The Sun.
London, England, 1836-11-01 00:00:00

THE PICKTVICK CLUB.

Our friend " Boz " keeps up his reminiscences of
the bland old Cockney, Mr. Pickwick, with remark-
able spirit. Though full of humour, this character
never once transgresses propriety—a great merit, when
we consider the temptations it offers for whimsical ex-
aggeration. But decidedly our favourite is Sam Wel-
ler, a sketch made up of many individuals, assisted by
a lively and fertile fancy, and which none but a true comic
genius could have ventured to tamper with. " Boz "
not unfrequently reminds us of old Mundell ; he has
the same quiet, oily humour, and the same inveterate
love of detail in his portraits. Ho conceives strongly,
and his execution answers to his conceptions, We
subjoin a favourable specimen of his more vigorous
and graphic style, and may just observe by the way,
that the engravings are as admirable as the lite-
f2ry portion of the " Pickwick Club." The author
:
and the artist play into each other's hands—under-
stand pitch other's pealiatittes thoroughly
Ahap, said OP old mani, a brief description of whose
.
citwipk--‘! -14; *crying
manner and appearance conao4ded the last chapter, " Aha!
Pi
who wag talking about the pinx?'?
war, Sir," replied
what singular odd pJaces they are.'.'
Tom " sad th,e eld malt, pontemptuously—" What do
you know of the time when young men shut themselves up in
those lonely rooms, and read and read, hour after hour, and

night after night, till their reason wandered beneath their mid-
night studies; till their mental powers were exhausted; till
morning's light brought no freshness or health to them ; and
they sunk beneath the unnatural devotion of their youthful
energies to their dry old books? Coming down to a later
time, and a very different day, what do you know of the gra •
dual sinking beneath consumption, or the quick wasting of
fever—the grand results of ' life' and dissipation—which men
have undergone in those same rooms ? How many vain pleaders
for mercy, do you think have turned away heart-sick from the
lawyer's office, to find a resting-place in the Thames, or a re-
fuge in the gaol ? They are no ordinary houses, those.
There is not a panne] in the old wainscotting, but what, if it
were endowed with the powers of speech and memory, could
start from the wall, and tell its tale of horror—the romance of
life, Sir, the romance of life. Common-place as they may
seem now, I tell you they are strange old places, and I would
rather hear many a legend with a terrific-sounding name,
than the true history of one old set of chambers."
There was something so cdd in the old man's sudden energy,
and the subject which bad called it forth, that Mr. Pickwick
was prep7red with no observation in reply ; and the old man
checking his impetuosity, and resuming the leer, which had
disappeared during his previous excitement, said—
" Look at them in another light : their most common-place
and least romantic : what fine places of slow torture they are.
Think of the needy man who has spent his all, beggared him.
self, and pinched his friends, to enter the profession, which is
destined never to yield a morsel of bread to him. The wait-
ing--the hope—the disappointment—the fear—the misery_
the poverty—the blight on his hopes, and end to his career--
the suicide perhaps, or, better still, the shabby, slip-shod
drunkard. Am I not right about them, eh ?" And the old
man rubbed his hands, and leered as if in delight at having
found another point of view in which to placo his favourite
subject.

