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The Boar's Head Tavern
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-grandfather should say, that it was an old proverb
when his great-grandfather was a child, 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 of saints by votive lights burnt before their pictures.
The popularity of a 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 his effigy; while the whole
blaze of adoration is lavished at the shrine of some beatified
father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of
wax, the eager zealot, his seven-branched candlestick; and even
the mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied that sufficient
light is thrown upon the deceased unless he hangs up his little
lamp of smoking oil. The consequence is, that in the eagerness to
enlighten, they are often apt to obscure; and I have occasionally
seen an unlucky saint almost smoked out of countenance by the
officiousness of his followers.
In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakespeare. Every
writer considers it his bounden duty to light up some portion of
his character or works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion.
The commentator, opulent in words, produces vast tomes of
dissertations; the common herd of editors send up mists of
obscurity from their notes at the bottom of each page; and every
casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy or
research to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke.
As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the quill, I
thought it but proper to contribute my mite of homage to the
memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, however,
sorely puzzled in what way I should discharge this duty. I found
myself anticipated in every attempt at a new reading; every
doubtful line had been explained a dozen different ways, and
perplexed beyond the reach of elucidation; and as to fine
passages, they had all been amply praised by previous admirers;
nay, so completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with
panegyric by a great German critic that it was difficult now to
find even a fault that had not been argued into a beauty.
In this perplexity I was one morning turning over his pages when
I casually opened upon the comic scenes of Henry IV., and was, in
a moment, completely lost in the madcap revelry of the Boar's
Head Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these scenes of humor
depicted, and with such force and consistency are the characters
sustained, that they become mingled up in the mind with the facts
and personages of real life. To few readers does it occur that
these are all ideal creations of a poet's brain, and that, in
sober truth, no such knot of merry roisterers ever enlivened the
dull neighborhood of Eastcheap.
For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusions of poetry.
A hero of fiction that never existed is just as valuable to me as
a hero of history that existed a thousand years since and, if I
may be excused such an insensibility to the common ties of human
nature, I would not give up fat Jack for half the great men of
ancient chronicle. What have the heroes of yore done for me or
men like me? They have conquered countries of which I do not
enjoy an acre, or they have gained laurels of which I do not
inherit a leaf, or they have furnished examples of hair-brained
prowess, which I have neither the opportunity nor the inclination
to follow. But, old Jack Falstaff! kind Jack Falstaff! sweet Jack
Falstaff! has enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment; he has
added vast regions of wit and good-humor, in which the poorest
man may revel, 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 still exists. Who knows but I may light upon some
legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests? At any rate,
there will be a kindred pleasure in treading the halls once vocal
with their mirth to that the toper enjoys in smelling to the
empty cask, once filled with generous wine."
The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execution. I
forbear to treat of the various adventures and wonders I
encountered in my travels; of the haunted regions of Cock Lane;
of the faded glories of Little Britain and the parts adjacent;
what perils I ran in Cateaton Street and Old Jewry; of the
renowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, the pride and
wonder of the city and the terror of all unlucky urchins; and how
I visited London Stone, and struck my staff upon it in imitation
of that arch-rebel Jack Cade.
Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry
Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the very
names of the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane
bears testimony even at the present day. For Eastcheap, says old
Stow, "was always famous for its convivial doings. The cookes
cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well baked, and other
victuals: there was clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and
sawtrie." Alas! how sadly is the scene changed since the roaring
days of Falstaff and old Stow! The madcap roisterer has given
place 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 the dustman's bell; and no song is heard, save, haply,
the strain of some syren from Billingsgate, chanting the eulogy
of deceased mackerel.
I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. The
only relict of it is a boar's head, carved in relief in stone,
which formerly served as the sign, but at present is built into
the parting line of two houses which stand on the site of the
renowned old tavern.
For the history of this little abode of good fellowship I was
referred to a tallow-chandler's widow opposite, who had been born
and brought up on the spot, and was looked up to as the
indisputable chronicler of the neighborhood. I found her seated
in a little back parlor, the window of which looked out upon a
yard about eight feet square laid out as a flower-garden, while a
glass door opposite afforded a distant view of the street,
through a vista of soap and tallow candles--the two views, which
comprised, in all probability, her prospects in life and the
little world in which she had lived and moved and had her being
for the better part of a century.
To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, from
London Stone even unto the Monument, was doubtless, in her
opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the universe. Yet,
with all this, she possessed the simplicity of true wisdom, and
that liberal communicative disposition which I have generally
remarked in intelligent old ladies knowing in the concerns of
their neighborhood.
Her information, however, did not extend far back into antiquity.
