its scurrilities are not tolerated.  Special constables are rarely heard of, and appear only to be laughed at: their staves, tipped with a brass crown, are sold as curios.  Turnpikes, which are found largely in “Pickwick,” have been suppressed.  The abuses of protracted litigation in Chancery and other Courts have been reformed.  No papers are “filed at the Temple”—whatever that meant.  The Pound, as an incident of village correction has, all but a few, disappeared.

Then for the professional classes, which

are described in the chronicle with such graphic power and vivacity.  As at this time “Boz” drew the essential elements of character instead of the more superficial ones—his later practice—there is not much change to be noted.  We have the medical life exhibited by Bob Sawyer and his friends; the legal world in Court and chambers—judges, counsel, and solicitors—are all much as they are now.  Sir Frank Lockwood has found this subject large enough for treatment in his little volume, “The Law and Lawyers of Pickwick.”  It may be thought that no judge of the pattern of Stareleigh could be found now, but we could name recent performances in which incidents such as, “Is your name Nathaniel Daniel or Daniel Nathaniel?” have been repeated.  Neither has the blustering of Buzfuz or his sophistical plaintiveness wholly gone by.  The “cloth” was represented by the powerful but revolting sketch of Stiggins, which, it is strange, was not resented by the Dissenters of the

day, and also by a more worthy specimen in the person of the clergyman at Dingley Dell.  There are the mail-coach drivers, with the “ostlers, boots, countrymen, gamekeepers, peasants, and others,” as they have it in the play-bills.  Truly admirable, and excelling the rest, are “Boz’s” sketches—actually “living pictures”—of the fashionable footmen at Bath, beside which the strokes in that diverting piece “High Life below Stairs” seem almost flat.  The simperings of these gentry, their airs and conceit, we may be sure, obtain now.  Once coming out of a Theatre, at some fashionable performance, through a long lane of tall menials, one fussy aristocrat pushed one of them out of his way.  The menial contemptuously pushed him back.  The other in a rage said, “How dare you?  Don’t you know, I’m the Earl of ---”  “Well,” said the other coldly, “If you be a Hearl, can’t you be’ave as sich?”

After the wedding at Manor Farm we find

that bride and bridegroom did not set off from the house on a wedding tour, but remained for the night.  This seemed to be the custom.  Kissing, too, on the Pickwickian principles, would not now, to such an extent, be tolerated.  There is an enormous amount in the story.  The amorous Tupman had scarcely entered the hall of a strange house when he began osculatory attempts on the lips of one of the maids; and when Mr. Pickwick and his friends called on Mr. Winkle, sen., at Birmingham, Bob Sawyer made similar playful efforts—being called an “odous creetur” by the lady.  In fact, the custom seemed to be to kiss when and wherever you could conveniently.  Getting drunk after any drinking, and at any time of the day, seemed to be common enough.  There was a vast amount of open fields, &c., about London which engendered the “Cockney sportsman.”  He disappeared as the fields were built over.  We have no

longer the peculiar “stand-up” collars, or “gills,” and check neck-cloths.

But Mr. Bantam’s costume at the Bath Assembly, shows the most startling change.  Where is now the “gold eye glass?”—we know that eye glass, which was of a solid sort, not fixed on the nose, but held to the eye—a “quizzing glass,” and folding up on a hinge—“a broad black ribbon” too; the “gold snuffbox;” gold rings “innumerable” on the fingers, and “a diamond pin” on his “shirt frill,” a “curb chain” with large gold seals hanging from his waistcoat—(a “curb chain” proper was then a little thin chain finely wrought, of very close links.)  Then there was the “pliant ebony cane, with a heavy gold top.”  Ebony, however, is not pliant, but the reverse—black was the word intended.  Then those “smalls” and stockings to match.  Mr. Pickwick, a privileged man, appeared on this occasion, indeed always, in his favourite white breeches and gaiters.  In fact, on no occasion save one,

when he wore a great-coat, does he appear without them.  Bantam’s snuff was “Prince’s mixture,” so named after the Regent, and his scent “Bouquet du Roi.”  “Prince’s mixture” is still made, but “Bouquet du Roi” is supplanted.

Perker’s dress is also that of the stage attorney, as we have him now, and recognize him.  He would not be the attorney without that dress.  He was “all in black, with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low white neckcloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it.”  This, of course, meant that he put on one every day, and is yet a slight point of contact with Johnson, who described someone as being only able to go out “on clean shirt days;” a gold watch and seals depended from his Fob.  “Depended” is a curious use of the word, and quite gone out.

Another startling change is in the matter of duels.  The duels in Pickwick come about quite as a matter of course, and as a common social incident.  In the “forties” I recall a

military uncle of my own—a gentleman, like uncle Toby—handing his card to some one in a billiard room, with a view to “a meeting.”  Dickens’ friend Forster was at one time “going out” with another gentleman.  Mr. Lang thinks that duelling was prohibited about 1844, and “Courts of Honour” substituted.  But the real cause was the duel between Colonel Fawcett and Lieut. Munro, brothers-in-law, when the former was killed.  This, and some other tragedies of the kind, shocked the public.  The “Courts of Honour,” of course, only affected military men.

Mr. Pickwick, himself, had nearly “gone out” on two or three occasions, once with Mr. Slammer, once with Mr. Magnus; while his scuffle with Tupman would surely have led to one.  Winkle, presumed to be a coward, had no less than three “affairs” on his hands: one with Slammer, one with Dowler, and one with Bob Sawyer.  At Bob Sawyer’s Party, the two medical students,

tendered their cards.  For so amiable a man, Mr. Pickwick had some extraordinary failings.  He seems to have had no restraint where drink was in the case, and was hopelessly drunk about six times—on three occasions, at least, he was preparing to assault violently.  He once hurled an inkstand; he once struck a person; once challenged his friend to “come on.”  Yet the capital comedy spirit of the author carries us over these blemishes.

When Sam was relating to his master the story of the sausage maker’s disappearance, Mr. Pickwick, horrified, asked had he been “Burked?”  There Boz might have repeated his apologetic footnote, on Jingle’s share in the Revolution of 1830.  “A remarkable instance of his force of prophetic imagination, etc.”  For the sausage story was related in the year of grace 1827, and Burke was executed in 1829, some two years later.

Mr. Lang has suggested that the bodies Mr. Sawyer and his friend subscribed for,