Mons. Jorevin, a French traveller, who journeyed through England in the reign of Charles II., stopped at the Stag inn, at Worcester, in the High-street, and he describes the entertainment of himself and a friend with whom he supped, so as to acquaint us somewhat with the entertainments in inns at that time. “During supper he (his friend) sent for a band of music, consisting of all sorts of instruments: among these the harp is the most esteemed by the English. According to the custom of the country the landladies sup with the strangers and passengers, and if they have daughters they are also of the company, to entertain the guests at table with pleasant conceits, where they drink as much as the men. But what is to me the most disgusting in all this is, that when one drinks the health of any person in company, the custom of the country does not permit you to drink more than half the cup, which is filled up, and presented to him or her whose health you have drank. Moreover, the supper being finished, they set on the table half a dozen pipes and a packet of tobacco for smoking, which is a general custom, as well among women as men, who think that without tobacco one cannot live in England, because, say they, “it dissipates the evil humours of the brain.” It appears from a “Character of England,” printed in 1659, “that the ladies of greatest quality suffered themselves to be treated in these taverns, and that they drank their crowned cups roundly, danced after the fiddle, and exceeded the bounds of propriety in their carousals.”
If a description of Scottish manners, printed about fifty years ago, may be relied on, it was then a fashion with females at Edinburgh to frequent a sort of public-house in that city. The writer says: “January 15, 1775.—A few evenings ago I had the pleasure of being asked to one of these entertainments by a lady. At that time I was not acquainted with this scene of ‘high life below stairs;’ and therefore, when she mentioned the word ‘oyster-cellar,’ I imagined I must have mistaken the place of invitation: she repeated it, however, and I found it was not my business to make objections; so agreed immediately. I waited with great impatience till the hour arrived, and when the clock struck away I went, and inquired if the lady was there.—‘O yes,’ cried the woman, she has been here an hour, or more.’ The door opened, and I had the pleasure of being ushered in, not to one lady, as I expected, but to a large and brilliant company of both sexes, most of whom I had the honour of being acquainted with. The large table, round which they were seated, was covered with dishes full of oysters and pots of porter. For a long time I could not suppose that this was the only entertainment we were to have, and I sat waiting in expectation of a repast that was never to make its appearance. The table was cleared, and glasses introduced. The ladies were now asked whether they would choose brandy or rum punch? I thought this question an odd one, but I was soon informed by the gentleman who sat next me, that no wine was sold here, but that punch was quite ‘the thing;’ and a large bowl was immediately introduced. The conversation hitherto had been insipid, and at intervals: it now became general and lively. The women, who, to do them justice, are much more entertaining than their neighbours in England, discovered a great deal of vivacity and fondness for repartee. A thousand things were hazarded, and met with applause; to which the oddity of the scene gave propriety, and which could have been produced in no other place. The general ease with which they conducted themselves, the innocent freedom of their manners, and their unaffected good-nature, all conspired to make us forget that we were regaling in a cellar, and was a convincing proof that, let local customs operate as they may, a truly polite woman is every where the same. When the company were tired of conversation they began to dance reels, their favourite dance, which they performed with great agility and perseverance. One of the gentlemen, however, fell down in the most active part of it, and lamed himself; so the dance was at an end for that evening. On looking at their watches, the ladies now found it time to retire; the coaches were therefore called, and away they went, and with them all our mirth. The company were now reduced to a party of gentlemen; pipes and politics were introduced: I took my hat and wished them good night. The bill for entertaining half a dozen very fashionable women, amounted only to two shillings apiece. If you will not allow the entertainment an elegant one, you must at least confess that it was cheap.”[265]
It may be amusing to wander for a moment to another place of public entertainment, for the sake of a character of it two centuries ago, by bishop Earle.
The Tavern, 1628,
Is a degree, or (if you will) a pair of stairs above an ale-house, where men are drunk with more credit and apology. If the vintner’s nose be at the door, it is a sign sufficient, but the absence of this is supplied by the ivy-bush: the rooms are ill breathed like the drinkers that have been washed well over night, and are smelt-to fasting next morning. It is a broacher of more news than hogsheads, and more jests than news, which are sucked up here by some spungy brain, and from thence squeezed into a comedy. Men come here to make merry, but indeed make a noise; and this musick above is answered with the clinking below. The drawers are the civilest people in it, men of good bringing up; and howsoever we esteem of them, none can boast more justly of their high calling. ’Tis the best theater of natures, where they are truly acted, not played; and the business, as in the rest of the world, up and down, to wit, from the bottom of the cellar to the great chamber. A melancholy man would find here matter to work upon, to see heads as brittle as glasses, and often broken; men come hither to quarrel, and come hither to be made friends: and if, Plutarch will lend me his simile, it is even Telephus’s sword that makes wounds and cures them. It is the common consumption of the afternoon, and the murderer or maker-away of a rainy day. It is the torrid zone that scorches the face, and tobacco the gunpowder that blows it up. Much harm would be done, if the charitable vintner had not water ready for these flames. A house of sin you may call it, but not a house of darkness, for the candles are never out; and it is like those countries far in the north, where it is as clear at mid-night as at mid-day. To give you the total reckoning of it; it is the busy man’s recreation, the idle man’s business, the melancholy man’s sanctuary, the stranger’s welcome, the inns-of-court man’s entertainment, the scholar’s kindness, and the citizen’s courtesy. It is the study of sparkling wits, and a cup of canary their book, whence we leave them.
Bishop Earle, in his character of a “Poor Fiddler,” describes him as “in league with the tapsters for the worshipful of the inn, whom he torments next morning with his art, and has their names more perfect than their men.” Sir John Hawkins, who cites this in his History of Music, also abstracts a curious view of the customs at inns, from Fyne Moryson’s “Itinerary,” rather later in the same age:—