A Week's Tramp in Dickens-Land. William R. Hughes
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Emerging from the railway station of the London, Chatham and Dover Company at Strood, a drive of a few minutes (over the bridge) brings us to the first object of our pilgrimage, the "Bull Inn,"—we beg pardon, the "Royal Victoria and Bull Hotel,"—in High Street, Rochester, which was visited by Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Winkle, and their newly-made friend, Mr. Jingle, on the 13th May, 1827. Our cabman is so satisfied with his fare ("only a bob's worth"), that he does not, as one of his predecessors did, on a very remarkable occasion, "fling the money on the pavement, and request in figurative terms to be allowed the pleasure of fighting us for the amount," which circumstance we take to be an improving sign of the times.
Changed in name, but not in condition, it seems scarcely possible that we stand under the gateway of the charming old inn that we have known from our boyhood, when first we read our Pickwick, what time the two green leaves of Martin Chuzzlewit were putting forth monthly, and when the name of Charles Dickens, although familiar, had not become the "household word" to us, and to the world, that it is now.
We look round for evidence—"Good house, nice beds"—"(vide Pickwick)" appear on the two sign-boards fixed on either side of the entrance-gate. Only then are we quite sure our driver has not made a mistake and taken us to "Wright's next door," which every reader of Pickwick knows, on the authority of Mr. Jingle, "was dear—very dear—half a crown in the bill if you look at the waiter—charge you more if you dine out at a friend's than they would if you dined in the coffee-room—rum fellows—very."
Haunches of venison, saddles of mutton, ribs of beef, York hams, fowls and ducks, hang over our heads in the capacious covered gateway; cold viands are seen in a glass cupboard opposite, and silently promise that some good fare, like that which regaled Mr. Pickwick and his friends, is still to be found at the Bull. In the distance is seen the large old-fashioned coach-yard, surrounded by odd buildings, which on market days (Tuesdays) is crowded with all sorts of vehicles ancient and modern. On our right is the kitchen, "brilliant with glowing coals and rows of shining copper lying well open to view."
By the kindness of Mr. Richard Prall, the town-clerk, beds have been secured for us, and the landlord meets us at the door with a hearty welcome. We are conducted to our rooms on the second floor looking front, on reaching which a strange feeling takes possession of us. Surely we have been here before? Not a bit of it! But the bedrooms are nevertheless familiar to us; we see it all in a minute—the writer's apartment is Mr. Tupman's, and his friend's is Mr. Winkle's!
"Winkle's bedroom is inside mine," said Mr. Tupman, after that delightful dinner of "soles, broiled fowl, and mushrooms," in the private sitting-room at the Bull, when all the other Pickwickians had, "after the cosy couple of hours succeeding dinner, more or less succumbed to the somniferous influence which the wine had exerted over them," and he and Mr. Jingle alone remained wakeful, and were discussing the idea of attending the forthcoming ball in the evening.
It is an unexpected and pleasant coincidence that we are located in these two rooms, and altogether a good omen for our tramp generally. They are numbered 13 and 19, and the reason why the numbers are not consecutive is because 19 (Mr. Winkle's room) is also approached by a back staircase. Mr. Pickwick's room, as befitted his years and his dignity as G.C.M.P.C., is a larger room, and is number 17. They are all comfortable chambers, with "nice beds."
The principal staircase of the Bull, which is almost wide enough to drive a carriage and four up it, remains exactly as it was in Mr. Pickwick's days, as described by Dickens and delineated by Seymour. We could almost fancy we witnessed the memorable scene depicted in the illustration, where the irascible Dr. Slammer confronts the imperturbable Jingle. The staircase has on its walls a large number of pictures and engravings, some curious and valuable, a few of which are of purely local interest. A series of oil paintings represent the costumes of all nations. There is a copy of "The Empty Chair," from the drawing of Mr. Luke Fildes, R.A., and also one of the scarce proof lithographs of "Dickens as Captain Bobadil," after the painting by C. R. Leslie, R.A.
Mr. Lawrence informed us that some years ago "The Owl Club" held its meetings at the Bull—a social club, reminding us strongly of one of the early papers in Bentley's Miscellany, illustrated by George Cruikshank, entitled the "Harmonious Owls," which has recently been reprinted in the collection called Old Miscellany Days, in which paper, by the bye, are several names from Dickens.
In one of the cheerful private sitting-rooms, of which there are many, we find a portrait of Dickens that is new to us. Never have we seen one that so vividly reproduced the novelist as one of us saw him, and heard him read, in the Town Hall at Birmingham, on the 10th of May, 1866. It is a vignette photograph by Watkins, coloured by Mr. J. Hopper, a local artist, representing the face of the novelist in full, wearing afternoon dress—black coat, and white shirt-front, with gold studs—the attitude being perfectly natural and unconstrained, and a pleasant calm upon the otherwise firm features. The high forehead is surmounted by the well-remembered single curl of brown hair, the sole survival of those profuse locks which grace Maclise's beautiful portrait. The bright blue eyes, with the light reflected on the pupils like diamonds, seem to follow one in every direction. The lines, of course, are marked, but not too strongly; and the faint hectic flush which was apparent in later years—notably when we saw him again in Birmingham in 1869—shows signs of development. The beard hides the neck, and the white collar is conspicuous. Altogether it is one of the most successful portraits we remember to have seen. As witness of its popularity locally, we may mention that we saw copies of it at Major Budden's at Gad's Hill, at the Mitre Hotel, Chatham, and at the Leather Bottle Inn, Cobham. We are also informed that Mr. Henry Irving gave a good sum for a copy, in the spring of last year. Mr. Lawrence, our host, by good fortune, happening to possess a duplicate, kindly allows us the opportunity of purchasing it ("portable property" as Mr. Wemmick remarks), as an addition to our Dickens collection which it adorns. "Beautiful!" "Splendid!" "Dickens to the life!" are the comments of friends to whom we show it, who personally knew, or remembered, the original.
Here is the ball-room, entered from the first-floor landing of the principal staircase, and the card-room adjoining, precisely as it was in Mr. Pickwick's days:—
"It was a long room with crimson-covered benches, and wax candles in glass chandeliers. The musicians were confined in an elevated den, and quadrilles were being systematically got through by two or three sets of dancers. Two card-tables were made up in the adjoining card-room, and two pair of old ladies, and a corresponding number of old gentlemen, were executing whist therein."
A very little stretch of the imagination carries us back sixty years, and, presto! the ball-room stands before us, with the wax candles lighted, and the room filled with the élite of Chatham and Rochester society, who, acting on the principle of "that general benevolence which was one of the leading features of the Pickwickian theory," had given their support to that "ball for the benefit of a charity," then being held there, and which was attended by Mr. Tracy Tupman, in his new dress-coat with the P. C. button and bust of Mr. Pickwick in the centre, and by Mr. Jingle, in the borrowed garments of the same nature belonging