Chapter 12: , headed “A Night with Durdles,” contains a description of the (2)

[The clergyman and friends who assisted on this interesting occasion as above, left London from Waterloo Station. We may remember that Mrs. Rokesmith, escorted by Mr. Lightwood, came into town by rail from Greenwich. Thus they would change trains at WATERLOO JUNCTION, and adopt the _South-Western Route_ as being the more convenient, travelling to Reading, and driving thence to Henley. It was at this terminus that Bradley Headstone first heard (from Mr. Milvey) of the intended wedding, and was so seriously upset by the news, that an attack of epilepsy ensued in consequence. We thus read in chapter 11, book 4, with reference to Bella and her escort:—

“From Greenwich they started directly for London, and in London they
waited at a railway station until such time as the Rev. Frank Milvey,
and Margaretta, his wife, with whom Mortimer Lightwood had been
already in conference, should come and join them. . . . Then the
train rattled among the house-tops, and among the ragged sides of
houses, torn down to make way for it, over the swarming streets, and
under the fruitful earth, until it shot across the river. . . . A
carriage ride succeeded near the solemn river. . . . They drew near
the chamber where Eugene lay.”

This is certainly descriptive of the SOUTH-WESTERN RAILWAY, and is _not_ applicable to the Great Western Route.]

For full particulars the reader is referred to chapter 11, book 4. On the occasion of Bella Wilfer’s FIRST VISIT to Henley, and the introduction of the two girls to each other, as narrated in chapter 9, book 3 (in association with the burial of old Betty Higden), mention is made of “_the little inn_,” at which Bella’s friends were then accommodated. This was _not_ the “Red Lion,” but, in all probability, was The Anchor Inn, a small, but very comfortable hostelry in _Friday Street_, near the river. Visitors desiring to combine economy with homeliness, are recommended to follow Miss Wilfer’s lead in this regard, and commit themselves to the hospitable care of the present landlord.

The Railway Station at Henley is referred to in the last-named chapter as being near at hand, when “the Rev. Frank and Mrs. Frank, and Sloppy, and Bella and the Secretary set out to walk to it;” the two last dropping behind, for a little confidential conversation on the road. We read that

“The railway, at this point knowingly shutting a green eye and
opening a red one, they had to run for it. As Bella could not run
easily so wrapped up, the Secretary had to help her. When she took
her opposite place in the carriage corner, the brightness in her face
was so charming to behold, that on her exclaiming, ‘What beautiful
stars and what a glorious night!’ the Secretary said, ‘Yes,’ but
seemed to prefer to see the night and the stars in the light of her
lovely little countenance, to looking out of window.”

A short walk of five minutes from the station, southward by the riverside (west bank), will bring the Rambler to The Tow Path, the scene of that memorable interview between Lizzie and Eugene, recorded in chapter 6, book 4, as taking place previous to the catastrophe by which Wrayburn nearly lost his life. The path leads to Marsh Mill, about half a mile from Henley; a large and important paper mill, now in the occupation of Mr. Wells, situated near the weir, with its long wooden bridge leading to the lock. This was the mill at which Lizzie Hexam, secretly leaving London, found refuge and occupation, on the recommendation of her old friend Mr. Riah, her worthy employers being a firm of Hebrew nationality. We first read of this mill in connection with the closing scenes of _Betty Higden’s_ history, as narrated in chapter 8, book 3, and headed “The end of a long journey”—

“There now arose in the darkness a great building full of lighted
windows. Smoke was issuing from a high chimney in the rear of it,
and there was the sound of a water-wheel at the side. Between her
and the building lay a piece of water, in which the lighted windows
were reflected, and on its nearest margin was a plantation of trees.
‘I humbly thank the Power and the Glory,’ said Betty Higden, holding
up her withered hands, ‘that I have come to my journey’s end!’”

The Death of Betty here occurred; as, sinking on the ground, and supporting herself against a tree “whence she could see, beyond some intervening trees and branches, the lighted windows,” her strength gave way—

“‘I am safe here,’ was her last benumbed thought. ‘When I am found
dead at the foot of the Cross, it will be by some of my own sort;
some of the working people who work among the lights yonder. I
cannot see the lighted windows now, but they are there. I am
thankful for all!’”

We have the satisfaction of reading that the poor woman’s hopes were realised, for _Lizzie Hexam_ returning from the mill, found her lying among the trees as described, and tended her at the last, with helpful and loving hands—

“A look of thankfulness and triumph lights the worn old face. The
eyes, which have been darkly fixed upon the sky, turn with meaning in
them towards the compassionate face from which the tears are
dropping, and a smile is on the aged lips as they ask, ‘What is your
name, my dear?’ ‘My name is Lizzie Hexam.’ ‘I must be sore
disfigured. Are you afraid to kiss me?’ The answer is, the ready
pressure of her lips upon the cold but smiling mouth. ‘Bless ye!
Now lift me, my love.’ Lizzie Hexam very softly raised the
weather-stained grey head, and lifted her as high as Heaven.”

The Burial, as detailed in the following chapter, must have taken place in the little churchyard of the contiguous village of SHIPLAKE (about three-quarters of a mile distant), the service being conducted by the Rev. Frank Milvey, and attended by the Secretary and poor _Sloppy_ as mourners.

