In the same connection The “Bar” of the old “Maypole,” the preparation for dinner, and the kitchen are thus described:—
“All bars are snug places, but the Maypole’s was the very snuggest, cosiest, and completest bar that ever the wit of man devised. Such amazing bottles in old oaken pigeon-holes; such gleaming tankards dangling from pegs at about the same inclination as thirsty men would hold them to their lips; such sturdy little Dutch kegs ranged in rows on shelves; so many lemons hanging in separate nets, and forming the fragrant grove already mentioned in this chronicle, suggestive, with goodly loaves of snowy sugar stowed away hard by, of punch, idealised beyond all mortal knowledge; such closets, such presses, such drawers full of pipes, such places for putting things away in hollow window seats, all crammed to the throat with eatables, drinkables, or savoury condiments; lastly, and to crown all, as typical of the immense resources of the establishment, and its defiances to all visitors to cut and come again, such a stupendous cheese!
“It is a poor heart that never rejoices—it must have been the poorest, weakest, and most watery heart that ever beat which would not have warmed towards the Maypole bar. Mrs. Varden’s did directly. She could no more have reproached John Willet among those household gods, the kegs and bottles, lemons, pipes, and cheese, than she could have stabbed him with his own bright carving-knife. The order for dinner too—it might have soothed a savage. ‘A bit of fish,’ said John to the cook, ‘and some lamb chops (breaded, with plenty of ketchup), and a good salad, and a roast spring chicken, with a dish of sausages and mashed potatoes, or something of that sort.’ Something of that sort! The resources of these inns! To talk carelessly about dishes which in themselves were a first-rate holiday kind of dinner, suitable to one’s wedding-day, as something of that sort, meaning, if you can’t get a spring chicken, any other trifle in the way of poultry will do—such as a peacock, perhaps! The kitchen, too, with its great broad cavernous chimney; the kitchen, where nothing in the way of cookery seemed impossible; where you could believe in anything to eat they chose to tell you of. Mrs. Varden returned from the contemplation of these wonders to the bar again, with a head quite dizzy and bewildered. Her housekeeping capacity was not large enough to comprehend them. She was obliged to go to sleep. Waking was pain, in the midst of such immensity.”
The Warren, residence of Mr. Haredale and his niece, an old red-brick house, standing in its own grounds, was situated about a mile eastward from the Maypole, and was thence accessible by a path across the fields, from the garden exit of the inn, to its position on the border of Hainault Forest. (See final paragraph of chapter 19, “Barnaby Rudge.”) From many suggestions in the book, it occupied, in all probability, the site of Forest House, not a great distance from Chigwell Row; but of this no certainty exists.
Chigwell to Ipswich. It will be best to return from Buckhurst Hill by rail to Stratford or Liverpool Street, in order to travel by fast main line train, to the good old town of Ipswich, our next destination. The journey—viâ Chelmsford and Colchester—will occupy about two hours, during which we may recall the memorable occasion of Mr. Pickwick’s excursion per coach from the “Bull Inn,” Whitechapel, to this ancient capital of Suffolk, attended by the faithful Sam, Mr. Weller, senior, driving, and beguiling the tediousness of the way with conversation of considerable interest—“possessing the inestimable charm of blending amusement with instruction.” Full details will be found on reference to the “Pickwick Papers,” chapter 22, together with the account of Mr. P.’s introduction to his fellow-traveller, Mr. Peter Magnus, “a red-haired man, with an inquisitive nose and blue spectacles.” On arrival at the station at Ipswich, the wayfarer, crossing by bridge over the Gipping river, may proceed straight onwards through Princes Street (five minutes) to Tavern Street. Turning to the right, along this thoroughfare, he will soon see the Great White Horse Hotel, on the left side of Tavern Street. Tramcars from the station pass the hotel; also omnibus meets all trains. Telegraphic address—Pickwick, Ipswich. In the chapter before referred to is contained the following description:—
“In the main street of Ipswich, on the left-hand side of the way, a short distance after you have passed through the open space fronting the Town Hall, stands an inn, known far and wide by the appellation of the Great White Horse, rendered the more conspicuous by a stone statue of some rapacious animal with flowing mane and tail, distinctly resembling an insane cart-horse, which is elevated above the principal door. The Great White Horse is famous in the neighbourhood in the same degree as a prize ox, or county paper-chronicled turnip, or unwieldy pig—for its enormous size. Never were such labyrinths of uncarpeted passages, such clusters of mouldy, ill-lighted rooms, such huge numbers of small dens for eating or sleeping in beneath one roof, as are collected together within the four walls of the Great White Horse at Ipswich.”
The Dickensian Rambler will well remember this hotel as the scene of Mr. Pickwick’s “romantic adventure with a middle-aged lady in yellow curl-papers,” related in extenso in the same chapter as above. Information as to the exact bedroom allotted to Mr. Pickwick on the occasion of his visit to this place is, unfortunately, not afforded by local tradition; but the apartment occupied by “Miss Witherfield,” whose privacy Mr. P. inadvertently, but so unhappily, invaded, is indicated to visitors on the second floor—No. 36, according to recent rearrangement of enumeration, formerly known as No. 6.
Poor Mr. Pickwick, on his escape from his awkward predicament, was unable to find his own room, but was at last rescued from his dilemma by his faithful servitor—
“After groping his way a few paces down the passage, and, to his infinite alarm, stumbling over several pairs of boots in so doing, Mr. Pickwick crouched into a little recess in the wall, to wait for morning as philosophically as he might.
“He was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of patience; for he had not been long ensconced in his present concealment when, to his unspeakable horror, a man, bearing a light, appeared at the end of the passage. His horror was suddenly converted into joy, however, when he recognised the form of his faithful attendant. It was indeed Mr. Samuel Weller, who after sitting up thus late, in conversation with the Boots, who was sitting up for the mail, was now about to retire to rest.
“‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly appearing before him, ‘where’s my bedroom?’
“Mr. Weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise; and it was not until the question had been repeated three several times, that he turned round, and led the way to the long-sought apartment.
“‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he got into bed. ‘I have made one of the most extraordinary mistakes to-night that were ever heard of.’
“‘Wery likely, sir,’ said Mr. Weller drily.
“‘But of this I am determined, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that if I were to stop in this house for six months, I would never trust myself about it alone again.’
“‘That’s the wery prudentest resolution as you could come to, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘You rayther want somebody to look arter you, sir, wen your judgment goes out a wisitin’.’”
By way of Upper Brook Street, Tacket Street, and Orwell Place, we come to Fore Street, St. Clement’s (a thoroughfare in which still remain several old houses of the sixteenth century), and soon reach the whereabouts of St. Clement’s Church, towards which, on the morning following the disasters of the night of their arrival, Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps, and