Transcribed from the 1899 New Century Press edition by DavidPrice,
by
PERCY FITZGERALD, M.A., F.S.A.
Author of “The History ofPickwick,” “Pickwickian Manners andCustoms,”
“Bozland,” &c.
London:
THE NEW CENTURY PRESS, LIMITED
434 Strand, W.C
1899
This ancient Inn is associated with some pleasant anddiverting Pickwickian memories. We think of the adventurewith “the lady in the yellow curl papers” and thedouble-bedded room, just as we would recall some “sidesplitting” farce in which Buckstone or Toole once made ourjaws ache. As all the world knows, the “Great WhiteHorse” is found in the good old town of Ipswich, stillflourishes, and is scarcely altered from the days when Mr.Pickwick put up there. Had it not been thus associated,Ipswich would have remained a place obscure and scarcely known,for it has little to attract save one curious old house and someold churches; and for the theatrical antiquary, the remnant ofthe old theatre in Tacket Street, where Garrick first appeared asan amateur under the name of Lyddal, about a hundred and sixtyyears ago, and where now the Salvation Army“performs” in his stead. [1] The touch of“Boz” kindled the old bones into life, it peopled thenarrow, winding streets with the Grummers, Nupkins, Jingles,Pickwick and his followers; with the immortal lady aforesaid inher yellow curl papers, to say nothing of Mr. Peter Magnus. From afar off even, we look at Ipswich with a singular interest;some of us go down there to enjoy the peculiar feeling—andit is a peculiar p. 2and piquant one—of staying atMr. Pickwick’s Inn—of sleeping even in hisroom. This relish, however, is only given to your true“follower,” not to his German-metalcounterfeit—though, strange to say, at this moment,Pickwick is chiefly “made in Germany,” and comes tous from that country in highly-coloured almanacks—andpictures of all kinds. About Ipswich there is a veryappropriate old-fashioned tone, and much of the proper countrytown air. The streets seem dingy enough—the haywaggon is encountered often. The “Great WhiteHorse,” which is at the corner of several streets, is alow, longish building—with a rather seedy air. But toread “Boz’s” description of it, we see at oncethat he was somewhat overpowered by its grandeur and immensesize—which, to us in these days of huge hotels, seemsodd. It was no doubt a large posting house of many smallchambers—and when crowded, as “Boz” saw it atElection time in 1835, swarming with committeemen, agents, andvoters, must have impressed more than it would now. TheBall-room at “The Bull,” in Rochester, affected himin much the same way; and there is a curious sensation in lookinground us there, on its modest proportions—its little hutchof a gallery which would hold about half-a-dozen musicans, andthe small contracted space at the top where the“swells” of the dockyard stood together. “Boz,” as he himself once told me, took away fromRochester the idea that its old, red brick Guildhall was one ofthe most imposing edifices in Europe, and described hisastonishment on his return at seeing how small it was.
Apropos of Rochester and the Pickwick feeling, it may be saidthat to pass that place by on the London, Chatham, and Dover linerouses the most curious sensation. Above is the Castle,seen a long time before, with the glistening