What of the “70th Regiment” cup? What stirring episodes has that been through?--among others, probably the Afghan War of 1840. I do know that the “Shipwrights’ Arms’, Limehouse Hole,” pint took part in, and survived, the Indian Mutiny bivouacs and battlefields, as it was given by the then landlord to a soldier just before leaving home. I specially prize this; it has written on the front before the address the name, “D. Saul,” alongside which is the toper’s big initial, “K,” and the number of his peg or hook on which it hung, “55,” on the bottom. This number would be seen when looked up at from the floor.
If Pickwick has us in hand, we shun the battle and resort to the bottle, so let us look in at the “Windmill, Dartford,” and see what manner of men were there. Surely not smugglers on the banks of the Thames? Of about the same period, what was the “Wellington, Shepherd’s Bush,” like? Rather a swagger inn, probably, judging by the beaded pattern of the mug, which was supplied or made by “W. R. Loftus, 146, Oxford Street,” who has been, and will be, a long time dead. At the “Feathers” at Chiswick, and “Hope,” Islington, they must have had quite high-class callers, or why the lip on the tankards unless it were to pour the contents into beakers? The customers at all inns were so diversified in character that I see no reason why the same measure should not have done for the post-boy on his frequent calls, for the parish priest on duty bent, or later by the highwayman in a hurry, if they held it in the left hand and turned the lip of the pot skywards.
From London to the “Blackburn Arms,” Hale, situated on the Mersey, an old-time village, and home of the Ireland Blackburne family, was a long journey by road in those days, and the pewter pot would be in great request. I warrant this particular one was handed back many a time with a determination to “Have another, and dom the expense.”
When I came across the pint inscribed “Post Office Hotel, Church Street, Soho,” I wrote to a Fleet Street friend asking him to find out a likely date for it, and after making enquiries he reported he could find neither the hotel nor Church Street, and that the oldest man he had seen in Soho (a sexton, I think) could tell him nothing about either. The same friend was here one night, and I left him looking at these pewter pots. I heard a Fleet Street exclamation of surprise, and when I enquired the reason he held up the “Baker’s Arms’, Waltham Abbey,” pint, saying, “Why, I was born close to the Baker’s Arms.”