"There is no private house in which people can enjoy themselves so well as at a capital tavern … there is nothing which has been contrived by man, by which so much happiness is produced, as by a good tavern or inn."—Samuel Johnson.
1
IN olden days the way over London Bridge through Southwark was practically the only thoroughfare between the city and the southern counties to the coast of England linking up her shores with the continent; and, in the coaching days, which were also the days when the transport of goods between these two points was only possible by wagon, this high road out of London was one of the most important and busiest. Consequently it was well supplied with inns, all of which were necessary to the needs of traders and travellers. Indeed, the demand was so great and the supply so adequate, that we learn from a State Paper, 1619, that the Borough consisted chiefly of Innkeepers. Our "State Paper," however, was a little belated, for John Stow had discovered and recorded the fact in his "Survey of London" in 1598, wherein he says that from the Marshalsea to London Bridge "be many fair Inns for the receipt of travellers," and mentions by name, "The Spurre," "The Christopher," "The Bull," "The Queen's Head," "The Tabard," "The George," "The Heart," "The King's Head." It may be said, however, that some of these inns dated back to a couple of hundred years prior to that date if one bears in mind the association of "The Tabard" with Chaucer and his Canterbury Pilgrims.
To-day there exists something to remind us of most of them; either in the shape of the entrance to the one-time coach or court-yard, or that of a more or less modern house on the same site bearing the same name as the original. But in the case of "The George" a very substantial portion is still to be seen as in the olden days. It is indeed the only example of the old galleried coaching inn of the the past now existing in London. Although the structure is not complete (part having been demolished in 1889-90), sufficient remains to justify the proud boast that it is an unspoiled survival of old London, worthy of preservation as the heritage of a romantic age.
The atmosphere of romance, indeed, which has always surrounded the many old coaching inns of Southwark in the past is still reflected in the "George" of the present day. It is not only the last of its race there, but the last to remain in London. Little wonder, then, that it is a favourite of all who, like Mr. Hardcastle, "love everything that's old: old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine," for all these desirable things may be found in association with the George Inn to-day. Set in an historic neighbourhood associated with Shakespeare and the players and, in more modern times, with Dickens and his characters, it has become the rendezvous of a continual flow of literary and antiquarian enthusiasts who never miss an opportunity for a visit to its enticing old-world rooms and exterior.
Literary men, artists and antiquaries on a visit to London still make the Inn their headquarters, and at times there is great competition for one of the two available bedrooms which still retain the old four-poster bedsteads. Americans, and country and London ramblers round old London, stand agape on their first introduction to the old galleries as soon as they come in view; whilst their astonishment and delight know no bounds as they proceed from bar parlour
Photo by]
[T. W. Tyrrell
The George Inn as it is to-day
to coffee room, up the ever clean wooden stairs to the galleries above and into the various bedrooms furnished with the furniture of polished and rich mahogany of the olden days, which would turn any and every dealer in antiques green with envy, and do, we believe, frequently. Their delight reaches its highest pitch when, in taking lunch or tea, their attention is drawn to the fact that the spoons and forks are silver and were once the property of the erstwhile proprietor, Westerman Scholefield, and have been in use since 1809—the proof of which is indelibly stamped on each article.
Added to all these pleasant reflections is the one, almost as uncommon as the Inn itself, that the amiable and good-natured proprietress, Miss Murray, is ever ready to welcome visitors, not merely because she has good wholesome English food and drink to dispense, but because she loves the old Inn and likes others to love it too. She maintains all the old traditions that such a place abounds in, and we can only hope that she will long remain to act as hostess, and that the ravages of the modern builder will never reach the walls of the old-time building.
2
The Inn is difficult to find, lying, as it does, back from the main road, which in itself is a virtue, as it preserves its privacy and consequently keeps it from being too much overrun and its cosiness violated. Its modest sign at the entrance from the road is overwhelmed by railway notices and other distracting commercial information of a very unattractive nature to the seeker after romantic buildings. This, however, was not the original entrance to the Inn and was only made when part of the building was demolished in 1889-90. In the photograph taken just before the alteration, facing page 30, the exact position of the entrance can be seen. The present roadway into the yard was cut through that portion of the building facing on the right behind the figures in the foreground. In our illustration on page 10, the Inn and yard can be seen as it is to-day, the white gate indicating the spot where the original entrance was.
