Sketches by Boz and The Uncommercial Traveller

THE GOAT AND BOOTS—THE BLUE LION AND STOMACH WARMER—THE RED HOUSE—THE FREEMASONS’ TAVERN—THE EAGLE—OFFLEY’S—THE RAINBOW—THE ALBION—THE FLOWER-POT—THE BULL’S HEAD—THE DOLPHIN’S HEAD—THE LORD WARDEN HOTEL—THE CRISPIN AND CRISPIANUS

In Dickens’s minor writings there are mentioned many inns, taverns and coffee-houses, some merely fictitious with fanciful names, others whose fame has been recorded in the social history of their times. Sketches by Boz is fairly well supplied in this respect, but none of them is described at any length; indeed, scarcely anything but the names are mentioned, and those only in passing. In the second chapter of “Our Parish,” we are introduced to the new curate who became so popular with the ladies that their enthusiasm for him knew no bounds. It culminated, we are told, when “he spoke for one hour and twenty-five minutes at an anti-slavery meeting at the Goat and Boots.” A proposal was forthwith set on foot to make him a presentation, and this, in the shape of a splendid silver ink-stand engraved with an appropriate inscription, was publicly handed to him at a special breakfast at the aforementioned Goat and Boots, “in a neat little speech by Mr. Gubbins, the ex-churchwarden, and acknowledged by the curate in terms which drew tears into the eyes of all present—the very waiters melted.”

The Goat and Boots was no doubt a highly respectable hostelry, but its whereabouts is “wropped in mystery.” So is the Blue Lion and Stomach Warmer, except that we are told that it was at Great Winglebury, and we know that Great Winglebury was a fictitious name for Rochester. But which was the inn that received this whimsical name at the hands of the novelist under whose roof Horace Hunter penned his challenge to that base umbrella-maker Alexander Trott, we are unable to state. On the other hand, the Winglebury Arms where Alexander Trott was staying at the time was the Bull Hotel, Rochester.[3] The Red House, Battersea, casually mentioned in the chapter on “The River” as the “Red-us,” was a popular tavern and tea-gardens in those days and notorious for its pigeon-shooting; indeed, tradition has it that it took the lead in the quality and quantity of the sport, and that the crack shots assembled there to determine important matches. It was also famous as the winning-post of many a boat race from Westminster Bridge, and was the place “where all the prime of life lads assembled,” the joy and fun of which is vividly described by Dickens in the chapter referred to. It was a red-bricked building, and a prominent landmark of what was then known as Battersea Fields, the one-time scene of many a duel.

The Cross Keys mentioned in the chapter on “Omnibuses” we have already referred to when dealing with Great Expectations; whilst for particulars of the Golden Cross, the busy coaching-inn mentioned in “Hackney Coach Stands,” and in “Early Coaches,” we must refer the reader to “The Inns and Taverns of Pickwick.”

The Freemasons’ Tavern in the chapter on “Public Dinners” does not receive much attention from Dickens. He is describing the public dinner given in aid of the “Indigent Orphans Friends’ Benevolent Institution,” and no reference beyond the use of the name is made to the building itself. The tavern still stands to-day, and no doubt more glorious in its splendour than it was on the occasion of the public dinner Dickens refers to. It is used to-day for similar purposes, the ceremony and atmosphere at which being little changed from what it was then. It is interesting to note that in the same building a farewell dinner was given Dickens on the eve of his departure for America in 1867, with Lord Lytton in the chair.

The chapter devoted to the story of Miss Evans and the Eagle, recalls the notorious tavern immortalised in the famous jingle:

Up and down the City Road,
In and out the Eagle,
That’s the way the money goes—
Pop goes the weasel!

and the chronicle of Miss Jemima Evans’s visit to the highly famed pleasure-resort will contribute more towards retaining the Eagle on the recording tablets of history than the contemporary rhymster’s poetic effort. It was in 1825 that the Eagle Tavern turned its saloon into what was the forerunner of the music hall, and was the making of many a well-known singer. It was to this gay spot in London that Mr. Samuel Wilkins took Miss Jemima Evans, with whom he “kept company.” They were joined in the Pancras Road by Miss Ivins’s lady friend and her young man. We do not attempt to identify the Crown where they stayed on the way to taste some stout, and are content with the knowledge that they reached the rotunda where the concert was held, and to remind our readers of the impression it had on Miss J’mima Ivins and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend, who both exclaimed at once “How ’ev’nly!” when they were fairly inside the gardens. Dickens’s description of the place will convey some idea of its splendour:

