A ROYAL POET.
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Though your body be confin'd,
And soft love a prisoner bound,
Yet the beauty of your mind
Neither check nor chain hath found.
Look out nobly, then, and dare
Even the fetters that you wear.
Fletcher.
On a soft sunny morning, in the month of
May, I made an excursion to Windsor, to visit
the castle. It is a proud old pile, stretching its
irregular walls and massive towers along the
brow of a lofty ridge, waving its royal banner
in the clouds, and looking down with a lordly
air upon the surrounding world. It is a place
that I love to visit, for it is full of storied and
poetical associations. On this morning, the
weather was of that soft vernal kind that calls
forth the latent romance of a man's
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temperament, and makes him quote poetry, and dream
of beauty. In wandering through the magnificent
saloons and long echoing galleries of the
old castle, I felt myself most disposed to linger
in the chamber where hang the portraits of the
beauties that once flourished in the gay court of
Charles the Second. As I traversed the “large
green courts,” with sunshine beaming on the
gray walls, and glancing along the velvet turf,
I called to mind the tender, the gallant, but
hapless Surrey's account of his loiterings about
them in his stripling days, when enamoured of
the Lady Geraldine—
“With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower,
With easie sighs, such as men draw in love.”
But the most interesting object of my visit
was the ancient keep of the castle, where
James the First of Scotland, the pride and
theme of Scottish poets and historians, was
for many years of his youth detained a prisoner
of state. It is a huge gray tower, that has
stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good
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preservation. A great flight of steps leads to
the interior. In the armoury, a Gothic hall
filled with weapons of various kinds, is still
shown hanging against the wall, a suit of
armour that once belonged to James. From
hence a staircase conducts to a suite of apartments
of faded magnificence, hung with gobelin
tapestry, which formed James's prison.
The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate
prince is highly romantic, and too
well known to need particular relation. At
the tender age of eleven he was sent from
home by his father, Robert III., and destined
for the French court, to be reared under the
eye of the French monarch, secure from the
treachery and danger that surrounded the royal
house of Scotland. It was his mishap in the
course of his voyage, to fall into the hands of
the English, and he was detained prisoner by
Henry IV., notwithstanding that a truce existed
between the two countries.
The intelligence of his capture, coming in
the train of many sorrows and disasters, proved
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fatal to his unhappy father. “The news,” we
are told, “was brought to him while at supper,
and did so overwhelm him with grief, that he
was almost ready to give up the ghost into the
hands of the servants that attended him. But
being carried to his bed chamber, he abstained
from all food, and in three days died of hunger
and grief, at Rothesay.”[1]
James was detained in captivity for eighteen
years; but, though deprived of personal
liberty, he was treated with the respect due to
his rank. Care was taken to instruct him in
all the branches of useful knowledge cultivated
at that period, and to give him those mental
and personal accomplishments deemed proper
for a prince. Perhaps, in this respect, his
imprisonment was an advantage, as it enabled
him to apply himself the more exclusively to
his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that
rich fund of knowledge, and to cherish those
elegant tastes, which have given such a lustre
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to his memory. The picture drawn of him in
early life, by the Scottish historians, is highly
captivating, and seems rather the description of
a hero of romance, than a character in real
history. He was well learnt, we are told, “to
fight with the sword, to joust, to tournay, to
wrestle, to sing and dance; he was an expert
mediciner, right crafty in playing both of lute
and harp and sundry other instruments of musick,
and was expert in grammar, oratory, and
poetry.”[2]
With this combination of manly and delicate
accomplishments, fitting him to shine both
in active and elegant life, and calculated to
give him an intense relish for joyous existence,
it must have been a severe trial, in an age of
bustle and chivalry, to pass the spring time of
his years in monotonous captivity. It was the
good fortune of James, however, to be gifted
with a powerfully poetic fancy, and to be
visited in his prison by the choicest inspira
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tions of the muse. Some minds corrode, and
grow inactive, under the loss of personal liberty;
others, morbid and irritable; but it is
the nature of the poet to become tender and
imaginative in the loneliness of confinement.
He banquets upon the honey of his own
thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours
forth his soul in melody.
Have you not seen the nightingale
A pilgrim coop'd into a cage,
How doth she chant her wonted tale,
In that her lonely hermitage!
Even there her charming melody doth prove
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.[3]
Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination,
that it is irrepressible, unconfinable—
That when the real world is shut out, it can
create a world for itself, and, with a necromantic
power, can conjure up glorious shapes
and forms, and brilliant visions, to make solitude
populous, and irradiate the gloom of the
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dungeon. Such was the world of pomp and
pageant that lived around Tasso in his dismal
cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid
scenes of his Jerusalem; and we may consider
the “King's Quair,”[4] composed by James
during his captivity at Windsor, as another of
those beautiful breakings forth of the soul
from the restraint and gloom of the prison
house.
