第60章 THE SKETCH BOOK(1)

THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP

A SHAKSPEARIAN RESEARCH

by Washington Irving

"A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of goodfellows. I have heard my great-grandfather tell, how hisgreat-great-grandfather should say, that it was an old proverb whenhis great-grandfather was a child, that 'it was a good wind thatblew a man to the wine.'"MOTHER BOMBIE.

IT IS a pious custom, in some Catholic countries, to honor thememory of saints by votive lights burnt before their pictures. Thepopularity of a saint, therefore, may be known by the number ofthese offerings. One, perhaps, is left to moulder in the darkness ofhis little chapel; another may have a solitary lamp to throw itsblinking rays athwart his effigy; while the whole blaze of adorationis lavished at the shrine of some beatified father of renown. Thewealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of wax; the eager zealothis seven-branched candlestick, and even the mendicant pilgrim is byno means satisfied that sufficient light is thrown upon thedeceased, unless he hangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. Theconsequence is, that in the eagerness to enlighten, they are often aptto obscure; and I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint almostsmoked out of countenance by the officiousness of his followers.

In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakspeare. Everywriter considers it his bounden duty to light up some portion of hischaracter or works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion. Thecommentator, opulent in words, produces vast tomes of dissertations;the common herd of editors send up mists of obscurity from their notesat the bottom of each page; and every casual scribbler brings hisfarthing rushlight of eulogy or research, to swell the cloud ofincense and of smoke.

As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the quill, Ithought it but proper to contribute my mite of homage to the memory ofthe illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, sorely puzzledin what way I should discharge this duty. I found myself anticipatedin every attempt at a new reading; every doubtful line had beenexplained a dozen different ways, and perplexed beyond the reach ofelucidation; and as to fine passages, they had all been amplypraised by previous admirers; nay, so completely had the bard, oflate, been overlarded with panegyric by a great German critic, that itwas difficult now to find even a fault that had not been argued into abeauty.

In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his pages, when Icasually opened upon the comic scenes of Henry IV., and was, in amoment, completely lost in the madcap revelry of the Boar's HeadTavern. So vividly and naturally are these scenes of humor depicted,and with such force and consistency are the characters sustained, thatthey become mingled up in the mind with the facts and personages ofreal life. To few readers does it occur, that these are all idealcreations of a poet's brain, and that, in sober truth, no such knot ofmerry roysterers ever enlivened the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap.

For my part I love to give myself up to the illusions of poetry. Ahero of fiction that never existed is just as valuable to me as a heroof history that existed a thousand years since: and, if I may beexcused such an insensibility to the common ties of human nature, Iwould not give up fat Jack for half the great men of ancientchronicle. What have the heroes of yore done for me, or men like me?

They have conquered countries of which I do not enjoy an acre; or theyhave gained laurels of which I do not inherit a leaf; or they havefurnished examples of hair-brained prowess, which I have neither theopportunity nor the inclination to follow. But, old Jack Falstaff!-kind Jack Falstaff! sweet Jack Falstaff!- has enlarged theboundaries of human enjoyment; he has added vast regions of wit andgood humor, in which the poorest man may revel; and has bequeathed anever-failing inheritance of jolly laughter, to make mankind merrierand better to the latest posterity.

A thought suddenly struck me: "I will make a pilgrimage toEastcheap," said I, closing the book, "and see if the old Boar'sHead Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may light upon somelegendary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests; at any rate, therewill be a kindred pleasure, in treading the halls once vocal withtheir mirth, to that the toper enjoys in smelling to the empty caskonce filled with generous wine."The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execution. I forbearto treat of the various adventures and wonders I encountered in mytravels; of the haunted regions of Cock Lane; of the faded gloriesof Little Britain, and the parts adjacent; what perils I ran inCateaton-street and old Jewry; of the renowned Guildhall and its twostunted giants, the pride and wonder of the city, and the terror ofall unlucky urchins; and how I visited London Stone, and struck mystaff upon it, in imitation of that arch rebel, Jack Cade.

Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merryEastcheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the verynames of the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane bearstestimony even at the present day. For Eastcheap, says old Stowe, "wasalways famous for its convivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes ofbeef roasted, pies well baked, and other victuals: there wasclattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas! howsadly is the scene changed since the roaring days of Falstaff andold Stowe! The madcap roysterer has given place to the ploddingtradesman; the clattering of pots and the sound of "harpe andsawtrie," to the din of carts and the accursed dinging of thedustman's bell; and no song is heard, save, haply, the strain ofsome siren from Billingsgate, chanting the eulogy of deceasedmackerel.