Ramble X — London to Dorking and Portsmouth
Nicholas Nickleby and Smike on their travels—Excursion by Coach, “The Perseverance”—Route to Dorking—Residence of Mr. and Mrs. Tony Weller—The “Marquis of Granby”—The Rev. Mr. Stiggins and his “pertickler vanity”—The downfall of Stiggins—The old Horse-trough—Dorking to Portsmouth—Parentage of Dickens—Registration of Charles John Huffham Dickens—Birthplace of Dickens—The Theatre-Royal—The Old Theatre—Unlocalised Localities—Portsmouth to London—Westminster Abbey—Tomb of Dickens—His Funeral as reported by the Daily News, June 1870—Poetical Tribute—The future Outlook.
In the early days of the present century, Nicholas Nickleby leaving London with Smike, bound for Portsmouth, took the high road viâ Kingston and Godalming (with a view, en passant, of the Devil’s Punch-bowl); walking steadily onward until arrival, on their second day’s march, at a roadside inn—probably in the neighbourhood of Horndean. Here they met with Mr. Vincent Crummles, of histrionic fame, and ended their more immediate perplexities by an engagement with that gentleman. There was no railway communication in those times, and coach fare was expensive; but now-a-days we have adopted a cheaper and more speedy means of transit, and may reach Portsmouth from London quickly, by two lines of railroad.
As, in the following excursion, it is proposed to make an intermediate visit en route to the residence (once on a time) of Mr. and Mrs. Tony Weller, a journey by coach is recommended to Dorking, as affording a suitable compliment to Mr. Weller’s memory and profession. A delightful journey may thus be made by “The Perseverance” coach, which starts every week-day during the season, from Northumberland Avenue, at 10.45 a.m., and travels four-in-hand, viâ Roehampton, Kingston, Surbiton, Epsom, Leatherhead, Mickleham, and Boxhill, and arrives at Dorking, in time for luncheon at the “White Horse Hotel,” at which the coach stops.
The interest of this country town centres, for Pickwickian readers, in the “Marquis of Granby,” once an inn. It exists no longer as such, having been long since converted into a grocer’s establishment. It will be found in the High Street, opposite the Post Office, at the side of Chequers’ Court, which runs between it and the London and County Bank. The old sign-board, the cosy bar, with its store of choice wines and pine-apple rum (Mr. Stiggins’s “pertickler vanity”), and the horse-trough in which the reverend gentleman was half drowned by the irate Weller, senior, are now among the things that are not; but the old house still remains in situ, altered to the uses of its present occupancy.
In chapter 27 of the Pickwick records we read of Sam’s first pilgrimage to Dorking, on which occasion he paid his filial respects to his mother-in-law, the rather stout lady of comfortable appearance, who conducted the business of the house; and made his acquaintance with the Rev. Mr. Stiggins of saintly memory. The description of the establishment is given as follows:—
“The ‘Marquis of Granby’ in Mrs. Weller’s time was quite a model of a roadside public-house of the better class—just large enough to be convenient, and small enough to be snug. On the opposite side of the road was a large sign-board on a high post, representing the head and shoulders of a gentleman with an apoplectic countenance, in a red coat with deep-blue facings, and a touch of the same blue over his three-cornered hat, for a sky. Over that again were a pair of flags; beneath the last button of his coat were a couple of cannon; and the whole formed an expressive and undoubted likeness of the Marquis of Granby of glorious memory.
“The bar window displayed a choice collection of geranium plants, and a well-dusted row of spirit phials. The open shutters bore a variety of golden inscriptions, eulogistic of good beds and neat wines; and the choice group of countrymen and hostlers lounging about the stable-door and horse-trough, afforded presumptive proof of the excellent quality of the ale and spirits which were sold within. Sam Weller paused, when he dismounted from the coach, to note all these little indications of a thriving business, with the eye of an experienced traveller; and having done so, stepped in at once, highly satisfied with everything he had observed.”