The subject of the poem is his love for the
Lady Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of
Somerset. He saw her, accidentally, from the
window of his prison, and fell in love with
her, in the true spirit of poetry and romance.
The poem is a rich effusion of feeling and
fancy; full of the descriptive vein which characterizes
the poetry of that day, and sobered
and sweetened by the most simple and natural
reflections.
James flourished nearly about the time of
Chaucer and Gower, and was evidently a
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studier and admirer of their writings. Indeed, in
one of his stanzas he acknowledges them as
his masters; and, in some parts of his poem, he
seems almost to have borrowed from his prototypes.
There are always, however, general
features of resemblance in the works of contemporary
authors, that are not so much borrowed
from each other as from the times. Writers,
like bees, toll their sweets in the wide world;
they incorporate with their own conceptions the
anecdotes and thoughts which are current in society,
and thus each generation has some features
in common, characteristic of the age in
which it lived. What gives peculiar value to
the poem of James is, that it may be considered
a transcript of the royal bard's true feelings, and
the story of his real loves and fortunes. It is
not often that sovereigns write poetry, or that
poets deal in fact. It is gratifying to the pride
of a common man, to find a monarch thus suing,
as it were, for admission into his closet, and
seeking to win his favour by administering to
his pleasures. It is a proof of the honest
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equality of intellectual competition, which strips off
all the trappings of factitious dignity, brings the
candidate down to a level with his fellow men,
and obliges him to depend on his own native
powers for distinction. It is curious, too, to get
at the history of a monarch's heart, and find the
simple affections of human nature throbbing
under the ermine. But James had learnt to be
a poet before he was a king: he was schooled
in adversity, and reared in the company of his
own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to
parley with their hearts, or meditate their minds
into poetry; and had James been brought up
amidst the adulation and gayety of a court, we
should never have had such a poem as the
Quair.
In his first canto he makes several allusions
to his misfortunes, and his wearisome imprisonment.
They are extremely natural and touching;
and, perhaps, are rendered more touching
by their simple brevity. They contrast finely
with those elaborate and iterated complaints
which we sometimes meet in poetry, the
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effusions of morbid minds sickening under miseries
of their own creating, and venting their bitterness
on an unoffending world. James speaks
of his privations with acute sensibility; but,
having mentioned them, passes on, as if his
manly mind disdained to brood over unavoidable
calamities. When such a spirit breaks forth
into complaint, we are aware how great must
be the suffering that extorts the murmur. We
sympathize with James, a romantic, active, and
accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood of
youth from all the enterprise and noble uses of
life, as we do with Milton, alive to all the beauties
of nature and glories of art, when he
breathes forth brief, but deep-toned lamentations,
over his perpetual blindness.
From a passage in the first canto, we find,
that the favourite book of James, while in prison,
was Boetius' Consolations of Philosophy,
a work popular among the writers of that day,
and which had been translated by his great
predecessor, Chaucer. And, indeed, it would
be difficult to find, out of the sacred writings, a
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more admirable text book for meditation under
misfortune. It is the legacy of a noble and enduring
spirit, purified by sorrow and suffering,
bequeathing to all its successors in calamity the
stores of eloquent but simple reasoning, by
which it was enabled to bear up against the various
ills of life. It is a talisman which the
unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom, or,
like the good King James, lay it on his nightly
pillow.
At what period of his durance he fell in love
with the Lady Jane is uncertain, but from that
moment it is probable he “hung up philosophy,”
and became poetical. The description of his
first seeing her is picturesque, and given with
great beauty of detail. He was in the midst
of one of his fits of lonely weariness, despairing,
as he says, of all joy and remedy. “For—
tired of thought, and wo-begone,” he wandered
to the window to watch the passers by,
and gaze out upon the world—the poor solace
of the captive. The window looked forth upon
a small garden which lay at the foot of the
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tower. It was a quiet sheltered spot, adorned
with arbours and green alleys, and protected
from the passing gaze by trees and hawthorn
hedges.
Now was there made fast by the towers wall
A garden faire, and in the corners set
An arbour green, with wandis long and small
Railed about, and so with trees beset
Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet,
That lyf[5] was none walkyng there forbye,
That might within scarce any wight espye.
So thick the beuis† and the leves grene
Beshaded all the alleys that there were,
And midst of every arbour might be seen
The sharp, grene, sweet juniper
Growing so fair with branches here and there,
That as it seemed to a lyf without
The boughs did spread the arbour all about.
And on the small grene twistis‡ sat
The lytil suete nyghtingales and sung
So loud and clere, the hymnis consecrate
Of luvis use, now soft, now loud among,
That all the garden and the wallis rong
Ryght of their song—
It was in the month of May, when every
thing was in its bloom. As he gazes on the
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scene, and listens to the notes of the birds, he
gradually lapses into one of those tender and
undefinable reveries, that fill the youthful bosom
in this delicious season. He wonders
what this love may be, of which he has so
often read, and which thus seems breathed
forth in the quickening breath of May, and
melting all nature into ecstacy and song. If
it really be so great a felicity, and if it be a
boon thus generally dispensed to the most insignificant
of beings, why is he alone cut off
from its enjoyments?
Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be?
That love is of so noble myght and kynde,
Loving his folk, and such prosperitee
Is it of him, as we in bukis find,
May he oure hertes setten and unbynd:
Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye?
Or is all this but feyuit fantasye?
For giff he be of so grete excellence,
That he of every wight hath cure and charge,
What have I gilt to him, or done offense?
That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large.
In the midst of his musing, as he cast his eyes
downward, he beheld, he says, “the fairest
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and the freschest young floure” that ever he
had seen. It was the beautiful Lady Jane,
walking in the garden. She at once captivated
the fancy of the romantic prince—became
the object of his wishes—the sovereign of his
ideal world.
There is in all this charming scene a similarity
to the early part of Chaucer's Knight's
tale, where Palamon and Arcite fall in love
with Emilia, whom they see walking in the
garden of their prison. But perhaps the very
similarity of the actual fact to the poetical incident
which he had read, may have induced
James to have dwelt upon it in his poem.
His description of the Lady Jane is more elaborate
than Chaucer's of Emilia. He dwells,
with the fondness of a lover, on every article
of her apparel, even to the “goodly chain of
small orfeverye”[6] about her neck, whereby
there hung a ruby in shape of a heart, that
seemed, he says, like a spark of fire burning
upon her white bosom.
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In her was youth, beautee, with humble port,
Bountee, richesse, and womanly feature,
(God better wote than my pen can reporte)
Wisdome, largesse estate, and cunning sure,
In every point, so guided her mesure,
In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance,
That nature might no more her child advance.
Whether this was really the manner in
which James first saw the lady of his heart,
or whether it is a mere poetical fiction, it is
fruitless to conjecture. Do not let us always
distrust what is picturesque and romantic, as
incompatible with real life; but sometimes take
a poet at his word.
I find I am insensibly swelling this story
beyond my original intention, and must bring
it to a close. James, though unfortunate in
the general tenor of his life, was more happy
in his love than is generally the lot of poets.
When at length he was released from his
tedious captivity, and restored to his crown,
he espoused the Lady Jane, who made him
a most tender and devoted wife. She was the
faithful sharer of his joys and his troubles;
and when, after a brief, but memorable, reign
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of thirteen years, he was barbarously murdered
by his own relatives at Perth, she interposed
her body to shield him from harm, and
was repeatedly wounded by the sword of the
assassin.
It was the recollection of this romantic tale
of former times, and of the golden little poem
that had its birthplace in this tower, that made
me visit the old pile with such lively interest.
The suit of armour, richly gilt and embellished,
as if to figure in the tournay, brought the
image of the romantic prince vividly before
my imagination. I paced the deserted chambers
where he had composed his poem.—I
looked out upon the spot where he had first
seen the Lady Jane. It was in the same genial
month—every thing was bursting into vegetation,
and budding forth the tender promise
of the year. Time seems to have passed
lightly over this little scene of poetry and
love, and to have withheld his desolating hand.
Several centuries have gone by, yet the garden
still flourishes at the foot of the tower.
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The arbours, it is true, have disappeared, yet
the place is still sheltered, blooming, and retired.
There is a charm about a spot that has
once been printed by the footsteps of departed
beauty, and hallowed by the inspirations of the
poet, that is heightened, rather than impaired,
by the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift of
poetry to consecrate every place in which it
moves; to breathe around nature an odour more
exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and to
shed over it a tint more magical than the blush
of morning.
Others may speak of the illustrious deeds of
James, as a warrior and a legislator; but I have
delighted to view him as the benefactor of the
human heart, stooping from his high estate to
sow the sweet flowers of poetry and song in the
paths of common life. He did all in his power
to soften and refine the spirit of his countrymen.
He wrote many poems which are now
lost to the world. He improved the national
music; and traces of his tender and elegant taste
may be found in those witching airs still piped
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among the wild mountains and lonely glens of
Scotland. He has thus embalmed his memory
in song, and floated it down to after ages, in
the rich stream of Scottish melody. All these
things were kindling at my heart as I paced the
silent scene of his imprisonment. I have visited
Vaucluse with as much enthusiasm as a pilgrim
would visit the shrine at Loretto; but I
never felt more poetical devotion, than when
contemplating the old tower and the little garden
at Windsor.
eaf214v3.n1[1] Buchanan.
eaf214v3.n2[2] Hector Boyce.
eaf214v3.n3[3] Roger L'Estrange.
eaf214v3.n4[4] Quair. The old Scottish term for Book.
eaf214v3.n5[5] Person.
eaf214v3.dag1† Boughs.
eaf214v3.ddag1‡ Twigs.
Note.—Many of the words in the quotations are modernized, to
render them more intelligible.
eaf214v3.n6[6] Wrought gold.