But if you have kept your eyes open, you will not only have observed the sign of the George Inn, but will also have observed a notice board which informs you that the Inn figures in Jeffrey Farnol's story "The Amateur Gentleman." When once through the gateway, the imposing and picturesque building confronts you on the right, with its two galleries, stretching across the building, with its bedrooms running out of them, with a bell over each door, reminding you immediately of the minute descriptions of such scenes to be found in the pages of Dickens, particularly of the memorable one of Sam Weller cleaning the boots below and incidentally indulging in a dialogue with a maid leaning over the balustrades above, which is described as having occurred at the White Hart that once stood not very far away.[1] The whole view calls up memories of the days when the Pickwickians travelled from inn to inn, and of the days of coaching, the stories of which have such a fascination in these modern days of trains, motors and aeroplanes. On page 36 is a view showing the opposite end of the Inn as it was in 1889, which will further recall those pleasant days.
As we stand with a view of the whole building in our mind's eye, we are reminded of what Mr. Percy FitzGerald says of old inns in general:
"The tiled roofs of these buildings seemed to grow bent from age and weakness, and fall into those wavings and twists which form an element of the picturesque. The old wood balustrades grew black and grimed, and it was wonderful how what appeared so crazy should have held together so long."
These meditative remarks, however, apply admirably to the old George Inn, which we are thankful has not entirely fallen a victim to modern demands.
3
Let us, however, leave its very picturesque exterior and take a ramble through the interior, commencing with the tap-room on the extreme right. It is rather out of repair at the moment, but none the less attractive in consequence. Here gathered in the old days the coachmen; the Tony Wellers of his day and before, with their long clay pipes and tankards of beer, met to discuss the events of the day and the road, whilst the ostlers saw to the watering and care of their horses further down the yard.
The old fireplace, the grubby-looking tables with the marks of the recreation known as "shove ha'penny " well engraved in its wood, the old wooden benches with their edges severely worn by frequent use, the door on the left with its aperture for ordering refreshment from the pretty maid on the other side, its panelling all these things conjure up scenes in the mind from which to weave many a tale of adventure. Indeed, how often an exciting tale has been told on that sawdust floor in the past, and, if the walls and furniture could speak, what stories could be revealed!
The room adjoining it is the kitchen, and, if a peep is taken from outside over the blind, a view is obtained, if the time is propitious, of the fire, with a joint suspended from an old-fashioned roasting-jack, cooking in front of it. There also will be seen the snow-white deal tables, the plate warmer and the various impedimenta necessary to a well-conducted menage. Suspended from the wall is the old warming pan, without which no self-respecting inn could be considered complete. Between the kitchen and the bar-parlour, with its cosy sitting-room behind, runs the passage leading to the push-up window through which the waiter or waitress of the tap-room gives his—or her—orders.
The bar parlour itself is just ideal and if you can picture Dickens's description of the bar parlour of "The Six Jolly Fellowship Porters" in Our Mutual Friend, or even remember Marcus Stone's picture of it, you will get a good idea of that at the George. The first thing that strikes you as you enter, is its compactness. It is small, but everything is there. Arrays of pewter pots of ancient lineage, tankards, glasses, mugs, bottles of wine and spirits and appetising liqueurs and other things necessary for a well-equipped bar-parlour of the olden times. In one corner are four pulls set in a mahogany case, each of which come down through a slit lined with pewter; near by are sets of drawers containing the cherished silver of the establishment, tobacco and other mysterious items, to say nothing of the cash till and the row of polished casks overhead. In the centre of the room is a brilliantly polished table with books and flowers and writing materials upon it, with chairs in convenient places. The sills in front of the ancient casements are also decorated with old glass ornaments and flowers. Nor must we overlook the old horse pistols, relics of the coaching era.
If one is permitted to enter Miss Murray's cosy sitting-room beyond, our eyes will sparkle at the bottle-glazed cupboard door, which safely guards more antiques in the way of rare china and silver which have resided therein for many years. Everything in the little room is in keeping with its setting—old photographs, old pictures, old ornaments—a spot quite out of the ruck of modern life.
