Mr. Pickwick, as we know, retired to end his days at peaceful Dulwich—placid and tranquil as his own amiable heart. It is as certain as though we had been living there and had seen all that was going on, that he became universally popular, and quite a personage in the place. Everyone was sure to meet him taking his afternoon walk along the rural lanes, or making his way to the Greyhound, where he was often found of an evening—possibly every evening. This Greyhound, an old-fashioned and somewhat antique house, though not mentioned in the story, is linked to it by implication; for to settle at Dulwich and ignore the Greyhound was a thing that could not be. There is a Pickwickian tone—or was, rather, for it is now levelled—about the place, and Boz himself used to frequent it, belonging to a sort of dining club that met down there.

Such a paper as say the Dulwich Observer would make much account of a man like Mr. Pickwick; all his movements would be chronicled, and anyone that chooses to bid Sarah or Mary “bring up the file for the year of Mr. Pickwick’s residence,” must find innumerable entries. Let us supply a few of these imaginative extracts:

MR. PICKWICK AT THE OPENING OF THE DULWICH LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC ASSOCIATION.

A meeting of this admirable and thriving society—which, as our readers know, was founded by Mr. Pickwick—was held on Saturday, at the Greyhound Inn, where this learned and popular gentleman read a special paper on Ralph Alleyne and his celebrated college at Dulwich. There was a large attendance. Mr. Pickwick stated that he had long been making researches into the Alleyne pedigree, and had made an astonishing discovery—Alleyne, he found, was the family of the Allens! A very dear and intimate friend of his own—a high member of the medical profession—with whom he had spent some of the pleasantest hours of his whole life, and who was now following his practice in India, also bore the name of Allen—Benjamin Allen! It will be said that there was not much in this; there were many Allens about, and, in the world generally (loud laughter); but what will be said when, on carelessly turning over the old rate-books, he came on this startling fact? That at the beginning of the century his old friend’s grandfather actually occupied a small house on Tulse Hill, not five minutes’ walk from the college (loud applause). He saw, they saw the significance of this. Following up the clue, he next found that this gentleman was a person of literary tastes—and, mark this, often went into town to scientific meetings and to the theatres (loud applause). Further, he had discovered one or two very “oldest inhabitants” (a laugh) who had known this very Benjamin Allen, the grandfather, and who could not recall anything precise about him: but all agreed, and they should further mark this, that he had the air and bearing of a man of theatrical tastes, and that “it was as likely as not”—to use their very words—“that he belonged to the family of Ralph Allen” (applause). The learned gentleman then proceeded to work out his clever theory with much ingenuity, and, at the end, left “not a shadow of a shade of a doubt” in the minds of his hearers in general, and in his own mind in particular, that this Dr. Benjamin Allen—of the East Indies—was the lineal descendant of our own Ralph Allen. We have, however, with regret to add, that this evening did not pass over so harmoniously as it could be desired. As soon as Mr. Pickwick had sat down and discussion was invited—Mr. Pickwick, however, saying that there was really nothing to discuss, as no one knew the facts but himself—a visitor from Town, who had been introduced at his own request by one of the members, stood up, will it be believed, to attack Mr. Pickwick and his paper! It transpired that this intruder’s name was Blotton, a person in the haberdashery line, and that he came from somewhere in the neighbourhood of Huggin Lane. He said that all they had been listening to was simple moonshine. (No! No!) But Yes! Yes! Had they ever heard of a river in Monmouth and another in Macedon? There was an Allen some hundred years ago—and a Ben Allen now alive in India. What rubbish was this? (“Shame” cries of “put him out”). Where was the connection, he asked. Some old dotard or dodderer, they were told, said so. The doddering in the case was not confined to that individual. Here Mr. Pickwick rose, and, with much heat, told the intruder to sit down. He would not hear him; he ought to be ashamed of himself. “Would you believe it,” went on Mr. Pickwick, “this is a person who was actually expelled—yes, expelled—from a club—the well-known Pickwick Club of which I was the founder. Let him deny it if he dare.” Here the individual called out “Bill Stumps! Tell ’em about that.” “I will not tell ’em, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, warmly; “they know it too well. It shall be known as long as my name is known and when this person is consigned to the gutter whence he came.” “It’s all Humbug,” said Mr. Blotton, “humbug you were and humbug you ever will be.” Here Dr. Pettigrew, our excellent local practitioner, interposed, “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said; “is this to go on; are we to listen to this low abuse?” A number of persons closing round Blotton succeeded in ejecting him from the room, and this truly painful incident closed.

