The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon

by Washington Irving

  THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP.

  A SHAKESPEARIAN RESEARCH.

  "A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows.I have heard my great-grandfather tell, how his great-great-grandfathershould say, that it was an old proverb when his great-grandfather was achild, that 'it was a good wind that blew a man to the wine.'"

  MOTHER BOMBIE.

  IT is a pious custom in some Catholic countries to honor the memory ofsaints by votive lights burnt before their pictures. The popularity ofa saint, therefore, may be known by the number of these offerings.One, perhaps, is left to moulder in the darkness of his little chapel;another may have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart hiseffigy; while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished at the shrineof some beatified father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his hugeluminary of wax, the eager zealot, his seven-branched candlestick; andeven the mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied that sufficientlight is thrown upon the deceased unless he hangs up his little lampof smoking oil. The consequence is, that in the eagerness to enlighten,they are often apt to obscure; and I have occasionally seen an unluckysaint almost smoked out of countenance by the officiousness of hisfollowers.

  In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakespeare. Every writerconsiders it his bounden duty to light up some portion of his characteror works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion. The commentator,opulent in words, produces vast tomes of dissertations; the common herdof editors send up mists of obscurity from their notes at the bottom ofeach page; and every casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight ofeulogy or research to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke.

  As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the quill, I thoughtit but proper to contribute my mite of homage to the memory of theillustrious bard. I was for some time, however, sorely puzzled in whatway I should discharge this duty. I found myself anticipated in everyattempt at a new reading; every doubtful line had been explained a dozendifferent ways, and perplexed beyond the reach of elucidation; and asto fine passages, they had all been amply praised by previous admirers;nay, so completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with panegyricby a great German critic that it was difficult now to find even a faultthat had not been argued into a beauty.

  In this perplexity I was one morning turning over his pages when Icasually opened upon the comic scenes of Henry IV., and was, in amoment, completely lost in the madcap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern.So vividly and naturally are these scenes of humor depicted, and withsuch force and consistency are the characters sustained, that theybecome mingled up in the mind with the facts and personages of reallife. To few readers does it occur that these are all ideal creationsof a poet's brain, and that, in sober truth, no such knot of merryroisterers ever enlivened the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap.

  For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusions of poetry. A heroof fiction that never existed is just as valuable to me as a hero ofhistory that existed a thousand years since and, if I may be excusedsuch an insensibility to the common ties of human nature, I would notgive up fat Jack for half the great men of ancient chronicle. Whathave the heroes of yore done for me or men like me? They have conqueredcountries of which I do not enjoy an acre, or they have gained laurelsof which I do not inherit a leaf, or they have furnished examples ofhair-brained prowess, which I have neither the opportunity nor theinclination to follow. But, old Jack Falstaff! kind Jack Falstaff! sweetJack Falstaff! has enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment; he hasadded vast regions of wit and good-humor, in which the poorest man mayrevel, and has bequeathed a never-failing inheritance of jolly laughter,to make mankind merrier and better to the latest posterity.

  A thought suddenly struck me. "I will make a pilgrimage to Eastcheap,"said I, closing the book, "and see if the old Boar's Head Tavern stillexists. Who knows but I may light upon some legendary traces of DameQuickly and her guests? At any rate, there will be a kindred pleasure intreading the halls once vocal with their mirth to that the toper enjoysin smelling to the empty cask, once filled with generous wine."

  The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execution. I forbear totreat of the various adventures and wonders I encountered in my travels;of the haunted regions of Cock Lane; of the faded glories of LittleBritain and the parts adjacent; what perils I ran in Cateaton Streetand Old Jewry; of the renowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, thepride and wonder of the city and the terror of all unlucky urchins; andhow I visited London Stone, and struck my staff upon it in imitation ofthat arch-rebel Jack Cade.

  Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry Eastcheap, thatancient region of wit and wassail, where the very names of the streetsrelished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane bears testimony even at thepresent day. For Eastcheap, says old Stow, "was always famous for itsconvivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies wellbaked, and other victuals: there was clattering of pewter pots, harpe,pipe, and sawtrie." Alas! how sadly is the scene changed since theroaring days of Falstaff and old Stow! The madcap roisterer has givenplace to the plodding tradesman; the clattering of pots and the sound of"harpe and sawtrie," to the din of carts and the accurst dinging of thedustman's bell; and no song is heard, save, haply, the strain of somesyren from Billingsgate, chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel.