" Mr. Pickwick eyed the old man with great curiosity, and
he remainder of the company smiled, and looked on in silence."
" Talk of your German universities," said the little old
man—" Pooh, pooh there's romance enough at home, with-
out going half a mile for it; only people never think of it."
" I never thought of the romance of this particular subject
before, certainly," said Mr. Pickwick, laughing.
" To be sure you didn't," said the little old man, "of
course not. As a friend of mine used to say to me, What is
there in chambers, in particular ?" Queer old places,' said I.
Not at all,' said he. Lonely,' said I. ' Not a bit of it,'
said he. He died one morning of apoplexy, as he was going
to open his outer door. Fell with his head in his own letter.
box, and there he lay for eighteen months. Every body
thought he'd gone out of town."
" And how was he found at last ?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
" The benchers determined to break his door open, as he
hadn't paid any rent for two years. So they did. Forced
the lock ; and a very dusty skeleton in a blue coat, black
knee-shorts, and silks, fell forward in the arms of the porter
who opened the door. Queer, that. Rather, perhaps ; rather,
eh ?" And the little old men put his head more on one side,
and rubbed his hands with unspeakable glee.
" I know another case," said the little old man, when his
chuckles had in some degree subsided—" It occurred in Clif-
ford's Inn. Tenant of a top set—bad character—shut himself
up in his bed-room closet, and took a dose of arsenic. The
steward thought Ise had run away : opened the door, and put
a bill up. Another man came, took the chambers, furnished
them, and went to live there. Somehow or other he couldn't
sleep—always restless and uncomfortable. ' Odd,' says he.
I'll make the other room my bed-chamber, and this my sit-
ting-room.' He made the change, and slept very well at
night, but suddenly found that somehow he couldn't read in
the evening : he got nervous and uncomfortable, and used to
be always snuffing his candles and staring about him. I
can't make this out,' said he, when he came home from the
play one night, and was drinking a glass of cold grog, with
his back to the wall, in order that he mightn't be able to fancy
there was any one behind I can't make it out,' said he ;
and just then his eyes rested on the little closet that had been
always locked up, and a shudder ran through his whole frame
from top to toe. ' I have felt this strange feeling before,' said
he—' I cannot help thinking there's something wrong about
that closet.' He made a strong effort, plucked up his courage,
shivered the lock with a blow or two of the poker, opened the
door, and there, sure enough, standing bolt upright in the
corner, was the last tenant, with a little bottle clasped firmly
in his hand, and his face livid with the hue of a painful death."
As the little old man concluded, ho looked round on the at-
tentive faces of his wondering auditory with a smile of grim
delight."
" What strange things these are you tell us of, Sir," said
Mr. Pickwick, minutely scanning the old man's countenance,
by the aid of his glasses.
" Strange I" said the little old man—" Nonsense; you
think them strange, because you know nothing about it. They
are funny, but not uncommon."
" Funny exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, involuntarily.
" Yes, funny, are they not ?" replied the little old man,
with a diabolical leer; and then, without pausing for an an-
swer, I
he continued—
" knew another man—let me see—it's forty years ago now
--who took an old, damp, rotten set of chambers, in one of
the most ancient Inns, that had been shut up and empty for
years and years before. There were lots of old women's sto-
ries about the place, and it certainly was very far from being
a cheerful one ; but he was poor, and the rooms were cheap,
and that would have been quite a sufficient reason for him, if
they had been ten times worse than they really were. He
was obliged to take some mouldering fixtures that were on the
place, and, among the rest, was a great lumbering wooden
press for papers, with large glass doors, and a green curtain
inside ; a pretty useless thing for him, for he had no papers to
put in it ; and as to his clothes, he carried them about with
him, and that wasn't very hard work, either. Well, he had
moved in all his furniture—it wasn't quite a truck full—and
sprinkled it about the room, so as to make the four chairs look
as much like a dozen as possible, and was sitting down before
the fire at night, drinking the first glass of two gallons of
whiskey he had ordered on credit, wondering whether it would
ever be paid for, and if so, in how many years' time, when his
eyes encountered the glass doors of the wooden press. Ah
says he—' If I hadn't been obliged to take that ugly article at
the old broker's valuation, I might have got something com-
fortable for the money. I'll tell you what it is, old fellow,' he
said, speaking aloud to the press, just because he had got
nothing else to speak to—' If it would'n cost more to break
up your old carcase, than it would ever be worth afterwards,
I'd have a fire out of you, in less than no time.' He had
hardly spoken the words, when a sound resembling a faint
groan, appeared to issue from the interior of the case. It
startled him at first, but thinking, on a moment's reflection,
that it must be some young fellow in the next chambers, who
had been dining out, he put his feet on the fender, and raised
the poker to stir the fire. At that moment, the sound was re-
peated : and one of the glass doors slowly opening, disclosed a
pale and emaciated figure in soiled and worn apparel, standing
erect in the press. The figure was tall and thin, and the coup.
tenance expressive of care and anxiety; but there wail some,
thing in the hue of the skin, and gaunt and unearthly appear-
ance of the whole form, which no being of this world was ever
seen to wear. Who are you ?' said the new tenant, turning
very pale, poising the poker in his hand, however, and taking
a very decent aim at the countenance of the figure—' Who are
you ? Don't throw that poker at rne,' replied the form—' If
you hurled it with ever so sure an aim, it would pass through
me, without resistance, and expend its force on the wood be-

