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From The Inns of the Middle Ages, by W. C. Firebaugh, Chicago: Pascal Covici; 1924; pp. 157-171.
[This book is primarily composed of an uncredited translation of Histoire des hotelleries, cabarets, hotels garnis, restaurants et cafés, et des anciennes commonautés et confréries: d’hoteliers, de marchands de vins, de restaurateurs, de limonadiers, etc., etc., by Francisque Xavier Michel and Edouard Fournier, Paris: Librarie Historique, Arché, ologique, et Scientifique de Seré, 1851. — Elf.Ed.
THE INNS OF GREECE AND ROME
157I regret that my way does not lead through the enchanted wonderland, that I may not compare the lusty wife of Bath with the Roman Quartilla, that I may not illustrate the rancor that lay between the scabby and pimpled bawds of the courts of law and those of the church of God, but it would not serve the purposes for which this work was written.
Every now and then some little point will crop up to show us that we are ever dealing with human beings, actuated by the very motives that drive us today, as, for instance, when the host comments on the technical side of cooking, and invidiously suggests that the good Roger was accustomed to remove the gravy from the meat-pie, if the confection was not sold on the day it was made, thus making it kosher and fit for sale at any time in the future.
He was good company, and though free with his tongue he was kind, and a worthy rival for him to whom the squires of Du Guesclin applied in their dire extremity.
WE find few recorded instances of charity amongst the tavernkeepers of those times, and, when an instance does occur, it is worthy of a place in this chronicle. Poggio* and Desperriers** relate an instance of the kind, in which an impecunious guest was forced to use his wits to extricate himself from [249] a situation which threatened to become sufficiently embarrassing for all concerned.
A [way-farer] was travelling through the country, and, being oppressed with hunger, he betook himself to a tavern and stuffed himself so thoroughly that, come fair weather or foul, he would have little need of supper. His host made the rounds of the tables, and finally demanded the money, that there might be a place for some other guest. Thereupon this traveller replied that he had no money but that he would pay for his dinner by singing a song which would satisfy his host.
The latter, astonished at the nature of the answer made him, informed his guest that he needed no songs, that he wanted payment in coin of the realm, and that he was at liberty to take himself off as soon as the scot was paid. “What,” cried the stranger, “will you not be content if I sing you a song that pleases you?”
“Yes,” said the boniface, “if you sing one that pleases me, I will be content.”
No sooner had he his answer than the transient commenced singing all kinds of songs, saving only one, which he carefully refrained from mentioning, and, when he had taken a long breath, he demanded to know if his excellency was satisfied.
“No,” was the reply, “for none of the songs you have sung satisfy me.”
Thereupon, to distract the taverner’s attention from his song, he took from under his arm a bag full of silver and at the same time commenced singing another ballad very touchingly while he fondled the pouch and permitted the coins to clink musically. [250] The song was one well known to all who travel, and the refrain was Metti la mano la borsa et paga l’hoste, put your hand in your pouch and pay the host. When he had finished he demanded to know if that pleased his host, if his landlord was satisfied.
“Yes,” said the publican, “that pleases me well.”
“Very well,” said the guest, “since you are content, and as I have acquitted myself of my promise, I will be on my way,” and so saying, he took his departure without paying.
After having read what Chaucer has to say of the Tabard, and Skelton’s description of the ale-wife, there remains little to say of the inns of mediaeval England, unless we have omitted something of value either in the prologue or in the body of the Canterbury Tales. Gower can contribute little, and Langland’s description would add little that is new.
There is, however, one little point in the chronicle of William of [Malmsbury], which has been cited by Strutt.** It may be said to form the third
We cite this curious regulation in connection with the Canterbury pilgrimage to show that it was no longer in force.
During the reign of Edred, when St. Dunstan had all the powers of a prime minister, London itself, and every outlying village, had a number of ale-house