THE BOARS HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP.

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A SHAKESPEARIAN RESEARCH.

 "A tavern is the rendezvous, the exge, the staple of good fellows. I have heard my great-grandfather tell, how his great-great-grandfather should say, that it was an old proverb when his great-grandfather was a child, that `it was a good wind that blew a man to the wine."

 MOTHER BOMBIE.

 IT is a pious in some Catholic tries to honor the memory of saints by votive lights burnt before their pictures.

 The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be known by the number of these s. One, perhaps, is left to moulder in the darkness of his little chapel; another may have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart his ef?gy; while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished at the shrine of some beati?ed father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of wax, the eager zealot, his seven-branched dlestick; and even the mendit pilgrim is by no means satis?ed that suf?t light is thrown upon the deceased unless he hangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. The sequence is, that in the eagero enlighten, they are often apt to obscure; and I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost smoked out of tenance by the of?ciousness of his followers.

 In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakespeare. Every writer siders it his bounden duty to light up some portion of his character or works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion.

 The entator, opulent in words, produces vast tomes of dissertations; the on herd of editors send up mists of obscurity from their the bottom of each page; and every casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy or research to swell the cloud of inse and of smoke.

 As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the quill, I thought it but proper to tribute my mite of homage to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, sorely puzzled in what way I should discharge this duty. I found myself anticipated in every attempt at a new reading; every doubtful line had been explained a dozen different ways, and perplexed beyond the reach of elucidation; and as to ?ne passages, they had all been amply praised by previous admirers; nay, so pletely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with panegyric by a great German critic that it was dif?cult now to ?nd even a fault that had not been argued into a beauty.

 In this perplexity I was one m turning over his pages when I casually opened upon the ic ses of Henry IV., and was, in a moment, pletely lost in the madcap revelry of the Boars Head Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these ses of humor depicted, and with such ford sistency are the characters sustaihat they beingled up in the mind with the facts and personages of real life. To few readers does it occur that these are all ideal creations of a poets brain, and that, in sober truth, no suot of merry roisterers ever enlivehe dull neighborhood of Eastcheap.

 For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusions of poetry.

 A hero of ? that never existed is just as valuable to me as a <bdo></bdo>hero of history that existed a thousand years sind, if I may be excused su insensibility to the on ties of human nature, I would not give up fat Jack for half the great men of a icle. What have the heroes of yore done for me or men like me? They have quered tries of which I do not enjoy an acre, or they have gained laurels of which I do not i a leaf, or they have furnished examples of hair-brained prowess, which I have her the opportunity nor the ination to follow. But, old Jack Falstaff! kind Jack Falstaff! sweet Jack Falstaff! has enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment; he has added vast regions of wit and good-humor, in which the poorest man may revel, and has bequeathed a never-failing iance of jolly laughter, to make mankind merrier aer to the latest posterity.

 A thought suddenly struck me. "I will make a pilgrimage to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, "and see if the old Boars Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may light upon some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests? At any rate, there will be a kindred pleasure in treading the halls once vocal with their mirth to that the toper enjoys in smelling to the empty cask, once ?lled with generous wine."

 The resolution was no sooner formed than put iion. I forbear to treat of the various adventures and wonders I entered in my travels; of the haunted regions of Cock Lane; of the faded glories of Little Britain and the parts adjat; erils I ran in Cateaton Street and Old Jewry; of the renowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, the pride and wonder of the city and the terror of all unlucky urs; and how I visited London Stone, and struck my staff upon it in imitation of that arch-rebel Jack Cade.

 Let it suf?ce to say, that I at length arrived in merry Eastcheap, that a region of wit and wassail, where the very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane bears testimony even at the present day. For Eastcheap, says old Stow, "was always famous for its vivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well baked, and other victuals: there was clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas! how sadly is the se ged sihe r days of Falstaff and old Stow! The madcap roisterer has given place to the plodding tradesman; the clattering of pots and the sound of "harpe and sawtrie," to the din of carts and the accurst dinging of the dustmans bell; and no song is heard, save, haply, the strain of some syren from Billingsgate, ting the eulogy of deceased mackerel.

