This ancient Inn is associated with some pleasant and diverting Pickwickian memories. We think of the adventure with “the lady in the yellow curl papers” and the double-bedded room, just as we would recall some “side splitting” farce in which Buckstone or Toole once made our jaws ache. As all the world knows, the “Great White Horse” is found in the good old town of Ipswich, still flourishes, and is scarcely altered from the days when Mr. Pickwick put up there. Had it not been thus associated, Ipswich would have remained a place obscure and scarcely known, for it has little to attract save one curious old house and some old churches; and for the theatrical antiquary, the remnant of the old theatre in Tacket Street, where Garrick first appeared as an amateur under the name of Lyddal, about a hundred and sixty years ago, and where now the Salvation Army “performs” in his stead. [1] The touch of “Boz” kindled the old bones into life, it peopled the narrow, winding streets with the Grummers, Nupkins, Jingles, Pickwick and his followers; with the immortal lady aforesaid in her yellow curl papers, to say nothing of Mr. Peter Magnus. From afar off even, we look at Ipswich with a singular interest; some of us go down there to enjoy the peculiar feeling—and it is a peculiar and piquant one—of staying at Mr. Pickwick’s Inn—of sleeping even in his room. This relish, however, is only given to your true “follower,” not to his German-metal counterfeit—though, strange to say, at this moment, Pickwick is chiefly “made in Germany,” and comes to us from that country in highly-coloured almanacks—and pictures of all kinds. About Ipswich there is a very appropriate old-fashioned tone, and much of the proper country town air. The streets seem dingy enough—the hay waggon is encountered often. The “Great White Horse,” which is at the corner of several streets, is a low, longish building—with a rather seedy air. But to read “Boz’s” description of it, we see at once that he was somewhat overpowered by its grandeur and immense size—which, to us in these days of huge hotels, seems odd. It was no doubt a large posting house of many small chambers—and when crowded, as “Boz” saw it at Election time in 1835, swarming with committeemen, agents, and voters, must have impressed more than it would now. The Ball-room at “The Bull,” in Rochester, affected him in much the same way; and there is a curious sensation in looking round us there, on its modest proportions—its little hutch of a gallery which would hold about half-a-dozen musicans, and the small contracted space at the top where the “swells” of the dockyard stood together. “Boz,” as he himself once told me, took away from Rochester the idea that its old, red brick Guildhall was one of the most imposing edifices in Europe, and described his astonishment on his return at seeing how small it was.

Apropos of Rochester and the Pickwick feeling, it may be said that to pass that place by on the London, Chatham, and Dover line rouses the most curious sensation. Above is the Castle, seen a long time before, with the glistening river at its feet; then one skirts the town passing by the backs of the very old-fashioned houses, and you can recognise those of the Guildhall and of the Watts’ Charity, and the gilt vanes of other quaint, old buildings; you see a glimpse of the road rising and falling, with its pathways raised on each side, with all sorts of faded tints—mellow, subdued reds, sombre greys, a patch of green here and there, and all more or less dingy, and “quite out of fashion.” There is a rather forlorn tone over it all, especially when we have a glimpse of Ordnance Terrace, at Chatham, that abandoned, dilapidated row where the boy Dickens was brought up dismally enough. At that moment the images of the Pickwickians recur as of persons who had lived and had come down there on this pleasant adventure. And how well we know every stone and corner of the place, and the tone of the place! We might have lived there ourselves. Positively, as we walk through it, we seem to recognise localities like old friends.

“Boz,” when he came to Ipswich, was no more than a humble reporter, on special duty, living in a homely way enough. The “White Horse” was not likely to put itself out for him, and he criticises it in his story, after a fashion that seems rather bold. His description is certainly unflattering:

“In the main street, on the left-hand side of the way”—observe how minute Boz is in his topography—“a short distance after you have passed through the open space fronting the Town Hall, stands an Inn known far and wide by the appellation of ‘The Great White Horse,’ rendered the more conspicuous by a stone statue of some rampacious animal, with flowing mane and tail, distantly resembling an insane cart horse, which is elevated above the principal door. The ‘Great White Horse’ is famous in the neighbourhood in the same degree as a prize ox or county paper-chronicled turnip, or unwieldy pig—for its enormous size. Never were there such labyrinths of uncarpeted passages, such clusters of mouldy, badly-lighted rooms, such huge numbers of small dens for eating or sleeping in, beneath any other roof, as are collected between the four walls of this overgrown Tavern.”

Boz cannot give the accommodation a good word, for he calls the Pickwickian room “a large, badly furnished apartment, with a dirty grate in which a small fire was making a wretched attempt to be cheerful, but was fast sinking beneath the dispiriting influence of the place.” The dinner, too, seems to have been as bad, for a bit of fish and a steak took one hour to get ready, with “a bottle of the worst possible port, at the highest possible price.” Depreciation of a hostelry could not be more damaging. Again, Mr. Pickwick’s bedroom is described as a sort of surprise, being “a more comfortable-looking apartment that his short experience of the accommodation of the Great White House had led him to expect.”

Now this was bad enough, but his sketch of the waiter who received the arriving party is worse:

“A corpulent man, with a fortnight’s napkin under his arm and coeval stockings.”

