The Royal Crescent, with its fine air and fine view, always strikes one with admiration as a unique and original monument: the size and proportions are so truly grand. The whole scene of Mr. Winkle’s escapade here is extraordinarily vivid, and so protracted, while Mrs. Dowler was waiting in her sedan for the door to be opened, that it has the effect of imprinting the very air, look, and tone of the Royal Cresent on us. We seem to be waiting with her and the chair-man. It seems the mostnaturalthing in the world. The houses correspond almost exactly with Phiz’s drawing.
Pickwick, it has been often pointed out, is full of amusing “oversights,” which are pardonable enough, and almost add to the “fun” of the piece. At the opening, Mr. Pickwick is described as carrying his portmanteau—in the picture it is a carpet-bag. The story opens in 1827, but at once Mr. Jingle begins to talk of beingpresent at the late Revolution of 1830. The “George and Vulture” is placed in two different streets. Old Weller is called Samuel. During the scene at the Royal Crescent we are told that Mrs. Craddock threw up the drawing-room window “just as Mr. Winkle was rushing into the chair.” She ran and called Mr. Dowler, who rushed in just as Mr. Pickwick threw up the other window, “when the first object that met the gaze of both was Mr. Winkle bolting into the sedan chair” into which he had bolted a minute before. The late Charles Dickens the younger, in the notes to his father’s writings, affects to have discovered an oversight in the account of the scene in the Circus. It is described how he “took to his heels and toreroundthe Crescent, hotly pursued by Dowler and the coachman. He kept ahead; the door was open as he cameroundthe second time, &c.” Now, objects the son, the Cresent is only a half circle; there is no going round it, you must turn back when you come to the end. Boz must have been thinking of the Circus. Hardly—for he knew both well—and Circus and Crescent are things not to be confused. The phrase was a little loose, but, as the Circus was curved “round,” is not inappropriate, and he meant that Winkle turned when he got to the end, and ran back.
It must have been an awkward thing for Winkle to present himself once more at Mrs. Craddock’s in the Crescent. How was the incident to be explained save either at his own expense or at that of Mr. Dowler? If Dowler were supposed to have gone in pursuit of him, then Mr. Winkle must have fled, and if he were supposed to have gone to seek a friend, then Dowler was rather compromised. No doubt both gentlemen agreed to support the one story that they had gone away for mutual satisfaction, and had made it up.
Then, we are told, if it were theatre night perhaps the visitors met at the theatre. Did Mr. Pickwick ever go? This is an open question. Is the chronicler here a little obscure, as he is speaking of “the gentlemen”en bloc? Perhaps he did, perhaps he did’nt, as Boz might say. On his visit to Rochester, it does not appear that he went to see his “picked-up” friend, Jingle, perform. The Bath Theatre is in the Saw Close, next door to Beau Nash’s picturesque old house. The old grey front, with its blackened mouldings andsunk windows, is still there; but a deep vestibule, or entrance, with offices has been built out in front, which, as it were, thrusts the old wall back—an uncongenial mixture. Within, the house has been reconstructed, as it is called, so that Mr. Palmer or Dimond, or any of the old Bath lights, to say nothing of Mr. and Mrs. Siddons, would not recognise it. Attending it one night, I could not but recall the old Bath stories, when this modest little house supplied the London houses regularly with the best talent, and “From the Theatre Royal, Bath,” was an inducement set forth on the bill.
After his brilliant, genial view of the old watering-place, it is a surprise to find Boz speaking of it with a certain acerbity and even disgust. Over thirty years later, in 1869, he was there, and wrote to Forster: “The place looks to me like a cemetery which the dead have succeeded in rising and taking. Having built streets of their old gravestones, they wander about scantly, trying to look alive—a dead failure.” And yet, what ghostly recollections must have come back on him as he walked those streets, or as he passed by into Walcot, the Saracen’s Head, where he had put up in those old days, full of brightness, ardour, and enthusiasm; but not yet the famous Boz! Bath folk set down this jaundiced view of their town to a sort of pique at the comparative failure of the Guild dramatic performance at the Old Assembly Rooms, where, owing to the faulty arrangement of the stage, hardly a word could be heard, to the dissatisfaction of the audience. The stage, it seems, was put too far behind the proscenium, “owing to the headstrong perversity of Dickens, who never forgave the Bath people.” Charles Knight, it was said, remonstrated, but in vain. Boz, however, was not a man to indulge in such feelings. In “Bleak House” he calls it “dreary.”
There had been, however, a previous visit to Bath, in company with Maclise and Forster, to see Landor, who was then living at No. 35 St. James’s Square—a house become memorable because it was there that the image of his “Little Nell” first suggested itself. The enthusiastic Landor used, in his “tumultuous” fashion, to proclaim that he would set fire to the house and burn it to the groundto prevent its being profaned by less sacred associations. He had done things even more extravagant than this, and would take boisterous roars of laughter as his odd compliment was discussed.
The minuteness of his record of the gaieties shows how amused and interested Boz was in all that he saw. Nothing escaped him of the routine, day, hour, and place; all is given, even the different rooms at the Assembly House. “In the ball-room, the long card-room, the octagon card-room, the staircases, the passages, the hum of many voices and the sound of many feet were perfectly bewildering; dresses rustled, feathers waved, lights shone, and jewels sparkled. There was the music, not of the quadrille band, for it had not yet commenced,” &c. Here Bantam, M.C., arrived at precisely twenty minutes before eight, “to receive the company.” And such company! “Brilliant eyes, lighted up with pleasurable expectation, gleamed from every side, and, look where you would, some exquisite form glided gracefully through the throng, and was no sooner lost than it was replaced by another as dainty and bewitching”; the warmth of which description showing how delighted was the young man with all he saw. But how did he secure admission? For it was a highly fashionable company; there were vouchers and tickets to be secured. But these were slight difficulties for our brilliant “pushful” young man. He could make his way, and his mission found him interest. He certainly saw as much of Bath as anyone could in the time. Yet, gay and sprightly as was his account of Bath, there may have been a reason why Boz may have not recalled the place with pleasurable feelings. It will be recollected that, after giving a few lines to the account of Mr. Pickwick and friends being set down at the White Hart, he carries them off at once to lodgings in the Crescent. That first-class hotel was, alas! not open to the poor, over-worked reporter; and he could tell of nothing that went on within its portals. Hotel life on a handsome scale was not forhim, and he was obliged to put up at far humbler quarters, a sort of common inn.
