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Acknowledgements

Our contributors, whether new additions or longstanding stalwarts, have

provided excellent clear, careful and stimulating chapters and case studies. It
is obvious but nonetheless important to reiterate that without their hard work
the textbook could not succeed. Thanks to them all, including Paul
Billingham, who updated the online case studies excellently. OUP and
particularly our editor, Francesca Walker, have been a constant source of
patient and professional support for which we are similarly very grateful.
Finally, we would like to thank our families, who make all this possible in
another kind of way: Matt, Bria and Caelan; Nina, Max, and Lukas; and
Maria Carla.
New to this edition

• New chapters on liberty, global poverty, sovereignty and borders, and the
environment provide students with fresh insight on important debates in
political theory.
• A range of new case studies - including those on same-sex marriage, racial
inequality, sweatshop labour, and Brexit - demonstrate the relevance of
political theory to current real-world issues.
• Two new editors, Robert Jubb (University of Reading) and Patrick Tomlin
(University of Warwick), join the editorial team, offering new expert
perspectives on key political ideas.
Contents

List of case studies

Notes on the contributors
How to use this book
How to use the online resources

Introduction
1 Political obligation
2 Liberty
3 Crime and punishment
4 Democracy
5 Power
6 Equality and social justice
7 Toleration
8 Multiculturalism
9 Gender
10 Global Poverty
11 Human Rights
12 Sovereignty and Borders
13 War and Intervention
14 The Environment
Glossary
References
Index
Detailed contents

List of case studies

Notes on the contributors
How to use this book
How to use the online resources

Introduction
1 Political obligation
Introduction
Consent
Fairness
Community
Morality
Philosophical anarchism
Conclusion
2 Liberty
Introduction
Rival interpretations of liberty
Republican liberty
Liberty and equality
The value of negative liberty
Conclusion
3 Crime and punishment
Introduction
Consequentialist justifications of punishment
Retributivist justifications of punishment
Mixed approaches to the justification of punishment
Conclusion: punishment and beyond
4 Democracy
Introduction
Instrumentalism
Does democracy have non-instrumental value?
The problem of democratic citizenship
Democratic institutions
Conclusion
5 Power
Introduction
The concept of power and modes of power
Three dimensions of power
An alternative view of power
Power, freedom, and responsibility
Conclusion
6 Equality and social justice
Introduction: the history of social justice
The political rejection of social justice and its revival
Equality
Equality of opportunity
 Social justice and social relations
The capability approach
Conclusion: prospects for achieving social justice
7 Toleration
Introduction
The traditional doctrine of toleration
The moral analysis of toleration
The contemporary liberal theory of toleration
Toleration as recognition
Conclusion
8 Multiculturalism
Introduction
Multiculturalism: thick or thin?
Liberalism and cultural rights
Do cultural rights oppress the oppressed?
The politics of recognition
Multiculturalism: open-minded dialogue and a common culture
Conclusion
9 Gender
Introduction
What is feminism?
The sex/gender distinction
Feminism, liberalism, and the law
‘The personal is political’
The ethics of care
 Sex and violence
Conclusion
10 Global Poverty
The problem
Global political theory
The duty to aid
Uncertainty and ‘Why me?’
No duty of justice?
The duty not to harm
So, what can and should an individual do?
Conclusion
11 Human Rights
Introduction
Natural rights, the rights of man, and human rights
Analytical issues
Justifying theories
Implementing human rights
Conclusion
12 Sovereignty and Borders
Introduction
Sovereignty
Less or more sovereignty?
Who is sovereign?
Borders
The relationship between sovereignty and borders
 Conclusion
13 War and Intervention
Introduction
The just war tradition
Theoretical approaches to the ethics of war
Jus ad bellum
Jus in bello
Jus post bellum
Conclusion
14 The Environment
Introduction
The environment and its relationship to humanity
Justice, value, and the environment
Responsibilities to the future
Policies to protect the environment
Who makes the decisions? Democracy and governance
Conclusion

Glossary
References
Index
List of case studies

1 Conscription—by Jeremy Williams

2 Nudging
3 Preamble and Article 1 of the Rome Statute
4 Deliberative polling—by Jeremy Williams
5 Power and Racial Inequality in America
6 Social justice and disability
7 Same-sex marriage
8 Wisconsin v Yoder: the cultural rights of isolationist religious
groups.
9 Pornography
10 Sweatshops and You
11 Torture and counter-terrorism—by Jeremy Williams
12 Sovereignty and Borders in the European Union
13 Afghanistan and the ‘War on Terror’
14 Climate change
Notes on the contributors