She could throw no light upon the history of the Boar's Head from
the time that Dame Quickly espoused the valiant Pistol until the
great fire of London when it was unfortunately burnt down. It was
soon rebuilt, and continued to flourish under the old name and
sign, until a dying landlord, struck with remorse for double
scores, bad measures, and other iniquities which are incident to
the sinful race of publicans, endeavored to make his peace with
Heaven by bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael's Church, Crooked
Lane, toward the supporting of a chaplain. For some time the
vestry meetings were regularly held there, but it was observed
that the old Boar never held up his head under church government.
He gradually declined, and finally gave his last gasp about
thirty years since. The tavern was then turned into shops; but
she informed me that a picture of it was still preserved in St.
Michael's Church, which stood just in the rear. To get a sight of
this picture was now my determination; so, having informed myself
of the abode of the sexton, I took my leave of the venerable
chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless raised greatly
her opinion of her legendary lore and furnished an important
incident in the history of her life.
It cost me some difficulty and much curious inquiry to ferret out
the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to explore Crooked Lane
and divers little alleys and elbows and dark passages with which
this old city is perforated like an ancient cheese, or a
worm-eaten chest of drawers. At length I traced him to a corner
of a small court surrounded by lofty houses, where the
inhabitants enjoy about as much of the face of heaven as 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, would now and then hazard a small pleasantry, such as
a man of his low estate might venture to make in the company of
high churchwardens and other mighty men of the earth. I found him
in company with the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's
angels, discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, and
settling the affairs of the church over a friendly pot of ale;
for the lower classes of English seldom deliberate on any weighty
matter without the assistance of a cool tankard to clear their
understandings. I arrived at the moment when they had finished
their ale and their argument, and were about to repair to the
church to put it in order; so, having made known my wishes, I
received their gracious permission to accompany them.
The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing a short
distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many
fishmongers of renown; and as every profession has its galaxy of
glory and its constellation of great men, I presume the monument
of a mighty fishmonger of the olden time is regarded with as much
reverence by succeeding generations of the craft, as poets feel
on contemplating the tomb of Virgil or soldiers the monument of a
Marlborough or Turenne.
I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious men,
to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, contains also the
ashes of that doughty champion, William Walworth, Knight, who so
manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield--a
hero worthy of honorable blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on
record famous for deeds of arms, the sovereigns of Cockney being
generally renowned as the most 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 the
venerable Stow. "Whereas," saith he, "it hath been far spread
abroad by vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully
by Sir William Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named
Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this
rash-conceived doubt by such testimony as I find in ancient and
good records. The principal leaders, or captains, of the commons,
were Wat Tyler, as the first man; the second was John, or Jack,
Straw, etc., etc.--STOW'S London.
Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately under the
back window of what was once the Boar's Head, stands the
tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer at the tavern. It is
now nearly a century since this trusty drawer of good liquor
closed his bustling career and was thus quietly deposited within
call of his customers. As I was clearing away the weeds from his
epitaph the little sexton drew me on one side with a mysterious
air, and informed me in a low voice that once upon a time, on a
dark wintry night, when the wind was unruly, howling, and
whistling, banging about doors and windows, and twirling
weathercocks, so that the living were frightened out of their
beds, and even the dead could not sleep quietly in their graves,
the ghost of honest Preston, which happened to be airing itself
in the churchyard, was attracted by the well-known call of
"Waiter!" from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appearance in
the midst of a roaring club, just as the parish clerk was singing
a stave from the "mirre garland of Captain Death;" to the
discomfiture of sundry train-band captains and the conversion of
an infidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot,
and was never known to twist the truth afterwards, except in the
way of business.
I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself for the
authenticity of this anecdote, though it is well known that the
churchyards and by-corners of this old metropolis are very much
infested with perturbed spirits; and every one must have heard of
the Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia
in the Tower which has frightened so many bold sentinels almost
out of their wits.
Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have been a
worthy successor to the nimbletongued Francis, who attended upon
the revels of Prince Hal; to have been equally prompt with his
"Anon, anon, sir;" and to have transcended his predecessor in
honesty; for Falstaff, the veracity of whose taste no man will
venture to impeach, flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his
sack, whereas honest Preston's epitaph lands 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 the tapster;
the deputy organist, who had a moist look out of the eye, made
some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought up
among full hogsheads, and the little sexton corroborated his
opinion by a significant 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 of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet
disappointed me in the great object of my quest, the picture of
the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was to be found in the
church of St. Michael's. "Marry and amen," said I, "here endeth
my research!" So I was giving the matter up, 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 been handed down
from remote times when the parish meetings were held at the
Boar's Head. These were deposited in the parish club-room, which
had been transferred, on the decline of the ancient
establishment, to a tavern 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 Edward Honeyball, the "bully-rock" of the establishment.