“A cry for help.” It may be interesting to indicate the local sequence of events on that memorable Saturday evening, when Bradley Headstone, impelled by wild resentment and furious jealousy, did his best to murder his more favoured rival, as described in chapter 6, book 4, under the above heading. It will be remembered that, on the evening in question, Eugene Wrayburn having forced an appointment with Lizzie Hexam, met her on the path by the river, when a very affecting farewell interview ensued. This interview occurring on the towpath—tolerably secluded at and after twilight—about halfway between Henley and Marsh (see _Marcus Stone’s_ Illustration, “The Parting by the River”), Eugene strolled slowly towards his inn, while Lizzie walked sorrowfully, as a matter of course, in the opposite direction. We read that, passing Bradley Headstone (disguised as a bargeman)—

“Eugene Wrayburn went the opposite way, with his hands behind him,
and his purpose in his thoughts. He passed the sheep, and passed the
gate, and came within hearing of the village sounds, and came to the
bridge. The inn where he stayed, like the village and the mill, was
not across the river, but on that side of the stream on which he
walked . . . feeling out of humour for noise or company, he crossed
the bridge, and sauntered on: looking up at the stars as they seemed
one by one to be kindled in the sky, and looking down at the river as
the same stars seemed to be kindled deep in the water. A
landing-place overshadowed by a willow, and a pleasant boat lying
moored there among some stakes, caught his eye as he passed along.”

Thus it will be seen how Eugene, following the _west bank_ of the Thames to Henley, and thereafter crossing Henley Bridge, pursued the course of his meditations past the landing-place on the opposite side, walking onwards by the towpath thence continued, in the direction of POPLAR POINT.

The Murderous Attack upon him by Headstone, in the darkening shades of nightfall, must have here occurred, not far from the bridge, and opposite to the town, Wrayburn being thrown into the river by his assailant, and so left for dead.

Lizzie Hexam, endeavouring to regain composure, went towards Marsh, and must have crossed by The Lock Gates to the main road beyond, turning in the direction of Henley. She thereafter walked slowly onwards in the neighbourhood of the bridge at its eastern side, and thus unconsciously came again near to, and following behind, her lover, on the

Eastern Tow Path beyond the bridge, as above mentioned. Hereabouts, hearing “the sound of blows, a faint groan, and a fall into the river,” she ran towards the spot from which the sounds had come—not far distant, on the riverside path, northward from the bridge. We are all familiar with the story of Lizzie’s heroic rescue of Eugene from the river. Finding a boat on the north side of HENLEY BRIDGE—

“She passed the scene of the struggle—yonder it was—on her left, well
over the boat’s stern—she passed on her right the end of the village
street (New Street) . . . looking as the boat drove, everywhere,
everywhere for the floating face.”

Finding and recovering the body, she rowed “back against the stream,” landing at the lawn of the RED LION INN as previously described.

The Rambler may now take a short trip by boat down the river six miles from Henley, for visiting THE LOCK where _Rogue Riderhood_ acted for a time, as deputy superintendent.

Leaving HENLEY, we may note, on the left, the mansion of _Fawley Court_, beyond which, passing REGATTA ISLAND, we arrive at GREENLANDS, in the occupation of the Right Hon. W. H. Smith (not unknown in political and literary circles). The house is pleasantly situated at the bend of the river. We next arrive at _Hambledon Lock_, two miles from Henley; thereafter reaching ASTON, as we proceed down the stream to MEDMENHAM, with its picturesque Abbey, founded in the reign of King John, standing on the north bank. Below Medmenham is Hurley Lock, which is our present destination. It is contiguous to NEW LOCK WEIR, and to the village of HURLEY, situated on the right bank of the river. This is known to readers of “Our Mutual Friend” as Plashwater Weir Mill Lock, at whose gates _Riderhood_—whilom a “waterside character,” the partner of _Gaffer Hexam_—officiated as deputy lock-keeper. We are introduced to him as not very wide-awake in this capacity, in chapter 1, book 4—

“PLASHWATER WEIR MILL LOCK looked tranquil and pretty on an evening
in the summer-time. A soft air stirred the leaves of the fresh green
trees, and passed like a smooth shadow over the river, and like a
smoother shadow over the yielding grass. The voice of the falling
water, like the voices of the sea and the wind, was an outer memory
to a contemplative listener; but not particularly so to Mr.
Riderhood, who sat on one of the blunt wooden levers of his
lock-gates, dozing.”

To this locality came Bradley Headstone, who, for sinister reasons of his own, cultivated Riderhood’s acquaintance, making The Lock House a convenient place of call, as he pursued Eugene Wrayburn in his quest, full details of which may be found in chapters 1 and 7, book 6. Here also was enacted the final scene of the tragedy, as narrated in chapter 15, book 4, when Bradley Headstone drowned himself and Riderhood in the Lock—

“Bradley had caught him round the body. He seemed to be girdled with
an iron ring. They were on the brink of the Lock, about midway
between the two sets of gates. . . . ‘Let go!’ said Riderhood.
‘Stop! What are you trying at? You can’t drown me. Ain’t I told
you that the man as has come through drowning can never be drowned?
I can’t be drowned.’ ‘I can be!’ returned Bradley, in a desperate,
clenched voice. ‘I am resolved to be. I’ll hold you living, and
I’ll hold you dead. Come down!’ Riderhood went over into the smooth
pit, backward, and Bradley Headstone upon him. When the two were
found, lying under the ooze and scum behind one of the rotting gates,
Riderhood’s hold had relaxed, probably in falling, and his eyes were
staring upward. But he was girdled still with Bradley’s iron ring,
and the rivets of the iron ring held tight.”

By road, HURLEY LOCK is but four miles distant from Henley; a pedestrian, therefore, could make an easy short cut, as against a rower up the stream; hence the assurance given by the deputy lock-keeper to his impatient visitor (see book 4, chapter 1):—

“‘Ha, ha! Don’t be afeerd, T’otherest,’ said Riderhood. ‘The
T’other’s got to make way agin the stream, and he takes it easy. You
can soon come up with him. But wot’s the good of saying that to you!
You know how fur you could have outwalked him betwixt anywheres about
where he lost the tide—say Richmond—and this, if you had had a mind
to it.’”

