The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon
venerable Stow. “Whereas,” saith he, “it hath been far spread abroad by
vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William
Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not Wat
Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this rash-conceived doubt by such
testimony as I find in ancient and good records. The principal leaders,
or captains, of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man; the
second was John, or Jack, Straw, etc., etc.”--STOW’S London.
Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately under the back
window of what was once the Boar’s Head, stands the tombstone of Robert
Preston, whilom drawer at the tavern. It is now nearly a century since
this trusty drawer of good liquor closed his bustling career and was
thus quietly deposited within call of his customers. As I was clearing
away the weeds from his epitaph the little sexton drew me on one side
with a mysterious air, and informed me in a low voice that once upon
a time, on a dark wintry night, when the wind was unruly, howling, and
whistling, banging about doors and windows, and twirling weathercocks,
so that the living were frightened out of their beds, and even the dead
could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of honest Preston,
which happened to be airing itself in the churchyard, was attracted
by the well-known call of “Waiter!” from the Boar’s Head, and made its
sudden appearance in the midst of a roaring club, just as the parish
clerk was singing a stave from the “mirre garland of Captain Death;” to
the discomfiture of sundry train-band captains and the conversion of an
infidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, and
was never known to twist the truth afterwards, except in the way of
business.
I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself for the
authenticity of this anecdote, though it is well known that the
churchyards and by-corners of this old metropolis are very much infested
with perturbed spirits; and every one must have heard of the Cock Lane
ghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia in the Tower which has
frightened so many bold sentinels almost out of their wits.
Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have been a worthy
successor to the nimbletongued Francis, who attended upon the revels of
Prince Hal; to have been equally prompt with his “Anon, anon, sir;”
and to have transcended his predecessor in honesty; for Falstaff, the
veracity of whose taste no man will venture to impeach, flatly accuses
Francis of putting lime in his sack, whereas honest Preston’s epitaph
lands him for the sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of his wine,
and the fairness of his measure.* The worthy dignitaries of the church,
however, did not appear much captivated by the sober virtues of the
tapster; the deputy organist, who had a moist look out of the eye, made
some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought up among
full hogsheads, and the little sexton corroborated his opinion by a
significant wink and a dubious shake of the head.
* As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I
transcribe it for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It
is no doubt, the production of some choice spirit who once
frequented the Boar’s Head.
Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise,
Produced one sober son, and here he lies.
Though rear’d among full hogsheads, he defy’d
The charms of wine, and every one beside.
O reader, if to justice thou ‘rt inclined,
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind.
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots,
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults.
You that on Bacchus have the like dependence,
Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance.
Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on the history of
tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet disappointed me in the
great object of my quest, the picture of the Boar’s Head Tavern. No
such painting was to be found in the church of St. Michael’s. “Marry and
amen,” said I, “here endeth my research!” So I was giving the matter
up, with the air of a baffled antiquary, when my friend the sexton,
perceiving me to be curious in everything relative to the old tavern,
offered to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, which had been
handed down from remote times when the parish meetings were held at the
Boar’s Head. These were deposited in the parish club-room, which had
been transferred, on the decline of the ancient establishment, to a
tavern in the neighborhood.
A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 Miles Lane,
bearing the title of The Mason’s Arms, and is kept by Master Edward
Honeyball, the “bully-rock” of the establishment. It is one of those
little taverns which abound in the heart of the city and form the centre
of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. We entered the barroom,
which was narrow and darkling, for in these close lanes but few rays of
reflected light are enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, whose
broad day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room was partitioned
into boxes, each containing a table spread with a clean white cloth,
ready for dinner. This showed that the guests were of the good old
stamp, and divided their day equally, for it was but just one o’clock.
