Inns and Taverns further afield - Henry C Shelley
INNS AND TAVERNS FURTHER AFIELD.
Outside the more or less clearly defined limits of the city, the neighbourhood
of St. Paul's, Fleet Street, the Strand and Covent Garden, the explorer of the
inns and taverns of old London may encircle the metropolis from any given point
and find something of interest everywhere. Such a point of departure may be
made, for example, in the parish of Lambeth, where, directly opposite the
Somerset House of to-day, once stood the Feathers Tavern connected with Cuper's
Gardens. The career of that resort was materially interfered with by the passing
of an act in 1752 for the regulation of places of entertainment "and punishing
persons keeping disorderly houses." The act stipulated that every place kept for
public dancing, music, or other entertainment, within twenty miles of the city,
should be under a license.
[Illustration: FEATHERS TAVERN. ]
Evidently it was found impossible to secure a license for Cuper's Gardens, for
in a public print of May 22nd, 1754, the Widow Evans advertises that "having
been deny'd her former Liberty of opening her Gardens as usual, through the
malicious representations of ill-meaning persons, she therefore begs to acquaint
the Public that she hath open'd them as a Tavern till further notice. Coffee and
Tea at any hour of the day." There is no record of the Widow Evans ever
recovering her former "Liberty," and hence the necessity of continuing the place
as a tavern merely, with its seductive offer of "coffee and tea at any hour."
Even without a license, however, a concert was announced for the night of August
30th, 1759, the law being evaded by the statement that the vocal and
instrumental programme was to be given by "a select number of gentlemen for
their own private diversion." As there is no record of any other entertainment
having been given at the E'eathers, it is probable that this attempt to dodge
the law met with condign punishment, and resulted in the closing of the place
for good. After it had stood unoccupied for some time Dr. Johnson passed it in
the company of Beauclerk, Langton, and Lady Sydney Beauclerk, and made a
sportive suggestion that he and Beauclerk and Langton should take it. "We amused
ourselves," he said, "with scheming how we should all do our parts. Lady Sydney
grew angry and said, 'An old man should not put such things in young people's
heads.' She had no notion of a joke, sir; had come late into life, and had a
mighty unpliable understanding." Though Johnson did not carry his joke into
effect, the Feathers has not lacked for perpetuation, as is shown by the modern
public-house of that name in the vicinity of Waterloo Bridge.
From Lambeth to Westminster is an easy journey, but unhappily there are no
survivals of the numerous inns which figure in records of the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries. One of those hostelries makes its appearance in the
expense sheet of a Roger Keate who went to London in 1575 on the business of his
town of Weymouth. He notes that on Friday the tenth day of February, "in the
companie of certain courtiars, and of Mr. Robert Gregorie, at Westminster, at
the Sarrazin's Head" he spent the sum of five shillings. This must have been a
particularly festive occasion, for a subsequent dinner cost Mr. Keate but twenty
pence, and "sundrie drinkinges" another day left him the poorer by but two
shillings and twopence.
Another document, this time of date 1641, perpetuates the memory of a second
Westminster inn in a lively manner. This is a petition of a constable of St.
Martin's-in-the-Fields to the House of Commons, and concerned the misdoings of
certain apprentices at the time of the riot caused by Colonel Lunsford's assault
on the citizens of Westminster. The petitioner, Peter Scott by name, stated that
he tried to appease the 'prentices by promising to release their fellows
detained as prisoners in the Mermaid tavern. When he and another constable
approached the door of the house, his colleague was thrust in the leg with a
sword from within, which so enraged the 'prentices--though why is not
explained--that they broke into the tavern, and the keeper had since prosecuted
the harmless Peter Scott for causing a riot.