Mr. Stiggins, the clerical friend and spiritual adviser of the worthy hostess, having fully ingratiated himself in her good graces, was in the habit of making himself very much at home at “The Marquis”; greatly appreciating the creature comforts there obtainable, and the good liquors kept in stock. In point of fact, knowing when he was well off, he lived well—if not wisely—on Mrs. Weller’s hospitable bounty, and made headquarters at this Dorking inn. On the occasion of Sam’s first visit before referred to—in chapter 27, as above—this estimable character is thus introduced to the notice of Pickwickian students:—
“He was a prim-faced, red-nosed man, with a long, thin countenance, and a semi-rattlesnake sort of eye—rather sharp, but decidedly bad. He wore very short trousers, and black-cotton stockings, which, like the rest of his apparel, were particularly rusty. His looks were starched, but his white neckerchief was not, and its long limp ends straggled over his closely-buttoned waistcoat in a very uncouth and unpicturesque fashion.”
“The fire was blazing brightly under the influence of the bellows, and the kettle was singing gaily under the influence of both. A small tray of tea things was arranged on the table, a plate of hot buttered toast was gently simmering before the fire, and the red-nosed man himself was busily engaged in converting a large slice of bread into the same agreeable edible, through the instrumentality of a long brass toasting-fork. Beside him stood a glass of reeking hot pine-apple rum and water, with a slice of lemon in it; and every time the red-nosed man stopped to bring the round of toast to his eye, with the view of ascertaining how it got on, he imbibed a drop or two of the hot pine-apple rum and water, and smiled upon the rather stout lady, as she blew the fire.”
The downfall of Stiggins. The season of his prosperity came to a sad ending after the demise of his patroness; and in chapter 52 we read of his reverse of fortune, and the final congé given to the reverend gentleman by the irate Mr. Weller, senior, who dismissed him from his household chaplaincy, in a manner more peremptory than pleasant:—
“He walked softly into the bar, and presently returning with the tumbler half full of pine-apple rum, advanced to the kettle which was singing gaily on the hob, mixed his grog, stirred it, sipped it, sat down, and taking a long and hearty pull at the rum and water, stopped for breath.
“The elder Mr. Weller, who still continued to make various strange and uncouth attempts to appear asleep, offered not a single word during these proceedings; but when Stiggins stopped for breath, he darted upon him, and snatching the tumbler from his hand, threw the remainder of the rum and water in his face, and the glass itself into the grate. Then, seizing the reverend gentleman firmly by the collar, he suddenly fell to kicking him most furiously, accompanying every application of his top-boots to Mr. Stiggins’s person, with sundry violent and incoherent anathemas upon his limbs, eyes, and body.
“‘Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘put my hat on tight for me.’
“Sam dutifully adjusted the hat with the long hatband more firmly on his father’s head, and the old gentleman, resuming his kicking with greater agility than before, tumbled with Mr. Stiggins through the bar, and through the passage, out at the front door, and so into the street; the kicking continuing the whole way, and increasing in vehemence, rather than diminishing, every time the top-boot was lifted.
“It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see the red-nosed man writhing in Mr. Weller’s grasp, and his whole frame quivering with anguish as kick followed kick in rapid succession; it was a still more exciting spectacle to behold Mr. Weller, after a powerful struggle, immersing Mr. Stiggins’s head in a horse-trough full of water, and holding it there until he was half-suffocated.”
The old horse-trough, as depicted by “Phiz” in the original illustrated title-page of the book, has long since given place to local alteration and improvement; but “hereabouts it stood.”
There are many pleasant and humorous associations connected with this old place of country entertainment, as duly set forth in the Pickwick annals; but it should be remembered that many years have passed since their publication (1837), and that men and manners have greatly changed and bettered. It is satisfactory to reflect that Mr. Stiggins and his brethren have altogether become obsolete in English middle-class society, and that the protest so embodied sixty years since is no longer necessary. In these happier days, earnestness and ability have, in the main, superseded laziness and cant.