There is nothing more quaint or interesting than this genuine antique—the Saracen’s Head in Walcot. It may pair off with the old White Horse in Canongate, where “Great Sam” put up for a night. It is surely the most effective of all the old inns one couldsee. It has two faces, and looks into two different streets, with its double gables, and date (1713) inscribed on a tablet outside. It is a yellow, well-worn little building. And you enter through darkened tunnels, as it were, cut through the house, coming into a strange yard of evident antiquity, with a steep, ladder-like flight of stone steps that leads up to a window much like the old Canongate houses. Here, then, it was that Boz put up, and here are preserved traditions and relics of his stay. One of the tales is that, after some exuberant nightin the election time, he would get his candle and, having to cross the court, would have it blown out half a dozen times, when he would go back patiently to relight it. They show his chair, and a jug out of which he drank, but one has not much faith in these chairs and jugs; they always seem to be supplied to demand, and must be found to gratify the pilgrims.
One of the examination queries which might have found a place in Mr. Calverley’s paper of questions is this: “When did Mr. Pickwick sit downto make entries in his journal, and spend half an hour in so doing?” At Bath on the night of Mr. Winkle’s race round the Crescent. What was this journal? Or why did he keep it? Or why are so few allusions made to it? Mr. Snodgrass was the appointed historiographer of the party, and his “notes” are often spoken of and appealed to as the basis of the chronicle. But half an hour, as I say, was the time the great man seems to have allotted to his posting up the day’s register: “Mr. Pickwick shut up the book, wiped his penon the bottom of the inside of his coat-tail, and opened the drawer of the inkstand to put it carefully away.” How particular—how real all this is! This it is that gives thelivingforce to the book, and a persuasion—irresistible almost—that it is all aboutsome living person. I have often wondered how it is that this book of Boz’s has such an astounding power of development, such a fertility in engendering other books, and what is the secret of it. Scott’s astonishing Waverley series, Thackeray’s “Vanity Fair,” Boz’s own “Nicholas Nickleby,” “Oliver Twist,” in fact, not one of the whole series save “the immortal ‘Pickwick’” has produced anything in the way of books or commentaries. I believe it is really owing to this. Boz was a great admirer of Boswell’s equally immortal book. I haveheard him speak of it. He attempted parodies of it even. He knew all the turns, the Johnsonian twists, “Why, sirs,” &c., and used them in his letters. He was permeated with the Johnsonian ether; that detail, that description of trifling things which was in Boswell, attracted him, and he felt it; and the fact remains that Pickwick is written onthe principles—no copy—of the great biography, and that Boz applied to a mere fictional story what was related in the account of a living man. And it is really curious that Boswell’s “Life of Johnson” should be the only other book that tempts people to the same rage for commentary, illustrations, and speculations. These are of exactly the same character in both books.
The MS. that Mr. Pickwick so oddly found in the drawer of his inkstand at Mrs. Craddock’s, Royal Crescent, Bath, offered another instance of Boz’s ingenious methods of introducing episodical tales into his narrative. He was often hard put to it to find an occasion: they were highly useful to fill a space when he was pressed for matter. He had the strongestpenchantfor this sort of thing, and it clung to him through his life. Those in “Pickwick” are exceedingly good, full of spirit and “go,” save one, the “Martha Lobbs” story, which is a poorish thing. So good are the others, they have been taken out and published separately. They were no doubt written for magazines, and were lying by him, but his Bath story—“The True Legend of Prince Bladud”—was written specially. It is quite in the vein of Elia’s Roast Pig story, and very gaily told. He had probably been reading some local guide-book, with the mythical account of Prince Bladud, and this suggested to him his own humorous version. At the close, he sets Mr. Pickwick a-yawning several times, who, when he had arrived at the end of this little manuscript—which certainly could not have been compressed into “a couple of sheets of writing-paper,” but would have covered at least ten pages—replaced it in the drawer, and “then, with acountenance of the utmost weariness, lighted his chamber candle and went upstairs to bed.” And here, by the way, is one of the amusing oversights which give such a piquancy to “Pickwick.” Before he began to read his paper, we are carefully told that Mr. Pickwick “unfolded it, lighted his bedroom candle that it might burn up to the time he hadfinished.” It was Mr. C. Kent who pointed this out to him, when Boz seized the volume and humorously made as though he would hurl it at his friend.
Anyone interested in Bath must of necessity be interested in Bristol, to which, as all know, Mr. Winkle fled after the unhappy business in the Circus. He found a coach at the Royal Hotel—which no longer exists—a vehicle which, we are told, went the whole distance “twice a day and more” with a single pair of horses. There he put up at the Bush, where Mr. Pickwick was to follow him presently. The Bush—a genuine Pickwick inn—where Mr. Pickwick first heard the news of the action that was to be brought against him, stood in Corn Street, near to the Guildhall, the most busy street in Bristol; but it was taken down in 1864, and the present Wiltshire Bank erected on the site. Mr. Pickwick broke off his stay at Bath somewhat too abruptly; he left it and all its festivities on this sudden chase after Winkle. But he may have had a reason. Nothing is more wonderful than Boz’s propriety in dealing with his incidents, a propriety that is really instinctive. Everything falls out in the correct, natural way. For instance, Mr. Pickwick having received such a shock at the Bush—the announcement of the Bardell action—was scarcely in heart to resume his jollity and gaieties at Bath. We might naturally expect a resumption of the frolics there. He accordingly returned there; but we are told curtly, “The remainder of the period which Mr. Pickwick had assigned as the duration of his stay at Bath passed over without an occurrence of anything material. Trinity term commenced on the expiration of the first week. Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London; and the former gentleman, attended of course by Sam, straightway repaired to his old quarters at the George and Vulture.”
And now in these simple sentences have we not the secret of the great attraction of the book? Who would not suppose that this was a passage from a biography of some one that had lived? How carefullyminuteand yet how naturally the time is accounted for—“passed over without the occurrence of anything material.” It is impossible to resist this air ofvraisemblance.
The little Theatre here must be interesting to us from the fact of Jingle’s having been engaged to play there with the officers of the 52nd Regiment on the night of May 15th, 1827. Jingle was described as “a strolling actor,” and belonged to the “Kent circuit,” that is, to the towns of Canterbury, Rochester, Maidstone, &c. To this circuit also belonged “Dismal Jemmy,” who was “no actor,” yet did the “heavy business.” It does not appear that he, also, was engaged for the officers’ performance. We often wonder whether Jingledidperform on the night in question; or did Dr. Payne and Lieutenant Tappleton tell the story of his behaviour to their brethren: of his passing himself off as a gentleman, his wearing another gentleman’s clothes, and his insults to Dr. Slammer. Tappleton scornfully recommended Mr. Pickwick to be more nice in the selection of his companions. No doubt Jingle was suggested to the officers by the manager: “knew a really smart chap who will just do for the part.” On the whole, I think they must have had his services, as it was too late to get a substitute. Jingle, as we know, was played successfully by Sir Henry Irving in the early ’seventies,temporeBateman. His extraordinary likeness to the Phiz portrait struck every one, and it was marked, not only in face, but in figure, manner, &c. The adaptation of “Pickwick,” however, was very roughly done by the late James Albery, who merelytackedtogether the Jingle scenes. Those, where there is much genial comedy, such as the Ball scene at Rochester, were left out. It is likely that the boy, Boz, noticed Dismal Jemmy among the strollers, and possibly may have seen a Jingle himself. But the characters of Jingle and his confederate, Job, were certainly suggested by Robert Macaire and Jacques Strop, which, a little before the appearance of Pickwick, were being played in London—in “L’Auberge des Adrets.”
