old Tabard still exist? For the answer to these questions our readers must accompany us a brief way into the history of the inn. The earliest notice of the site occurs in a register of the Abbey of Hyde, near Winchester, where we find that two tenements were conveyed by William de Ludegarsale to the Abbot in 1306, and which were described, in a former conveyance therein recited, as extending in length from the common ditch of Southwark eastwards, as far as the royal way towards the west. The ditch here alluded to formerly bounded the back of the Tabard yard, though now, owing to the encroachment of the wall of Guy's Hospital, it is at a little distance beyond; the royal way doubtless meant the great road from London southwards-the High Street of later times. Speght, after giving a similar account with Stow of the meaning of the word Tabard, goes on to speak of the "Inn in Southwark by London, within the which was the lodging of the Abbot of Hyde by Winchester. This was the hostelry where Chaucer and the other pilgrims met together, and, with Henry Baily their host, accorded about the manner of their journey to Canterbury. And whereas through time it hath been much decayed, it is now by Master J. Preston, with the Abbot's house thereto adjoined, newly repaired, and with convenient rooms much increased for the receipt of many guests." The Abbey of Hyde, to which then it appears the Tabard belonged, had no less distinguished a founder than Alfred the Great, and became, in progress of time, a very splendid and wealthy establishment. Its inmates appear to have caught something of Alfred's chivalrous spirit, for, at the battle of Hastings, the Abbot, who was related to Harold, came into the field with twelve of his monks and a score of soldiers; and of all those brave English hearts who there struggled for the freedom of their outraged soil, none appear to have done better service than these gallant monks. They fell, every man, in the field; indeed their heroism appears to have been so conspicuous as to attract the Conqueror's attention, for he afterwards used their house with especial harshness, not only seizing their land, but keeping the abbey without a head for nearly three years. Henry II., however, made amends for all its past losses: he endowed it so magnificently that it became one of the most distinguished of English monasteries; and when parliaments began to meet, and the abbots to be summoned to the upper house, the Abbot of Hyde was among the number. A London residence now became necessary, and there is every probability that the site of the Tabard was purchased for this purpose-the High Street being a favoured place with these reverend prelates. The year after the conveyance, (August, 1307,) the Abbot obtained a licence for "A chapel at his hospitium at St. Margaret's." Finally, at the dissolution of religious houses, the Abbot's house here was granted to John and Thomas Masters. From Speght's notice then we see clearly that the original Tabard was standing in 1602, unless we are to suppose that it had been pulled down, rebuilt, and then again become the "most ancient" of the inns of Southwark, and "much decayed," in the space of "two hundred years." The most important event connected with the changes the Tabard has undergone is the great fire of Southwark in 1676, which, almost forgotten as it is now, would have assuredly been spoken of as the great fire, but for the preceding conflagration of 1666. This fire broke out about four o'clock in the morning of the 26th of May, and "continued with much violence all that day and part of the night following, notwithstanding all the care of the Duke of Monmouth, the Earl of Craven, and the Lord Mayor, to quench the same by blowing up houses and otherwise. His Majesty, accompanied with her Royal Highness, in a tender sense of this sad calamity, being pleased himself to go down to the bridge-foot in his barge, to give such orders as his Majesty found fit for putting a stop to it, which, through the mercy of God, was finally effected, after that about six hundred houses had been burnt and blown up."* The fire was stayed at St. Thomas's Hospital, and, there is reason to believe, through the instrumentality of the first fire-engine with leathern pipes ever used in this country.† The Town-hall, immediately opposite the Tabard, we know to have been then burnt down; and, to a certain extent, the latter must have shared the same fate. "This house," says Aubrey, "remaining before the fire in 1676, was an old timber house, probably coeval with Chaucer's time." He must have referred to the exterior building standing on one side of the gateway, as shown in the engraving, and which, there is no doubt, was coeval with Chaucer's time:-As we look on it, does it not speak for itself? Is not "the Prior's hospitium" written on it plainly in the pointed arches of its windows and door below? But the gallery within-did that perish too in the flames? We think we may answer, certainly not; for, if it had, no such building as that which now exists would have been erected in its room. Galleries like this belong not to the *London Gazette, May 29, 1676. As the advertisement on which we found this statement appears to have escaped the writers on the history of this valuable