Charles Dickens
as a novelist? His broad, generous views on the subject of meals, as expressed through the mouths of most of the characters in his works; as also the homely nature of such meals, and the good and great deeds to which they led. I once laid myself out to count the number of times that alcoholic refreshment is mentioned in some of the principal works of the great author; and the record, for Pickwick alone, was sufficient to sweep from the surface of the earth, with its fiery breath, the entire Blue Ribbon Army. Mr. Pickwick was what would be called nowadays a “moderate drinker.” That is to say, he seldom neglected an “excuse for a lotion,” nor did he despise the “daylight drink.” But we only read of his being overcome by his potations on two occasions; after the cricket dinner at Muggleton, and after the shooting luncheon on Captain Boldwig’s ground. And upon the latter occasion I am convinced that the hot sun had far more to do with his temporary obfuscation than the cold punch. Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen were by no means exaggerated types of the medical students of the time. The “deputy sawbones” of to-day writes pamphlets, drinks coffee, and pays his landlady every Saturday. And it was a happy touch of Dickens to make Sawyer and Allen eat oysters, and wash them down with neat brandy, before breakfast. I have known medical students, aye! and full-blown surgeons too, who would commit equally daring acts; although I doubt much if they would have shone at the breakfast-table afterwards, or on the ice later in the day. For the effect exercised by brandy on oysters is pretty well known to science.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead as not to appreciate the delights of Dingley Dell? Free trade and other horrors have combined to crush the British yeoman of to-day; but we none the less delight to read of him as he was, and I do not know a better cure for an attack of “blue devils”—or should it be “black dog?”—than a good dose of Dingley Dell. The wholesale manner in which Mr. Wardle takes possession of the Pickwickians—only one of whom he knows intimately—for purposes of entertainment, is especially delightful, and worthy of imitation; and I can only regret the absence of a good, cunningly-mixed “cup” at the picnic after the Chatham review. The wine drunk at this picnic would seem to have been sherry; as there was not such a glut of “the sparkling” in those good old times. And the prompt way in which “Emma” is commanded to “bring out the cherry brandy,” before his guests have been two minutes in the house, bespeaks the character of dear old Wardle in once. “The Leathern Bottle,” a charming old-world hostelry in that picturesque country lying between Rochester and Cobham, would hardly have been in existence now, let alone doing a roaring trade, but for the publication of Pickwick; and the notion of the obese Tupman solacing himself for blighted hopes and taking his leave of the world on a diet of roast fowl bacon, ale, etc., is unique. The bill-of-fare at the aforementioned shooting luncheon might not, perhaps, satisfy the aspirations of Sir Mota Kerr, or some other nouveau riche of to-day, but there was plenty to eat and drink. Here is the list, in Mr. Samuel Weller’s own words:
“Weal pie, tongue: a wery good thing when it ain’t a woman’s: bread, knuckle o’ ham, reg’lar picter, cold beef in slices; wery good. What’s in them stone jars, young touch-and-go?”
“Beer in this one,” replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a couple of large stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern strap, “cold punch in t’other.”
“And a wery good notion of a lunch it is, take it altogether,” said Mr. Weller.
Possibly; though cold beef in slices would be apt to get rather dryer than was desirable on a warm day. And milk punch hardly seems the sort of tipple to encourage accuracy of aim.
Mrs. Bardell’s notion of a nice little supper we gather from the same immortal work, was “a couple of sets of pettitoes and some toasted cheese.” The pettitoes were presumably simmered in milk, and the cheese was, undoubtedly, “browning away most delightfully in a little Dutch oven in front of the fire.” Most of us will smack our lips after this description; though details are lacking as to the contents of the “black bottle” which was produced from “a small closet.” But amongst students of Pickwick, “Old Tom” is a hot favourite.
The Deputy Shepherd’s particular “vanity” appears to have been buttered toast and reeking hot pine-apple rum and water, which sounds like swimming-in-the-head; and going straight through the book, we next pause at the description of the supper given by the medical students, at their lodgings in the Borough, to the Pickwickians.