A question that has often exercised ingenious folk is, why did Mr.
Pickwick choose to live in Goswell Street? rather, why did Boz select
such a quarter for him? Of course, at that time, it was really a
"genteel" neighbourhood, as anyone can see who walks along the desolate
streets and terraces, the forlorn squares and enclosures that are close
by, and where the New River runs. Nothing is more depressing than the
aspect of these fallen places; but, in Mr. Pickwick's time, they had not
been very long erected. Indeed, this offers yet another department which
his wonderful Book suggests: that it is the best record of all the
changes that have taken place in London. This Goswell Street tenancy
shows clearly that the neighbourhood was a desirable one for residents of
position. Mr. Pickwick was a City man, and his club met in Huggin Lane,
in the City. He generally put up, or, as Bob Sawyer had it, "hung out,"
at the "George and Vulture," also in the City. One side of Goswell
Street, in those days--a road ascending to the old Angel Inn--faced, near
the top, a number of the pretentious squares and terraces I have been
describing. That interesting old theatre, Sadler's Wells, was in the
rear, and the New River passed beneath it or beside it, and, quite
uncovered in those days, rippled along on its course from the country.
All the houses were private houses. Some enthusiasts have actually
identified Mrs. Bardell's apartments--but without a particle of evidence.
Now it has become a busy thoroughfare, with a noisy tramway: nearly all
the houses have been turned into shops, and Mr. Pickwick could scarcely
recognize his old quarters. The whole region bears a faded air.
Amateurs, who love exploring their London, will find entertainment in
wandering about Islington and the adjoining districts, experiencing quite
a new sensation and hardly realizing that they are so close to
Aldersgate. The New River itself, which ends its course here, is a
pleasant attraction, with its great basin, and ancient offices by the
edge of the water.
Imitating Elia, I once set out from here, and followed its course and its
many windings far out into the country, taking up the journey on
successive days, going towards its source in Hertfordshire, and a most
pleasant, interesting voyage of discovery it was. For it so winds and
bends, now passing through fields and demesnes, now skirting towns and
villages, that it is just as picturesque as any natural stream. Such
being its attractions, Mr. Pickwick was virtually living in the country
or in the suburbs, and enjoying the fine, keen, inspiring air which the
jaded Londoner from lower districts may, even now, still inhale. There
is no Goswell Street now, but Goswell _Road_--a very noisy, clattering
thoroughfare.
Another remark to be made is this:--how much do we owe to the vivifying
power of Boz's descriptions of these old Towns, Inns, and Streets? The
ordinary provincial town--unsung and undescribed by him--remains what it
is and nothing more. York and Manchester stir no memories, and are
unvisited by pilgrims, because _they are not in Pickwick_. Boz seems to
have found the true _interpretation_ and inner meaning of each place, and
has actually preserved the tone and flavour that existed in his own time.
This continues even now. As we stroll through Rochester or Ipswich, Bath
or Bury, Pickwick and his friends walk with us. And, as if well
contented to rest under the spell, these antique towns have made no
effort at change, but remain much as they were.
And this prompts the question: _Where did Mrs. Cluppins live_? At the
trial we learned that she was a friend and neighbour of Mrs. Bardell's,
one of her _commeres_. She had "looked in" on the momentous morning,
having been out to purchase "kidney pertaties," yet, on their Hampstead
junketting, we find her coming with the Raddles, in their cab, all the
way from Lant Street, Borough. She was clearly Mrs. Raddle's friend and
neighbour. Perhaps she had moved, though this is not likely. The
household gods of such, like Elia's, strike a deep root.
In his descriptions of the Bardell party's journey to Hampstead, which
ended so disastrously, the art of Boz is shown as usual by supplying the
notion of movement--he seems to take us along up the northern heights--we
feel the pleasurable anticipations of a party of pleasure for the lower
middle class. From the lower end of Goswell Street--where Mr. Pickwick's
lodgings must have been, for, in the upper part, there are no houses
opposite for Mrs. Raddle to call at--it must have been a long drive for
the party. I assume they must have made for Kentish Town, and toiled up
Haverstock Hill at a walk, for the coach was heavily laden enough.
Pleasant Hampstead! One is always glad to find Boz associating his
humour with places that we are deeply interested in. The Hampstead of
this hour, though changed enough, may remind us very fairly of Boz's
time. It has still the attractions of the old-fashioned, red-brick
houses, and terraces, the mixture of green, and the charming, even
seductive, heath. "The Spaniards" at Hampstead--Boz calls it "_The_
Spaniard"--is scarcely altered from the day of the Bardell visit, and is
as picturesque as ever with its Tea Gardens and Bowers. I never pass it
without seeming to see Jackson's hackney-coach waiting and the Sheriff's
man at the gate taking his drink. The other Inn, also bound up with
memories of Boz, "Jack Straw's Castle," also stands, but one reads with
alarm on this day of grace (June 12th, 1898):--
There are few Londoners who will not grieve to hear that the
well-known inn on the Spaniards Road, "Jack Straw's Castle," famous as
the rendezvous of authors, artists, statesmen, and many a celebrity of
old days, is going the way of other ancient buildings. The low rooms
and quaint interior of the hostel are now being entirely transformed
and modernised. The only concession made to the prejudices of the old
frequenters of the inn is that the outer face is to be preserved
intact. To the passer by, no great change will perhaps be apparent;
but within, the charm of the place will have vanished entirely. A
spacious saloon bar flooded with glaring light, with modern furniture
and appliances, is to take the place of the old rooms, coffee-room,
billiard-room, and bar. In fact, it is to become a modern hotel. The
change is quite enough to make the shade of Dickens arise. As John
Forster has told us, the great novelist loved this old chop-house,
and, after a ramble on the Heath, often adjourned here for a good,
wholesome dinner.