There is something so hostile in all this that it certainly must have come from a sense of bad reception. As we said, the young reporter was likely enough to have been treated with haughty contempt by the corpulent waiter so admirably described, with his “coeval stockings.”

Even the poor horse is not spared, “Rampacious” he is styled; the stone animal that still stands over the porch. It must be said that the steed in question is a very mild animal indeed, and far from ramping, is trotting placidly along. “Rampacious,” however, scarcely seems correct—“Rampagious” is the proper form—particularly as “Boz” uses the words “On the rampage.” We find ourselves ever looking at the animal with interest—as he effects his trot, one leg bent. The porch, and horse above it, have a sort of sacred character. I confess when I saw it for the first time I looked at it with an almost absurd reverence and curiosity. The thing is so much in keeping, one would expect to see the coach laden with Pickwickians drive up.

Mr. Pickwick’s adventure, his losing his way in the passages, &c., might occur to anyone. It is an odd feeling, the staying at this old hostelry, and, as it draws on towards midnight, seeking your room, through endless windings, turns, and short flights. There is even now to be seen the niche where Mr. Pickwick sat down for the night; so minute are the directions we can trace the various rooms. Mr. Pickwick asked for a private room and was taken down a “long dark passage.” It turned out later that Miss Witherfield’s sitting-room was actually next door, so Mr. Magnus had not far to go. These rooms were on the ground floor, so Mr. Pickwick had to “descend” from his bedroom.

There is a tradition indeed that Mr. Pickwick’s adventure with a lady really occurred to “Boz” himself, who had lost his way in the mazes of the passages. I have a theory that his uncomfortable night in the passages, and the possible displeasure of the authorities, may have jaundiced his views.

II.—Eatanswill and Ipswich

It is not “generally known” that Ipswich is introduced twice in the book: as Eatanswill, as well asunder its own proper name. As “Boz” was dealing with the corrupt practices at Elections, and severely ridiculing them, he was naturally afraid of being made responsible. Further, he had been despatched by the proprietors of the Chronicle to report the speeches at the election, and he did not care to take advantage of his mission for literary purposes. The father of the late Mr. Alfred Morrison, the well-known, amiable virtuoso, was one of the candidates for Ipswich at the election in 1835, and he used to tell how young “Boz” was introduced into one of the rooms at the “Great White Horse,” where the head-quarters of the candidate was. Sir Fitzroy Kelly was the other candidate, a name that seems pointed at in Fizkin.

This high and mighty point of the locality of Eatanswill has given rise to much discussion, and there are those who urge the claims of other towns, such as Yarmouth and Norwich. It has been ingeniously urged that, in his examination before Nupkins, Mr. Pickwick stated that he was a perfect stranger in the town, and had no knowledge of any householders there who could be bail for him. Now if Eatanswill were Ipswich, he must have known many—the Pott family for instance—and he had resided there for some time. But the author did not intend that the reader should believe that the two places were the same, and wished them to be considered different towns, though he considered them as one. It has been urged, too, that Ipswich is not on the direct road to Norwich as stated by the author; but on consulting an old road book (Mogg’s) I find that it is one of the important stages on the coach line.

But what is conclusive is the question of distance. On hurrying away so abruptly from Mrs. Leo Hunter’s, Mr. Pickwick was told by that lady that the adventurer was at Bury St. Edmunds, “not many miles from here,” that is a short way off. Now Bury is no more than about four-and-twenty miles from Ipswich, a matter of about four hours’ coach travelling. Great Yarmouth is fully seventy by roundabout roads, which could not be described as being “a short way from here.” It would have taken eight or nine hours—a day’s journey. Mr. Pickwick left Eatanswill about one or two, for the lunch was going on, and got to Bury in time for dinner, which, had he left Yarmouth, would have taken him to the small hours of the morning.

No one was such a thorough “Pressman” as was “Boz,” or threw himself with such ardour into his profession. To his zeal and knowledge in this respect we have the warmest testimonies. When he was at Ipswich for the election, he, beyond doubt, entered with zest and enjoyment into all the humours. No one could have written so minute and hearty an account without having been “behind the scenes” and in the confidence of one or other of the parties. And no wonder, for he represented one of the most important of the London “dailies.”

The fact is, Ipswich was a sort of a tempestuous borough, the scene of many a desperate conflict in which one individual, Mr. Fitzroy Kelly—later Chief Baron—made the most persevering efforts, again and again renewed, to secure his footing. Thus, in December, 1832, there was a fierce struggle with other candidates, Messrs. Morrison, Dundas, and Rigby Wason, in which he was worsted—for the moment. But, in January, 1835, when he stood again, he was successful. This must have been the one in Pickwick, when the excesses there described may have taken place. There were four candidates: one of whom, Mr. Dundas—no doubt depicted as the Honourable Mr. Slumkey—being of the noble family of Zetland. We find that the successful candidate was unseated on petition, and his place taken by another candidate. In 1837, he stood once more, and was defeated by a very narrow majority. On a scrutiny, he was restored to Parliament. Finally, in 1847, he lost the seat and gave up this very uncertain borough. Now all this shows what forces were at work, and that, with such determined candidates, electoral purity was not likely to stand in the way. All which makes for Ipswich.

