THE "LEATHER BOTTLE," COBHAM, KENT
The charming Kentish village of Cobham was familiar to Dickens
in his early boyhood days, as was the whole delightful countryside
surrounding it. That he loved it throughout his whole life there is
ample evidence in his letters. It was inevitable, therefore, that
his enthusiasm for it should find vent in his stories, and the first
references to its green woods and green shady lanes are to be found
in charming phrases in The Pickwick Papers, with the "Leather
Bottle" as the centre of attraction.
The inn is first named in the book in Mr. Tupman's pathetic letter to
Mr. Pickwick written on a certain historic morning at Dingley Dell:
"MY DEAR PICKWICK,
"You, my dear friend, are placed far beyond the reach of many
mortal frailties and weaknesses which ordinary people cannot over
come. You do not know what it is, at one blow, to be deserted by a
lovely and fascinating creature, and to fall a victim to the artifices
of a villain, who hid the grin of cunning beneath the mask of
friendship. I hope you never may.
"Any letter, addressed to me at the 'Leather Bottle,' Cobham,
Kent, will be forwarded--supposing I still exist. I hasten from the
sight of the world, which has become odious to me. Should I hasten
from it altogether, pity--forgive me. Life, my dear Pickwick, has
become insupportable to me. The spirit which burns within us, is a
porter's knot, on which to rest the heavy load of worldly cares and
troubles; and when that spirit fails us, the burden is too heavy to
be borne. We sink beneath it. You may tell Rachel--Ah, that name!
"TRACY TUPMAN."
[illustration: The "Leather Bottle," Cobham, Kent. From a
photograph]
No sooner had Mr. Pickwick read this plaintive missive than he
decided to follow, with his two other companions, Winkle and
Snodgrass, in search of their depressed friend. On the coach
journeyto Rochester "the violence of their grief had sufficiently
abated to admit of their making a very excellent early dinner,"
and having discovered the right road all three set forward again
in the after-noon to walk to Cobham.
"A delightful walk it was; for it was a pleasant afternoon in June,
and their way lay through a deep and shady wood, cooled by the
light wind which gently rustled the thick foliage, and enlivened by
the songs of the birds that perched upon the boughs. The ivy and
the moss crept in thick clusters over the old trees, and the soft
green turf overspread the ground like a silken mat. They emerged
upon an open park, with an ancient hall, displaying the quaint and
picturesque architecture of Elizabeth's time. Long vistas of
stately oaks and elm trees appeared on every side; large herds of
deer were cropping the fresh grass; and occasionally a startled
hare scoured along the ground, with the speed of the shadows thrown
by the light clouds which sweep across a sunny landscape like a
passing breath of summer."
Dickens wrote that charming descriptive passage in 1836, probably
whilst spending his honeymoon at Chalk near by, and anyone taking
the same walk will find that the words paint the scene perfectly and
faithfully to-day, so unspoiled and unaltered is it. The spot will
delight the traveler as much as it did Mr. Pickwick, who exclaimed,
as it all came in view: "If this were the place to which all who are
troubled with our friend's complaint came, I fancy their old attachment
to this world would very soon return"; at any rate, his other companions
were all agreed upon the point. "And really," added Mr. Pickwick,
after half an hour's walking had brought them to the village, "really
for a misanthrope's choice, this is one of the prettiest and most
desirable places of residence I ever met with."
Having been directed to the "Leather Bottle," "a clean and
commodious village ale-house," the three travellers entered, and at
once inquired for a gentleman of the name of Tupman. In those days
the inn was managed by a landlady, who promptly told Tom to
"show the gentlemen into the parlour."
"A stout country lad opened the door at the end of the passage, and
the three friends entered a long, low-roofed room, furnished with a
large number of high-backed, leather-cushioned chairs, of fantastic
shapes, and embellished with a great variety of old portraits and
roughly coloured prints of some antiquity. At the upper end of the
room was a table, with a white cloth upon it, well covered with a
roast fowl, bacon, ale and et ceteras; and at the table sat Mr.
Tupman, looking as unlike a man who had taken his leave of
the world as possible.
"On the entrance of his friends, that gentleman laid down his knife
and fork, and with a mournful air advanced to meet them."
Mr. Tupman was quite affected by his friends' anxiety for his
welfare, but any demonstration was nipped in the bud by Mr.
Pickwick's insisting on Mr. Tupman finishing his delicate repast
first. At the conclusion thereof, Mr. Pickwick, "having refreshed
himself with a copious draft of ale," conducted poor Tracy to the
churchyard opposite, and pacing to and fro eventually combated his
companion's resolution with a successfully eloquent appeal to him
once again to join his friends.
On their way back to the inn, Mr. Pickwick made that great discovery
"which had been the pride and boast of his friends, and the envy of
every antiquarian in this or any other country," of a small broken
stone, partially buried in the ground in front of a cottage door,
which, as everybody knows, bore the inscription:
- | -
B I L S T
U M
P S H I
S.M.
A R K
The exultation and joy of the Pickwickians knew no bounds and
they carefully carried the important stone into the inn, where Mr.
Pickwick's eyes sparkled with a delight as he sat and gloated over
the treasure he had discovered, the detailed adventure with which
need not be related here. Having carefully packed his prize, its
discovery and the happy meeting were duly celebrated in an evening
of festivity and conversation.
