Read Ebook: Rambles in Dickens' Land by Allbut Robert Brenan Gerald Author Of Introduction Etc James Helen M Illustrator

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INTRODUCTION

It is one of the magic legacies left by the great romancers, that the scenes and characters which they described should possess for most of us an air of reality, so convincing as sometimes to put staid history to the blush. The novelist's ideals become actual to the popular mind; while commonplace truth hides itself among its dry-as-dust records, until some curious antiquary or insistent pedant drags it forth to make a nine days' wonder. We sigh over "Juliet's Tomb" in spite of the precisians, sup in the inn kitchen at Pennaflor with Gil Blas at our elbow, and shudder through the small hours outside the haunted House of the Black Cat in Quaker Philadelphia. At Tarascon they show you Tartarin's oriental garden; and you must hide the irrepressible smile, for Tartarin is painfully real to these good cap-shooters. The other day an illustrated magazine published pictures of Alexander Selkirk's birthplace, and labelled them "The Home of Robinson Crusoe." The editor who chose that caption was still under the spell of Defoe. To him, as to the vast majority, Crusoe the imaginary seemed vividly real, while the flesh-and-blood Selkirk was but a name. And if you have that catholic sympathy which is the true test of the perfect lover of romance, read "David Copperfield" once again, and then, by way of experiment, spend an afternoon in Canterbury. You will find yourself expecting at one moment to see Mr. Micawber step jauntily out of the Queen's Head Inn, at another to catch a glimpse of the red-haired Heep slinking along North Lane to his "'umble dwelling." You will probably meet a dozen buxom "eldest Miss Larkinses," and obnoxious butcher-boys--perhaps even a sweet Agnes Wickfield, or a Miss Betsy Trotwood driving in from Dover. And, above all, you will certainly enjoy yourself, and thank your gods for Charles Dickens.

Mr. Would-be Wiseman may affect to sneer at our pilgrimages to this and other places connected with the imaginary names of fiction; but he must recognise the far-reaching influence for good exercised by symbols and associations over the human mind. The sight of a loved home after many years--the flutter of one's country's flag in foreign lands--these things touch keenly our better nature. In a like manner is the thoughtful man impressed when he treads a pathway hallowed by the writings of some favourite poet or romancer. The moral lesson which the author intended to convey, his insight into character or loving eye for Nature's beauties, and many exquisite passages from his books appeal to us all the more, when we recall them in the very rooms where they were written--among the gloomy streets or breezy hills which he has filled with his inventions. Says Washington Irving in his essay on Stratford: "I could not but reflect on the singular gift of the poet; to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind over the very face of Nature; to give to things and places a charm and character not their own, and to turn this 'working-day' world into a perfect fairyland. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard influence of Shakespeare I had been walking all day in a complete delusion. . . . I had been surrounded with fancied beings; with mere airy nothings conjured up by poetic power; yet which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard Jaques soliloquise beneath his oak; had beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring through the woodlands; and, above all, had been once more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow down to the gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honours and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illusions." Wherefore, in spite of the sneers of Master Would-be Wiseman, let us continue to make these pleasant pilgrimages; not alone for our own satisfaction and betterment, but also in memory of those who have opened before us so many delectable lands of fancy, and given us so many agreeable companions of the road.

This volume, then, is the pilgrim's guide to Dickens' Land--the loving topography of that fertile and very populous region. No far away foreign country is Dickens' Land. It lies at our doors; we may explore it when we choose, with never a passport to purchase nor a Custom House to fear. The sojourner in London can scarce look from his windows without beholding scores of its interesting places. To parody that passage which describes Mr. Pickwick's outlook into Goswell Street--Dickens' Land is at our feet; Dickens' Land is on our right hand as far as the eye can reach; Dickens' Land extends on our left, and the opposite side of Dickens' Land is over the way. Nor do the bounds of this genial territory confine themselves to London alone. Outlying portions spread north and south, east and west, over England. There is even, as Sala showed, a Dickens' quarter in Paris; and we have unexpectedly encountered small colonies of Dickens' Land across the wide Atlantic. But the best of it lies close to the great heart of the world--in London, or in the counties thereabout; and if "Rambles in Dickens' Land" succeeds in guiding its readers with pleasure and profit over this storied ground, it will have faithfully fulfilled its mission.