hind. lam a spirit.' And, pary, what do you want here ?'
faltered the tenant• In this room,' replied the apparition,
my worldly ruin was worked, and I and my children beggared.
In this press, the papers in a long, long suit, which accumula-
ted for years, were deposited. In this room, when I had died
of grid, and long-deferred hope, two wily harpies divided the
wealth for which I had contested during a wretched existence,
and of which, at last, not one farthing was left for my un-
happy descendants. I terrified them from the spot, and since
that day have prowled by night—the only period at which I
can re-visit the earth—about the scenes of my long-protracted
misery. This apartment is mine : leave it to me.' If you
insist upon making your appearance here,' said the tenant, who
had time to collect his presence of mind during this prosy
statement of the ghost's—' I shall give up possession with the
greatest pleasure ; but I should like to ask you one question,
if you will allow me.' Say on,' said the apparition, sternly.
Well,' said the tenant, I don't apply the observation per-
sonally to you, because it is equally applicable to all the
ghosts I ever heard of; but it does appear to me somewhat
inconsistent, that when you have an opportunity of ,:,siting
the fairest spots of earth—for I suppose space is nothing to
you—you should always return exactly to the very places
where you have been most miserable,' Egad, that's very
true ; I never thought of that before,' said the ghost. You
see, Sir,' pursued the tenant, ' this is a very uncomfortable
room. From the appearance of that press, I should be dis-
posed to say that it is not wholly free from bugs; and I really
think you might find much more comfortable quarters : to say
nothing of the climate of London, which is extremely disa-
greeable.' You are very right, Sir,' said the ghost, po-
litely, ' it never struck me till now ; I'll try change of air di-
rectly'—and, in fact, he began to vanish as he spoke; his
legs, indeed, had quite disappeared. And if, Sir,' said the
tenant, calling after him, ' if you would have the goodness to
suggest to the other ladies and gentlemen who are now en-
gaged in haunting old empty houses, that they might be much
more comfortable elsewhere, you will confer a very great be-
nefit on society.' I will,' replied the ghost; we must be
dull fellows—very dull fellows, indeed; I can't imagine how
we can have been so stupid.' With these words, the spirit
disappeared ; and what is rather remarkable," added the old
man, with a shrewd look round the table, " he never came.
back again," _

" That ain't bad, if it's true," said the man in the Mosaic
studs, lighting a fresh cigar.
" If !" exclaimed the old man, with a look of excessive con-
tempt. " I suppose, lie, added, turning to Lovvten, " he'll
say next, that my story about the queer client we had, when
I was in an attorney's office, is not true, either—_l should'ut
wonder."

" I shan't venture to say anything at all about it, seeing that
I never heard the story," observed the owner of tht) 11.104a10
decorations.
" I wish you would repeat it, Rir," said Mr. Pickwick.
" Ah, do," said Lowten, " nobady hAs heard it but mc, and
I have nearly forgotten it,"
The old man looked round tho table, and leered more bor.
ribly than ever, as if in triumph, at the attention which was
depicted in every face. Then rubbing his chin with his hand,
and looking up to the ceiling as if to recal the circumstances
to his memory, he began as follows :

SCOTTISH MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
This is an infant Periodical, but remarkably pro-
mising for its years, or rather months, Many of the
articleq, especially those on " qur lielatinm with
India," and the " Trade of North America," evidence
sousiderable research, " Our Menagerie ; Literary

THE SUN, LONDON, UPSDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 1836

Lions" is a good idea, spoilt in the handling. It
wants ease, and grace, and lightness of touch. Some
of the sketches are over-done ; others want character.
" Luther under his own Pear-tree "is the composition
of a man who has read much, and digested what he has
read. " Gentlemeu with Easy Consciences" gives us a
curious insight into the mysteries of picture-dealing.
" Three of our Teachers" consists of three sonnets,
each descriptive of the literary peculiarities of some of
our most eminent authors. We subjoin the sketch of
Lamb, which is happily characteristic of the idio-
syncrasy of " Elia" :
" A gentle spirit, sweet, and pure, and kind—
Though strangely wined, high fantastice_
Who mantles his deep feelings in a pall
Of motley hues, harmoniously combined,
That seems to hide, yet heightens what's inshrined
Beneath ;—who, by a power unknown to all,
Save him alone, can summon at a call
A thousand jarring elements entwined
In strangest brotherhood;—Humour—wild wit—
Quips—cranks—puns—sneers—with clear sweet thought
profound--
And stinging jests, with honey for the wound ;
The subtlest lines of all fine powers split
To their last films, then marvellously spun
In magic web, whose million hues are ONE 1"
THE SPORTING MAGAZINE.