Tom Campbell is a former professorial fellow in the Centre for Applied

Philosophy and Public Ethics (CAPPE), Charles Sturt University,
Australia. He has been a visiting professor in the School of Law, King’s
College, London, Professor of Jurisprudence at The University of
Glasgow, and Professor of Law at the Australian National University. He
retired from Charles Sturt University in 2017 and has settled in to golfing
and gardening in Canberra where his wife Beth Campbell continues to
serve as a magistrate.
Simon Caney is Professor of Political Theory at the University of Warwick.
He is the author of Justice Beyond Borders (2005) and the co-editor of
Climate Ethics: Essential Readings (2010). His research interests are in
global justice, environmental justice and climate change, and our
responsibilities to future generations.
Ian Carter is Professor of Political Philosophy at the University of Pavia,
Italy. He is the author of A Measure of Freedom (Oxford University Press,
1999) and the editor, with Matthew H. Kramer and Hillel Steiner, of
Freedom: A Philosophical Anthology (Blackwell, 2006). His articles have
appeared in Ethics, Economics and Philosophy, The Journal of Political
Philosophy, and Oxford Studies in Political Philosophy. He is currently
working on the concept of basic equality and its role in a freedom-based
theory of justice.
Clare Chambers is Reader in Political Philosophy and a Fellow of Jesus
College, University of Cambridge. She is the author of Against Marriage:
An Egalitarian Defence of the Marriage-Free State (Oxford University
Press, 2017); Sex, Culture, and Justice: The Limits of Choice (Penn State
University Press, 2008); Teach Yourself Political Philosophy: A Complete
Introduction (with Phil Parvin, Hodder, 2012); and numerous articles and
chapters on feminist and liberal political philosophy.
Thomas Christiano is Professor of Philosophy and Law at the University of
Arizona. He has been a fellow at the Princeton University Center for
Human Values, the National Humanities Center, All Souls College, and
Australian National University. He is the author of The Rule of the Many
(Westview, 1996) and The Constitution of Equality (Oxford University
Press, 2008) and articles on moral and political philosophy. He is editor of
Politics, Philosophy and Economics (Sage). His current research is on
global justice and international institutions, human rights, fair exchange,
democracy, and the foundations of equality.
Sarah Fine is a Senior Lecturer in Philosophy at King’s College London. She
is co-editor (with Lea Ypi) of Migration in Political Theory: The Ethics of
Movement and Membership (Oxford University Press, 2016). Much of her
research focuses on issues related to migration and citizenship.
Helen Frowe is Wallenberg Academy Research Fellow in Philosophy at
Stockholm University, where she directs the Stockholm Centre for the
Ethics of War and Peace. She is the author of The Ethics of War and
Peace: An Introduction (Routledge, 2011) and Defensive Killing: An
Essay on War and Self-Defence (Oxford University Press, 2014).
Anna Elisabetta Galeotti is Full Professor of Political Philosophy at the
Università del Piemonte Orientale. She has spent several years as a
research fellow in various institutions abroad, including Cambridge
University, the European University Institute in Florence, the Institute for
Advanced Study in Princeton, the Centre for Ethics and Public Affairs of
St Andrews University, and the Safra Foundation Center for Ethics of
Harvard University. She has worked on toleration for many years, and has
published three books and many essays, including Toleration as
Recognition (Cambridge University Press, 2002) and ‘Female
circumcision’ (Constellations, 14, 2007). She is currently writing a book
on self-deception and democratic politics.
Keith Hyams is a Reader in Political Theory and Interdisciplinary Ethics at
the University of Warwick. He has held visiting positions at the
Universities of Toronto, Oxford, and Louvain, and is the winner of the
Inaugural 2015 Sanders Prize in Political Philosophy. He has published on
consent, distributive justice, and the ethics of climate change. He is current
 research interests include ethical issues in the governance of extreme
technological risk, and ethics in international development.
Robert Jubb is an Associate Professor of Political Theory at the University of
Reading, and has also worked at the University of Leicester and UCL. He
has published on egalitarianism, collective responsibilities and method in
political theory, particularly ideal theory and realism.
Catriona McKinnon is Professor of Political Theory at the University of
Reading. She is the author of Liberalism and the Defence of Political
Constructivism (Palgrave, 2002), Toleration: A Critical Introduction
(Routledge, 2006), and Climate Change and Future Justice: Precaution,
Compensation, and Triage (Routledge, 2011). She is writing a book on
climate change as an international crime against future people.
Monica Mookherjee is a Senior Lecturer in Political Philosophy at the
University of Keele. She is the author of Women’s Rights as Multicultural
Claims: Reconfiguring Gender and Diversity in Political Philosophy
(Edinburgh University Press, 2009) and the editor of Democracy.
Religious Pluralism and the Liberal Dilemma of Accommodation
(Springer, 2010). She is currently writing a book on the application of the
human capabilities approach to theories of multiculturalism.
David Owen is Professor of Social and Political Philosophy at the University
of Southampton. He has also been Visiting Professor in Politics and in
Philosophy at the JW Goethe University, Frankfurt am Main. He is the
author of Maturity and Modernity (Routledge, 1994), Nietzsche, Politics
and Modernity (Sage, 1995), and Nietzsche’s Genealogy of Morality
(Acumen, 2007) and has co-edited volumes including Multiculturalism
and Political Theory (Cambridge University Press, 2007) and Recognition
and Power (Cambridge University Press, 2007), as well as writing articles
on a wide range of topics. He is currently working on issues in the ethics
of migration.
Massimo Renzo is Professor of Politics, Philosophy & Law at King’s College
London. He has held visiting appointments at the Australian National
University, the universities of Virginia and Arizona, the Murphy Institute,
the National University of Singapore and the Nathanson Centre for
 Transnational Human Rights, Crime & Security. He is an affiliated
researcher at the Stockholm Centre for the Ethics of War & Peace and the
Honorary Secretary of the Society for Applied Philosophy.
Zofia Stemplowska is Associate Professor of Political Theory at the
University of Oxford and Asa Briggs Fellow of Worcester College,
Oxford. She was previously Associate Professor of Political Theory at the
University of Warwick. She writes on domestic and global justice and
mitigation of historical injustice.
Patrick Tomlin is Reader in Philosophy at the University of Warwick.

