This young girl--to whom a touching interest attached from her being so prematurely cut off--was a most interesting creature, one of three sisters, daughters of Mr. George Hogarth, a Writer to the Signet, who is a sort of link between Scott and d.i.c.kens. For he had acted as the former's man of business in the Ballantyne disputes, and must have prompted d.i.c.kens in the article that he wrote on that th.o.r.n.y subject. He was a good musician and a writer in the magazines. We find his work in the old "Monthly Magazine" where d.i.c.kens made his _debut_; and when Boz was installed as editor of "Bentley's," we find him admitting much of his father-in-law's writing. His "Memoirs of the Opera" are well-known.

There is a charming outline sketch of Maclise's, showing the profiles of two of the sisters with d.i.c.kens, all three of the most refined and interesting cast--but Boz's face is certainly the handsomest of the three. He must have been a most attractive young man--something of the pattern of his own Nicholas Nickleby.

One of the most interesting features of the episode is the reference the author was constantly making to this bereavement. In the rollicking "Pickwick," any serious introduction of such a topic would have been out of place: though I fancy a little paragraph in the account of the Manor Farm Christmas festivities is connected with it. But about the same time, or rather, some six months later, he was busy with his "Oliver Twist," and it seems certain that Rose Maylie was drawn from this sympathetic creature, for there is a feeling and a pa.s.sionate grief displayed that could only be caused by the loss of a person that he had known and loved. Here is his description of Rose:--"The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and springtime of womanhood, at that age when, if ever angels be for G.o.d's good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be without impiety supposed to abide in such forms as hers. She was not _past seventeen_. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions."

We may compare with this the touching inscription placed by d.i.c.kens on her tomb in Kensal Green: "Young, beautiful and good, G.o.d, in His mercy, numbered her among His angels at the early age of seventeen." He had long planned that he should be laid beside her, but on Mrs. Hogarth's death, some five years later, he had to resign his place to her. This was a renewal of the old grief. The epitaph nearly seems the epitome of all that he says of Rose Maylie.

"The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her n.o.ble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played upon the face and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were for Home, and fireside peace and happiness." She is then described as "playfully putting back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look such an expression of affection and artless loveliness that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her."

The earnestness, the feeling of sincerity thrown into this description--the tone of reality--leave a conviction that this must have been drawn from a person who had lived and in whom the writer had the deepest interest. Further, it is clearly the description of a person who had pa.s.sed away: of one who was no longer with him. {66} "She was at the theatre with us on Sat.u.r.day night, well and happy, and expired in my arms a few hours afterwards." So he wrote to Mr. c.o.x.

At the end, he returns to the subject, and retouches the picture:

"I would show Rose Maylie in all the bloom and grace of early womanhood, shedding on her secluded path in life the soft and gentle light that fell on all who trod it with her and shone into their hearts; I would paint her _the life and joy of the fireside circle_, and the lively summer group; I would follow her through the sultry fields at noon, and hear the low tones of her sweet voice in the moonlit evening walk; I would watch her in all her goodness and charity abroad, and the untiring discharge of domestic duties at home; I would summon before me again those joyous little faces that cl.u.s.tered round her knee; I would recall the tone of that clear laugh, and conjure up that sympathizing tear that glistened in the soft, blue eye. These, and a thousand looks and smiles, and turns of thought and speech, I would fain recall them, every one."

Again, it is clear that all this is personal, and written of one that he knew and deeply loved.

In "Nickleby," there is yet another allusion to this sad subject--it is suggested by Kate's grief for Smike:

"It is an exquisite and beautiful thing in our nature that, when the heart is softened and touched by some tranquil happiness or affectionate feeling, the memory of the dead comes over it most powerfully and irresistibly. It would almost seem as though our better thoughts and sympathies were charms in virtue of which the soul is enabled to hold some vague and mysterious intercourse with the spirits of those whom we dearly loved in life. Alas! how often and how long may these patient angels hover above us, watching for the spell which is so seldom uttered, and so soon forgotten."

This is no artificial utterance. He had clearly interrupted himself to indulge in this sad retrospect. He then points a moral from Mrs.