“There were the walks, beautifully gravelled and planted—and the refreshment boxes, painted and ornamented like so many snuff-boxes—and the variegated lamps shedding their rich light upon the company’s heads—and the place for dancing ready chalked for the company’s feet—and a Moorish band playing at one end of the gardens—and an opposition military band playing away at the other. Then, the waiters were rushing to and fro with glasses of negus, and glasses of brandy and water, and bottles of ale, and bottles of stout; and ginger-beer was going off in one place, and practical jokes were going off in another; and people were crowding to the door of the Rotunda; and, in short, the whole scene was, as Miss J’mima Ivins, inspired by the novelty, or the stout, or both, observed, ‘One of dazzling excitement.’ As to the concert room, never was anything half so splendid. There was an orchestra for the singers, all paint, gilding, and plate-glass; and such an organ!... The audience was seated on elevated benches round the room, and crowded into every part of it; and everybody was eating and drinking as comfortably as possible.”

THE EAGLE TAVERN PLEASURE GARDENS
From an old Print

What happened to our friends there, and how the trouble over the waistcoat and whiskers was adjusted, is not our business here. The printed account must be read elsewhere. But we have quoted what is perhaps one of the best pictures of this famous resort extant.

Ultimately, the Rotunda was turned into the Grecian Theatre, and was not demolished until 1901. By then, of course, the real glory of the Eagle had departed and succeeding generations of Jemima Evanses and their young men friends had sought other glittering palaces for their pleasures.

There are two taverns mentioned in the following paragraph appearing in the chapter on Mr. John Dounce:

“There was once a fine collection of old boys to be seen round the circular table at Offley’s every night, between the hours of half-past eight and half-past eleven. We have lost sight of them for some time. There were, and may be still for aught we know, two splendid specimens in full blossom at the Rainbow Tavern in Fleet Street, who always used to sit in the box nearest the fire-place, and smoked long cherry-stick pipes which went under the table with the bowls resting on the floor.”

Offley’s, long ago demolished, was a noted tavern in its day, and, according to Timbs, enjoyed great and deserved celebrity, though short-lived. It was situated at No. 23 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, and its fame rested on Burton ale and the largest supper-room in the neighbourhood. It had a certain dignity about it, and eschewed “pictures, placards, paper-hangings, or vulgar coffee-room finery,” in order that its customers should not be disturbed in their relish of the good things provided. Of these good things may be mentioned Offley’s chop, which was thick and substantial. The House of Commons chop was small and thin, and Honourable Members sometimes ate a dozen at a sitting. “Offley’s chop was served with shalots shred and warmed in gravy, and accompanied by nips of Burton ale, and was a delicious after-theatre supper.” There was a large room upstairs with wines really worth drinking, and withal Offley’s presented a sort of quakerly plainness, but solid comfort. There was singing by amateurs one day a week, and, to prevent the chorus waking the dead in their cerements in St. Paul’s churchyard opposite, the coffee-room window was double.

Upon other evenings, there came to a large round table (a sort of privileged place) a few well-to-do, substantial tradesmen from the neighbourhood, and this was the little coterie to which Dickens refers.

The Rainbow, also mentioned in the quotation above, was the second house in London to sell coffee and was at one time kept by a Mr. Farr, who was prosecuted for the nuisance caused by the odious smell in the roasting of the berry. In later years (about 1780) the tavern was kept by Alexander Moncrieff, grandfather of the author of “Tom and Jerry,” and was known as the Rainbow Coffee-House. In those days the coffee-room had a lofty bay-window at the south end, looking into the Temple; the room was separated from the kitchen only by a glazed partition. In the bay was a table for the elders, amongst whom doubtless were the “grand old boys” Dickens speaks of as being always there, puffing and drinking away in great state. Everybody knew them, and it was supposed by some people that they were both “immortal.”

In the chapter “Making a Night of It,” we learn that Mr. Potter, in his “rough blue coat with wooden buttons, made upon the fireman’s principle, in which, with the addition of a low-crowned, flower-pot, saucer-shaped hat,” created no inconsiderable sensation at the Albion in Little Russell Street, and divers other places of public and fashionable resort.