 I sought, in vain, for the a abode of Dame Quickly. The only relict of it is a boars head, carved in relief in stone, whierly served as the sign, but at present is built into the parting line of two houses which stand oe of the renowned old tavern.

 For the history of this little abode of good fellowship I was referred to a tallow-dlers widow opposite, who had been born and brought up on the spot, and was l.9９ｌib?ooked up to as the indisputable icler of the neighborhood. I found her seated in a little back parlor, the window of which looked out upon a yard about eight feet square laid out as a ?arden, while a glass door opposite afforded a distant view of the street, through a vista of soap and tallow dles--the two views, whiprised, in all probability, her prospects in life and the little world in which she had lived and moved and had her being for the better part of a tury.

 To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, from London Stone even unto the Mo, was doubtless, in her opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the universe. Yet, with all this, she possessed the simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal unicative disposition which I have generally remarked in intelligent old ladies knowing in the s of their neighborhood.

 Her information, however, did end far bato antiquity.

 She could throw no light upon the history of the Boars Head from the time that Dame Quickly espoused the valiant Pistol until the great ?re of Londo was unfortunately burnt down. It was soon rebuilt, and tio ?ourish uhe old name and sign, until a dying landlord, struck with remorse for double scores, bad measures, and other iniquities which are io the sinful race of publis, endeavored to make his peace with Heaven by bequeathing the tavern to St. Michaels Church, Crooked Laoward the supp of a chaplain. For some time the vestry meetings were regularly held there, but it was observed that the old Boar never held up his head under church gover.

 He gradually deed, and ?nally gave his last gasp about thirty years sihe tavern was then turned into shops; but she informed me that a picture of it was still preserved in St.

 Michaels Church, which stood just in the rear. To get a sight of this picture was now my determination; so, having informed myself of the abode of the sexton, I took my leave of the venerable icler of Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless raised greatly her opinion of her legendary lore and furnished an important i in the history of her life.

 It e some dif?culty and much curious inquiry to ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to explore Crooked Lane and divers little alleys and elbows and dark passages with which this old city is perforated like an a cheese, or a worm-eate of drawers. At length I traced him to a er of a small court surrounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants enjoy about as much of the face of heaven as a unity s at the bottom of a well.

 The sexton was a meek, acquiesg little man, of a bowing, lowly habit, yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his eye, and if enced, would now and then hazard a small pleasantry, such as a man of his low estate might veo make in the pany of high churchwardens and hty men of the earth. I found him in pany with the deputy anist, seated apart, like Miltons angels, disc, no doubt, on high doal points, aling t></a>he affairs of the church over a friendly pot of ale; for the lower classes of English seldom deliberate on ay matter without the assistance of a cool tankard to clear their uandings. I arrived at the moment when they had ?heir ale and their argument, and were about to repair to the church to put it in order; so, having made known my wishes, I received their gracious permission to apany them.

 The church of St. Michaels, Crooked Laanding a short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many ?shmongers of renown; and as every profession has its galaxy of glory and its stellation of great men, I presume the mo of a mighty ?shmonger of the olden time is regarded with as much reverence by succeeding geions of the craft, as poets feel on plating the tomb of Virgil or soldiers the mo of a Marlbh or Turenne.

 I ot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious men, to observe that St. Michaels, Crooked Lane, tains also the ashes of that doughty champion, William Walworth, Knight, who so manfully clove dowurdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smith?eld--a hero worthy of honorable blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds of arms, the sns of ey being generally renowned as the most paci?c of all potentates.*

 * The following was the a inscription on the mo of this worthy, which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great ?agration.

 Hereunder lyth a man of Fame,

 William Walworth callyd by name:

 Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here,

 And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere;

 Who, with ce stout and manly myght,

 Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richards sight.

 For which act done, and trew e,

 The Kyng made him knyght inti

 And gave him armes, as here you see,

 To declare his fad chivaldrie.

 He left this lyff the yere of od

 Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd.

 An error in the foing inscription has been corrected by the venerable Stow. "Whereas," saith he, "it hath been far spread abroad by vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to recile this rash-ceived doubt by such testimony as I ?nd in a and good records. The principal leaders, or captains, of the ons, were Wat Tyler, as the ?rst man; the sed was John, or Jack, Straw, etc., etc.--STOWS London.

 Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately uhe back window of what was ohe Boars Head, stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer at the tavern. It is now nearly a tury sihis trusty drawer of good liquor closed his bustling career and was thus quietly deposited within call of his ers. As I was clearing away the weeds from his epitaph the little sexton drew me on one side with a mysterious air, and informed me in a low voice that once upon a time, on a dark wintry night, when the wind was unruly, howling, and whistling, banging about doors and windows, and twirlihercocks, so that the living were frightened out of their beds, and even the dead could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of ho Preston, which happeo be airing itself in the churchyard, was attracted by the well-known call of "Waiter!" from the Boars Head, and made its sudden appearan the midst of a r club, just as the parish clerk was singing a stave from the "mirre garland of Captaih;" to the dis?ture of sundry train-band captains and the version of an itorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, and was never known to twist the truth afterwards, except in the way of business.

 I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself for the authenticity of this ae, though it is well known that the churchyards and by-ers of this old metropolis are very mufested with perturbed spirits; and every one must have heard of the Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia iower which has frightened so many bold sentinels almost out of their wits.

 Be all this as it may, this Robert Prestoo have been a worthy successor to the nimbletongued Francis, who attended upon the revels of Prince Hal; to have been equally prompt with his "Anon, anon, sir;" and to have transded his predecessor in hoy; for Falstaff, the veracity of whose taste no man will veo impeach, ?atly accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack, whereas ho Prestoaph lands him for the sobriety of his duct, the soundness of his wine, and the fairness of his measure.* The worthy dignitaries of the church, however, did not appear much captivated by the sober virtues of the tapster; the deputy anist, who had a moist look out of the eye, made some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought up among full hogsheads, and the little sexton corroborated his opinion by a signi?t wink and a dubious shake of the head.

 * As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for the admonition of deliapsters. It is no doubt, the produ of some choice spirit who once frequehe Boar<bdo></bdo>s Head.

 Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise,

 Produced one sober son, and here he lies.

 Though reard among full hogsheads, he defyd

 The charms of wine, and every one beside.

 O reader, if to justice thou rt ined,

 Keep ho Preston daily in thy mind.

 He drew good wiook care to ?ll his pots,

 Had sundry virtues that excused his faults.

 You that on Bacchus have the like dependence,

 Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance.

 Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on the history of tapsters, ?shmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet disappointed me in the great objey quest, the picture of the Boars Head Tavern. No such painting was to be found in the church of St. Michaels. "Marry and amen," said I, "here eh my research!" So I was giving the matter up, with the air of a baf?ed antiquary, when my friend the sexton, perceivio be curious ihiive to the old tavern, offered to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, which had been handed down from remote times when the parish meetings were held at the Boars Head. These were deposited in the parish club-room, which had been transferred, on the dee of the a establishment, to a tavern in the neighborhood.

 A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Masons Arms, and is kept by Master Edward Honeyball, the "bully-rock" of the establishment.

 It is one of those little taverns which abound in the heart of the city and form the tre of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. We ehe barroom, which was narrow and darkling, for in these close lanes but few rays of re?ected light are ele down to the inhabitants, whose broad day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room artitioned into boxes, each taining a table spread with a white cloth, ready for dihis showed that the guests were of the good old stamp, and divided their day equally, for it was but just one oclock. At the lower end of the room was a clear coal ?re, before which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row ht brass dlesticks aer mugs glistened along the mantelpiece, and an old fashioned clock ticked in one er.

 There was something primitive in this medley of kit, parlor, and hall that carried me back to earlier times, and pleased me.

 The place, indeed, was humble, but everything had that look of order aness which bespeaks the superintendence of a notable English housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might be either ?shermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was ushered into a little misshapen ba, having at least nine ers. It was lighted by a sky-light, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, and ored with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently appropriated to particular ers, and I found a shabby gentleman in a red nose and oil-cloth hat seated in one er meditating on a half empty pot of porter.

 The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an air of profound importance imparted to her my errand. Dame Honeyball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, and no bad substitute for that paragon of hostesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted with an opportunity to oblige, and, hurrying upstairs to the archives of her house, where the precious vessels of the parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling and courtesying, with them in her hands.