Nickleby, who, he says, could not conceive the idea of anyone dwelling on such thoughts in secret. I have always had a notion that this worthy lady's incongruities and rambling methods were suggested by one of his own household, whose imperfection was found to be a complete lack of sympathy with him in all his feelings.

The devotion of Oliver Twist to Rose, it is not fanciful to say, was intended to symbolise his own to Mary. We can recall the pa.s.sionate, agitated excitement with which Rose's illness is described--the hanging on the doctor's sentence, &c.--a reminiscence certainly, and we have only to look at the sketch by Cruikshank of his friend (given in my "_Bozland_") to recognise the likeness to Oliver. Oliver's sufferings were his own.

How tremendous the blow of her death must have been to the successful writer may be conceived when he did not scruple to interrupt the book and cast it aside altogether from sheer incapacity to write a line. The June number did not appear. No one can imagine the inconvenience, the loss, the enormous risks that were run by taking this step--the horror and consternation of the publishers and all concerned. It proved how indifferent he had become to his prospects and prosperity when he could hazard such a thing. The first of the month came round, but no "Pickwick." It was a public catastrophe. When he was able to resume his story, he found it necessary to issue an explanation in the form of an address. {68}

186 Strand, June 30th, 1837.

The author is desirous to take the opportunity afforded him by the resumption of his work to state, once again, what he thought had been stated sufficiently emphatically before, namely, that its publication was interrupted by a severe domestic affliction of no ordinary kind; that this was the sole cause of the non-appearance of the present number in its usual course; that, hereafter, it will continue to be published with its accustomed regularity. However superfluous this _second notice_ may appear to many, it is rendered necessary by various idle speculations and absurdities which have been industriously propagated during the past month and which have reached the author's ears from many quarters, and have grieved him exceedingly. By one set of intimate acquaintances, especially well- informed, he has been killed outright; by another, driven mad; by a third, imprisoned for debt; by a fourth, left per steamer for the United States; by a fifth, rendered incapable of mental exertion for evermore; by all, in short, represented as doing anything but seeking by a few weeks' retirement, the restoration of cheerfulness and peace, of which a sad bereavement has necessarily deprived him.

CHAPTER IX. THE PICKWICK CLUB

This was a common form of social meeting, and we find in the memoirs of Adolphus and John Taylor and Frederick Reynolds descriptions of the "Keep the Line," "The Finish," and other oddly-named societies. The cheerful gla.s.s was the chief object. Mr. Lowten's Club, "The Magpie and Stump,"

in Clare Market, supplies a specimen of a lower cla.s.s club. "Veels vithin veels," as Sam would say.

In his speech at Dulwich, at the close of the book, Mr. Pickwick spoke rather pathetically of the closing of his wanderings. "I shall never forget having devoted the greater part of two years to mixing with different varieties and shades of human character, frivolous as my pursuit of novelty may have appeared to many." He spoke of the club also, to which "he had communicated both personally and by letter,"

acquainting them with his intention of withdrawing from public life to the country. He added that "during our long absence it had suffered much from internal dissensions," and this, with other reasons, had obliged him to dissolve it. This "absence," both as planned and carried out, was merely occasional. Mr. Pickwick and his friends were rarely, and only now and then, absent from town, going away for short spells, save, of course, the enforced absence in the Fleet Prison and the months or weeks (as it may be) in Bath. "The George and Vulture" was not far from Huggin Lane, so Mr. Pickwick must have been constantly at the Club, or _could_ have been had he chosen to go there. All this notion of severance, therefore, was somewhat sentimental.

But the "dissensions" the President spoke of were natural enough. He was the founder and mainstay of the a.s.sociation--probably paid its expenses.

The whole object of the inst.i.tution, it may be suspected, was to exalt the founder. In such a state of things, it was natural that there should be an opposition, or discontented party, headed by "that Blotton." When Blotton was got rid of, his friends would think that he had been badly treated and take advantage of the occasional absences of the chief to foment revolt. Then Blotton was expelled, a.s.suredly unfairly, for he merely took the opposite view on the Cobham stone, and he might have left some who belonged to his faction and who thought he had been harshly dealt with. Mr. Pickwick, in fact, merely returned from his agreeable junketting to have this gentleman expelled. Despotism of this sort always leads to discontent and parties--hence the "dissensions." Mr.