  I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. The onlyrelict of it is a boar's head, carved in relief in stone, which formerlyserved as the sign, but at present is built into the parting line of twohouses which stand on the site of the renowned old tavern.

  For the history of this little abode of good fellowship I was referredto a tallow-chandler's widow opposite, who had been born and brought upon the spot, and was looked up to as the indisputable chronicler of theneighborhood. I found her seated in a little back parlor, the windowof which looked out upon a yard about eight feet square laid out as aflower-garden, while a glass door opposite afforded a distant view ofthe street, through a vista of soap and tallow candles--the two views,which comprised, in all probability, her prospects in life and thelittle world in which she had lived and moved and had her being for thebetter part of a century.

  To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, from LondonStone even unto the Monument, was doubtless, in her opinion, to beacquainted with the history of the universe. Yet, with all this, shepossessed the simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal communicativedisposition which I have generally remarked in intelligent old ladiesknowing in the concerns of their neighborhood.

  Her information, however, did not extend far back into antiquity. Shecould throw no light upon the history of the Boar's Head from the timethat Dame Quickly espoused the valiant Pistol until the great fire ofLondon when it was unfortunately burnt down. It was soon rebuilt,and continued to flourish under the old name and sign, until a dyinglandlord, struck with remorse for double scores, bad measures, andother iniquities which are incident to the sinful race of publicans,endeavored to make his peace with Heaven by bequeathing the tavern toSt. Michael's Church, Crooked Lane, toward the supporting of a chaplain.For some time the vestry meetings were regularly held there, but itwas observed that the old Boar never held up his head under churchgovernment. He gradually declined, and finally gave his last gasp aboutthirty years since. The tavern was then turned into shops; but sheinformed me that a picture of it was still preserved in St. Michael'sChurch, which stood just in the rear. To get a sight of this picturewas now my determination; so, having informed myself of the abode ofthe sexton, I took my leave of the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, myvisit having doubtless raised greatly her opinion of her legendary loreand furnished an important incident in the history of her life.

  It cost me some difficulty and much curious inquiry to ferret out thehumble hanger-on to the church. I had to explore Crooked Lane and diverslittle alleys and elbows and dark passages with which this old city isperforated like an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers.At length I traced him to a corner of a s
mall court surrounded by loftyhouses, where the inhabitants enjoy about as much of the face of heavenas a community of frogs at the bottom of a well.

  The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bowing, lowly habit,yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his eye, and if encouraged, wouldnow and then hazard a small pleasantry, such as a man of his low estatemight venture to make in the company of high churchwardens and othermighty men of the earth. I found him in company with the deputyorganist, seated apart, like Milton's angels, discoursing, no doubt,on high doctrinal points, and settling the affairs of the church over afriendly pot of ale; for the lower classes of English seldom deliberateon any weighty matter without the assistance of a cool tankard to cleartheir understandings. I arrived at the moment when they had finishedtheir ale and their argument, and were about to repair to the churchto put it in order; so, having made known my wishes, I received theirgracious permission to accompany them.

  The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing a short distancefrom Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many fishmongersof renown; and as every profession has its galaxy of glory andits constellation of great men, I presume the monument of a mightyfishmonger of the olden time is regarded with as much reverence bysucceeding generations of the craft, as poets feel on contemplating thetomb of Virgil or soldiers the monument of a Marlborough or Turenne.

  I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious men, toobserve that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, contains also the ashes ofthat doughty champion, William Walworth, Knight, who so manfully clovedown the sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield--a hero worthy ofhonorable blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on record famous fordeeds of arms, the sovereigns of Cockney being generally renowned as themost pacific of all potentates.*

  * The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this worthy, which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagration.

  Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, William Walworth callyd by name: Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere; Who, with courage stout and manly myght, Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. For which act done, and trew entent, The Kyng made him knyght incontinent And gave him armes, as here you see, To declare his fact and chivaldrie. He left this lyff the yere of our God Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd.

  An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by thevenerable Stow. "Whereas," saith he, "it hath been far spread abroad byvulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir WilliamWalworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not WatTyler, I thought good to reconcile this rash-conceived doubt by suchtestimony as I find in ancient and good records. The principal leaders,or captains, of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man; thesecond was John, or Jack, Straw, etc., etc."--STOW'S London.

  Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately under the backwindow of what was once the Boar's Head, stands the tombstone of RobertPreston, whilom drawer at the tavern. It is now nearly a century sincethis trusty drawer of good liquor closed his bustling career and wasthus quietly deposited within call of his customers. As I was clearingaway the weeds from his epitaph the little sexton drew me on one sidewith a mysterious air, and informed me in a low voice that once upona time, on a dark wintry night, when the wind was unruly, howling, andwhistling, banging about doors and windows, and twirling weathercocks,so that the living were frightened out of their beds, and even the deadcould not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of honest Preston,which happened to be airing itself in the churchyard, was attractedby the well-known call of "Waiter!" from the Boar's Head, and made itssudden appearance in the midst of a roaring club, just as the parishclerk was singing a stave from the "mirre garland of Captain Death;" tothe discomfiture of sundry train-band captains and the conversion of aninfidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, andwas never known to twist the truth afterwards, except in the way ofbusiness.

  I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself for theauthenticity of this anecdote, though it is well known that thechurchyards and by-corners of this old metropolis are very much infestedwith perturbed spirits; and every one must have heard of the Cock Laneghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia in the Tower which hasfrightened so many bold sentinels almost out of their wits.

  Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have been a worthysuccessor to the nimbletongued Francis, who attended upon the revels ofPrince Hal; to have been equally prompt with his "Anon, anon, sir;"and to have transcended his predecessor in honesty; for Falstaff, theveracity of whose taste no man will venture to impeach, flatly accusesFrancis of putting lime in his sack, whereas honest Preston's epitaphlands him for the sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of his wine,and the fairness of his measure.* The worthy dignitaries of the church,however, did not appear much captivated by the sober virtues of thetapster; the deputy organist, who had a moist look out of the eye, madesome shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought up amongfull hogsheads, and the little sexton corroborated his opinion by asignificant wink and a dubious shake of the head.

  * As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is no doubt, the production of some choice spirit who once frequented the Boar's Head.

  Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, Produced one sober son, and here he lies. Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defy'd The charms of wine, and every one beside. O reader, if to justice thou 'rt inclined, Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. You that on Bacchus have the like dependence, Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance.

  Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on the history oftapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet disappointed me in thegreat object of my quest, the picture of the Boar's Head Tavern. Nosuch painting was to be found in the church of St. Michael's. "Marry andamen," said I, "here endeth my research!" So I was giving the matterup, with the air of a baffled antiquary, when my friend the sexton,perceiving me to be curious in everything relative to the old tavern,offered to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, which had beenhanded down from remote times when the parish meetings were held at theBoar's Head. These were deposited in the parish club-room, which hadbeen transferred, on the decline of the ancient establishment, to atavern in the neighborhood.

  A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 Miles Lane,bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is kept by Master EdwardHoneyball, the "bully-rock" of the establishment. It is one of thoselittle taverns which abound in the heart of the city and form the centreof gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. We entered the barroom,which was narrow and darkling, for in these close lanes but few rays ofreflected light are enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, whosebroad day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room was partitionedinto boxes, each containing a table spread with a clean white cloth,ready for dinner. This showed that the guests were of the good oldstamp, and divided their day equally, for it was but just one o'clock.At the lower end of the room was a clear coal fire, before which abreast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright brass candlesticks andpewter mugs glistened along the mantelpiece, and an old fashioned clockticked in one corner. There was something primitive in this medley ofkitchen, parlor, and hall that carried me back to earlier times, andpleased me. The place, indeed, was humble, but everything had that lookof order and neatness which bespeaks the superintendence of a notableEnglish housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might beeither fishermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of theboxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was usheredinto a little misshapen back room, having at least nine corners. It waslighted by a sky-light, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, andornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently app
ropriatedto particular customers, and I found a shabby gentleman in a red noseand oil-cloth hat seated in one corner meditating on a half empty pot ofporter.

  The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an air of profoundimportance imparted to her my errand. Dame Honeyball was a likely,plump, bustling little woman, and no bad substitute for that paragonof hostesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted with an opportunity tooblige, and, hurrying upstairs to the archives of her house, wherethe precious vessels of the parish club were deposited, she returned,smiling and courtesying, with them in her hands.