Travelling homeward on the return to London, it may be desirable to break the journey at SLOUGH—eighteen miles from Paddington—whence may be conveniently visited the rustic village and cemetery of Stoke Pogis, about a mile and a half northward from the station. The latter contains the tomb of the poet Gray, and is the scene of his famous “Elegy in a Country Churchyard.” It may be remembered that from this well-known poem Mr. Micawber’s Quotation was taken, as an appropriate conclusion to one of his many friendly but grandiloquent epistles, confirming an important appointment. In “David Copperfield,” at the end of chapter 49, we read of Micawber’s expressed determination to unmask his “foxey” employer, and to crush “to undiscoverable atoms that transcendent and immortal hypocrite and perjurer, Heep”; and we may recall his “most secret and confidential letter,” soon afterwards received by David, as containing the following reference:—

“The duty done, and act of reparation performed, which can alone
enable me to contemplate my fellow mortal, I shall be known no more.
I shall simply require to be deposited in that place of universal
resort, where

‘Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.’

With the plain Inscription,
WILKINS MICAWBER.”

So, as the evening shades prevail, “near and nearer drawn” through “the glimmering landscape,” we again approach the lights of London Town, with (it may be hoped) pleasant reminiscences of the foregoing excursions. Should the Rambler, like Mr. John Harmon on a similar occasion, be accompanied by a friend, who perchance may be “nearer and dearer than all other,” he may appropriately endorse John Harmon’s reflections as he made the same journey under blissful circumstances (see “Our Mutual Friend,” book 3, end of chapter 9)—

“O, boofer lady, fascinating boofer lady! If I were but legally
executor of Johnny’s will. If I had but the right to pay your legacy
and take your receipt! Something to this purpose surely mingled with
the blast of the train as it cleared the stations, all knowingly
shutting up their green eyes and opening their red ones when they
prepared to let the boofer lady pass.”

RAMBLE IX _By Great Eastern Route from London to Yarmouth_

Liverpool Street Station—Epping Forest—Buckhurst Hill—Chigwell Village—Chigwell Churchyard; Resting-Place of Barnaby Rudge and his Mother—“Grip” the Raven—The “King’s Head Inn”—“The Maypole”—Mr. Cattermole’s Frontispiece—The Bar—The Landlord, John Willett—Dolly Varden—The Visit of the Varden Family—The Warren; Residence of Mr. Haredale and his Niece—By Main Line to Ipswich—The Great White Horse Hotel in Tavern Street—The Apartment of the Middle-Aged Lady—Mr. Pickwick’s Misadventure—St. Clement’s Church—Job Trotter—The Green Gate, Residence of G. Nupkins, Esq.—Mary the Pretty Housemaid—Sam Weller’s First Love—Ipswich to Great Yarmouth—Mr. Peggotty’s Boat-house—Home of Little Emily—The Two London Coaches—The “Angel Hotel”—David’s Dinner in the Coffee-Room—The Friendly Waiter—The “Star Hotel”—Headquarters of Copperfield and Steerforth—Miss Mowcher’s First Introduction—Unlocalised Sites—Blundeston—Blunderstone Rookery—Early Childhood of Copperfield—Somerleyton Park.

A pleasant drive from London to Chigwell is described in chapter 19 of “Barnaby Rudge,” and may be still taken about twelve miles by road, starting from Whitechapel Church _viâ_ Mile-End and Bow, thence crossing the River Lea, and proceeding, in the county of Essex, by way of _Stratford_, _Leytonstone_, _Snaresbrook_, and _Wilcox Green_. But time will be saved by adopting a convenient train, leaving Liverpool Street Station (Great Eastern Railway) for _Buckhurst Hill_—on the Ongar Branch Line—in the neighbourhood of Epping Forest, a district formerly preserved by the old monarchs of Merrie England for the enjoyment of field sports and the pleasures of the chase.

From this point a country walk (under two miles), turning eastward, and to the left after crossing the long intervening bridge, will lead in due course to the main road at Chigwell. Coming into the village we pass, at the corner on the right, Chigwell Church, surrounded by its quiet churchyard. This locality will be remembered as having afforded a resting-place to Barnaby and his mother after their visit to Mr. Haredale at _The Warren_ (chapter 25). “In the churchyard they sat down to take their frugal dinner”—Grip, the raven, being one of the party—“walking up and down when he had dined with an air of elderly complacency, which was strongly suggestive of his having his hands under his coat tails, and appearing to read the tombstones with a very critical taste.” On the other side of the main road, a very little way onward (left), stands the old King’s Head Inn, the original “local habitation,” if not “the name,” of the ancient hostelry so intimately associated with the central and domestic interests of the aforesaid historical novel, and known to us therein as The Maypole, “an old building with more gable ends than a lazy man would care to count on a sunny day; its windows, old diamond pane lattices; its floors sunken and uneven; its ceilings blackened by the hand of time, and heavy with massive beams; with its overhanging storeys, drowsy little panes of glass, and front bulging out and projecting over the pathway.”

[Picture: The “King’s Head,” Chigwell]

This description is appropriate to the house as it stands at present, a fine old specimen of the timbered architecture of bygone centuries; but it may be remarked that THE ILLUSTRATION drawn by Cattermole, which forms the frontispiece in the recent editions of “Barnaby Rudge,” is altogether beside the mark; for the designer has furnished therein, an elaborate and ornate picture of the old inn which does not correspond with fact, but rather remains in evidence of the beauty and exuberance of his artistic imagination. Here, then, we may recall the visit of Mr. and Mrs. Varden, accompanied by their daughter, the charming Dolly, “the very pink and pattern of good looks, in a smart little cherry-coloured mantle, with a hood of the same drawn over her head, and, upon the top of that hood, a little straw hat, trimmed with cherry-coloured ribbons, and worn the merest trifle on one side—just enough, in short, to make it the wickedest and most provoking head-dress that ever malicious milliner devised.”