Jonathan Wolff is the Blavatnik Chair in Public Policy, at the Blavatnik

School of Government, Oxford. His books include An Introduction to
Political Philosophy (Oxford University Press, 1996; 2006; 2016),
Disadvantage (with Avner de-Shalit; Oxford University Press, 2007),
Ethics and Public Policy: A Philosophical Inquiry (Routledge, 2011), The
Human Right to Health (Norton, 2012) and An Introduction to Moral
Philosophy (Norton 2018).
Discovering Diverse Content Through
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instance of restraint, likely to remain in the recollection of any
landlady.
The “Saracen’s Head” cherishes these more or less authentic
recollections, and you are shown, not only the room, but the “very
bedstead”—a hoary four-poster—upon which Dickens slept; and if
you are very good and reverent, and sufficiently abase yourself
before the spirit of the place, you will be allowed to drink out of the
very mug he is said to have drunk from and sit in the identical chair
he is supposed to have sat in; and accordingly, when Dickensians
visit Bath they sit in the chair and drink from the mug to the
immortal memory, and do not commonly stop to consider this
marvellous thing: that the humble, unknown reporter of 1835 should
be identified by the innkeeper of that era with the novelist who only
became famous two years later.
Going by the Glasgow Mail to Yorkshire in January, 1838, in company
with “Phiz,” Dickens acquired the local colour for Nicholas Nickleby.
We hear, in that story, how the coach carrying Nicholas, Squeers,
and the schoolboys down to Dotheboys Hall, dined at “Eaton
Slocomb,” by which Eaton Socon, fifty-five miles from London, on the
Great North Road, is indicated. There, in that picturesque village
among the flats of Huntingdonshire, still stands the charming little
“White Horse” inn, which in those days, with the long-vanished
“Cock,” divided the coaching business on that stage.
 THE “WHITE HORSE,” EATON SOCON.

Grantham does not figure largely in the story, in whose pages the
actual coach journey is lightly dismissed. There we find merely a
mention of the “George” as “one of the best inns in England”; but in
his private correspondence he refers to that house, enthusiastically,
as “the very best inn I have ever put up at”: and Dickens, as we well
know, was a finished connoisseur of inns.
The “George” at Grantham is typically Georgian: four-square, red-
bricked and prim. It replaced a fine mediæval building, burnt down
in 1780; but what it lacks in beauty it does, according to the
testimony of innumerable travellers, make up for in comfort. At the
sign of the “George,” says one, “you had a cleaner cloth, brighter
plate, higher-polished glass, and a brisker fire, with more prompt
attention and civility, than at most other places.”
From Grantham to Greta Bridge was, in coaching days, one day’s
journey. There the traveller of to-day finds a quiet hamlet on the
banks of the romantic Greta, but in that era it was a busy spot on
the main coaching route, with two large and prosperous inns: the
“George” and the “New Inn.” The “New Inn,” where Dickens stayed,
is now a farmhouse, “Thorpe Grange” by name; while the “George,”
standing by the bold and picturesque bridge, has itself retired from
public life, and is now known as “the Square.” Under that name the
great, unlovely building is divided up into tenements for three or
four different families.

THE “GEORGE,” GRETA BRIDGE.

From Greta Bridge Dickens proceeded to Barnard Castle, where he

and Phiz stayed, as a centre whence to explore Bowes, that bleak
and stony-faced little town where he found “Dotheboys Hall,” and
made it and Shaw, the schoolmaster, the centre of his romance. The
“Unicorn” inn at Bowes is pointed out as the place where the
novelist met Shaw, afterwards drawing the character of “Squeers”
from his peculiarities. The rights and the wrongs of the Yorkshire
schools, and the indictment of them that Dickens drew, form still a
vexed question. Local opinion is by no means altogether amiably
disposed towards the memory of Dickens in this matter; and
although those schools were gravely mismanaged, we must not lose
sight of the fact that this expedition undertaken by Dickens was
largely a pilgrimage of passion, in which he looked to find scandals,
and did so find them. To what extent, for the sake of his “novel with
a purpose,” he dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s of the wrongs he
found must ever be a subject for controversy.
The course of Nicholas Nickleby brings us, in Chapter XXII., to the
long tramp undertaken by Nicholas and Smike from London to
Portsmouth, on “a cold, dry, foggy morning in early spring.” They
made Godalming the first night, and “bargained for two humble
beds.” The next evening saw them well beyond Petersfield, at a
point fifty-eight miles from London, where the humble “Coach and
Horses” inn stands by the wayside, and is perhaps the inn referred
to by Dickens. The matter is doubtful, because, although the story
was written in 1838, when the existing road along the shoulder of
the downs at this point had been constructed, with the present
“Coach and Horses” beside it, replacing the older inn and the original
track that still goes winding obscurely along in the bottom, it is
extremely likely that Dickens described the spot from his childish
memories of years before, when, as a little boy, he had been
brought up the road with the Dickens family, on their removal from
Landport. At that time the way was along the hollow, where the
“Bottom” inn, or “Gravel Hill” inn, then stood, in receipt of custom.
The house stands yet, and is now a gamekeeper’s cottage.
 THE “COACH AND HORSES,” NEAR PETERSFIELD.

