BARNABY RUDGE
THE MAYPOLE, CHIGWELL
Of all the inns with which Dickens's books abound there is none that plays
so important a part in any of his stories as the Maypole at Chigwell does
in _Barnaby Rudge_. Other inns are just the scene of an incident or two,
or are associated with certain characters or groups of characters; the
Maypole is the actual pivot upon which the whole story of _Barnaby Rudge_
revolves. It is associated in some way with every character that figures
prominently in the narrative, and scene after scene is enacted either in
it or near by. The story begins with a picturesque description of the inn
and its frequenters, and ends with a delightful pen-picture of young Joe
Willet comfortably settled there with Dolly as his wife, and a happy
family growing up around them.
For these reasons it may therefore be said to be the most important of
all the Dickensian inns. It is also one of the few hostels Dickens
describes in detail, and perhaps the only one he admittedly gave a
fanciful name to, for its real name is the King's Head. Ever since it has
been an inn it has been so called, and is known by that name to-day,
although it is never referred to in conversation or print without the
corroborative appendage of "The Maypole of _Barnaby Rudge_," nor does the
sign-board omit this important fact. There are the remains of an inn near
by at Chigwell Row, boasting the sign of the Maypole, and this may have
suggested the name to Dickens, but that is all it can claim: the King's
Head is the inn and Chigwell is the place chosen by Dickens for the centre
of some of the chief scenes in his story, and the few fanciful touches he
gives to it and its surroundings are nothing but the licence allowed a
novelist for rounding off and completing the details necessary for the
presentment of his ideal. As long as the King's Head exists, therefore, it
will always remain famous as "the Maypole of _Barnaby Rudge_," and reflect
pleasant memories to all who know the book.
In 1841 Dickens, writing to his friend and biographer, John Forster,
inviting him to take a trip to Chigwell, said: "Chigwell, my dear fellow,
is the greatest place in the world. Name your day for going. Such a
delicious old inn, opposite the churchyard--such a lovely ride--such
beautiful forest scenery--such an out-of-the-way, rural, place--such a
sexton! I say again name your day." In quoting this alluring invitation in
his biography of the novelist, John Forster adds: "The day was named at
once, and the whitest of stones marks it, in now sorrowful memory.
Dickens's promise was exceeded by our enjoyment; and his delight in the
double recognition of himself and of Barnaby, by the landlord of the nice
old inn, far exceeded any pride he would have taken in what the world
thinks the highest sort of honour."
As _Barnaby Rudge_ had been published by this time, the novelist must have
made many a trip to the King's Head previously, for the early chapters of
the story in which the inn is introduced had been written long before.
Time has played very few tricks either with the building or with Chigwell,
for they are practically the same to-day as they were at the period in
which Dickens was writing. The inn can still be said to be a delicious old
one, and, if one rides to it as Dickens did, his description of the forest
scenery and the nature of the out-of-the-way, rural place will be found
as true to-day as when he discovered it, nearly a century ago: facts which
many a pilgrim to it since can substantiate.
[Illustration: THE KING'S HEAD, CHIGWELL
_Drawn by L. Walker_]
The description of the Maypole in the opening chapter of _Barnaby Rudge_
has been quoted often, but we make no apology for quoting it again, for no
more enticing way of introducing it could be imagined. Besides which it
incidentally suggests its past history as well as affirms its present
picturesqueness:
"The Maypole was an old building, with more gable ends than a lazy man
would care to count on a sunny day; huge zigzag chimneys, out of which it
seemed as though even smoke could not choose but come in more than
naturally fantastic shapes, imparted to it in its tortuous progress; and
vast stables, gloomy, ruinous, and empty. The place was said to have been
built in the days of King Henry the Eighth; and there was a legend, not
only that Queen Elizabeth had slept there one night while upon a hunting
excursion, to wit, in a certain oak-panelled room with a deep bay window,
but that next morning, while standing on a mounting-block before the door,
with one foot in the stirrup, the Virgin Monarch had then and there boxed
and cuffed an unlucky page for some neglect of duty.... Whether these, and
many other stories of the like nature, were true or untrue, the Maypole
was really an old house, a very old house, perhaps as old as it claimed to
be, and perhaps older, which will sometimes happen with houses of an
uncertain, as with ladies of a certain, age. Its windows were old
diamond-pane lattices, its floors were sunken and uneven, its ceilings
blacked by the hand of Time, and heavy with massive beams. Over the
doorway was an ancient porch, quaintly and grotesquely carved; and here on
Summer evenings the more favoured customers smoked and drank--aye, and
sang many a good song, too, sometimes--reposing in two grim-looking
high-backed settles, which, like the twin dragons of some fairy tale,
guarded the entrance to the mansion. In the chimneys of the disused rooms
swallows had built their nests for many a long year, and, from earliest
Spring to latest Autumn, whole colonies of sparrows chirped and twittered
in the eaves. There were more pigeons about the dreary stable-yard and
outbuildings than anybody but the landlord could reckon up. The wheeling
and circling flights of runts, fantails, tumblers and pouters were perhaps
not quite consistent with the grave and sober character of the building,
but the monotonous cooing, which never ceased to be raised by some among
them all day long, suited it exactly, and seemed to lull it to rest.