  The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco-box of giganticsize, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked at their statedmeetings since time immemorial, and which was never suffered to beprofaned by vulgar hands, or used on common occasions, I received itwith becoming reverence, but what was my delight at beholding onits cover the identical painting of which I was in quest! There wasdisplayed the outside of the Boar's Head Tavern, and before the door wasto be seen the whole convivial group at table, in full revel, picturedwith that wonderful fidelity and force with which the portraits ofrenowned generals and commodores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, forthe benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake,the cunning limner had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal andFalstaff on the bottoms of their chairs.

  On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly obliterated,recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the use ofthe vestry meetings at the Boar's Head Tavern, and that it was "repairedand beautified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." Such is afaithful description of this august and venerable relic, and I questionwhether the learned Scriblerius contemplated his Roman shield, orthe Knights of the Round Table the long-sought San-greal, with moreexultation.

  While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame Honeyball,who was highly gratified by the interest it excited, put in my handsa drinking-cup or goblet which also belonged to the vestry, and wasdescended from the old Boar's Head. It bore the inscription of havingbeen the gift of Francis Wythers, Knight, and was held, she told me, inexceeding great value, being considered very "antyke." This last opinionwas strengthened by the shabby gentleman with the red nose and oilclothhat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal descendant from thevariant Bardolph. He suddenly aroused from his meditation on the pot ofporter, and casting a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, "Ay, ay!the head don't ache now that made that there article."

  The great importance attached to this memento of ancient revelry bymodern churchwardens, at first puzzled me; but there is nothing sharpensthe apprehension so much as antiquarian research; for I immediatelyperceived that this could be no other than the identical "parcel-giltgoblet," on which Falstaff made his loving but faithless vow to DameQuickly, and which would, of course, be treasured up with care among theregalia of her domains, as a testimony of that solemn contract.*

  * "Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday, in Whitsun-week, when the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing man at Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it?"--Henry IV., Part 2.

  Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the goblet had beenhanded down from generation to generation. She also entertained mewith many particulars concerning the worthy vestrymen who have seatedthemselves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient roisterers ofEastcheap, and, like so many commentators, utter clouds of smoke inhonor of Shakespeare. These I forbear to relate, lest my readers shouldnot be as curious in these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, theneighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap, believe that Falstaff and hismerry crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there are severallegendary anecdotes concerning him still extant among the oldestfrequenters of the Mason's Arms, which they give as transmitted downfrom their forefathers; and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hair-dresser, whoseshop stands on the site of the old Boar's Head, has several dry jokesof Fat Jack's, not laid down in the books, with which he makes hiscustomers ready to die of laughter.

  I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some further inquiries, butI found him sunk in pensive meditation. His head had declined a littleon one side; a deep sigh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach,and, though I could not see a tear trembling in his eye, yet a moisturewas evidently stealing from a corner of his mouth. I followed thedirection of his eye through the door which stood open, and found itfixed wistfully on the savory breast of lamb, roasting in drippingrichness before the fire.

  I now called to mind that in the eagerness of my reconditeinvestigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. My bowelsyearned with sympathy, and putting in his hand a small token of mygratitude and goodness, I departed with a hearty benediction on him,Dame Honeyball, and the parish club of Crooked Lane--not forgetting myshabby, but sententious friend, in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose.

  Thus have I given a "tedious brief" account of this interestingresearch, for which, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, I canonly plead my inexperience in this branch of literature, so deservedlypopular at the present day. I am aware that a more skilful illustratorof the immortal bard would have swelled the materials I have touchedupon to a good merchantable bulk, comprising the biographies of WilliamWalworth, Jack Straw, and Robert Preston; some notice of the eminentfishmongers of St. Michael's; the history of Eastcheap, great andlittle; private anecdotes of Dame Honeyball and her pretty daughter,whom I have not even mentioned; to say nothing of a damsel tending thebreast of lamb (and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a comely lasswith a neat foot and ankle);--the whole enlivened by the riots of WatTyler, and illuminated by the great fire of London.

  All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by future commentators,nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box, and the "parcel-gilt goblet"which I have thus brought to light the subject of future engravings,and almost as fruitful of voluminous dissertations and disputes as theshield of Achilles or the far-famed Portland Vase.