Death and Mr. Pickwick (8 page)

There are other items of Syntaxiana around the house. Next to the street door is an umbrella stand, holding an inflexible ebony cane, whose handle is a bronze casting of the head of Dr Syntax. It reproduces exactly the crescent-moon profile of jutting chin and prominent nose. ‘If,' Mr Inbelicate said to me once, tapping the handle of the cane against his palm, ‘an undesirable ever came to the door, Dr Syntax would make a most remarkable impression upon him, don't you think, Scripty?' Under his bed he kept a rosewood cane of a similar design, all ready to Rowlandsonise a night intruder.

Indeed, in the office where I type these words is a box file containing ancient advertisements and crumbling newspapers referring to Dr Syntax-themed hats, wigs, coats and saddles. I have seen copies of Mr Inbelicate's letters to antique dealers imploring them to reserve such items, should they ever fall into their hands.

All these things – snuffbox, canes, advertisements – are the physical evidence that Rudolph Ackermann and Thomas Rowlandson were right about the appeal of the character illustrated in the
Poetical Magazine
, as the all-rhyming publication came to be known. Dr Syntax rode the golden road to fame and success.

Why hold back? There had never
been
such a phenomenon as Dr Syntax! London was gripped by a fever that only Dr Syntax could cure. And why not? War with France had weighed everyone down with care, every street had a veteran who had lost a leg or was missing an eye, everyone had a relative who had died on service. Yet still more men were called up, by insatiable recruitment posters on every hoarding. Wouldn't you want to escape this misery? Wouldn't you want a few minutes with some amusing coloured pictures? The result was that the
Poetical Magazine
was soon seen everywhere.

For two years, Combe wrote his verses in prison, and Rowlandson drew his pictures in his top-floor apartment. When the run in the
Poetical Magazine
came to an end,
Dr Syntax
was published in book form. And Thomas Rowlandson and William Combe never met once in the course of their joint endeavours.

Now let us return briefly to St Mary's, Islington.

 

*

ROBERT SEYMOUR LOOKED TOWARDS THE
empty pews with such intensity, and spoke with such conviction, that the church might have been filled with parishioners.

‘Surely if anything can be certain knowledge to a man in this world,' he said, ‘it must be whether he has a good conscience or no. If a man has the faculty of thought, then he must
know
his own thoughts and desires, he must
know
his past pursuits, he must
know
the motives which have governed the actions of his life.'

‘Robert, you must not move your head too much, so that it becomes the thing observed,' said the vicar. ‘I would though raise your hand on each use of the word “know”, a little higher each time, so that it may be above your head on the third “know”. Continue.'

‘The world, and other men, may deceive us with false appearances. How often do we guess correctly the true state of things on this earth? Only with great effort do we discover the truth of what lies before us. But the mind has all the facts and evidence it needs to know
itself
.'

‘Head a
little
too close to the paper. Be mindful too of the passage in Milton about the preachers who throw their features into such distortions—'

‘—as quite disfigure the human face divine.'

‘Well remembered! Continue!'

At the end of the sermon, the vicar approached the pulpit, looked up at the boy, and said: ‘Why did you come to me that evening, Robert?'

‘I have told you already.'

‘Please tell me again.'

‘The Bible is my constant companion. It has inspired me to draw many pictures.'

‘Your pictures, yes. Do you know, the first time you came to my study, I noticed how you looked at one of my prints on the wall,
St Paul Preaching at Athens.
I have seen you look at it every time we have been in the study since then. Does it inspire you?'

‘My eyes move from one figure to another within the picture. The figures seem so varied in their appearances that I cannot possibly be wearied by it.'

‘I meant did the portrayal of
preaching
inspire you.'

‘It does.'

‘And your mother – she wishes the church for you?'

‘My mother has always striven to make me remember the words of the lesson on Sunday. She has always said that, one day, before the Lord, we will all be required to repeat them. I hope that, were I to give a sermon, it would help the congregation to remember the words.'

