*
‘This is twaddle,’ said Seymour to his wife as he entered the kitchen. She was using a table-mincer, turning yesterday’s beef into rissoles, but Seymour’s outburst referred to the latest issue of the Penny Magazine. ‘Is a labouring man supposed to be satisfied with this?’ He held the magazine open to a woodcut of antlers, heading a piece on the fossil elk of Ireland. ‘All this twaddle about useful knowledge. It just means facts without understanding or depth. No fiction – no news – no politics – no religion. Nothing to care about. Nothing to amuse or interest people.’
‘It seems to be doing very well,’ she said. ‘When I go to the shops, I see it everywhere.’
‘I do not deny that. It is even starting to outsell Figaro. It’s the pictures that sell it, of course. But useful knowledge? I give people useful knowledge – about the scoundrels in the state and the church. I have to do something.’
Soon his drawing was done: it showed a mincer the size of a shed, hand-cranked by two politicians associated with the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, Brougham and Althorp. Poured into its hopper were foaming tankards marked ‘whiggery’ and ‘woodblock illustrations’, as well as a pulp of ‘wondrous condescension’ and ‘affability’. From the mincer gushed two flows: ‘The Proprietor’s Pipe’, supplying pennies for the publisher, and ‘The Public’s Pipe’, from which papers marked ‘Twaddle’ emerged. This drawing he called The Patent Penny Knowledge Mill.
‘I am pleased that I could inspire the idea,’ said Jane, looking at the picture. ‘The next time you are stuck for inspiration, you should come to the kitchen and chat to me while I make a pudding or an apple pie, or something else.’
‘Well – I have a new client to see tomorrow, and I don’t think he’ll want illustrations of puddings and pies. He is launching a magazine, the Book of Sports and Mirror of Life, which he thinks I might do work for.’
‘And who is he?’
‘A gentleman of great standing in the world of sporting journalism. His name is Pierce Egan.’
*
‘DO YOU REMEMBER THE FIRST meal we had together, Scripty?’
‘The shot in the pie?’
*
BEFORE SEEING EGAN, SEYMOUR WENT for a drink in the Queen’s Arms in Cheapside, a house down a dark little court, which he knew from experience served excellent food, and which Joseph Severn had first recommended to him. It was nearly five o’clock.
Diagonally across at the next table sat a man whose fringe hung as a long and perfect row of tassels, so that it was a wonder he had any vision at all. He chewed away happily on a portion of apple pie – until he made a noise, and spat the contents of his mouth on to the plate.
He held back his tassels, enabling a close examination. The landlord was already on his way over.
‘That nearly broke my tooth!’ said the man, pointing to a piece of black shot. ‘How did that get there?’
‘I cannot apologise enough – it’s never happened before,’ said the landlord, whose cleanliness, particularly a pair of snow-white stockings, suggested he was telling the truth. ‘Probably some cockney sportsman taking a shot at a bird in an orchard, and missing.’
‘Sportsmen!’ said a bald man in a butcher’s apron on the other side of the room, who slapped the table and stood up. ‘Don’t get me going on sportsmen.’ But he was going, and he brought himself and his tankard over, and without invitation sat at the table of the tasselled man. ‘You tell me – what’s going to happen to supplies of game? Cockneys and their guns! Bad enough the mischief they did when they used to shoot sparrows, but once they let ’em have a go at game! Do they have any interest in breeding for the future? They do not! They trespass and they take.’
‘Legalised poachers,’ said the biter of the missed bird.
‘Who’s to say they are legal?’ said the butcher. ‘I don’t believe half of them have their certificates. While good sportsmen, sportsmen of the old sort, are laying down their guns in disgust.’
‘Don’t buy from them, then,’ said the tasselled man.
‘What can I do?’ said the butcher. ‘That’s what makes me so angry. They make me as bad as them. A sportsman asks for less than a breeder, and if I said to him, “No, I don’t deal with your sort,” he’d go straight to the butcher down the road, get a sale, and that butcher would sell it for less than me, and before I knew it I’d be driven out of business. Where would it end?’
Seymour listened. Ten minutes later, he saw.
It was then that a man appeared in the Queen’s Arms bearing a gun, a hunting hat and a broad smile. He was dressed in a shooting outfit which looked brand new: a short green frock coat with numerous pockets, some with showily buttoned flaps and some slashed. His right breast pocket bulged, probably with percussion caps.
