MONASTIC INNS

Rural England, during the two centuries after the Conquest, was practically under martial law. The hardy Men of Kent and the Vale of Holmsdale were strong enough to retain some of their ancient rights and privileges. Beyond these districts local government was suppressed and a military despotism took its place, administered often by half-civilized chieftains. One influence alone was formidable enough to modify and soften the crude tyranny of the feudal system—that of the Monasteries.

The religious orders were the only class who had directly profited by the new regime to increase their power. Hitherto merely national they now became, in a way, part of an international system. Not that they ceased to be patriotic. In the combinations against regal misrule which produced the Great Charters, Bishops and Abbots threw in their lot heartily with the lay barons. But in themselves they formed at this time an almost independent authority with special privileges dangerous to meddle with, because behind them was the Universal Church and its temporal head the Pope, now just reaching the zenith of his authority.

It was the religious orders that saved England from barbarism. Each monastery was a kind of impregnable city within which all the graces of civilization were fostered. Here learning, literature and art were diligently studied; rich and poor, bondman and free, were welcomed as scholars if only they proved their ability to profit by the tuition. A certain number of manors were allotted to the Church, and this number was constantly being increased by royal or private benefaction. The tenants of ecclesiastical manors, more especially the villeins or serfs, were in these early times much better treated than those subject to the secular lords. The tenures were generally easy, labour customs could be commuted for a small sum of money, and the serfs could acquire freedom on very moderate terms. Enlightened forms of lease were introduced.

The monks were the great agriculturists of the Middle Ages, and so were concerned in the maintenance of facilities for traffic. Apart from this their one duty to the State was to satisfy the trinoda necessitas, particularly the care of roads and bridges. This was considered a pious and meritorious duty often rewarded with special indulgences; such undertakings were a work of mercy, in that they befriended the unfortunate traveller. The roads adjoining a monastic estate were usually kept in fair condition, as compared with those in other districts. The first London Bridge was built by the Prior of St. Mary Overie; another great endowed bridge, that over the Medway at Rochester, owes its origin to the great St. Dunstan. Nearly all the picturesque gothic bridges which still survive were the work of the monks. Travelling was in many other ways directly fostered by the monasteries. Communications were constantly passing between the various houses of an order, many of which were on the Continent. Authority for the election of a new abbot or a change in the statutes would have to be obtained from Rome. The two centuries after the Conquest witnessed a continual rebuilding and beautifying of the Abbey Churches. Materials had to be brought from a distance, skilled artists engaged, rich plate, metal work, and ornate vestments procured for the altar-service. All this was a great stimulus to trade.

The doors of the monastery were open to all comers, and there were many reasons why hospitality would be sought at a religious house in preference to the manorial inn. Rich people resorted to them because of their comfort and security; the poor because there was nothing to pay. No unpleasant questions were likely to be asked; so we find Quentin Durward (in the novel of Sir Walter Scott, which gives us such an excellent idea of the period he describes,) always avoiding the public inns and taking refuge at the monasteries in order to minimize the risk of his secret mission being betrayed. Most of these houses had been endowed by the king or nobles, and their descendants considered themselves at home within the precincts.

These noble guests, especially when they were accompanied by a miscellaneous retinue, were apt to be rather too roisterous and turbulent for the cloister. A statute of Edward I forbids anyone to lodge at a religious house without the formal invitation of the Superior, unless he be the founder, and then he must conform closely to the rules and regulations. The poor alone were to retain the right to the grace of hospitality free of charge. Numerous later statutes were enacted with the same end in view. The monks of Battle rebuilt their Guest House outside the Abbey Gate where it still remains a most beautiful example of fifteenth-century half-timber work. Long before this time, however, another expedient had been devised to cope with the increasing crowd of travellers needing rest and refreshment.