It must be said, however, that a fair case can be made for Norwich. In introducing Eatanswill, Boz says that “an anxious desire to abstain from giving offence” prompted Mr. Pickwick, i.e., Boz, to conceal the real name of the place. He adds that he travelled by the Norwich coach, “but this entry (in Mr. Pickwick’s notes) was afterwards lined through as if for the purpose of concealing even the direction.” Some might think that this was a veiled indication, but it seems too broad and obvious a method, that is, by crossing out a name to reveal the name. It is much more likely he meant that the town was somewhere between Norwich and London, and on that line. There are arguments, too, from the distances. There are two journeys in the book from Eatanswill to Bury, which seem to furnish data for both theories—the Ipswich and the Norwich ones. But if we have to take the dÉjeÛner in its literal sense, and put it early in the day, say, at eleven, and Mr. Pickwick’s arrival at Bury, “wery late,” as Sam had it, we have some six hours, or, say, forty miles, covered by the journey. But the events at Mrs. Leo Hunter’s were certainly at mid-day—between one and three o’clock. It was, in fact, a grand lunch. So with Winkle’s journey. He left Eatanswill half-an-hour after breakfast, and must have travelled by the same coach as Mr. Pickwick had done, and reached Bury just in time for dinner, or in six or seven hours. Now it will not be said that he would not be a whole day going four-and-twenty miles.

A fair answer to these pleas might be that Boz was not too scrupulous as to times or distances when he was contriving incidents or events; and numberless specimens could be given of his inaccuracies. Here, “panting time toiled after him in vain.” It was enough to talk of breakfast and dinner without accurately computing the space between. But a close admeasurement of the distance will disprove the Norwich theory. Bury was twenty-four miles from Ipswich, and Ipswich forty miles from Norwich—a total of seventy-four miles, to accomplish which would have taken ten, eleven or twelve hours, to say nothing of the chance of missing the “correspondance” with the Northern Norwich coach. Then again, Boz is careful to state that Eatanswill was “one of the smaller towns.” In this class we would not place Norwich, a large Cathedral City, with its innumerable churches, and population, even then, of over 60,000, whereas Ipswich was certainly one of these “smaller towns,” having only 20,000. It must be also considered, too, that this was a cross road, when the pace would be slower than on the great main lines, say, at five miles an hour, which, with stoppages, &c., would occupy a period for the twenty-four miles of some four hours, that is, say, from two to six o’clock. Boz, by his arrangement of the traffic, would seem to assume that a conveyance could be secured at any time of the day, for Mr. Pickwick conveniently found one the instant he so abruptly quitted Mrs. Leo Hunter’s, while Winkle and his friends just as conveniently found one immediately after breakfast. He appears to have been seven hours on the road. But the strong point on which all Ipswichians may rest secure is Mr. Pickwick’s statement to Mrs. Leo Hunter that Bury was “not many miles from here.”

But an even more convincing proof can be found in Jingle’s relation to Eatanswill. He came over from Bury to Mrs. Leo Hunter’s party, leaving his servant there, at the Hotel, and returned the same evening. The place must have been but a short way off, when he could go and return in the same day. Then what brought him to Eatanswill? We are told that at the time he was courting Miss Nupkins, the Mayor’s daughter; of course, he rushed over in the hope of meeting her at Mrs. Leo Hunter’s dÉjeÛner. Everything, therefore, fits well together.

I thought of consulting the report of the House of Commons Committee on the Election Petition, and this confirmed my view. There great stress is laid on the Blue and Buff colours: in both the report and the novel it is mentioned that the constables’ staves were painted Blue. Boz makes Bob Sawyer say, in answer to Potts’ horrified enquiry “Not Buff, sir?” “Well I’m a kind of plaid at present—mixed colours”—something very like this he must have noticed in the Report. A constable, asked was his comrade, one Seagrave, Buff, answered, “well, half and half, I believe.” In the Report, voters were captured and put to bed at the White Horse; and Sam tells how he “pumped over” a number of voters at the same house. The very waiter, who received Mr. Pickwick so contemptuously, was examined by the Committee—his name was Henry Cowey—and he answered exactly like the waiter with the “fortnight’s napkin and the coeval stockings.” When asked “was not so-and-so’s appearance that of an intoxicated person?” the language seemed too much for him, rather, he took it to himself: “If I had been intoxicated, I could not have done my business.” This is quite in character.

Boz calls the inn at Eatanswill, “The Town Arms.” There was no such sign in all England at the time, as the Road Book shows. Why then would he call the White Horse by that name? The Town Arms of Ipswich have two white Sea Horses as supporters. This had certainly something to do with the matter.

Mr. Pott was surely a real personage: for “Boz,” who presently did not scruple to “takeoff” a living Yorkshire schoolmaster in a fashion that all his neighbours and friends recognised the original, would not draw back in the case of an editor. Indeed, it is plain that in all points Pott is truly an admirable figure, perfect in every point of view, and finished. In fact, Pott and Pell, in their way, are the two best pieces of work in the book. How admirable is the description; “a tall, thin man with a sandy-coloured head, inclined to baldness, and a face in which solemn importance was blended with a look of unfathomable profundity. He was dressed in a long, brown surtout, with a black cloth waistcoat and drab trousers. A double eye-glass dangled at his waistcoat, and on his head he wore a very low-crowned hat with a broad rim.” Every touch is delightful—although all is literal the literalness is all humour. As when Pott, to recreate his guest, Mr. Pickwick, told Jane to “go down into the office and bring me up the file of the Gazette for 1828. I’ll read you just a few of the leaders I wrote at that time upon the Buff job of appointing a new tollman to the turnpike here. I rather think they’ll amuse you.” This was rich enough, and he came back to the same topic towards the end of the book.