Mr. Pickwick had discovered in the morning that Jingle was “connected with the Theatre in that place,though he is not desirous to have it generally known.”
Now considering generally the different “games” he was pursuing, his passing himself off as an officer, an amateur of cricket, &c., it was not altogether desirable to have his profession known. Knowing also that Mr. Pickwick intended staying at Rochester, and that the gay Tupman or Snodgrass would find out his engagement and witness his performance, he likely enough confided his secret to Mr. Pickwick. “Dismal Jemmy,” the odd being who appears at Rochester for a short time, had promised Mr. Pickwick a tale which he never gave him. At the end of the story,Boz, having forgotten the engagement, is driven to supply a far-fetched reason. He was Job’s brother, and went to America “in consequence of being too much sought after here.” It will be recollected he was of a depressed and gloomy cast, and on the Bridge at Rochester talked of suicide. He also told the dismal “stroller’s tale.” Now, it is plain that Boz drew him as a genuine character, and his behaviour to the stroller was of a charitable kind. Boz, in fact, meant him to be a suitable person to relate so dismal an incident. However, all this was forgotten or put aside at the end, and having become Job’s brother, he had to be in keeping. The reformed Jingle declared he was “merely acting—clever rascal—hoaxing fellow.” His brother Job added that he himself was the serious one, “while Jemmy never was.” Mr. Pickwick then presumed that his talk of suicide was all flam, and that his dismals were all assumed. “He could assume anything,” said Job. Boz, too, forgot that his name was James Hutley, whereas the brothers’ was Trotter—though this may have been an assumed one.
The condition of the Rochester stage must have been rather low, when we find two such persons as Jingle and Dismal Jemmy members of the corps. Jingle’s jerky system of elocution would seem a complete disqualification. From sheer habit, it would have been impossible for him to say his lines in any other fashion—which in all the round of light “touch and go” comedy, would have been a drawback.
The little Theatre is at the farther end of the town, where the road turns off to the fields, a low, unpretending building with a smallportico. I recall it in the old days, on a walk from Gads Hill, when I paused to examine the bills of the benefit of a certain theatrical family of the Crummles sort—father, mother, sons, and daughters, who supplied everything. The head founded his claims to support on being a fellow townsman, winding up with Goldsmith’s lines:
And as the hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,Pants to the spot from whence at first it flew;I still had hopes, my lengthened wanderings past,Here to return, and die at home at last.
And as the hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,Pants to the spot from whence at first it flew;I still had hopes, my lengthened wanderings past,Here to return, and die at home at last.
Boz was hugely amused when I rehearsed this to him at lunch.
He himself, on his later visit, noted the strange encroachments that were being made on the Theatre. A wine merchant had begun on the cellars, and was gradually squeezing himself into the box-office, and would no doubt go on till he secured the auditorium, the lobbies, etc. When I last passed by that way, it had become the Conservative Club, or some such institution.
The wonderful picture, given in “Nickleby,” of the Portsmouth playhouse, with all its characters and accessories and inner life, shows the most intimate familiarity with all the ways and fashions of the old Provincial Theatre. Every touch—Crummles, Folair, Lenville, Snivelicci—proves clearly that he knew perfectly the life behind the scenes, and that he wrote of itcon amore. There was a firm belief at the Theatre Royal, Portsmouth, that all the performers in “Nickleby” were personal sketches of this corps. One actor told my friend, Mr. Walter Pollock, that they could even identify Folair, Lenville & Co., and that there was a playbill still extant in which either the names or the pieces corresponded. But in this theory, however, little faith can be placed; for at the time the family was at Portsmouth, Dickens was but a child not more than ten or twelve years old, and not likely, therefore, to be taken behind the scenes, or to pick up or observe much. It is certain that the whole description of the Theatre and its company, with the minute and intimate details of stage life, was drawn from this little house at Rochester. But we can go beyond mere speculation.
In one of his retrospections, Boz tells us of a visit he paid to Rochester in the fifties, “scenes among which myearly dayswere past.” The town he calls Dullborough, which is a little hard on theplace. He went to look at the old theatre, and reveals to us how it brought back to him a number of reminiscences, which shows that he was much associated with stage matters when a youth, for he describes Richard III. and Macbeth all “cast” and mounted exactly as Mr. Crummles would have mounted them. “There was Richard in a very uncomfortable wig, and sleeping in war time on a sofa that was much too short for him, and his conscience fearfully troubled his boots.” There was the lovely young woman, “who went out gleaning, in a narrow, white muslin apron, with five beautiful bars of five different colours across it. The witches bore an awful resemblance to the Thanes and other inhabitants of Scotland; while the good King Duncan couldn’t rest in his grave, but was constantly coming out of it and calling himself somebody else.” These are all Crummles touches, only he refrained from going again over the old ground. But one point further favours the theory—he recalls his alarm when Richard in his terrific combat was “backing up against the stage box.” He was in the stage box then, and therefore a privileged person at the theatre. His uncle, “Dr. Slammer,” no doubt was thus complimented as being “in Her Majesty’s service.” “Of course,” he goes on, “the town had shrunk fearfully since I was a child there.”
The description of the outlaw drama which Nicholas Nickleby saw on the night of his arrival is exactly in the key of the account of the performance of “Richard III.” just given: also the account of the London manager, who was in the boxes; still more so when Mr. Crummles and all the companydied at him. And as in Nickleby we have “the Comic Countryman” who so inopportunely caught a bluebottle when Mrs. Crummles was making her great point for the London Manager: so in the account of Dullborough we are told of “theFunnyCountryman” who sustained the comic, bucolic parts. This alone would show that the Rochester and Portsmouth Theatres were the same, while the beautiful young lady in the white apron performed the same sort of characters that Miss Bravassa, or Miss Snivelicci did.
And in this connection may be supplied a further speculation which is interesting. InBoz’searlier works it is plain that he relies for his most striking effects of character on his own recollections andpersonal observations. They might be considered passages from his autobiography. I have thought that much in “Nickleby” of Nicholas’s career and Nicholas’s own character was drawn from himself. Nicholas suggests Boz in appearance, in his spirit and vehemence, and in some of his adventures. Some years ago a remarkable letter appeared in the papers, in which Dickens, then a mere youth, made an application to one of the managers, Mr. Webster I think, for a situation in his theatre. He wanted to go on the stage. Was not this like Nicholas? This desire was surely founded on intimate acquaintance with the boards and amateur experience.
