The curious thing is that hardly a single face of Mr. Pickwick’s corresponds with its fellows, yet all are sufficiently like and recognizable. In the first picture of the club he is a cantankerous, sour, old fellow, but the artist presently mellowed him. The bald, benevolent forehead, the portly little figure, the gaiters, eye-glass and ribbon always put on expressively, seem his likeness. The “Mr. Pickwick sliding” and the “Mr. Pickwick sitting for his portrait in the Fleet” have different faces.
There has always been a sort of fascination in tracing out and identifying the Pickwickian localities. It is astonishing the number of persons that have been engrossed with this pursuit. Take Muggleton for instance, which seems to have hitherto defied all attempts at discovery. The younger Charles Dickens fancied that town, Malling, which lies to the
south of Rochester. Mr. Frost, Mr. Hughes, and other “explorers” all have their favourite town. I, myself, had fixed on Maidstone as fulfilling the necessary conditions of having a Mayor and Corporation; as against this choice and that of all the towns that were south of Rochester there was always this fact, that Boz describes the party going up the street as they left Rochester, a route that led them north-east. But the late Miss Dickens—“Mamie” as she was affectionately called—in her pleasing and very natural little book, “My Father as I Recall Him,” has casually dropped a hint which puts us on the right track. When driving with her on the “beautiful back road to Cobham once, he pointed out a spot. There it was, he said, where Mr. Pickwick dropped his whip.” The distressed travellers had to walk some twelve or fourteen miles—about the distance of Muggleton—which was important enough to have a Mayor and Corporation, etc. We ourselves have walked this road, and it led us to—Gravesend.
Gravesend we believe to be Muggleton—against all competitors. Further, when chasing Jingle, Wardle went straight from Muggleton to town, as you can do from Gravesend; from which place there is a long walk to Cobham.
For abundance of editions the immortal Pickwick can hold its own with any modern of its “weight, age, and size.” From the splendid yet unwieldy edition de luxe, all but Bible-like in its proportions, to the one penny edition sold on barrows in Cheapside, every form and pattern has been supplied.
The Gadshill Edition, with Introduction by Andrew Lang, has recently been issued by Messrs. Chapman and Hall, and is all that can be desired. Print, paper, and size are excellent, perfect, even captivating. The old illustrations, from the original plates, are bright and clear, unworn and unclogged with ink. The editor has been judiciously reserved in his introduction and annotations. While Mr. Lang’s lack of sympathy with Dickens is well-known,
and, like Sam Weller after leaving the witness-box, he has said just as little respecting Mr. Pickwick as might be, “which was precisely the object he had in view all along.” But it almost seems as though one required to be “brought up” in Pickwick, so to speak, thoroughly to understand him. No true Pickwickian would ever have called Tuckle the Bath Footman, “Blazer,” or Jingle, “Jungle.” It were better, too, not to adopt a carping tone in dealing with so joyous and irresponsible a work. “Dickens,” we are told, “knew nothing of cricket.” Yet in his prime the present writer has seen him “marking” all day long, or acting as umpire, with extraordinary knowledge and enthusiasm. In Pickwickian days the game was not what it is now; it was always more or less irregular and disorderly. As proof of “Boz’s” ignorance, Mr. Lang says it is a mystery why Podder “missed the bad balls, blocked the doubtful ones, took the good ones, and sent them flying, etc.” Surely nothing could be plainer.
He “missed”—that is, did not strike—the balls of which nothing could be made, blocked the dangerous ones, and hit the good ones all over the field. What more or what better could Dr. Grace do?
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The original agreement for “Pickwick” I have not seen, though it is probably in existence, but there is now being shown at the Earl’s Court Victorian Era Exhibition a very interesting Pickwickian curio. When the last number had appeared, a deed was created between the two publishers, Edward Chapman and William Hall, giving them increased control over the book. It is dated November 18th, 1837, and sets out that the property consisted of three shares held by the two publishers and author. It was contracted that the former should purchase for a period of five years the author’s third share. And it was further stipulated that at the end of that term, they, and no one else, should have the benefit of any new arrangement. There was