Dorking to Portsmouth. The journey being resumed by railway, we travel southward and westward through the pleasant fields and pasture lands of Sussex, viâ Horsham and Chichester, to the old town of Portsmouth, where, in Landport, Portsea, Charles Dickens was born, on Friday, the 7th of February 1812. He was the second son (in a family of eight, six surviving infancy) of Mr. John Dickens, a clerk in the Navy Pay Office at the Dockyard. The name of his mother, previous to her marriage, was Elizabeth Barrow. The baptismal record at Portsea registers him as Charles John Huffham Dickens, but he very seldom used any other signature than the one with which we are all familiar. On arrival at the Portsmouth town station, we leave the railway, turning to the right, and proceed onwards, in the main thoroughfare of Commercial Road. Thus we shortly reach, in due course, The Birthplace of Dickens. The house (No. 387 Commercial Road, Landport) stands about half a mile northward (to the right) from the railway station, with a neat forecourt. It bears a tablet recording date of the event, as above.
South of the station (leftward), beyond the Town Hall, will be found, on the right, The Theatre Royal; but it should be noted that this is not the establishment referred to in “Nicholas Nickleby.”
That old theatre, at which Nicholas—adopting the professional alias of “Johnson”—made his histrionic début under the managerial auspices of Mr. Vincent Crummles, occupied, some eighty years since, the present site of The Cambridge Barracks, in the High Street, farther onwards.
We read in the same book that the Crummles family resided at the house of one Bulph, a pilot; that Miss Snevellicci had lodgings in Lombard Street, at the house of a tailor, where also Mr. and Mrs. Lillyvick found temporary accommodation; and that Nicholas and Smike lived in two small rooms, up three pair of stairs, at a tobacconist’s shop, on the Common Hard. But it is not possible to particularise these places; indeed, it is altogether doubtful whether they had any special assignment in the mind of the author himself.
Leaving Portsmouth, at convenience, by the Brighton and South Coast Railway, we may take the return journey to London in about three hours, arriving at the West End Terminus of the line, Victoria Station. From this point we may revisit, viâ Victoria Street, about half a mile in distance, Westminster Abbey, containing the Tomb of Dickens, which will be found in the classic shade of the Poets’ Corner. At the time of his death the Times “took the lead in suggesting that the only fit resting-place for the remains of a man so dear to England was the Abbey, in which most illustrious Englishmen are laid;” and accordingly, on the 14th of June, the funeral took place, with a strict observance of privacy. In Dean Stanley’s “Westminster Abbey” the following statement is given:—
“Close under the bust of Thackeray lies Charles Dickens, not, it may be, his equal in humour, but more than his equal in his hold on the popular mind, as was shown in the intense and general enthusiasm shown at his grave. The funeral, according to Dickens’s urgent and express desire in his will, was strictly private. It took place at an early hour in the summer morning, the grave having been dug in secret the night before; and the vast solitary space of the Abbey was occupied only by the small band of mourners, and the Abbey clergy, who, without any music except the occasional peal of the organ, read the funeral service. For days the spot was visited by thousands; many were the flowers strewn upon it by unknown hands; many were the tears shed by the poorer visitors. He rests beside Sheridan, Garrick, and Henderson.”
The plain stone covering the tomb is inscribed
CHARLES DICKENS,
Born February 7th, 1812. Died June 9th, 1870.