His appearance provoked a slow shaking of the bald and the tasselled heads. They shook again, with a whispered ‘Not another!’ when, minutes afterwards, a second sportsman appeared at the bar, dressed in much the same manner as the first. The two shook hands and a conversation ensued, on which Seymour and everyone else were obliged to eavesdrop, as the pair showed no hushing tendencies at all.
‘I’m going to fill these tomorrow,’ said the first sportsman, exposing the lining of his coat to reveal two large pockets.
‘What shot do you use?’ said his friend.
‘Number Two Patent is the best, of course.’
‘Of course.’
The apple-pie table then displayed the peculiarly English trait of hating the enjoyment of others.
‘Low clerks, most of ’em,’ said the butcher, ‘leaving their ledgers and thinking that buying a gun and a jacket makes ’em a country gentleman.’
‘No good will come of it, you can be sure of that,’ said the tasselled man. ‘When someone starts copying his betters, it’s one stage from wanting to be his betters.’
*
‘STRANGE WORD, “COCKNEY”,’ SAID MR Inbelicate. ‘It now refers to working-class people of a particular district in the East End of London – but this is recent. In the time that concerns us, “cockney” was usually an insult. It meant pretentious, affected – the sort of person who aspired to be a gentleman. A cockney might be considered physically weak – perhaps even effeminate, pampered, childish.’
‘So how did the word come to be associated with Londoners?’
‘Because pretentious men were often found in the city. So cockneys, over the course of time, became Londoners, and then East End Londoners. So when a man in Seymour’s time spoke of “cockney sportsmen”, he meant would-be sportsmen, whether they were Londoners or not.’
*
OVER TEN YEARS HAD PASSED since the publication of Life in London. Egan still had a coxcomb of hair, turned grey, although the original reddish-brown lingered in the thick, arched eyebrows, stuck in an expression of great interest as he shook hands with Seymour in the office at Cheapside. Egan proceeded to confess to an unbounded admiration for Seymour’s drawings, and Seymour in return confessed to a similar admiration for Egan’s writing, especially Life in London.
Then Egan said: ‘There is a gallery, if I may call it that, I want to take you to tonight, Mr Seymour.’
‘If it may be called a gallery?’
‘Well, there are paintings on the wall. It’s actually a sporting club. I would like you to do a picture of it, which I will use in the magazine at some point. The atmosphere there is most convivial, and if we have a drink or two, I’m sure you won’t mind.’
*
A closely cropped temperance campaigner, with a handful of tracts and the drawn, desiccated face and small eyes of one who would read them, stood, finger raised in mid-speech, outside the Castle Tavern in Holborn. He located himself precisely under the tavern’s illustrated sign – and the Castle boasted the largest inn sign in all London – flourishing a crucifix in his free hand as his response to the tavern’s unashamed iniquity.
‘And let us not forget the deeds of the criminal,’ he said, ‘
how the fist was thrown, how the knife was thrust, how the gun was fired, how the victim’s life was ruined – and all because of alcohol! Achievement is the fruit of sobriety. You, sir – do you wish to be happy in your family life, seeing your children grow to adulthood? And you, sir – do you wish to be a prosperous man, a man who sees out his days in robust strength? Such are the rewards of sobriety. But drink brings men to dirt and rags! Drink brings men to the insane asylum!’
‘Excuse me,’ said Egan to the campaigner as he and Seymour entered the Castle. He opened an inner door. ‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘to the Daffy Club.’
There was an unending din of tankards clanging, and spoons, and laughter, and the smell of shrimp, as an old gentleman with a brown wig and apron passed among the drinkers with a basket, handing out paper cones of seafood. Seymour heard two men say ‘Done!’ and shake hands on a bet. He heard another man say, ‘I was concentrating on his upperworks,’ as he punched an imaginary chin. ‘He took one-two-three.’
They were in a smoky clubroom, with a long table to one side, and shorter tables beyond. A waiter was then adjusting the gas to a brighter level, in keeping with the mood of the night. Upon the walls were pictures of sporting subjects, glazed and framed, reflecting the chandelier. Seymour saw the bare-knuckle fist of a painted boxer catch a flash of light, as if to suggest the force of his blow.