VISITORS AT THE DELL.

During the past week, Mr. Pickwick has been entertaining a series of visitors—among others, Mr. Wardle, of Manor Farm, Muggleton, Kent, with Miss Wardle, his sister—the heroine of a most romantic story communicated to us by Mr. Weller, though we are not privileged to lift the veil from this interesting episode. But suffice it to say that it comprised an elopement and exciting chase, in which Mr. Pickwick, with his usual gallantry, took part. The estrangement which necessarily followed between brother and sister has long since been happily healed. Mr. Perker, the eminent London solicitor—Mr. Pickwick’s “guide, philosopher and friend”—has also been staying at the Dell.

HUMOROUS ADVENTURE.

Our readers will be entertained by the following droll contretemps which befel our deservedly popular fellow-citizen, as we may call him, Mr. Pickwick. As our readers know, the Annual Charity Dinner took place at the Greyhound, on Tuesday, Mr. Pickwick being in the chair, and making many of his happiest speeches during the course of which he related many curious details about himself and his life. The party did not break up till a late hour—nearly eleven o’clock. A fly—a special one, as usual—had been retained to take Mr. Pickwick home, but as the trusted Hobson, who invariably attends Mr. Pickwick on such occasions, had another engagement, a stranger was procured from Camberwell. Mr. Pickwick was placed in the vehicle not, as he says, without misgivings, and, as he admits, fell fast asleep. He was driven home—as he fancied. On arriving, the coachman had much difficulty in making himself heard. Mr. Pickwick entered the house, still scarcely aroused, and turning into the study, sank into an armchair, and once more fell into a slumber. He was presently aroused, he says, by voices, and found himself surrounded by strange faces and figures in various states of dÉshabillÉ. The head of the house, the well-known Mr. Gibson, who had been roused from his slumbers, on the maid, Mary Perkes, giving the alarm that robbers were in the house, had rushed down in his trousers only; the man-servant ditto; the young ladies in anything they could find. Mr. Pickwick describes his alarm as he found these faces round him, and, not unnaturally, conceived the idea that robbers had broken into his house, and that his was in their power! A humorous imbroglio followed. He instantly rushed to secure the poker, and, flourishing it round his head, cried out repeatedly, “Keep off! every one of you! or I’ll brain the first man that comes near me!” Fortunately, the respected man-servant, who had been many years with Mr. Gibson, and had met Mr. Weller, at once recognized Mr. Weller’s master, and said: “Why, its Mr. Pickwick! ain’t it? Don’t you know this ain’t your own house, sir.” The truth then all flashed upon him. Mr. Pickwick relates that he became so tickled with the odd humour of his situation that he fell into his chair in convulsions of laughter, and laughed long and loudly, for many minutes. The more he laughed, the more Mr. Gibson laughed. At last, all was explained, and the amusing scene ended by a room being hastily got ready for Mr. Pickwick (for the cabman had gone away). No one was more amused, or indeed, more pleased, at these “mistakes of a night” than Mr. Gibson, who always tells the story with infinite drollery. Mr. Pickwick takes all the blame on himself, declaring, as he says his old friend Winkle used to say: “It wasn’t the wine, but the salmon.”

ATTEMPTED ROBBERY AT MR. PICKWICK’S HOUSE.