It will be remembered Mr. Pott went to Mrs. Leo Hunter’s FÊte in the character of a Russian with a knout in his hand. No doubt the Gazette had its “eye on Russia” and like the famous Skibbereen Eagle had solemnly warned the Autocrat to that effect. It is, by the way, amusing to find that this organ, The Eagle to wit, which so increased the gaiety of the nation, has once more been warning the Autocrat, and in a vein that proves that “our filthy contemporary,” The Eatanswill Gazette, was no exaggerated picture. This is how The Eagle, in a late issue, speaks of the Russian occupation of Port Arthur:—“And once again that keen, fierce glance is cast in the direction of the grasping Muscovite; again, one of the foulest, one of the vilest dynasties that has impiously trampled on the laws of God, and has violated every progressive aspiration the Almighty implanted in the human heart when He fashioned man in His own image, and breathed into his soul the breath of life, threatens, for the moment at least, to put back the hands of the clock that tells the progress of civilisation. The Emperor of all the Russias, this wicked enemy of the human race, has succeeded in raising his hideous flag on Port Arthur, and planting his iron heel and cloven hoof on the heathen Chinese—filthy, degenerate creatures, who, it must be admitted, are fitting companions for the tallow-eating, ‘knouting’ barbarian.”

III.—Nupkins and Magnus.

Who was intended by Nupkins, the intolerable Mayor of Ipswich? An odious being. We may wonder at “Boz’s” courage, for, of course, the existing Mayor of Ipswich might think that the satire was pointed at him. There can be little doubt, however, that Nupkins was drawn from a London Police Magistrate, and is, in fact, another portrait of the functionary whom he sketched specially for “Oliver Twist” under the name of Mr. Fang. Nupkins, however, is more in the comedy vein—ridiculed rather than gibbeted—than was Mr. Fang. We have only to compare the touches in both descriptions:

“I beg your pardon for interrupting you,” said Mr. Pickwick, “but before you proceed to act upon any opinion you may have formed, I must claim my right to be heard.”

“Hold your tongue,” said the magistrate, peremptorily.

“I must submit to you, sir—” said Mr. Pickwick.

“Hold your tongue, or I shall order an officer to remove you.”

“You may order your officers to do whatever you please, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick.

Compare with this “Oliver Twist”:

“Who are you?” said Mr. Fang.

“Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word, and that is I really never, without actual experience, could have believed—”

“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mr. Fang, peremptorily.

“I will not, sir.”

“Hold your tongue this instant, or I’ll have you turned out of the office.”

Mr. Pickwick, it will be remembered, made a communication to Mr. Nupkins which changed the whole state of affairs. Mr. Nupkins, with all his insolent despotism, was held in check by conference with his clerk, Jinks, who kept him from making mistakes by judicious hints.

Fang’s clerk, like Mr. Jinks, interposed:

“How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?” inquired the clerk, in a low voice.

Mr. Jinks pulled him by the sleeve and whispered something. He was evidently remonstrating. At length the magistrate, gulping down with a very bad grace his disinclination to hear anything more, said sharply, “What do you want to say?”

When Mr. Fang was about to commit Oliver, the Bookstall-keeper rushed in, and insisted on being heard, and, like Mr. Nupkins, Mr. Fang had to listen:

“I demand to be sworn,” said the man, “I will not be put down.”

“Swear the man,” growled Mr. Fang, with a very ill grace. “Now, what have you got to say?”

Again, Mr. Nupkins said of Sam:

“He is evidently a desperate ruffian.”

“He is my servant, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, angrily.

“Oh, he is your servant, is he. A conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice.”

Compare Fang and the Bookseller:

“That book, is it paid for? No, it is not.”

“Dear me, I forgot all about it,” exclaimed the old gentleman.

“A nice person to prepare a charge against a poor boy,” said Fang; “the law will overtake you yet, &c.”

and so on.

In short, Nupkins is a softened edition of Fang. It was curious that he turned out at the end not altogether so badly, and there is certainly a little inconsistency in the character. After Mr. Pickwick’s disclosures, he becomes very rational and amiable. We may wonder, too, how the latter could have accepted hospitality from, or have sat down at the board of, the man who treated him in so gross a fashion, and, further, that after accepting this entertainment, Mr. Pickwick should take an heroic and injured tone, recalling his injuries as he withdrew, but after his dinner.

This magistrate was despotic enough, but we might have expected that he would have had Mr. Peter Magnus brought before him also, and have issued a warrant. The lady, however, was silent as to her admirer, and this difficulty appears to have occurred to the author for he makes Mr. Nupkins remark: “The other principal you say has absconded,” she having said nothing whatever. Being at the “White Horse,” too, he was accessible. He may, however, have gone off to secure “a friend.”