“I had entertained the impression,” he goes on, “that the High Street was as wide as Regent Street—I found it little better than a lane. There was a public clock in it which I had supposed to be the finest clock in the world, whereas it now turned out to beas inexpressive,moon-faced and weaka clock as ever I saw.” The Town Hall was a “mean little brick heap, like a demented chapel.”
Jingle, it will be recollected, on the party arriving at the Bull, gave that Inn the highest praise, recommending them to stay there—“good house—nice beds—” a testimonial that used to be displayed in gold letters at the door, but which, I have seen it stated, has been removed. I have also read the same testimonial in the guides and advertisements. Jingle warned them against another Inn hard by,—“Wright’s—next house—dear—very dear—half-a-crown if you look at the waiter, making a charge for dinner, all the same, if you dined out”; a practice, however, not altogether unknown to modern Hotels. It was bold in Boz, thus to publicly disparage Hotels that he did not approve. “Wright’s” could not have relished so public an allusion. What or where was Wright’s—“next house?” There is now—in the same High Street—“The King’s Head,” described as “Family and Commercial, one of the oldest-established in the Kingdom, close to the Cathedral and Castle—home comforts.” This being its position—the Castle on one side, the Cathedral on the other—situated exactly as the Bull was—and therefore “next house,” accurately described its position. Being “one of the oldest-established,” it must have been there at the time of the Pickwickian visit.
At the Bull, they show you “Mr. Pickwick’s room”—as well as Tupman’s and Winkle’s—Boz’s very particular description enables this to be done. Mr. Pickwick’s was, of course, to the front—when, roused by the Boots, he gave the direction of his followers’ bed-room, “next room but two on the right hand.” Winkle’s room was inside Tupman’s—so we are shown a room in the front with another inside of it—and thethirdon the left will, of course, be Mr. Pickwick’s, Q.E.D. The waiters know all these points, and prove them to the bewildered visitors. “You see, sir, there is the very roomwhere the clothes were stolen.”
Jingle’s elopement with the spinster aunt was ingeniously contrived, but it seemed rather speculative and rash—she might not have had a penny. His only ground for jumping to the conclusion that shehada fortune was that, on his saying that “Tupman only wants your money”; “The wretch!” she exclaimed—“Mr. Jingle’s doubts were resolved—shehadmoney.” More wonderful, too, were the very easy terms on which he was “bought off”—a hundred and twenty pounds. Her fortune might be estimated at some thousands. He was really master of the situation. The lady was of mature age—her own mistress, Wardle and his attorney could do nothing to stop the business. He certainly might have held out for four or five hundred pounds. Perker’s diplomacy was wretched, and his plea about the age of the old lady mere burlesque. “You are right, my dear sir—she is rather old. The founder of the family came into Kent when Julius Cæsar invaded Britain; only one member of it since who hasn’t lived to eighty-five, andhewas beheaded by one of the Henrys. The old lady is not seventy-three now, my dear sir.” Which seems like buffooning in a man of business.
Jingle’s course, after he left Rochester, can be traced very readily. With plenty of money in his pocket, he found his way to Ipswich (or Eatanswill), assuming the name of Captain FitzMarshall, and taking with him, as his confederate, Job Hutley. There he got introduced to Nupkins, the Mayor, who presided at the election, and who had made his money in “the nail and sarsepan business”—that is, as an ironmonger. The few words this functionary uttered on the hustings are of the same pompous character as his later magisterial deliverances.
“‘Whiffin,proclaimsilence,’ said the Mayor, with air ofpomp, &c., where this superciliousness is emphasised. ‘Gentlemen,’ he went on, ‘brother electors of the Borough of Eatanswill, we are met here to-day for the purpose of choosing a representative in the room of our late’—but the noise and interruptions prevented the rest of the speech being heard. Notwithstanding, he characteristically ‘thanked the meeting for the patient attention with which they had heard him throughout,’ a declaration that excited roars of laughter, lasting for a quarter of an hour.”
This is exactly what one might expect from the self-sufficient Nupkins, who was evidently understood and laughed at by his fellow townsmen. Later, when the confusion and “row” grew fast and furious, our Mayor “issued imperative orders to twelve constables to seize the ringleaders, who might amount in number to two hundred and fifty or thereabouts.” We can recall Nupkins’ dealing with the schoolboys in exactly the same sapient spirit.
Into the family of this worthy Jingle insinuated himself. But would he not be recognised by Mr. Pickwick and his friends? Yes; but we find that he took up his quarters at Bury St. Edmunds, conveniently near, and, assuming that the Pickwickians had departed after the election, thought he might safely exhibit himself at Mrs. Leo Hunter’s party, whence he was tracked back to Bury by Mr. Pickwick. It is certainly fresh evidence of the identity of Eatanswill with Ipswich that Jingle should have appeared in both places as “Captain FitzMarshall.” Once established in the Mayor’s family, the insinuating Jingle devoted himself to the capture of the haughty and ill-natured Henrietta Nupkins, making his way into her good graces, and “cutting out” Sidney Porkenham, her old-established admirer. This was Jingle’s second attempt at matrimony which failed like the first. It may be said, after all, that his behaviour was not so heinous. He was a fortune hunting adventurer—such was his role—which was common enough in those times. The unlucky Leo Hunter meeting, however, spoiled all.
After the trick on Mr. Pickwick at the school, and which was a fair retort, the pair left Bury that very night.
By an odd coincidence, they were taken up the next day byold Weller at Chelmsford—a stage or two from London. He was driving the Ipswich coach, and brought them to that town. It is clear, therefore, that they took this round from Bury in dread of pursuit, and with a view to throw Mr. Pickwick off the scent. The latter gentleman never dreamed that they were so near him, dismissed the whole matter, and returned to town to arrange about his action. By a happy chance he met old Weller, and, within a few days, set off for Ipswich and unmasked Captain FitzMarshall in Nupkins’ own house. After this failure, his course was downward, and we next meet him in the Fleet.
Job’s story was that Jingle dragged him away in a post-chaise and persuaded the girl at the boarding-school to tell Mr. Pickwick that she knew nothing of the matter. He had also bribed the schoolmistress to tell the same story. He had then deserted her for a better speculation, to wit, Miss Nupkins, to whom he had hurried back.
But for Mr. Pickwick’s unfortunate adventure at the “White Horse,” Jingle would likely enough have captured Henrietta Nupkins. When Sam so opportunely met Job in the Inn yard at Ipswich, he, instead of punishing him as he had so often threatened to do, merely bid him be at the Inn at eight o’clock. Why did he not bring him straight to Mr. Pickwick who was upstairs? Instead, he went up himself, told his master it was “all in trainin’,” and “detailed the plan of action.” Mr. Pickwick was curious, but Sam only said “all in good time.” We never learn what the plan of action was to be. Indeed, what could the pair do to Jingle?