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THE COUNTRY CHURCH.
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A gentleman?
What, o' the woolpack? or the sugar chest?
Or lists of velvet? which is't, pound, or yard,
You vend your gentry by?
Beggar's Bush.
There are few places more favourable to the
study of character than an English country
Church. I was once passing a few weeks at
the seat of a friend, who resided in the vicinity
of one, the appearance of which particularly
struck my fancy. It was one of those rich
morsels of quaint antiquity which give such a
peculiar charm to English landscape. It stood
in the midst of a county filled with ancient
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families, and contained, within its cold and
silent aisles, the congregated dust of many
noble generations. The interior walls were
encrusted with monuments of every age and
style. The light streamed through windows
dimmed with armorial bearings, richly emblazoned
in stained glass. In various parts of the
church were tombs of knights, and high-born
dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their
effigies in coloured marble. On every side, the
eye was struck with some instance of aspiring
mortality; some haughty memorial which
human pride had erected over its kindred dust,
in this temple of the most humble of all religions.
The congregation was composed of the neighbouring
people of rank, who sat in pews sumptuously
lined and cushioned, furnished with
richly-gilded prayer books, and decorated with
their arms upon the pew doors—the villagers
and peasantry, who filled the back seats, and a
small gallery beside the organ—and the poor of
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the parish, who were ranged on benches in the
aisles.
The service was performed by a snuffling,
well fed, vicar, who had a snug dwelling near
the church. He was a privileged guest at
all the tables of the neighbourhood, and had
been the keenest fox-hunter in the county,
until age, and good living, had disabled him
from doing any thing more than ride to see the
hounds throw off, and make one at the hunting
dinner.
Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found
it impossible to get into the train of thought
suitable to the time and place; so, having, like
many other feeble christians, compromised with
my conscience, by laying the sin of my own
delinquency at the threshold of another, I occupied
myself by making observations on my
neighbours.
I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious
to notice the manners of its fashionable
classes. I found, as usual, that there was the
least pretension where there was the most
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acknowledged title to respect. I was particularly
struck, for instance, with the family of a nobleman
of high rank, consisting of several sons
and daughters. Nothing could be more simple
and unassuming than their appearance. They
generally came to church in the plainest equipage,
and often on foot. The young ladies
would stop and converse, in the kindest manner,
with the peasantry, caress the children, and listen
to the stories of the humble cottagers.
Their countenances were open, beautifully fair,
with an expression of high refinement, but, at
the same time, a frank cheerfulness, and engaging
affability. Their brothers were tall, and
elegantly formed. They were dressed fashionably,
but simply; with strict neatness and propriety,
but without any mannerism or foppishness.
Their whole demeanour was easy and
natural, with that lofty grace, and noble frankness,
which bespeak free-born souls that have
never been checked in their growth by feelings
of inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness
about real dignity, that never dreads contact
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and communion with others, however humble.
It is only spurious pride that is morbid and sensitive,
and shrinks from every touch. I was
pleased to see the manner in which they would
converse with the peasantry about those rural
concerns and field sports, in which the gentlemen
of this country so much delight. In these
conversations, there was neither haughtiness on
the one part, nor servility on the other; and
you were only reminded of the difference of
rank by the habitual respect of the peasant.
In contrast to these, was the family of a
wealthy citizen, who had amassed a vast fortune,
and, having purchased the estate and mansion
of a ruined nobleman in the neighbourhood,
was endeavouring to assume all the style
and dignity of an hereditary lord of the soil.
The family always came to church en prince.
They were rolled majestically along in a carriage
emblazoned with arms. The crest glittered
in silver radiance from every part of the harness
where a crest could possibly be placed.
A fat coachman in a three-cornered hat, richly
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laced, and a flaxen wig, curling close around
his rosy face, was seated on the box, with a
sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen
in gorgeous liveries, with huge bouquets, and
gold-headed canes, lolled behind. The carriage
rose and sunk on its long springs with peculiar
stateliness of motion. The very horses champed
their bits, arched their necks, and glanced their
eyes more proudly than common horses, either
because they had got a little of the family feeling,
or were reined up more tightly than ordinary.
I could not but admire the style with which
this splendid pageant was brought up to the
gate of the church yard. There was a vast
effect produced at the turning of an angle of the
wall. A great cracking of the whip; straining
and scrambling of the horses; glistening of
harness, and flashing of wheels through gravel.
This was the moment of triumph and
vain glory to the coachman. The horses were
urged and checked until they were fretted into
a foam. They threw out their feet in a
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prancing trot, dashing about pebbles at every step.
The crowd of villagers sauntering quietly to
church, opened precipitately to the right and
left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching
the gate, the horses were pulled up with a suddenness
that produced an immediate stop, and
almost threw them on their haunches.