In Ipswich there is controversy as to the exact whereabouts of his mansion. But there can be little doubt as to the matter, as the directions given are minute. The guide books take care to point it out. “Bending his steps towards St. Clement’s Church”—that is leaving the “White Horse” and following the street on the right, “he found himself in a retired spot, a kind of courtyard of venerable appearance, which he discovered had no other outlet than the turning by which he had entered.” I believe it is the house at the far end of the lane—now Mr. Bennett’s. The street has been cut through the lawn. There are here, as there were then, “old red brick houses” and “the green gate of a garden at the bottom of the yard.” Nothing could be more precise, allowing of course for the changes, demolitions, re-buildings, &c., of sixty years.

What became of Mr. Peter Magnus and his lady? Did they “make it up”? or was Mr. Pickwick enabled to make such explanations as would clear away all suspicions. Did the two angry gentlemen meet again after Mr. Pickwick’s return to the “White Horse?” These are interesting questions, and one at least can be answered. Owing to an indiscretion of the foolish Winkle’s, during the famous action of Bardell v. Pickwick, we learn that Mr. Pickwick “being found in a lady’s apartment at midnight had led to the breaking off of the projected marriage of the lady in question.” Now this seems a serious result of Mr. Pickwick’s indiscretion, and very unfortunate for the poor lady, and ought to have caused him some remorse. No doubt he explained the incident, which he had better have done at first, for now it had the air of attempting to shield the lady. It was odd that Mr. Pickwick should thus have interfered with the marriage of two elderly spinster ladies.

There is, by the way, a droll inconsistency on the part of the author in his description of a scene between Mr. Magnus and Mr. Pickwick. When the former was about to propose to the middle-aged lady, he told Mr. Pickwick that he arranged to see her at eleven. “It only wants a quarter now.” Breakfast was waiting, and the pair sat down to it. Mr. Magnus was looking at the clock every other second. Presently he announced, “It only wants two minutes.” Notwithstanding this feverish impatience, he asks Mr. Pickwick for his advice in proposing, which the latter gave at great length. Mr. Magnus listened, now without any impatience. The clock hand was “verging on the five minutes past;” not until it was ten minutes past did he rise.

IV.—Had Mr. Pickwick ever Loved?

Mr. Pickwick’s early history is obscure enough, and we know no details save that he had been “in business.” But had he ever an affair of the heart? Just as in real life, when a stray allusion will occasionally escape from a person betraying something of his past history, so once or twice a casual remark of Mr. Pickwick’s furnishes a hint. Thus Mr. Magnus, pressing him for his advice in this delicate matter of proposing, asked him had he ever done this sort of thing in his time. “You mean proposing?” said the great man. “Yes.” “Never,” said Mr. Pickwick, with great energy, and then repeated the word “Never.” His friend then assumed that he did not know how it was best to begin. “Why,” said the other, cautiously, “I may have formed some ideas on the subject,” but then added that he had “never submitted them to the test of experience.” This is distinct enough, but it does all the same hint at some affaire de coeur, else why would he “have formed some ideas upon the subject.” Of course, it may be that he was thinking of Mrs. Bardell and her cruel charges. Still, it was strange that a man should have reached to fifty, have grown round and stout, without ever offering his hand. The first picture in the book, however, helps us to speculate a little. Over his head in the room at Dulwich hangs the portrait of an old lady in spectacles, the image of the great Samuel; his mother certainly. He evidently regarded her with deep affection, he had brought the picture to Dulwich and placed it where it should always be before his eyes. Could it not be, and is it not natural that in addition to his other amiabilities he was the best of sons—that she “ruled the roast”—that in the old Mrs. Wardle, to whom he so filially attended, he saw his mother’s image, that she was with him to the day of her death, and that while she lived, he resolved that no one else should be mistress there! After her death he found himself a confirmed old bachelor. There’s a speculation for you on the German lines.

We might go on. This self denial must have been the more meritorious as he was by nature of an affectionate, even amorous, cast. He seized every opportunity of kissing the young ladies. He would certainly have liked to have had some fair being at home whom he could thus distinguish. How good this description of the rogue—

“Mr. Pickwick kissed the young ladies—we were going to say as if they were his own daughters, only, as he might possibly have infused a little more warmth into the salutation, the comparison would not be quite appropriate.”

He never lost a chance. In the same spirit, when the blushing Arabella came to tell of her marriage, “can you forgive my imprudence?” He returned “no verbal response”—not he—“but took off his spectacles in great haste, and seizing both the young lady’s hands in his, kissed her a great many times—perhaps a greater number of times than was absolutely necessary.” Observe the artfulness of all this—the deliberation—taking off the spectacles so that they should not be in the way—seizing her hands—and then setting to work! Oh, he knew more of “this sort of thing” than he had credit for. He had never proposed—true—but he had been near it a precious sight more than he said.

Miss Witherfield is a rather mysterious personage, yet we take an interest in her and speculate on her history. She lived some twenty miles from Ipswich—no doubt at a family place of her own. She had come in to stay at the White Horse for the night and the morning. She was, no doubt, a person of property—otherwise Mr. Magnus would not have been so eager, and he must have been a fortune hunter, for he confided to Mr. Pickwick, that he had been jilted “three or four times.” What a quaint notion by the way that of his: “I think an Inn is a good sort of place to propose to a single woman in, Mr. Pickwick. She is more likely to feel the loneliness of her situation in travelling, perhaps than she would be, at home.”

