Previously he had leisurely divested himself of his shoes and gaiters, and there is some reason to suppose that when these simple arrangements had been completed he was perfectly ready to go to bed. It appears that he had no nightdress specially so designed and designated. Several quotations and references might be given to show that no travelling Pickwickian deemed his wardrobe complete without the article of attire which is named a dressing-gown and is pictured for us in several illustrations; but that is quite another garment. Respecting the non-existence of the bath, of which we have negative proof alone, it is proof which is substantially strengthened by the pace of Mr. Pickwick's toilet, both on this and on other occasions. In this instance, we have seen that he said he should be down in a quarter of an hour, and, as usual, he was as good as his word. On another occasion when he may have made a little better speed than usual, in consequence of Mr. Wardle's hailing him from the garden, he was dressed and down in ten minutes. It would seem that, though he is ever represented to us as what the French call exceedingly "bien soigné," well groomed, there was little space of time, in his usual matutinal toilet, for either bath or shaving. In a very early page of this immortal story, that, namely, which records the minutes of the Club's meeting on May 12, 1827, instituting that corresponding branch of the Club which was composed of the four whose fortunes the subsequent pages follow, the respective costumes are incidentally described, and show a variety of individual choice which our day, near a century later, does not permit: What a study for an artist (writes the author enthusiastically) did that exciting scene (Mr. Pickwick addressing the Club from the elevation of the Windsor chair) present! The eloquent Pickwick, with one hand gracefully concealed behind his coat tails, and the other waving in air, to assist his glowing declamations: his elevated position revealing those tights and gaiters which, had they clothed an ordinary man, might have passed without observation, but which, when Pickwick clothed them-if we may use the expression-inspired involuntary awe and respect; surrounded by the men who had volunteered to share the perils of his travels, and who were destined to participate in the glories of his discoveries. On his right hand sat Mr. Tracy Tupman-the too susceptible Tupman, who to the wisdom and experience of maturer years superadded the enthusiasm and ardor of a boy, in the most interesting and pardonable of human weaknesses-love. Time and feeling had expanded that once romantic form; the black silk waistcoat had become more and more developed; inch by inch had the gold watch-chain beneath it disappeared from within the range of Tupman's vision; and gradually had the capacious chin encroached upon the borders of the white cravat; but the soul of Tupman had known no change-admiration of the fair sex was still its ruling passion. On the left of his great leader sat the poetic Snodgrass, and near him again the sporting Winkle the former poetically enveloped in a mysterious blue coat with a canine-skin collar, and the latter communicating additional lustre to a new green shooting-coat, plaid neckerchief, and closely-fitted drabs. Those were costumes of a picturesqueness of effect with which we cannot vie to-day, and there seems no need to wonder that, thus gloriously apparelled, the idea of any further or varied "dressing" for dinner never seems to have entered into the receptive Pickwickian head. It is perfectly true that we have much reference to a certain dress suit, the property of Mr. Winkle and loaned, entirely without leave, by Mr. Snodgrass to Mr. Jingle-a loan, and a dress suit of very fateful import -but this yet more striking costume was donned after dinner, long after, for the glorious purposes of the Rochester subscription ball. It was no mere dinner dress. Again, it may be remembered that if anything could have added to the interest of the agreeable scene (presented by the preparations for the dancing at Manor Farm) it would have been the remarkable fact of Mr. Pickwick's appearing without his gaiters, for the first time within the memory of his oldest friends. "You mean to dance?" said Wardle. "Of course I do," replied Mr. Pickwick. "Don't you see I am dressed for the purpose?" Mr. Pickwick called attention to the speckled silk stockings and smartly tied pumps. And then, of course, followed Mr. Tupman's sad failure in tact, and the momentarily strained relations to which it led. The point is that by the simple process of doffing his gaiters and shoes and donning his silk stockings and pumps Mr. Pickwick was able to feel himself so equipped at all points for the dance that he could ask in surprise, "Don't you see I am dressed for the purpose?" but it is evident that this effective if simple change of attire was executed by Mr. Pickwick after, and not before, dinner, or it could not possibly have escaped public notice as long as it did. It is abundantly evident that the very notion of "dressing for dinner" in our modern sense, had no place with the Pickwickians at all. No doubt we have to bear in mind that the period was one in which dinner, at one time the midday meal, was gradually being later deferred. At Rochester that famous dinner to which reference has been made already, about which the invited (almost selfinvited) guest had stated "not presume to dictate, but broiled fowl and mushrooms-capital thing"-as indeed it is the hour set for this dinner was five. The dinner hour in general seems to have been rather a movable one. On the unfortunate day when Mr. Winkle's horse at first went sideways, and finally, having disposed of its rider went back again to Rochester, and the horse which Mr. Pickwick had been driving had reduced the chaise to ruins, so that the whole party had to make most of the journey to Dingley Dell on foot, it does not appear that the unhappy travellers dined at all. We are gratified to be able to think that they enjoyed a substantial