At the lower end of the room was a clear coal fire, before which a
breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright brass candlesticks and
pewter mugs glistened along the mantelpiece, and an old fashioned clock
ticked in one corner. There was something primitive in this medley of
kitchen, parlor, and hall that carried me back to earlier times, and
pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble, but everything had that look
of order and neatness which bespeaks the superintendence of a notable
English housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might be
either fishermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the
boxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was ushered
into a little misshapen back room, having at least nine corners. It was
lighted by a sky-light, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, and
ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently appropriated
to particular customers, and I found a shabby gentleman in a red nose
and oil-cloth hat seated in one corner meditating on a half empty pot of
porter.
The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an air of profound
importance imparted to her my errand. Dame Honeyball was a likely,
plump, bustling little woman, and no bad substitute for that paragon
of hostesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted with an opportunity to
oblige, and, hurrying upstairs to the archives of her house, where
the precious vessels of the parish club were deposited, she returned,
smiling and courtesying, with them in her hands.
The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco-box of gigantic
size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked at their stated
meetings since time immemorial, and which was never suffered to be
profaned by vulgar hands, or used on common occasions, I received it
with becoming reverence, but what was my delight at beholding on
its cover the identical painting of which I was in quest! There was
displayed the outside of the Boar’s Head Tavern, and before the door was
to be seen the whole convivial group at table, in full revel, pictured
with that wonderful fidelity and force with which the portraits of
renowned generals and commodores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for
the benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake,
the cunning limner had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal and
Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs.
On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly obliterated,
recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the use of
the vestry meetings at the Boar’s Head Tavern, and that it was “repaired
and beautified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767.” Such is a
faithful description of this august and venerable relic, and I question
whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated his Roman shield, or
the Knights of the Round Table the long-sought San-greal, with more
exultation.
While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame Honeyball,
who was highly gratified by the interest it excited, put in my hands
a drinking-cup or goblet which also belonged to the vestry, and was
descended from the old Boar’s Head. It bore the inscription of having
been the gift of Francis Wythers, Knight, and was held, she told me, in
exceeding great value, being considered very “antyke.” This last opinion
was strengthened by the shabby gentleman with the red nose and oilcloth
hat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal descendant from the
variant Bardolph. He suddenly aroused from his meditation on the pot of
porter, and casting a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, “Ay, ay!
the head don’t ache now that made that there article.”
The great importance attached to this memento of ancient revelry by
modern churchwardens, at first puzzled me; but there is nothing sharpens
the apprehension so much as antiquarian research; for I immediately
perceived that this could be no other than the identical “parcel-gilt
goblet,” on which Falstaff made his loving but faithless vow to Dame
Quickly, and which would, of course, be treasured up with care among the
regalia of her domains, as a testimony of that solemn contract.*
* “Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting
in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal
fire, on Wednesday, in Whitsun-week, when the prince broke
thy head for likening his father to a singing man at
Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy
wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst
thou deny it?”--Henry IV., Part 2.
Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the goblet had been
handed down from generation to generation. She also entertained me
with many particulars concerning the worthy vestrymen who have seated
themselves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient roisterers of
Eastcheap, and, like so many commentators, utter clouds of smoke in
honor of Shakespeare. These I forbear to relate, lest my readers should
not be as curious in these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the
neighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap, believe that Falstaff and his
merry crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there are several
legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant among the oldest
frequenters of the Mason’s Arms, which they give as transmitted down
from their forefathers; and Mr. M’Kash, an Irish hair-dresser, whose
shop stands on the site of the old Boar’s Head, has several dry jokes
of Fat Jack’s, not laid down in the books, with which he makes his
customers ready to die of laughter.
I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some further inquiries, but
I found him sunk in pensive meditation. His head had declined a little
on one side; a deep sigh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach,
and, though I could not see a tear trembling in his eye, yet a moisture
was evidently stealing from a corner of his mouth. I followed the
direction of his eye through the door which stood open, and found it
fixed wistfully on the savory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping
richness before the fire.
I now called to mind that in the eagerness of my recondite
investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. My bowels
yearned with sympathy, and putting in his hand a small token of my
gratitude and goodness, I departed with a hearty benediction on him,
Dame Honeyball, and the parish club of Crooked Lane--not forgetting my