"With its overhanging stories, drowsy little panes of glass, and front
bulging out and projecting over the pathway, the old house looked as if it
were nodding in its sleep. Indeed, it needed no great stretch of fancy to
detect in it other resemblances to humanity. The bricks of which it was
built had originally been a deep dark red, but had grown yellow and
discoloured like an old man's skin; the sturdy timbers had decayed like
teeth; and here and there the ivy, like a warm garment to comfort it in
its age, wrapt its green leaves closely round the time-worn walls."
That is a charming pen-picture of the Maypole's outward appearance, and
beyond a little exaggeration as regards some details almost perfectly fits
the "delicious" old inn to-day. Some topographers have seen fit to quarrel
with the picture because the porch was never there as described by Dickens
and because the gable ends could easily be counted without trouble, and
because in their hurried visit they had failed to discover the old bricks
and the warm garment of ivy wrapping its green leaves closely round the
time-worn walls. But that is being meticulous, not to say pedantic, and if
a visit is made to the back of the building this delightful simile can be
thoroughly appreciated. Indeed, no more appropriate words could be found
to describe its appearance to-day than those written by the novelist many
years ago.
Cattermole, who drew a picture of the inn for the book, went woefully
wrong. He did not even follow Dickens's words, but drew a picture more
representing an old English baronial mansion than an inn. Even granting
that, before the Maypole was an inn it was a mansion, Cattermole very
much overstepped the mark. History tells us that about 1713 the King's
Head was used for sittings of the Court of Attachments, and that farther
back in 1630 "the Bailiff of the Forests was directed to summon the
Constables to appear before the Forest Officers, for the purposes of an
election," at the "house of Bibby," which probably was no other than what
became the King's Head at Chigwell. "In this quaint and pleasant inn," we
are informed, "may still be seen the room in which the Court of
Attachments was held." This evidently is the Chester Room to which we
shall refer later. The same writer also mentions "an arched recess in the
cellar, made to hold the wine which served for the revels of the Officers
of the Forest, after the graver labours of the day."
Let us follow the story of _Barnaby Rudge_ through, and see how everything
in it focusses on the Maypole Inn.
The story dates back to 1775, and opens with John Willet, the burly
large-headed landlord with a fat face, sitting in his old seat in the
chimney-corner before a blazing fire surrounded by the group of regular
habitués. Here this company assembled each night in the recess of the
huge wide chimney with their long clay pipes and tankards to discuss the
local history and events. Here Solomon Daisy told his Maypole story. "It
belongs to the house," says John Willet, "and nobody but Solomon Daisy has
ever told it under this roof, or ever shall, that's more." This room, long
since turned to the more modern use of an up-to-date kitchen, was the
scene of many an incident in the book. Its cosy chimney-corner and
high-back settles are no more, but the scene can be adjusted easily, even
though a gas stove stultifies the vision somewhat. It was the resort of
all and sundry in those days. Gabriel Varden credited himself with great
resolution if he took another road on his way back from the Warren in
order that he should not break his promise to Martha by looking in at the
Maypole.
