The route being continued past Herne Hill Station, the train arrives at Dulwich, which we may recollect en passant as being the locality of Mr. Pickwick’s retirement, before the days of railway locomotion. The house—a white, comfortable-looking residence—stands (left) near the station, as we approach, corresponding in style and position with its Pickwickian description. Mr. Tupman, too, may have been met with in olden time, walking in the public promenades or loitering in the Dulwich Picture Gallery—“with a youthful and jaunty air”—still in the enjoyment of single blessedness, and the cynosure of the numerous elderly ladies of the neighbourhood.
Mr. Snodgrass and Emily Wardle, as we all know, were married at Dulwich Church, in this vicinity; the wedding guests—including “the poor relations, who got there somehow”—assembling at Mr. Pickwick’s new house on that interesting occasion; and we may remember the general verdict then unanimously given as to the elegance, comfort, and suitability of our old friend’s suburban retreat—
“Nothing was to be heard but congratulations and commendations. Everything was so beautiful! The lawn in front, the garden behind, the miniature conservatory, the dining-room, the drawing-room, the bedrooms, the smoking-room; and, above all, the study—with its pictures and easy chairs, and odd cabinets and queer tables, and nooks out of number, with a large cheerful window opening upon a pleasant lawn, and commanding a pretty landscape, just dotted here and there with little houses, almost hidden by the trees.”
Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Weller and family—retainers in the Pickwickian establishment—also flourished aforetime in these arcadian groves, in faithful attendance on their illustrious patron.
The journey being resumed, we pass onwards (Crystal Palace on the right side of the railway) viâ Penge and Bromley, and several country towns beyond—a pleasant ride of about an hour’s duration—arriving in due course at Sole Street Station (30 miles from London), about a mile south-west from the village of Cobham. A pleasant walk of twenty minutes on the high road will lead the wayfarer through Owlet to the pretty parish aforesaid; the rural retreat—famous in the annals of Pickwickian history—selected by Mr. Tracy Tupman for his retirement from the world, after his disappointment at the hands of Miss Rachael Wardle.
“The Leather Bottle Inn”—where he was found at dinner by his anxious friends—is described as “a clean and commodious village ale-house,” and still maintains its favourable repute. It stands opposite the church at Cobham—
“At Muggleton they procured a conveyance to Rochester. By the time they reached the last-named place, the violence of their grief had sufficiently abated to admit of their making a very excellent early dinner; and having procured the necessary information relative to the road, the three friends set forward again in the afternoon to walk to Cobham.
“A delightful walk it was; for it was a pleasant afternoon in June, and their way lay through a deep and shady wood, cooled by the light wind which gently rustled the thick foliage, and enlivened by the songs of the birds that perched upon the boughs. The ivy and the moss crept in thick clusters over the old trees, and the soft green turf overspread the ground like a silken mat. They emerged upon an open park, with an ancient hall, displaying the quaint and picturesque architecture of Elizabeth’s time. Long vistas of stately oaks and elm-trees appeared on every side; large herds of deer were cropping the fresh grass; and occasionally a startled hare scoured along the ground with the speed of the shadows thrown by the light clouds which swept across a sunny landscape like a passing breath of summer. ‘If this,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him, ‘if this were the place to which all who are troubled with our friend’s complaint came, I fancy their old attachment to this world would very soon return.’
“‘I think so too,’ said Mr. Winkle.
“‘And really,’ added Mr. Pickwick, after half-an-hour’s walking had brought them to the village, ‘really, for a misanthrope’s choice, this is one of the prettiest and most desirable places of residence I ever met with.’
“In this opinion also both Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass expressed their concurrence; and having been directed to the Leather Bottle, a clean and commodious village ale-house, the three travellers entered, and at once inquired for a gentleman of the name of Tupman. The three friends entered a long, low-roofed room, furnished with a large number of high-backed leather-cushioned chairs, of fantastic shapes, and embellished with a great variety of old portraits. At the upper end of the room was a table, with a white cloth upon it, well covered with a roast fowl, bacon, ale, and et ceteras; and at the table sat Mr. Tupman, looking as unlike a man who had taken his leave of the world as possible.”
Resting here awhile, we may recall the “immortal discovery” made by Mr. Pickwick, “which has been the pride and boast of his friends and the envy of every antiquarian in this or any other country”—that famous stone found by the chairman of the Pickwick Club himself; “partially buried in the ground in front of a cottage door,” in this same village of Cobham, on which “the following fragment of an inscription was clearly to be deciphered”:—