Numerous as were the taverns of Westminster, it is probable that the greater
proportion of them were to be found in one thoroughfare, to wit, King Street. It
was the residence and place of business of one particularly aggressive brewer in
the closing quarter of the seventeenth century. This vendor of ale, John England
by name, had the distinction of being the King's brewer, and he appears to have
thought that that position gave him more rights than were possessed by ordinary
mortals. So when an order was made prohibiting the passing of drays through King
Street during certain hours of the day, he told the constables that he, the
King's brewer, cared nothing for the order of the House of Lords. The example
proved infectious. Other brewers' draymen became obstreperous too, one calling
the beadle that stopped him "a rogue" and another vowing that if he knew the
beadle "he would have a touch with him at quarterstaff." But all these fiery
spirits of King Street were brought to their senses, and are found expressing
sorrow for their offence and praying for their discharge.
According to the legend started by Ben Jonson, this same King Street was the
scene of poet Spenser's death of starvation. "He died," so Jonson said, "for
want of bread in King Street; he refused twenty pieces sent him by my Lord
Essex, and said he was sure he had no time to spend them." This myth is
continually cropping up, but no evidence has been adduced in its support. The
fact that he died in a tavern in King Street tells against the story. That
thoroughfare, then the only highway between the Royal Palace of Whitehall and
the Parliament House, was a street of considerable importance, and Spenser's
presence there is explained by Stow's remark that "for the accommodation of such
as come to town in the terms, here are some good inns for their reception, and
not a few taverns for entertainment, as is not unusual in places of great
confluence." There are ample proofs, too, that King Street was the usual resort
of those who were messengers to the Court, such as Spenser was at the time of
his death.
It is strange, however, that not many of the names of these taverns have
survived. Yet there are two, the Leg and the Bell, to which there are allusions
in seventeenth century records. There is one reference in that "Parliamentary
Diary" supposed to have been written by Thomas Burton, the book which Carlyle
characterized as being filled "with mere dim inanity and moaning wind." This
chronicler, under date December 18th, 1656, tells how he dined with the
clothworkers at the Leg, and how "after dinner I was awhile at the Leg with
Major-General Howard and Mr. Briscoe." Being so near Whitehall in one direction
and the Parliament House in the other, it is not surprising to learn that the
nimble Pepys was a frequent visitor at the tavern. After a morning at Whitehall
"with my lord" in June, 1660, he dined there with a couple of friends. Nearly a
year later business took him to the House of Lords, but as he failed to achieve
the purpose he had in view he sought consolation at the Leg, where he "dined
very merry." A more auspicious occasion took place three years after. "To the
Exchequer, and there got my tallys for ~17,500, the first payment I ever had out
of the Exchequer, and at the Legg spent 14s. upon my old acquaintance, some of
them the clerks, and away home with my tallys in a coach, fearful every moment
of having one of them fall out, or snatched from me." He was equally glowing
with satisfaction when he visited the tavern again in 1667. All sorts of
compliments had been paid him that day, and he had been congratulated even by
the King and the Duke of York. "I spent the morning thus walking in the Hall,
being complimented by everybody with admiration: and at noon stepped into the
Legg with Sir William Warren."
'Then there was that other house in King Street, the Bell, upon which the
diarist bestowed some of his patronage. On his first visit he was caught in a
neat little trap. "Met with Purser Washington, with whom and a lady, a friend of
his, I dined at the Bell Tavern in King Street, but the rogue had no more
manners than to invite me, and to let me pay my club." Which was too bad of the
Purser, when Pepys' head and heart were full of "infinite business." The next
call, however, was more satisfactory and less expensive. He merely dropped in to
see "the seven Flanders mares that my Lord has bought lately." But the Bell had
a history both before and after Pepys' time. It is referred to so far back as
the middle of the fifteenth century, and it was in high favour as the
headquarters of the October Club in the reign of Queen Anne.
During the eighteenth century many fashionable resorts were located in Pall Mall
and neighbouring streets. In Pall Mall itself was the famous Star and Garter,
and close by was St. Alban's Tavern, celebrated for its political gatherings and
public dinners. Horace Walpole has several allusions to the house and tells an
anecdote which illustrates the wastefulness of young men about town. A number of
these budding aristocrats were dining at St. Alban's Tavern and found the noise
of the coaches outside jar upon their sensitive nerves. So they promptly ordered
the street to be littered with straw, and probably cared little that the freak
cost them fifty shillings each.