It was a bold resolution, for the Maypole was as a magnet, and we are
often told of how its cheery lights in the evenings were a lure to those
within sight of them; for when Gabriel did go, as related on one occasion,
and left the door open behind him, there was disclosed "a delicious
perspective of warmth and brightness--when the ruddy gleam of the fire,
streaming through the old red curtains of the common room, seemed to bring
with it, as part of itself, a pleasant hum of voices, and a fragrant
odour of steaming grog and rare tobacco, all steeped, as it were, in the
cheerful glow." There he would find a company in snug seats in the
snuggest of corners round a broad glare from a crackling log, and from a
distant kitchen he would hear a gentle sound of frying, with musical
clatter of plates and dishes, and a savoury smell that made even the
boisterous wind a perfume--on such occasions Gabriel, we are told, would
find his "firmness oozing rapidly away. He tried to look stoically at the
tavern, but his features would relax into a look of fondness. He turned
his head the other way, and the cold black country seemed to frown him
off, and to drive him for a refuge into its hospitable arms."
We can well imagine it, for who could resist its clean floor covered with
crisp white sand, its well-swept hearth, its blazing fire, such as this
friendly meeting place possessed? That was but one of its many attractive
rooms.
Up the "wide dismantled staircase" was the best apartment, in which John
Chester had his momentous interview with Geoffrey Haredale. This is known
to-day, as we have already said, as the Chester Room. "It was spacious
enough in all conscience, occupying the whole depth of the house, and
having at either end a great bay window, as large as many modern rooms
... although the best room in the inn, it had the melancholy aspect of
grandeur in decay, and was much too vast for comfort." This room exists
to-day, and one can readily realise, on reading Dickens's meditation on
its dullness and its chilly waste, how desolate it must have been as a
living-room in a mansion, such as the Maypole once was. "God help the man
whose heart ever changes with the world, as an old mansion when it becomes
an inn," Dickens exclaims.
[Illustration: THE CHESTER ROOM
_Drawn by L. Walker_]
The best bedroom to which Mr. Chester repaired for the night after his
interview with Mr. Haredale was nearly as large and possessed "a great
spectral bedstead, hung with faded brocade, and ornamented, at the top of
each carved post, with a plume of feathers that had once been white, but
with dust and age had now grown hearse-like and funereal"; but the room,
John Willet informed his guest, was "as warm as a toast in a tankard." And
so Mr. Chester was left to his rest in the Maypole's ancient bed.
These apartments, stately and grand as they were, could not compare or
compete in comfort with the bar, the bar parlour and other corners
frequented by the more menial coterie of the inn. Even the stables were
pleasant in their way, and, when Hugh, the ostler--Maypole Hugh as he was
called--was ordered to take Mr. Chester's horse, John Willet assured his
guest that "there's good accommodation for man and beast," which was true
then and is true to-day.
Later came Lord George Gordon, John Grueby and Mr. Gashford on their "No
Popery" mission, all looking like "tagrag and bobtail," asking if there
are any inns thereabouts. "There are no inns," replied Mr. Willet, with
strong emphasis on the plural number; "but there's a inn--one inn--the
Maypole Inn. That's a inn indeed. You won't see the like of that inn
often." After being assured that his visitors were really the persons
they represented themselves to be, John Willet recovered so far as to
observe that there was ample accommodation at the Maypole for the party;
"good beds, neat wines, excellent entertainment for man and beast; private
rooms for large and small parties; dinners dressed upon the shortest
notice; choice stabling, and a lock-up coach-house; and, in short, to run
over such recommendatory scraps of language as were painted up on various
portions of the building, and which in the course of forty years he had
learnt to repeat with tolerable correctness." And so they were "put up"
for the night, and they could desire nothing better.
Without following the story in its relation to the horrors of the Gordon
Riots, we record in passing that both Maypole Hugh and Barnaby joined the
throng on leaving their cosy quarters of the inn.
Passing over the frequent visits of such characters as Mr., Mrs. and Dolly
Varden, Miss Haredale and others, we reach the stage in the story when the
rioters arrived at the inn on their way to burn and raid the Warren in the
neighbourhood. They encounter John Willet at the Porch, and immediately
demand drink.