The vicar moved contemplatively around the pulpit. ‘There are many things that remain to be worked upon – your tone of voice needs to convince the indifferent – many things – but the solemnity you have – your sense of solemnity, Robert, there is something there. Well – we will meet again next week, if you wish.'

‘I do.'

 

*

I REMEMBER MR INBELICATE TAKING HOLD
of that papier-mâché snuffbox, and that a chip of paint came away in his overflow of enthusiasm.

‘Robert Seymour might well have become a minor cleric had it not been for Dr Syntax,' he said, as his fingernail tapped the box upon the shelf, next to the family Bible. ‘But, one day, his brother purchased an issue of the
Poetical Magazine
and left it on the table at home.' Where once the goldfish jar had stood. ‘Young Robert picked it up, turned the pages – and was instantly captivated by the illustration of
Dr Syntax Pursued by a Bull.
Here was this bony old bore scrambling up a tree to escape the bull's horns – hat and wig carried away on the wind, bald head exposed to public ridicule. “This is rather wonderful,” thought young Seymour.'

‘Yet to me this young Seymour sounds a very earnest boy,' I said, ‘with a strong religious impulse, and sermonising tendencies. I would say he had much in common with Dr Syntax.'

‘Exactly, Scripty! And every time he joined in with the general laughter at Syntax, he laughed himself a little away from the church.' Until eventually there came a day when he missed his appointment at St Mary's pulpit. There was more enjoyment to be found in the print shops.

 

*

IN THE BACK ROOM OF
the shop, with its floor-to-ceiling display of old coloured prints, Robert Seymour knelt to examine
The Farmer's Toast
by Gillray, showing fat men at a drinking bout around a table, their stomachs bulging so much that buttons would not fasten over the paunches.

Next to this picture were other Gillrays – here was the prime minister depicted as a toadstool on a dunghill; there, politicians as a class shown as hungry piglets, not so much a litter as a swarm, climbing over each other to reach a teat on England's poor sow, her ribs showing through her hide, as the life was sucked out by those who sought office.

And whether by Gillray or by other caricaturists, the gallery's rectangular wares revelled in disrespect for all established institutions: monarchy, Parliament, the law, church. Seymour trembled with shocking pleasure at the print of a citizen defecating into a crown, the steam rising from the newly deposited waste, a picture of George III used to wipe the bottom, while a stream of urine entered a bishop's mitre.

He avidly studied the pen-and-ink faces, learning – for instance – that a jutting chin could appear still more prominent with the addition of a few bristles. He stared into the pictures' backgrounds, noting how lines and dots and dashes and curves were repeated, with gentle variation, and texture was the result – that a few strokes could suggest cobbles, or flowing water, or the bark of trees. Then he examined Hogarth's linked series of pictures:
Marriage à la Mode
and
A Rake's Progress.
He pored over a book, open on the gallery's reading-stand, called
The Academy for Grown Horsemen
, which purported to offer instruction in the elements of horsemanship, but whose real purpose was shown by the picture of an uncontrollable steed upsetting a cartload of apples: to provoke laughter at disastrous incompetence.

When he was finished with this shop, there were other print shops to visit. There were all the shops near St Paul's: Knight's, the delight of Sweeting's Alley; Fairburn's, the eye-feast of Ludgate Hill; Hone's the wit-sharpener of Fleet Street. Their window displays were free galleries! A war, a revolution, the latest fashions – all could be seen for nothing. And when these windows were done, there were prints sold on the streets in upside-down umbrellas, spun round fast by grinning men to attract attention.

In the pulpit of St Mary's, he had once given a sermon to the effect that the poor are always with us – but how much more expressive to see a Gillray wretch in rags, eating raw onions, and warming unshod toes in front of a dying fire. Prints were a far better sermon than words. So Robert Seymour committed them to memory, and forgot the church.

Soon, he was to be found in the crowd at the entrance to the House of Commons, joining in with the boos and hoorays, whichever were loudest, as the members went in. He recognised many politicians from their caricatures, and the crowd's abusive shouts helped him identify still more. At Hyde Park, he pressed against the railings and watched the aristocracy ride past in their gilded carriages, with drivers in livery. Wherever he went, he brought out his sketchbook and drew whatever he saw.

