I.—The Bell at Berkeley Heath
In the animated journey, from Bristol to Birmingham, the travellers stopped at various posting-houses where the mercurial Sawyer would insist on getting down to lunch, dine, or otherwise refresh—his friends being always ready to comply after a little decent hesitation. It was thus that they drew up at The Bell at Berkeley Heath, which our writer presently sketches. It will be seen there is more of the drink at the Bell than of the Bell itself. It is, indeed, no more than cœcum nomen—much as though we read the name at the end of “Bradshaw”—yet, somehow, from the life and movement of the journey, it offers a sort of attraction: it seems familiar, and we have an interest in it. The Bell now “goes on,” as the proprietor tells me. There are travellers who come there and drink Boz’s health in the snug parlour. It is, in fact, a Pickwickian Inn, and is drawn within the glamour of the legend, and, what a marvel! the thing is done by the magic of those three or four lines. “The Bell,” says Mrs. Hooper, “lies back on the main road from Bristol to Gloucester, and is just nineteen miles from Bristol. It is a rambling old house and a good deal dilapidated, and of good age.”
With this meagre record it yet offers such Pickwickian interest that, not many months ago, a photograph was taken of it which was engraved for the Daily Graphic. There is no Mr. Pickwick’s room to be shown, as undoubtedly there would be had that gentleman only stayed the night there; but he only lunched and then went forward. There is a mistiness as to whether the Pickwickians sat in the public coffee-room or had a private “settin’-room.” It was to a certainty the
coffee-room, as they only stayed a short time. So the proprietor, with a safe conscience, might exhibit “the room where Mr. Pickwick lunched.” On the face is imbedded a tablet bearing the date 1729, and there is an ancient farmer close by who was born in “The Bell” in the year 1820. If we lend ourselves properly to the delusion, he might recall Mr. Pickwick’s chaise drawing up full sixty years ago. “Ay, I mind it well. I were joost then fifteen. A stoutish gent in gaiters—might ’ave been a bishop—and sich a lively young chap as wos with him, full o’ spirits, chucking a’ the gurls under the chins. And their sarvant! O he were one. Sam, he were caa’d—I moind that—Sam Summut. And they caa’d for the best o’ everythin’, and took away wi’ them a lot, Madeary, and wot not,” and so on.