Whichever of the two houses we choose, the identity of the spot is

unassailable, because, although in the story it is described as twelve
miles from Portsmouth, and is really thirteen, no other inn exists or
existed for miles on either side. The bleak and barren scene is
admirably drawn: “Onward they kept with steady purpose, and
entered at length upon a wide and spacious tract of downs, with
every variety of little hill and plain to change their verdant surface.
Here, there shot up almost perpendicularly into the sky a height so
steep, as to be hardly accessible to any but the sheep and goats that
fed upon its sides, and there stood a huge mound of green, sloping
and tapering off so delicately, and merging so gently into the level
ground, that you could scarce define its limits. Hills swelling above
each other, and undulations shapely and uncouth, smooth and
rugged, graceful and grotesque, thrown negligently side by side,
bounded the view in each direction; while frequently, with
unexpected noise, there uprose from the ground a flight of crows,
who, cawing and wheeling round the nearest hills, as if uncertain of
their course, suddenly poised themselves upon the wing and
skimmed down the long vista of some opening valley with the speed
of very light itself.

“BOTTOM” INN.

“By degrees the prospect receded more and more on either hand,
and as they had been shut out from rich and extensive scenery, so
they emerged once again upon the open country. The knowledge
that they were drawing near their place of destination gave them
fresh courage to proceed; but the way had been difficult and they
had loitered on the road, and Smike was tired! Thus twilight had
already closed in, when they turned off the path to the door of a
road-side inn, yet twelve miles short of Portsmouth.
“‘Twelve miles,’ said Nicholas, leaning with both hands on his stick,
and looking doubtfully at Smike.
“‘Twelve long miles,’ repeated the landlord.
“‘Is it a good road?’ inquired Nicholas.
“‘Very bad,’ said the landlord. As, of course, being a landlord, he
would say.
“‘I want to get on,’ observed Nicholas, hesitating. ‘I scarcely know
what to do.’
“‘Don’t let me influence you,’ rejoined the landlord. ‘I wouldn’t go on
if it was me.’”
And so here they stayed the night, much to their advantage.
The “handsome hotel,” “between Park Lane and Bond Street,”
referred to in Chapter XXXII. of Nicholas Nickleby, cannot be
identified: there are, and long have been, so many handsome hotels
in that region. It was in the coffee-room of this establishment that
Nicholas encountered Sir Mulberry Hawk; and the description of the
affair brings back the memory of a state of things long past. The
“Coffee-room” with its boxes partitioned off, no longer exists; there
are no such things as those boxes anywhere now, except perhaps in
some old-fashioned “eating-houses.” But in that period of which
Dickens wrote, the “coffee-room” of an hotel was an institution not
so very long before copied from the then dead or fast-expiring
“Coffee Houses” of the eighteenth century: once—in the days before
clubs—the meeting-places of wits and business men. The Coffee
House had been the club of its own particular age, and as there are
nowadays clubs for every class and all professions, so in that period
there were special Coffee Houses for individual groups of people,
where they read the papers and learned the gossip of their circle.
Inns and hotels copied the institution of a public refreshment-room
that would nowadays be styled the restaurant, and transferred the
name of “Coffee-room,” without specifically supplying the coffee;
which, to be sure, was a beverage fast growing out of fashion, in
favour of wines, beer, and brandy and water. No one drank whisky
then.
Fashions in nomenclature linger long, and even now in old-
established inns and hotels, the Coffee-room still exists, but has
paradoxically come to mean a public combined dining- and sitting-
room for private guests, in contradistinction from the Commercial-
room, to which commercial travellers resort, at a recognised lower
tariff.
There are inns also in Oliver Twist; not inns essential to the story,
nor in themselves prepossessing, but, in the case of the “Coach and
Horses” at Isleworth, remarkably well observed when we consider
that the reference is only in passing. Indeed, the topographical
accuracy of Dickens, where he is wishful to be accurate, is
astonishing. The literary pilgrim sets out to follow the routes he
indicates, possibly doubtful if he will find the places mentioned.
There, however, they are (if modern alterations have not removed
them), for Dickens apparently visited the scenes and from one eagle
glance described them with all the accuracy of a guide-book.
Thus, Bill Sikes and Oliver, trudging from London to Chertsey, where
the burglary was to be committed, and occasionally getting a lift on
the way, are set down from a cart at the end of Brentford. At length
they came to a public-house called the “Coach and Horses”; a little
way beyond which another road appeared to turn off. And here the
cart stopped.
 THE “COACH AND HORSES,” ISLEWORTH.

