OLD INNS

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Half-timber House at Alcester

There is much in the neighbourhood of Evesham which is worthy of note, many old

-fashioned villages and country towns, manor-houses, churches, and inns which are

refreshing to the eyes of those who have seen so much destruction, so much of the

England that is vanishing. The old abbey tithe-barn at Littleton of the fourteenth

century, Wickhamford Manor, the home of Penelope Washington, whose tomb is in

the adjoining church, the picturesque village of Cropthorne, Winchcombe and its

houses, Sudeley Castle, the timbered houses at Norton and Harvington, Broadway

and Campden, abounding with beautiful houses, and the old town of Alcester, of

which some views are given--all these contain many objects of antiquarian and

artistic interest, and can easily be reached from Evesham. In that old town we have

seen much to interest, and the historian will delight to fight over again the battle of

Evesham and study the records of the siege of the town in the Civil War.

CHAPTER X

OLD INNS

The trend of popular legislation is in the direction of the diminishing of the number

of licensed premises and the destruction of inns. Very soon, we may suppose, the

"Black Boy" and the "Red Lion" and hosts of other old signs will have vanished,

and there will be a very large number of famous inns which have "retired from

business." Already their number is considerable. In many towns through which in

olden days the stage-coaches passed inns were almost as plentiful as blackberries;

they were needed then for the numerous passengers who journeyed along the great

roads in the coaches; they are not needed now when people rush past the places in

express trains. Hence the order has gone forth that these superfluous houses shall

cease to be licensed premises and must submit to the removal of their signs. Others

have been so remodelled in order to provide modern comforts and conveniences

that scarce a trace of their old-fashioned appearance can be found. Modern

temperance legislators imagine that if they can only reduce the number of inns they

will reduce drunkenness and make the English people a sober nation. This is not the

place to discuss whether the destruction of inns tends to promote temperance. We

may, perhaps, be permitted to doubt the truth of the legend, oft repeated on

temperance platforms, of the working man, returning homewards from his toil,

struggling past nineteen inns and succumbing to the syren charms of the twentieth.

We may fear lest the gathering together of large numbers of men in a few public-

houses may not increase rather than diminish their thirst and the love of good

fellowship which in some mysterious way is stimulated by the imbibing of many

pots of beer. We may, perhaps, feel some misgiving with regard to the temperate

habits of the people, if instead of well-conducted hostels, duly inspected by the

police, the landlords of which are liable to prosecution for improper conduct, we

see arising a host of ungoverned clubs, wherein no control is exercised over the

manners of the members and adequate supervision impossible. We cannot refuse to

listen to the opinion of certain royal commissioners who, after much sifting of

evidence, came to the conclusion that as far as the suppression of public-houses had

gone, their diminution had not lessened the convictions for drunkenness.

But all this is beside our subject. We have only to record another feature of

vanishing England, the gradual disappearance of many of its ancient and historic

inns, and to describe some of the fortunate survivors. Many of them are very old,

and cannot long contend against the fiery eloquence of the young temperance

orator, the newly fledged justice of the peace, or the budding member of Parliament

who tries to win votes by pulling things down.

We have, however, still some of these old hostelries left; medieval pilgrim inns

redolent of the memories of the not very pious companies of men and women who

wended their way to visit the shrines of St. Thomas of Canterbury or Our Lady at

Walsingham; historic inns wherein some of the great events in the annals of

England have occurred; inns associated with old romances or frequented by

notorious highwaymen, or that recall the adventures of Mr. Pickwick and other

heroes and villains of Dickensian tales. It is well that we should try to depict some

of these before they altogether vanish.

There was nothing vulgar or disgraceful about an inn a century ago. From

Elizabethan times to the early part of the nineteenth century they were frequented

by most of the leading spirits of each generation. Archbishop Leighton, who died in

1684, often used to say to Bishop Burnet that "if he were to choose a place to die in

it should be an inn; it looked like a pilgrim's going home, to whom this world was

all as an Inn, and who was weary of the noise and confusion of it." His desire was

fulfilled. He died at the old Bell Inn in Warwick Lane, London, an old galleried

hostel which was not demolished until 1865. Dr. Johnson, when delighting in the

comfort of the Shakespeare's Head Inn, between Worcester and Lichfield,

exclaimed: "No, sir, there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by

which so much happiness is provided as by a good tavern or inn." This oft-quoted

saying the learned Doctor uttered at the Chapel House Inn, near King's Norton; its

glory has departed; it is now a simple country-house by the roadside. Shakespeare,

who doubtless had many opportunities of testing the comforts of the famous inns at