‘In this club, Mr Seymour,’ said Egan, ‘we keep the pugilistic game alive. I am never happier than when I am here – joining in the songs, drinking with my friends. You should come here on a Friday night during the season. I hate being alone, Mr Seymour, and this is the best company I know.’
‘As long as we are not out dead cold!’ said a toothless man who slapped Egan on the back.
Egan was saluted by every man he neared, usually with a raising of a glass, and he introduced all to Seymour. A young fellow with a pug nose was identified as Whiteheaded Bob. Then came Frosty-faced Fogo. A man with a debauched and generally lived-in face was one George Head. ‘George is the best muffle-master in town,’ said Egan.
‘Muffle-master?’ said Seymour.
‘I apologise. Teacher of pugilistic tactics.’
Egan next took Seymour on a tour of the gallery.
‘Now this is Dutch Sam,’ he said, indicating a portrait of a whiskery pugilist. ‘He trained on gin.’ Then came likenesses of several more distinguished fighters: the fat Hudson, Jackson who used to run the Bond Street room, Mendoza and Ward. There were paintings of the turf, the chase and stuffed fowls in glass cases. One painting showed a bull terrier, Trusty, hero of fifty fights in the pit, and an inscription below stated that he belonged to the pugilist Jem Belcher, whose portrait came next, showing off the blue and white spotted neckerchief for which he was known. This was followed by a portrait of his brother and fellow fighter Tom Belcher, and seated in front, the real and older version of that very man. While the portrait showed the muscled fighter stripped to the waist, fists raised, chest shining, the real man was slim and shrunken, in a blue jacket, with a withered hand around a tankard. Tom Belcher acknowledged Egan with a wink and a wheeze. At his elbow was another old boxer. ‘Now this is Jack Scroggins,’ said Egan, ‘a terrific fighter in his time, a slaughterer, but Tom Belcher gave it him about right. Best of friends now – brother-pugs. Jack, let our guest here have a bit of your song. The one about you and Tom.’
The old fighter wiped his lips, stood, and sang:
Tommy’s yet in prime, and even when half groggy
Did in fairish time, snuff out the lights of Scroggy.
There was applause from the room and Scroggins bowed, then resumed his seat after a pat on the back from Belcher.
‘What’s that jacket Tom Belcher was wearing?’ asked Seymour. The distinctive shade of blue had initially caught his attention, but its true prominence came from the buttons, upon which the initials ‘PC’ were engraved, and which caught the gaslight.
‘A few of the members wear those from time to time. It’s the jacket of the old Pugilistic Club. The club’s gone now. But some of the older members like to recall its glory days.’
‘We couldn’t fund the prizes they put up,’ said one blazing-faced member with a huge lower lip, turning towards the pair. ‘They stuffed a winner’s purse until the stitches at the seams squealed for mercy.’
‘Too true, my friend, too true. Sit yourself at the ring, Mr Seymour,’ said Egan, indicating the long table and signalling to a barmaid. ‘You come here, Mr Seymour, on the night before any grand match, and the club gets so crowded that we spill out into the next parlour, and on to the street. And we argue the merits of one fighter over another in the most scientific way. Often the fighters come in person, and we size them up and bets are placed.’
‘And the drink flows, by the look of things,’ said Seymour.
‘We have been known to drink the tavern dry! And I cannot recommend highly enough our sporting dinners. The landlord is a most formidable caterer. You’d enjoy yourself. We do talk about the turf, and the prize ring, and angling, and cocking, and shooting and cricket, and dogs – but that is only part of it. That is not where the real fun lies, Mr Seymour. Often the chair is taken by a first-rate singer, from the theatre. Such are the delights of being a Daffyonian!’
‘Where do you get that name from?’ said Seymour.
‘Well, you won’t find the word daffy in Dr Johnson! You have to move in certain circles to know it and use it. You’ve heard of Daffy’s Elixir?’
‘The tonic.’
‘The Reverend Thomas Daffy’s universal treatment for all illnesses and woes. But ask yourself, Mr Seymour: what is the real universal treatment for all illnesses and woes? There is one answer: gin, Mr Seymour, gin! So let’s have some, and cure ourselves!’