One finds the “Coach and Horses,” sure enough, at the point where
Brentford ends and Isleworth begins, by the entrance to Sion Park,
and near the spot where the road branches off to the left. The
“Coach and Horses” is not a picturesque inn. It is a huge, four-
square lump of a place, and wears, indeed, rather a dour and
forbidding aspect. It is unquestionably the house of which Dickens
speaks, and was built certainly not later than the dawn of the
nineteenth century. In these latter days the road here has been
rendered somewhat more urban by the advent of the electric
tramway; but I have in my sketch of the scene taken the artistic
licence of omitting that twentieth-century development, and, to add
an air of verisimilitude, have represented Sikes and Oliver in the act
of approaching. The left-hand road beyond leads to a right-hand
road, as in the story, and this in due course to Hampton.
The most interesting Dickensian inn, outside the pages of Pickwick,
is the “Maypole,” in Barnaby Rudge.
There never existed upon this earth an inn so picturesque as that
drawn, entirely from his imagination, by Cattermole, to represent the
“Maypole.” You may seek even among the old mansions of England,
and find nothing more baronial. The actual “Maypole”—when found
—is a sad disappointment to those who have cherished the
Cattermole ideal, and there is wrath and indignation among pilgrims
from over-seas when they come to it. This, although natural enough,
is an injustice to this real original, which is one of the most
picturesque old inns now to be found, and is not properly to be
made little of because it cannot fit an impossible artistic fantasy.
I have hinted above that the “Maypole” requires some effort to find,
and that is true enough, even in these days when the England of
Dickens has been so plentifully elucidated and mapped out and
sorted over. The prime cause of this incertitude and boggling is that
there really is a “Maypole” inn, but at that very different place,
Chigwell Row, two miles distant from Chigwell and the “King’s Head.”
Many years ago, the late James Payn wrote an amusing account—as
to whose entire truth we cannot vouch—of his taking a party of
enthusiastic American ladies in search of this scene of Barnaby
Rudge. They drove about the forest seeking (such was their
ignorance) the “Maypole,” and not the “King’s Head”; and found it, in
a low and ugly beerhouse from which drunken beanfeasters waved
inviting pots of beer. Eventually they left the forest convinced that
the inn Dickens described was a sheer myth.
If the “King’s Head” of fact—“such a delicious old inn opposite the
churchyard,” as Dickens wrote of it to Forster—is not so wonderful
an old house as the “Maypole” of fiction and of Cattermole’s
picturesque fancy, we must, at any rate, excuse the artist, who was
under the necessity of working up to the fervid description of it with
which the story begins: “An old building, with more gable-ends than
a lazy man would care to count on a sunny day; huge zig-zag
chimneys, out of which it seemed as though even smoke could not
choose but come in more than naturally fantastic shapes, imparted
to it in its tortuous progress; and vast stables, gloomy, ruinous, and
empty. The place was said to have been built in the days of King
Henry the Eighth; and there, was a legend, not only that Queen
Elizabeth had slept there one night while upon a hunting excursion,
to wit, in a certain oak-panelled room with a deep bay-window, but
that next morning, while standing upon a mounting-block before the
door, with one foot in the stirrup, the virgin monarch had then and
there boxed and cuffed an unlucky page for some neglect of duty.”

THE “KING’S HEAD,” CHIGWELL, THE “MAYPOLE” OF BARNABY

RUDGE.

Passing the references to sunken and uneven floors and old

diamond-paned lattices, with another to an “ancient porch, quaintly
and grotesquely carved,” which does not exist, we come to a
description of dark red bricks, grown yellow with age, decayed
timbers, and ivy wrapping the time-worn walls,—all figments of the
imagination.
The real “Maypole,” identified with the “King’s Head” at Chigwell, in
Epping Forest, is not the leastest littlest bit like that. The laziest man
on the hottest day could easily count its gables, which number three
large ones[17] and a small would-be-a-gable-if-it-could, that looks as
though it were blighted in its youth and had never grown to
maturity. The front of the house is not of red brick, and never was:
the present white plaster face being a survival of its early years;
while the front of the ground-floor is weather-boarded.
But it is a delightful old house, in a situation equally delightful,
standing opposite the thickly wooded old churchyard of Chigwell,
just as described in the story; the sign—a portrait head of Charles
the First—projecting from an iron bracket, and the upper storeys of
the inn themselves set forward, on old carved oak beams and
brackets. There is no sign of decay or neglect about the “King’s
Head.”
In Martin Chuzzlewit the literary annotator and professor of
topographical exegesis finds an interesting problem of the first
dimensions in the question, “Where was the ‘Blue Dragon’ of that
story situated?” It is a matter which, it is to be feared, will never be
threshed out to the satisfaction of all seekers after truth. “You all are
right and all are wrong,” as the chameleon is supposed to have said
when he heard disputants quarrelling as to whether he was green or
pink; and then turned blue, to confound them. But the chameleon,
in this instance, is no more: and we who have opinions may
continue, without fear, to hold them.
Well, then: in the third chapter of Martin Chuzzlewit we are
particularly introduced to an inn, the subject of an earlier allusion in
those pages, the “Blue Dragon,” near Salisbury. In what direction it
lay from that cathedral city we are not told—whether north, south,
east, or west; and we only infer from incidents of the story, in which
the inn is brought into relation with the London mail and coaching in
general, that the “Blue Dragon” was at Amesbury, eight miles to the
north of Salisbury, by which route the famous “Quicksilver” Exeter
mail to and from London went, in the old coaching days, avoiding
Salisbury altogether. The course of the narrative, the situation of an
old mansion on the Wilsford road near Amesbury—generally pointed
out as Pecksniff’s home—and the position of Amesbury, all seem at
the first blush to point to that fine old inn, the “George” at
Amesbury, being the original of the “Blue Dragon”; and this old inn
certainly was not only a coaching-house, but was what another
claimant to the honour of being the real true original of the “Blue
Dragon”—the “Green Dragon” at Alderbury—could never have been:
a hostelry with accommodation sufficient for postchaise travellers
such as old Martin Chuzzlewit and Mary.