Southwark, makes Falstaff say: "Shall I not take mine ease at mine inn?"; and

Shenstone wrote the well-known rhymes on a window of the old Red Lion at

Henley-on-Thames:--

Whoe'er has travelled life's dull road,

Where'er his stages may have been,

May sigh to think he still has found

The warmest welcome at an inn.

Fynes Morrison tells of the comforts of English inns even as early as the beginning

of the seventeenth century. In 1617 he wrote:--

"The world affords not such inns as England hath, for as soon as a

passenger comes the servants run to him; one takes his horse and walks

him till he be cold, then rubs him and gives him meat; but let the

master look to this point. Another gives the traveller his private

chamber and kindles his fire, the third pulls off his boots and makes

them clean; then the host or hostess visits him--if he will eat with the

host--or at a common table it will be 4d. and 6d. If a gentleman has

his own chamber, his ways are consulted, and he has music, too, if he

likes."

The Wheelwrights' Arms, Warwick

The literature of England abounds in references to these ancient inns. If Dr.

Johnson, Addison, and Goldsmith were alive now, we should find them chatting

together at the Authors' Club, or the Savage, or the Athenæum. There were no

literary clubs in their days, and the public parlours of the Cock Tavern or the

"Cheshire Cheese" were their clubs, wherein they were quite as happy, if not quite

so luxuriously housed, as if they had been members of a modern social institution.

Who has not sung in praise of inns? Longfellow, in his Hyperion, makes Flemming

say: "He who has not been at a tavern knows not what a paradise it is. O holy

tavern! O miraculous tavern! Holy, because no carking cares are there, nor

weariness, nor pain; and miraculous, because of the spits which of themselves

turned round and round." They appealed strongly to Washington Irving, who, when

recording his visit to the shrine of Shakespeare, says: "To a homeless man, who has

no spot on this wide world which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary

feeling of something like independence and territorial consequence, when after a

weary day's travel he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and stretches

himself before an inn fire. Let the world without go as it may; let kingdoms rise or

fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the

very monarch of all he surveys.... 'Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?' thought

I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow chair, and cast a complacent look

about the little parlour of the Red Horse at Stratford-on-Avon."

Entrance to the Reindeer Inn, Banbury

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.

Across the way is the "Angel's" rival the "George," possibly identical with the

hospitium called "Le George" presented with other property by Edward IV to his

mother, the Duchess of York. It lacks the appearance of age which clothes the

"Angel" with dignity, and was rebuilt with red brick in the Georgian era. The

coaches often called there, and Charles Dickens stayed the night and describes it as

one of the best inns in England. He tells of Squeers conducting his new pupils

through Grantham to Dotheboys Hall, and how after leaving the inn the luckless

travellers "wrapped themselves more closely in their coats and cloaks ... and

prepared with many half-suppressed moans again to encounter the piercing blasts

which swept across the open country." At the "Saracen's Head" in Westgate Isaac

Newton used to stay, and there are many other inns, the majority of which rejoice

in signs that are blue. We see a Blue Horse, a Blue Dog, a Blue Ram, Blue Lion,

Blue Cow, Blue Sheep, and many other cerulean animals and objects, which

proclaim the political colour of the great landowner. Grantham boasts of a unique

inn-sign. Originally known as the "Bee-hive," a little public-house in Castlegate has

earned the designation of the "Living Sign," on account of the hive of bees fixed in

a tree that guards its portals. Upon the swinging sign the following lines are

inscribed:--

Stop, traveller, this wondrous sign explore,

And say when thou hast viewed it o'er and o'er,

Grantham, now two rarities are thine--

A lofty steeple and a "Living Sign."