Whenever we come across an inn bearing the sign of the Bull it is worth while to inquire whether there was formerly a religious house in the neighbourhood. We have examined into the history of upwards of a hundred “Bulls,” and even where definite proof has not been forthcoming, the circumstantial evidence has always been sufficient to arouse suspicion. It is especially a common sign in connection with a nunnery. Thus the inns of this name at Dartford, Barking and Malling, all three very ancient, belonged to the local abbeys. At Hythe, on the Medway, a manor of Malling Abbey, there is a Bull Inn; and another at Theale in Berkshire, which was the property of the prioress of Goring. Elfrida, the mother-in-law of Edward the Martyr, founded a nunnery at Reading in expiation of the base murder of that prince. This nunnery was abolished owing to scandals in the twelfth century, but a Bull Inn still flourishes near the site of the Abbey Gate. At Newington, next Sittingbourne, the prioress was found strangled in her bed and the nuns were removed elsewhere, but the Bull remains as the chief inn to this day.

The Bull, Sudbury

In deeds of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries relating to the Bull at Barking, this house is referred to as “tectum vel hospitium vocatum le Bole.” Bole is the old French equivalent of the Latin bulla, a seal from which it is clear that no bovine connection is implied by the sign, but merely that the inn was licensed under the seal of the Abbey. Some antiquaries have suggested that such inns were tied houses where ale of monastic brewing was sold, reminding us of the current explanation of the xx and xxx marks on barrels of strong ale, as having been originally the seals guaranteeing the quality in the days when the monks were the leading brewers. It is true that the peculiar virtue of the wells at Burton-on-Trent was known at a very early period, and that the ale brewed in the local Abbey was an article of commerce when Richard I was king. Tied houses were not uncommon in the Middle Ages, witness the Bear Inn in Southwark, leased in 1319 by Thomas Drinkwater, wine merchant to James Beauflur, on condition that he purchased all his liquor from the said Thomas Drinkwater, who agreed to furnish all needful flagons, mugs, cutlery and linen. On the other hand, very few collegiate houses brewed ale beyond the needs of their own consumption, and we have not yet come across any lease binding their tenants. Mention is often made of a brewhouse attached to the inn. As to the marks on the barrels a prosaic solution is that these are merely excise marks of the seventeenth century, when beer was taxed according to its strength.

Pigeon House at the Bull, Long Melford

Whatever the terms of its original lease may have been the Bull profited by monastic favour and protection to grow into a big and prosperous establishment. It is nearly always the leading hostelry of the town. Two centuries ago the Bull at St. Albans was described by Baskerville as the largest in England, but with the decay of the coaching trade it has retired into private life. Mr. Jingle’s recommendation of the Bull at Rochester, “Good house, nice beds,” might be fairly applied to nearly every Bull Inn of our acquaintance. The sign is a symbol of steady-going respectable old-fashioned ways, where comfort is not sacrificed to economy, and where the cellar and kitchen are alike irreproachable. Any remnants of antiquity are concealed behind a broad Georgian faÇade, for good business entails frequent rebuilding. The Bull at Barking is now to all appearance a quite modern hotel. Few would guess that its history could be traced for seven hundred years, and that twice during that time it has been occupied by a single family for more than a century. In 1636 it was sold to St. Margaret’s Hospital in Westminster, for the sum of one shilling; and therefore continues to be collegiate property.

To avoid confusion we must remind the reader that the “Bull’s Head” denotes the crest of the Nevilles or, occasionally, Anne Boleyn. The Pied Bull is a whimsical sign found near a cattle market or bull-ring. A few inns, too, received the name of the Bull in Elizabethan or Jacobean times when astrology was popular, and Taurus happened to be the house ascendant in the horary figure. Thus in Ben Jonson’s “Alchemist”:

“A townsman born in Taurus given the bull, or the Bull’s head; in Aries the ram.”

Sometimes in place of the official seal the monastic inn bore for its sign a picture or carving of a religious mystery. Outside the Abbey Gate, at Bury St. Edmunds, is the Angel Inn, once called the Angelus or Salutation; there is another Angel Inn, probably monastic, in Guildford. Both of these are famous for their beautiful Early English crypts, groined and vaulted in stone. The Angel at Grantham belonged to the Knights Templars. At Addington in Kent the Angel has a very odd staircase of great antiquity, each tread being a solid log of timber; and an underground passage, which local gossip connects with a priory at Ryarsh. Another monastic Angel at Basingstoke is said to be the subject of Ben Jonson’s coarse epigram, inspired by the departure of his hostess, Mrs. Hope and her daughter Prudence. The Cock as an emblem of St. Peter, and the Crosskeys are frequently found. The most interesting inn in the city of Westminster was the Cock and Tabard, in Tothill Street, pulled down in 1871. It dated from the reign of Edward III, and it was here, according to Stowe, that the workmen engaged in the completion of the Abbey Church were paid. From its yard two centuries later the first stage-coach to Oxford was started. Battle Abbey possessed several “Star” inns, the best known of which was the Star at Alfriston, which may either be named after Our Lady, Star of the Sea, or after the Earl of Sussex, one of whose badges was the star.