There was an extraordinary hurry of the footmen
to alight, open the door, pull down the
steps, and prepare every thing for the descent
on earth of this august family. The old citizen
would first emerge his round red face from out
the door, looking about him with the pompus
air of a man accustomed to rule on change, and
shake the stock market with a nod. His consort,
a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, followed
him. There seemed, I must confess, but little
pride in her composition. She was the picture
of broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The
world went well with her; and she liked the
world. She had fine clothes, a fine house, a
fine carriage, fine children, every thing was
fine about her: it was nothing but driving about,
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and visiting and feasting. Life was to her a
perpetual revel; it was one long lord mayor's
day.
Two daughters succeeded to this goodly
couple. They certainly were handsome, but
there was a supercilious air, that chilled admiration,
and disposed the spectator to be critical.
They were ultra-fashionables in dress, and,
though no one could deny the richness of their
decorations, yet their appropriateness might be
questioned amidst the simplicity of a country
church. They descended loftily from the carriage,
and moved up the line of peasantry with
a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on.
They cast an excursive glance around, that
passed coldly over the burly faces of the peasantry,
until they met the eyes of the nobleman's
family, when their countenances immediately
brightened into smiles, and they made the most
profound and elegant courtesies; which were
returned in a manner that showed they were
but slight acquaintances.
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I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring
citizen, who came to church in a dashing
curricle, with outriders. They were arrayed in
the extremity of the mode, with all that pedantry
of dress which marks the man of questionable
pretensions to style.
They kept entirely by themselves, eyeing
every one askance that came near them, as if
measuring his claims to respectability; yet they
were without conversation, except the exchange
of an occasional cant phrase. They even
moved artificially, for their bodies, in compliance
with the caprice of the day, had been
disciplined into the absence of all ease and freedom.
Art had done every thing to accomplish
them as men of fashion, but nature had denied
them the nameless grace. They were vulgarly
shaped, like men formed for the common purposes
of life, and had that air of supercilious
assumption which is never seen in the true
gentleman.
I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures
of these two families, because I considered
them specimens of what is often to be met with
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in this country—the unpretending great, and
the arrogant little. I have no respect for titled
rank, unless it be accompanied by true nobility
of soul; but I have remarked, in all countries
where these artificial distinctions exist, the very
highest classes are always the most courteous
and unassuming. Those who are well assured
of their own standing, are least apt to trespass
on that of others; whereas, nothing is so offensive
as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks
to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbour.
As I have brought these families into contrast,
I must notice their behaviour in church. That
of the nobleman's family was quiet, serious,
and attentive. Not that they appeared to have
any fervour of devotion, but rather a respect for
sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable
from good breeding. The others, on the contrary,
were in a perpetual flutter and whisper;
they betrayed a continual consciousness of finery,
and a sorry ambition of being the wonders
of a rural congregation.
The old gentleman was the only one really
attentive to the service. He took the whole
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burden of family devotion upon himself; stood
bolt upright, and uttered the responses with a
loud voice that might be heard all over the
church. It was evident that he was one of
those thorough church and king men, who connect
the idea of devotion and loyalty; who consider
the deity, some how or other, of the government
party, and religion “a very excellent
sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced and
kept up.”
When he joined so loudly in the service, it
seemed more by way of example to the lower
orders, to show them, that though so great and
wealthy, he was not above being religious; as I
have seen a turtle-fed alderman publicly swallow
a basin of charity soup, smacking his lips at
every mouthful, and pronouncing it “excellent
food for the poor.”
When the service was at an end, I was curious
to witness the several exits of my groups. The
young noblemen and their sisters, as the day
was fine, preferred strolling home across the
fields, chatting with the country people as they
went. The others departed as they came, in
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grand parade. Again were the equipages
wheeled up to the gate. There was again the
smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and
the glittering of harness. The horses started off
almost at a bound; the villagers again hurried
to right and left; the wheels threw up a cloud of
dust, and the aspiring family was wrapt out of
sight in a whirlwind.
-- --
THE WIDOW AND HER SON.
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Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires
Honor and reverence evermore have raign'd.
Marlowe's Tamburlaine.
During my residence in the country, I used
frequently to attend at the old village church.
Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments,
its dark oaken pannelling, all reverend with the
gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the
haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in
the country, is so holy in its repose: such a
pensive quiet reigns over the face of nature, that
every restless passion is charmed down, and
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we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently
springing up within us.
Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!--
I do not pretned to be what is called a devout
man, but ther are feelings that visit me in a
country church, amidst the beautiful serenity
of nature, which I experience no where else; and
if not a more religious, I am certainly a better,
man on Sunday, than on any other day of the
seven.
But in this church I felt myself continually
thrown back upon the world by the frigidity
and pomp of the poor worms around me. The
only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the
humble and prostrate piety of a true christian,
was a poor decrepid old woman, bending under
the weight of years and infirmities. She bore
the traces of something better than abject poverty
The lingerings of decent pride were visible
in her appearance. Her dress, though
humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean.
