The good Squire’s remarks brought to mind a visit that I once paid to the Tabbard Inn, famous for being the place of assemblage from whence Chaucer’s pilgrims set forth for Canterbury.  It is in the borough of Southwark, 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 with the motley throng of Canterbury pilgrims.  The galleries once more swarmed with idle gazers, in the rich dresses of Chaucer’s time, and the whole cavalcade seemed to pass before me.  There was the stately knight on sober steed, who had ridden in Christendom and heathenesse, and had “foughten for our faith at Tramissene;”—­and