Dickens in Southwark and Bermondsey – and a Visit to the Dickens Museum

MICK HATTAWAY

Assemble London Bridge Undergound. (Follow signs for Borough High Street and meet outside the exit that comes up on the west side of Southwark Street where it swings into Borough High Street.) Suggest you have a BR Travel Card or an Oyster Card as we shall take at least one tube ride.)

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Charles Dickens Jr, Dictionary of London, (London, 1888).

Sight-seeing, in the opinion of many experienced travellers, is best avoided altogether. It may well be, however, that this will be held to be a matter of opinion, and that sight–seeing will continue to flourish until the arrival of that traveller of Lord Macaulay’s, who has found his way into so many books and newspapers, but whose nationality shall not be hinted at here.1 One piece of advice to the intending sight-seer is at all events sound. Never go to see anything by yourself. If the show be a good one, you will enjoy yourself all the more in company; and the solitary contemplation of anything that is dull and tedious is one of the most depressing experiences of human life. Furthermore, an excellent principle – said to be of American origin – is never to enquire how far you may go, but to go straight on until you are told to stop. The enterprising sight-seeing who proceeds on this plan, and who understands the virtue of ‘palm-oil’ and a calm demeanour, is sure to see everything he cares to see.

Nuisances. – A few of the désagrémens to which metropolitan flesh is heir, have been legally settled to be ‘nuisances’.

(a) The following will be summarily suppressed on appeal to the nearest police-constable:

Abusive language; Advertisements, carriage of (except in form approved.) Baiting animals; Betting in streets; Books, obscene, selling in streets Carpet-beating; Careless driving of cattle; Cock-fighting; Defacing buildings; Dogs, loose or mad; Exercising horses to annoyance of persons; Firearms, discharging; Fireworks, throwing in streets; Indecent ‘ exposure; Mat shaking after 8 am; Reins, persons driving without.

(b) The following will require application to the police-courts:

Cesspools, foul Cock-crowing; Dead body, infectious; Factory, unclean or overcrowded Houses, filthy or, injurious to health; Infected bedding or clothes, sale of; Lotteries; Manure, non removal of;

1 She [the Roman Catholic Church] may still exist in undiminished vigour when some traveller from New Zealand shall, in the midst of a vast solitude, take his stand on a broken arch of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul’s (On Ranke’s History of the Popes, 1840). 3

Powder magazine, keeping too large a quantity Want of reparation of highway. (pp.226 and 177)

1. The Old Operating Theatre (garret of St Thomas’ Church) http://www.thegarret.org.uk/find.htm

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as that favoured servitor entered his bed- chamber, with his warm water, on the morning of Christmas Day, ‘still frosty?’ ‘Water in the wash-hand basin’s a mask o’ ice, Sir,’ responded Sam. ‘Severe weather, Sam,’ observed Mr. Pickwick. ‘Fine time for them as is well wropped up, as the Polar bear said to himself, ven he was practising his skating,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘I shall be down in a quarter of an hour, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, untying his nightcap. ‘Wery good, sir,’ replied Sam. ’There’s a couple o’ sawbones downstairs.’ ‘A couple of what!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sitting up in bed. ‘A couple o’ sawbones,’ said Sam. ‘What’s a sawbones?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, not quite certain whether it was a live animal, or something to eat. ‘What! Don’t you know what a sawbones is, sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller. ’I thought everybody know’d as a sawbones was a surgeon.’ ‘Oh, a surgeon, eh?’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile. ‘Just that, sir,’ replied Sam. ’These here ones as is below, though, ain’t reg’lar thoroughbred sawbones; they’re only in trainin’.’ ‘In other words they’re medical students, I suppose?’ said Mr. Pickwick. Sam Weller nodded assent. ‘I am glad of it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, casting his nightcap energetically on the counterpane. ’They are fine fellows – very fine fellows; with judgments matured by observation and reflection; and tastes refined by reading and study. I am very glad of it.’ ‘They’re a-smokin’ cigars by the kitchen fire,’ said Sam. (The Pickwick Papers, Chap. 30) 4

2. The Niche from Old London Bridge at Guy’s Hospital

I know that I was often up at six o’clock, and that my favourite lounging-place in the interval was old London Bridge, where I was wont to sit in one of the stone recesses, watching the people going by, or to look over the balustrades at the sun shining in the water, and lighting up the golden flame on the top of the Monument. The Orfling met me here sometimes, to be told some astonishing fictions respecting the wharves and the Tower; of which I can say no more than that I hope I believed them myself. In the evening I used to go back to the prison, and walk up and down the parade with Mr. Micawber; or play casino with Mrs. Micawber, and hear reminiscences of her papa and mama. Whether Mr. Murdstone knew where I was, I am unable to say. I never told them at Murdstone and Grinby’s. (David Copperfield, Chapter 11).