machine, we transcribe it from the London Gazette of August 14th, 1676:-" Whereas his Majesty hath granted letters-patent unto Mr. Wharton and. Mr. Strode, for a certain new-invented engine for quenching of fire, with leathern pipes, which carries a great quantity and a continual stream of water, with an extraordinary force, to the top of any house, into any room, passage, or alley; being much more useful than any that hath hitherto been invented, as was attested under the hands of the Masters of St. Thomas's Hospital and officers of the same parish, as in the late great fire of Southwark, to their great benefit and advantage." time of Charles II. The very aspect of the present gallery is enough to convince any one that it has not been erected within the last one hundred and sixty years, and, if not, the facts of its previous history, as we have narrated them, will show that it must be at least as old as Chaucer. We hold, therefore, firmly to the belief that the very gallery exists along which Chaucer and the pilgrims walked; we place implicit credence in the tradition as to the "Pilgrims' Room." Let it not be said that we have devoted too much space to these proofs, that the inquiry itself is useless; unless the reverence for distinguished men, in which such inquiries have their root, be condemned at the same time. From the period of the contention of the seven cities for the honours of the birthplace of "the blind old man of Scio's rocky isle," down to the present day, men in all ages and countries have carefully treasured up every known or supposed fact connected with the personal history of those among them who have raised humanity itself to a higher level by their exertions; and when they cease to do so, it will be not hazarding too much to say that our great poets, patriots, and philosophers may as well at once disappear from the world, for they are nothing if not honoured; they must be reverenced in order to be understood. If, then, our admiration of a great work interests us so much in its author, and in all the localities where he has been, and where consequently we love to linger, how much more strongly should such feelings be excited where the work itself has its own particular birthplace and locality-a home as it were from which it cannot be severed! Thus it is with the 'Canterbury Tales' and with the Tabard—the inn where the dramatis personæ of that "Comedy not intended for the stage" meet, in the hall of which its plan is developed, and from which the pilgrims depart, carrying with them an influence that mingles with and presides over all their mirth, humour, pathos, and sublimity, in the person of the Tabard's host, immortal "Harry Baily." We have kept our readers a long time waiting in the gallery, but we now request them to enter once more the pilgrims' room, and assist us to restore it to something of its original appearance. The intervening walls disappear: from end to end of the long hall there is no obstruction to the eye, except those two round pillars or posts placed near each end to support the massy oaken beams and complicated timbers of the ceiling. The chimney-pieces and panels too are gone, and in their stead is that immense funnel-shaped projection from the wall in the centre, opposite the middle window, with its crackling fire of brushwood and logs on the hearth beneath. The fire itself appears pale and wan, in the midst of the broad stream of golden sunshine pouring in through the windows from the great luminary now fast sinking below the line of St. Margaret's Church in the High Street opposite. Branching out in antlered magnificence from the wall at one extremity of the room, and immediately over the door, are the frontal honours of a first-rate deer, a present probably from the monks of Hyde to their London tenant and entertainer. At the other end of the hall is the cupboard with its glittering array of plate, comprising large silver quart-pots, covered bowls and basins, ewers, salt-cellars, spoons; and in a central compartment of the middle shelf is a lofty gold cup with a curious lid. Lastly, over the chimney-bulk hangs an immense bow, with its attendant paraphernalia of arrows, &c., the symbol of our host's favourite diversion. Attendants now begin to move to and fro, some preparing the tables evidently for the entertainment of a numerous party, others strewing the floor "with herbes sote," whilst one considerately closes the window to keep out the chilling evening air, and, stirring the fire, throws on some more logs. Hark! some of the pilgrims are coming; the miller giving an extra flourish of his bagpipe as he stops opposite the gateway, that they may be received with due attention. Yes, there they are now slowly coming down the yard-that extraordinary assemblage of individuals from almost every rank of society, as diversified in character as in circumstance, most richly picturesque in costume: an assemblage which only the genius of a Chaucer could have brought so intimately together, and for such admirable purposes. Yes, there is the Knight on his "good" but not "gay" horse, the fair but confident Wife of Bath, the Squire challenging attention by his graceful management of the fiery curveting steed, the Monk with the golden bells hanging from his horse's