In the same connection The “Bar” of the old “Maypole,” the preparation for dinner, and the kitchen are thus described:—

“All bars are snug places, but the Maypole’s was the very snuggest,
cosiest, and completest bar that ever the wit of man devised. Such
amazing bottles in old oaken pigeon-holes; such gleaming tankards
dangling from pegs at about the same inclination as thirsty men would
hold them to their lips; such sturdy little Dutch kegs ranged in rows
on shelves; so many lemons hanging in separate nets, and forming the
fragrant grove already mentioned in this chronicle, suggestive, with
goodly loaves of snowy sugar stowed away hard by, of punch, idealised
beyond all mortal knowledge; such closets, such presses, such drawers
full of pipes, such places for putting things away in hollow window
seats, all crammed to the throat with eatables, drinkables, or
savoury condiments; lastly, and to crown all, as typical of the
immense resources of the establishment, and its defiances to all
visitors to cut and come again, such a stupendous cheese!

“It is a poor heart that never rejoices—it must have been the
poorest, weakest, and most watery heart that ever beat which would
not have warmed towards the Maypole bar. Mrs. Varden’s did directly.
She could no more have reproached John Willet among those household
gods, the kegs and bottles, lemons, pipes, and cheese, than she could
have stabbed him with his own bright carving-knife. The order for
dinner too—it might have soothed a savage. ‘A bit of fish,’ said
John to the cook, ‘and some lamb chops (breaded, with plenty of
ketchup), and a good salad, and a roast spring chicken, with a dish
of sausages and mashed potatoes, or something of that sort.’
Something of that sort! The resources of these inns! To talk
carelessly about dishes which in themselves were a first-rate holiday
kind of dinner, suitable to one’s wedding-day, as something of that
sort, meaning, if you can’t get a spring chicken, any other trifle in
the way of poultry will do—such as a peacock, perhaps! The kitchen,
too, with its great broad cavernous chimney; the kitchen, where
nothing in the way of cookery seemed impossible; where you could
believe in anything to eat they chose to tell you of. Mrs. Varden
returned from the contemplation of these wonders to the bar again,
with a head quite dizzy and bewildered. Her housekeeping capacity
was not large enough to comprehend them. She was obliged to go to
sleep. Waking was pain, in the midst of such immensity.”

The Warren, residence of Mr. Haredale and his niece, an old red-brick house, standing in its own grounds, was situated about a mile eastward from the Maypole, and was thence accessible by a path across the fields, from the garden exit of the inn, to its position on the border of Hainault Forest. (See final paragraph of chapter 19, “Barnaby Rudge.”) From many suggestions in the book, it occupied, in all probability, the site of _Forest House_, not a great distance from Chigwell Row; but of this no certainty exists.

* * * * *

CHIGWELL TO IPSWICH. It will be best to return from _Buckhurst Hill_ by rail to Stratford or Liverpool Street, in order to travel by fast main line train, to the good old town of Ipswich, our next destination. The journey—_viâ_ Chelmsford and Colchester—will occupy about two hours, during which we may recall the memorable occasion of Mr. Pickwick’s excursion per coach from the “Bull Inn,” Whitechapel, to this ancient capital of Suffolk, attended by the faithful Sam, Mr. Weller, senior, driving, and beguiling the tediousness of the way with conversation of considerable interest—“possessing the inestimable charm of blending amusement with instruction.” Full details will be found on reference to the “Pickwick Papers,” chapter 22, together with the account of Mr. P.’s introduction to his fellow-traveller, Mr. Peter Magnus, “a red-haired man, with an inquisitive nose and blue spectacles.” On arrival at the station at Ipswich, the wayfarer, crossing by bridge over the _Gipping_ river, may proceed straight onwards through _Princes Street_ (five minutes) to _Tavern Street_. Turning to the right, along this thoroughfare, he will soon see the Great White Horse Hotel, on the left side of Tavern Street. Tramcars from the station pass the hotel; also omnibus meets all trains. Telegraphic address—Pickwick, Ipswich. In the chapter before referred to is contained the following description:—

“In the main street of Ipswich, on the left-hand side of the way, 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 rapacious animal with flowing mane and tail,
distinctly 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 such labyrinths of uncarpeted passages, such clusters of
mouldy, ill-lighted rooms, such huge numbers of small dens for eating
or sleeping in beneath one roof, as are collected together within the
four walls of the Great White Horse at Ipswich.”

[Picture: The “Great White Horse,” Ipswich]

The Dickensian Rambler will well remember this hotel as the scene of Mr. Pickwick’s “romantic adventure with a middle-aged lady in yellow curl-papers,” related _in extenso_ in the same chapter as above. Information as to the exact bedroom allotted to Mr. Pickwick on the occasion of his visit to this place is, unfortunately, not afforded by local tradition; but the apartment occupied by “Miss Witherfield,” whose privacy Mr. P. inadvertently, but so unhappily, invaded, is indicated to visitors on the second floor—No. 36, according to recent rearrangement of enumeration, formerly known as No. 6.

Poor Mr. Pickwick, on his escape from his awkward predicament, was unable to find his own room, but was at last rescued from his dilemma by his faithful servitor—

“After groping his way a few paces down the passage, and, to his
infinite alarm, stumbling over several pairs of boots in so doing,
Mr. Pickwick crouched into a little recess in the wall, to wait for
morning as philosophically as he might.

“He was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of
patience; for he had not been long ensconced in his present
concealment when, to his unspeakable horror, a man, bearing a light,
appeared at the end of the passage. His horror was suddenly
converted into joy, however, when he recognised the form of his
faithful attendant. It was indeed Mr. Samuel Weller, who after
sitting up thus late, in conversation with the Boots, who was sitting
up for the mail, was now about to retire to rest.

“‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly appearing before him, ‘where’s my
bedroom?’

“Mr. Weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise; and
it was not until the question had been repeated three several times,
that he turned round, and led the way to the long-sought apartment.

“‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he got into bed. ‘I have made one of
the most extraordinary mistakes to-night that were ever heard of.’

“‘Wery likely, sir,’ said Mr. Weller drily.

“‘But of this I am determined, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that if I
were to stop in this house for six months, I would never trust myself
about it alone again.’

