_Watkins Tottle, and other Sketches, illustrative of every-day Life,
and every-day People. By Boz. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard._
This book is a re-publication from the English original, and many of
its sketches are with us old and highly esteemed acquaintances. In
regard to their author we know nothing more than that he is a far more
pungent, more witty, and better disciplined writer of sly articles,
than nine-tenths of the Magazine writers in Great Britain—which is
saying much, it must be allowed, when we consider the great variety of
genuine talent, and earnest application brought to bear upon the
periodical literature of the mother country.
The very first passage in the volumes before us, will convince any of
our friends who are knowing in the requisites of “a good thing,” that
we are doing our friend Boz no more than the simplest species of
justice. Hearken to what he says of Matrimony and of Mr. Watkins
Tottle.
Matrimony is proverbially a serious undertaking. Like an overweening
predilection for brandy and water, it is a misfortune into which a man
easily falls, and from which he finds it remarkably difficult to
extricate himself. It is no use telling a man who is timorous on these
points, that it is but one plunge and all is over. They say the same
thing at the Old Bailey, and the unfortunate victims derive about as
much comfort from the assurance in the one case as in the other.
{458} Mr. Watkins Tottle was a rather uncommon compound of strong
uxorious inclinations, and an unparalleled degree of anti-connubial
timidity. He was about fifty years of age; stood four feet six inches
and three quarters in his socks—for he never stood in stockings at
all—plump, clean and rosy. He looked something like a vignette to one
of Richardson's novels, and had a clean cravatish formality of manner,
and kitchen-pokerness of carriage, which Sir Charles Grandison himself
might have envied. He lived on an annuity, which was well adapted to
the individual who received it in one respect—it was rather small. He
received it in periodical payments on every alternate Monday; but he
ran himself out about a day after the expiration of the first week, as
regularly as an eight-day clock, and then, to make the comparison
complete, his landlady wound him up, and he went on with a regular
tick.
It is not every one who can put “a good thing” properly together,
although, perhaps, when thus properly put together, every tenth person
you meet with may be capable of both conceiving and appreciating it.
We cannot bring ourselves to believe that less actual ability is
required in the composition of a really good “brief article,” than in
a fashionable novel of the usual dimensions. The novel certainly
requires what is denominated a sustained effort—but this is a matter
of mere perseverance, and has but a collateral relation to talent. On
the other hand—unity of effect, a quality not easily appreciated or
indeed comprehended by an ordinary mind, and a _desideratum_ difficult
of attainment, even by those who can conceive it—is indispensable in
the “brief article,” and not so in the common novel. The latter, if
admired at all, is admired for its detached passages, without
reference to the work as a whole—or without reference to any general
design—which, if it even exist in some measure, will be found to have
occupied but little of the writer's attention, and cannot, from the
length of the narrative, be taken in at one view, by the reader.
The Sketches by Boz are all exceedingly well managed, and never fail
to _tell_ as the author intended. They are entitled, Passage in the
Life of Mr. Watkins Tottle—The Black Veil—Shabby Genteel
People—Horatio Sparkins—The Pawnbroker's Shop—The Dancing
Academy—Early Coaches—The River—Private Theatres—The Great Winglebury
Duel—Omnibuses—Mrs. Joseph Porter—The Steam Excursion—Sentiment—The
Parish—Miss Evans and the Eagle—Shops and their Tenants—Thoughts about
People—A Visit to Newgate—London Recreations—The
Boarding-House—Hackney-Coach Stands—Brokers and Marine Store-Shops—The
Bloomsbury Christening—Gin Shops—Public Dinners—Astley's—Greenwich
Fair—The Prisoner's Van—and A Christmas Dinner. The reader who has
been so fortunate as to have perused any one of these pieces, will be
fully aware of how great a fund of racy entertainment is included in
the Bill of Fare we have given. There are here some as well conceived
and well written papers as can be found in any other collection of the
kind—many of them we would especially recommend, as a study, to those
who turn their attention to Magazine writing—a department in which,
generally, the English as far excel us as Hyperion a Satyr.
