V.

ONE of the chief attractions of "Pickwick," and a secret of its popularity, is the singular flavour of its descriptions. This is really extraordinary, and denotes a rare power, and a vivid dramatic sentiment. The characteristic costumes, old-fashioned and effective, which enter into, and colour the story, the bits of description of Old London, legitimately helping on the narrative, the admirable painting of such things as inn life in country towns, coaching, with a hundred other touches, all add to the charm. There are some places, however, which live again for us, as they did sixty years ago, with a singular and effective vitality, such as Rochester and Bath. The colours here are "laid" with some of the tranquil grace of Miss Austen: there is little personal description, and in every movement and every touch we are conscious of that peculiar note of its own which distinguishes every place, and gives it a special charm, though but few possess the gift of discovering or describing it. It is much the same in the case of painting. We often turn to a collection of "Views of the Cathedrals of

England," either engraved or photographed, and hich seem to us so many imposing buildings of merit, and of many varieties; yet who has not felt, after a visit say to Salisbury or Canterbury, that he has hitherto had little idea of the charm of the building? It is the peculiar tone of the place, its surroundings, its relation to the town, its skies and colouring that is wanting. No pictured "elevation" of Salisbury Cathedral can furnish an idea of the fane itself, with its acute spire and peculiar tint, its strange air of solitariness, its retired close. But the painter, Constable, has pierced to the true note, and his fine picture brings before us the whole poetry of the scene, the airy, hovering clouds, the peculiar greens of the place, the relation of the trees and skies to the central object. It is the same with these old-fashioned, slumbering towns, round which still hover old and ghostly glories.

Rochester, and the neighbouring Chatham, is but little changed from the Pickwickian days. The old High Street has still a tranquil "snoozing" air, with its overhanging houses; and the old inns look very much as they did when the coach drove up to the Bull Inn with Mr. Pickwick and his friends on the outside. If we visit Rochester, we feel, as Sam says, that "we have knowd him afore," so perfectly has the tone been caught in the story. We have exactly the same sensations as

the party had, when we are set down, arriving as strangers at the snug "Bull." While dinner is getting ready there is no excitement, but still pleasure of a curious kind. As we dine we hear Mr. Jingle asking the waiter :—

"Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter," said the stranger. "Forms going up-carpenters coming down-lamps, glasses, harps. What's going forward?"

'Ball, sir," said the waiter.
"Assembly, eh?"

"No, sir, not Assembly, sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity, sir."

Three of the guests secure tickets. "Mr. Tracy Tupman and the stranger entered the ball-room.

"It was a long room, with crimson-covered benches, and wax candles in glass chandeliers. The musicians were securely confined in an elevated den, and quadrilles were being systematically got through by two or three sets of dancers. Two card-tables were made up in the adjoining card-room, and two pair of old ladies. and a corresponding number of stout gentlemen were executing whist therein."

The room is still shown, and how curious is the feeling of looking at one of these rare hotel ballrooms! The "elevated den " is still there.

Many years ago, in the lifetime of the author, when staying at Gadshill, I walked betimes on

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one Sunday morning, into the old town, where, for the moment, I seemed to become one of the Pickwickians. Everything was redolent of the story. The pleasant green lanes, rather than roads, rose up and down: occasionally I encountered a gig, and a stray waggon or van. There was to be a race or a fair on the Monday, and here was a two-wheeled cart, the proprietor of which walked by his vehicle in a Sunday cloak made out of the gauzy and dappled oilcloth which served as his roulette board. After three or four miles, the great river and the bridge came in sight. here, as the spectator stood upon the was a striking view indeed. Pressing on, entered the little old town, which seemed a snakeshaped street with old rustic inns and posting yards, and a few ancient framed houses, their thin old bones and joints well looked to, and kept as fresh as paint could make them. Everything was as bright and clean as a Dutch town, even to the one policeman who, having little to do, began an affable conversation. Taking another bend, the little old town showed me its well-rusted Queen Anne Town Hall with yellow stone corners, and a high French roof, and a delightful old clock, that hung out a great way over the street, in a mass of florid carving. Behind was a niche and a flamboyant statue of a naval officer, in gauntlets, pointing probably to the French, the

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brave old Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovel. Further on was a low edifice, unmistakable in character, with a portico and pillars, the Theatre Royal, with some faded bills, which I approached to read with interest. I found that, say, "Mr. George Jenby," the eminent character actor and vocalist, was to give two nights in this,

HIS NATIVE TOWN.

Being assisted by

Miss Mary Jenby (of the London concerts),

Miss Susan Jenby (of the London and suburban concerts), Mr. William Jenby (who was of no concerts at all), and by

The infant, Marie Jenby.

I wished the Jenby family all success, for I was worked into sympathy with their efforts, by a pathetic quotation subjoined to the Bill, that

As the hare whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the spot from where at first it flew,

so had worthy Jenby and his family come to ask support from his "native town As was to be expected the host of Gadshill was delighted with this little touch.

Among the agreeable books written on the places described by Dickens, Mr. Langton's

1 This quaint little Rochester playhouse, which had an extraordinary Pickwickian air, has long since ceased to "function," and has been altered into some institution, a Conservative club, I believe.