The connexion of the "George" with Charles Dickens reminds one of the numerous

inns immortalized by the great novelist both in and out of London. The "Golden

Cross" at Charing Cross, the "Bull" at Rochester, the "Belle Sauvage" (now

demolished) near Ludgate Hill, the "Angel" at Bury St. Edmunds, the "Great White

Horse" at Ipswich, the "King's Head" at Chigwell (the original of the "Maypole" in

Barnaby Rudge), the "Leather Bottle" at Cobham are only a few of those which he

by his writings made famous.

A Quaint Gable. The Bell Inn, Stilton

Leaving Grantham and its inns, we push along the great North Road to Stilton,

famous for its cheese, where a choice of inns awaits us--the "Bell" and the

"Angel," that glare at each other across the broad thoroughfare. In the palmy days

of coaching the "Angel" had stabling for three hundred horses, and it was kept by

Mistress Worthington, at whose door the famous cheeses were sold and hence

called Stilton, though they were made in distant farmsteads and villages. It is quite

a modern-looking inn as compared with the "Bell." You can see a date inscribed on

one of the gables, 1649, but this can only mean that the inn was restored then, as

the style of architecture of "this dream in stone" shows that it must date back to

early Tudor times. It has a noble swinging sign supported by beautifully designed

ornamental ironwork, gables, bay-windows, a Tudor archway, tiled roof, and a

picturesque courtyard, the silence and dilapidation of which are strangely

contrasted with the continuous bustle, life, and animation which must have existed

there before the era of railways.

Not far away is Southwell, where there is the historic inn the "Saracen's Head."

Here Charles I stayed, and you can see the very room where he lodged on the left of

the entrance-gate. Here it was on May 5th, 1646, that he gave himself up to the

Scotch Commissioners, who wrote to the Parliament from Southwell "that it made

them feel like men in a dream." The "Martyr-King" entered this inn as a sovereign;

he left it a prisoner under the guard of his Lothian escort. Here he slept his last

night of liberty, and as he passed under the archway of the "Saracen's Head" he

started on that fatal journey that terminated on the scaffold at Whitehall. You can

see on the front of the inn over the gateway a stone lozenge with the royal arms

engraved on it with the date 1693, commemorating this royal melancholy visit. In

later times Lord Byron was a frequent visitor.

On the high, wind-swept road between Ashbourne and Buxton there is an inn which

can defy the attacks of the reformers. It is called the Newhaven Inn and was built

by a Duke of Devonshire for the accommodation of visitors to Buxton. King

George IV was so pleased with it that he gave the Duke a perpetual licence, with

which no Brewster Sessions can interfere. Near Buxton is the second highest inn in

England, the "Cat and Fiddle," and "The Traveller's Rest" at Flash Bar, on the Leek

road, ranks as third, the highest being the Tan Hill Inn, near Brough, on the

Yorkshire moors.

The Bell Inn, Stilton

Norwich is a city remarkable for its old buildings and famous inns. A very ancient

inn is the "Maid's Head" at Norwich, a famous hostelry which can vie in interest

with any in the kingdom. Do we not see there the identical room in which good

Queen Bess is said to have reposed on the occasion of her visit to the city in 1578?

You cannot imagine a more delightful old chamber, with its massive beams, its

wide fifteenth-century fire-place, and its quaint lattice, through which the

moonbeams play upon antique furniture and strange, fantastic carvings. This oak-

panelled room recalls memories of the Orfords, Walpoles, Howards, Wodehouses,

and other distinguished guests whose names live in England's annals. The old inn

was once known as the Murtel or Molde Fish, and some have tried to connect the

change of name with the visit of Queen Elizabeth; unfortunately for the conjecture,

the inn was known as the Maid's Head long before the days of Queen Bess. It was

built on the site of an old bishop's palace, and in the cellars may be seen some

traces of Norman masonry. One of the most fruitful sources of information about

social life in the fifteenth century are the Paston Letters. In one written by John

Paston in 1472 to "Mestresse Margret Paston," he tells her of the arrival of a visitor,

and continues: "I praye yow make hym goode cheer ... it were best to sette hys

horse at the Maydes Hedde, and I shall be content for ther expenses." During the

Civil War this inn was the rendezvous of the Royalists, but alas! one day

Cromwell's soldiers made an attack on the "Maid's Head," and took for their prize

the horses of Dame Paston stabled here.