It is one of those little taverns which abound in the heart of
the city and form the centre of gossip and intelligence of the
neighborhood. We entered the barroom, which was narrow and
darkling, for in these close lanes but few rays of reflected
light are enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, whose
broad day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room was
partitioned into boxes, each containing a table spread with a
clean white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed that the guests
were of the good old stamp, 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 a breast of lamb was roasting. A
row of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along
the mantelpiece, and an old fashioned clock ticked in one corner.
There was something primitive in this medley of kitchen, parlor,
and hall that carried me back to earlier times, and pleased me.
The place, indeed, was humble, but everything had that look of
order and neatness which bespeaks the superintendence of a
notable English housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings,
who might be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling
themselves in one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather
higher pretensions, I was ushered into a little misshapen back
room, having at least nine corners. It was lighted by a
sky-light, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, and
ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently
appropriated to particular customers, and I found a shabby
gentleman in a red nose and oil-cloth hat seated in one corner
meditating on a half empty pot of porter.
The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an air of
profound importance imparted to her my errand. Dame Honeyball was
a likely, plump, bustling little woman, and no bad substitute for
that paragon of hostesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted
with an opportunity to oblige, and, hurrying upstairs to the
archives of her house, where the 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
gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked at
their stated meetings since time immemorial, and which was never
suffered to be profaned by vulgar hands, or used on common
occasions, I received it with becoming reverence, but what was my
delight at beholding on its cover the identical painting of which
I was in quest! There was displayed the outside of the Boar's
Head Tavern, and before the door was to be seen the whole
convivial group at table, in full revel, pictured with that
wonderful fidelity and force with which the portraits of renowned
generals and commodores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the
benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake,
the cunning limner had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal
and Falstaff 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 of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head
Tavern, and that it was "repaired and beautified by his
successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful
description of this august and venerable relic, and I question
whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated his Roman shield, or
the Knights of the Round Table the long-sought San-greal, with
more exultation.
While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame
Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the interest it excited,
put in my hands a drinking-cup or goblet which also belonged to
the vestry, and was descended from the old Boar's Head. It bore
the inscription of having been the gift of Francis Wythers,
Knight, and was held, she told me, in exceeding great value,
being considered very "antyke." This last opinion was
strengthened by the shabby gentleman with the red nose and
oilcloth hat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal
descendant from the variant Bardolph. He suddenly aroused from
his meditation on the pot of porter, 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
by modern churchwardens, at first puzzled me; but there is
nothing sharpens the apprehension so much as antiquarian
research; for I immediately perceived that this could be no other
than the identical "parcel-gilt goblet," on which Falstaff made
his loving but faithless vow to Dame Quickly, and which would, of
course, be treasured up with care among the regalia 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
been handed down from generation to generation. She also
entertained me with many particulars concerning the worthy
vestrymen who have seated themselves thus quietly on the stools
of the ancient roisterers of Eastcheap, and, like so many
commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honor of Shakespeare.
These I forbear to relate, lest my readers should not be as
curious in these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the
neighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap, believe that Falstaff
and his merry crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there
are several legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant among
the oldest frequenters of the Mason's Arms, which they give as
transmitted down from their forefathers; and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish
hair-dresser, whose shop stands on the site of the old Boar's
Head, has several dry jokes of Fat Jack's, not laid down in the
books, with which he makes his customers ready to die of
laughter.
I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some further
inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive meditation. His head
had declined a little on 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 moisture was evidently stealing from
a corner of his mouth. I followed the direction of his eye
through the door which stood open, and found it fixed wistfully
on the savory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness
before the fire.
I now called to mind that in the eagerness of my recondite
investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. My
bowels yearned with sympathy, and putting in his hand a small
token of my gratitude and goodness, I departed with a hearty
benediction on him, Dame Honeyball, and the parish club of
Crooked Lane--not forgetting my shabby, but sententious friend,
in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose.
Thus have I given a "tedious brief" account of this interesting
research, for which, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, I
can only plead my inexperience in this branch of literature, so
deservedly popular at the present day. I am aware that a more
skilful illustrator of the immortal bard would have swelled the
materials I have touched upon to a good merchantable bulk,
comprising the biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, and
Robert Preston; some notice of the eminent fishmongers of St.
Michael's; the history of Eastcheap, great and little; private
anecdotes of Dame Honeyball and her pretty daughter, whom I have
not even mentioned; to say nothing of a damsel tending the breast
of lamb (and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a comely lass
with a neat foot and ankle);--the whole enlivened by the riots of
Wat Tyler, 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 the shield of Achilles
or the far-famed Portland Vase.
Washington Irving's short story: The Boar's Head Tavern
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