“‘That’s the wery prudentest resolution as you could come to, sir,’
replied Mr. Weller. ‘You rayther want somebody to look arter you,
sir, wen your judgment goes out a wisitin’.’”

By way of _Upper Brook Street_, _Tacket Street_, and _Orwell Place_, we come to _Fore Street_, _St. Clement’s_ (a thoroughfare in which still remain several old houses of the sixteenth century), and soon reach the whereabouts of St. Clement’s Church, towards which, on the morning following the disasters of the night of their arrival, Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps, and

“endeavoured to dissipate his melancholy by strolling among its
ancient precincts. He had loitered about for some time, when 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. He was about retracing his steps, when he
was suddenly transfixed to the spot by a sudden appearance; and the
mode and manner of this appearance we now proceed to relate.

“Mr. Samuel Weller had been staring up at the old brick houses now
and then, in his deep abstraction, bestowing a wink upon some
healthy-looking servant girl as she drew up a blind, or threw open a
bedroom window, when the green gate at the bottom of the yard opened,
and a man having emerged therefrom, closed the green gate very
carefully after him, and walked briskly towards the very spot where
Mr. Weller was standing.”

This personage proved to be none other than Mr. Job Trotter, whose black hair and mulberry suit were at once recognised by Sam, though their owner did his best to evade detection:—

“As the green gate was closed behind him, and there was no other
outlet but the one in front, however, he was not long in perceiving
that he must pass Mr. Samuel Weller to get away. He therefore
resumed his brisk pace, and advanced, staring straight before him.
The most extraordinary thing about the man was, that he was
contorting his face into the most fearful and astonishing grimaces
that ever were beheld. Nature’s handiwork never was disguised with
such extraordinary artificial carving, as the man had overlaid his
countenance with in one moment.”

The Green Gate thus alluded to may yet be seen in a passage or court at the bottom of _Angel Lane_ (leading to Back Street). It is the last garden gate in the churchyard, a short distance from Church Street. The same courtyard and gate will be remembered as the official entrance to the Residence of George Nupkins, Esq., the Worshipful Mayor of Ipswich, before whom the Pickwickian party were arraigned, in charge of the redoubtable chief constable of the town. We read in chapter 25 as follows:—

“Mr. Weller’s anger quickly gave way to curiosity when the procession
turned down the identical courtyard in which he had met with the
runaway Job Trotter; and curiosity was exchanged for a feeling of the
most gleeful astonishment, when the all-important Mr. Grummer,
commanding the sedan-bearers to halt, advanced with dignified and
portentous steps to the very green gate from which Job Trotter had
emerged, and gave a mighty pull at the bell-handle which hung at the
side thereof. The ring was answered by a very smart and pretty-faced
servant-girl, who, after holding up her hands in astonishment at the
rebellious appearance of the prisoners, and the impassioned language
of Mr. Pickwick, summoned Mr. Muzzle. Mr. Muzzle opened one-half of
the carriage gate to admit the sedan, the captured ones, and the
specials, and immediately slammed it in the faces of the mob. . . .

“At the foot of a flight of steps, leading to the house door, which
was guarded on either side by an American aloe in a green tub, the
sedan-chair stopped. Mr. Pickwick and his friends were conducted
into the hall, whence, having been previously announced by Muzzle,
and ordered in by Mr. Nupkins, they were ushered into the worshipful
presence of that public-spirited officer.”

And we all recollect the resulting _exposé_ of the designs of Mr. Alfred Jingle (_alias_ Captain Fitzmarshall), and the return by Mr. Weller of “Job Trotter’s shuttlecock as heavily as it came.”

It should also be not forgotten that it was at this house Mr. Weller met with his lady-elect, Mary, the Pretty Housemaid (afterwards maid to Mrs. Winkle), and that here the first passage of first love occurred between them. For the pleasant narration of the episode, reference should be made to the conclusion of the foregoing chapter:—

“Now, there was nobody in the kitchen but the pretty housemaid; and
as Sam’s hat was mislaid, he had to look for it, and the pretty
housemaid lighted him. They had to look all over the place for the
hat. The pretty housemaid, in her anxiety to find it, went down on
her knees, and turned over all the things that were heaped together
in a little corner by the door. It was an awkward corner. You
couldn’t get at it without shutting the door first.

“‘Here it is,’ said the pretty housemaid. ‘This is it, ain’t it?’

“‘Let me look,’ said Sam.

“The pretty housemaid had stood the candle on the floor; as it gave a
very dim light, Sam was obliged to go down on his knees before he
could see whether it really was his own hat or not. It was a
remarkably small corner, and so—it was nobody’s fault but the man’s
who built the house—Sam and the pretty housemaid were necessarily
very close together.

“‘Yes, this is it,’ said Sam. ‘Good-bye!’

“‘Good-bye!’ said the pretty housemaid.

“‘Good-bye!’ said Sam; and as he said it, he dropped the hat that had
cost so much trouble in looking for.

“‘How awkward you are,’ said the pretty housemaid. ‘You’ll lose it
again, if you don’t take care.’

“So, just to prevent his losing it again, she put it on for him.

“Whether it was that the pretty housemaid’s face looked prettier
still, when it was raised towards Sam’s, or whether it was the
accidental consequence of their being so near to each other, is
matter of uncertainty to this day; but Sam kissed her.

“‘You don’t mean to say that you did that on purpose,’ said the
pretty housemaid, blushing.

“‘No, I didn’t then,’ said Sam; ‘but I will now.’

“So he kissed her again.

“‘Sam!’ said Mr. Pickwick, calling over the banisters.

“‘Coming, sir,’ replied Sam, running upstairs.

“‘How long you have been!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

“‘There was something behind the door, sir, which perwented our
getting it open, for ever so long, sir,’ replied Sam.”