We find here some of the always amusing bits of confusion that recur in the book. Here might be a Calverley question, “When was it, and where was it, that the Pickwickians had two dinners in the one day?” Answer: At the Great White Horse on this very visit. When Mr. Nupkins retired to lunch, after his interview with Miss Witherfield, the Pickwickians sat down to their dinner “quietly,” and were in the midst of that meal, when Grummer arrived to arrest them. They were taken to Nupkins’, and there dined with him. This dinner would have brought them to five o’clock:—we are told of candles—so that it was dark—yet this was the month of May, when it would been light enough till eight o’clock. Mrs. Nupkins’ dress, on coming in from lunch, is worth noting. “A blue gauze turban and a light brown wig.”

Again, it was to Mr. Pickwick’s watch, that we owe the diverting and farcical incident of the double bedded bedroom—and indeed we have here all the licensed improbabilities of a Farce. To forget his watch on a hotel table was the last thing a staid man of business would do. How could he be made to forget it? “By winding it up,” said the author. “Winding up his watch, and laying it on the table.” This was of course in the Fob days, when the watch had to be drawn from the deep pocket; not as now when it is secured with a “guard chain.” Naturally, he might in an abstracted moment have so laid it down.

As an instance of the natural, every-day sort of tone prevailing through the book, it may be noted that it is mentioned as a matter of history, that the breakfast next day was at eleven o’clock—a late hour. But we know, though it is not pointed out, that Mr. Magnus and Mr. Pickwick had sat till morning drinking brandy and water, and that Mr. Pickwick had spent a portion of the night wandering about the Hotel. Naturally he came down late.

We are also minutely told that Mr. Magnus left the room at ten minutes past eleven. Mr. Pickwick “took a few strides to and fro,” when it became half past eleven! But this is a rather mysterious passage, for we next learn that “the small hand of the clock, following the latter part of his example, had arrived at the figure which indicates the half hour.” The “latter part,” would refer to “fro.” Perhaps it is a fresh gibe at the unlucky White Horse and its administration. The “small hand,” in any case, could not, and would not, point to the half hour, save that it had got loosened, and had jumped down, as hands will do, to seek the centre of gravity.

How natural, too, is the appearance of Jingle. With Wardles’ £120 in his pocket, he was flush of cash, and could make a new appearance—in a new district—as an officer—Captain FitzMarshall. He was “picked up,” we are told, at some neighbouring races. Sudbury and Stowmarket are not far off.

Some years ago, the late Lady Quain was staying at Ipswich and took so deep an interest in the “Great White Horse” and its traditions that she had it with all its apartments photographed on a large scale, forming a regular series. Her husband, the amiable physician whose loss we have to deplore, gave them to me. The “White Horse” was decidedly wrong in having Mr. Pickwick’s double-bedded room fitted up with brass Birmingham bedsteads. Were I the proprietor I would assuredly have the room arranged exactly as in Phiz’s picture—the two old-fashioned four-posts with the dimity curtains, the rush light and shade on the floor, the old glass on the dressing-table. To be even more realistic still there might be added Mr. Pickwick’s night-capped head peeping out, and the lean presentment of the lady herself, all, say, in wax, À la Tussaud. What a show and attraction that would be!

The author’s ingenuity was never at fault in the face of a difficulty. Mr. Pickwick was to be got to Nupkins’ in a sedan chair, a grotesque incident; but then, what to do with Tupman, also arrested? As both would not fit in an ordinary sedan, the sedan was made to fit them, and thus it was done. “It was recollected that there stood in the Inn yard an old sedan chair, which, having been originally built for a gouty gentleman with funded property, would hold Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman at least as conveniently as a modern postchaise.”

Nothing is more remarkable than the ingenious and striking fashion in which “Boz” has handled the episode of the double-bedded room and the yellow curl papers. The subject was an awkward one and required skilful management, or it might have repelled. The problem was how to make the situation amusing and yet not too realistic? It will be seen that all the appearances of a most embarrassing situation are produced, and yet really neither the lady nor Mr. Pickwick have taken off their garments. To produce this result, much elaborate machinery was requisite. The beds were arranged as if on the stage, one on each side of the door with a sort of little lane between the wall and each bed. Mr. Pickwick, we are told, actually crept into this lane, got to the end where there was a chair, and in this straight, confined situation proceeded to take off his coat and vest and to fold them up. It was thus artfully brought about that he appeared to have gone to bed, and could look out from the dimity curtains without having done so. It does not strike every one that Mr. Pickwick, under ordinary circumstances, would have taken off his “things” before the fire just as the lady did, in the free and open space, and not huddled up in a dark corner. However, as Mr. Weller says: “It wos to be, and—it wos,” or we should have had no story and no laugh.