No doubt the charges at the St. Allan's were in keeping with the exclusive
character of the house, and it might be inferred that the same would have held
good at the Star and Garter. But that was not the case. Many testimonies to the
moderate charges of that house have been cited. Perhaps the most conclusive
evidence on this point is furnished by Swift, who was always a bit of a haggler
as to the prices he paid at taverns. It was 'at his suggestion that the little
club to which he belonged discarded the tavern they had been used to meeting in
and went to the Star and Garter for their dinner. "The other dog," Swift wrote
in one of his little letters to Stella, "was so extravagant in his bills that
for four dishes, and four, first and second course, without wine or dessert, he
charged twenty-one pounds, six shillings and eightpence." That the bill at the
Star and Garter was more reasonable is a safe inference from the absence of any
complaint on the part of Swift.
Several clubs were wont to meet under this roof. Among these was the
Nottinghamshire Club, an association of gentlemen who had estates in that county
and were in the habit of dining together when in town. One such gathering,
however, had a tragic termination. It took place on January 26th, 1765, and
among those present were William Chaworth, John Hewett, Lord Byron, a
great-uncle of the poet, and seven others. Perfect harmony prevailed until about
seven o'clock, when the wine was brought in and conversation became general. At
this juncture one member of the company started a conversation about the best
method of preserving game, and the subject was at once taken up by Mr. Chaworth
and Lord Byron, who seem to have held entirely opposite views. The former was in
favour of severity against all poachers, the latter declaring that the best way
to have most game was to take no care of it all. Nettled by this opposition, Mr.
Chaworth ejaculated that he had more game on five acres than Lord Byron had on
all his manors. Retorts were bandied to and fro, until finally Mr. Chaworth
clenched matters by words which were tantamount to a challenge to a duel.
Nothing more was said, however, and the company was separating when Mr. Chaworth
and Lord Byron happened to meet on a landing. What transpired at first then is
not known, but evidently the quarrel was resumed in some form or other, for the
two joined in calling a waiter and asking to be shown into an empty room. The
waiter obeyed, opening the door and placing a small tallow candle on the table
before he retired. The next news from that room was the ringing of a bell, and
when it was answered it was found that Mr. Chaworth was mortally wounded. What
had happened was explained by Mr. Chaworth, who said that he could not live many
hours; that he forgave Lord Byron, and hoped the world would; that the affair
had passed in the dark, only a small tallow candle burning in the room; that
Lord Byron asked him if he meant the conversation on the game to Sir Charles
Sedley or to him? To which he replied, if you have anything to say, we had
better shut the door; that while he was doing this, Lord Byron bid him draw,
and, in turning, he saw his lordship's sword half drawn, on which he whipped out
his own, and made the first pass; the sword being through his lordship's
waistcoat, he thought he had killed him, and asking whether he was not mortally
wounded, Lord Byron, while he was speaking, shortened his sword, and stabbed him
in the abdomen. Mr. Chaworth survived but a few hours. There was a trial, of
course, but it ended in Lord Byron's acquittal on the ground that he had been
guilty of but manslaughter. And the poet, the famous grand-nephew, rounds off
this story of the Star and Garter by declaring that his relative, so far from
feeling any remorse for the death of Mr. Chaworth, always kept the sword he had
used with such fatal effect and had it hanging in his bedroom when he died.
Although the neighbouring Suffolk Street is a most decorous thoroughfare at the
present time, and entirely innocent of taverns, it was furnished with two, the
Cock and The Golden Eagle, in the latter portion of the seventeenth century. At
the former Evelyn dined on one occasion with the councillors of the Board of
Trade; at the latter, on January 30th, 1735, occurred the riot connected with
the mythical Calf's Head Club. How the riot arose is something of a mystery. It
seems, however, that a mob was gathered outside the tavern by the spreading of
the report that some young nobles were dining within on a calf's head in
ridicule of the execution of Charles I, and a lurid account was afterwards
circulated as to how a bleeding calf's head, wrapped in a napkin, was thrown out
of the window, while the merrymakers within drank all kinds of confusion to the
Stuart race. According to the narrative of one who was in the tavern, the calf's
head business was wholly imaginary. Nor was the date of the dinner a matter of
prearrangement. It seems that the start of the commotion was occasioned by some
of the company inside observing that some boys outside had made a bonfire,
which, in their hilarity, they were anxious to emulate. So a waiter was
commissioned to make a rival conflagration, and then the row began. It grew to
such proportions that the services of a justice and a strong body of guards were
required ere peace 'could be restored to Suffolk Street.