* * * * *

Resuming the journey onwards by rail from Ipswich, the route is continued _viâ Saxmundham Junction_, _Halesworth_, and _Beccles_, to the South Town Station at Great Yarmouth, a well-known and favourite seaside resort, of much interest to the Dickensian Rambler, as being intimately associated with the personal history and experience of David Copperfield. Visitors are recommended, for reasons hereafter to be seen, to select as their place of sojourn either the “_Star Hotel_” on the Hall Quay, or the “_Angel_,” near the market-place. Any thoroughfare leading eastward from either of these will conduct to the _Marine Parade_, in full view of the German Ocean.

Towards the southern end of this sea frontage of the town, there may be localised the spot where once stood the Home of Little Emily, “a black barge or some other kind of superannuated boat, high and dry on the ground, with an iron funnel sticking out of it for a chimney. There was a delightful door cut in the side; it was roofed in, and there were little windows in it.”

The position of this old boat-house, as belonging to Dan’l Peggotty, was at the upper extremity of the _South Denes_, a flat and grassy expanse—beyond the _Wellington Pier_ and _South Battery_—in the neighbourhood of the _Nelson Column_, facing the sea.

In chapter 22 we find a reference to the South Town ferry, crossing the Yare, “to a flat between the river and the sea, Mr. Peggotty’s house being on that waste place, and not a hundred yards out of the track.”

[There is a small wooden erection, more than a mile and a half distant, on the sea-front near _Gorleston Pier_—between two well-built houses—assuming the name of _Peggotty’s Hut_; but this is an evident absurdity and misnomer.]

Here, then, we may recall the many interests and incidents connected with the experiences of the Peggotty family, and the sorrowful history of Little Emily, notably the fateful occasion of STEERFORTH’S FIRST VISIT, concerning which David records in chapter 21 of his autobiography, to the following effect:—

“Em’ly, indeed, said little all the evening; but she looked, and
listened, and her face got animated, and she was charming.
Steerforth told a story of a dismal shipwreck (which arose out of his
talk with Mr. Peggotty), as if he saw it all before him—and little
Em’ly’s eyes were fastened on him all the time, as if she saw it too.
He told us a merry adventure of his own, as a relief to that, with as
much gaiety as if the narrative were as fresh to him as it was to
us—and little Em’ly laughed until the boat rang with the musical
sounds, and we all laughed (Steerforth too), in irresistible sympathy
with what was so pleasant and lighthearted. He got Mr. Peggotty to
sing, or rather to roar, ‘When the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do
blow;’ and he sang a sailor’s song himself, so pathetically and
beautifully, that I could have almost fancied that the real wind
creeping sorrowfully round the house, and murmuring low through our
unbroken silence, was there to listen.”

Thus commenced the sad story of the poor girl’s fascination and subsequent flight with Steerforth, never more to return to the old home. In this connection we may recall the graphic and powerful description of the great Storm at Yarmouth, as contained in chapter 55, when Ham met his fate in the gallant attempt to rescue the last survivor of a wrecked and perishing crew, Steerforth himself:—

“They drew him to my very feet—insensible—dead. He was carried to
the nearest house; and, no one preventing me now, I remained near
him, busy, while every means of restoration was tried; but he had
been beaten to death by the great wave, and his generous heart was
stilled for ever.

“As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned and all was done, a
fisherman, who had known me when Emily and I were children, and ever
since, whispered my name at the door.

“Sir,’ said he, with tears starting to his weather-beaten face,
which, with his trembling lips, was ashy pale, ‘will you come over
yonder?’

“The old remembrance that had been recalled to me was in his look. I
asked him, terror-stricken, leaning on the arm he held out to support
me—

“‘Has a body come ashore?’

“He said, ‘Yes.’

“‘Do I know it?’ I asked then.

“He answered nothing.

“But he led me to the shore. And on that part of it where she and I
had looked for shells, two children—on that part of it where some
lighter fragments of the old boat, blown down last night, had been
scattered by the wind—among the ruins of the home he had wronged—I
saw him lying with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie
at school.”

In the days of Copperfield, Two Coaches ran between Great Yarmouth and London—“The Blue” and “The Royal Mail.” On the occasion of David’s first journey to his school at Blackheath, he travelled by the former of these, from The Angel Hotel, in the Market Place. We may here recall his dinner of chops in the coffee-room, at which the “friendly waiter” assisted, helping himself to the lion’s share.

In chapter 5 of his History, David relates the attendant circumstances of this, his second visit to Yarmouth; and how, starting as above from the hotel, his dinner—ordered and paid for in advance—was mainly consumed by proxy, ale included. We read that the waiter, “a twinkling-eyed, pimple-faced man, with his hair standing upright all over his head,” invited himself to the meal:—

“He took a chop by the bone in one hand, and a potato in the other,
and ate away with a very good appetite, to my extreme satisfaction.
He afterwards took another chop, and another potato; and after that
another chop and another potato. When we had done, he brought me a
pudding, and having set it before me, seemed to ruminate, and to
become absent in his mind for some moments.

“‘How’s the pie?’ he said, rousing himself.

“‘It’s a pudding,’ I made answer.

“‘Pudding!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, bless me, so it is! What!’ looking
at it nearer. ‘You don’t mean to say it’s a batter-pudding?’

“‘Yes, it is indeed.’

“‘Why, a batter-pudding,’ he said, taking up a table-spoon, ‘is my
favourite pudding. Ain’t that lucky? Come on, little ’un, and let’s
see who’ll get most.’

“The waiter certainly got most. He entreated me more than once to
come in and win, but what with his table-spoon to my tea-spoon, his
despatch to my despatch, and his appetite to my appetite, I was left
far behind at the first mouthful, and had no chance with him. I
never saw any one enjoy a pudding so much, I think; and he laughed,
when it was all gone, as if his enjoyment of it lasted still.”

On his return journey from London, we find him coming down by “The Mail,” which stopped at The Star Hotel, on the Hall Quay, where the bedchamber, “The Dolphin,” was assigned for his accommodation. He and his friend Steerforth, in after visits, frequently adopted this “Royal Mail” conveyance, making headquarters at the “Star Hotel.”

