A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 Miles Lane,bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is kept by Master EdwardHoneyball, the "bully-rock" of the establishment. It is one of thoselittle taverns which abound in the heart of the city, and form thecentre of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. We enteredthe bar-room, which was narrow and darkling; for in these closelanes but few rays of reflected light are enabled to struggle downto the inhabitants, whose broad day is at best but a tolerabletwilight. The room was partitioned into boxes, each containing a tablespread with a clean white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed thatthe guests were of the good old stamp, and divided their dayequally, for it was but just one o'clock. At the lower end of the roomwas a clear coal fire, before which a breast of lamb was roasting. Arow of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along themantelpiece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in one corner. Therewas something primitive in this medley of kitchen, parlor, and hall,that carried me back to earlier times, and pleased me. The place,indeed, was humble, but every thing had that look of order andneatness, which bespeaks the superintendence of a notable Englishhousewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might be eitherfishermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the boxes. AsI was a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was ushered into alittle misshapen backroom, having at least nine corners. It waslighted by a skylight, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs,and ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidentlyappropriated to particular customers, and I found a shabbygentleman, in a red nose and oil-cloth hat, seated in one corner,meditating on a half-empty pot of porter.
The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an air ofprofound importance imparted to her my errand. Dame Honeyball was alikely, plump, bustling little woman, and no bad substitute for thatparagon of hostesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted with anopportunity to oblige; and hurrying up stairs to the archives of herhouse, where the precious vessels of the parish club were deposited,she returned, smiling and courtesying, with them in her hands.
The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco-box, ofgigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked attheir stated meetings, since time immemorial; and which was neversuffered to be profaned by vulgar hands, or used on commonoccasions. I received it with becoming reverence; but what was mydelight, at beholding on its cover the identical painting of which Iwas in quest! There was displayed the outside of the Boar's HeadTavern, and before the door was to be seen the whole convivialgroup, at table, in full revel; pictured with that wonderfulfidelity and force, with which the portraits of renowned generalsand commodores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the benefit ofposterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake, the cunninglimner had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal and Falstaff onthe bottoms of their chairs.
On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly obliterated,recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for theuse of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head Tavern, and that itwas "repaired and beautified by his successor, Mr. John Packard,1767." Such is a faithful description of this august and venerablerelic; and I question whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated hisRoman shield, or the Knights of the Round Table the long-soughtsan-greal, with more exultation.