The _Black Veil_, in the present series, is distinct in character from
all the rest—an act of stirring tragedy, and evincing lofty powers in
the writer. Broad humor is, however, the prevailing feature of the
volumes. _The Dancing Academy_ is a vivid sketch of Cockney low life,
which may probably be considered as somewhat too _outré_ by those who
have no experience in the matter. _Watkins Tottle_ is excellent. We
should like very much to copy the whole of the article entitled
_Pawnbrokers' Shops_, with a view of contrasting its matter and manner
with the insipidity of the passage we have just quoted on the same
subject from the “_Ups and Downs_” of Colonel Stone, and by way of
illustrating our remarks on the _unity of effect_—but this would,
perhaps, be giving too much of a good thing. It will be seen by those
who peruse both these articles, that in that of the American, two or
three anecdotes are told which have merely a relation—a very shadowy
relation, to pawn-broking—in short, they are barely elicited by this
theme, have no necessary dependence upon it, and might be introduced
equally well in connection with any one of a million other subjects.
In the sketch of the Englishman we have no anecdotes at all—the
_Pawnbroker's Shop_ engages and enchains our attention—we are
enveloped in its atmosphere of wretchedness and extortion—we pause at
every sentence, not to dwell upon the sentence, but to obtain a fuller
view of the gradually perfecting picture—which is never at any moment
any other matter than the _Pawnbroker's Shop_. To the illustration of
this one end all the _groupings_ and _fillings in_ of the painting are
rendered subservient—and when our eyes are taken from the canvass, we
remember the personages of the sketch not at all as independent
existences, but as essentials of the one subject we have witnessed—as
a part and portion of the _Pawnbroker's Shop_. So perfect, and
never-to-be-forgotten a picture cannot be brought about by any such
trumpery exertion, or still more trumpery talent, as we find employed
in the ineffective daubing of Colonel Stone. The scratchings of a
schoolboy with a slate-pencil on a slate might as well be compared to
the groupings of Buonarotti.
We conclude by strongly recommending the Sketches of Boz to the
attention of American readers, and by copying the whole of his article
on Gin Shops.
It is a very remarkable circumstance, that different trades appear to
partake of the disease to which elephants and dogs are especially
liable; and to run stark, staring, raving mad, periodically. The great
distinction between the animals and the trades is, that the former run
mad with a certain degree of propriety—they are very regular in their
irregularities. You know the period at which the emergency will arise,
and provide against it accordingly. If an elephant run mad, you are
all ready for him—kill or cure—pills or bullets—calomel in conserve of
roses, or lead in a musket-barrel. If a dog happen to look
unpleasantly warm in the summer months, and to trot about the shady
side of the streets with a quarter of a yard of tongue hanging out of
his mouth, a thick leather muzzle, which has been previously prepared
in compliance with the thoughtful injunction of the Legislature, is
instantly clapped over his head, by way of making him cooler, and he
either looks remarkably unhappy for the next six weeks, or becomes
legally insane, and goes mad, as it were, by act of Parliament. But
these trades are as eccentric as comets; nay, worse; for no one can
calculate on the recurrence of the strange appearances which betoken
the disease: moreover, the contagion is general, and the quickness
with which it diffuses itself almost incredible.
We will cite two or three cases in illustration of our meaning. Six or
eight years ago the epidemic began to display itself among the
linen-drapers and haberdashers. The primary symptoms were, an
inordinate love of plate-glass, and a passion for gas-lights and {459}
gilding. The disease gradually progressed, and at last attained a
fearful height. Quiet, dusty old shops, in different parts of town,
were pulled down; spacious premises, with stuccoed fronts and gold
letters, were erected instead; floors were covered with Turkey
carpets, roofs supported by massive pillars, doors knocked into
windows, a dozen squares of glass into one, one shopman into a
dozen,—and there is no knowing what would have been done, if it had
not been fortunately discovered, just in time, that the Commissioners
of Bankrupts were as competent to decide such cases as the
Commissioners of Lunacy, and that a little confinement and gentle
examination did wonders. The disease abated; it died away; and a year
or two of comparative tranquillity ensued. Suddenly it burst out again
among the chemists; the symptoms were the same, with the addition of a
strong desire to stick the royal arms over the shop-door, and a great
rage for mahogany, varnish, and expensive floor-cloth: then the
hosiers were infected, and began to pull down their shop-fronts with
frantic recklessness. The mania again died away, and the public began
to congratulate themselves upon its entire disappearance, when it
burst forth with ten-fold violence among the publicans and keepers of
“wine vaults.” From that moment it has spread among them with
unprecedented rapidity, exhibiting a concatenation of all the previous
symptoms; and onward it has rushed to every part of town, knocking
down all the old public-houses, and depositing splendid mansions,
stone balustrades, rosewood fittings, immense lamps, and illuminated
clocks, at the corner of every street.