3. Bermondsey Riverside and Shad Thames

Hoefnagel, Bermondsey, c. 1569 5

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4. St Saviour’s Dock and Jacob’s Island

Near to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe abuts, where the buildings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels on the river blackest with the dust of colliers and the smoke of close-built low-roofed houses, there exists the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the many localities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown, even by name, to the great mass of its inhabitants.

To reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through a maze of close, narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by the roughest and poorest of waterside people, and devoted to the traffic they may be supposed to occasion. The cheapest and least delicate provisions are heaped in the shops; the coarsest and commonest articles of wearing apparel dangle at the salesman’s door, and stream from the house-parapet and windows. Jostling with unemployed labourers of the lowest class, ballast-heavers, coal- whippers, brazen women, ragged children, and the raff and refuse of the river, he makes his way with difficulty along, assailed by offensive sights and smells from the narrow alleys which branch off on the right and left, and deafened by the clash of ponderous waggons that bear great piles of merchandise from the stacks of warehouses that rise from every corner. Arriving, at length, in streets remoter and less-frequented than those through which he has passed, he walks beneath tottering house-fronts projecting over the pavement, dismantled walls that seem to totter as he passes, chimneys half crushed half hesitating to fall, windows guarded by rusty iron bars that time and dirt have almost eaten away, every imaginable sign of desolation and neglect. In such a neighborhood, beyond Dockhead in the Borough of Southwark, stands Jacob’s Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch, six or eight feet deep and fifteen or twenty wide when the tide is in, once called Mill Pond, but known in the days of this story as Folly Ditch. It is a creek or inlet from the Thames, and can always be filled at high water by opening the sluices at the Lead Mills from 7 which it took its old name. At such times, a stranger, looking from one of the wooden bridges thrown across it at Mill Lane, will see the inhabitants of the houses on either side lowering from their back doors and windows, buckets, pails, domestic utensils of all kinds, in which to haul the water up; and when his eye is turned from these operations to the houses themselves, his utmost astonishment will be excited by the scene before him. Crazy wooden galleries common to the backs of half a dozen houses, with holes from which to look upon the slime beneath; windows, broken and patched, with poles thrust out, on which to dry the linen that is never there; rooms so small, so filthy, so confined, that the air would seem too tainted even for the dirt and squalor which they shelter; wooden chambers thrusting themselves out above the mud, and threatening to fall into it--as some have done; dirt-besmeared walls and decaying foundations; every repulsive lineament of poverty, every loathsome indication of filth, rot, and garbage; all these ornament the banks of Folly Ditch.

In Jacob’s Island, the warehouses are roofless and empty; the walls are crumbling down; the windows are windows no more; the doors are falling into the streets; the chimneys are blackened, but they yield no smoke. Thirty or forty years ago, before losses and chancery suits came upon it, it was a thriving place; but now it is a desolate island indeed. The houses have no owners; they are broken open, and entered upon by those who have the courage; and there they live, and there they die. They must have powerful motives for a secret residence, or be reduced to a destitute condition indeed, who seek a refuge in Jacob’s Island. In an upper room of one of these houses--a detached house of fair size, ruinous in other respects, but strongly defended at door and window: of which house the back commanded the ditch in manner already described--there were assembled three men, who, regarding each other every now and then with looks expressive of perplexity and expectation, sat for some time in profound and 8 gloomy silence. One of these was Toby Crackit, another Mr. Chitling, and the third a robber of fifty years, whose nose had been almost beaten in, in some old scuffle, and whose face bore a frightful scar which might probably be traced to the same occasion. This man was a returned transport, and his name was Kags. (Oliver Twist, Chap. 50)