Rare indeed is it to find a tavern in this district which can claim a clean
record in the matter of brawls, and duels, and sudden deaths. Each of the two
most famous houses of the Haymarket, that is, Long's and the Blue Posts Tavern,
had its fatality. It was at the former ordinary, which must not be confused with
another of the same name in Covent Garden, that Philip Herbert, the seventh Earl
of Pembroke, committed one of those murderous assaults for which he was
distinguished. He killed a man in a duel in 1677, and in the first month of the
following year was committed to the Tower "for blasphemous words." That
imprisonment, however, was of brief duration, for in February a man petitioned
the House of Lords for protection from the earl's violence. And the day before,
in a drunken scuffle at Long's he had killed a man named Nathaniel Cony. This
did not end his barbarous conduct, for two years later he murdered an officer of
the watch, when returning from a drinking bout at Turnham Green. Mercifully for
the peace of the community this blood-thirsty peer died at the age of thirty. At
the Blue Posts Tavern the disputants were a Mr. Moon and a Mr. Hunt, who began
their quarrel in the house, "and as they came out at the door they drew their
swords, and the latter was run through and immediately died." There was another
Blue Posts in Spring Gardens close by, which became notorious from being the
resort of the Jacobites. This, in fact, was the house in which Robert Charnock
and his fellow conspirators were at breakfast when news reached them which
proved that their plot had been discovered.
A more refined atmosphere hangs around the memory of the Thatched House, that
St. James's Street tavern which started on its prosperous career in 1711 and
continued it until 1865, at which date the building was taken down to make room
for the Conservative Clubhouse. Its title would have led a stranger to expect a
modest establishment, but that seems to have been bestowed on the principle
which still prevails when a mansion is designated a cottage. It reminds one of
Coleridge and his
"the Devil did grin, for his darling sin
Is the pride that apes humility."
Swift was conscious of the incongruity of the name, as witness the lines,
"The Deanery House may well be match'd,
Under correction, with the Thatch'd."
As a matter of fact the tavern was of the highest class and greatly in repute
with the leaders of society and fashion. And its frequenters were not a little
proud of being known among its patrons. Hence the delightful retort of the Lord
Chancellor Thurlow recorded by Lord Campbell. "In the debates on the Regency, a
prim peer, remarkable for his finical delicacy and formal adherence to
etiquette, having cited pompously certain resolutions which he said had been
passed by a party of noblemen and gentlemen of great distinction at the Thatched
House Tavern, the Lord Chancellor Thurlow, in adverting to these said, 'As to
what the noble lord in the red ribbon told us he had heard at the ale-house.'"
Town residences of a duke and several earls are now the most conspicuous
buildings in the Mayfair Stanhope Street, but in the closing years of the
eighteenth century there was a tavern here of the name of Pitt's Head. On a June
night in 1792 this house was the scene of a gathering which had notable results.
The host conceived the idea of inviting a number of the servants of the
neighbourhood to a festivity in honour of the King's birthday, one feature of
which was to be a dance. The company duly assembled to the number of forty, but
some busybody carried news of the gathering to a magistrate who, with fifty
constables, quickly arrived on the scene to put an end to the merrymaking. Every
servant in the tavern was taken into custody and marched off to a watch-house in
Mount Street. News of what had happened spread during the night, and early in
the morning the watch-house was surrounded by a furious mob. A riot followed,
which was not easily suppressed. But another consequence followed. During the
riot the Earl of Lonsdale was stopped in his carriage while passing to his own
house, and annoyed by that experience he addressed some curt words to a Captain
Cuthbert who was on duty with the soldiers. Of course a duel was the next step.
