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^u%f'^ 



PEN PHOTO GEAPHS 



OF 



CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



TAKEN FROM LIFE, 



KATE FIELD. 



NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION. 




LORIlSra, I^iablislier, 

319 Washington Street, 
BOSTON. 



// 



. Tff^^'^' 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 18C8, by 

A. K. LORING, 

lo the Clerk's office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts 



PREFACE. 



To connect this little book ■with the art of Photography, by even the 
slight link of a title, may be considered presumptuous ; but wlien it is 
remembered that the best photographs fail to do justice to their originals, 
and that the most interesting subjects generally receive the worst treat- 
ment, I hope to be exonerated from so grave a charge. The following 
pages were inspired solely by one sentiment, — that of gratitude. Their 
publication is induced by the hope of clinching the recollection of Mr. 
Dickens's Readings in tlie minds of many ; and, more particularly, of giv- 
ing to those who have not had the good fortune to hear them, some faint 
outline of a rare pleasure, the like of which will ne'er come to us again. 

If I fail to realize this hope — I fail. 

THE AUTHOR. 



THE WELCOME IN BOSTON 



" A hundred thousand welcomes : I could weep, 
And I could laugh ; I am light and heavy ; welcome : 
A curse begin at very root of his heart, 
That is not glad to see thee I " 

OxCE in a genei'atiou all hearts throb in 
unison to the music of some great master 
whose liuraanity is broad enough to embrace 
mankind. Charles Dickens is such a mas- 
ter. His hand has struck chords that 
scarce a living, loving soul has not echoed, 
with a silent blessing upon Him who sent 
so human a genius into the world. It is not 
strange then, that on a raw, gray morning 
in December, Boston experienced a new 
sensation in watching a motley crowd, 
ranged in single file before the door of 
Messrs. Ticknor and Fiekls's publishing 
house, pursuing its winding way along 
Hamilton Place, and dragging its slow 
length down Tremont Street, with the dis- 
tance of an eighth of a mile between its 
head and tail. So closely packed was the 
human file that it seemed as if the living 
mass had been caught and skewered for 
some especial cannibalistic festival, prepara- 
tory to being roasted on a spit. Had such 
a fate been in reserve, it would have been 
hailed with delight. The choice between 
freezing or roasting to death is easily made 
when undergoing either process. Those 
who roast prefer to freeze, and those who 
freeze prefer to roast. On this eventful 
morning, fire in any form would have been 
regarded as " a blessing in disguise," and 
if any clerical believer in the good old- 
fashioned hell had then and there impro- 
vised a revival, he would have made con- 
verts of them all. 

Truckmen, porters, clerks, "roughs," 
clergymen, merchants, gamblers, specula- 
tors, gentlemen, loafers, white men, black 
men, colored men, boys and Ihree women ! 
Bfoadcloth, no cloth ! Fine linen, doubtful 
linen, no linen ! The lion stood up with 
the lamb. The wild animals of Boston 
were merged into one unhappy family, and 



the great democratic principle on which 
our glorious institutions are founded, was 
more practically carried out than it will 
ever be again, if good republicans can have a 
voice in the matter. " Here's yer Boston 
aristocracy ! " screamed out a young gentle- 
man who bore a striking likeness to " Young 
Bailey," of " Mrs. Todgers's Commercial 
Boarding House." This pleasantry seemed 
to afford infinite delight to a " party," who 
replied with a wink of the eye and a grin 
that broke over his piebald countenance 
as the sun breaks upon the dawn, that " the 
people of Boston had never before had an 
opportunity of seeing the elirjht of the city 
standing in a row." The purity of this 
" party's" French accent was only equalled 
by the purity of his breath, the architecture 
of which might have been attributed to the 
composite oi'der, consisting, as it did, of 
bad whiskey and stale tobacco, judiciously 
mingled. 

The Dickens fever set in as early as half- 
past six o'clock. Victims whom the epi- 
demic had marked for its own, and who, in 
consequence, had passed a sleepless night, 
rose before the sun got out of bed, and, 
chewing the cud of fancy, on which sub- 
stantial food several hundred of the Boston 
aristocracy breakfasted in honor of Charles 
Dickens, rushed to the scene of action. 
Among these enthusiastic Dickensites were 
two of the three heroines whose unexam- 
pled fortitude should be remembered in their 
epitaphs. Keinforceraents came thick and 
fast, until, at half-past seven o'clock, sev- 
enty-five human beings were going through 
the various stages of congelation. One 
hour before noon the human sandwiches 
were counted by hundreds, and, could they 
have eaten themselves, would have done so 
with pleasure. To stand " a long way on 
the frosty side of cool" from half-past six 
to nine o'clock at the earliest, — for not un- 
til then were the doors of Messrs. Ticknor 
and Fiekls's establishment thrown open, -i.- 
5 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



and several hours longer at the latest, was 
not couducive to a rajjid circulation of the 
blood; j'et there never was a more good- 
natured crowd. They looked their situation 
coolly in the face and determined to secure 
their prize or perish In the attempt. They 
stamped their feet and sent forth their 
voices in song. Perhaps the singing was 
more boisterous than hilarious, for it re- 
quires a singularly vivid imagination to be 
joyful when undergoing the experiences of 
Sir John Franklin in his search for a North- 
western passage. Nevertheless, the attempt 
denoted an amiable disposition, and this 
Avas significant. In compliment to the 
great man on whose altar they were sac- 
rificing themselves, they sang " The Ivy 
Green," as appropriate to the season of the 
j'^ear. They then made a detour and vio- 
lently attacked " Johu Brown," in whose 
soul they seemed to take great satisfixction, 
for the reason that it was marching on. 

