, my liege, as all my woman’s power,
Can pawn itself to buy thy remedy.
_King._ If thou speak’st true, then have I my redress.
Engage thy power to redeem my joys,
And I am joyful, Countess; else I die.
_Coun._ I will, my liege.
_King._ Swear, Countess, that thou wilt.
_Coun._ By heaven I will.
_King._ Then take thyself a little way aside,
And tell thyself, a king doth dote on thee.
Say that within thy power it doth lie
To make him happy, and that thou hast sworn
To give him all the joy within thy power.
Do this; and tell him, when I shall be happy.
_Coun._ All this is done, my thrice-dread sovereign.
That power of love, that I have power to give,
Thou hast, with all devout obedience.
Employ me how thou wilt in proof thereof.
_King._ Thou hear’st me say that I do dote on thee.
_Coun._ If on my beauty, take it if thou can’st;
Though little, I do prize it ten times less:
If on my virtue, take it if thou can’st;
For virtue’s store by giving doth augment.
Be it on what it will, that I can give,
And thou can’st take away, inherit it.
_King._ It is thy beauty that I would enjoy.
_Coun._ O were it painted, I would wipe it off,
And dispossess myself to give it thee;
But, sovereign, it is soulder’d to my life:
Take one, and both; for, like an humble shadow,
It haunts the sunshine of my summer’s life.
_King._ But thou may’st lend it me to sport withal.
_Coun._ As easy may my intellectual soul
Be lent away, and yet my body live,
As lend my body (palace to my soul)
Away from her, and yet retain my soul.
My body is her bower, her court, her abbey.
And she an angel pure, divine, unspotted;
If I should lend her house, my Lord, to thee,
I kill my poor soul, and my poor soul me.
_King._ Didst thou not swear to give me what I would?
_Count._ I did, my liege, so what you would, I could.
_King._ I wish no more of thee, than thou may’st give:
Nor beg I do not, but I rather buy;
That is thy love; and for that love of thine
In rich exchange, I tender to thee mine.
_Coun._ But that your lips were sacred, my Lord,
You would profane the holy name of love.
That love, you offer me, you cannot give;
For Cæsar owes that tribute to his Queen.
That love, you beg of me, I cannot give;
For Sara owes that duty to her Lord.
He, that doth clip or counterfeit your stamp,
Shall die, my Lord: and shall your sacred self
Commit high treason ’gainst the King of Heaven,
To stamp his image in forbidden metal,
Forgetting your allegiance and your oath?
In violating marriage’ sacred law,
You break a greater Honour than yourself.
_To be a King_, is of a younger house
Than _To be married_; your progenitor,
Sole-reigning Adam on the universe,
By God was honour’d for a married Man
But not by him anointed for a King.
It is a penalty to break your statutes.
Tho’ not enacted with your Highness’ hand;
How much more to infringe the holy act,
Made by the mouth of God, seal’d with his hand
I know my Sovereign, in my Husband’s love,
Doth but to try the Wife of Salisbury,
Whether she will hear a wanton’s tale or no:
Lest being guilty therein by my stay,
From that, not from my liege, I turn away.
* * * * *
_King._ Whether is her beauty by her words divine
Or are her words sweet chaplains to her beauty?
Like as the wind doth beautify a sail,
And as a sail becomes the unseen wind,
So do her words her beauties, beauty words.
* * * * *
_Coun._ He hath sworn me by the name of God
To break a vow made in the name of God.
What if I swear by this right hand of mine
To cut this right hand off? the better way
Were to profane the idol, than confound it.
_Flattery._
---- O thou World, great nurse of flattery,
Why dost thou tip men’s tongues with golden words
And poise their deeds with weight of heavy lead,
That fair performance cannot follow promise?
O that a man might hold the heart’s close book
And choke the lavish tongue, when it doth utter
The breath of falsehood, not character’d there!
_Sin, worst in High Place._
An honourable grave is more esteemed,
Than the polluted closet of a king;
The greater man, the greater is the thing,
Be it good or bad, that he shall undertake.
An unreputed mote, flying in the sun,
Presents a greater substance than it is;
The freshest summer’s day doth soonest taint
The loathed carrion, that it seems to kiss;
Deep are the blows made with a mighty axe;
That sin does ten times aggravate itself,
That is committed in a holy place;
An evil deed done by authority
Is sin, and subornation; deck an ape
In tissue, and the beauty of the robe
Adds but the greater scorn unto the beast;
The poison shews worst in a golden cup;
Dark night seems darker by the light’ning flash;
Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.
And every Glory, that inclines to Sin,
The shame is treble by the opposite.