5. Bermondsey Leather Market

This great leather, or rather hide market, lies inWeston-street, ten minutes’ walk from the Surrey side of London-bridge. The neighbourhood in which it stands is devoted entirely to thinners and tanners, and the air reeks with evil smells. The population is peculiar, and it is a sight at twelve o’clock to see the men pouring out from all the works. Their clothes are marked with many stains; their trousers are dis-coloured by tan; some have apron and gaiters of raw hide; an about them all seems to hang a scent of blood. The market itself stands in the centre of a quiet block of buildings on the left hand side of Weston-street, the entry being through a gateway. Through this a hundred yards down, a square is reached. Most of it is roofed, but there is an open space lathe centre. Under the roofing are huge piles of fresh hides and sheep-skins. There is no noise or bustle, and but few people about. There are no retail purchasers, the sales being almost entirely made to the great tanners in the neighbourhood. The warehouses round are all full of tanned hides; the yards behind the high walls are all tanneries, with their tens of thousands of hides soaking in the pits. Any visitor going down to look at the Bermondsey hide-market should, if possible, procure beforehand an order to visit one of the great tanning establishments. Unless this be done the visit to the market itself will hardly repay the trouble of the journey, or make up for the unpleasantness of the compound of horrible smells which pervade the whole neighbourhood. (Charles Dickens Jr, Dickens’s Dictionary of London, 1879.) 9

22 Leathermarket St: Installation by Joseph Kosuth

Let us leave our old friend in one of those moments of unmixed happiness, of which, if we seek them, there are ever some, to cheer our transitory existence here. There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in the contrast. Some men, like bats or owls, have better eyes for the darkness than for the light. We, who have no such optical powers, are better pleased to take our last parting look at the visionary companions of many solitary hours, when the brief sunshine of the world is blazing full upon them.

It is the fate of most men who mingle with the world, and attain even the prime of life, to make many real friends, and lose them in the course of nature. It is the fate of all authors or chroniclers to create imaginary friends, and lose them in the course of art. Nor is this the full extent of their misfortunes; for they are required to furnish an account of them besides.

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6. Horsemonger Lane Gaol

Dickens witnessed the hanging there of Frederick and Marie Manning, the latter the model for Hortense in Bleak House. See his letter to The Times: http://charlesdickenspage.com/public_execution.html

7. The Marshalsea

LITTLE DORRIT, PREFACE If I might offer any apology for so exaggerated a fiction as the Barnacles and the Circumlocution Office, I would seek it in the common experience of an Englishman, without presuming to mention the unimportant fact of my having done that violence to good manners, in the days of a Russian war, and of a Court of Inquiry at Chelsea. If I might make so bold as to defend that extravagant conception, Mr Merdle, I would hint that it originated after the Railroad-share epoch, in the times of a certain Irish bank, and of one or two other equally laudable enterprises. If I were to plead anything in mitigation of the preposterous fancy that a bad design will sometimes claim to be a good and an expressly religious design, it would be the curious coincidence that it has been brought to its climax in these pages, in the days of the public examination of late Directors of a Royal British Bank. But, I submit myself to suffer judgment to go by default on all these counts, if need be, and to accept the assurance (on good authority) that nothing like them was ever known in this land. Some of my readers may have an interest in being informed whether or no any portions of the Marshalsea Prison are yet standing. I did not know, myself, until the sixth of this present month, when I went to look. I found the outer front courtyard, often mentioned here, metamorphosed into a butter shop; and I then almost gave up every brick of the jail for lost. Wandering, however, down a certain adjacent ‘Angel Court, leading to Bermondsey’, I came to ‘Marshalsea Place:’ the houses in 11 which I recognised, not only as the great block of the former prison, but as preserving the rooms that arose in my mind’s-eye when I became Little Dorrit’s biographer. The smallest boy I ever conversed with, carrying the largest baby I ever saw, offered a supernaturally intelligent explanation of the locality in its old uses, and was very nearly correct. How this young Newton (for such I judge him to be) came by his information, I don’t know; he was a quarter of a century too young to know anything about it of himself. I pointed to the window of the room where Little Dorrit was born, and where her father lived so long, and asked him what was the name of the lodger who tenanted that apartment at present? He said, ‘Tom Pythick.’ I asked him who was Tom Pythick? and he said, ‘Joe Pythick’s uncle.’ A little further on, I found the older and smaller wall, which used to enclose the pent-up inner prison where nobody was put, except for ceremony. But, whosoever goes into Marshalsea Place, turning out of Angel Court, leading to Bermondsey, will find his feet on the very paving-stones of the extinct Marshalsea jail; will see its narrow yard to the right and to the left, very little altered if at all, except that the walls were lowered when the place got free; will look upon rooms in which the debtors lived; and will stand among the crowding ghosts of many miserable years. In the Preface to Bleak House I remarked that I had never had so many readers. In the Preface to its next successor, Little Dorrit, I have still to repeat the same words. Deeply sensible of the affection and confidence that have grown up between us, I add to this Preface, as I added to that, May we meet again!

