Which is the oldest, and which the most picturesque, inn this England of ours can show? That is a double-barrelled question whose first part no man can answer, and the reply to whose second half depends so entirely upon individual likings and preferences that one naturally hesitates before being drawn into the contention that would surely arise on any particular one being singled out for that supreme honour. Equally with the morning newspapers--and the evening--each claiming the "largest circulation," and, like the several Banbury Cake shops, each the "original," there are several "oldest licensed" inns, and very many arrogating the reputation of the "most picturesque."
The "Fighting Cocks" inn at St. Albans, down by the river Ver, below the Abbey, claims to be--not the oldest inn--but the oldest inhabited house, in the kingdom: a pretension that does not appear to be based on anything more than sheer impudence; unless, indeed, we take the claim to be a joke, to which an inscription,
The Old Round House, Rebuilt after the Flood,
formerly gave the clue. But that has disappeared. The Flood, in this case, seeing that the building lies low, by the river Ver, does not necessarily mean the Deluge.
This curious little octagonal building is, however, of a very great age, for it was once, as "St. Germain's Gate," the water-gate of the monastery. The more ancient embattled upper part disappeared six hundred years ago, and the present brick-and-timber storey takes its place.
[Illustration: THE OLDEST INHABITED HOUSE IN ENGLAND: THE "FIGHTING COCKS," ST. ALBANS.]
The City of London's oldest licensed inn is, by its own claiming, the "Dick Whittington," in Cloth Fair, Smithfield, but it only claims to have been licensed in the fifteenth century, when it might reasonably--without much fear of contradiction--have made it a century earlier. This is an unusual modesty, fully deserving mention. It is only an "inn" by courtesy, for, however interesting and picturesque the grimy, tottering old lath-and-plaster house may be to the stranger, imagination does not picture any one staying either in the house or in Cloth Fair itself while other houses and other neighbourhoods remain to choose from; and, indeed, the "Dick Whittington" does not pretend to be anything else than a public-house. The quaint little figure at the angle, in the gloom of the overhanging upper storey, is one of the queer, unconventional imaginings of our remote forefathers, and will repay examination.