 The ?rst she presented me anned iron tobacco-box of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked at their stated meetings siime immemorial, and which was never suffered to be profaned by vulgar hands, or used on on occasions, I received it with being reverence, but what was my delight at beholding on its cover the identical painting of which I was i! There was displayed the outside of the Boars Head Tavern, and before the door was to be seen the whole vivial group at table, in full revel, pictured with that wonderful ?delity and force with which the portraits of renowned generals and odores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the be of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake, the ing limner had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal and Falstaff otoms of their chairs.

 On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly obliterated, rec that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the Boars Head Tavern, and that it was "repaired ai?ed by his sucr. John Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful description of this august and venerable relid I questioher the learned Scriblerius plated his Roman shield, or the Knights of the Round Table the long-sought San-greal, with more exultation.

 While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame Honeyball, who was highly grati?ed by the i it excited, put in my hands a drinking-cup oblet which also beloo the vestry, and was desded from the old Boars Head. It bore the inscription of havihe gift of Francis Wythers, Knight, and was held, she told me, in exceeding great value, being sidered very "antyke." This last opinion was strengthened by the shabby gentleman with the red nose and oilcloth hat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal desdant from the variant Bardolph. He suddenly aroused from his meditation o of porter, and casting a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, "Ay, ay! the head dont aow that made that there article."

 The great importaached to this memento of a revelry by modern churchwardens, at ?rst puzzled me; but there is nothing sharpens the apprehension so much as antiquarian research; for I immediately perceived that this could be no other than the identical "parcel-gilt goblet," on which Falstaff made his loving but faithless vow to Dame Quickly, and which would, of course, be treasured up with care among the regalia of her domains, as a testimony of that solemn tract.*

 * "Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal ?re, on Wednesday, in Whitsun-week, when the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing man at Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. st thou deny it?"--Henry IV., Part 2.

 Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the goblet had been handed down from geion to geion. She also eained me with many particulars ing the worthy vestrymen who have seated themselves thus quietly oools of the a roisterers of Eastcheap, and, like so many entators, utter clouds of smoke in honor of Shakespeare.

 These I forbear to relate, lest my readers should not be as curious in these matters as myself. Suf?ce it to say, the neighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap, believe that Falstaff and his merry crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there are several legendary aes ing him still extant among the oldest frequenters of the Masons Arms, which they give as transmitted down from their forefathers; and Mr. MKash, an Irish hair-dresser, whose shop stands oe of the old Boars Head, has several dry jokes of Fat Jacks, not laid down in the books, with which he makes his ers ready to die of laughter.

 I now turo my friend the sexton to make some further inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive meditation. His head had deed a little on one side; a deep sigh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach, and, though I could not see a tear trembling in his eye, yet a moisture was evidently stealing from a er of his mouth. I followed the dire of his eye through the door which stood open, and found it ?xed wistfully on the savory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping riess before the ?re.

 I now called to mind that in the eagerness of my redite iigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. My bowels yearned with sympathy, and putting in his hand a small token of my gratitude and goodness, I departed with a hearty beion on him, Dame Honeyball, and the parish club of Crooked Lane--not fetting my shabby, but seious friend, in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose.

 Thus have I given a "tedious brief" at of this iing research, for which, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, I only plead my inexperien this branch of literature, so deservedly popular at the present day. I am aware that a more skilful illustrator of the immortal bard would have swelled the materials I have touched upon to a good mertable bulk, prising the biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, and Robert Preston; some notice of the emi ?shmongers of St.

 Michaels; the history of Eastcheap, great and little; private aes of Dame Honeyball and her pretty daughter, whom I have not eveioo say nothing of a damsel tending the breast of lamb (and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a ely lass with a foot and ankle);--the whole enlivened by the riots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great ?re of London.

 All this I leave, as a rich mio be worked by future entators, nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box, and the "parcel-gilt goblet" which I have thus brought to light the subject of future engravings, and almost as fruitful of voluminous dissertations and disputes as the shield of Achilles or the far-famed Portland Vase.

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