Pitman's pleasing and popular periodical of this
month fully sustains its long-established and well-
earned reputation. The Sportsman will find in it a
rich vein of sterling ore. The embellishments of the
present Number eonsist of a beautiful portrait of Elis,
winner of the St. Leger, and a plate representing the
Heaton Park Gold Cup. Scott's portraiture of Elis
is doubtlessly excellent, although we think that this
effort of genius is not the best we have beheld.
Amongst the articles there is one from the able pen of
Craven on the Epsom October Meeting, which, will
amply repay a repusal • nor must we omit making fa-
vourable'mentiOns of " Remarks on Scent. 7 There
is a humanizing philosophy pervading this latter paper
that affords us considerable gratification. There are
also several other good things in the present Number.
It would, however, perhaps, have better pleased the
Nimrods (who are generally thorough Exclusives), if,
now that the hunting season may be said to have
fairly begun, they had been treated with more " runs"
anticipative—more about hunters and hounds, and the
prospects of the present season.

THE DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE.

Simpkin and Marshall.

The " Life of Lord Charlemont" is continued in this
Number. It wants vigour and terseness. The writer
is either a very timid or a very cold person indeed.
Blackie's translation of Goethe's " Plundersweiller
Fair" is an excellent performance. 'We regret that we
want space to dwell upon it in terms commensurate
with its merit. The " Three Wishes" is a tale worthy of
the periodical in which it appears. We have read it
with pleasurable feelings. " The Fawn of Spring-
vale," by the author of " Traits and Stories of the
Irish Peasantry," is not yet concluded ; but the Editor
informs us that the last of it will appear in the next
Number. It is too sentimental for us, though we ex-
pressed ourselves well pleased with the first part which
appeared. The other articles are Reviews of works
which have already been favourably noticed in this
Journal.

COURT MAGAZINE.
The embellishments of this trim, courtly Journal,
are, as usual, of a superior character. One is a por-
trait of Lady John Russell, and is executed with in-
finite delicacy ; the disposition of the glossy and luxu-
riant ringlets is very natural ; there is nothing stiff or
wiry about them, as is so often the case in engraved
female portraits. The other embellishment is a view
of that magnificent place " Powis Castle," the pride
of the Welch marches, and one of the oldest Baronial
edifices in the kingdom. Of the literary contents, the
majority of which consists of prose taics, we have
little to say. They are neither above, nor below, the
mark. The most readable is " Plain Sailing on
Shore," which is by, the author of the " Invisible
Gentleman"—a tale which we read some years since
with pleasure.

THE UNITED SERVICE JOURNAL.
Henry Colburn.

We have not seen a better Number of this periodical
than the one before us. The articles are all of a
readable length, viz., each may be read at a short sit-
ting ; add to which, they are upon subjects which even
those who never smelt gunpowder would delight
to become acquainted with. Who, for example,
would not be delighted with an opportunity of learn-
ing the internal economy of a man-of-war ; the
dire events of the battle of Jena ; the state of the
Spanish belligerents as given by an eye-witness ;
the conversations of that most erudite and noisy
fraternity, the Drumstick Club ; and the whole
theory of British naval construction ? We know the
only answer that can be made to such a question. We
have, therefore, only to observe, that we have merely
enumerated the subjects of the articles contained in
the November Number of this periodical.

TOWN AND COUNTRY MAGAZINE.
A pleasant enough little Magazine, of no great
literary pretensions, but possessing the recommendation
of short, pointed, and lively articles. The most enter-
taining is an Essay on the letter " I," by a gentleman
who signs himself Maurice Harcourt, and who abuses
us, unfortunate " dullards of the diurnal Press," in a
style that amuses us by its heartiness. A " Trip to
Pairlop" is also a sprightly article, but rather too much
spun out.