I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. The onlyrelic of it is a boar's head, carved in relief in stone, whichformerly served as the sign, but at present is built into theparting line of two houses, which stand on the site of the renownedold tavern.
For the history of this little abode of good fellowship, I wasreferred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who had been born andbrought up on the spot, and was looked up to as the indisputablechronicler of the neighborhood. I found her seated in a little backparlor, the window of which looked out upon a yard about eight feetsquare, laid out as a flower-garden; while a glass door oppositeafforded a distant peep of the street, through a vista of soap andtallow candles: the two views, which comprised, 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 century.
To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, fromLondon Stone even unto the Monument, was doubtless, in her opinion, tobe acquainted with the history of the universe. Yet, with all this,she possessed the simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberalcommunicative disposition, which I have generally remarked inintelligent old ladies, knowing in the concerns of their neighborhood.
Her information, however, did not extend far back into antiquity.
She could throw no light upon the history of the Boar's Head, from thetime that Dame Quickly espoused the valiant Pistol, until the greatfire of London, when it was unfortunately burnt down. It was soonrebuilt, and continued to flourish under the old name and sign,until a dying landlord, struck with remorse for double scores, badmeasures, and other iniquities, which are incident to the sinfulrace of publicans, endeavored to make his peace with heaven, bybequeathing the tavern to St. Michael's Church, Crooked Lane,towards the supporting of a chaplain. For some time the vestrymeetings were regularly held there; but it was observed that the oldBoar never held up his head under church government. He graduallydeclined, and finally gave his last gasp about thirty years since. Thetavern was then turned into shops; but she informed me that apicture of it was still preserved in St. Michael's Church, which stoodjust in the rear. To get a sight of this picture was now mydetermination; so, having informed myself of the abode of thesexton, I took my leave of the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, myvisit having doubtless raised greatly her opinion of her legendarylore, and furnished an important incident in the history of her life.
It cost me some difficulty, and much curious inquiry, to ferretout the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to explore Crooked Lane,and divers little alleys, and elbows, and dark passages, with whichthis old city is perforated, like an ancient cheese, or a worm-eatenchest of drawers. At length I traced him to a corner of a smallcourt surrounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants enjoy about asmuch of the face of heaven, as a community of frogs at the bottom of awell.
The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bowing, lowlyhabit: yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his eye, and, if encouraged,would now and then hazard a small pleasantry; such as a man of his lowestate might venture to make in the company of high churchwardens, andother mighty men of the earth. I found him in company with thedeputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's angels, discoursing, nodoubt, on high doctrinal points, and settling the affairs of thechurch over a friendly pot of ale- for the lower classes of Englishseldom deliberate on any weighty matter without the assistance of acool tankard to clear their understandings. I arrived at the momentwhen they had finished their ale and their argument, and were about torepair to the church to put it in order; so having made known mywishes, I received their gracious permission to accompany them.
The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing a short distancefrom Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many fishmongers ofrenown; and as every profession has its galaxy of glory, and itsconstellation of great men, I presume the monument of a mightyfishmonger of the olden time is regarded with as much reverence bysucceeding generations of the craft, as poets feel on contemplatingthe tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the monument of a Marlborough orTurenne.
I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious men,to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, contains also the ashesof that doughty champion, William Walworth, knight, who so manfullyclove down the sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield; a hero worthyof honorable blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on record famousfor deeds of arms:- the sovereigns of Cockney being generally renownedas the most pacific of all potentates.** The following was the ancient inscription on the monument ofthis worthy; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the greatconflagration.
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 courage stout and manly myght,
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight.
For which act done, and trew entent,
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent;
And gave him armes, as here you see,
To declare his fact and chivaldrie.
He left this lyff the yere of our God
Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd.