The “volatile” _Miss Mowcher_ is first introduced to us at this establishment.

In chapter 22 we have the full account of David’s visit to Yarmouth in company with Steerforth. They “stayed for more than a fortnight in that part of the country,” during which time Littimer, being in attendance one evening at this hotel during dinner, informed them that Miss Mowcher was making one of her professional visits to the town, and desired an opportunity of waiting on his master. David says:—

“I remained, therefore, in a state of considerable expectation until
the cloth had been removed some half-an-hour, and we were sitting
over our decanter of wine before the fire, when the door opened, and
Littimer, with his habitual serenity quite undisturbed, announced:

“‘Miss Mowcher!’

“I looked at the doorway and saw nothing. I was still looking at the
doorway, thinking that Miss Mowcher was a long while making her
appearance, when, to my infinite astonishment, there came waddling
round a sofa which stood between me and it, a pursy dwarf, of about
forty or forty-five, with a very large head and face, a pair of
roguish grey eyes, and such extremely little arms, that, to enable
herself to lay a finger archly against her snub nose as she ogled
Steerforth, she was obliged to meet the finger half-way, and lay her
nose against it. Her chin, which was what is called a double-chin,
was so fat that it entirely swallowed up the strings of her bonnet,
bow and all. Throat she had none; waist she had none; legs she had
none, worth mentioning; for though she was more than full-sized down
to where her waist would have been, if she had had any, and though
she terminated, as human beings generally do, in a pair of feet, she
was so short that she stood at a common-sized chair as at a table,
resting a bag she carried on the seat.”

Sites Unlocalised. At this distance of time it is impossible to indicate the locality of “_The Willing Mind_”—patronised by Mr. Peggotty—the residence of _Mr. and Mrs. Barkis_, or the establishment of _Messrs Omer and Joram_. The last is described as being “in a narrow street,” and should be doubtless looked for in the older part of the town.

Blundeston, the birthplace of Copperfield, may be visited from _Somerleyton Station_, on the line between Yarmouth and Lowestoft. The village, with its round-towered church, is situated about four miles eastward from the railway. The house indicated in the novel as _Blunderstone Rookery_ stands next the church. The excursion could include, _en route_, a visit to Somerleyton Park, open to the public on Wednesdays.

RAMBLE X _London to Dorking and Portsmouth_

Nicholas Nickleby and Smike on their travels—Excursion by Coach, “The Perseverance”—Route to Dorking—Residence of Mr. and Mrs. Tony Weller—The “Marquis of Granby”—The Rev. Mr. Stiggins and his “pertickler vanity”—The downfall of Stiggins—The old Horse-trough—Dorking to Portsmouth—Parentage of Dickens—Registration of Charles John Huffham Dickens—Birthplace of Dickens—The Theatre-Royal—The Old Theatre—Unlocalised Localities—Portsmouth to London—Westminster Abbey—Tomb of Dickens—His Funeral as reported by the _Daily News_, June 1870—Poetical Tribute—The future Outlook.

In the early days of the present century, Nicholas Nickleby leaving London with Smike, bound for Portsmouth, took the high road _viâ_ Kingston and Godalming (with a view, _en passant_, of the Devil’s Punch-bowl); walking steadily onward until arrival, on their second day’s march, at a roadside inn—probably in the neighbourhood of _Horndean_. Here they met with Mr. Vincent Crummles, of histrionic fame, and ended their more immediate perplexities by an engagement with that gentleman. There was no railway communication in those times, and coach fare was expensive; but now-a-days we have adopted a cheaper and more speedy means of transit, and may reach Portsmouth from London quickly, by two lines of railroad.

As, in the following excursion, it is proposed to make an intermediate visit _en route_ to the residence (once on a time) of Mr. and Mrs. Tony Weller, a journey by coach is recommended to Dorking, as affording a suitable compliment to Mr. Weller’s memory and profession. A delightful journey may thus be made by “The Perseverance” coach, which starts every week-day during the season, from Northumberland Avenue, at 10.45 A.M., and travels four-in-hand, _viâ_ Roehampton, Kingston, Surbiton, Epsom, Leatherhead, Mickleham, and Boxhill, and arrives at Dorking, in time for luncheon at the “White Horse Hotel,” at which the coach stops.

The interest of this country town centres, for Pickwickian readers, in the “_Marquis of Granby_,” once an inn. It exists no longer as such, having been long since converted into a grocer’s establishment. It will be found in the High Street, opposite the Post Office, at the side of _Chequers’ Court_, which runs between it and the _London and County Bank_. The old sign-board, the cosy bar, with its store of choice wines and pine-apple rum (Mr. Stiggins’s “pertickler vanity”), and the horse-trough in which the reverend gentleman was half drowned by the irate Weller, senior, are now among the things that are not; but the old house still remains _in situ_, altered to the uses of its present occupancy.

In chapter 27 of the Pickwick records we read of Sam’s first pilgrimage to Dorking, on which occasion he paid his filial respects to his mother-in-law, the rather stout lady of comfortable appearance, who conducted the business of the house; and made his acquaintance with the Rev. Mr. Stiggins of saintly memory. The description of the establishment is given as follows:—

“The ‘Marquis of Granby’ in Mrs. Weller’s time was quite a model of a
roadside public-house of the better class—just large enough to be
convenient, and small enough to be snug. On the opposite side of the
road was a large sign-board on a high post, representing the head and
shoulders of a gentleman with an apoplectic countenance, in a red
coat with deep-blue facings, and a touch of the same blue over his
three-cornered hat, for a sky. Over that again were a pair of flags;
beneath the last button of his coat were a couple of cannon; and the
whole formed an expressive and undoubted likeness of the Marquis of
Granby of glorious memory.