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Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded
her, for she did not take her seat among the village
poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar.
She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship,
all society, and to have nothing left her but
the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly
rising and bending her aged form in prayer--habitually
conning her prayer book, which her palsied
hand and failing eyes could not permit
her to read, but which she evidently knew by
heart--I felt that the faltering voice of that
poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses
of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or
the chanting of the choir.
I am fond of loitering about country churches,
and this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently
attracted me. It stood on a knoll, round
which a small stream made a beautiful bend,
and then wound its way through a long reach
of soft meadow scenery. The church was
surrouned by yew trees, which seemed almost
coeval with itself. Its tall gothic spire
shot up lightly from among them, with rooks
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and crows generally wheeling about it. I was
seated here there one still sunny morning, watching
two labourers who were digging a grave. They
had chosen one of the most remote and neglected
corners of the church yard, where, by the
number of nameless graes around, it would
appear that the indigent and friendless were
huddled into the earth. I was told that the newmade
grave was for the only son of a poorwidow.
While I was meditating on the distinctions
of worldly rank, which extend thus down
into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced
the approach of the funeral. They were the
obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing
to do. A coffin of the plainest materials,
without pall or other covering, was borne by
some of the villagers. The sexton walked before
with an air of cold indifference. There
were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected
wo, but there was one real mourner who
feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the
aged mother of the deceased--the poor old woman
whom I had seen seated on the steps of the
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altar. She was supported by a humble friend,
who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few
of the neighboring poor had joined the train,
and some children of the village were running
hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking
mirth, and sometimes pausing to gaze, with
'
childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner.
As the funeral train approached the grave,
the parson issued out of the church porch, porch
in the surplice, with prayer book in hand,
and attended by the clerk. The service, however,
was a mere act of charity. The deceased
had been destitute, and the survivor was pennyless.
It was shuffled through, therfore, in
form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed
priest scarcely moved ten steps from the
church door; his voice could scarcely be heard
at the grave; and never did I hear the funeral
service, that sublime and touching ceremony,
turned into such a frigid mummery of words.
I approached the grave. The coffin was
placed on the ground. On it were inscribed
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the name and age of the deceased--"George
Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother
had been assisted to kneel down at the head of
it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in
prayer, but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking
of the body, and a convulsive motion of the
lips that she was gazing on the last reliques of
her son with the yearnings of a mother's heart.
The service being ended, preparations were
made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There
was that bustling stir, that breaks so harshly on
the feelings of grief and affection: directions
given in the cold tones of business; the striking
of spades into sand and gravel, which, at the
grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, the
most withering. The bustle around seemed to
awaken the mother from a wretched reverie.
She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about
with a faint wildness. As the men approached
with cords to lower the coffin into the grave,
she wrung her hands and broke into an agony
of grief. The poor woman who attended her
took her by the arm, endeavored to raise her
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from the earth, and to whisper something like
consolation--"Nay, now--nay, now--don't
take it so sorely to heart." She could only
shake her head, and wring her hands, as one not
to be comforted.
As they lowere the body into the earth, the
creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her;
but when, on some accidental obstruction, there
was a jolting of the coffin, all the tenderness of
the mother burst forth; as if any harm could
come to him who was far beyoind the reach of
worldly suffering.
I could see no more--my heart swelled into
my throat--my eyes filled with tears--I felt as
if I were acting a barbarous part in standing by
and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish.
I wandered to another part of the
church yard, where I remained until the funeral
train had dispersed.
When I saw the mother slowly and painfully
quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains
of all that was dear to her on earth, and
returning to silence and destitution, my heart
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ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses
of the rich! they hav friends to soothe--
pleasures to beguile--a world to divert and dissipate
their griefs. What are the sorrows of the
young! Their growing minds soon close above
the wound--their elastic spirits soon rise beneath
the pressure--their green and ductile affections
soon twine around new objects. But
the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute,
mourning over an only son, the last solace
of her years; these are the sorrows which make
us feel the impotency of consolation.
It was some time before I left the church
yard. On my way homeward, I met with the
woman who had acted as comforter: she was
just returning from accompanying the mother
to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her
some particulars connected with the affecting
scene I had witnessed.
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The pareents of the deceased had resided in
the village from childhood. They had inhabited
one of the neatest cottages, and by various
rural occupations, and the assistance of a
small garden, had supported themselves creditably
and comfortably, and led a happy and a
blameless life. They had one son, who had
grown up to be the staff and pride of their age.--
"Oh sir!" said the good woman, "he was
such a likely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind
to every one around him, so dutiful to his
parents! It did one's heart good, to see him of
a Sunday, drest out in his best, so tall, so
straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother
to church--for she was always fonder of leaning
on George's arm, than on her good man's;
and, poor soul, she might well be proud of
him, for a finer lad there was not in the country
round.”
Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during
a year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to
enter in to the service of one of the small craft
that plied on a neighboring river. He had
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not been long in this employ, when he was entrapped
by a press-gang, and carried off to sea.
His parents received the tidings of his seizure,
but beyond that they could learn nothing. It
was the loss of their main prop. The father,
who was already infirm, grew heartless and
melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The
widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness,
could no longer support herself, and came upon
the parish. Still there was a kind feeling toward
her throughout the village, and a certain
respect as one of the oldest inhabitants. As
no one applied for the cottage in which she had
passed so many happy days, she was permitted
to remain in it, where she lived solitary and
almost helpless. The few wants of nature
were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions
of her little garden, which the neighbours
would now and then cultivate for her. It was
but a few days before the time at which these
circumstances were told me, that she was gathering
some vegetables for her repast, when
she heard the cottage door that faced the garden
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den suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and
seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around.
He was dressed in seamen's clothes, was emaciated
and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one
broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her,
and hastened toward her, but his steps were
faint and faltering; he sank on his knees before
her, and sobbed like a child. The poor
woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering
eye—“Oh my dear, dear mother! don't
you know your son! your poor boy George!”
It was, indeed, the wreck of her once noble lad;
who, shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign
imprisonment, had, at length, dragged his
wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the
scenes of his childhood.
I will not attempt to detail the particulars of
such a meeting, where joy and sorrow were so
completely blended: still he was alive! he was
come home! he might yet live to comfort and
cherish her old age! Nature, however, was exhausted
in him; and if any thing had been wanting
to finish the work of fate, the desolation of
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his native cottage would have been sufficient.
He stretched himself on the pallet where his
widowed mother had passed many a sleepless
night, and he never rose from it again.
The villagers, when they heard that George
Somers had returned, crowded to see him, offering
every comfort and assistance that their humble
means afforded. He, however, was too weak
to talk—he could only look his thanks. His
mother was his constant attendant, and he seemed
unwilling to be helped by any other hand.
There is something in sickness that breaks
down the pride of manhood; that softens the
heart, and brings it back to the feelings of infancy.
Who that has suffered, even in advanced
life, in sickness and despondency; who that has
pined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness
of a foreign land, but has thought on the
mother “that looked on his childhood,” that
smoothed his pillow, and administered to his
helplessness. Oh! there is an enduring tenderness
in the love of a mother to a son that transcends
all other affections of the heart. It is
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[figure description] Page 213.[end figure description]
neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted
by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness,
nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice
every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender
every pleasure to his enjoyment; she
will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity:
and, if adversity overtakes him, he will be
the dearer to her by misfortune; and if disgrace
settle upon his name, she will still love and
cherish him; and if all the world beside cast
him off, she will be all the world to him.
Poor George Somers had known well what it
was to be in sickness, and none to soothe—lonely
and in prison, and none to visit him. He
could not endure his mother from his sight; if
she moved away, his eye would follow her.
She would sit for hours by his bed, watching
him as he slept. Sometimes he would start
from a feverish dream, look anxiously up until
he saw her venerable form bending over him,
when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom,
and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a
child. In this way he died.
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My first impulse on hearing this humble
tale of affliction, was to visit the cottage of the
mourner, and administer pecuniary assistance,
and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on
inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers
had prompted them to do every thing that the
case admitted: and as the poor knew best how
to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture
to intrude.
The next Sunday I was at the village church;
when, to my surprise, I saw the poor old woman
tottering down the aisle to her accustomed
seat on the steps of the altar.
She had made an effort to put on something
like mourning for her son; and nothing could
be more touching than this struggle between
pious affection and utter poverty: a black riband
or so, a faded black handkerchief, and
one or two more such humble attempts to express
by outward signs that grief which passes
show. When I looked round upon the storied
monuments; the stately hatchments; the cold
marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned
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[figure description] Page 215.[end figure description]
magnificently over departed pride; and turned
to this poor widow bowed down by age and
sorrow at the altar of her god, and offering up
the prayers and praises of a pious, though a
broken heart, I felt that this living monument
of real grief was worth them all.
I related her story to some of the wealthy
members of the congregation, and they were
moved at it. They exerted themselves to render
her situation more comfortable, and to
lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but
smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the
course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed
from her usual seat at church, and before I
left the neighbourhood, I heard, with a feeling of
satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed her
last, and gone to rejoin those she loved, in that
world where sorrow is never known, and friends
are never parted.
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-- --
THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP.
[figure description] Page 217.[end figure description]
A SHAKSPEARIAN RESEARCH.
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“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 honour 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
-- 220 --
[figure description] Page 220.[end figure description]
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 hang up his little
lamp of smoking oil. The consequence is, 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
Shakspeare. Every writer considers it his
bounden duty to light up some portion of his
character or works, and 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
-- 221 --
[figure description] Page 221.[end figure description]
rushlight of eulogy or research, to swell the cloud
of incense and of smoke.
