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, 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 were eleven pair, 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 of the 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 may This method of calling attention to the merits of wares was a French one—a sort of rÉclame introduced by Villemessant in his journal La 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 of painted 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 his douceur, 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—“and Rowland’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, it was an 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 patent Bramin.” Bramah’s hydraulic press was a 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. |