Some other inns to which Dickens is known to have resorted are: the "Bull" at Rochester, the "Leather Bottle" at Cobham, and the "Great White Horse" at Ipswich--all with Pickwickian associations; the "Old Cheshire Cheese" in Fleet Street, and the "George and Dragon" at Canterbury. To many minor taverns in London he was also a frequent visitor, for he sought his characters in the market-place rather than in the study. His signature, with the familiar flourish underneath, is treasured in hotel registers not a few, and it is esteemed a high honour to be permitted to slumber in the "Dickens' Room."

Into Dickens' Land, therefore, my masters, an you will and when you will! The high-roads thither are always open, the lanes and by-paths are free for us to tread. He that found out this rare world has made it fully ours. Let us visit our inheritance, or revisit it, if that be the better word. Let us make real the scenes we have read of and dreamt of--peopling them with the folk of Dickens, so that familiar faces shall look upon us from familiar windows, familiar voices greet us as we pass. Shall we travel abroad in the fashion of the corresponding committee of the Pickwick Club? Then here is this book, with a wealth of shrewd information between its covers, ready to be our own particular Samuel Weller--to wear our livery, whether of sadness or of joy--to point out to us the sights and the notabilities, to be garrulous when we look for gossip, and silent when our mood is for silence--to act, in short, as that useful individual whom we all "rayther want," "somebody to look arter us when we goes out a-wisitin'."

Where, if you please, shall we "wisit" first? It is hard to choose, since there is so much to choose from. We may ramble about London town, where, like Mr. Weller, our guide is "werry much at home." If so, we are sure to encounter a host of old cronies. Perhaps we shall see the great Buzfuz entering court, all in his wig and silk, nodding with lofty condescension to his struggling brother, Mr. T. Traddles, which latter is bringing "Sophy and the girls" to set Gray's Inn a-blooming. Or Tom Pinch going towards Fountain Court to meet the waiting Ruth. Or David Copperfield joyously ushering J. Steerforth into his rooms in the Adelphi. Or Captain Cuttle steering for the sign of the "Wooden Midshipman," which he may eventually find at its new moorings in the Minories. Or Dick Swiveller, poor soul, loafing to his dingy lodgings. Or that precious pair, Bob Sawyer and Benjamin Allen, startling the sullen repose of Lant Street with bacchanalian revelry.

And, if the London Dickens' Land palls, doth not this most inviting country stretch to all points of the compass? Northward goes yonder well-appointed coach, whereof the driver has just been escorted from a certain public-house in Portugal Street by a mottle-faced man, in company with two or three other persons of stout and weather-beaten aspect--the driver himself being stouter and more weather-beaten than all. Let us take the box-seat by his side, and lead him on to talk of "shepherds in wolves' clothing," until presently he tools us into Ipswich, pulling up under the sign of that "rapacious animal" the Great White Horse. In Ipswich we may catch a glimpse of a mulberry-coloured livery slinking by St. Clement's Church, and guess therefrom that one Alfred Jingle is here at his old game of laying siege to the hearts of susceptible females with money. Here, too, behind that green gate in Angel Lane, resides the pretty housemaid soon to become Mrs. Sam Weller. But we must not linger in Ipswich. Yarmouth lies before us, with its phantom boat-house still upturned on the waste places towards the sea, with Little Em'ly, and the Peggottys, and with Mr. Barkis waiting in the Market Place to jog us out to sleepy "Blunderstone."

Back again in London, there is another coach-of-fancy prepared to take us into Kent, from the yard of the Golden Cross. Four gentlemen--one a beaming, spectacled person in drab shorts--are outside passengers for Rochester. And see, here is the ubiquitous Jingle again, clambering to the roof with all his worldly goods wrapped up in a brown paper parcel. "Heads--heads--take care of your heads," he cries, as we rumble under the old archway; and then, hey! for hopfields and cherry orchards, for "mouldy old cathedrals" in "Cloisterham" or Canterbury, for jolly Kentish yeomen and bright-eyed maids of Kent. . . . Who was that wan-faced, coatless urchin we passed just now in a whirl of chalky dust? His name is Copperfield, and he is on his way to Dover. And is not that Mr. Wardle driving his laughing women-folk to the review? And again, yonder on the brown common, by the Punch and Judy show, there is a grey old man, pillowing in his loving arms a little blue-eyed girl. These, too, we know; and our hearts go out to them, for who of us is there that has not--

". . . with Nell, in Kentish meadows, Wandered, and lost his way"?

Of introduction there is no more to be said. The book itself lies open before you; and at your own sweet will you may ramble with it, high and low, through all the land of Dickens.