Their ringleader was no other than Maypole Hugh, who confronted his late
master with "These lads are thirsty and must drink. Bustle, Jack, bustle!
Show us the best--the very best--the over-proof that you keep for your own
drinking, Jack!" Then ensued a mad scene. The rabble entered the bar--"the
sanctuary, the mystery, the hallowed ground: here it was, crammed with
men, clubs, sticks, torches, pistols; filled with a deafening noise,
oaths, shouts, screams, hootings; changed all at once into a bear-garden,
a madhouse, an infernal temple; men darting in and out, by door and
window, smashing the glass, turning the taps, drinking liquor out of china
punch-bowls, sitting astride of casks, smoking private and personal pipes,
cutting down the sacred grove of lemons, hacking and hewing of the
celebrated cheese ... noise, smoke, light, darkness, frolic, anger,
laughter, groans, plunder, fear, and ruin." Finally binding John to a
chair they left him alone in his dismantled bar and made for the Warren,
which they burned to the ground.
In despair, Mr. Haredale seeks his niece and servants at the Maypole, only
to find the spectacle of John Willet in the ignominious position the
rioters left him, with his favourite house stripped and pulled about his
ears. Damaged as the "Maypole" was in many ways, it never actually drops
out of the story's interest; but during the trend of events in London we
naturally hear little of it.
John Willet had flown in despair from it, and took up his abode in the
Black Lion in London for safety's sake, where eventually he again met his
son Joe, now a one-armed hero back from the wars.
Here in his solitude we find him sitting over the fire, "afar off in the
remotest depths of his intellect," with a lurking hint or faint suggestion
"that out of the public purse there might issue funds for the restoration
of the Maypole to its former high place among the taverns of the earth."
What actually did happen, however, was the marriage of his son Joe to
Dolly, whose father gave her a handsome dowry, enabling the happy couple
to return to the Maypole, reopen it, and there install themselves as host
and hostess. And so they brought back to the inn all its famous glory,
earning for it the epithet that there was no such country inn as the
Maypole in all England.
Barnaby returned to live with his mother on the farm established there,
and Grip was his cherished companion throughout the rest of his life. John
Willet retired into a small cottage in the village, where the fire-place
was widened and enlarged for him, and where a boiler was hung up for his
edification, and, furthermore, in the little garden outside the front door
a fictitious Maypole was planted; so that he was quite at home directly.
To this new abode came his old friends and cronies of the old
chimney-corner of the Maypole to chum over the things that once were.
No doubt they talked of the old days in the old inn, and occasionally
turned in to its enticing haven and challenged anyone to find its equal by
asking, as was asked before, "What carpet like its crunching sand, what
merry music as its crackling logs, what perfume like its kitchen's dainty
breath, what weather genial as its hearty warmth?" And we are sure that
they all endorsed its historian's benediction--"Blessings on the old
house, how sturdily it stood."
We have attempted to bring to mind the atmosphere of the Maypole as it was
in the days of the story of _Barnaby Rudge_, and to recall the characters
and incidents associated with it. The pilgrim to this notable Dickens
shrine to-day, remembering these things, will find that time has dealt
kindly with the old inn. It is changed, of course, in many ways, but it is
still the old Maypole, with its bar, its Chester room, its stables, its
cellars running under the adjoining cottages, and its ivy still clinging
to the old worn bricks at the back. Its windows are still diamond-paned,
and its floors are still uneven and sunken in places; its heavy beams run
across the ceiling. One can even hear the sparrows chirp and see the other
birds disport themselves in their revels. The building has many gables,
and its stories overhang and bulge over the pathway as if the old house
was nodding in its sleep just as the novelist described it.
And, in the churchyard opposite, the scene of Barnaby and his mother
sitting upon a tombstone and eating their frugal meal can easily be
visualized.
Still set in a rural and beautiful district of England's verdant lanes,
long may the Maypole survive!
It is interesting to note that in 1899 "The Charles Dickens Lodge" was
consecrated in the Maypole, and still holds its meetings there. The Lodge
is held in what was undoubtedly the "best bedroom" of the inn, and the
banquet follows in the Chester Room.