Semi-religious signs such as the Angel, Star and Mitre are not always monastic, nor need they imply pre-reformation origin. The Angel at Islington is, comparatively speaking, a mushroom upstart. Under the sign of the Angel, Jacobs, a Jew, opened in 1650 one of the first coffee-houses in the parish of St. Peter, Oxford. A pious Roundhead might find chapter and verse for the sign and gloat over the conceit of entertaining an Angel—perhaps not unawares. Puritan sects have been known to give the official title of “Angel” to their itinerant preachers. The Cock Tavern, in Fleet Street, in spite of the splendid gilt chanticleer (generally attributed to Grinling Gibbons) has no connection with St. Peter. An advertisement, printed in the Intelligence of 1665, shows that its old name was the Cock and Bottle. Cock is still used in some parts of the country for the spigot, or tap in a barrel; and the sign was simply a short way of informing the bibulous that they could obtain here ale both on draught and in bottle.

A monastic inn far exceeding in world-wide fame all others, is that Tabard Inn in the Borough, whence five hundred years ago thirty merry pilgrims set forth on a springtide morning on their three days’ journey along the old Watling Street to Canterbury. The Tabard was a speculation of the Abbot of Hyde, Winchester, and no doubt a profitable one, for its landlords were always men of character and substance who would attract guests of good class. Harry Bailey, Chaucer’s friend, represented Southwark in two successive parliaments, and another landlord, William Rutton, sat in Parliament for East Grinstead in 1529. Built in 1307, together with a hostel for the clergy of the monastery, it remained in much the same condition as when Chaucer sang its praises until about 1602. The stone-coloured wooden gallery, in front of which hung a picture of the Canterbury Pilgrimage, attributed to Blake, and the so-called “Pilgrim’s room” were probably of this period; the rest was rebuilt after the great fire of Southwark, 1676. Twenty years ago all was demolished, and a gin-shop on its site of modern, vulgar red-brick mock gothic absurdly claims the title of “The Old Tabard.”

One religious order never attempted to divert the increasing stream of guests into the inns. With the Knights Hospitallers all comers were welcomed; the entertainment of strangers remained their chief duty. The accounts of their house in Clerkenwell for the year 1337 show that they had spent more than their whole revenue—at least £8,000, the reason being, as the prior explains, the hospitality given to strangers, members of the royal family and other grandees who all expected to be entertained in accordance with their rank. A noble would occasionally send his whole suite to the convent in order to save expense. The Knight monks finding no Paynim to demolish became an order of hotel-keepers, and travellers never failed to profit by the generous fare provided in their numerous establishments.

Yard of the White Horse, Dorking

At Dorking, when the Knights departed, the innkeeper took their place and continues to keep up the old traditions. The White Cross is now the White Horse, though not from any similarity of names but because the Earls of Arundel, and afterwards the Dukes of Norfolk, were lords of the manor. In later life the White Horse was a famous coaching house, and rebuildings have apparently destroyed any feature older than say three centuries. Perhaps it was in the yard of this house, where a noble old vine spreads green fragrance over the great white gables, that Charles Dickens met the individual who sat for the portrait of Tony Weller. Deep underneath the building are a series of vaults cut out of the sandstone—maybe a relic of the Hospitallers. In one of the lowest is a curious old well. Tradition has it that these cellars were used in the smuggling days. To lovers of the road the quaint gables and broad oriels of the White Horse are no mean landmark, for they are the destination of a real old-fashioned coach and four running hither from Charing Cross daily during the summer months.