Last night, we are sorry to learn, a very daring attempt was made to rob the mansion of our much esteemed resident, Mr. Pickwick. The Dell, as our readers know, is a substantial dwelling-house, standing in its own grounds, and comparatively unprotected. The family, consists of the owner, his housekeeper, Mrs. Purdy, and his faithful servant, Mr. Samuel Weller, whose pleasant humour is well-known, and who is deservedly popular in Dulwich. Nothing was noticed until about two o’clock in the morning, when, as Mr. Weller has informed us, he was awakened by a low, grinding sound, which, in his quaint style, he says reminded him “a fellow in quad a-filing his irons.” With much promptitude he rose and, loosening the dog, proceeded in the direction of the sounds; the villains, however, became alarmed, and Mr. Weller was just in time to see them, as he says, “a-cuttin’ their lucky” over the garden wall. Much sympathy is expressed for the worthy and deservedly esteemed Mr. Pickwick, and for the outrage done to his feelings.

FETE AT MR. PICKWICK’S.

On Thursday last, this amiable and always benevolent gentleman, who, it is known, takes the deepest interest in the stage, invited all the brethren of the college to a dinner, after which, he threw open his grounds to all his acquaintances, indeed, to all Dulwich. The banquet was of a sumptuous character, and was provided from the Greyhound. After the usual loyal toasts, the warden proposed Mr. Pickwick’s health in appropriate terms, to which that gentleman responded in an admirable speech, in which he reviewed some portions of his life. After stating how dear and near to his affection was the college and all that was concerned with it, he entered into some various details of Ralph Alleyne, who, as we all know, was an actor and connected with actors. “I have already, by means of my researches, shown how strangely related he was to myself, being of the same family with an eminent physician in India, Mr. Benjamin Allen. (Cheers.) I, myself, have known actors—one who was known to his brethren as ‘dismal Jemmy’—(loud laughter)—from, I suppose, the caste of characters he was always assuming. Dismal Jemmy, however, had to leave the country—(laughter)—I will not say why.” (Roars of laughter.) Another actor whom he had known was one of the most remarkable men he had ever met, for talent and resources—would that he had confined his talent to its legitimate sphere, namely, on the boards—but, unfortunately, he had chosen to exert it at his, Mr. Pickwick’s, expense. (Loud laughter.) This performer tried to live by his wits, as it is called, and he, Mr. Pickwick, had encountered him, and his wits, too and nearly always with success. Mr. Pickwick then humorously described some of his adventures with this person, causing roars of laughter by a description of a night in the garden of a Boarding School, into which he had been entrapped on the pretext that the actor was about to run away with one of the young ladies. In the most comic fashion, he related how he had been captured by the whole school, headed by its principal, and locked up in a cupboard, and was only released by his faithful man, Sam, whom, personally, some of them knew—(loud applause.) Well, after frustrating the knavish tricks of this actor, he at last found him in a debtors’ prison in the most abject misery and destitution, and he was happy to tell them, that the man was completely reformed, and getting an honest livelihood in one of our colonies. Such was his experience of the actors’ profession.

MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE AT IPSWICH.

An interesting event, in which our esteemed fellow-citizen, Mr. Pickwick, has taken a deep interest, took place at the historic town of Ipswich, when Mr. Sidney Porkenham, eldest son of --- Porkenham, Esq., led to the altar at St. Clement’s Church, Henrietta, the beautiful and accomplished daughter of --- Nupkins, Esq., late Mayor of that city. Among the guests were J. Grigg, Esq., Mrs. and the Misses Grigg, Mr. and Mrs. Slummin Towken and Mr. Slummin Towken, jun, --- Jinks, Esq., and many more. Mr. Pickwick had intended to be present and had already promised to stay with Mr. Nupkins, but was prevented by illness. His present to the bride, a costly one and in exquisite taste, was purchased at Micklethwaite’s, High Street, Camberwell, where it was exhibited and excited universal admiration. It consisted of a watch and curb chain of the finest workmanship, for Mr. Pickwick placed no limit on Micklethwaite. We understand that at a recent dinner at Mr. Humberstone, our esteemed rector’s, Mr. Pickwick, after alluding to Miss Nupkins and the coming marriage, literally convulsed the party by relating his famous adventure at the Great White Horse, which he tells in the raciest style, and how it led to his being led off prisoner, and brought before his friend, Mr. Nupkins, then Mayor of Ipswich. At the close he became a little pensive. “Ah! poor Peter Magnus! and Miss W---, sorry! I’m sorry, very.” Our Rector has often “chaffed” this worthy gentleman on his midnight adventure, saying, waggishly, “there was more in it than met the eye.” We have seen Mr. Pickwick smile, and he would say, “well, sir, she was a fine woman, a very fine woman, and I’m not going to kiss and tell.”