The military recollections of Rochester and Chatham are amusingly confused, or rather, in defiance of all known regulations. Thus, at the Ball, we find Colonel Bulder as “head of the garrison”—one would think at so important a quarter, where there was a large garrison, a General at least would be in command. Then we may ask the question, why was not Dr. Slammer in uniform—always required in presence of a commander? It was wonderfully bold, too, on Boz’s part to give thenumbersof the regiments. Hon. Wilmot Snipe of the 97th, whowasin full uniform, which Mr. Tupman took for “a fancydress.” It was, of course, a Highland one. We learn, too, that the other regiment was the 43rd, to which Dr. Payne belonged, and that the 52nd was getting up plays at the local theatre. And why did Boz select these particular numbers?
The Chatham garrison consisted of “half-a-dozen regiments,” with which a fair display at a Review could be made on “The Lines.” Temporary fortifications had been erected, the citadel was to be attacked and taken—Fort Pitt we may assume—and a mine was to be sprung. Servants were keeping places for the ladies “on the Batteries”—an alarming position it would seem. The Sergeants were running “with vellum books” under their arms, usually left at home on Review-day. The Officers were “running backwards and forwards,” while Colonel Bulder was seen “gallopping” (with two p’s) at large, “prancing and curvetting,” that is, making his steed curvet. The operations were, however, not under his command, but directed by the “Commander-in-Chief,” not, of course, of the Army, but, we may presume, the General of the district. His behaviour was the most extraordinary of all, for, instead of cultivating a solemn reserve and quietude, and standing still, surrounded by his staff, he was seen “backing his horseamong the people,” and heard shouting “till he was hoarse.” The soldiers wore the old, stiff leather stock, choking them, which was heard of so much in Crimean days. They were also arrayed inwhitetrowsers. Boz is here wonderfully accurate, for these garments were always worn after May came round, and this was May.
The catastrophe to the Pickwickians from their having got between the two lines of soldiers, is somewhat perplexing. One line was advancing to the attack, the other firmly awaiting it. They were shouted at to get out of the way. Suddenly the half-dozen regiments had overthrown them. Mr. Pickwick was upset. Winkle received a bloody nose, after performing a compulsorysomerset; then, at the same moment—wonder of wonders—we were told that the regiments were “half-a-thousand yards off,”—that is about a third of a mile away—all in a second! It is hard to understand why they were so maltreated. The soldiers would, of course, never have met; and in our own time the amenities of a Review and the police would have secured stray civilians from such rough treatment. We do notknow whether the evolutions described were accurate—such as “one rank firing over the heads of another and then running away.”
It was to this exciting spectacle that old Wardle brought a party in that wonderful Barouche of his—which is really phenomenal for its accommodation. When Mr. Pickwick recovered his hat, he found these persons in the carriage:—1, Wardle; 2, a daughter; 3, a second ditto; 4, a sister; 5, Trundle; 6, Tupman; 7, Fat Boy, on the box. The Pickwickians were actually summoned by the hearty Wardle to join. “Roomfor you all—two inside and one on the ox,” where there was one already. All accepted the invitation, makingtenpersons in all who were accommodated in the Barouche! But this does not exhaust its wonders. When lunch time came round, with plates, dishes, bottles, eight persons were squeezed together inside, so no wonder Wardle said, “We must sit close.” How it was done is not to be conceived—two sitting together is the usual allowance for a modern Barouche, but four on one side!—and yet we are told, when the horses were put to, the Barouche “rattled off.”
The boy Dickens had carefully noted the behaviour of the garrison, and described them as “staggering about the streets of Chatham dead drunk,” more especially when we remember that the “following them about, and joking with them, affordsa cheap and innocent amusement for the boy population—” (vide Mr. Pickwick’s notes). The boy, no doubt, often witnessed the incident of the private, “drawing his bayonet, and stabbing the barmaid who had refused to draw him more liquor.” It is characteristic, by the way, of the police in a garrison town, for this fellow appears to have been at large on the next day, as he went down to the Tavern and tried to “square it” with the girl.
And now, is not this a testimony to this strange book, that we should be thus introduced to old Rochester and its doings, and out of the scant materials furnished, can really reconstruct the time and the place, and find out, as if by enquiries, all about Jingle and his connections and the theatre—such is the fruitfulness of the text?
One of the remarkable things associated with “Pickwick” is its autobiographical character, as it might be termed, and the amount of the author’s personal experience which is found in passages. Such are his sketches of Rochester and Chatham life during his boyhood, his recollections of Grimaldi’s dissolute son, his own poignant sorrow on the death of Mary Hogarth, and the painful memories of his boyish apprenticeship to an uncongenial trade more than hinted at. The election matters were also particular memories of his own, so was the scene of the ghostly mail coaches. Then there was the hideous recollection of the life in a debtors’ prison, of which he had such sad personal experience, with much more. He recalled the time when he had a miserable lodging in Lant Street, Borough, and Lant Street was for him always a fixed point in his memory, and grew in size and importance. And when he described some wretched creature hiding himself in London purlieus, he chose some miserable place like College-street in Camden Town, whither his own family had retired.
All these things supply a singular vitality and realism, and also a distinct interest for those who are “in the know,” for Boz himself at the time was a dramatic and interesting figure, and this story of his struggle out of a state of squalid misery is truly pathetic.
Readers of Forster’s interesting “Life” will recall the dismal passage in the account given by Dickens to his friend, and his agonising experience when he was employed at the blacking factory. Many at the time thought that this painful episode might have been spared the reader, but the uncompromising biographer would not sacrifice it. On the whole, he was right, as the trial had an important influence on the writer’s character. It will be recollected that he was employed at a place set up in Chandos Street, just out of the Strand,by one of the firm of Warrens, and his duties seemed to consist in pasting the labels on the bottles. Many will still recall the keen rivalry that existed between the famous firms, Warren and Day and Martin, which brought much amusement to the public from the arts of “bold advertisement” with which the war was waged. There were ingenious “Crambos,” such as a cat gazing with well-assumed surprise at her face reflected in one of Day and Martin’s well-polished shoes. These things made a deep impression on the boy, who saw their grotesque side. They were oddly bound up with his early impressions and sorrows.
Hence, we find in the course of “Pickwick,” a few allusions to these blacking rivals and their ways, which might seem mysterious and uncalled for to those not in the secret, but which for himself had the highest significance. When Sam is first introduced at the “White Hart,” he is in the very act of cleaning boots, and we have almost an essay on the various species of boots and polishing. We are told minutely that he was engaged in “brushing the dirt off a pair of boots . . . ” There were two rows before him, one cleaned, the other dirty. “There wereelevenpair, and one shoe, as belongs to No. 6 with the wooden leg.” “The eleven boots is to be called at half-past eight (an odd consensus in eleven persons), and the shoe at nine.” He set to work upon a top-boot.