Report of the Funeral, as published in the Daily News, June 15th, 1870:—“Charles Dickens lies, without one of his injunctions respecting his funeral having been violated, surrounded by poets and men of genius. Shakespeare’s marble effigy looked yesterday into his open grave; at his feet are Dr. Johnson and David Garrick; his head is by Addison and Handel; while Oliver Goldsmith, Rowe, Southey, Campbell, Thomson, Sheridan, Macaulay, and Thackeray, or their memorials, encircle him; and ‘Poets’ Corner,’ the most familiar spot in the whole Abbey, has thus received an illustrious addition to its peculiar glory.... Dickens’s obsequies were as simple as he desired. The news that a special train left Rochester at an early hour yesterday morning, and that it carried his remains, was soon telegraphed to London; but every arrangement had been completed beforehand, and there was no one in the Abbey; no one to follow the three simple mourning coaches and the hearse; no one to obtrude upon the mourners. The waiting-room at Charing Cross Station was set apart for the latter for the quarter of an hour they remained there; the Abbey doors were closed directly they reached it; and even the mourning coaches were not permitted to wait. A couple of street cabs and a single brougham took the funeral party away when the last solemn rites were over, so that passers-by were unaware that any ceremony was being conducted; and it was not until a good hour after that the south transept began to fill. There were no cloaks, no weepers, no bands, no scarfs, no feathers, none of the dismal frippery of the undertaker. We yesterday bade the reader turn to that portion of ‘Great Expectations,’ in which the funeral of Joe Gargery’s wife is described; he will there find full details of the miserable things omitted. In the same part of the same volume he will find reverent allusion to the time when ‘those noble passages are read which remind humanity how it brought nothing into the world and can take nothing out, and how it fleeth like a shadow, and never continueth long in one stay;’ and will think of the solemn scene in Westminster Abbey, with the Dean reading our solemn burial service, the organ chiming in, subdued and low, and the vast place empty, save for the little group of heart-stricken people by an open grave; a plain oak coffin, with a brass plate bearing the inscription:—
‘CHARLES DICKENS,
Born February 7th, 1812,
Died June 9th, 1870’;
a coffin strewed with wreaths and flowers by the female mourners; and then dust to dust and ashes to ashes! Such was the funeral of the great man who has gone. In coming to the Abbey, in the first coach were the late Mr. Dickens’s children—Mr. Charles Dickens, jun., Mr. Harry Dickens, Miss Dickens, Mrs. Charles Collins. In the second coach were Mrs. Austin, his sister; Mrs. Charles Dickens, jun.; Miss Hogarth, his sister-in-law; Mr. John Forster. In the third coach Mr. Frank Beard, his medical attendant; Mr. Charles Collins, his son-in-law; Mr. Dewey, his solicitor; Mr. Wilkie Collins; Mr. Edmund Dickens, his nephew.
“By the orders of the Dean of Westminster, the officials were instructed to keep the grave open until six o’clock last evening, and all who came had the melancholy satisfaction of seeing not only the grave itself, but the polished oak coffin which contained the remains of the lamented deceased. A raised platform was placed around the grave, and two of the vergers of the Abbey were in attendance to prevent crowding and preserve order, an almost unnecessary precaution, for all who came, comprising persons of various classes, conducted themselves in the most exemplary manner. In the afternoon, when the fact of the interment became generally known, and that the coffin was to be seen, the crowds arriving at the Abbey became very great, and between twelve and six o’clock many thousands of persons had been present. Large numbers paid a simple tribute to the memory of the deceased by throwing the flowers they wore in their coat or dress on to the coffin, until, towards the close of the afternoon, it was completely covered with these simplest offerings of public affection.”
The following Poetical Tribute, in Memoriam, was, at that sad time, contributed to the public Press, and is worthy of remembrance:—
“The Artist sleeps, yet friends are here he gave
The fair dream-children that his fancy drew;
A phantom crowd still gathers at his grave,
And in each character he lives anew.
“Soft winds of summer breathe along the fane,
The honoured sepulchre where Dickens lies;
An Emigravit write we in our pain—
He is not dead—the artist never dies.
“The statesman wins the mantle of a peer,
The warrior boasts all titles of renown;
We leave one laurel only on his bier,
And England’s love is greater than a crown.”
“S. C.”
So long as the art of printing remains in Society, and the powers of affection, appreciation, and sympathy survive in the hearts of Anglo-Saxons—of the Old World or the New—the name and fame of Charles Dickens will be ever held fresh and green amongst us. And, through the coming summer-dawn of time—amidst the destined agencies slowly evolving the brighter omens of the future—his genius shall remain co-operant. For, let us rest assured that “the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns”; that the wheel of time is rolling, surely for an end; and that all worthy labour in the cause of human progress shall become Immortal, as it helps to make the world purer, gentler, and more Christian; and hastens onwards the fulfilment of its nobler destiny.