Vanishing England

by P. H. Ditchfield

And again, on Christmas Eve Irving tells of his joyous long day's ride in a coach, and how he at length arrived at a village where he had determined to stay the night. As he drove into the great gateway of the inn (some of them were mighty narrow and required much skill on the part of the Jehu) he saw on one side the light of a rousing kitchen fire beaming through a window. He "entered and admired, for the hundredth time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and broad honest enjoyment—the kitchen of an English inn." It was of spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly polished, and decorated here and there with Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended from the ceiling; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fire-place, and a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, with a cold round of beef and other hearty viands upon it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travellers of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast, while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying backwards and forwards under the directions of a fresh bustling landlady; but still seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh with the group round the fire.

Such is the cheering picture of an old-fashioned inn in days of yore. No wonder that the writers should have thus lauded these inns! Imagine yourself on the box-seat of an old coach travelling somewhat slowly through the night. It is cold and wet, and your fingers are frozen, and the rain drives pitilessly in your face; and then, when you are nearly dead with misery, the coach stops at a well-known inn. A smiling host and buxom hostess greets you; blazing fires thaw you back to life, and good cheer awaits your appetite. No wonder people loved an inn and wished to take their ease therein after the dangers and hardships of the day. Lord Beaconsfield, in his novel Tancred, vividly describes the busy scene at a country hostelry in the busy coaching days. The host, who is always "smiling," conveys the pleasing intelligence to the passengers: "'The coach stops here half an hour, gentlemen: dinner quite ready.' 'Tis a delightful sound. And what a dinner! What a profusion of substantial delicacies! What mighty and iris-tinted rounds of beef! What vast and marble-veined ribs! What gelatinous veal pies! What colossal hams! These are evidently prize cheeses! And how invigorating is the perfume of those various and variegated pickles. Then the bustle emulating the plenty; the ringing of bells, the clash of thoroughfare, the summoning of ubiquitous waiters, and the all-pervading feeling of omnipotence from the guests, who order what they please to the landlord, who can produce and execute everything they can desire. 'Tis a wondrous sight!"

The Shoulder of Mutton Inn, King's Lynn

And then how picturesque these old inns are, with their swinging signs, the pump and horse-trough before the door, a towering elm or poplar overshadowing the inn, and round it and on each side of the entrance are seats, with rustics sitting on them. The old house has picturesque gables and a tiled roof mellowed by age, with moss and lichen growing on it, and the windows are latticed. A porch protects the door, and over it and up the walls are growing old-fashioned climbing rose trees. Morland loved to paint the exteriors of inns quite as much as he did to frequent their interiors, and has left us many a wondrous drawing of their beauties. The interior is no less picturesque, with its open ingle-nook, its high-backed settles, its brick floor, its pots and pans, its pewter and brass utensils. Our artist has drawn for us many beautiful examples of old inns, which we shall visit presently and try to learn something of their old-world charm. He has only just been in time to sketch them, as they are fast disappearing. It is astonishing how many noted inns in London and the suburbs have vanished during the last twenty or thirty years.

Let us glance at a few of the great Southwark inns. The old "Tabard," from which Chaucer's pilgrims started on their memorable journey, was destroyed by a great fire in 1676, rebuilt in the old fashion, and continued until 1875, when it had to make way for a modern "old Tabard" and some hop merchant's offices. This and many other inns had galleries running round the yard, or at one end of it, and this yard was a busy place, frequented not only by travellers in coach or saddle, but by poor players and mountebanks, who set up their stage for the entertainment of spectators who hung over the galleries or from their rooms watched the performance. The model of an inn-yard was the first germ of theatrical architecture. The "White Hart" in Southwark retained its galleries on the north and east side of its yard until 1889, though a modern tavern replaced the south and main portion of the building in 1865-6. This was a noted inn, bearing as its sign a badge of Richard II, derived from his mother Joan of Kent. Jack Cade stayed there while he was trying to capture London, and another "immortal" flits across the stage, Master Sam Weller, of Pickwick fame. A galleried inn still remains at Southwark, a great coaching and carriers' hostel, the "George." It is but a fragment of its former greatness, and the present building was erected soon after the fire in 1676, and still retains its picturesqueness.