We must pass over the records of civic feasts and aldermanic junketings, which

would fill a volume, and seek out the old "Briton's Arms," in the same city, a

thatched building of venerable appearance with its projecting upper storeys and

lofty gable. It looks as if it may not long survive the march of progress.

The parish of Heigham, now part of the city of Norwich, is noted as having been

the residence of Bishop Hall, "the English Seneca," and author of the Meditations,

on his ejection from the bishopric in 1647 till his death in 165643 The house in

which he resided, now known as the Dolphin Inn, still stands, and is an interesting

building with its picturesque bays and mullioned windows and ingeniously devised

porch. It has actually been proposed to pull down, or improve out of existence, this

magnificent old house. Its front is a perfect specimen of flint and stone sixteenth-

century architecture. Over the main door appears an episcopal coat of arms with the

date 1587, while higher on the front appears the date of a restoration (in two bays):

The "Briton's Arms, " Norwich

Just inside the doorway is a fine Gothic stoup into which bucolic rustics now knock

the fag-ends of their pipes. The staircase newel is a fine piece of Gothic carving

with an embattled moulding, a poppy-head and heraldic lion. Pillared fire-places

and other tokens of departed greatness testify to the former beauty of this old

dwelling-place.

The Dolphin Inn, Heigham, Norwich

We will now start back to town by the coach which leaves the "Maid's Head" (or

did leave in 1762) at half-past eleven in the forenoon, and hope to arrive in London

on the following day, and thence hasten southward to Canterbury. Along this Dover

road are some of the best inns in England: the "Bull" at Dartford, with its galleried

courtyard, once a pilgrims' hostel; the "Bull" and "Victoria" at Rochester,

reminiscent of Pickwick; the modern "Crown" that supplants a venerable inn where

Henry VIII first beheld Anne of Cleves; the "White Hart"; and the "George," where

pilgrims stayed; and so on to Canterbury, a city of memories, which happily retains

many features of old English life that have not altogether vanished. Its grand

cathedral, its churches, St. Augustine's College, its quaint streets, like Butchery

Lane, with their houses bending forward in a friendly manner to almost meet each

other, as well as its old inns, like the "Falstaff" in High Street, near West Gate,

standing on the site of a pilgrims' inn, with its sign showing the valiant and portly

knight, and supported by elaborate ironwork, its tiled roof and picturesque front, all

combine to make Canterbury as charming a place of modern pilgrimage as it was

attractive to the pilgrims of another sort who frequented its inns in days of yore.

Shield and Monogram on doorway of the Dolphin Inn, Heigham

Staircase Newel at the Dolphin Inn. From Old Oak Furniture, by Fred Roe

And now we will discard the cumbersome old coaches and even the "Flying

Machines," and travel by another flying machine, an airship, landing where we

will, wherever a pleasing inn attracts us. At Glastonbury is the famous "George,"

which has hardly changed its exterior since it was built by Abbot Selwood in 1475

for the accommodation of middle-class pilgrims, those of high degree being

entertained at the abbot's lodgings. At Gloucester we find ourselves in the midst of

memories of Roman, Saxon, and monastic days. Here too are some famous inns,

especially the quaint "New Inn," in Northgate Street, a somewhat peculiar sign for

a hostelry built (so it is said) for the use of pilgrims frequenting the shrine of

Edward II in the cathedral. It retains all its ancient medieval picturesqueness. Here

the old gallery which surrounded most of our inn-yards remains. Carved beams and

door-posts made of chestnut are seen everywhere, and at the corner of New Inn

Lane is a very elaborate sculpture, the lower part of which represents the Virgin

and Holy Child. Here, in Hare Lane, is also a similar inn, the Old Raven Tavern,

which has suffered much in the course of ages. It was formerly built around a

courtyard, but only one side of it is left.

The Falstaff Inn, Canterbury

There are many fine examples of old houses that are not inns in Gloucester,

beautiful half-timbered black and white structures, such as Robert Raikes's house,

the printer who has the credit of founding the first Sunday-school, the old Judges'

House in Westgate Street, the old Deanery with its Norman room, once the Prior's

Lodge of the Benedictine Abbey. Behind many a modern front there exist curious

carvings and quaintly panelled rooms and elaborate ceilings. There is an interesting

carved-panel room in the Tudor House, Westgate Street. The panels are of the linen

-fold pattern, and at the head of each are various designs, such as the Tudor Rose

and Pomegranate, the Lion of England, etc. The house originally known as the Old

Blue Shop has some magnificent mantelpieces, and also St. Nicholas House can

boast of a very elaborately carved example of Elizabethan sculpture.