“The bar window displayed a choice collection of geranium plants, and
a well-dusted row of spirit phials. The open shutters bore a variety
of golden inscriptions, eulogistic of good beds and neat wines; and
the choice group of countrymen and hostlers lounging about the
stable-door and horse-trough, afforded presumptive proof of the
excellent quality of the ale and spirits which were sold within. Sam
Weller paused, when he dismounted from the coach, to note all these
little indications of a thriving business, with the eye of an
experienced traveller; and having done so, stepped in at once, highly
satisfied with everything he had observed.”

Mr. Stiggins, the clerical friend and spiritual adviser of the worthy hostess, having fully ingratiated himself in her good graces, was in the habit of making himself very much at home at “The Marquis”; greatly appreciating the creature comforts there obtainable, and the good liquors kept in stock. In point of fact, knowing when he was well off, he lived well—if not wisely—on Mrs. Weller’s hospitable bounty, and made headquarters at this Dorking inn. On the occasion of Sam’s first visit before referred to—in chapter 27, as above—this estimable character is thus introduced to the notice of Pickwickian students:—

“He was a prim-faced, red-nosed man, with a long, thin countenance,
and a semi-rattlesnake sort of eye—rather sharp, but decidedly bad.
He wore very short trousers, and black-cotton stockings, which, like
the rest of his apparel, were particularly rusty. His looks were
starched, but his white neckerchief was not, and its long limp ends
straggled over his closely-buttoned waistcoat in a very uncouth and
unpicturesque fashion.”

“The fire was blazing brightly under the influence of the bellows,
and the kettle was singing gaily under the influence of both. A
small tray of tea things was arranged on the table, a plate of hot
buttered toast was gently simmering before the fire, and the
red-nosed man himself was busily engaged in converting a large slice
of bread into the same agreeable edible, through the instrumentality
of a long brass toasting-fork. Beside him stood a glass of reeking
hot pine-apple rum and water, with a slice of lemon in it; and every
time the red-nosed man stopped to bring the round of toast to his
eye, with the view of ascertaining how it got on, he imbibed a drop
or two of the hot pine-apple rum and water, and smiled upon the
rather stout lady, as she blew the fire.”

The downfall of Stiggins. The season of his prosperity came to a sad ending after the demise of his patroness; and in chapter 52 we read of his reverse of fortune, and the final _congé_ given to the reverend gentleman by the irate Mr. Weller, senior, who dismissed him from his household chaplaincy, in a manner more peremptory than pleasant:—

“He walked softly into the bar, and presently returning with the
tumbler half full of pine-apple rum, advanced to the kettle which was
singing gaily on the hob, mixed his grog, stirred it, sipped it, sat
down, and taking a long and hearty pull at the rum and water, stopped
for breath.

“The elder Mr. Weller, who still continued to make various strange
and uncouth attempts to appear asleep, offered not a single word
during these proceedings; but when Stiggins stopped for breath, he
darted upon him, and snatching the tumbler from his hand, threw the
remainder of the rum and water in his face, and the glass itself into
the grate. Then, seizing the reverend gentleman firmly by the
collar, he suddenly fell to kicking him most furiously, accompanying
every application of his top-boots to Mr. Stiggins’s person, with
sundry violent and incoherent anathemas upon his limbs, eyes, and
body.

“‘Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘put my hat on tight for me.’

“Sam dutifully adjusted the hat with the long hatband more firmly on
his father’s head, and the old gentleman, resuming his kicking with
greater agility than before, tumbled with Mr. Stiggins through the
bar, and through the passage, out at the front door, and so into the
street; the kicking continuing the whole way, and increasing in
vehemence, rather than diminishing, every time the top-boot was
lifted.

“It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see the red-nosed man
writhing in Mr. Weller’s grasp, and his whole frame quivering with
anguish as kick followed kick in rapid succession; it was a still
more exciting spectacle to behold Mr. Weller, after a powerful
struggle, immersing Mr. Stiggins’s head in a horse-trough full of
water, and holding it there until he was half-suffocated.”

The old horse-trough, as depicted by “Phiz” in the original illustrated title-page of the book, has long since given place to local alteration and improvement; but “hereabouts it stood.”

There are many pleasant and humorous associations connected with this old place of country entertainment, as duly set forth in the Pickwick annals; but it should be remembered that many years have passed since their publication (1837), and that men and manners have greatly changed and bettered. It is satisfactory to reflect that Mr. Stiggins and his brethren have altogether become obsolete in English middle-class society, and that the protest so embodied sixty years since is no longer necessary. In these happier days, earnestness and ability have, in the main, superseded laziness and cant.

* * * * *

DORKING TO PORTSMOUTH. The journey being resumed by railway, we travel southward and westward through the pleasant fields and pasture lands of Sussex, _viâ_ Horsham and Chichester, to the old town of Portsmouth, where, in Landport, Portsea, Charles Dickens was born, on Friday, the 7th of February 1812. He was the second son (in a family of eight, six surviving infancy) of Mr. John Dickens, a clerk in the Navy Pay Office at the Dockyard. The name of his mother, previous to her marriage, was Elizabeth Barrow. The baptismal record at Portsea registers him as CHARLES JOHN HUFFHAM DICKENS, but he very seldom used any other signature than the one with which we are all familiar. On arrival at the Portsmouth town station, we leave the railway, turning to the right, and proceed onwards, in the main thoroughfare of Commercial Road. Thus we shortly reach, in due course, The Birthplace of Dickens. The house (No. 387 Commercial Road, Landport) stands about half a mile northward (to the right) from the railway station, with a neat forecourt. It bears a tablet recording date of the event, as above.

[Picture: Dickens’ Birthplace]

South of the station (leftward), beyond the Town Hall, will be found, on the right, The Theatre Royal; but it should be noted that this is _not_ the establishment referred to in “Nicholas Nickleby.”

That old theatre, at which Nicholas—adopting the professional _alias_ of “Johnson”—made his histrionic _début_ under the managerial auspices of Mr. Vincent Crummles, occupied, some eighty years since, the present site of The Cambridge Barracks, in the _High Street_, farther onwards.