There is a pleasant story—quite akin to Mr. Pickwick’s adventure—of what befell Thackeray when travelling in America. Going up to bed, he mistook the floor, and entered a room the very counterpart of his own. He had begun to take off his clothes, when a soft voice came from within—“Is that you, George?” In a panic, he bundled up his things, like Mr. Pickwick, and hurriedly rushed out, thinking what would be the confusion should he encounter “George” at the door. Anthony Trollope, my old, pleasant friend and sponsor at the Garrick Club, used to relate another of these hotel misadventures which, he protested, was the most “side-splitting” thing ever he heard of. A gentleman who was staying at one of the monster Paris hotels with his lady, was seized with some violent cold or pulmonary attack. She went down to try and get him a mustard plaster, which, with much difficulty, she contrived. Returning in triumph, as Mr. Pickwick did with his recovered watch, she found that he had fallen into a gentle sleep, and was lying with his head buried in the pillows. With much softness and deftness, she quickly drew away the coverings, and, without disturbing him, managed to insinuate the plaster into its proper place. Having done her duty, she then proceeded to lie down, when the sleeping man, moving uneasily, awoke and showed his face. It was not her husband! She fled from the room. The humour of the thing—as described by Trollope—was the bewilderment of the man on discovering the damp and burning mass that had been applied to him, and the amazing disappearance of his visitant. What did it all mean? The mystery probably remained unsolved to the day of his death.

But the Great White Horse received an important cosmopolitan compliment from across the seas—at the Chicago Exhibition—when a large and complete model was prepared and set up in the building. This was an elaborate as well as important tribute to the Book which it was assumed that every one knew by heart.

V.—Ipswich Theatre

Boz, on his travels, with his strong theatrical taste, was sure to have gone to the little theatre in Tacket Street, now a Salvation Army meeting-house. It is the same building, though much altered and pulled about, as that in which David Garrick made his first appearance on the stage, as Mr. Lyddal, about 150 years ago. I have before me now a number of Ipswich play bills, dated in the year 1838, just after the conclusion of “Pickwick,” and which, most appropriately, seem to record little but Boz’s own work. Pickwick, Oliver, Nickleby, and others, are the Bill of Fare, and it may be conceived that audiences would attend to see their own Great White Horse, and the spinster lady in her curl papers, and Mr. Nupkins, the Mayor, brought on the boards. These old strips of tissue paper have a strange interest; they reflect the old-fashioned theatre and audiences; and the Pickwickian names of the characters, so close after the original appearance, have a greater reality. Here, for instance, is a programme for Mr. Gill’s benefit, on January 19, 1839, when we had “The Pickwickians at half-price.” This was “a comic drama, in three acts, exhibiting the life and manners of the present day, entitled—

“Pickwick, or the sayings and doings of Sam Weller!”
Adapted expressly for this Theatre from the celebrated Pickwick Papers,
by Boz!

“The present drama of Pickwick has been honoured by crowded houses, and greeted by shouts of laughter and reiterated peals of applause upon every representation, and has been acknowledged by the public Press to be the only successful adaptation.

The Illustrations designed and executed by popular Phiz-es.

The new music by Mr. Pindar. The quadrilles under the direction of Mr. Harrison.”

All the characters are given.

“Mr. Pickwick,” founder of the Club, and travelling the counties of Essex and Suffolk in pursuit of knowledge.

“Snodgrass,” a leetle bit of a poet.

“Winkle,” a corresponding member also; and a something of a sportsman.

“Job Trotter,” thin plant o’ ooman natur; something between a servant and a friend to Jingle; a kind of perambulating hydraulic.

“Joe,” a fat boy, addicted to cold pudding and snoring.

“Miss Rachel Wardle,” in love with Jingle or anybody else that will have her.

“Emily” was appropriately represented in such a Theatre, by Miss Garrick.

The scenes are laid at first at the Red Lion, Colchester, close by which is Manor Farm, where a ball is given, and, of course, “the Pickwickian Quadrilles!” are danced “as performed at the Nobility’s Balls.” (I have these quadrilles, with Mr. Pickwick, on the title.) Then comes the White Hart, and “How they make sausages!” displayed in large type. The scene is then shifted to the Angel, at Bury, and the double-bedded room with its “horrible dilemma,” and

“Scene of Night Caps!”

It will be noticed that there is nothing of the Great White Horse in the very town. The reason was that the proprietor was disgusted by the unflattering account given of his Inn and must have objected. It winds up with the Fleet scenes, where Mr. Weller, senr.,

“Arrests his own Offspring.”

That this notion of the Great White Horse being sulky and hostile is the true one is patent from another bill, December 10, 1843, some four years later, when the proprietor allowed his Inn to be introduced. The piece was called—

“Boots at the White Horse.”

“Now acting in London with extraordinary success.” This was, of course, our old friend “Boots at the Swan,” which Frank Robson, later, made his own. As Boz had nothing to do with it, there could be no objection. Barnaby Rudge, however, was the piece of resistance. On another occasion, January, 1840, came Mr. J. Russell, with his vocal entertainment, “Russell’s Recollections” and “A Portrait from the Pickwick Gallery.” “Have you seen him? Alphabetical Distinctions. A sample of Mister Sam Weller’s Descriptive Powers.”

Some adaptation or other of Dickens seems to have been always the standing dish. The old Ipswich Theatre is certainly an interesting one, and Garrick and Boz are names to conjure with.

VI.—Who was Pott?