The coffee room across the passage throws your mind even further back into the past. Here is a coffee-room such as the Pickwickians and their ancestors revelled in. The same old box compartments with their mahogany tables, seats and high-backed partitions; mahogany sideboards and occasional tables, where the joints are placed at meal-times; mahogany chairs with horse-hair seats to pull round the fire on winter days; casement windows, T-shaped gas jets, old prints; to say nothing of the red cord bell-rope still in working order by the side of the fireplace.
In a corner is an old Parliament clock of the period 1797-8, specimens of which are seldom seen nowadays, and, therefore, one of the George's most curious relics.
Photos by][T. W. Tyrrell
A FOUR POSTER BED
THE PARLIAMENT CLOCK
The history of Parliament clocks is worthy of noting here:—
"In 1797 a tax of five shillings was put on clocks by Pitt, which caused a great diminution in the sale, and many clock-makers were thrown out of work. Many of the Inns of the period put up clocks for the benefit of the public. These were known as 'Act of Parliament clocks,' and appear to be of one pattern, with black faces and white hands."
The George clock is one of these.
Inside the coffee-room a busy scene can be witnessed at lunch time when the votaries of the Hop Exchange take their mid-day meal and smoke afterwards round the fire, seated in tavern chairs of which Dr. Johnson spoke as being "the throne of human felicity."[2] Often visitors from all parts of the world come and join the company and enjoy a well-cooked meal in the surroundings of the old days.
In The Amateur Gentleman, by Jeffrey Farnol, the George is named as the Inn where Barnabas put up on his arrival in London. The author describes the coffee-room as a longish, narrowish, dullish chamber, with a row of windows that look out upon the yard; and it was in this Inn that the scenes and incidents in Chapter XXVII. and XXVIII. were enacted, and in its yard that Barnabas bought the horse for fifty pounds which proved so rampageous, but which, however, he eventually mastered.
Beyond the coffee-room is another small apartment where little parties of "Ramblers" so often resort for tea; and, like all the rooms in the Inn is provided with mahogany tables, chairs and sideboards. Indeed, mahogany old dark polished mahogany predominates everywhere one goes; in bedrooms, sitting rooms, passages.
The way up to the galleries and bedrooms is by a winding broad staircase, old and worn by the use of thousands of travellers. The bedrooms are in keeping with the rest of the house, but those that still retain the old mahogany four-poster beds are those that prevent you from forgetting the days before fast travelling and cheap ornateness supplanted the more solid and useful. In these rooms nothing has changed for ages. The three-cornered washstands, the sets of steps for mounting into bed, the antique dressing-tables are all part and parcel of the ancient times. And, in many instances one bedroom leads into another, in the same way that Mr. Winkle's led into Mr. Tupman's in another old inn. In other rooms there are Tall-boys and other priceless pieces of furniture that would make a collector of antiques eager for a catalogue. And, as we pass along the passages, with its old balusters, and stop occasionally to lean over the rail to view the yard below, we can picture what it all looked like in the busy days of the coaching era. Here came loaded wagons from Kent, Surrey and Sussex: coaches and four from the south coast with mails and parcels and game—with the bustle of passengers eager for warmth—and the coachmen and the ostlers and the rest of them all in happy or anxious excitement. In those days the galleries ran round three sides of the yard and the wall opposite still shows the marks of where they once were. Although the perfect picture can only be imagined, and there remains only the one side for us to actually visualize the galleries and bedrooms running out of them, we can at least be thankful that even so much remains.
Up above the second tier are long and spacious barns of attics, once used by commerical travellers to exhibit their wares, and where there are more bedrooms. Some of the rooms are now empty and useless, and rats and mice can revel there to their hearts' delight.
4
The late Mr. Ashby Sterry, in an article on "Dickens in Southwark" published in The English Illustrated Magazine in November, 1888, a year before a portion of the inn was demolished, describes it as "the most thoroughly Dickensian hostelry from cellar to roof-tree that you could now find in London, and probably the last of the old galleried inns now standing in the Metropolis." He goes on to say:—
The George is one of the last of the old Borough Inns, and preserves its ancient characteristics more than any yet remaining … Seventy years ago—ay, and after Pickwick was published in 1836—"The George" must have been a busy place enough. In the days when Mine Host Scholefield looked after matters, business must have been brisk indeed.
