John Lydgate, a Benedictine monk of Bury St. Edmunds, writing about the same time as Chaucer, mentions that Cornhill was in his time noted for its taverns, where was “wine one pint for a pennie, and bread to drink it was given free at every tavern.” In a black-letter sheet entitled _Newes from Bartholomew Fayre_, of probably the early part of the seventeenth century, some of the most famous inns of London are thus whimsically enumerated:— There has been great sale and utterance of wine, Besides Beer, Ale, and Hippocrass fine, In every country, region, and Nation, Chiefly at Billings-gate, at the Salutation; And Boreshead near London Stone, The Swan at Dowgate, a tavern well knowne; The Mitre in Cheap, and the Bull-head, And many like places that make noses red; The Boreshead in Old Fish Street, Three Cranes in the Vintree And now, of late, Saint Martin’s in the Sentree; The Windmill in Lothbury, the Ship at the Exchange, King’s Head in New Fish Street, where Roysters do range; The Mermaid in Cornhill, Red Lion in the Strand, Three Tuns in Newgate Market, in Old Fish Street the Swan. Most of these hostelries, famous in their day and generation, were swept away in the Great Fire of London. The Boar’s Head in Eastcheap, “near London stone,” was one of the oldest inns in London. It stood near the site whereon the statue to William IV. in King William Street has been erected. It was there that Prince Hal and “honest Jack Falstaff” played their wildest pranks. Carved oak figures of the two worthies stood at the door of the house until the Great Fire; and the proud inscription, “This is the chief tavern in London,” appeared upon the signboard until the house was finally pulled down in 1831, to make way for the approaches of London Bridge. In the year 1718 one James Austin, the inventor of “Persian inkpowder,” whatever that may have been, desiring to entertain his chief customers, and also, no doubt, to advertise his wonderful powder, issued invitations for a Brobdingnagian repast to be partaken of at the Boar’s Head. The feast was to consist of an enormous plum-pudding, weighing 1,000 lbs., {204} and the best piece of an ox roasted; this wonderous pudding was put to boil on Monday, May 12th, in a copper at the Red Lion Inn in Southwark, where it had to boil for fourteen days. As soon as this mighty feat of cookery was accomplished, a triumphant procession was formed, and the pudding set out on its journey, escorted by a band playing _What lumps of pudding my mother gave me_; but, alas, for the vanity of all things human! the tempting dish had not proceeded far upon its way, when the mob, goaded to madness by the savoury odour of the pudding, fell upon the escort, and, having put them to the rout, tore the pudding in pieces, and devoured it there and then. [Illustration: The Boar’s Head.]