Ramble IX — By Great Eastern Route From London to Yarmouth
Liverpool Street Station—Epping Forest—Buckhurst Hill—Chigwell Village—Chigwell Churchyard; Resting-Place of Barnaby Rudge and his Mother—“Grip” the Raven—The “King’s Head Inn”—“The Maypole”—Mr. Cattermole’s Frontispiece—The Bar—The Landlord, John Willett—Dolly Varden—The Visit of the Varden Family—The Warren; Residence of Mr. Haredale and his Niece—By Main Line to Ipswich—The Great White Horse Hotel in Tavern Street—The Apartment of the Middle-Aged Lady—Mr. Pickwick’s Misadventure—St. Clement’s Church—Job Trotter—The Green Gate, Residence of G. Nupkins, Esq.—Mary the Pretty Housemaid—Sam Weller’s First Love—Ipswich to Great Yarmouth—Mr. Peggotty’s Boat-house—Home of Little Emily—The Two London Coaches—The “Angel Hotel”—David’s Dinner in the Coffee-Room—The Friendly Waiter—The “Star Hotel”—Headquarters of Copperfield and Steerforth—Miss Mowcher’s First Introduction—Unlocalised Sites—Blundeston—Blunderstone Rookery—Early Childhood of Copperfield—Somerleyton Park.
A pleasant drive from London to Chigwell is described in chapter 19 of “Barnaby Rudge,” and may be still taken about twelve miles by road, starting from Whitechapel Church viâ Mile-End and Bow, thence crossing the River Lea, and proceeding, in the county of Essex, by way of Stratford, Leytonstone, Snaresbrook, and Wilcox Green. But time will be saved by adopting a convenient train, leaving Liverpool Street Station (Great Eastern Railway) for Buckhurst Hill—on the Ongar Branch Line—in the neighbourhood of Epping Forest, a district formerly preserved by the old monarchs of Merrie England for the enjoyment of field sports and the pleasures of the chase.
From this point a country walk (under two miles), turning eastward, and 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.”
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.”
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!’
“I looked at the doorway and saw nothing. I was still looking at the doorway, thinking that Miss Mowcher was a long while making her appearance, when, to my infinite astonishment, there came waddling round a sofa which stood between me and it, a pursy dwarf, of about forty or forty-five, with a very large head and face, a pair of roguish grey eyes, and such extremely little arms, that, to enable herself to lay a finger archly against her snub nose as she ogled Steerforth, she was obliged to meet the finger half-way, and lay her nose against it. Her chin, which was what is called a double-chin, was so fat that it entirely swallowed up the strings of her bonnet, bow and all. Throat she had none; waist she had none; legs she had none, worth mentioning; for though she was more than full-sized down to where her waist would have been, if she had had any, and though she terminated, as human beings generally do, in a pair of feet, she was so short that she stood at a common-sized chair as at a table, resting a bag she carried on the seat.”
Sites Unlocalised. At this distance of time it is impossible to indicate the locality of “The Willing Mind”—patronised by Mr. Peggotty—the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Barkis, or the establishment of Messrs Omer and Joram. The last is described as being “in a narrow street,” and should be doubtless looked for in the older part of the town.
Blundeston, the birthplace of Copperfield, may be visited from Somerleyton Station, on the line between Yarmouth and Lowestoft. The village, with its round-towered church, is situated about four miles eastward from the railway. The house indicated in the novel as Blunderstone Rookery stands next the church. The excursion could include, en route, a visit to Somerleyton Park, open to the public on Wednesdays.