“Making a Night of It” is no doubt mainly reminiscent of a merry evening in the business life of Dickens, and possibly the Albion was one of the favourite resorts of his, and of his co-clerk, Potter. In their day, the Albion was favoured by the theatrical profession and all those associated with things theatrical, and also by those young men who hung on the skirts of actors.

Dickens used the Albion in the ’fifties. In a letter to W. H. Wills (1851) there are instructions to order a plain cold supper at Simpson’s, the Albion, by Drury Lane Theatre, for the next play night. “I would merely have cold joints, lobsters, salad, and plenty of clean ice,” he says. “Perhaps there might be one hot dish, as broiled bones. But I would have only one, and I would have it cheap.” The play referred to was “Not so Bad as we Seem,” which Dickens and his friends were rehearsing for the Guild of Literature and Art. The supper was to be paid for at so much per head, “not including wines, spirits or beers, which each gentleman will order for himself.”

Mr. Percy FitzGerald tells of another evening when Dickens took his friends to the Albion. It was the occasion of Hollingshead’s revival of “The Miller and his Men,” and Dickens was determined to be there. He gave a little dinner party at “the good old Albion,” and all were in great spirits, seated in one of the “boxes” or eating pews as they might be called, and then crossed over the Drury Lane Theatre afterwards.

In the chapter devoted to “Mr. Minns and his Cousin,” in giving instructions as to the best way for Mr. Augustus Minns to get to Mr. Budden’s in Poplar Walk, the latter says, “Now mind the direction; the coach goes from the Flower Pot in Bishopsgate Street, every half-hour. When the coach stops at the Swan, you’ll see, immediately opposite you, a White House.”The Flower Pot was a coaching inn of some distinction in those days, for not only did the coaches ply between it and the north-east of London, but the inn was also the starting point of the Norwich coach and others to the eastern counties. The Swan was at Stamford Hill, and, beyond that it was the scheduled stopping-place for coaches, to and from London, we can find no record of its history.

The innumerable references to inns and taverns in The Uncommercial Traveller are for the most part purely imaginary. Even when it is clear that Dickens is describing something he actually saw and experienced, he has taken the precaution, in this book, to disguise the inn’s name and whereabouts. There are several such in the chapter entitled “Refreshments for Travellers,” a chapter made up of a series of complaints and adverse criticisms verging on the brink of libel. For instance:

“Take the old-established Bull’s Head with its old-established knife-boxes on its old-established sideboards, its old-established flue under its old-established four-post bedsteads in its old-established airless rooms, its old-established frouziness upstairs and downstairs, its old-established cookery, and its old-established principles of plunder. Count up your injuries, in its side-dishes of ailing sweetbreads in white poultices, of apothecaries’ powders in rice for curry, of pale stewed bits of calf ineffectually relying for an adventitious interest on forcemeat balls. You have had experience of the old-established Bull’s Head stringy fowls, with lower extremities like wooden legs sticking up out of the dish; of its cannibalistic boiled mutton, gushing horribly among its capers, when carved; of its little dishes of pastry—roofs of spermaceti ointment erected over half an apple or four gooseberries. Well for you if you have yet forgotten the old-established Bull’s Head fruity port; whose reputation was gained solely by the old-established price the Bull’s Head put upon it, and by the old-established air with which the Bull’s Head set the glasses and d’oyleys on, and held that Liquid Gout to the three-and-sixpenny wax candle, as if its old-established colour hadn’t come from the dyers.”

Had that inn been properly named at the time, the proprietor’s ire would have been raised, with serious consequences.

Then there is the chapter on “An Old Stage-Coaching House,” whose title seemed to augur well for our purpose. Yet, although it is interesting as picturing the decay of coaching and how it resulted on a coaching town, there is nothing by which we can fix the name of the town, and so identify the Dolphin’s Head there. It had been a great stage-coaching town in the great stage-coaching times, and the ruthless railways had killed and buried it. That is all we are told about its whereabouts.

“The sign of the house was the Dolphin’s Head. Why only head I don’t know; for the Dolphin’s effigy at full length, and upside down—as a dolphin is always bound to be when artistically treated, though I suppose he is sometimes right side upward in his natural condition—graced the sign-board. The sign-board chafed its rusty hooks outside the bow-window of my room, and was a shabby work. No visitor could have denied that the dolphin was dying by inches, but he showed no bright colours. He had once served another master; there was a newer streak of paint below him, displaying with inconsistent freshness the legend, By J. Mellows.