An old time-worn, yellow card informs us that:— W.S. begs to return his sincere thanks to his Friends and the Public in general for their past favours, and to acquaint them that he has neither spared pains nor expense in the improvement of the above Inn for their accommodation; he also takes this opportunity of soliciting their future encouragement, trusting they'll find Beds, Wines, Spirits, Stabling to their perfect satisfaction.
In those days "W.S" must have had his hands full, for there were well nigh eighty coaches and a dozen waggons leaving the Inn every week, and, of course, the same number entering.
Hence you might go to Maidstone, Folkestone, Tenterden, Wateringbury, Brenchley, Deal, Dover, Margate, Ramsgate, Canterbury, Orpington, Hastings, Tunbridge, Brighton, Dorking, and countless other places. You will be surprised at the vast extent of the place and the accommodation in the way of stabling if you venture to take a trip down the yard. One of the carriers formerly starting from this Inn was named Cross Weller. Possibly Dickens might have noted the fact during one of his visits, and evolved therefrom the surname of the immortal Sam.
It is quite like reading a chapter of Dickens to wander about the old-fashioned place, which still retains the flavour of the good old coaching days; to explore the picturesque galleries, the quaint passages, the queer-shaped rooms, the mysterious corridors upstairs; to lunch in that low-ceilinged, cosy red-curtained coffee-room; to peep into that roomy, old-fashioned, kitchen, and to gossip in that particularly comfortable bar-parlour, with its wondrous array of glasses, bottles and bowls, with its bright flowers and its communicative green parrot, who seems to have a word to say to everybody, and whom I fancy must have exchanged jokes with Sam Weller.
It always reminds me that "Luncheon is ready!" says George. I am very glad to hear it, and I am certain my fellow travellers will be, and, after all my chattering, will be only too glad to rest awhile at a thoroughly Dickensian hostelry, the very centre of this most important province of Dickens land.
That is a very pleasing pen picture of the George, and is as true in its descriptive passages to-day as when it was written.
Another eminent Dickensian scholar, Mr. Percy FitzGerald, writing in The Magazine of Art, 1884, says:
"The George" has really a bright and bustling air of business. It is a not unpicturesque courtyard from its very irregularity, the old wooden galleries being alternated with buildings of a different pattern, some projecting forward. The galleries are gay with paint and plenty of flowers; and, altogether, one might seem able to take one's ease in one's inn here very fairly.
In 1912, the American novelist, the late F. Hopkinson Smith, visited London and wrote a book entitled "Dickens's London." He visited the George and was wonderfully impressed with it, as the following extract will show:
And a wonderful old inn it is even now, its front in two connecting sections, each bracing the other up, their shoulders touching. Seen from one end, in foreshortened perspective, it presents a continuous wobble from sill to eaves, its roof-line sagging, its chimney out of plumb,
the shorter flues climbing up on the taller ones as if struggling for better air, the wonder being that it had not long ago lost all heart, and sunk into hopeless ruin. Looked at close by, however, say from beneath the chambermaid's gallery, it resolves itself to your glad surprise into quite another kind of rookery, putting to flight all your first conclusions; the same sort of surprise that comes to a man who, having made up his mind to ignore some approaching shabby person, finds himself bowing and scraping when he gets near enough to look into the kindly eyes and reassuring face of the misjudged individual. It did not take me many minutes to change my own opinion of "George Inn."
Here was a welcome, inviting door, though its top sill was so low that off would go your hat if you forgot to stoop politely when you crossed the threshold, while the cosy little hall was so narrow that a trunk must go endways before it could reach the stairs that led to the bedrooms above.
Here, within a few feet of the door, was a jolly little snuggery, made bright with pewter and glass, and inviting easy chairs—one or two; a table, and a barmaid—the whole redolent of the fumes of old Pineapple rum—the snuggery, of course, not the barmaid.
