rival to the old one, and knowing from the sagacity and just observation of human nature, that it is certain if a man hates at all, he will hate his next neighbour, he concluded that this new and rising town could but excite the envy and jealousy of the old.  He therefore set himself resolutely on the side of the old town, the established town in which he was.  Considering it a kind of duty to stand by it.  He accordingly entered warmly into its interests, and upon every occasion talked of the Dockers as “upstarts and aliens.”  As they wanted to be supplied with water from

the old town, not having a drop themselves, Johnson affecting to entertain the passions of the place, was violent in opposition; and half laughing at himself for his pretended zeal, and where he had no concern, exclaimed: “No!  I am against the Dockers; I am a Plymouth man.  Rogues! let them die of thirst; they shall not have a drop.  I hate a Docker!”

Now all this is very like what the amiable Pickwick would have done; in fact like something he did do and felt, when he repaired to Eatanswill for the election.  On entering the town he at once chose his party, and took it up enthusiastically.  “With his usual foresight and sagacity,” like Dr. Johnson, he had chosen a fortunately desirable moment for his visit.  “Slumkey for ever,” roared the honest and independent.  “Slumkey for ever!” echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat.  “No Fizkin,” roared the crowd.  “Certainly not,” shouted Mr. Pickwick.  “Who is

Slumkey?” whispered Mr. Tupman.  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone.  “Hush! don’t ask any questions.  It’s always best on these occasions to do what the mob do.”  “But suppose there are two mobs,” suggested Mr. Snodgrass.  “Shout with the largest,” replied Mr. Pickwick.  Volumes could not have said more.  On asking for rooms at the Town Arms, which was the Great White Horse, Mr. Pickwick was asked “was he Blue.”  Mr. Pickwick in reply, asked for Perker.  “He is blue I think.”  “O yes, sir.”  “Then we are blue,” said Mr. Pickwick, but observing the man looked rather doubtful at this accommodating account he gave him his card.  Perker arranged everything.  “Spirited contest, my dear sir,” he said, “I am delighted to hear it,” said Mr. Pickwick.  “I like to see sturdy patriotism, on whatever side it is called forth.”  Later, we are told, Mr. Pickwick entered heart and soul into the business, and, like the sage, caught the

prevailing excitement.  “Although no great partisan of either side, Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently fired by Mr. Pott’s enthusiasm to apply his whole time and attention to the proceedings, etc.”  All this, of course, does not correspond exactly, but the spirit of the selections are the same.

The Doctor it is known, would go out at midnight with his friends Beauclerk and Layton to have what he called “a rouze,” and Garrick was humorously apprehensive that he would have to bail out his old friend from the watchhouse.  Mr. Pickwick had many a “rouze” with his followers.  And Johnson himself, in the matter of drink, was at one time as bad as Mr. Pickwick, only he had a better head, and could “carry his liquor discreetly,” like the Baron of Bradwardine.  He had actually to give up drink on account of this tendency to excess.