Pickwick, from his treatment of Blotton, must have been a Tory of the old Eldon school. Here was his blemish. He had no toleration for others, and had an undue idea of his own position. We can trace the whole thing perfectly. He was a successful man of business--an export merchant apparently--being connected with an agent at Liverpool whom he had "obliged." Round such a man who was good-natured and philanthropic would gather flatterers and toadies; hence the suggestion to found a club with his own name and "b.u.t.ton." Of this he could be "Boss," and he was listened to and courted. It was like the devotion of satellites to the late Mr. Gladstone. We can see all this in the picture of the club at the beginning, where, with the exception of the four legitimate Pickwickians, all seem rather of the tradesman cla.s.s, and are vulgar types enough. In such surroundings, Mr. Pickwick could "rule the roast"

and grow despotic and even arrogant.

Blotton, however, who seems to have been an independent sort of fellow, could not submit to this, was of the Opposition, and, no doubt, a thorn in Mr. Pickwick's side. And here is yet another point of the likeness to the Johnsonian coterie. In "The Club," Hawkins--Sir John of that ilk--was uncongenial--"a detestable fellow," Bozzy calls him--objecting, quarrelling, and, at last, on one occasion was so rude that he had to withdraw. Now, that this offence was rankling is evident, and it explains the fracas which took place at the opening. Blotton looked on Mr. Pickwick's travelling as pure humbug. The idea of his contributing anything useful or instructive in his so-called reports seemed nonsense.

Further, was it not something of a job? Pickwick was taking three of his own special "creatures" with him--Winkle, to whom he had been appointed governor; Snodgra.s.s, who was his ward; and Tupman, who was his b.u.t.t and toady. They were the _gentlemen_ of the club. None of the outsiders were chosen. From Blotton's behaviour, too, on the Cobham business, it is clear he thought Mr. Pickwick's scientific researches were also "humbug." A paper by that gentleman had just been read--"The tracing of the source of the ponds at Hampstead" and "Some observations on the theory of t.i.ttlebats." There was somewhat too much of this "bossing."

The whole report read by the secretary was full of gross flatteries. They had "just heard read with feelings of unmingled satisfaction and unqualified approval," &c., "from which advantages must accrue to the cause of science"--cause of rubbish! Then, it added, obsequiously, something about "the _inestimable_ benefits from carrying the speculations of that _learned_ man" &c. Mr. Pickwick, in his speech, was certainly self-laudatory and provocative. He talked of his pride in promoting the t.i.ttlebatian theory, and "let _his enemies make the most of it_." This was marked enough, and no doubt caused looks at Blotton. Then he began to puff his new enterprise at "a service of some danger."

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

To the Pickwick Club there was a Vice-President, named Smiggers--Joseph Smiggers, Esq., P.V.P.M.P.C., that is, Perpetual Vice-President and Member of the Pickwick Club. Smiggers was, of course, supposed to be "Pickwick's creature," or he would not have been there. He was a tall, corpulent man, with a soft face--as we see him in his picture. As Mr.

Pickwick speaks, it is remarkable that both Vice-President and Secretary--the two officers--have each one arm raised as if in ecstatic rapture--clear proof of their subservience to Pickwick. On Smiggers'

right is a "doddering" old fellow of between seventy and eighty--clearly a "nullity"--on his left, another member nearly as old, but with a glimmer of intelligence. Down the side of the table, facing the orator, are some odd faces--one clearly a Jew; one for whom the present Mr.

Edward Terry might have sat. Blotton is at the bottom, half turned away in disgust. His neighbour looks at him with wonder, as who should say, "How can you be so insensible?" Odd to say--and significant, too--Blotton has brought into the club his _dog_, a ferocious looking "bull," which sits at his feet under the table. We should say, on the whole, that Blotton could only count on--and that, with but a limited sympathy--the Terry-faced and Jew-faced men--if he _could_ count on them. The Secretary was like a clerk--a perky fellow--and had a pen behind his ear; probably in some Bank or Counting House, so strong is habit. One member of the Club alone is invisible--the one beyond Tupman--all that is seen of him is a hand holding a tumbler as if about to drink. The Dodderer is applauding; so are the Jew, Blotton and Tupman; so is the round-faced man, just beyond the invisible one.

