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Updated: June 24, 2025
And what a dinner it was! What an amusing failure, too, as a first attempt; suddenly, towards the end of the dinner, a loud, strange sound was heard, as of falling or rushing waters; it was truly alarming; I ran out and found a full tide streaming down the stairs. The cook in her engrossment had forgotten to turn a cock. "Ah, the little victims play!" and Boz's eyes twinkled.
We cast our eyes over the sea: there were several specks in the distance, undoubtedly boats; ours might be one of them. There were also white sails in the horizon, vessels sailing to or from Scottish ports. Every fishing-boat had gone out; Uncle Boz's large boat was hauled up, undergoing repairs. We saw Bambo up at the village, making inquiries. Bill Cockle had gone away early in one of the boats.
The streets seem dingy enough the hay waggon is encountered often. The "Great White Horse," which is at the corner of several streets, is a low, longish building with a rather seedy air. But to read "Boz's" description of it, we see at once that he was somewhat overpowered by its grandeur and immense size which, to us in these days of huge hotels, seems odd.
It is thus almost startling to read his extravagant praise of a passage about Sapsea which the author discarded in Edwin Drood. Nothing better showed Boz's discretion. The well-known passage in The Old Curiosity Shop about the little marchioness and her make-believe of orange peel and water, and which Dickens allowed him to mend in his own way, was certainly altered for the worse.
His detection, through the stupidity of the Fat Boy, is singularly natural and original. Some of Dowler's dictatorial ways may have been suggested by Boz's friend, the redoubtable John Forster.
There's One above hears me, and you'll soon meet Him, and know that I speak the truth." "Boz, you have always spoken the truth," whispered the dying lieutenant. "I trust in Him; I die happy." The action was still raging. Another round-shot took off Uncle Boz's leg.
But he may have had a reason. Nothing is more wonderful than Boz's propriety in dealing with his incidents, a propriety that is really instinctive. Everything falls out in the correct, natural way. For instance, Mr. Pickwick having received such a shock at the Bush the announcement of the Bardell action was scarcely in heart to resume his jollity and gaieties at Bath.
There is no Goswell Street now, but Goswell Road a very noisy, clattering thoroughfare. Another remark to be made is this: how much do we owe to the vivifying power of Boz's descriptions of these old Towns, Inns, and Streets? The ordinary provincial town unsung and undescribed by him remains what it is and nothing more.
There was hair in ringlets, adorning the face; not flaxen exactly, though light with a tinge from the sun, or from something which gave it a bright glow. This head belonged to a little girl very little, and fairy-like, and beautiful. A different sort of beauty to Bambo's or Uncle Boz's, or even to Aunt Deborah's.
Read Boz's first sketches of "London Life" and compare them with "Sydney Carton" or "David Copperfield" and you will see what time and hard work will do to develop genius. I suppose you will wonder why I am moved to say all this? It is, I think, because of your saying "the article sent to St.
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