After failing to injure each other at two attempts, the seconds intervened, and
insisted that, as their quarrel had arisen through a mutual misconception, and
as neither of them would make the first concession, they should advance towards
each other, step for step, and both declare, in the same breath, that they were
sorry for what had happened.
In pre-railway days Piccadilly could boast of the White Horse Cellar, which
Dickens made famous as the starting-point of Mr. Pickwick for Bath after being
mulct in seven hundred and fifty pounds damages by the fair widow Bardell. The
fact that it was an important coaching depot appears to have been its chief
attraction in those and earlier days, for the novelist's description of the
interior would hardly prove seductive to travellers were the house existing in
its old-time condition. "The travellers' room at the White Horse Cellar," wrote
Dickens, "is of course uncomfortable; it would be no travellers' room if it were
not. It is the right-hand parlour, into which an aspiring kitchen fireplace
appears to have walked, accompanied by a rebellious poker, tongs, and shovel. It
is divided into boxes, for the solitary confinement of travellers, and is
furnished with a clock, a looking-glass, and a live waiter: which latter article
is kept in a small kennel for washing glasses, in a corner of the apartment."
Pierce Egan, in the closing pages of his lively account of Jerry Hawthorn's
visit to London, gives an outside view of the tavern only. And that more by
suggestion than direct description. It is the bustle of the place rather than
its architectural features Egan was concerned with, and in that he was seconded
by his artist, George Cruikshank, whose picture of the White Horse Cellar is
mostly coach and horses and human beings.
Few if any London taverns save the Adam and Eve can claim to stand upon ground
once occupied by a King's palace. This tavern, which has a modern representative
of identical name, was situated at the northern end of Tottenham Court Road, at
the junction of the road leading to Hampstead. It was built originally on the
site of a structure known as King John's Palace, which subsequently became a
manor house, and then gave way to the Adam and Eve tavern and gardens. This
establishment had a varied career. At one time it was highly respectable; then
its character degenerated to the lowest depths; afterwards taking an upward move
once more.
Something in the shape of a place for refreshments was standing on this spot in
the mid seventeenth century, for the parish books of St. Giles in the Fields
record that three serving maids were in 1645 fined a shilling each for "drinking
at Totenhall Court on the Sabbath daie." In the eighteenth century the resort
was at the height of its popularity. It had a large room with an organ,
skittle-alleys, and cosy arbours for those who liked to consume their
refreshments out of doors. At one time also its attractions actually embraced "a
monkey, a heron, some wild fowl, some parrots, and a small pond for gold-fish."
It was at this stage in its history, when its surroundings were more rural than
it is possible to imagine to-day, that the tavern was depicted by Hogarth in his
"March to Finchley" plate. Early in the last century, however, it "became a
place of more promiscuous resort, and persons of the worst character and
description were in the constant habit of frequenting it; highwaymen, footpads,
pickpockets, and common women formed its leading visitants, and it became so
great a nuisance to the neighbourhood, that the magistrates interfered, the
organ was banished, the skittle-grounds destroyed, and the gardens dug up." A
creepy story is told of a subterraneous passage having existed in connection
with the manor house which formerly stood on this spot, a passage which many set
out to explore but which has kept its secret hidden to this day.
[Illustration: ADAM AND EVE TAVERN.]
Record has already been made of the fact that there was one "Sarrazin's" Head
tavern at Westminster; it must be added that there was another at Snow Hill,
which disappeared when the Holborn Viaduct was built. Dickens, who rendered so
many valuable services in describing the buildings of old London, has left a
characteristic pen-picture of this tavern. "Near to the jail, and by consequence
near to Smithfield, and on that particular part of Snow Hill where omnibuses
going eastward seriously think of falling down on purpose, and where horses in
hackney cabriolets going westward not unfrequently fall by accident, is the
coachyard of the Saracen's Head Inn; its portals guarded by two Saracens' heads
and shoulders frowning upon you from each side of the gateway. The Inn itself
garnished with another Saracen's head, frowns upon you from the top of the yard.