trappings, keeping up an incessant jingle. But who is this in a remote corner of the gallery, leaning upon the balustrade, the most unobserved but most observing of all the numerous individuals scattered about the scene before us? His form is of a goodly bulk, and habited in a very dark violet-coloured dress, with bonnet of the same colour: from a button on his breast hangs the gilt anelace, a kind of knife or dagger. His face is of that kind which, once seen, is remembered for ever. Thought, " sad but sweet," is most impressively stamped upon his pale but comely features, to which the beard lends a fine antique cast.. But it is the eye which most arrests you; there is something in that which, whilst you look upon it, seems to open as it were glimpses of an unfathomable world beyond. It is the great poet-pilgrim himself; the narrator of the proceedings of the Canterbury pilgrimage. The host, having now cordially welcomed the pilgrims, is coming along the gallery to see if the hall be ready for their entertainment, making the solitary man smile as he passes at one of his merry "japes." As he enters the hall, who could fail to recognise the truth of the description ?— "A seemly man our hosté was withal And of manhood him lacked righté nought. Eke thereto was he right a merry man." The dismounted pilgrims, singly or in knots, begin to ascend the gallery. Foremost comes the Knight, with a sedate and dignified countenance, telling, like his soiled gipon, of long years of service; his legs are in armour, with gilt spurs; a red-sheathed dagger hangs from his waist, and little aiglets, tipped with gold, from his shoulders. A nobler specimen of chivalry in all its gentleness and power it would be impossible to find than this "worthy man ;" as distinguished for his "truth and honour" as for his "freedom and courtesy;" who has been concerned in military expeditions in almost every part of the world-in Egypt, Prussia, Russia, Granada,-has fought in no less than "fifteen mortal battles," and made himself particularly conspicuous against the "heathen;" yet who still remains in his port and bearing as "meek as is a maid;" who is, in short, "A very perfect gentle knight." With the Knight comes the Prioress, smiling, so "simple and coy," at his gallant attentions, and looking down every now and then to the tender motto of the gold brooch attached to her beads-Amor vincit omnia. She wears a wimple, or neckcovering, "full seemely ypinched," a handsome black cloak, and white tunic beneath the dress of the Benedictine order, to which she belongs. Her nose is "tretis," that is to say, long and well proportioned; her eyes are grey; her mouth full small, soft, and red; and her fair forehead "a span broad." In a series of the most exquisite touches has Chaucer painted her character; her pretty innocent oath-but "by Saint Eloy;" her singing the "service divine" so sweetly entuned in her nose; her precise and proper French," after the school of Stratford-atte-Bow;" her distaste even for her rank, because of the stateliness of manner it entailed; and her tenderness of heart, which would make her "Weep, if that she saw a mouse Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled." With an attention no less marked than the Knight's, and scarcely less graceful, the host receives his distinguished lady-guest at the door, and, addressing her as "courteously as it had been a maid," leads the way to the table. In the Prioress' train follow a nun and three priests; and next to them the Wife of Bath and the Squire, she laughing loudly and heartily, and he blushing at some remark the merry dame has made concerning his absent lady-love. Strange contrast! the one steeped to the very lips in romance, seeing everything by the "purple light of love," sensitive as the famous plant itself to every touch that threatens to approach the sanctuary of his heart-the corner where the holy ministrations of love are for ever going on: the other no longer young, but still beautiful, consummately sensual and worldly, as utterly divested of the poetry of beauty as a handsome woman can well be. We make that qualification, for it is difficult to look unmoved on that winning countenance, so "fair and red of hue," and which is so well set off by her black hat— "As broad as is a beaver or a targe." Her full luxuriant-looking form is attired in a closely-fitting red surcoat or jacket, and in a blue petticoat or "fote-mantel," bound round "her hippes large" by a golden girdle. Well, although— "Husbands at the church-door has she had five," we may be pretty sure that it will not be long before a sixth is added to the number. Of all the pilgrims, her companion, the Squire, is perhaps the most poetical, and appears in the most poetical costume, with his curled locks adorning his youthful, ingenuous, and manly face; his embroidered dress looking and his graceful and active form revealing, in every movement, that he possesses all the vigour with the freshness of the "month of May;" that he is a "lusty bachelor" as well as a "lover," who can one while honourably partake all the dangers of his father's foreign expeditions, and the next be content to be doing nothing but "singing" or "floyting* all the day." The Knight and the Squire * Playing on the flute. |