THE “GREEN DRAGON,” ALDERBURY.

The “George” at Amesbury is a house of considerable size and
architectural character, and its beauties might fitly have employed
the pencils of Pecksniff’s pupils, had that great and good man
condescended to notice anything less stupendous than cathedrals,
castles, and Houses of Parliament. As it was, however, the
architectural studies of his young friends were made to contemplate
nothing meaner than “elevations of Salisbury Cathedral from every
possible point of sight,” and lesser things were passed
contemptuously by. (Chap. I.)
The “George,” after the fine old church—that church in which Tom
Pinch played the organ—is the chief ornament of Amesbury, and that
it was the inn meant by Dickens when he wrote Martin Chuzzlewit is
in the village an article of faith which no visitor dare controvert or
dispute in any way on the spot. Like the small boys who do not say
“Yah!” and are not courageous enough to make grimaces until safely
out of arm’s reach, we only dare dispassionately discuss the pros
and cons when out of the place. It were not possible on the spot to
object, “Yes, but,” and then proceed to argue the point with the
landlord, who confidently shows you old Martin Chuzzlewit’s
bedroom and a room with a descent of one step inside, instead of
the “two steps on the inside so exquisitely unexpected that
strangers, despite the most elaborate cautioning, usually dived in,
head first, as into a plunging-bath.”
 THE “GEORGE,” AMESBURY.

But the truth is, like many another literary landmark, the “Blue
Dragon” in Martin Chuzzlewit is a composite picture, combining the
features of both the “George” at Amesbury, eight miles to the north
of Salisbury, and those of the “Green Dragon” at Alderbury, three
miles to the south. Nay, there were not so long ago at Alderbury
those who remembered the picture-sign of the “Green Dragon”
there, which doubtless Dickens saw in his wanderings around the
neighbourhood. “A faded and an ancient dragon he was; and many a
wintry storm of rain, snow, sleet, and hail had changed his colour
from a gaudy blue to a faint lack-lustre shade of grey. But there he
hung; rearing in a state of monstrous imbecility on his hind-legs;
waxing with every month that passed so much more dim and
shapeless that as you gazed at him on one side of the sign-board it
seemed as if he must be gradually melting through it and coming
out upon the other.” (Chap. III.)
The sign has long since been replaced by the commonplace lettering
of the present day, but it was then, in Dickens’s own words, “a
certain Dragon who swung and creaked complainingly before the
village ale-house door,” a phrase which at once shows us that if by
the “Blue Dragon” of the story the “George” at Amesbury was
intended to be described, that was a derogatory description of the
fine old hostelry.
This brings us to the chief point upon which the validity of this claim
of the “Green Dragon” at Alderbury must rest. Dickens distinctly
alludes to the “Blue Dragon” as a “village ale-house,” and such it is
and has ever been; while to the “George” at Amesbury that
description cannot even now justly apply, and certainly it could never
in coaching times, when in the heyday of its prosperity, have been
so fobbed off with such a phrase. Moreover, we will do well to bear
in mind that old Chuzzlewit and his companion did not put up at the
inn—this “village ale-house”—from choice. The gentleman was
“taken ill upon the road,” and had to seek the first house that
offered.
Those curious in the byways of Dickens topography will find
Alderbury three miles from Salisbury, on the left-hand side of the
Southampton road. Half a mile from it, on the other side of the way,
stands “St. Mary’s Grange,” a red-brick building in a mixed Georgian
and Gothic style, built by Pugin, and locally reputed to be the
original of Mr. Pecksniff’s residence: a circumstance which may well
give us pause and opportunity for considering whether Dickens had
that distinguished architect in his mind when creating the character
of his holy humbug.
 INTERIOR OF THE “GREEN DRAGON,” ALDERBURY.

The “Green Dragon,” which we have thus shown to have, at the least
of it, as good a title as the “George” at Amesbury to be considered
the original of the house kept by the genial Mrs. Lupin, friend of Tom
Pinch, Mark Tapley, and Martin Chuzzlewit in particular, and of her
fellow-creatures in general, does not directly face the highway, but is
set back from it at an angle, behind a little patch of grass. It is pre-
eminently rustic, and is even more ancient than the casual wayfarer,
judging merely from its exterior, would suppose; for a fine fifteenth-
century carved stone fireplace in what is now the bar parlour bears
witness to an existence almost mediæval. It is a beautiful, though
dilapidated, work of Gothic art of the Early Tudor period,
ornamented with boldly carved crockets, heraldic roses, and shields
of arms, and is worthy of inspection for itself alone, quite
irrespective of its literary interest.
A London inn intimately associated with Martin Chuzzlewit finally
disappeared in the early part of 1904, when the last vestiges of the
“Black Bull,” Holborn, were demolished. The “Black Bull,” in common
with the numerous other old inns of Holborn, in these last few years
all swept away, stood just outside the City of London, and was
originally, like its neighbours, established for the accommodation of
those travellers who, in the Middle Ages, arrived too late in the
evening to enter the City. At sundown the gates of the walled City of
London were closed, and, unless the traveller was a very privileged
person indeed, he found no entrance until the next morning, and
was obliged to put up at one of the many hostelries that sprang up
outside and found their account in the multitude of such laggards by
the way. The old “Black Bull,” after many alterations, was rebuilt in a
very commonplace style in 1825, and in later years it became a
merely sordid public-house, with an unlovely pile of peculiarly grim
“model” dwellings in the courtyard. In spite of those later changes,
the great plaster effigy of the Black Bull himself, with a golden girdle
about his middle, remained on his bracket over the first floor window
until the house was pulled down, May 18th, 1904.
 SIGN OF THE “BLACK BULL,” HOLBORN.

