This was a common form of social meeting, and we find in the memoirs of Adolphus and John Taylor and Frederick Reynolds descriptions of the “Keep the Line,” “The Finish,” and other oddly-named societies. The cheerful glass was the chief object. Mr. Lowten’s Club, “The Magpie and Stump,” in Clare Market, supplies a specimen of a lower class club. “Veels vithin veels,” as Sam would say.

In his speech at Dulwich, at the close of the book, Mr. Pickwick spoke rather pathetically of the closing of his wanderings. “I shall never forget having devoted the greater part of two years to mixing with different varieties and shades of human character, frivolous as my pursuit of novelty may have appeared to many.” He spoke of the club also, to which “he had communicated both personally and by letter,” acquainting them with his intention of withdrawing from public life to the country. He added that “during our long absence it had suffered much from internal dissensions,” and this, with other reasons, had obliged him to dissolve it. This “absence,” both as planned and carried out, was merely occasional. Mr. Pickwick and his friends were rarely, and only now and then, absent from town, going away for short spells, save, of course, the enforced absence in the Fleet Prison and the months or weeks (as it may be) in Bath. “The George and Vulture” was not far from Huggin Lane, so Mr. Pickwick must have been constantly at the Club, or could have been had he chosen to go there. All this notion of severance, therefore, was somewhat sentimental.

But the “dissensions” the President spoke of were natural enough. He was the founder and mainstay of the association—probably paid its expenses. The whole object of the institution, it may be suspected, was to exalt the founder. In such a state of things, it was natural that there should be an opposition, or discontented party, headed by “that Blotton.” When Blotton was got rid of, his friends would think that he had been badly treated and take advantage of the occasional absences of the chief to foment revolt. Then Blotton was expelled, assuredly unfairly, for he merely took the opposite view on the Cobham stone, and he might have left some who belonged to his faction and who thought he had been harshly dealt with. Mr. Pickwick, in fact, merely returned from his agreeable junketting to have this gentleman expelled. Despotism of this sort always leads to discontent and parties—hence the “dissensions.” Mr. Pickwick, from his treatment of Blotton, must have been a Tory of the old Eldon school. Here was his blemish. He had no toleration for others, and had an undue idea of his own position. We can trace the whole thing perfectly. He was a successful man of business—an export merchant apparently—being connected with an agent at Liverpool whom he had “obliged.” Round such a man who was good-natured and philanthropic would gather flatterers and toadies; hence the suggestion to found a club with his own name and “button.” Of this he could be “Boss,” and he was listened to and courted. It was like the devotion of satellites to the late Mr. Gladstone. We can see all this in the picture of the club at the beginning, where, with the exception of the four legitimate Pickwickians, all seem rather of the tradesman class, and are vulgar types enough. In such surroundings, Mr. Pickwick could “rule the roast” and grow despotic and even arrogant.

Blotton, however, who seems to have been an independent sort of fellow, could not submit to this, was of the Opposition, and, no doubt, a thorn in Mr. Pickwick’s side. And here is yet another point of the likeness to the Johnsonian coterie. In “The Club,” Hawkins—Sir John of that ilk—was uncongenial—“a detestable fellow,” Bozzy calls him—objecting, quarrelling, and, at last, on one occasion was so rude that he had to withdraw. Now, that this offence was rankling is evident, and it explains the fracas which took place at the opening. Blotton looked on Mr. Pickwick’s travelling as pure humbug. The idea of his contributing anything useful or instructive in his so-called reports seemed nonsense. Further, was it not something of a job? Pickwick was taking three of his own special “creatures” with him—Winkle, to whom he had been appointed governor; Snodgrass, who was his ward; and Tupman, who was his butt and toady. They were the gentlemen of the club. None of the outsiders were chosen. From Blotton’s behaviour, too, on the Cobham business, it is clear he thought Mr. Pickwick’s scientific researches were also “humbug.” A paper by that gentleman had just been read—“The tracing of the source of the ponds at Hampstead” and “Some observations on the theory of tittlebats.” There was somewhat too much of this “bossing.” The whole report read by the secretary was full of gross flatteries. They had “just heard read with feelings of unmingled satisfaction and unqualified approval,” &c., “from which advantages must accrue to the cause of science”—cause of rubbish! Then, it added, obsequiously, something about “the inestimable benefits from carrying the speculations of that learned man” &c. Mr. Pickwick, in his speech, was certainly self-laudatory and provocative. He talked of his pride in promoting the Tittlebatian theory, and “let his enemies make the most of it.” This was marked enough, and no doubt caused looks at Blotton. Then he began to puff his new enterprise at “a service of some danger.”