G. B.

The creations of "bonnie Prince Charlie" have thus become veritable "household words"; part and parcel of our home associations, instinct with personality and life. We never think of them as the airy nothings of imaginative fiction, but regard them as familiar friends, having "a local habitation and a name" amongst us; with whose cheerful acquaintance we could ill afford to part, and who bear us kindly company on the hot and dusty highway of our daily lives.

In homage to the genius of his favourite Author, the writer of the following pages has endeavoured to localise many of the more familiar associations of the great Novelist with as much exactitude as may be possible; but it must be remembered that London has undergone considerable alteration and reconstruction, during the last fifty years.

The writer, therefore, still believes that such a Dickensian Directory as is now prepared will be found a valuable practical guide for those who may desire to visit the haunts and homes of these old friends, whose memory we cannot "willingly let die;" and to recall the many interests connected with them by the way.

R. A.

"Terrible place--dangerous work--other day--five children--mother--tall lady, eating sandwiches--forgot the arch--crash--knock--children look round--mother's head off--sandwich in her hand--no mouth to put it in--head of a family off--shocking--shocking."

"In those days there was a side entrance" "nearly opposite to where we stood. I pointed out the gateway, put my arm through his, and we went across. Two or three public rooms opened out of the stable-yard; and looking into one of them, and finding it empty, and a good fire burning, I took him in there."

"There was a low wooden colonnade before the door, which pleased Mr. Dick mightily. The glory of lodging over this structure would have compensated him for many inconveniences. . . . He was perfectly charmed with his accommodation. Mrs. Crupp had indignantly assured him that there wasn't room to swing a cat there; but, as Mr. Dick justly observed, 'You know, Trotwood, I don't want to swing a cat. I never do swing a cat. Therefore, what does that signify to me!'"--See "Copperfield," chapters 32 and 35.

HUNGERFORD is also mentioned in the same book as the place where, previous to their departure for Australia, the MICAWBER FAMILY had lodgings "in a little, dirty, tumble-down public-house, which in those days was close to the stairs, and whose protruding wooden rooms overhung the river."

Returning to the south side of the Strand, we next come to Buckingham Street , at the end house of which, on the right, facing the river, was the top set of chambers in the Adelphi, consisting of

"A little half-blind entry, where you could hardly see anything, a little stone-blind pantry, where you could see nothing at all, a sitting-room and a bedroom."

"I was fond of wandering about the Adelphi, because it was a mysterious place, with those dark arches. I see myself emerging one evening from one of these arches, on a little public-house, close to the river, with an open space before it, where some coal-heavers were dancing."

Of this place more anon.

Passing the next block onwards, we arrive at the handsome frontage of the HOTEL CECIL. In former days, at western corner of same, close to No. 75, there existed a narrow and precipitous passage which was formerly the approach to the halfpenny boats. It led to a little public-house, "The Fox-under-the-Hill," for a long time shut up and in ruinous condition--once situated on the water-side, the site of which is now covered by the west wing of the Hotel Cecil.

Farther onwards, on the same side, towards the centre of the Strand, there stood near Savoy Street the house which in all probability was the Residence of Miss La Creevy. It will be recollected that Ralph Nickleby, visiting his relations at this address in the Strand, is described as stopping

"At a private door, about halfway down that crowded thoroughfare."

No. 111 was an old-fashioned house in just such a position, with a private door--a somewhat unusual convenience in the Strand. A photographer's case had, for many years, displaced the "large gilt frame screwed upon the street door," in which Miss La Creevy aforetime displayed her painted miniatures. The place has been pulled down, together with the adjoining house. Handsome modern business premises are erected on the double site.--See "Nicholas Nickleby," chapter 2.

The present establishment was erected on the site of the former hotel , 1892; on completion of the new Flower Market, THE TAVISTOCK HOTEL, Piazzas, on the north side of the market, was the house at which were held the fortnightly meetings of "The Finches of the Grove," Herbert Pocket and Mr. Pip being members of the Club known by this appellation in the book above mentioned. The end and aim of this institution seemed to be "that the members should dine expensively once a fortnight, to quarrel among themselves as much as possible after dinner, and to cause six waiters to get drunk on the stairs."

"This ain't the shop for justice; besides which my attorney is a-breakfasting this morning with the Vice-President of the House of Commons; but I shall have something to say elsevere, and so will he, and so will a wery numerous and respectable circle of acquaintances, as'll make them beaks wish they'd never been born."--See "Oliver Twist," chapter 43.

