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

[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

[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

[figure description] Page 222.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 223.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 224.[end figure description]

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

[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

[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

[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,

[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

[figure description] Page 229.[end figure description]

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:

[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

[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

[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

[figure description] Page 233.[end figure description]

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.

[figure description] Page 234.[end figure description]

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

[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

[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;

[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

[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

[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,

[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

[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

[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.

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.