MR. PICKWICK AT DULWICH POLICE COURT.

Thomas Bardell, aged 19, was charged before His Worship, with extorting money under false pretences from Mr. Pickwick. It appears from the gentleman’s evidence, which he gave with great fulness, that, many years ago, a woman of the name of Bardell, a lodging-house keeper, brought an unfounded action against Mr. Pickwick, and obtained damages which Mr. Pickwick refused to pay, preferring to go to the Fleet Prison. This person had a son, then a mere child, who was the prisoner. A week ago, Mr. Pickwick received a piteous letter, signed Tommy Bardell, saying that his mother was dying, and in the deepest distress, all their furniture sold, or pawned. After making some inquiries, and finding that there was a woman in distress at the place, Mr. Pickwick sent the prisoner two sovereigns. Within a fortnight he received a second application, saying that the unhappy woman’s bed was being taken away, &c.; he sent another sovereign. When he received a third application he thought it high time to put it into the hands of his man, Sam Weller, who made enquiries and found out there was no mother, Mrs. Bardell being long, long since dead. His worship committed him to jail for six months as a vagabond, but, at Mr. Pickwick’s request, reduced his sentence to two months.

II.—Mr. Pickwick’s Funeral.

The funeral cortÈge left the Dell at ten o’clock, and was one of the most striking displays of public feeling that Dulwich has seen for many years. And not only was Dulwich thus affected, but in Camberwell all the numerous shops were closed, and the inhabitants turned out in crowds. The procession comprised many mourning coaches containing all Mr. Pickwick’s oldest friends. He had survived all his relations. Among the mourners were Mr. Wardle, of Dingley Dell, with his son-in-law, --- Trundle, Esq.; Mr. Tupman, who travelled specially from Richmond; Messrs. Winkle and Snodgrass, who had been his inseparable companions in his famous tours; and --- Perker, Esq., who was the deceased’s legal adviser and confidential friend. An interesting incident was the appearance among the mourners of an elderly gentleman, Mr. Peter Magnus, between whom and Mr. Pickwick, as we learn from his faithful servant, there had for many years been a cloud or misunderstanding on account of some lady whose marriage with Mr. Magnus Mr. Pickwick had unwittingly frustrated. This injury, if injury there was, Mr. Magnus had buried in the grave, and had rushed to Dulwich to lend his heartfelt sympathy. Such things go far to reconcile one to human nature, if such reconcilement be incumbent. A deputation from the Dulwich Literary and Scientific Association, of which Mr. Pickwick was Perpetual President, walked in the procession. Passing the well-known Greyhound Inn, one of Mr. Pickwick’s favourite haunts, it was noticed the blinds were drawn down.

We copy from the Eatanswill Gazette the following admirable tribute to Mr. Pickwick’s merit, from the vigorous pen, as we understand, of its Editor, Mr. Pott:—“Not only in Dulwich, but in Eatanswill, is there mourning, to-day. We have lost Pickwick—Pickwick the true and the Blue. For Blue he was, to the very core and marrow of his bones, and it was we ourselves, who first permeated him with real Blue principles. Many a time and oft has he sat at our feet, drinking in with rapture, almost, the stray scraps of immortal doctrine with which we favoured him. Is it not an open secret that, but for Pickwick’s exertions—exertions which laid the foundations of the disease which ultimately carried him off—our late admirable member, the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, would not have been returned? The Gazette, it is true, first burst open the breach, in which Pickwick threw himself, waving his flag on high, and led us on to victory. Of course, our verminous contemporary, the Independent, will scoff, and wipe its shoes on the illustrious dead. Of course, the mangey creature—ceasing the while from its perennial self-scratching—will hoot something derogatory. Let it sneer, yelp aloud in its impotent hog-like manner; let it root with its filthy snout among the heaps of garbage where it loves to make its unclean haunt in unspeakable Buffery. ’Twill not serve—the noisome fumes will stifle it.”