There have been abundant speculations as to the originals of the Pickwickian characters—some Utopian enough, but I do not think that any have been offered in the case of Mr. Pott, the redoubtable editor of the Eatanswill Gazette. I am inclined to believe that the notorious and brilliant Dr. Maginn was intended. He and Pott were both distinguished for their “slogging” or bludgeoning articles, and both were High Tories, or “Blue,” as Mr. Pott had it. But what is most significant is that in the very year Pickwick was coming out, to wit, 1836, Maginn had attracted general attention and reprobation by the scandal of his duel with Grantley Berkely, arising out of a most scurrilous review of the latter’s novel. To this meeting he had been brought with some difficulty—just as Pott—the “Pot-valiant,” declined to “serve him so,” i.e., Slurk; being restrained by the laws of his country. He was an assistant editor to the “Standard,” and had furnished scurrilites to the “John Bull.” He had about this time also obtained an influence over the interesting “L. E. L.,” whom John Forster, it is known, was “courting,” and by some rumours and machinations succeeded in breaking off the business. Now Forster and Boz, at the time, were bosom friends—Forster could be unsparing enough where he was injured: and how natural that his new friend should share his enmities. Boz was always glad to gibbet a notorious public abuse, and here was an opportunity. Maginn’s friend, Kenealey, wrote to an American, who was about to edit Maginn’s writings, “You have a glorious opportunity, where you have no fear of libel before your eyes. Maginn’s best things can never be published till his victims have passed from the scene.” How significant is this! Then Pott’s “combining his information,” his “cramming” critic, his using the lore of the Encyclopedia Britannica for his articles suggest Maginn’s classical lucubrations. A well-known eminent LittÉrateur, to whom I suggested this view, objected that Pott is not shown to be such a blackguard as Maginn, and that Maginn was not such an ass as Pott. But Boz generalised his borrowed originals. Skimpole was taken from Leigh Hunt, yet was represented as a sort of scoundrel; and Boz confessed that he only adapted his lighter manner and airy characteristics.

In these latter days, people have been somewhat astonished by the strange “freak” of our leading journal in so persistently offering and pressing on the public their venture of a new edition of the Encyclopedia. Every ingenious variation of bold advertisement is used to tempt the purchaser—a sovereign down and time for the rest; actual pictures of the whole series of volumes; impassioned arguments, pleadings, and an appeal to take it at the most wonderfully low price. Then we have desirable information, dealing with topics of varied kind, and assurances that material would here be found for dealing conveniently with every known subject. Still, what a surprise that use was not made of “the immortal Pickwick” in whose pages these peculiar advantages were more successfully and permanently set forth and illustrated by one most telling example furnished by no other than Mr. Pott himself, the redoubtable editor of the Eatanswill Gazette. To him and to no other is due the credit of being the first to show practically how to use the Encyclopedia. He has furnished a principle which is worth all the lengthy exhortations of the Times itself.

Pott seems to have kept the work in his office, and to have used it for his articles in a highly ingenious fashion. For three months had he been supplying a series of papers, which he assures us “appeared at intervals,” and which excited “such general—I may say, such universal attention and admiration.” A fine tribute surely to the Encyclopedia. For recollect Pott’s was a newspaper. The Times folk say nothing of this important view. Poor, simple Mr. Pickwick had not seen the articles because he was busy travelling about and had no time for reading. (Probably Pott would have put him on the “free list” of his paper, but for the awkward Winkle flirtation which broke up the intimacy). Nay, he might have had “the revolving book case,” which would handily contain all the volumes.

And what were these articles? “They appeared in the form of a copious”—mark the word!—“review of a work on Chinese Metaphysics.” It had need to be copious therefor, for it is a very large subject. Mr. Pickwick himself must have been very familiar with the Encyclopedia, for he at once objected that he was not aware that so abstruse a topic was dealt with in its pages. He had perhaps consulted the book, say, at Garraway’s Coffee House, for, alas! the good man was not able to have a library of his own, living, as he did, in lodgings or at the “George and Vulture.” Mr. Pott, however, who also knew the work well, had then to confess that there was no such subject treated separately in it. But the articles were from the pen of his critic (not from his own), “who crammed for it, to use a technical but expressive term; he read up for the subject, at my desire, in the Encyclopedia.”

Now, as the subject was not treated in the work, how could this “cramming” help him? Here comes in the system, so unaccountably overlooked by the Times, i.e., the Combination Method. “He read, sir,” rejoined Pott, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick’s knee and looking round with a smile of intellectual superiority, “he read for metaphysics under the letter M, and for China under the letter C, and combined his information, sir.” There we have it! We find separate articles De omni scribili, and many topics unavoidably passed over; but we see how this can be cured by the ingenious Pott system. Combine your information! There you are! Here for instance—under “Metaphysics” we do find something about’ Confucius and the other Pundits; we then turn to China and get local colour, Chinese writers. &c., and then proceed “to combine our information.” And so with hundreds of other instances and other topics. Pott, therefore, has been overlooked by the managers of the Times, but it is not yet too late for them to call attention to his system. It is of interest to all at Eatanswill.

Pott was in advance of his time. His paper was not wholly the sort of scurrilous organ it has been shown to be. To weight its columns with “Chinese Metaphysics,” was a bold, reforming step—then the going on for three months, i.e., twelve articles—and all read with avidity. And what are we to think of the Eatanswill readers—surely in advance, too. And here we have him, nearly seventy years ago, giving a well-deserved puff to the Encyclopedia, which is really worth the innumerable columns the leading journal has devoted to the book. Its last effort was to show an ingenious connection between the British Association and the Encyclopedia, on the ground of its various Presidents. “It stimulates, in fact creates, the necessity for a good working Library of Science. It is here that the Encyclopedia comes in as of especial service.”