Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Other Stories (20 page)

To be versed in the history of East cheap, 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 iniquities which are incident to the sinful race of Publicans, endeavoured to make his peace with heaven by bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael's church, Crooked Lane, towards the supporting of a chaplain. For some time the vestry meetings were regularly held there, but it was observed that the old Boar never held up his head under church government. He gradually declined, and finally gave his last gasp about thirty years since. The tavern was then turned into shops, but she informed me that a picture of it was still preserved in St. Michael's church, which stood just in the rear. To get a sight of this picture was now my determination, so having informed myself of the abode of the sexton I took my leave of the venerable chronicler of East cheap, 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 enquiry to ferret out the humble hanger on to the church. I had to explore Crooked Lane and divers little alleys and elbows and dark passages, with which this old city is perforated, like an ancient cheese, or a worm eaten chest of drawers. At length I traced him to a corner of a small court, surrounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants enjoy about as much of the face of heaven, as a community of frogs at the bottom of a well. The sexton was a meek acquiescing little man, of a bowing lowly habit; yet he had a pleasant twinkle in his eye, and if encouraged would now and then hazard a small pleasantry, such as a man of his low estate might venture to make in the company of high 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 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, Crooked Lane, standing a short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many Fishmongers of renown, and as every profession has its galaxy of glory and its constellation of great men, I presume the monument of a mighty Fishmonger of the olden time, is regarded with as much reverence by succeeding generations of the craft as poets feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the monument of a Marlborough or 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 honorable blazon as almost the only Lord Mayor on record, famous for deeds of arms:—the Sovereigns of Cockney being generally renowned, as the most pacific of all potentates.
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Note

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 Jackstraw in King Richards 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.

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, 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 weather cocks 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 church yard, 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 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 church yards and bye 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 nimble tongued 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 of his measure,
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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 was to be found in the church of St. Michael. “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 shew 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. 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 neighbourhood.

We entered the bar room, 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 shewed 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 which bespeaks the superintendance 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.

Note.

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 up stairs to the archives of her house, where the precious vessels of the parish club were deposited, she returned smiling and curtseying 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 on 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 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 suspected of being 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 memento 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.
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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 East cheap, and, like so many commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honour 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 neighbours one and all about East cheap, 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. McKash, an Irish hair dresser, whose shop stands on
the scite 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.