The landlady then made her appearance in the opposite gallery and flung down a pair of shoes to be cleaned for No. 5, first floor. There is a dramatic action in these calls from the different galleries, which shows that Boz had the stage before him. Sam then chalked the number on the sole. When he found that it was for people of consequence in a private room that the articles were required, he set to work with a will and produced a polish “that would have struck envy to the soul ofthe amiable Mr. Warren,for they used Day and Martin’s at the‘White Hart.’” Here will be noted the compliment to his old employer, though it was of a conventional sort.
With this very number “Pickwick” was destined to leap into its amazing popularity, and the advertisement must have been a valuable one. There may have been another reason, for there was to be a “Pickwick advertiser,” which was patronised by the firms, and it mayhave been stipulated as a condition that the author was to give them this “lift.” Another patron was Rowland, whose real name was Rouland, of “Maccassar oil” and “Kalydor” celebrity. We have a relic of one of these forgotten nostrums in the familiar “Anti-maccassar” known to every good housewife. To Rowland or Rouland he later made an allusion in the text.
This method of calling attention to the merits of wares was a French one—a sort ofréclameintroduced by Villemessant in his journalLa Sylphide. Thus “Pickwick” was quite “up-to-date.” After Jingle had gone off to Doctors Commons for his license, Sam renewed his efforts, “burnishing a pair ofpainted tops, worn by a farmer.” Then, interrogated by Perker, he described the tenants of the inn by their boots—a pair of “Hessians” in 13, two pair of “halves,” with six “tops.”
In chapter xxxiv. we have another allusion to blacking. “No man,” said Sam, “ever talked in poetry ’cept a beadle on Boxin’ Day,or Warren’s blackin’.” This referred to the rhymes—or verses—with which the firm filled the newspapers in praise of their article. It will be remembered that Mrs. Jarley, in the “Old Curiosity Shop,” employed “a poet” to celebrate her waxworks in similar fashion, and who was content with a few shillings for each effort. We may be certain that this was a boyish recollection, and that he had seen this blacking “poet” making his calls in Chandos Street or haggling for his miserable wage. The beadle, also alluded to, was a prominent figure with Boz; but he has disappeared, with his huge cocked hat, scarlet waistcoat, and uniform. He is to be seen in Wilkie’s brilliant picture in the National Gallery. It is evident from the passage that he came round on Boxing Day for hisdouceur, reminding his patrons, as the dustmen now do sometimes, by a copy of verses. Sam adds that no one did this sort of thing except the persons mentioned—“andRowland’s oil, or some of them low fellows.” The perfumer could only have been half pleased with this uncomplimentary form. Still, such as it was, itwasan advertisement. Boz also makes several allusions to the inventor, Bramah, mentioning Bramah locks and keys with plugs, &c. Old Weller talks of being locked up “in a fireproof chest with a patentBramin.” Bramah’s hydraulic press was ascientific novelty then, as were also his “patent safes.” Bramah appears to have advertised in “Pickwick.” Theseréclamesare of a rather elaborate kind, as when Lowten arrived at the office (lii), we are told, he drew “a Bramah key from his pocket, with a small plug therein to keep the dust out.” Then “comforting himself with this reflection, Mr. Lowten extricated the plug from the door key; having opened the door, re-plugged and re-pocketed his Bramah.”
Note.—The horrors of the Blacking episode were ever present to Dickens’ recollection, and, as if under a sort of fascination, he later seemed almost impelled to refer to them. Thus, in Copperfield, we find him describing, but under a disguise, the same incident. As when he was sent to Murdstone and Grimby’s warehouse, it was still the washing and labelling of bottles—“not of blacking,” but of wines and spirits. “When the empty bottles ran short, there were labels to be pasted on the full ones, or corks to be fitted to them, &c.” But there is also another allusion to the same, but curiously veiled, when he speaks of the carman, Tipp, who “wore a red jacket.” Now, to this day Day and Martin’s carmen wear red jackets, and Warren’s men probably did so; but, at all events, it is clearly an allusion to the costume of the blacking drivers. There are allusions to blacking in Little Dorrit and Bleak House.
This gentleman, as we know, was the affianced husband of Isabella Wardle, and to the scenes of their marriage, the festivities, &c., we owe some pleasing incidents. Trundle was a good specimen of thecypheror nullity; naturally, he is a figure at Manor Farm, but does nothing, and practically says nothing. He was clearly a neighbouring squire of limited ideas, or plain country gentlemen, that could do no more than love his Isabella. Yet, while Boz describes the “affairs” of Arabella and Winkle, of Emily and Snodgrass, he wholly passes by Trundle and hisinamorata. We can see what manner of man Trundle was, as he is shown seated in the barouche, at the review, between the two sisters, each with long ringlets and parasols. He is a good-looking young man, with mutton-chop whiskers and black hair, on which his hat is set jauntily. He is described as “a young gentleman apparently enamoured of one of the young ladies in scarfs and pattens.” Wardle introduced him in a rather patronising way. “This is my friend, Mr. Trundle.” When the firing began, there was much agitation among the young ladies, screaming, &c., so that the gentlemen had to support them: Mr. Trundle “was actually obliged to hold one of them up.” But after the lunch was unpacked, the wine uncorked, &c., there came a remarkable development—Trundle actually spoke, made the one single remark that is recorded of him in the whole chronicle! Never before or after did he say a word. He was, in fact, “single speech Trundle.” And what were these words: “Will you permit me to have the pleasure, Sir?” said Mr. Trundle to Mr. Winkle; a proposal to “take wine with him,” as it is called, Winkle had a bottle all to himself on the box seat, which, no doubt, attracted the reticent Trundle. The two gentlemen not only took wine together, but had “a glass round, ladies and all.” But we should note that Trundle phrase, the almost too humble form: “Will you permit me the pleasure, Sir.” It looks as though Trundle were “an ass,” as it is called. The fact remains, however, that Trundle’s single speech was: “Will you permit me to have the pleasure, Sir?”
After a few days’ interval, when Mr. Pickwick and party found their way to Manor Farm, there were gamesgalore, and at the “round one,” Isabella and Trundle, we are told, “went partners,” so all was going on well. The Squire had been nearly brought up to the point. It is painful to come to the conclusion, but Isabella’s admirer, though a country gentlemen, was nothing of a sportsman, and rather a poor creature. When Mr. Pickwick and his followers were up early and out at the rook shooting, we find no Trundle. He was lying a-bed, no doubt. Stranger still, when the whole party went in for a day to Muggleton for the cricket match, Trundle was the only one who stayed behind. He remained with the ladies, for a purpose, no doubt; still, ladies don’t like this sort of thing. The evening came. “Isabella and Emily strolled out with Mr. Trundle.” I have an idea that on this very day matters came to a crisis in that quarter. Everything favoured—all the men were away—he may have seized the opportunity to “propose.” At all events, we are significantly told that at the supper “Isabella Wardle devoted herselfexclusivelyto Mr. Trundle.” Pointed enough, surely. We may be fortified in this view by finding that on the return of the party, all dead drunk, at one in the morning, on Trundle was specially cast the degrading menial duty of carrying Wardle to bed—his future father-in-law.