We journey thence to Tewkesbury and visit the grand silver-grey abbey that adorns

the Severn banks. Here are some good inns of great antiquity. The "Wheat-sheaf" is

perhaps the most attractive, with its curious gable and ancient lights, and even the

interior is not much altered. Here too is the "Bell," under the shadow of the abbey

tower. It is the original of Phineas Fletcher's house in the novel John Halifax,

Gentleman. The "Bear and the Ragged Staff" is another half-timbered house with a

straggling array of buildings and curious swinging signboard, the favourite haunt of

the disciples of Izaak Walton, under the overhanging eaves of which the Avon

silently flows.

The old "Seven Stars" at Manchester is said to be the most ancient in England,

claiming a licence 563 years old. But it has many rivals, such as the "Fighting

Cocks" at St. Albans, the "Dick Whittington" in Cloth Fair, St. Bartholomews, the

"Running Horse" at Leatherhead, wherein John Skelton, the poet laureate of Henry

VIII, sang the praises of its landlady, Eleanor Rumming, and several others. The

"Seven Stars" has many interesting features and historical associations. Here came

Guy Fawkes and concealed himself in "Ye Guy Faux Chamber," as the legend over

the door testifies. What strange stories could this old inn tell us! It could tell us of

the Flemish weavers who, driven from their own country by religious persecutions

and the atrocities of Duke Alva, settled in Manchester in 1564, and drank many a

cup of sack at the "Seven Stars," rejoicing in their safety. It could tell us of the

disputes between the clergy of the collegiate church and the citizens in 1574, when

one of the preachers, a bachelor of divinity, on his way to the church was stabbed

three times by the dagger of a Manchester man; and of the execution of three

popish priests, whose heads were afterwards exposed from the tower of the church.

Then there is the story of the famous siege in 1642, when the King's forces tried to

take the town and were repulsed by the townsfolk, who were staunch Roundheads.

"A great and furious skirmish did ensue," and the "Seven Stars" was in the centre of

the fighting. Sir Thomas Fairfax made Manchester his head-quarters in 1643, and

the walls of the "Seven Stars" echoed with the carousals of the Roundheads. When

Fairfax marched from Manchester to relieve Nantwich, some dragoons had to leave

hurriedly, and secreted their mess plate in the walls of the old inn, where it was

discovered only a few years ago, and may now be seen in the parlour of this

interesting hostel. In 1745 it furnished accommodation for the soldiers of Prince

Charles Edward, the Young Pretender, and was the head-quarters of the Manchester

regiment. One of the rooms is called "Ye Vestry," on account of its connexion with

the collegiate church. It is said that there was a secret passage between the inn and

the church, and, according to the Court Leet Records, some of the clergy used to go

to the "Seven Stars" in sermon-time in their surplices to refresh themselves. O

tempora! O mores! A horseshoe at the foot of the stairs has a story to tell. During

the war with France in 1805 the press-gang was billeted at the "Seven Stars." A

young farmer's lad was leading a horse to be shod which had cast a shoe. The press-

gang rushed out, seized the young man, and led him off to serve the king. Before

leaving he nailed the shoe to a post on the stairs, saying, "Let this stay till I come

from the wars to claim it." So it remains to this day unclaimed, a mute reminder of

its owner's fate and of the manners of our forefathers.

The Bear and Ragged Staff Inn, Tewkesbury

Another inn, the "Fighting Cocks" at St. Albans, formerly known as "Ye Old

Round House," close to the River Ver, claims to be the oldest inhabited house in

England. It probably formed part of the monastic buildings, but its antiquity as an

inn is not, as far as I am aware, fully established.

The antiquary must not forget the ancient inn at Bainbridge, in Wensleydale, which

has had its licence since 1445, and plays its little part in Drunken Barnaby's

Journal.