There were, were there not, upsets of coaches “in all directions,” horses bolting—boats overturning, and boilers bursting? Now, Blotton—after all the humbug that had gone before, and particularly after a provocative reference to himself—could not stand this, and, amid the obsequious cries and “cheers,” said, boldly, “No!” (A Voice: “No!”) That is, signifying there were no such dangers. The fury of the orator on “the Windsor chair,” was quite Gladstonian. “No!” he cried; on which the cheers of his followers broke out. “Who was it that cried No?” Then he proceeded to imagine it came from some “vain and disappointed man—he wouldn’t say haberdasher.”

To the Pickwick Club there was a Vice-President, named Smiggers—Joseph Smiggers, Esq., P.V.P.M.P.C., that is, Perpetual Vice-President and Member of the Pickwick Club. Smiggers was, of course, supposed to be “Pickwick’s creature,” or he would not have been there. He was a tall, corpulent man, with a soft face—as we see him in his picture. As Mr. Pickwick speaks, it is remarkable that both Vice-President and Secretary—the two officers—have each one arm raised as if in ecstatic rapture—clear proof of their subservience to Pickwick. On Smiggers’ right is a “doddering” old fellow of between seventy and eighty—clearly a “nullity”—on his left, another member nearly as old, but with a glimmer of intelligence. Down the side of the table, facing the orator, are some odd faces—one clearly a Jew; one for whom the present Mr. Edward Terry might have sat. Blotton is at the bottom, half turned away in disgust. His neighbour looks at him with wonder, as who should say, “How can you be so insensible?” Odd to say—and significant, too—Blotton has brought into the club his dog, a ferocious looking “bull,” which sits at his feet under the table. We should say, on the whole, that Blotton could only count on—and that, with but a limited sympathy—the Terry-faced and Jew-faced men—if he could count on them. The Secretary was like a clerk—a perky fellow—and had a pen behind his ear; probably in some Bank or Counting House, so strong is habit. One member of the Club alone is invisible—the one beyond Tupman—all that is seen of him is a hand holding a tumbler as if about to drink. The Dodderer is applauding; so are the Jew, Blotton and Tupman; so is the round-faced man, just beyond the invisible one.

Mr. Pickwick and his three friends being removed or absent, and Blotton expelled, out of the fourteen members there were left but nine, whereof we reckon four or five as Pickwickians and the rest as Blottonites.

And how easily can we imagine the acrimonious discussions that went on!

“This ’ere Pickwick, who was always making the club a hend to his own glorification, had gone off on his touring to get more grist for his mill.” It was really, a “mutual admiration society,” and as for the reports, notes, &c., he was sending back “they ’ad ’ad enough of it.” The club didn’t meet to be listening to long-winded yarns to be read out by their worthy secretary, but for a glass and social intercourse. As for the “travels and preambulations,” what were they more than visits to genteel ’ouses where Pickwick was “showing oft” at their expense? Then where were the “Sportin’ transactions?” The whole thing was “rot.” Then the Cobham stone business, at which the whole town was laughing, and which their worthy friend Blotton had exposed. Blotton was the only long-headed, creditable man they had. He ought to have been their president. But he had been turned out by the “lick-spittles” of the society.