Did Boz dislike this man all this while, or did he feel that he could do nothing with him in the story? It is certain, however, that in the talks at Bury over the Bardell action, the Boarding School adventure, &c., we never hear the sound of Trundle’s voice. He is effaced. He makes no remark on anything.
One of Boz’s most daring pantomime changes, is the sudden arrival of old Wardle at Bury, when Mr. Pickwick was released from the cupboard—and sandwich bags—in Miss Tomkins’ school. The door was unlocked, and there stood Wardle and the silent Trundle. A rather lame account is given of the coincidence. Mr. Pickwick naturally asked, “How did you come here?” “Trundle and I came down here for some good shooting on the first,” &c. Now, here it is evident Wardle good-naturedly saddled himself with the company of the silent man, but he had his reasons. Trundle was now son-in-lawelect. They were both at the “Angel” at Bury, and for some dayshere were Mr. Pickwick and his “followers.” There was the exciting notice of actionreBardell v. Pickwick. There had nearly been Pott v. Pott and Winkle. And yet, all the time, this Trundle listens, and eats and drinks; but there is no sign of him on the record. He is busy maintaining his character as a cypher.
Everything, however, points to show the all but comtemptuous opinion that was held of this Trundle. Wardle had been there two or three days when Winkle and the others came over from Eatanswill, yet he had never told Mr. Pickwick or Winkle that Trundle was to be married at Christmas, and that they were all to be invited to the wedding. By the oddest of coincidences, Tupman and Snodgrass, getting down from the coach at the “Angel,” were met by Wardle, who at once said, “I havejust beentelling Pickwick that we must have you all down at Christmas. We’re going to have a wedding.” But I doubt if thisbean oversight. The fact was, no one thought anything of that cypher Trundle, or of his marriage—a matter of no importance to anybody. That this is the true explanation is plain, for Snodgrass, fancying that the wedding was ofhislady, turned pale. What was old Wardle’s remark? Most significant of Trundle’sstatus. “Don’t be frightened,” he said, “it’s onlyTrundlethereand Bella.” “Only Trundle there,”i.e., only that poor insignificant thing there! No more depreciatory words could be chosen, or put into the mouth of an honest country gentleman. I am certain that old Wardle gave his child reluctantly to this soft sort of fellow—“Only Trundle there!” Then for the shooting party. We hear of Tupman and Winkle even, with their guns, &c., but not a sign of this Trundle, a country gentleman, supposed to enjoy field sports. If Tupman and Winkle had to carry their guns reversed “like privates at a funeral,” was Trundle excepted? We cannot tell, for he is not even named. Or was he of the shooting party at all? It has always seemed astonishing that Winkle should have been allowed, particularly by Mr. Pickwick, to join thesecondshooting party. Everyone seemed to have forgotten his first performance, when he might have shot his friend Tupman dead, and, as it was, “peppered” him severely. Tupman would naturally have objected to so dangerous a companion. Wardle, at whose home the casualty occurred, merely said, “I begmy friend Winkle’s pardon, though; he has had some practice.” Was this ironical? I fancy the whole scene had passed out of the author’s mind.
Well, the Christmas season having come round—and certainly Trundle must have been a very feeble creature to allow himself to be “kept over” for so long a time—the whole party assembled at Manor Farm; now there, and on such an occasion at least, Trundle, being one of the two central figures, will certainly assert himself. We shall expect to see and hear him to good effect. Never was there a greater mistake. As the Pickwickians arrived, the whole “house party” were in the lane to greet them; we are told in careless fashion that among them “there were Isabella andher faithfulTrundle,”i.e., the poor insignificant “chap” who was about to enter the family by particular favour. Then Mr. Pickwick was told that they had all been to “inspect the furniture and fittings-up of the new house which the young couple were to tenant.” This is very significant, for it throws a certain light on Trundle’s situation. It is plain that this house was on Wardle’s property, and that Trundle had none of his own. It was, in fact, a poorish match and the young couple were dependent more or less on Wardle. Even the old lady didn’t like it, she resented their going to look at the house, and her son, to soothe her, made this significant speech: “Recollect Bella;come,you must keep her spirits up,poor girl.” “Poor girl!” “Keep her spirits up!” Why?
On the wedding day, however, Trundle made an effort to assert himself. He was “in high feather and spirits,”i.e., awkwardly pretended to be, but, of course, took nobody in. Indeed, we are told he was “a little nervous withal.” We may be sure he was, and therefore looking “more of an ass” than ever. For suchmustappear to be a really nervous man in high spirits and going to be married. All the girls were in tears, Wardle himself quite broken down, for they knew what was before the poor child. At the wedding banquet Mr. Pickwick made an admirable, natural speech, which was greeted with tumults of applause, and was reported word for word. Then we are told how Wardle proposed Mr. Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick, the old lady; Snodgrass, Tupman, the poor relations, all had their speeches; but there is not a single word of Trundle, who appears to have been mumchance—no one wanted him. In his speech at the wedding, the amiable Pickwick had, of course, to give the expected conventional praises to Trundle. But how guarded he is! “God bless ’em,” he says; “my young friend I believe to be a very excellent and manly fellow.” Ibelieve,i.e., he did notknowit. “Manly,” we might question, for in manliness he was deficient. We could hear the rustics below: “Squire Trundle manly! he! he! not he!” But on the bride, Mr. Pickwick was enthusiastic: “Iknowher,” he said, “to be a very, very amiable and lovely girl; I admire, love, and esteem her.” At the close he prayed that Wardle’s daughter “might enjoy all the happiness that even he could desire.” Not that he was sure of, but that he could desire. But Trundle, the cypher, no one thought of him, no one cared about his speech. Most likely, in his “nervousness,” he mumbled forth some indistinct words which no one could hear, so it was best and most charitable to pass him by altogether in the report. At the dance at night, where he surely would have led off the movements, still not a word of him. And at last, “long before Mr. Pickwick was weary of dancing, the newly-married pair had retired from the room.” Mr. Lang fancies that they had gone upstairs; but I imagine they repaired to their new home close by. But then, with that minuteness which never fails Boz, we had been told that they were not to go there till after the Christmas holidays.
But, after all, one might be inclined to doubt this theory of the young pair remaining at the house. For do we not find that on the next day, which was Christmas day, when there was the going to Church, and the skating and sliding, and Mr. Pickwick’s immersion, there is no mention of the happy pair? It looks as though they were at their own home.