“Pursuing my researches in the Dolphin’s Head, I found it sorely shrunken. When J. Mellows came into possession, he had walled off half the bar, which was now a tobacco shop with its own entrance in the yard—the once glorious yard where the post-boys, whip in hand and always buttoning their waistcoats at the last moment, used to come running forth to mount and away. A ‘Scientific Shoeing-Smith and Veterinary Surgeon’ had further encroached upon the yard; and a grimly satirical Jobber, who announced himself as having to let ‘A neat one-horse fly, and a one-horse cart,’ had established his business, himself, and his family, in a part of the extensive stables. Another part was lopped clean off from the Dolphin’s Head, and now comprised a chapel, a wheelwright’s, and a Young Men’s Mutual Improvement and Discussion Society (in a loft); the whole forming a back lane. No audacious hand had plucked down the vane from the central cupola of the stables, but it had grown rusty and stuck at Nil: while the score or two of pigeons that remained true to their ancestral traditions and the place had collected in a row on the roof-ridge of the only outhouse retained by the Dolphin, where all the inside pigeons tried to push the outside pigeon off. This I accepted as emblematical of the struggle for post and place in railway times.”

There are, however, at least three inns we have been able to trace: the Blue Boar, London (dealt with in a previous chapter), the Crispin and Crispianus at Strood, and The Lord Warden Hotel at Dover. The latter is referred to in the chapter entitled “The Calais Night Mail” as follows:

“I particularly detest Dover for the self-complacency with which it goes to bed. It always goes to bed (when I am going to Calais) with a more brilliant display of lamp and candle than any other town. Mr. and Mrs. Birmingham, host and hostess of the Lord Warden, are my much esteemed friends, but they are too conceited about the comforts of that establishment when the Night Mail is starting. I know it is a good house to stay at, and I don’t want the fact insisted upon in all its warm bright windows at such an hour. I know The Warden is a stationary edifice that never rolls or pitches, and I object to its big outline seeming to insist upon that circumstance, and, as it were, to come over me with it, when I am reeling on the deck of the boat. Beshrew the Warden likewise for obstructing that corner, and making the wind so angry as it rushes round. Shall I not know that it blows quite soon enough without the officious Warden’s interference?”

The Lord Warden was evidently built on the site of the Ship, as we have already noted in the chapter devoted to A Tale of Two Cities.

The Crispin and Crispianus at Strood is mentioned in the chapter on “Tramps.” The tramp in question is a clockmaker, who, having repaired a clock at Cobham Hall, and paid freely for it, says, “We should be at liberty to go, and should be told by a pointing helper to keep round over yonder by the blasted oak, and go straight through the woods till we should see the town lights right before us.... So should we lie that night at the ancient sign of the Crispin and Crispianus, and rise early next morning to be betimes on tramp again.”

The Crispin and Crispianus is a very old-fashioned inn still standing just outside Strood. It is a long building with an overhanging upper floor built with wood. How long the present house has existed we cannot tell, but its hanging sign speaks of St. Crispin’s Day, 1415, and it is said that it may probably have had its origin from the Battle of Agincourt fought on that day. Mr. Harper thinks the sign older than that, and probably was one of the very many religious inn-signs designed to attract the custom of thirsty wayfarers to Becket’s shrine.

The brothers Crispin and Crispian were members of a noble family in ancient Rome, who, professing Christianity, fled to Gaul and supported themselves by shoemaking in the town of Troyes. They suffered martyrdom in Soissons in A.D. 287. The sign represents the patron saints of the shoemaking fraternity, as these holy brothers are designated, at work on their cobblers’ bench, and is understood to have been faithfully copied from a well-known work preserved to this day at the church of St. Pantaleon at Troyes.

THE CRISPIN AND CRISPIANUS
Drawn by C. G. HarperThe inn’s interior is typical of those to be found in country villages, with its sanded floor of the parlour, and wooden settles with arms at each corner. One of these corners is said to have been the favourite seat of Dickens, for it is known that he sometimes called at the inn as he drew near the end of one of his long walks, either alone or with friends, for refreshments. It was an inn, as he said elsewhere, that no thirsty man was known to pass on a hot summer’s day.