The extensive scale on which these places are established, and the
ostentatious manner in which the business of even the smallest among
them is divided into branches, is most amusing. A handsome plate of
ground glass in one door directs you “To the Counting-house;” another
to the “Bottle Department;” a third, to the “Wholesale Department;” a
fourth, to “The Wine Promenade,” and so forth, until we are in daily
expectation of meeting with a “Brandy Bell,” or a “Whiskey Entrance.”
Then ingenuity is exhausted in devising attractive titles for the
different descriptions of gin; and the dram-drinking portion of the
community, as they gaze upon the gigantic white and black
announcements, which are only to be equalled in size by the figures
beneath them, are left in a state of pleasing hesitation between “The
Cream of the Valley,” “The Out and Out,” “The No Mistake,” “The Good
for Mixing,” “The real knock-me-down,” “The celebrated Butter Gin,”
“The regular Flare-up,” and a dozen other equally inviting and
wholesome _liqueurs_. Although places of this description are to be
met with in every second street, they are invariably numerous and
splendid in precise proportion to the dirt and poverty of the
surrounding neighborhood. The gin-shops in and near Drury-lane,
Holborn, St. Giles', Covent Garden, and Clare-market, are the
handsomest in London—there is more filth and squalid misery near those
great thorough-fares than in any part of this mighty city.
We will endeavor to sketch the bar of a large gin-shop, and its
ordinary customers, for the edification of such of our readers as may
not have had opportunities of observing such scenes; and on the chance
of finding one well suited to our purpose, we will make for Drurylane,
through the narrow streets and dirty courts which divide it from
Oxford-street, and that classical spot adjoining the brewery at the
bottom of Tottenham-court-road, best known to the initiated as the
“Rookery.” The filthy and miserable appearance of this part of London
can hardly be imagined by those (and there are many such) who have not
witnessed it. Wretched houses, with broken windows patched with rags
and paper, every room let out to a different family, and in many
instances to two, or even three: fruit and “sweet stuff” manufacturers
in the cellars; barbers and red-herring venders in the front parlors;
cobblers in the back; a bird-fancier in the first floor, three
families on the second; starvation in the attics; Irishmen in the
passage; a “musician” in the front kitchen, and a char-woman and five
hungry children in the back one—filth every where—a gutter before the
houses and a drain behind them—clothes drying at the windows, slops
emptying from the ditto; girls of fourteen or fifteen, with matted
hair, walking about bare-footed, and in old white great coats, almost
their only covering; boys of all ages, in coats of all sizes, and no
coats at all; men and women, in every variety of scanty and dirty
apparel, lounging about, scolding, drinking, smoking, squabbling,
fighting, and swearing.
You turn the corner. What a change! All is light and brilliancy. The
hum of many voices issues from that splendid gin-shop which forms the
commencement of the two streets opposite; and the gay building with
the fantastically ornamented parapet, the illuminated clock, the
plate-glass windows surrounded by stucco rosetts, and its profusion of
gaslights in richly gilt burners, is perfectly dazzling when
contrasted with the darkness and dirt we have just left. The interior
is even gayer than the exterior. A bar of French-polished mahogany,
elegantly carved, extends the whole width of the place; and there are
two side-aisles of great casks, painted green and gold, inclosed
within a light brass rail, and bearing such inscriptions as “Old Tom,
549;” “Young Tom, 360;” “Samson, 1421.” Behind the bar is a lofty and
spacious saloon, full of the same enticing vessels, with a gallery
running round it, equally well furnished. On the counter, in addition
to the usual spirit apparatus, are two or three little baskets of
cakes and biscuits, which are carefully secured at the top with
wicker-work, to prevent their contents being unlawfully abstracted.