‘THE MARSHALSEA BECOMES AN ORPHAN’ WHEN DORRIT, THE FATHER OF THE MARSHALSEA, TAKES HIS DEPARTURE

The Collegians were not envious. Besides that they had a personal and traditional regard for a Collegian of so many years’ standing, the event was creditable to the College, and made it famous in the newspapers. Perhaps more of them thought, too, than were quite aware of it, that the thing might in the lottery of chances have happened to themselves, or that something of the sort might yet happen to themselves some day or other. They took it very well. A few were low at the thought of being left behind, and being left poor; but even these did not grudge the family their brilliant reverse. There might have been much more envy in politer places. It seems probable that mediocrity of fortune would have been disposed to be less magnanimous than the Collegians, who lived from hand to mouth--from the pawnbroker’s hand to the day’s dinner. (Little Dorrit, Chap. 36) 12

6. St George’s Church Southwark

CLENNAM AND LITTLE DORRIT ARE MARRIED

Then they went up the steps of the neighbouring Saint George’s Church, and went up to the altar, where Daniel Doyce was waiting in his paternal character. And there was Little Dorrit’s old friend who had given her the Burial Register for a pillow; full of admiration that she should come back to them to be married, after all. And they were married with the sun shining on them through the painted figure of Our Saviour on the window. And they went into the very room where Little Dorrit had slumbered after her party, to sign the Marriage Register. And there, Mr Pancks, (destined to be chief clerk to Doyce and Clennam, and afterwards partner in the house), sinking the Incendiary in the peaceful friend, looked in at the door to see it done, with Flora gallantly supported on one arm 13 and Maggy on the other, and a back-ground of John Chivery and father and other turnkeys who had run round for the moment, deserting the parent Marshalsea for its happy child. Nor had Flora the least signs of seclusion upon her, notwithstanding her recent declaration; but, on the contrary, was wonderfully smart, and enjoyed the ceremonies mightily, though in a fluttered way. Little Dorrit’s old friend held the inkstand as she signed her name, and the clerk paused in taking off the good clergyman’s surplice, and all the witnesses looked on with special interest. ‘For, you see,’ said Little Dorrit’s old friend, ‘this young lady is one of our curiosities, and has come now to the third volume of our Registers. Her birth is in what I call the first volume; she lay asleep, on this very floor, with her pretty head on what I call the second volume; and she’s now a- writing her little name as a bride in what I call the third volume.’ They all gave place when the signing was done, and Little Dorrit and her husband walked out of the church alone. They paused for a moment on the steps of the portico, looking at the fresh perspective of the street in the autumn morning sun’s bright rays, and then went down. Went down into a modest life of usefulness and happiness. Went down to give a mother’s care, in the fulness of time, to Fanny’s neglected children no less than to their own, and to leave that lady going into Society for ever and a day. Went down to give a tender nurse and friend to Tip for some few years, who was never vexed by the great exactions he made of her in return for the riches he might have given her if he had ever had them, and who lovingly closed his eyes upon the Marshalsea and all its blighted fruits. They went quietly down into the roaring streets, inseparable and blessed; and as they passed along in sunshine and shade, the noisy and the eager, and the arrogant and the froward and the vain, fretted and chafed, and made their usual uproar.

7. Inns of the Borough

In the Borough especially, there still remain some half-dozen old inns, which have preserved their external features unchanged, and which have escaped alike 14 the rage for public improvement and the encroachments of private speculation. Great, rambling queer old places they are, with galleries, and passages, and staircases, wide enough and antiquated enough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories, supposing we should ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any, and that the world should exist long enough to exhaust the innumerable veracious legends connected with old London Bridge, and its adjacent neighbourhood on the Surrey side. (Pickwick Papers, Chap. 10)