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!’