breakfast-"broiled ham, eggs, tea, coffee and sundries began to disappear with a rapidity which at once bore testimony to the excellence of the fare and the appetites of its consumers," but, starting at eleven in the morning, it was not till "late in the afternoon" that they turned into the lane leading into Manor Farm. Arrived there, they were received with a hearty welcome, a good grooming of their clothes and persons, but nothing more solidly comforting than cherry brandy. They were then set down to a rubber and other social entertainments in the parlor till "the evening glided swiftly" (we may take liberty to doubt that word) "away in these cheerful" (but not sustaining) "recreations; and when the substantial though homely supper had been despatched, and the little party formed a social circle round the fire, Mr. Pickwick thought he had never been so happy in his life." Possibly he had begun to doubt whether he should ever taste food again, and his supreme delight was in the reaction from this fear. Again, only on the following day, the terrific emotions undergone by the Pickwickians in the interval between breakfast and dinner were surely more than any men of the ordinary mould could possibly have endured, for by way of a first act in the drama there was the rook-shooting with that moving incident of Mr. Tupman saving "the lives of innumerable unoffending birds by receiving a portion of the charge in his left arm," and for a second act such a very remarkable cricket match that it evidently quite surpassed the wit of man to describe it. As for the third and final act of the day, on the belated return to Manor Farm, we must speak of that again a little later. For the moment, it may suffice to note that the dinner, so admirable when they began to do justice to it, was not commenced till all the cricket was over. In the golden and strenuous days of the test match between Dingley Dell and All Muggleton there was no interval even for luncheon, much less for tea. Dinner, therefore, being, as it would seem, less of a solemn feast, probably because it was known that a big supper was to follow it, than it is with us, it is perhaps the more easily understood why the good Pickwickian did not feel called on to assume a special garb in which to do it honor. He dined in his sufficiently magnificent morning garments, but if he went to a dance thereafter he arrayed himself if possible more gloriously still. Being on the subject of dress, a glance may be thrown on the style of Mr. Samuel Weller's livery thrown in with his wage of £12 a year, namely, "a gray coat, with the P.C. button, a black hat with a cockade to it, a pink striped waistcoat, tight breeches and gaiters" -a neat ensemble, as his comments on his own appearance prove that he appreciated fully. And now, to touch on a subject which is so very painful that it is as well to get it quickly over and feel that it is behind us, we have to observe that the manners of the Pickwickians and their friends were decidedly a little more convivial than we could possibly approve in persons in the same, or, in deed, in any class of society to-day. "It wasn't the wine,' murmured Mr. Snodgrass in a broken voice, when Miss Emily Wardle asked with great anxiety whether he was ill, on the return from the cricket match and the dinner. 'It was the salmon.'" "Hadn't they better go to bed. ma'am?" inquired Emma. "Two of the boys will carry the gentlemen upstairs." "I won't go to bed," said Mr. Winkle firmly. "No living being shall carry me." said Mr. Pickwick stoutly; and he went on smiling as before. "Hurrah!" gasped Mr. Winkle, faintly. "Hurrah!" echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing it on the floor, and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle of the kitchen. At this humorous feat he laughed outright. "Let's-have-'nother bottle," cried Mr. Winkle, commencing in a very loud key and ending in a very faint one. After a while, however, they all were persuaded to retire, Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle carried by two young giants, and Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Wardle on the arms of Mr. Tupman and Mr. Trundle respectively. The spinster aunt ejaculated "What a shocking scene!" both the young ladies observed "Dis-gusting!" and Jingle, who was "a bottle and a-half ahead of any of his companions," said gravely "Dreadful! Dreadful! Horrid spectacle-very!" Of course, these were the right and proper sentiments for the ladies on the occasion, but it is evident that the "shock" and the "disgust" did not go very deep really. There is no hint that there were any strained relations between ladies and gentlemen on that dreadful morrow in which the maiden aunt filed under the protection of the faithless Jingle. The truth unquestion ably is that the shocking and disgusting scene was too common in the manners of the day to leave any enduring feeling. The total amount of liquor, especially of punch, both hot and cold, which was consumed in the course of this veracious history is entirely beyond present computation. It was cold punch which was the cause of Mr. Pickwick's being taken in the wheelbarrow to the pound by orders of the ferocious Captain Boldwig, and when rescued from that ignoble predicament by the fortunate and fortuitous arrival of Mr. Wardle with Sam Weller in the carriage they stopped at the first roadside tavern they came to and ordered a glass of brandy and water all round, with a magnum of extra strength for Mr. Samuel Weller. It was not by any means an age in which it was thought a sinful thing to "place temptation in a servant's way." It appears, however, that Mr. Weller had inherited, probably in the paternal line, a brain of such remarkable power as to be practically impervious to the influence of alcohol, for though we find him on every possible occasion that offers applying himself ungrudgingly to the bowl that cheers, in no single instance does the indulgence becloud his extremely lucid faculties. Not only is Mr. Weller great in this respect himself, but he is