Here, too, within reach of the rummery, was a coffee-room, its yard wall lighted by a line of windows propping up a smoke -dried ceiling, their rays falling on a row of white-clothed tables, framed in settles, with pew backs—so high that the fellow in the next pew could by no possible stretch of his neck discover what the fellow in the adjoining pew was having for dinner—unless, of course, he stood on the settle and looked over the top—an unheard of liberty in so well-bred an inn as the "George." And here, scattering every last doubt, was a fireplace before whose cheery blazes hundreds of thousands of shivering shins had been toasted; and a mantel scratched by the bottoms of countless Tobys that had awaited the thawing out of the countless shins; and there were big easy, fiddle-backed chairs, with and without arms; and an old and a very odd clock, one with a history—as big as a coffin, this clock, and shaped the same—to say nothing of papers, books, pipes, writing materials, old prints, rare china, rare plates yes, a most wonderfully inviting and welcoming coffee-room so cosy and comfortable that once you were inside you would never want to get out, and once you were out you would be unhappy until you could again order "a fresh mug of 'alf-and-'alf, my dear, a brace of chops, with a kidney, and, if you don't mind, a mealy with its jacket on."
Mr. F. Hopkinson Smith's account of his visit is very picturesque and enticing, but he went wofully wrong over his Dickens associations, as we shall show later.
That painstaking authority on the coaching days and the historian of the English Roads, Mr. Charles G. Harper, says of the ancient hostelry:—
"The George," as it now stands, is the successor of a pre-Reformation inn formerly the "St. George," became secularised in the time of Henry the Eighth, when saints, even patron saints, were under a cloud. It is an exceedingly long range of buildings, dating from the seventeenth century, and in two distinct and different styles; a timbered, wooden-balustraded gallery in two storeys and a white-washed brick continuation. The long ground-floor range of windows to the kitchen, the bar, and the coffee-room, is protected from any accident in the manœuvring of the railway waggons by a continuous bulkhead of sleepers, driven into the ground. It is pleasing to be able to bear witness to the thriving trade that continues to be done in this sole ancient survivor of the old Southwark galleried inns, and to note that, however harshly fate, as personified by rapacious landlords, has dealt with its kind, the old-world savour of the inn is thoroughly appreciated by those not generally thought sentimental persons, the commercial men who dine and lunch, and the commercial travellers who sleep there.
What "Ye Old Dick Whittingdon" in Cloth Fair does for the Shakespearean devotee the "George Inn" in the Borough does for the lover of Pickwick and its creator … There is only one relic of a courtyarded inn left—the "George"—and that has been mercilessly reduced; although what remains is perfect. It is Dickens in essence. How any Dickensian visitor to London can possibly stay anywhere else is inconceivable, for here are the bedrooms opening on to the balconies, exactly as on the day when Sam Weller was first discovered cleaning the boots of Mr. Alfred Jingle and Miss Rachel Wardle at the adjacent "White Hart"; here is the cosiest and brightest of bars, with a pair of pistols in it such as the guards of coaches carried, where you may still sip punch, a cordial beverage practically unknown in the rest of London and England, and very likely fine pineapple rum too.
5
From time to time the George Inn has been the favourite meeting place of several little coteries of business men who found the glamour of its surroundings ideal for friendly, yet restricted dinner parties on certain fixed days of the year, where conviviality could be indulged in isolation and comfort.
Prominent amongst these was "The Four O'Clockers," a small circle of well-known men who carried on business in the parish of Southwark. The name of the club was derived from the fact that they dined together each day at four o'clock in the afternoon. They had a special room reserved for their function in the wing of the building which was demolished in 1889-90, a picture of which will be found on another page. The "Four O'Clockers" was founded about the year 1860 and was only disbanded when their favourite room was demolished in 1889, the members then declining to be transported to the opposite side of the courtyard. It was one of the rigid laws of this coterie that no member should be late for dinner under penalty of a fine. There were many culprits in this respect, we are assured, for sufficient sums accrued in this way to enable the wines to be paid for out of the fund at the special annual festivity.
Another interesting club was that of "The Old Chums," composed of business men from the city who dined together on the first Saturday in each year. This club still exists, although during the years of the War it has not been well represented. However, in order not to break the long sequence of meetings, we understand that the custom was maintained this year (1918) by one member and his good wife.