Behind it are two showily-dressed damsels with large necklaces,
dispensing the spirits and “compounds.” They are assisted by the
ostensible proprietor of the concern, a stout, coarse fellow in a fur
cap, put on very much on one side to give him a knowing air, and
display his sandy whiskers to the best advantage.
Look at the groups of customers, and observe the different air with
which they call for what they want, as they are more or less struck by
the grandeur of the establishment. The two old washerwomen, who are
seated on the little bench to the left of the bar, are rather overcome
by the head-dresses, and haughty demeanor of the young ladies who
officiate; and receive their half quartern of gin-and-peppermint with
considerable deference, prefacing a request for “one of them soft
biscuits,” with a “Just be good enough, ma'am,” &c. They are quite
astonished at the impudent air of the young fellow in the brown coat
and white buttons, who, ushering in his two companions, and walking up
to the bar in as careless a manner as if he had been used to green and
gold ornaments all his life, winks at one of the young ladies with
singular coolness, and calls for a “kervorten and a three-out-glass,”
just as if the place were his own. “Gin for you, sir,” says the young
lady when she has drawn it, carefully looking every way but the right
one to show that the wink had no effect upon her. “For me, Mary, my
dear,” replies the gentleman in brown. “My name an't Mary as it
happens,” says the young girl, in a most insinuating manner, as she
delivers the change. “Vell, if it an't, it ought to be,” responds the
irresistible one; “all the Marys as ever I see was handsome gals.”
Here the young lady, not precisely remembering how blushes are managed
in such cases, abruptly ends the flirtation by addressing the female
in the faded feathers who had just entered, and who, after stating
explicitly, to prevent any subsequent misunderstanding that “this
gentleman” pays, calls for “a glass of port wine and a bit of sugar,”
the drinking which, and sipping another, accompanied by sundry
whisperings to her companion, and no small quantity of giggling,
occupies a considerable time.
Observe the group on the other side: those two old men who came in
“just to have a dram,” finished their third quartern a few seconds
ago; they have made themselves crying drunk, and the fat, comfortable
{460} looking elderly women, who had “a glass of rum-_srub_” each,
having chimed in with their complaints on the hardness of the times,
one of the women has agreed to stand a glass round, jocularly
observing that “grief never mended no broken bones, and as good
people's wery scarce, what I says is, make the most on 'em, and that's
all about it;” a sentiment which appears to afford unlimited
satisfaction to those who have nothing to pay.
It is growing late, and the throng of men, women, and children, who
have been constantly going in and out, dwindles down to two or three
occasional stragglers—cold wretched-looking creatures, in the last
stage of emaciation and disease. The knot of Irish laborers at the
lower end of the place, who have been alternately shaking hands with,
and threatening the life of, each other for the last hour, become
furious in their disputes; and finding it impossible to silence one
man, who is particularly anxious to adjust the difference, they resort
to the infallible expedient of knocking him down and jumping on him
afterwards. Out rush the man in the fur cap, and the pot-boy: a scene
of riot and confusion ensues; half the Irishmen get shut out, and the
other half get shut in: the pot-boy is knocked in among the tubs in no
time; the landlord hits every body, and every body hits the landlord;
the bar-maids scream; in come the police, and the rest is a confused
mixture of arms, legs, staves, torn coats, shouting and struggling.
Some of the party are borne off to the station-house, and the
remainder slink home to beat their wives for complaining, and kick the
children for daring to be hungry.
We have sketched this subject very lightly, not only because our
limits compel us to do so, but because, if it were pursued further, it
would be painful and repulsive. Well-disposed gentlemen and charitable
ladies would alike turn with coldness and disgust from a description
of the drunken, besotted men, and wretched, broken-down, miserable
women, who form no inconsiderable portion of the frequenters of these
haunts; forgetting, in the pleasant consciousness of their own high
rectitude, the poverty of the one, and the temptation of the other.
Gin-drinking is a great vice in England, but poverty is a greater; and
until you can cure it, or persuade a half-famished wretch not to seek
relief in the temporary oblivion of his own misery, with the pittance
which, divided among his family, would just furnish a morsel of bread
for each, gin-shops will increase in number and splendor. If
Temperance Societies could suggest an antidote against hunger and
distress, or establish dispensaries for the gratuitous distribution of
bottles of Lethe-water, gin-palaces would be numbered among the things
that were. Until then, their decrease may be despaired of.