Fire-place in the George Inn, Norton St. Philip, Somerset

Many inns have played an important part in national events. There is the "Bull" at

Coventry, where Henry VII stayed before the battle of Bosworth Field, where he

won for himself the English crown. There Mary Queen of Scots was detained by

order of Elizabeth. There the conspirators of the Gunpowder Plot met to devise

their scheme for blowing up the Houses of Parliament. The George Inn at Norton

St. Philip, Somerset, took part in the Monmouth rebellion. There the Duke stayed,

and there was much excitement in the inn when he informed his officers that it was

his intention to attack Bristol. Thence he marched with his rude levies to

Keynsham, and after a defeat and a vain visit to Bath he returned to the "George"

and won a victory over Faversham's advanced guard. You can still see the

Monmouth room in the inn with its fine fire-place.

The Crown and Treaty Inn at Uxbridge reminds one of the meeting of the

Commissioners of King and Parliament, who vainly tried to arrange a peace in

1645; and at the "Bear," Hungerford, William of Orange received the

Commissioners of James II, and set out thence on his march towards London and

the English throne.

The Dark Lantern Inn at Aylesbury, in a nest of poor houses, seems to tell by its

unique sign of plots and conspiracies.

Aylesbury is noted for its inns. The famous "White Hart" is no more. It has

vanished entirely, having disappeared in 1863. It had been modernized, but could

boast of a timber balcony round the courtyard, ornamented with ancient wood

carvings brought from Salden House, an old seat of the Fortescues, near Winslow.

Part of the inn was built by the Earl of Rochester in 1663, and many were the great

feasts and civic banquets that took place within its hospitable doors. The "King's

Head" dates from the middle of the fifteenth century and is a good specimen of the

domestic architecture of the Tudor period. It formerly issued its own tokens. It was

probably the hall of some guild or fraternity. In a large window are the arms of

England and Anjou. The George Inn has some interesting paintings which were

probably brought from Eythrope House on its demolition in 1810, and the "Bull's

Head" has some fine beams and panelling.

The Green Dragon Inn, Wymondham, Norfolk

Some of the inns of Burford and Shrewsbury we have seen when we visited those

old-world towns. Wymondham, once famous for its abbey, is noted for its "Green

Dragon," a beautiful half-timbered house with projecting storeys, and in our

wanderings we must not forget to see along the Brighton road the picturesque

"Star" at Alfriston with its three oriel windows, one of the oldest in Sussex. It was

once a sanctuary within the jurisdiction of the Abbot of Battle for persons flying

from justice. Hither came men-slayers, thieves, and rogues of every description,

and if they reached this inn-door they were safe. There is a record of a horse-thief

named Birrel in the days of Henry VIII seeking refuge here for a crime committed

at Lydd, in Kent. It was intended originally as a house for the refreshment of

mendicant friars. The house is very quaint with its curious carvings, including a

great red lion that guards the side, the figure-head of a wrecked Dutch vessel lost in

Cuckmen Haven. Alfriston was noted as a great nest of smugglers, and the "Star"

was often frequented by Stanton Collins and his gang, who struck terror into their

neighbours, daringly carried on their trade, and drank deep at the inn when the kegs

were safely housed. Only fourteen years ago the last of his gang died in Eastbourne

Workhouse. Smuggling is a vanished profession nowadays, a feature of vanished

England that no one would seek to revive. Who can tell whether it may not be as

prevalent as ever it was, if tariff reform and the imposition of heavy taxes on

imports become articles of our political creed?

The Star Inn, Afriston Sussex.

Many of the inns once famous in the annals of the road have now "retired from

business" and have taken down their signs. The First and Last Inn, at Croscombe,

Somerset, was once a noted coaching hostel, but since coaches ceased to run it was

not wanted and has closed its doors to the public. Small towns like Hounslow,

Wycombe, and Ashbourne were full of important inns which, being no longer

required for the accommodation of travellers, have retired from work and converted

themselves into private houses. Small villages like Little Brickhill, which happened

to be a stage, abounded with hostels which the ending of the coaching age made

unnecessary. The Castle Inn at Marlborough, once one of the finest in England, is

now part of a great public school. The house has a noted history. It was once a

nobleman's mansion, being the home of Frances Countess of Hereford, the patron

of Thomson, and then of the Duke of Northumberland, who leased it to Mr.