An amusing story belongs to that sign, for it was, in 1826, the

subject of a struggle between the landlord, one Gardiner, on the one
side and the City authorities on the other. The Commissioner of
Sewers served a notice upon Gardiner, requiring him to take his bull
down, but the landlord was obstinate, and refused to do anything of
the kind, whereupon the Commissioner assembled a storming-party
of over fifty men, with ladders and tackle for removing the
objectionably large and weighty effigy. No sooner, however, had the
enemy begun their preparations, when, to their astonishment, and
to that of the assembled crowds, the bull soared majestically and
steadily to what Mrs. Gamp would doubtless have called the
“parapidge.” Arrived there he displayed a flag with the bold legend,
“I don’t intrude now.”
Some arrangement was evidently arrived at, for the bull occupied its
original place, above the first-floor window over the archway, for the
whole of the seventy-eight years between 1826 and 1904.
The house is referred to in Martin Chuzzlewit as the “Bull,” and is the
place to which Sairey Gamp repaired from Kingsgate Street to relieve
Betsy Prig in the nursing of the mysterious patient. She found it “a
little dull, but not so bad as might be,” and was “glad to see a
parapidge, in case of fire, and lots of roofs and chimley-pots to walk
upon.”
There are no greatly outstanding inns to be found in Bleak House,
the “Dedlock Arms,” really the “Sondes Arms” at Rockingham, being
merely mentioned. On the other hand, in David Copperfield we find
the “Plough” at Blundeston mentioned, and that hotel at Yarmouth
whence the London coach started: only unfortunately it is not
possible to identify it, either with the “Crown and Anchor,” the
“Angel,” or the “Star.”
In Parliament Street, Westminster, until 1899, stood the “Red Lion”
public-house, identified with the place where David Copperfield
(Chapter IX.) called for the glass of the “genuine stunning.” The
incident was one of Dickens’s own youthful experiences, and is
therefore to be taken, together with much else in that story, as
autobiography.
“I was such a child, and so little, that frequently when I went into
the bar of a strange public-house for a glass of ale or porter, to
moisten what I had had for dinner, they were afraid to give it me. I
remember, one hot evening, I went into the bar of a public-house,
and said to the landlord:
“‘What is your best—your very best ale a glass?’ For it was a special
occasion, I don’t know what. It may have been my birthday.
“‘Twopence-halfpenny,’ says the landlord, ‘is the price of the Genuine
Stunning ale.’
“‘Then,’ says I, producing the money, ‘just draw me a glass of the
Genuine Stunning, if you please, with a good head to it.’
“The landlord looked at me in return over the bar, from head to foot,
with a strange smile on his face; and instead of drawing the beer,
looked round the screen, and said something to his wife. She came
out from behind it, with her work in her hand, and joined him in
surveying me.... They served me with the ale, though I suspect it
was not the Genuine Stunning; and the landlord’s wife, opening the
little half-door of the bar, and bending down, gave me my money
back, and gave me a kiss that was half-admiring and half
compassionate, but all womanly and good, I am sure.”
The “Blue Boar” in Whitechapel is referred to, and the “County Inn”
at Canterbury, identified with the “Fountain,” where Mr. Dick slept.
The “little inn” in that same city, where Mr. Micawber stayed, and
might have said—but didn’t—that he “resided, in short, ‘put up,’”
there, is claimed to be the “Sun,” but how, of all the little inns of
Canterbury—and there are many—the “Sun” should so decisively
claim the honour is beyond the wit of man to tell. It is an old, old inn
that, rather mistakenly, calls itself an “hotel,” and the peaked, red-
tiled roof, the projecting upper storey, bracketed out upon ancient
timbers, are evidence enough that it was in being many centuries
before the foreign word “hotel” became acclimatised in this country.
One may dine, or lunch, or tea at the “Sun,” in the ghostly company
of Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, but although warm culinary scents may be
noticed with satisfaction by the hungry pilgrim, he misses the “flabby
perspiration on the walls,” mentioned in the book. True, it is a
feature readily spared.
In the Uncommercial Traveller a reference to the “Crispin and
Crispianus,” at Strood, is found. It is a humble, weather-boarded inn,
whose age might be very great or comparatively recent. But,
whatever the age of the present house, there has long been an inn
of the name on this spot, the sign being referred back to St. Crispin’s
Day, October 25th, 1415, when Agincourt was fought and won. The
sign is, however, doubtless far older than that, and probably was one
of the very many religious inn-signs designed to attract the custom
of thirsty wayfarers to Becket’s shrine.
The brothers Crispin and Crispian were members of a noble family in
ancient Rome, who, professing Christianity, fled to Gaul and
supported themselves by shoemaking in the town of Troyes. They
suffered martyrdom at Soissons, in a.d. 287. The sanctity and
benevolence of St. Crispin are said to have been so great that he
would steal leather as material for shoes for the poor; for which, did
he live in our times, he would still be martyred—in a police-court, to
the tune of several months’ imprisonment.