Until the day a middle-aged man knocked.

The man was made in a small, neat style, in black clothes, with inch-thick black hair which, if not oiled, had a natural sheen, and looked younger than the face. The man's skin was dark, as were his eyes, suggestive of Welsh or even Indian ancestry, and his silver buttons, bearing an embossed lotus, were set exactly as far apart vertically on his jacket as his eyes were horizontally. He passed his card to Robert Seymour's mother, and she in turn passed it to Robert, whose face, already sullen, became more so. Around the card's edge was a border of black, stylised leaves. Robert read the words: ‘Thomas Vaughan, Pattern Draughtsman. Duke Street, Smithfield.'

‘So, Robert Seymour,' said the owner of the card. ‘Left or right-handed?'

‘Left.'

‘That can be changed. Your mother told me in her letter that you have some ability with a pencil.'

‘It is astonishing,' she said, looking with pride at her son. ‘He prefers his pencil to people. If he is near a piece of paper it doesn't stay white for long.'

‘That is relevant, but not truly necessary. I can teach anyone to draw.'

‘I can already draw,' said Robert.

‘By drawing I do not mean
sketching
.' Thomas Vaughan set down on the table a sample book of printed calico designs, and turned the pages to reveal arrangements of geometric figures, more stylised leaves and bold interpretations of flowers. ‘I have a motto – “Find the foible of the female”. Now you, madam – I believe a shawl in this pattern would be to your taste, taking into account your clothes, your skin, your eyes, and your hair.'

‘It would be, Mr Vaughan. They all would be.'

Vaughan produced from a satchel a thick piece of sycamore, with a handle on the back, suggestive of a flat iron, but square, and ridged with a design of lilies repeated in rows. He ran his finger along this surface. ‘Your son's designs, when he reaches the required standard, will be turned into one of these. Then colour is applied, and we press down – and there you have it!'

Robert Seymour's face indicated he would sooner not have this ‘it'.

‘Your son will receive two suits of clothes, and meals and lodging, Christian teaching on Sunday, and oysters, in proper season, no more than twice a week. I have set all these points down in the documents of apprenticeship.' He laid them on the table, between the pattern book and the printing block. ‘They stipulate the minimum standards – but I assure you I shall go beyond them. My wife and I endeavour to keep our apprentices happy – we have musical evenings and outings and much more. But there is one … one
clarification
about the documents which I should establish for you and your son.'

‘He knows about the duties of apprenticeship, Mr Vaughan.'

‘Even so, I want him to be in no doubt about what apprenticeship entails. First of all, Robert Seymour, every day you will be up before sunrise to take advantage of the light.'

‘He does that already, sir,' said Robert's mother.

‘Very well. But let us suppose that in a few weeks, even with all I do to make your son happy, one day he wakes up and decides that he is not suited to pattern-drawing. Let us suppose further that, in his mind, he believes he would be better at some other pursuit. And let us additionally suppose that he is correct – that he would indeed be a great something else. That something else may be – let us say – producing pictures of his own. It does not really matter. But no matter how miserable he feels – no matter that the world and everyone in it proclaims that he should do something else – then, he would
still
be my apprentice for seven years. This cannot be altered. That is the nature of the documents which will bind your son to me.'

Elizabeth Bishop looked towards Robert for some glimmer of approval. She found none. Only his intense expression which, at its most intense, as it was at that moment, bored right into her.

But she placed her signature upon the documents.

*   *   *

A week later, Robert Seymour stood on the doorstep at Duke Street, with a sack over his shoulder containing clothes, a few books, and other small personal items.

The door was immaculately black. He rapped the fleur-de-lys knocker. There was no response. After several minutes, he was about to knock again when he heard an upstairs window open. Stepping backwards for a better view, he saw a young woman leaning out who had the bushiest hair he had ever seen, and a perfect scowl for frightening hawkers and street musicians. She called out: ‘The new apprentice?'