After the drinks were poured and the glasses chinked, Egan continued: ‘When we launched the club and we wanted a name, we thought: we can’t call it the Gin Club. It’s what we are about, but not everyone would want it known. We might have called it the Flash of Lightning Club; that was very popular. And we considered the Old Tom, and the Stark Naked and the Blue Ruin and the Jacky the Link Boy but those had their drawbacks too. The Punch Club might have done very well for our pugilistic interests, but we only occasionally drink punch. Then we thought: the Daffy Club. And it met with unanimous approval. There are fellows who would avoid a place called the Gin Club, but would be happy to be a member of the Daffy. Hang it, sir – at least in our name we are more honest than most clubs. Whether a club is founded for sport or any other interest, we all know clubs inevitably turn into a society for eating, drinking and having fun. People may be drinking at home more these days, Mr Seymour, but they can still come here and find company. For a Daffyonian to drink alone is a rare thing, a very rare thing.’
Then Egan stood and said: ‘Friends, let’s sing a chorus of the club song for our guest!’
And all joined in, with great relish.
Bring the Daffy
Let’s be happy
Life you know is but a span
No melancholy
All be jolly
Smoke your pipes and fill the can!
After applause and an all-round swallowing, Egan said, ‘We are always good for a tune, Mr Seymour! But there is another thing we have, which I do not believe any other institution in the land possesses. What we call accommodation. The principle is that a man can stand up and recite the most marvellous adventures – adventures to rival Baron Münchausen’s – without any fear of contradiction. We will always accommodate the speaker. It’s best if we give you some examples.’
Egan called over a square-shouldered gentleman whom he introduced to Seymour as Jemmy Soares, PDC.
‘PDC?’ said Seymour.
‘President, Daffy Club – the club’s chairman,’ explained Egan. ‘Jem’s a Sheriff’s Representative, but a good-hearted fellow, in spite of the men he’s sent to the Fleet. When we founded the club we called a chair, and Jem has been president ever since. Jem, do you think w
e can demonstrate the principle of accommodation for Mr Seymour?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Soares. He banged the nearest table with a hammer and when silence was established, he said: ‘Has anyone been travelling recently?’
The pug-nosed man previously identified as Whiteheaded Bob took to his feet.
‘I have just returned from Spain, Mr President.’
‘Oh have you,’ said Soares.
There were sniggers from around the room. Soares banged the hammer. ‘Gentlemen, you will of course accommodate the honourable member when he gives his account.’ There were various coughs, as well as the straightening of faces throughout the clubroom. A general seriousness was assumed by the members, and a tugging-down of jackets, and an adjusting of cuffs, as though awaiting a scientific lecture.
‘I went to Spain,’ said Whiteheaded Bob, ‘and there I met the most beautiful woman I have seen in my life. Her eyes were like – burning coals. Her hair was like – the night. Her skin was smooth as – a silken pillow. Her name was – now what was her name?’
There was a low chuckle in a corner. Soares pointed in the direction of the chuckle, with a finger which indicated that any member, no matter how distinguished, might be expelled.
‘Oh I remember it now,’ said the speaker. ‘It was Maria. Donna Maria. She was the only daughter of a grandee. And seeing the face of a handsome Englishman such as myself—’
There was a snort from another corner.
Soares banged his hammer. ‘Silence over there! Proceed, sir!’
‘Seeing such a face, she could not help herself – in short, she fell in love. She said, gentlemen, that these alabaster locks were the perfect counterpart to her own of ebony. Her love was like a madness that possessed her. Consumed her, I might say. And so was my love in return. But – alas! There was her father, the grandee. I will not say his love for his daughter was unnatural, but it was excessive. No mortal man could be good enough for his daughter – unless, perhaps, he possessed the exact face of the father as he was twenty years before. And even then, nothing short of a prince would do, and moreover, a prince who had conquered half the world, and had twice the riches of Croesus. His daughter had a nobler soul, I am glad to say. Had I been the poorest swineherd in existence, she would still have loved me, for I was the man upon whom she had set her heart. Well – her father forbade her to see me. Excuse me one moment.’ He dabbed his eye with a handkerchief, of the Belcher style. ‘The result was that Donna Maria procured prussic acid and, one night, in the depth of despair – she drank the whole bottle.’
Death and Mr. Pickwick Page 32