The interest of this country town centres, for Pickwickian readers, in the “Marquis of Granby,” once an inn. It exists no longer as such, having been long since converted into a grocer’s establishment. It will be found in the High Street, opposite the Post Office, at the side of Chequers’ Court, which runs between it and the London and County Bank. The old sign-board, the cosy bar, with its store of choice wines and pine-apple rum (Mr. Stiggins’s “pertickler vanity”), and the horse-trough in which the reverend gentleman was half drowned by the irate Weller, senior, are now among the things that are not; but the old house still remains in situ, altered to the uses of its present occupancy.
In chapter 27 of the Pickwick records we read of Sam’s first pilgrimage to Dorking, on which occasion he paid his filial respects to his mother-in-law, the rather stout lady of comfortable appearance, who conducted the business of the house; and made his acquaintance with the Rev. Mr. Stiggins of saintly memory. The description of the establishment is given as follows:—
“The ‘Marquis of Granby’ in Mrs. Weller’s time was quite a model of a roadside public-house of the better class—just large enough to be convenient, and small enough to be snug. On the opposite side of the road was a large sign-board on a high post, representing the head and shoulders of a gentleman with an apoplectic countenance, in a red coat with deep-blue facings, and a touch of the same blue over his three-cornered hat, for a sky. Over that again were a pair of flags; beneath the last button of his coat were a couple of cannon; and the whole formed an expressive and undoubted likeness of the Marquis of Granby of glorious memory.
“The bar window displayed a choice collection of geranium plants, and a well-dusted row of spirit phials. The open shutters bore a variety of golden inscriptions, eulogistic of good beds and neat wines; and the choice group of countrymen and hostlers lounging about the stable-door and horse-trough, afforded presumptive proof of the excellent quality of the ale and spirits which were sold within. Sam Weller paused, when he dismounted from the coach, to note all these little indications of a thriving business, with the eye of an experienced traveller; and having done so, stepped in at once, highly satisfied with everything he had observed.”
Mr. Stiggins, the clerical friend and spiritual adviser of the worthy hostess, having fully ingratiated himself in her good graces, was in the habit of making himself very much at home at “The Marquis”; greatly appreciating the creature comforts there obtainable, and the good liquors kept in stock. In point of fact, knowing when he was well off, he lived well—if not wisely—on Mrs. Weller’s hospitable bounty, and made headquarters at this Dorking inn. On the occasion of Sam’s first visit before referred to—in chapter 27, as above—this estimable character is thus introduced to the notice of Pickwickian students:—
“He was a prim-faced, red-nosed man, with a long, thin countenance, and a semi-rattlesnake sort of eye—rather sharp, but decidedly bad. He wore very short trousers, and black-cotton stockings, which, like the rest of his apparel, were particularly rusty. His looks were starched, but his white neckerchief was not, and its long limp ends straggled over his closely-buttoned waistcoat in a very uncouth and unpicturesque fashion.”
“The fire was blazing brightly under the influence of the bellows, and the kettle was singing gaily under the influence of both. A small tray of tea things was arranged on the table, a plate of hot buttered toast was gently simmering before the fire, and the red-nosed man himself was busily engaged in converting a large slice of bread into the same agreeable edible, through the instrumentality of a long brass toasting-fork. Beside him stood a glass of reeking hot pine-apple rum and water, with a slice of lemon in it; and every time the red-nosed man stopped to bring the round of toast to his eye, with the view of ascertaining how it got on, he imbibed a drop or two of the hot pine-apple rum and water, and smiled upon the rather stout lady, as she blew the fire.”
The downfall of Stiggins. The season of his prosperity came to a sad ending after the demise of his patroness; and in chapter 52 we read of his reverse of fortune, and the final congé given to the reverend gentleman by the irate Mr. Weller, senior, who dismissed him from his household chaplaincy, in a manner more peremptory than pleasant:—
“He walked softly into the bar, and presently returning with the tumbler half full of pine-apple rum, advanced to the kettle which was singing gaily on the hob, mixed his grog, stirred it, sipped it, sat down, and taking a long and hearty pull at the rum and water, stopped for breath.
“The elder Mr. Weller, who still continued to make various strange and uncouth attempts to appear asleep, offered not a single word during these proceedings; but when Stiggins stopped for breath, he darted upon him, and snatching the tumbler from his hand, threw the remainder of the rum and water in his face, and the glass itself into the grate. Then, seizing the reverend gentleman firmly by the collar, he suddenly fell to kicking him most furiously, accompanying every application of his top-boots to Mr. Stiggins’s person, with sundry violent and incoherent anathemas upon his limbs, eyes, and body.
“‘Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘put my hat on tight for me.’
“Sam dutifully adjusted the hat with the long hatband more firmly on his father’s head, and the old gentleman, resuming his kicking with greater agility than before, tumbled with Mr. Stiggins through the bar, and through the passage, out at the front door, and so into the street; the kicking continuing the whole way, and increasing in vehemence, rather than diminishing, every time the top-boot was lifted.
“It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see the red-nosed man writhing in Mr. Weller’s grasp, and his whole frame quivering with anguish as kick followed kick in rapid succession; it was a still more exciting spectacle to behold Mr. Weller, after a powerful struggle, immersing Mr. Stiggins’s head in a horse-trough full of water, and holding it there until he was half-suffocated.”
The old horse-trough, as depicted by “Phiz” in the original illustrated title-page of the book, has long since given place to local alteration and improvement; but “hereabouts it stood.”
There are many pleasant and humorous associations connected with this old place of country entertainment, as duly set forth in the Pickwick annals; but it should be remembered that many years have passed since their publication (1837), and that men and manners have greatly changed and bettered. It is satisfactory to reflect that Mr. Stiggins and his brethren have altogether become obsolete in English middle-class society, and that the protest so embodied sixty years since is no longer necessary. In these happier days, earnestness and ability have, in the main, superseded laziness and cant.
Dorking to Portsmouth. The journey being resumed by railway, we travel southward and westward through the pleasant fields and pasture lands of Sussex, viâ Horsham and Chichester, to the old town of Portsmouth, where, in Landport, Portsea, Charles Dickens was born, on Friday, the 7th of February 1812. He was the second son (in a family of eight, six surviving infancy) of Mr. John Dickens, a clerk in the Navy Pay Office at the Dockyard. The name of his mother, previous to her marriage, was Elizabeth Barrow. The baptismal record at Portsea registers him as Charles John Huffham Dickens, but he very seldom used any other signature than the one with which we are all familiar. On arrival at the Portsmouth town station, we leave the railway, turning to the right, and proceed onwards, in the main thoroughfare of Commercial Road. Thus we shortly reach, in due course, The Birthplace of Dickens. The house (No. 387 Commercial Road, Landport) stands about half a mile northward (to the right) from the railway station, with a neat forecourt. It bears a tablet recording date of the event, as above.