"It was past 11 o'clock--a late hour for the little village of
Cobham--when Mr. Pickwick retired to the bedroom which had been
prepared for his reception. He threw open the lattice-window, and,
setting his light upon the table, fell into a train of meditation
on the hurried events of the two preceding days.
"The hour and the place were both favourable to contemplation;
Mr. Pickwick was roused by the church clock striking twelve.
The first stroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear, but
when the bell ceased the stillness seemed insupportable; he
almost felt as if he had lost a companion. He was nervous and
excited; and hastily undressing himself, and placing his light in
the chimney, got into bed."
But Mr. Pickwick could not sleep following the excitement of
the day's adventure, so "after half an hour's tumbling about, he
came to the unsatisfactory conclusion that it was of no use trying
to sleep, so he got up and partially dressed himself. Anything, he
thought, was better than lying there fancying all kinds of horrors.
He looked out of the window--it was very dark. He walked about
the room--it was very lonely."
Suddenly he thought of The Madman's Manuscript which he had
brought from Dingley Dell, and, trimming his light, he put on his
spectacles and composed himself to read that blood-curdling
narrative. On reaching the end, Mr. Pickwick's candle "went
suddenly out" and he once more scrambled into bed.
Next morning, with the coveted antiquarian treasure, the four
gentlemen travelled to London by coach.
That is the story of the association of the "Leather Bottle," Cobham,
with The Pickwick Papers, which has spread its fame to the uttermost
parts of the world. That is the chief reason why in certain seasons
of the year the "Leather Bottle" and Cobham are visited by thousands
of admirers of the novelist, and also why the ideal Kentish village
has become a magnet to lovers of England's rural lanes and arable
fields; but the charm of it all is that when it is reached both it
and the inn are to be found exactly as Dickens so faithfully described
them many years ago.
The inn is just an inn; a commodious village ale-house; that is the
best description of it. Its picturesque exterior, with its hanging
sign bearing a portrait of Mr. Pickwick in the act of addressing the
club, and the legend, "Dickens's Old Pickwick Leather Bottle," and
its red-tiled roof, its small windows with their old-fashioned
shutters, is no less quaint and attractive than its old-time interior.
Its original sign--the Leather Bottle--hangs in the tiny bar which is on
the immediate right of the passage, and behind a glass window, looking
as unlike a bar as anything imaginable. From this curious little
receptacle refreshment for travellers and villagers is dispensed in
stone mugs embellished with the sign of the inn; and its "low-roofed
room" is at the end of the passage as Mr. Pickwick found it, with its
oak beams across the ceiling adding to its picturesqueness. In this
room the "high back leather-cushioned chairs" are still to be seen,
together with a grandfather clock and other antique pieces of
furniture in thorough keeping with tradition.
There, too, is the great "variety of old portraits" which decorated
the wall in Mr. Pickwick's time, with every other available inch
of wall space now covered with portraits of the novelist and his
memorable characters, pictures of scenes from his books, Dickensian
relics and knicknacks, either associated with the book which brought
it fame or with other books of the famous Boz. In a word, it is
a veritable Dickens museum, in which every lover of the novelist
lingers with pleasure and amazement, oblivious of the fact that
possibly his tea is getting cold.
Here the visitor can have his meal as did Mr. Tupman, not perhaps
in such solitude, for the "Leather Bottle" to-day is often a busy
centre for pedestrians from the neighbouring villages, and cyclists
and motorists from far-distant towns and cities.
Upstairs, overlooking the churchyard, is the identical front bedroom
where Mr. Pickwick spent the night, and where he sat reading long
into the early and eerie hours of the morning. The present landlord
is a true Dickensian in knowledge and character, and endeavours to
make everybody comfortable and welcome, no matter who he be. A
glance at the visitors' book will show how the inn has been sought
out by every grade of society from all over the world. Indeed, we
doubt if Shakespeare's birthplace can surpass this inn in popularity.
[illustration: The Coffee Room, "Leather Bottle," Cobham,
Kent. From a photograph]
But it is not merely a Pickwickian inn. It is a Dickensian inn for
which the novelist himself had a warm place in his heart for its
own sake, spending many pleasant hours within its comfortable
walls. Long before he came to live at Gad's Hill, close by, he
loved the place. As a boy at Chatham, probably he walked over
in company with his father; and when spending his honeymoon at
Chalk, he no doubt roamed in the beautiful lanes around the village.
In 1840, after spending a vacation at Broadstairs, he posted back to
London with Maclise and Forster by way of Chatham, Rochester and
Cobham, and the three spent two agreeable days in revisiting
well-remembered scenes.
Again in 1841 Dickens and Forster passed a day and night in
Cobham and its neighbourhood, sleeping at the "Leather Bottle,"
and when he ultimately became a resident at Gad's Hill the whole
district was the greatest pleasure to him. His biographer, writing
of the year 1856, says: "Round Cobham, skirting the park and
village and passing the 'Leather Bottle,' famous in the pages of
Pickwick, was a favourite walk with Dickens."
He would often take his friends and visitors with him on these
walks, and would never miss the old village inn. W. P. Frith has
told us of how, when he formed one of the party on one of these
occasions, "we went to the 'Leather Bottle,'" and, no doubt, the
company was merry and reminiscent on the association of the village
with the novelist and his immortal book.
The happy thing to be remembered to-day is that neither the village,
park, nor inn have changed since those historic days, so that little
imagination is required by the pilgrim to recall to his mind the
scenes and characters which have made them familiar to lovers of
Dickens in every English-speaking country.