When you walk up this yard you will see the booking-office on your left, and the
tower of St. Sepulchre's Church darting abruptly up into the sky on your right,
and a gallery of bedrooms upon both sides. Just before you, you will observe a
long window with the words 'Coffee Room' legibly painted above it." That
allusion to St. Sepulchre's Church recalls the fact that in that building may be
seen the brass to the memory of the redoubtable Captain John Smith, who was to
win the glory of laying the first abiding foundations of English life in
America. The brass makes due record of the fact that he was "Admiral of New
England," and it also bears in the coat of arms three Turks' heads, in memory of
Smith's alleged single-handed victory over that number of Saracens. As Selden
pointed out, when Englishmen came home from fighting the Saracens, and were
beaten by them, they, to save their own credit, pictured their enemy with big,
terrible faces, such as frowned at Dickens from so many coigns of vantage in the
old Saracen's Head,
During the closing decade of the famous Bartholomew Fair--an annual medley of
commerce and amusement which had its origin in the days when it was the great
cloth exchange of all England and attracted clothiers from all quarters--the
scene of what was known as the Pie-Powder Court was located in a 'tavern known
as the Hand and Shears. Concerning this court Blackstone offered this
interesting explanation: "The lowest, and, at the same time, the most
expeditious court of justice known to the law of England, is the Court of
Pie-Powder, _curia pedis pulverizati_, so called from the dusty feet of the
suitors." Another explanation of the name is that the court was so called
"because justice is there done as speedily as dust can fall from the foot."
Whatever be the correct solution, the curious fact remains that this court was a
serious affair, and had the power to enforce law and deal out punishment within
the area of the Fair. There is an excellent old print of the Hand and Shears in
which the court was held, and another not less interesting picture showing the
court engaged on the trial of a case. It is evident from the garb of the two
principal figures that plaintiff and defendant belonged to the strolling-player
fraternity, who always contributed largely to the amusements of the Fair. This
curious example of swift justice, recalling the Old Testament picture of the
judge sitting at the gate of the city, became entirely a thing of the past when
Bartholomew Fair was abolished in 1854.
There are two other inns, one to the north, the other to the south, the names of
which can hardly escape the notice of the twentieth century visitor to London.
These are the Angel at Islington, and the Elephant and Castle at Walworth. The
former is probably the older of the two, though both were in their day famous as
the starting-places of coaches, just as they are conspicuous to-day as traffic
centres of omnibuses and tram-cars. The Angel dates back to before 1665, for in
that year of plague in London a citizen broke out of his house in the city and
sought refuge here. He was refused admission, but was taken in at another inn
and found dead in the morning. In the seventeenth century and later, as old
pictures testify, the inn presented the usual features of a large old country
hostelry. As such the courtyard is depicted by Hogarth in his print of the
"Stage Coach." Its career has been uneventful in the main, though in 1767 one of
its guests ended his life by poison, leaving behind this message: "I have for
fifteen years past suffered more indigence than ever gentleman before submitted
to, I am neglected by my acquaintance, traduced by my enemies, and insulted by
the vulgar."
[Illustration: FALCON TAVERN, BANKSIDE.]
If he would complete the circle of his tour on the outskirts of London proper,
the pilgrim, on leaving the Elephant and Castle, should wend his way to Bankside,
though not in the expectation of finding any vestige left of that Falcon tavern
which was the daily resort of Shakespeare and his theatrical companions; Not far
from Blackfriars Bridge used to be Falcon Stairs and the Falcon Glass Works, and
other industrial buildings bearing that name, but no Falcon tavern within recent
memory. It has been denied that Shakespeare frequented the Falcon tavern which
once did actually exist. But so convivial a soul must have had some "house of
call," and there is no reason to rob the memory of the old Falcon of what would
be its greatest honour. Especially does it seem unnecessary in view of the fact
that the Falcon and many another inn and tavern of old London, has vanished and
left "not a rack behind."