We regret to say that these prognostications of Mr. Pott’s were but too soon, and too fatally realised, for in almost the next issue of the Independent, we find a scandalous and indecent attack on our late beloved Mr. Pickwick. Shocking as it is, we cannot forbear, in duty to the deceased gentleman, presenting it to our readers—

“POTT’S PICKWICK.”

“Our emasculated contemporary, not content with debauching Eatanswill politics, must go far afield and drag from his grave an obscure and feeble being whom he claims to make one of his besmirched heroes. But Potts’ praise, as we have learned long since, is no more than daubing its object with dirt. Why, this very Pickwick whom he belauds—can it be forgotten how Eatanswill shook its sides with laughter at the figure he made our besotted contemporary cut? Who will forget Mr. W---le, his creature, whom Pickwick introduced into the Potts’ household and the resulting scandal, how Mr. W---le, aforesaid, fled from the house, leaving the belated Ariadne in tears? Does Pott forget who it was put his finger on this spot and, for the fair fame of Eatanswill, clamoured for its extinction? Who forgets our warnings and their fulfilment? The arrival of the Lieutenant; the menaced proceedings in a certain court; the departure of the fair but frail culprit. And yet Pott with an ineffable effrontery that would do credit to a fishwife in and from Billingsgate, clamours about this Pickwick and his virtues, and drops his maudlin tears upon his coffin! Why was he not there to give his hand to Mr. Lothario W---le, who, we understand, was also present? By the way, we have received the following lines from a valued correspondent:—

Your tears you may sprinkle
O W---le, O W---le,
With more of this same kind of rot.
The lady so gay
Could not say you nay,
Merely bidding you ‘Go to Pot.’

Our hide-bound contemporary, will not, of course, see the point—”

We are grieved to say, that the indecent Eatanswill controversy over the lamented Mr. Pickwick still goes on. More strictly speaking, however, he has dropped out of sight owing to the inflamed passions which have been roused between the editors. Our sympathies are, we need not say, with Mr. Pott, still we wish he would somewhat temper his language, out of respect for the dead. Here is his crushing retort—

“FILTH ON THE COFFIN.”

“We have seen at some historic funeral, say of some personage obnoxious to the mob, dead dogs, cats, rats, and rotten eggs, hurled from a safe distance at the passing coffin. This is what our fast decomposing and wholly noisome contemporary is now doing. Shall we say it? How beastly, how congenial to the man’s feelings! Paugh! Decency; propriety; sense of restraint; all unknown terms in his Malay tongue—for this Swift’s yahoo. But we know what rankles. Has our contemporary in mind a chastisement that was inflicted on him in the kitchen of a certain inn, and in the presence of Pickwick himself—has he forgotten the fire irons—or, to speak accurately, the fire irons. That bruise, we dare swear, is still raw. But there are pole-cats who cannot divest themselves of their odour, do what they will, and this festering mass of decaying garbage, which goes by the name of The Independent, and which is unaccountably overlooked by the night men in their rounds, is fast breeding a pestilence in the pure air of Eatanswill.” This lamentable controversy still continues.

STRANGE INCIDENT.

We noticed among the company at Mr. Pickwick’s funeral a gentleman of unobstrusive exterior, who seemed to be vainly seeking his place, and to whom our representative offered his services. It turned out that his name was Trundle, and that he was one of the appointed pall-bearers, but that he had been unaccountably overlooked, and his place taken by someone else. Mr. Trundle made no complaint, but our representative thought it his duty to mention the circumstance to Mr. Wardle, who, it appears, is his father-in-law, but who only smiled, good-humouredly saying “O, Trundle, to be sure. No one minds him and he won’t mind.” But no further attention was paid to the matter. Mr. Trundle, our representative adds, was a man of modest and retiring ways, and did not seem in the least put out by the mistake.