THE “CRISPIN AND CRISPIANUS,” STROOD.

The picture-sign of the “Crispin and Crispianus” is said to be a copy

of a painting in the church of St. Pantaléon at Troyes, and certainly
(but chiefly because of much varnish, and the dust and grime of the
road) looks very Old-Masterish. The two saints, seated
uncomfortably close to one another, and looking very sheepish,
appear to be cutting out a piece of leather to the order of an
interesting and gigantic pirate.
A mysterious incident occurred in 1830 at this house, in the death of
a man who had acted as ostler at the coaching inns of Rochester
and Chatham, and had afterwards tramped the country as a hawker.
He lay here dying, in an upper room, and told the doctor who was
called to him the almost incredible story that he was really Charles
Parrott Hanger, Earl of Coleraine, and not “Charley Roberts,” the
name he had usually been known by for twenty years. Although his
life had been so squalid and apparently poverty-stricken, he left
£1,000 to his son, Charles Henry Hanger.
The “Crispin and Crispianus,” in common with most other erstwhile
humble inns, has experienced a social levelling-up since the time
when Dickens mentioned it as a house where tramping tinkers and
itinerant clock-makers, coming into Strood “yonder, by the blasted
ash,” might lie. In these times, when the blasted dust of the Dover
road is the most noticeable feature, and a half-century has effected
all manner of wonderful changes, tramps and their kin find no
harbourage at the old house, whose invitation to cyclists and
amateur photographers sufficiently emphasises its improved status.
In Great Expectations is found a notice of the “Cross Keys,” Wood
Street, Cheapside, a coaching inn abolished in the ’70’s; but it is
merely an incidental reference, on the occasion of Pip’s coming to
London by coach from Rochester. The inns of that story are, indeed,
not well seen, and although that little boarded inn at Cooling, the
“Horseshoe and Castle,” is identified as the “Three Jolly Bargemen”
of the tale, you can find in those pages no illuminating descriptive
phrase on which to put your finger and say, conscientiously, “Found!”
Only at the close of the story, where, in Chapter LIV., Pip is
endeavouring to smuggle the convict, Magwitch, out of the country,
down the Thames, do we find an inn easily identified. That is the
melancholy waterside house below Gravesend, standing solitary on a
raised bank of stones, where Pip lands: “It was a dirty place enough,
and I daresay not unknown to smuggling adventurers; but there was
a good fire in the kitchen, and there were eggs and bacon to eat,
and various liquors to drink. Also there were two double-bedded
rooms—‘such as they were,’ the landlord said.” Outside there was
mud: mud and slimy stones, and rotten, slimy stakes sticking out of
the water, and a grey outlook across the broad river.
This describes the actual “Ship and Lobster” tavern, on the shore at
Denton, below Gravesend, to which you come past the tramway
terminus, down a slummy street chiefly remarkable for grit and
broken bottles, then across the railway and the canal and on to the
riverside where, in midst of the prevalent grittiness that is now the
most outstanding natural feature, stands the inn, in company with
the office of an alarming person who styles himself “Explosive
Lighterman,” at Denton Wharf.
There are even fewer inns to be found in Our Mutual Friend, where,
although the “Red Lion” at Henley is said to be the original of the
up-river inn to whose lawn Lizzie drags the half-drowned Wrayburn,
we are not really sure that Henley actually is indicated. That mention
of a lawn does not suffice: many riverside inns have lawns. In short,
the edge of Dickens’s appreciation of inns was growing blunted, and
he took less delight, as he grew older, in describing their
peculiarities. His whole method of story-telling was changed. Instead
of the sprightly fancy and odd turns of observation that once fell
spontaneously from him, he at last came to laboriously construct and
polish the action and conversation of a novel, leaving in comparative
neglect those side-lights upon localities that help to give most of his
writings a permanent value.
Apart from the novels, we have many inns associated with Dickens
by tradition and in his tours and racily descriptive letters; and there,
at any rate, we find him, when not overweighted with the more than
ever elaborated and melodramatic character of his plots, just as full
of quaint, fanciful, and cheerful description as ever.
 THE “SHIP AND LOBSTER.”

His tours began early. So far back as the autumn of 1838 Dickens
and Phiz took holiday in the midlands, coming at last to Shrewsbury,
where they stayed at the “Lion,” or rather in what was at that time
an annexe of the “Lion,” and has long since become a private house.
Writing to his elder daughter, Dickens vividly described this place:
“We have the strangest little rooms (sitting-room and two bedrooms
together) the ceilings of which I can touch with my hand. The
windows bulge out over the street, as if they were little stern
windows in a ship. And a door opens out of the sitting-room on to a
little open gallery with plants in it, where one leans over a queer old
rail.”
Mr. Kitton[18] states: “This quaint establishment, alas! has been
modernised (if not entirely rebuilt) since those days, and presents
nothing of the picturesqueness that attracted the author of
Pickwick.” But that is by no means the case. It stands exactly as it
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