uthwark, not far from London Bridge, and bears, at present, the name
of "the Talbot." It has sadly declined in dignity since the days of
Chaucer, being a mere rendezvous and packing-place of the great wagons
that travel into Kent. The court-yard, which was anciently the
mustering-place of the pilgrims previous to their departure, was now
lumbered with huge wagons. Crates, boxes, hampers, and baskets,
containing the good things of town and country, were piled about them;
while, among the straw and litter, the motherly hens scratched and
clucked, with their hungry broods at their heels. Instead of Chaucer's
motley and splendid throng, I only saw a group of wagoners and
stable-boys enjoying a circulating pot of ale; while a long-bodied dog
sat by, with head on one side, ear cocked up, and wistful gaze, as if
waiting for his turn at the tankard.

Notwithstanding this grievous declension, however, I was gratified at
perceiving that the present occupants were not unconscious of the
poetical renown of their mansion. An inscription over the gateway
proclaimed it to be the inn where Chaucer's pilgrims slept on the
night previous to their departure; and at the bottom of the yard was a
magnificent sign representing them in the act of sallying forth. I was
pleased, too, at noticing that though the present inn was
comparatively modern, yet the form of the old inn was preserved. There
were galleries round the yard, as in old times, on which opened the
chambers of the guests. To these ancient inns have antiquaries
ascribed the present forms of our theatres. Plays were originally
acted in inn-yards. The guests lolled over the galleries, which
answered to our modern dress-circle; the critical mob clustered in the
yard, instead of the pit; and the groups gazing from the
garret-windows were no bad representatives of the gods of the shilling
gallery. When, therefore, the drama grew important enough to have a
house of its own, the architects took a hint for its construction from
the yard of the ancient "hostel."

I was so well pleased at finding these remembrances of Chaucer and his
poem, that I ordered my dinner in the little parlour of the Talbot.
Whilst it was preparing, I sat at the window musing and gazing into
the court-yard, and conjuring up recollections of the scenes depicted
in such lovely colours by the poet, until, by degrees, boxes, bales
and hampers, boys, wagoners and dogs, faded from sight, and my fancy
peopled the place w