At a short distance onwards, we may note Covent Garden Theatre, selected by David Copperfield as his first place of entertainment in London, after dinner at the Golden Cross Hotel--

"Being then in a pleasant frame of mind . . . I resolved to go to the play. It was Covent Garden Theatre that I chose; and there, from the back of a centre box, I saw "Julius Caesar" and the new pantomime. To have all those noble Romans alive before me, and walking in and out for my entertainment, instead of being the stern taskmasters they had been at school, was a most novel and delightful effect."

This theatre, as attended by David, was destroyed by fire March 4, 1856, six years after his autobiography was published, and afterwards rebuilt.

"I am not ashamed of myself; Snevellicci is my name. I'm to be found in Broad Court, Bow Street, when I'm in town. If I'm not at home, let any man ask for me at the stage-door."

Exactly facing the north end of Bow Street, which gives into Long Acre, is a large building, now a stationer's warehouse, recently used as the Clergy Co-operative Stores. Thirty-five years since this site was occupied by St. Martin's Hall, in which Dickens gave his first series of paid readings in London , under the management of Mr. Arthur Smith, 1858. The hall was a short time afterwards burnt down, and the Queen's Theatre was here erected in its stead by Mr. Wigan; which theatre was since converted to the commercial uses of the Clergy as aforesaid.

"With houses looking on, on every side, save where a reeking little tunnel of a court gives access to the iron gate--with every villainy of life in action close on death, and every poisonous element of death in action close on life--here, they lower our dear brother down a foot or two: here, sow him in corruption, to be raised in incorruption: an avenging ghost at many a sick bedside: a shameful testimony to future ages, how civilisation and barbarism walked this boastful island together."

This intermural graveyard was attached to the Church of St. Mary-le-Strand, and has been closed for many years. The enclosure was converted into a recreation ground, and formally opened as such by Lady George Hamilton, May 19, 1886, on behalf of the Metropolitan Public Garden Association. But the entire locality is changed, the "avenging ghost" has ceased to walk, and the "shameful testimony" has ended.

At a short distance in Drury Lane, towards the Strand, we turn by No. 106, into Clare Court, referred to in Forster's Biography as follows--:--

This episode of the author's experience as a poor boy in London was reproduced in "David Copperfield," chapter 11. The dining-house mentioned then existed at No. 13 in the court, in a prominent corner position. It has been unknown to fame for the last thirty years.

"One of those receptacles for old and curious things, which seem to crouch in odd corners of this town, and to hide their musty treasures from the public eye in jealousy and distrust."

"The old house had long ago been pulled down, and a fine broad road was in its place. At first he would draw with his stick a square upon the ground to show them where it used to stand. But he soon became uncertain of the spot, and could only say it was thereabouts, he thought, and that these alterations were confusing."

It is now replaced by a newly-built house of the same name, in modern style of plate glass, mahogany, and glitter.

"In the lower windows, which were decorated with curtains of a saffron hue, dangled two or three printed cards, bearing reference to Devonshire cyder and Dantzic spruce, while a large black board, announcing in white letters to an enlightened public, that there were 500,000 barrels of double stout in the cellars of the establishment, left the mind in a state of not unpleasing doubt and uncertainty as to the precise direction in the bowels of the earth, in which this mighty cavern might be supposed to extend."

RESIDENCE OF MR. TULKINGHORN.

"In a large house, formerly a house of state, lives Mr. Tulkinghorn. It is let off in sets of chambers now; and in those shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie, like maggots in nuts. But its roomy staircases, passages, and antechambers still remain; and even its painted ceiling, where Allegory in Roman helmet and celestial linen sprawls among balustrades and pillars, flowers, clouds, and big-legged boys, and makes the head ache, as would seem to be Allegory's object always, more or less."

"Pair of fowls and a weal cutlet; French beans, 'taturs, tart, and tidiness."

Certain it is that everything at this establishment will be found "werry clean and comfortable," on reasonable terms.

"Bills, cross-bills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions, affidavits, issues, references to masters, masters' reports--mountains of costly nonsense."

"Always expecting some incomprehensible judgment in her favour."--See "Bleak House," chapter 1.

"We passed into sudden quietude, under an old gateway, and drove on through a silent square, until we came to an odd nook in a corner, where there was an entrance up a steep broad flight of stairs, like an entrance to a church."

"Slipping us out of a little side gate, the old lady stopped most unexpectedly in a narrow back street, part of some courts and lanes immediately outside the wall of the inn, and said, 'This is my lodging. Pray walk up!'"

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