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

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

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

CHAPTER X. ROADSIDE INNS

I.--The Bell at Berkeley Heath

In the animated journey, from Bristol to Birmingham, the travellers stopped at various posting-houses where the mercurial Sawyer would insist on getting down to lunch, dine, or otherwise refresh--his friends being always ready to comply after a little decent hesitation. It was thus that they drew up at The Bell at Berkeley Heath, which our writer presently sketches. It will be seen there is more of the drink at the Bell than of the Bell itself. It is, indeed, no more than _coec.u.m nomen_--much as though we read the name at the end of "Bradshaw"--yet, somehow, from the life and movement of the journey, it offers a sort of attraction: it seems familiar, and we have an interest in it. The Bell now "goes on," as the proprietor tells me. There are travellers who come there and drink Boz's health in the snug parlour. It is, in fact, a Pickwickian Inn, and is drawn within the glamour of the legend, and, what a marvel! the thing is done by the magic of those three or four lines.

"The Bell," says Mrs. Hooper, "lies back on the main road from Bristol to Gloucester, and is just nineteen miles from Bristol. It is a rambling old house and a good deal dilapidated, and of good age."

With this meagre record it yet offers such Pickwickian interest that, not many months ago, a photograph was taken of it which was engraved for the _Daily Graphic_. There is no Mr. Pickwick's room to be shown, as undoubtedly there _would_ be had that gentleman only stayed the night there; but he only lunched and then went forward. There is a mistiness as to whether the Pickwickians sat in the public coffee-room or had a private "settin'-room." It was to a certainty the coffee-room, as they only stayed a short time. So the proprietor, with a safe conscience, might exhibit "the room where Mr. Pickwick lunched." On the face is imbedded a tablet bearing the date 1729, and there is an ancient farmer close by who was born in "The Bell" in the year 1820. If we lend ourselves properly to the delusion, he might recall Mr. Pickwick's chaise drawing up full sixty years ago. "Ay, I mind it well. I were joost then fifteen. A stoutish gent in gaiters--might 'ave been a bishop--and sich a lively young chap as wos with him, full o' spirits, chucking a' the gurls under the chins. And their sarvant! O _he_ were one. Sam, he were caa'd--I moind that--Sam Summut. And they caa'd for the best o'

everythin', and took away wi' them a lot, Madeary, and wot not," and so on.

II.--The Greyhound, Dulwich

Mr. Pickwick, as we know, at the close of his wanderings retired to this tranquil and pleasant suburb--then much more retired than it is now. In accordance with his habit of enshrining his own personal sympathies in his writing, Boz was, as it were, conveying that it was such a sequestered spot as he himself would choose under similar conditions.

Last year (1898), the interesting old road-side Inn, The Greyhound, was levelled--an Inn to which Mr. Pickwick must have found his way in the dull evening to drink "cold Punch" or preside at the club which he most certainly--if we know him well--must have founded. A wealthy gentleman of social tastes, and with a love for tavern life, would have no difficulty in establishing a new Pickwick Club.

At the Greyhound, nigh a century ago, there was actually a club which entertained Tom Campbell, Mark Lemon, Byron's tutor, and many more. Boz himself, we are told, used to find his way there with Theodore Hook, Moore, and others. Boz, therefore, must have regarded this place with much favour, owing to his own experiences of it--and to have selected it for his hero's tranquil old age shows how high a place it had in his memory. The description is charming and brings this sylvan retreat to which we have walked many a time perfectly before us.

This taste for surrounding himself with persons of lower degree--such as were the rank and file--was curiously enough shared by Mr. Pickwick's predecessor, Dr. Johnson, who, when he found the Literary Club somewhat too much of a republic, and getting "out of hand," established a social meeting at the Ess.e.x Head Club--in the street of that name, off the Strand--composed in the main of respectable tradesmen, who would listen obsequiously. Thus, it may be repeated, does the same sort of character develop invariably on the same lines, and thus did Mr. Pickwick unconsciously follow in the footsteps of the "great Lexicographer."

III.--Grimaldi the Younger