As I honour 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 happened upon the comic
scenes of Henry IV. and was, in a moment,
completely lost in the mad cap revelry of the
Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly and naturally
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are these scenes of humour 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 roysters
ever enlivened the dull neighbourhood of
Eastcheap.
For my part, I love to give myself up to the
illusions of poetry. A hero of fiction who never
existed, is just as valuable to me as a hero of
history who 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
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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 humour, 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 Cocklane;
of the faded glories of Little Britain, and
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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, however, 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 rosted, 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 mad cap
royster has given place to the plodding tradesman;
the clattering of pots and the sound of
“harpe and sawtry,” to the din of carts and the
accursed dinging of the dustman's bell; and no
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[figure description] Page 225.[end figure description]
song is heard, save, haply, the strain of some
syren from Billingsgate, chaunting the eulogy
of deceased mackerel.
I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of
Dame Quickly. The only relique 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 scite of the renowned old tavern.
For the history of this little empire 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 neighbourhood.
I found her seated in a little back
parlour, 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 peep of the street, through
a vista of soap and tallow candles; the two
views, which comprised, in all probability, her
prospects of life, and the little world in which
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[figure description] Page 226.[end figure description]
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 neighbourhood.
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 inquities which are
incident to the sinful race of Publicans, endeavoured
to make his peace with heaven, by
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[figure description] Page 227.[end figure description]
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 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,
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[figure description] Page 228.[end figure description]
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 twinkle
in his eye, and if encouraged, would now
and then venture a small pleasantry, such as a
man of his low estate might venture to make
in the company of high church wardens, 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
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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 at 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 a 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
honourable blazon, as almost the only Lord
Mayor on record famous for deeds of arms:
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[figure description] Page 230.[end figure description]
the sovereigns of Cockney being generally renowned
as the most pacific of all potentates.[7]
Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery,
immediately under the back windows of what
was once the Boar's Head, stands the tomb
stone of Robert Preston, whilome drawer at
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[figure description] Page 231.[end figure description]
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 “mirrie 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
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[figure description] Page 232.[end figure description]
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 lauds him for the sobriety of his conduct,
the soundness of his wine, and the fairness
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of his measure.[8] 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.
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
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 inclin'd,
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind.
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots,
Had sundry virtues that excus'd his faults.
You that on Bacchus have the like dependance,
Pray copy Bob, in measure and attendance.
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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 every thing 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 neighbourhood.
A few steps brought us to the house, which
stands No. 12 Mile Lane, bearing the title of
The Masons' 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 neighbourhood. We entered the bar-room,
which was narrow and darkling; for in these
close lanes but few rays of reflected light are
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[figure description] Page 235.[end figure description]
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 mantle piece, and an old fashioned
clock ticked in one corner. There was something
primitive in this medley of kitchen, parlour,
and hall, that carried me back to earlier
times, and pleased me. The place, indeed, was
humble, but every thing had that look of order
and neatness, that 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 visiter of
rather higher pretensions, I was ushered into
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[figure description] Page 236.[end figure description]
a little mis-shapen 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, hurried up stairs
to the archives of her house, where the precious
vessels of the parish club were deposited, and
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;
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[figure description] Page 237.[end figure description]
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 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
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[figure description] Page 238.[end figure description]
august and venerable relique, 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 in the red nose and oil-cloth
hat, and whom I strongly suspect to be a lineal
descendant from the valiant Bardolph. He
suddenly aroused from his meditation on the
pot of porter, and casting a knowing look at
the goblet, exclaimed, “aye, aye, the head don't
ache now, that made that there article.”
The great importance attached to this me
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[figure description] Page 239.[end figure description]
mento of ancient revelry by modern church
wardens, 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.
[9]
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 roysters
of Eastcheap, and, like so many commentators,
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[figure description] Page 240.[end figure description]
utter clouds of smoke in honour of Shakspeare.
These I forbear to relate, lest my readers should
not be as curious in these matters as myself.
Suffice it to say, the neighbours, 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 Masons' Arms, which
they give, as transmitted down from their forefathers;
and Mr. M`Kash, an Irish hair dresser,
whose shop stands ont he 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 farther 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
-- 241 --
[figure description] Page 241.[end figure description]
direction of his eye through the door which stood
open, and found it fixed wistfully on the savoury
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 good
will, 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
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[figure description] Page 242.[end figure description]
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 ancle;)—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 subjects of future engravings, and almost
as fruitful of voluminous dissertations and disputes
as the shield of Achilles, or the far-famed
Portland vase.
eaf214v3.n7[7] 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 syght.
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 hondred 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, &c. &c.”
Stow's London.
eaf214v3.n8[8] 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.
eaf214v3.n9[9] 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 of 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.
Irving, Washington, 1783-1859 [1819], The sketch book of Geoffrey Crayon, gent. [Pseud], volume 3 (C. S. Van Winkle, New York) [word count] [eaf214v3].