The glory has passed from most of these London inns. Formerly their yards resounded with the strains of the merry post-horn, and carriers' carts were as plentiful as omnibuses now are. In the fine yard of the "Saracen's Head," Aldgate, you can picture the busy scene, though the building has ceased to be an inn, and if you wished to travel to Norwich there you would have found your coach ready for you. The old "Bell Savage," which derives its name from one Savage who kept the "Bell on the Hoop," and not from any beautiful girl "La Belle Sauvage," was a great coaching centre, and so were the "Swan with two Necks," Lad Lane, the "Spread Eagle" and "Cross Keys" in Gracechurch Street, the "White Horse," Fetter Lane, and the "Angel," behind St. Clements. As we do not propose to linger long in London, and prefer the country towns and villages where relics of old English life survive, we will hie to one of these noted hostelries, book our seats on a Phantom coach, and haste away from the great city which has dealt so mercilessly with its ancient buildings. It is the last few years which have wrought the mischief. Many of these old inns lingered on till the 'eighties. Since then their destruction has been rapid, and the huge caravanserais, the "Cecil," the "Ritz," the "Savoy," and the "Metropole," have supplanted the old Saracen's Heads, the Bulls, the Bells, and the Boars that satisfied the needs of our forefathers in a less luxurious age.

Let us travel first along the old York road, or rather select our route, going by way of Ware, Tottenham, Edmonton, and Waltham Cross, Hatfield and Stevenage, or through Barnet, until we arrive at the Wheat Sheaf Inn on Alconbury Hill, past Little Stukeley, where the two roads conjoin and "the milestones are numbered agreeably to that admeasurement," viz. to that from Hicks' Hall through Barnet, as Patterson's Roads plainly informs us. Along this road you will find several of the best specimens of old coaching inns in England. The famous "George" at Huntingdon, the picturesque "Fox and Hounds" at Ware, the grand old inns at Stilton and Grantham are some of the best inns on English roads, and pleadingly invite a pleasant pilgrimage. We might follow in the wake of Dick Turpin, if his ride to York were not a myth. The real incident on which the story was founded occurred about the year 1676, long before Turpin was born. One Nicks robbed a gentleman on Gadshill at four o'clock in the morning, crossed the river with his bay mare as soon as he could get a ferry-boat at Gravesend, and then by Braintree, Huntingdon, and other places reached York that evening, went to the Bowling Green, pointedly asked the mayor the time, proved an alibi, and got off. This account was published as a broadside about the time of Turpin's execution, but it makes no allusion to him whatever. It required the romance of the nineteenth century to change Nicks to Turpin and the bay mare to Black Bess. But revenir à nos moutons, or rather our inns. The old "Fox and Hounds" at Ware is beautiful with its swinging sign suspended by graceful and elaborate ironwork and its dormer windows. The "George" at Huntingdon preserves its gallery in the inn-yard, its projecting upper storey, its outdoor settle, and much else that is attractive. Another "George" greets us at Stamford, an ancient hostelry, where Charles I stayed during the Civil War when he was journeying from Newark to Huntingdon.

And then we come to Grantham, famous for its old inns. Foremost among them is the "Angel," which dates back to medieval times. It has a fine stone front with two projecting bays, an archway with welcoming doors on either hand, and above the arch is a beautiful little oriel window, and carved heads and gargoyles jut out from the stonework. I think that this charming front was remodelled in Tudor times, and judging from the interior plaster-work I am of opinion that the bays were added in the time of Henry VII, the Tudor rose forming part of the decoration. The arch and gateway with the oriel are the oldest parts of the front, and on each side of the arch is a sculptured head, one representing Edward III and the other his queen, Philippa of Hainault. The house belonged in ancient times to the Knights Templars, where royal and other distinguished travellers were entertained. King John is said to have held his court here in 1213, and the old inn witnessed the passage of the body of Eleanor, the beloved queen of Edward I, as it was borne to its last resting-place at Westminster. One of the seven Eleanor crosses stood at Grantham on St. Peter's Hill, but it shared the fate of many other crosses and was destroyed by the troopers of Cromwell during the Civil War. The first floor of the "Angel" was occupied by one long room, wherein royal courts were held. It is now divided into three separate rooms. In this room Richard III condemned to execution the Duke of Buckingham, and probably here stayed Cromwell in the early days of his military career and wrote his letter concerning the first action that made him famous. We can imagine the silent troopers assembling in the market-place late in the evening, and then marching out twelve companies strong to wage an unequal contest against a large body of Royalists. The Grantham folk had much to say when the troopers rode back with forty-five prisoners besides divers horses and arms and colours. The "Angel" must have seen all this and sighed for peace. Grim troopers paced its corridors, and its stables were full of tired horses. One owner of the inn at the beginning of the eighteenth century, though he kept a hostel, liked not intemperance. His name was Michael Solomon, and he left an annual charge of 40s. to be paid to the vicar of the parish for preaching a sermon in the parish church against the sin of drunkenness. The interior of this ancient hostelry has been modernized and fitted with the comforts which we modern folk are accustomed to expect.