Yet another such club was "The Rolling Stones," composed of business men from the West End. It first selected the George Inn for its festive gatherings some twenty years ago, but prior to that they met at the famous Stone's Chop House in Panton St., Haymarket, hence no doubt their name. The full title of their Club was "The most Secret Brotherhood of the Rolling Stones" and their notice of the dinner was couched in a fanciful style in travesty of Brigandage. It is so amusing we give it in full:
HUSH!
Beware of Spies!
This is to be delivered into your hand by a trusty messenger.
Beware you are not observed!
To make all secure, be careful to follow these instructions before you open this:—
(a) Draw the Blinds!
(b) Sack the Cook!
(c) Get under the Table!
(d) Double lock the door!
(e) Hide the Drinks!
(f) Stuff up the Key-hole!
(g) Shut down the Register,
so that when you read this aloud to yourself in the dark you be not overheard.
*****
From the sacred head centre to our Sisters Murray greeting!
It is ordered that you do on the fourteenth of February
next report yourself at the sign of 'The George' High Street Borough, exactly as the clock strikes the hour of seven-thirty-one.
Fail not at your peril!
He who does, is a traitor to the cause and shall die the death.
Present yourself at the wicket door, knock thrice and stand[3] and give the counter-sign to the shop walker whence you will be shown by the secret staircase to our presence there to discuss:—
(a) The fishy behaviour of certain Renegades and track the same to their sauce.
(b) Many will be condemned to the steak and d'ungeons
(c) A lot will be drawn and each one's cup will be full of Bitter-wo!
(e) A Red Herring will be drawn across our tracks.
(f)) Another Unity Brotherhood will then be introduced.
Vengeance having been meated out the oath of secrecy will be sworn. Your mission will be accomplished and three days grace allowed.
The Psalm of Fraternity will next be sung—"Of Wesir Rolling Rapidly."
Each member of the Brotherhood must then render an account and he will lawyer-like recite his acts and be judged by his deeds and weeds.
Strike while the iron is hot!
The cause is just!
Death to Traitors.
Hush-sh!
P.S.—Rolling Ties and Intriquing Breeches will be de Rigueur.
The "Rolling Stones" ceased rolling at the George some time back.
A more recent coterie was the "Twelve Club" and as their title indicates was limited to a dozen members all of whom were buyers in one of our large emporiums in the West End. They enjoyed their dinners in the old-fashioned style, even to the use of long church-warden pipes. Their first dinner was on April 4th, 1910, but the club's career was short lived. That they enjoyed and appreciated the old inn is shown by the quotation which appeared on the back of their menus:—
Here within these walls, hoary with the rime of centuries, hover the shadows of the past. Memories crowd one another, anxious to keep us in mind of their little past in the Drama of Life.
The old wainscot yet rings with the boisterous laughter of a bygone pageantry, and the rollicking roysterer still elbows the prim puritan of Stuart days. Courtly knight and dame, ruddy squire and hardy yeoman pass before us, and the spirit of past welcomes from bygone Bonifaces mellowed with the ringing voices of children, long since of the dust, cast that glamour which is always the presiding genius among these ancient relics of our glorious Country's history.
There are many other clubs and societies, Literary, Antiquarian, Archæological and Rambling, which have habitually made the "George" a meeting place either for lunch, tea or supper. Among these may be mentioned The Selborne Society, The Cult of London, Shakespearean Society, The London Co-operative Holiday Association, The Balham Antiquarian and Natural History Society and the Dickens Fellowship, the members of which, after visiting the many historic places of interest in the neighbourhood, bring their rambles to a fitting and appropriate end within the walls of the famous Inn.
And so "The George," however much we may differ concerning a certain phase of its history and tradition, remains a bright and homely spot in the story of old London for all who run to see and admire. And, when once we have made its acquaintance, we can truly say with the poet, Shenstone:—
Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
Will sigh to think how oft he found
The warmest welcome in an inn.
↑The question of the "White Hart" and the "George" is dealt with in a separate chapter.
↑Austin Dobson in his article on Streatham Place, the residence of Mrs. Thrale (Rosalba's Journal and other Papers, 1915) speaking of Dr. Johnson's frequent visits there, says that ' ' when he did not make the journey in his host's postchaise, he must have often occupied a seat in the coach that started from the 'Old George Inn' in the Borough, or the 'Golden Cross' in the Strand."
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