Cotterell for the purpose of an inn. Crowds of distinguished folk have thronged its

rooms and corridors, including the great Lord Chatham, who was laid up here with

an attack of gout for seven weeks in 1762 and made all the inn-servants wear his

livery. Mr. Stanley Weyman has made it the scene of one of his charming

romances. It was not until 1843 that it took down its sign, and has since patiently

listened to the conjugation of Greek and Latin verbs, to classic lore, and other

studies which have made Marlborough College one of the great and successful

public schools. Another great inn was the fine Georgian house near one of the

entrances to Kedleston Park, built by Lord Scarsdale for visitors to the medicinal

waters in his park. But these waters have now ceased to cure the mildest invalid,

and the inn is now a large farm-house with vast stables and barns.

It seems as if something of the foundations of history were crumbling to read that

the "Star and Garter" at Richmond is to be sold at auction. That is a melancholy

fate for perhaps the most famous inn in the country--a place at which princes and

statesmen have stayed, and to which Louis Philippe and his Queen resorted. The

"Star and Garter" has figured in the romances of some of our greatest novelists.

One comes across it in Meredith and Thackeray, and it finds its way into numerous

memoirs, nearly always with some comment upon its unique beauty of situation, a

beauty that was never more real than at this moment when the spring foliage is just

beginning to peep.

The motor and changing habits account for the evil days upon which the hostelry

has fallen. Trains and trams have brought to the doors almost of the "Star and

Garter" a public that has not the means to make use of its 120 bedrooms. The richer

patrons of other days flash past on their motors, making for those resorts higher up

the river which are filling the place in the economy of the London Sunday and

week-end which Richmond occupied in times when travelling was more difficult.

These changes are inevitable. The "Ship" at Greenwich has gone, and Cabinet

Ministers can no longer dine there. The convalescent home, which was the undoing

of certain Poplar Guardians, is housed in an hotel as famous as the "Ship," in its

days once the resort of Pitt and his bosom friends. Indeed, a pathetic history might

be written of the famous hostelries of the past.

Not far from Marlborough is Devizes, formerly a great coaching centre, and full of

inns, of which the most noted is the "Bear," still a thriving hostel, once the home of

the great artist Sir Thomas Lawrence, whose father was the landlord.

Courtyard of the George Inn, Norton St. Philip Somerset

It is impossible within one chapter to record all the old inns of England, we have

still a vast number left unchronicled, but perhaps a sufficient number of examples

has been given of this important feature of vanishing England. Some of these are

old and crumbling, and may die of old age. Others will fall a prey to licensing

committees. Some have been left high and dry, deserted by the stream of guests that

flowed to them in the old coaching days. Motor-cars have resuscitated some and

brought prosperity and life to the old guest-haunted chambers. We cannot dwell on

the curious signs that greet us as we travel along the old highways, or strive to

interpret their origin and meaning. We are rather fond in Berkshire of the "Five

Alls," the interpretation of which is cryptic. The Five Alls are, if I remember

right--

"I rule all" [the king].

"I pray for all" [the bishop].

"I plead for all" [the barrister].

"I fight for all" [the soldier].

"I pay for all" [the farmer].

One of the most humorous inn signs is "The Man Loaded with Mischief," which is

found about a mile from Cambridge, on the Madingley road. The original Mischief

was designed by Hogarth for a public-house in Oxford Street. It is needless to say

that the signboard, and even the name, have long ago disappeared from the busy

London thoroughfare, but the quaint device must have been extensively copied by

country sign-painters. There is a "Mischief" at Wallingford, and a "Load of

Mischief" at Norwich, and another at Blewbury. The inn on the Madingley road

exhibits the sign in its original form. Though the colours are much faded from

exposure to the weather, traces of Hogarthian humour can be detected. A man is

staggering under the weight of a woman, who is on his back. She is holding a glass

of gin in her hand; a chain and padlock are round the man's neck, labelled

"Wedlock." On the right-hand side is the shop of "S. Gripe, Pawnbroker," and a

carpenter is just going in to pledge his tools.

"The Dark Lantern" Inn, Aylesbury

The art of painting signboards is almost lost, and when they have to be renewed

sorry attempts are made to imitate the old designs. Some celebrated artists have not

thought it below their dignity to paint signboards. Some have done this to show

their gratitude to their kindly host and hostess for favours received when they

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