After this, many events occurred. Mr. Pickwick was “tried” and “conwicted,” as old Weller has it; was sent to prison and released. On his return from Birmingham we have some signs of Wardle and his family. That gentleman was sorely disturbed by Emily’s “goings on” with Snodgrass, and forecasted another imprudent marriage like Trundle’s. He had a suitable match for her in his eye: “a young gentleman down in our neighbourhood,” but Arabella’s elopement set the fire to the powder, and here itis worth while comparing the marriages of Emily and her sister Isabella as a test of the relative importance of Snodgrass and this Trundle. The one took place in London with great show and pomp, all the family going up specially for it. “A handsome portion was bestowed on Emily,” but there is not a word to show that Trundle received a halfpenny.
Then followed the scenes at Osborne’s Hotel in the Adelphi, when all was made up and Snodgrass accepted. And now, at last, we hear something of Trundle. Mrs. T., as we might expect, was in an “interesting way,” and had to be informed of what was going on. But it had to be broken to her by Trundle, in right of his office. Good, easy man! We can hear him: “the news will be too much for her” (this is on the record). She would insist on going, and it would be fatal. He would, of course, implore her not to agitate herself in her present state. As a matter of course he was all astray. The news wasnottoo much for her. She ordered at once a cap and a new dress, and declared that shewouldgo up for the wedding. The horrified Trundle, who had clearly no authority whatever, called in the Doctor to exerthis, which he did in this way: by leaving it all to herself. Boz emphasizes it, by way of contrast to Trundle, saying that “he was a wise anddiscreet fellow.”
Of course the foolish Trundle was put aside; the lady went and suffered no harm. This proves that Trundle was themari de la femme, with no will of his own.
At Dulwich Church, the bridegroom was met “by the bride, the maids, the Winkles, the Wardles, and Trundles,” always to be last and insignificant. In course of time we are told that Mr. Pickwick was much troubled at first by the numerous applications made to him to act as Godfather to the offspring of his friends! These came from Mr. Winkle, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Trundle. Last of course. Poor soul! We can see him, grown elderly, sitting at his own table, smiling or silent, or with an occasional “yes, my dear,” “certainly, my dear,” “by all means, my dear.”
The situation and real name of Muggleton has always been a hotly debated point; many have been the speculations and many the suggestions as to the original. I was once inclined to adopt Gravesend, on the statement of the author’s daughter, that, one day, driving with her father towards Cobham, he said that “it was here that Mr. Pickwick dropped his whip.” Cobham would be on the way to Gravesend.
Now what was Muggleton? A large town, with Mayor, Burgesses, and Freemen—an ancient and loyal Borough, much given to petitioning Parliament. It is insinuated that these petitions were guided by Stiggins-like instincts—“a zealous advocacy of Christian principles combined with a devoted attachment to commercial rights. Hence they were against negro slavery abroad andforthe factory system at home. They were for abolishing Sunday trading in the streets, and for maintaining the sale of church livings.” A member of Boz’s family has assured me that Maidstone was in the author’s mind: it is only some eight miles from Rochester. But “The Bull” waiter informed the Pickwickians that Muggleton was nearly double the distance, or fifteen miles; while Gravesend is about six miles from Rochester—so the evidence of distance does not help us. Where, too, did Mr. Pickwick drop his whip? The Pickwickian enthusiast can ascertain this—’an he will—by a little calculation. After leaving “The Bull,” the tall quadruped exercised his “manœuvre” of darting to the side of the road, rushing forward for some minutes—twenty times—which would cover about an hour. In the etching, there is a picture of the spot—a hedge-lined road. Mr. Pickwick and his friends had to walk the whole way; yet they arrived late in the afternoon. No one could walk from Rochester to Maidstone in that time.
It was natural that Mr. Pickwick should drop his whip—but most unnatural that he should ask Winkle to dismount and pick it up for him;and most unnatural of all that Winkle, in his precarious situation, should consent to dismount. The ordinary course would be that Tupman or Snodgrass should get down. Then, for the great marvel of all, we have Mr. Pickwick, whowould notget down, orcould notget down to pick up his whip, getting down to help Mr. Winkle on to his horse! Thus, on the two occasions, the useless or lazy Tupman and Snodgrass kept their seats.
It has been claimed—by the late Charles Dickens the younger—that Town Malling was Muggleton, and on the ground that it has always had a reputation for good cricket. It is not far from Maidstone. But this is easily disposed of. Muggleton is described as an important corporate town, with a Mayor, etc. Further, the cricketing at Muggleton was of the poorest sort. There was an elderly gentleman playing who could not stop the balls—a slim one was hit on the nose—they were a set of “duffers,” in fact. As for Dickens knowing nothing about cricket, as Mr. Lang contends, I can say, that he was always interested in it. I myself have seen him sit the whole day in a marquee, during a match got up by himself at Gads Hill, marking (or “notching”) in the most admirable manner. Anything he did or described, he did and described according to the best fashion he could compass.
Wishing, however, to investigate this knotty question thoroughly, I lately communicated with the Town Clerk of Maidstone, Mr. Herbert Monckton, who was good enough to search the Books with reference to certain queries which I furnished. Dickens states of the mysterious and unnamed Borough, that it had its Mayor, Burgesses, and Freemen—which at once excludes Town Malling which the younger Charles Dickens had selected. The Clerk has found that, at the period in question, there were 813 Freemen on the roll. It has always been held to be “an ancient and loyal Borough,” but this, of course, most boroughs of its standing would claim to be. Boz speaks of innumerable Petitions to Parliament, and Mr. Monckton tells me that he has found many petitions in the Books—one in 1828againstthe Licensing Bill, which seems to prove that Maidstone, like Muggleton, “mingled a zealous advocacy of Christian principles with a devoted attachment to commercial rights.” Then as to the description: Both Maidstone and Muggleton have an opensquare for the market: there are also in both places in the square a fire office, linendraper, corn factor, saddler, grocer, shoe-shop, but apparently no distiller. It was curious, certainly, that there should be an Inn with so odd a sign as the Blue Lion in Maidstone—and also a post bearing this sign, in front. Then as to the cricket, the cricket field was in the Meadow, Maidstone, not far from the High Street; while at Muggleton, we are told that Mr. Pickwick’s friends “had turned out of the main street and were already within sight of the field of battle.”
And here we may admire the wonderful walking powers that Boz allots to his heroes—Tupman and Pickwick, who were elderly persons and stout withal. Fifteen miles to Muggleton—two miles further to Manor Farm—and all done between eleven o’clock, and a period “late in the afternoon”—say five o’clock. At a later visit came the memorable five-and-twenty-mile walk to get an appetite for dinner. The truth was, such stretches were as nothing to Boz himself. Walking was his grand pastime and one absolute necessity. He tramped on with an amazing energy and vigour, which, as I know from experience, it was impossible to match. Sometimes he walked the streets for nearly the whole night. This personal element helps to explain many things in “Pickwick” which contains the early life of Boz.