III.—Horses and Driving in “Pickwick.”
For one who so modestly disclaimed all knowledge of sporting and country tastes, Boz shows a very familiar acquaintance with horses and their ways. He has introduced a number of these animals whose points are all distinctly emphasized: a number of persons are shown to be interested in horses, who exhibit their knowledge of and sympathise with the animals, a knowledge and sympathy which is but a reflection of his own. The cunning hand that could so discriminate between shades of humorous characters would not be at a loss to analyse traits of equine nature. There is the cab horse, said to be forty years old and kept in the shafts for two or three weeks at a time, which is depicted in Seymour’s plate. How excellently drawn are the two Rochester steeds: one “an immense brown horse, displaying great symmetry of bone,” which was to be driven by Mr. Pickwick, and Mr. Winkle’s riding animal, another immense horse “apparently a near relative of the animal in the chaise.” “He don’t shy, does he?” The ostler guaranteed him quiet—“a hinfant in arms might drive him”—“He wouldn’t shy if he met a whole waggon-load of monkeys with
their tails burnt off.” A far more original illustration than anything used by the Wellers, whose special form that was. I pass over the details of the driving and the riding which show a perfect knowledge of animals, such as “the tall quadruped.” Nothing is more droll than the description of the loathing with which the party came to regard the animal they were compelled to lead about all day. Then we have the post horses and all connected with them. There is Tom Smart’s “vixenish mare,” quite an intelligent character in her way. The account of the coach drive down to Muggleton shows admirable observation of the ways of the drivers.
Ben Allen’s aunt had her private fly, painted a sad green colour drawn by a “chubby sort of brown horse.” I pass over the ghostly mailcoach horses that flew through the night in “The Story of the Bagman’s Uncle,” flowing-maned, black horses. There are many post horses figuring in Mr. Pickwick’s journey from Bristol to Birmingham and thence home; horses in the rain and out of it.
Namby’s horse was “a bay, a well-looking animal enough, but with something of a flash and dog-fighting air about him.” The horses which took the hackney coach to the Fleet jolted along as hackney coaches usually do. “The horses ‘went better,’ the driver said, ‘when they had anything before them.’ They must have gone at a most extraordinary pace when there was nothing.” Visiting the Fleet with Mrs. Weller and the deputy Shepherd, Mr. Weller drove up from Dorking with the old piebald in his chaise cart, which, after long delay, was brought out for the return journey. “If he stands at livery much longer he’ll stand at nothin’ as we go back.” There is a capital scene at the opening of Chapter XLVI., when the “cabrioilet” was drawing up at Mrs. Bardell’s, and where so much that is dramatic is “got out” of such a simple incident between the contending directions.
IV.—Mr. Pickwick in Silk Stockings.
How well Boz knew how to touch the chords of human character—a power that certainly needs long experience to work—is shown by the scene at Wardle’s dance, where Mr. Pickwick is nettled by Tupman’s
remarking that he was wearing “pumps” for the first time. “You in silk stockings,” said that gentleman. Mr. Pickwick had just called attention to the change which he considered a sort of public event to be admired by all. “See this great man condescending to our frivolous tastes,” and his host had noted it in a flattering way. “You mean to dance?” But Tupman did not look at it in this respectful way—he made a joke of it! “You in silk stockings.” This was insolent to the grave, great man and philosopher, so he turned sharply on his familiar: “And why not, sir—why not?” This with warmth. The foolish Tupman, still inclined to be jocose, said, “Oh, of course, there is no reason why you shouldn’t wear them”—a most awkward speech—as who should say, “This is a free country—a man can wear a night cap in public if he chooses.” “I imagine not, sir—I imagine not,” said Mr. Pickwick, in a very peremptory tone. Mr. Tupman had contemplated a laugh, but he found it was a serious matter, so he looked grave, and said they were a pretty pattern. How natural is all this! And still more so his leader’s reply. “I hope they are,” he said, fixing his eyes upon his friend, “You see nothing extraordinary in the stockings, as stockings, I trust, sir.” The frightened Tupman said, “Certainly not, Oh, certainly not,” and walked away. Mr. Pickwick’s face resumed its customary benign expression. This little picture of weakness in an eminent man is characteristic. For observe, when Tupman showed the folly of wearing a “two inch tail” to the brigand’s coat, Mr. Pickwick was furious, told him he was too old and too fat; but when someone remarks on his silk stockings he gets deeply offended. His vanity is touched, there should have been no remark, or, at least, only of admiration. He was, in fact, one of those flattered and spoiled personages who cannot see any harm in their doing what they reprove in others. Many a really great character is weak in this direction. Observe the disingenuousness of the great man; he knew, perfectly, that Tupman noticed nothing odd in the stockings, “as stockings,” he meant the oddity of his wearing them at all, and he had said so, plainly. But, ignoring this, the great man chose to assume that he was insolently reflecting on their pattern as outlandish. With his despotic pressure, he forced him to say they were of a “pretty pattern,” and thus vindicated his authority.
V.—Violent Assaults, Shooting, &c
Duelling, imprisonment for debt, intoxication, elopements, are, perhaps, the most striking social incidents in “Pickwick” that have disappeared and become all but antiquarian in their character. Yet another, almost as curious, was the ready recourse to physical force or violence—fistic correction as it might be termed. A gentleman of quiet, restrained habit, like Mr. Pickwick, was prepared, in case of call, either to threaten or execute summary chastisement on anyone who offended him. The police or magistrates seemed not to have been thought of, for the victim would not think of appealing to either—all which seems strange to us nowadays. At the Review even, the soldiers coolly overthrew Mr. Pickwick and his friends who had got in their way. Winkle was maltreated so severely that the blood streamed from his nose; this would not now be tolerated. When Jingle affronted the great man by calling his friend “Tuppy,” Mr. Pickwick, we are told, “hurled the inkstand madly forward and followed it up himself.” This hurling of things at offenders was a common incident, particularly in quarrels at table, when the decanter was frequently so used, or a glass of wine thrown in the face. After the adventure at the Boarding School, Mr. Pickwick “indented his pillow with a tremendous blow,” and announced that, if he met Jingle again, he would “inflict personal chastisement on him”; while Sam declared that he would bring “real water” into Job’s eyes. Old Lobbs, in the story, was going to throttle Pipkin. Mrs. Potts insisted that the editor of The Independent should be horsewhipped. More extraordinary still, old Weller, at a quiet tea-meeting, assaulted the Shepherd, giving him “two or three for himself, and two or three more to hand over to the man with the red nose.” Everyone set themselves right in this way and, it is clear, knew how to use their “bunch of fives.” Nor were there any summonses or police courts afterwards; the incident was closed. Sam, attempting to rescue his master at Ipswich, knocked down the “specials” right and left, knocking down some for others to lie upon, yet he was only fined two pounds for the first assault and three for the second—now he would have been sent to jail under a severe sentence. Mrs. Raddle insisted that her husband should get up and knock every