also capable of generous appreciation of similar fine qualities in others, for we are told that when the fat boy swallowed off a glass of something extremely strong "without winking" the performance appeared to raise him considerably in Mr. Weller's estimation. The whole tendency of the time, in fact, was towards faith in that prescription ordered by Mr. Bob Sawyer for Mr. Pickwick after his unfortunate immersion through the breaking ice. It may be remembered that on that occasion a bowl of punch was carried up to the great man's bedroom and a grand carouse held in honor of his safety. A second and a third bowl were ordered in. And when Mr. Pickwick awoke next morning there was not a symptom of rheumatism about him; which proves, as Mr. Bob Sawyer very justly observed, that there is nothing like hot punch in such cases, and that if ever hot punch did fail to act as a preservative, it was merely because the patient fell into the vulgar error of not taking enough of it. It is to be feared that our present manners must be regarded by Mr. Sawyer, if he still lives, as lamentably vulgar. After these comments which must have something of a censorious flavor, however we may try to disguise it, on the habits of our forefathers, it seems only right to draw attention to other points of behavior in which they were considerably more nice than we are to-day. The habit of smoking was regarded with a general reprobation as a dirty one. We may observe that fact recorded or implied in many pages of the immortal story. When the gentleman who sat opposite the man with the mosaic studs remarked that tobacco was board and lodging to him, Mr. Pickwick, looking at him, could not help thinking that it was a pity it was not washing also. The connection is always maintained-between dirt and tobacco. Perhaps this is a subject which may very well be studied in conjunction with the manners and customs of the medical students of the day. Sam Weller, mentioning to Mr. Pickwick the arrival at Manor Farm of two specimens of the species, informs him, among other interesting particulars, that "They're asmokin' cigars by the kitchen fire." It may be noted as a sign of the times that the smoker should be thus banished to the cook's kingdom. The day was still to come when every house should have its smoking-room, or al ternatively, that there should be smoking in every room in the house. In reply to this observation on the part of Sam, Mr. Pickwick with his beaming kindliness says, not perhaps greatly to the point, "Ah!-overflowing with kindly feelings and animal spirits. Just what I like to see." It is a little hard for common men to follow the workings of the great Pickwickian brain which could see indications of these qualities in smoking cigars in a kitchen, but the observation is almost supernaturally justified by Sam's further description: One of 'em's got his legs on the table, and is a-drinkin' brandy neat, vile the tother one-him in the barnacles-has got a barrel o' oysters atween his knees, wich he's a-openin' like steam, and as fast as he eats 'em he takes a aim vith the shells at young dropsy, who's a-sittin' down, fast asleep, in his chimbley corner. If all this does not show an overflow of kindly feelings and animal spirits we may well ask what could? As Mr. Pickwick truly says, these are to be regarded as the eccentricities of genius. It may be worth while, at this point, to give the impressions of the two rising medical men, when at length seen by Mr. Pickwick, in the author's own words, for they incidentally touch the great tobacco question which we are considering at the same time as they are more immediately concerned with a faithful picture of the appearance of the young gentlemen of the medical profession: Mr. Benjamin Allen was a coarse, stout, thick-set young man, with black hair cut rather short, and a white face cut rather long. He was embellished with spectacles and wore a white neckerchief. Below his single-breasted black overcoat, which was buttoned up to his chin, appeared the usual number of pepper and salt colored legs, terminating in a pair of imperfectly polished boots. Although his coat was short in the sleeve, it disclosed no vestige of a linen wristband; and although there was quite enough of his face to permit the encroachment of a shirt collar, it was not graced by the slightest approach to that appendage. He presented, altogether, rather a mildewy appearance, and emitted a fragrant odor of full-flavored Cubas. Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was habited in a coarse blue coat which, without being either a greatcoat or a surtout, partook of the nature and qualities of both, had about him that sort of slovenly smartness and swaggering gait which is peculiar to young men who smoke in the street by day, shout and scream in the same by night, call waiters by their Christian names, and do various other acts and deeds of an equally facetious description. He wore a pair of plaid trousers, and a large double-breasted waistcoat, and out of doors carried a thick stick with a big top. He eschewed gloves, and looked, upon the whole, something like a dissipated Robinson Crusoe. This is a description which is very rich and full with the marrow of information. We have to distinguish between the picture which the author sets himself to draw (no doubt consciously caricatured) on the one side, and the pictures which scintillate forth, unintentionally, and therefore strictly veraciously, on the other. When he penned this comment about "gentlemen who smoke in the street by day," he had no suspicion that it would be an illumination for posterity on the manners of the time he was discussing. Obviously this was a dreadful solecism -for a young gentleman to smoke in the streets by day. For a middle-aged gentleman to be dead drunk at every hour of the twenty-four was as nothing, comparatively. To-day a gentleman, even of the rank of the medical student, might possibly go so far as to "eschew gloves" without exciting the idea of "a dissipated Robinson Crusoe." As for the "fragrant odor |