"Bully for John Brown!" exclaimed a 
" Pahdee." " I congratulate the gintlemun 
wid all me heart, I do. Shure an if he'd be 
good enough to say a good word for us, 
I'd remember it next election time. By me 
sowl, it ud be a blessed thing now if oiir 
soles was marching on, gintlemin." 

"You're right there, m}"- friend," replied 
a voice attacliedto a genteel suit of clothes. 
" Old Milton may have thought that ' they 
also serve that only stand and wait; ' but I 
don't think he ever tried it when the ther- 
mometer was below zero." 

" Milton? An faith who's Milton? Is he 
a mimber of Congriss? " 

" No, my fi-iend, a poet." 

"A poet, indade! Be jabers, he must 
have took out a poetical license for such 
blathering stuff as that. I'm a porter, an if 
Milton wants to know the facts o' standin' 
an waitin', I'm the boy. John Brown's the 
feller for ray money." 

" Dr. Kane can't hold a candle to us," 
muttered another voice. " The open polar 
sea won't be discovered in a hurry, if it de- 
pends upon me." 

Stamping, singing, fun, and profanity 
ruled the long, cold hours, and when these 
staple articles failed, recourse was had to 
cigars and pocket pistols. It was astonish- 
ing to see how many gentlemen were armed 
with this peculiar weapon, and how often 
they defended themselves with it. Substi- 
tutes were provided to relieve guard, and 
many were visited by friends whose money 
they held, and who, acting in the profos- 
Bioual capacity of bottle-holders, exhorted 



them to stand firm. Some, however, were 
obliged to drop from the line from sheer 
exhaustion, and others, having put too 
large a npmber of enemies into their 
mouths, were assisted to a neighboring 
station by the gentlemanly police. The 
Chinese article, "tea," seemed to be held in 
universal esteem, and it was quite remark- 
able to notice how many persons stepped 
round the corner to get a cup of a beverage 
that is said to cheer but not inebriate. 
Strange to relate, however, the "tea" 
drunk on this occasion had so peculiar an 
aroma as to warrant the belief that it must 
have been drawn from " Mrs. Gamp's " fa- 
vorite teapot. 

■\Vhen the crowd was densest and the 
humor at its lieight, a calm stranger, evi- 
dently from the country, approached, and, 
animated by a sentiment of curiosity, asked 
a bystander the meaning of so large and ex- 
cited a gathering. " 'Taint election time 
down here, is it? " 

" Oh no, we're buying tickets, sir." 

" Buying tickets ? For what? " 

" For Dickens's Readings." 

" Dickens ! Who the d— 1 is Dickens ? " 

" AVhy, don't you know? — the great nov- 
elist." 

" Never heard of him in my life, but if 
there is any man alive that can keep such a 
crowd together xoith the mercury beloio zero 
like this, d d if I don't see him!" There- 
upon the previously calm stranger took his 
place in the line and became so enthusiastic 
as to propose three cheers for Dickens, 
What his ultimate opinion of Mi*. Dickens 
was, is robed in impenetrable mystery. 

Beseiged without, Ticknor & Fields's es- 
tablishment was finally besieged within, 
and let it be recorded that when the sale of 
tickets did begin, one of the hei'oines, who 
had held her position to the last, Avas, by a 
common impulse of gcnerositj', and by a 
unanimous vote, allowed to take tlie pre- 
cedence. 

While the heroic woman within the 
building was receiving the reward of 
virtue, — it is a great comfort to know that 
virtue does occasionally get rewarded, — a 
gentleman in the line outside took occasion 
to address his neighbors in the following 
eloquent and impressive words. He had 
been consoling himself with a great deal of 
" tea." " Gen'lemen," said he, waving his 
right hand on high and contemplating the 
spire of Park Street Church with peculiar 
afiection, — " Gen'lemen, there are but three 
men who have stamped themselves upon the 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS- 



civilization of tlie Nineteenth Century. 
Those men, gen'lemen, are Charles Shakes- 
peare, William Dickens, and — myself. Let 
any one deny it who dares ! " Here the 
peer of Charles Shakespeare and William 
Dickens looked so ferociously inclined to 
stamp upon humanity particularly, as well 
as upon civilization generally, that he was 
unceremoniously removed by a guardian of 
the peace. O Dickens! how much "tea" 
was that day drunk in thy name! How 
many pairs of lungs have had " damp door- 
steps settled on them" because of thee! 
" Dickens I " exclaims a young man of ar- 
dent temperament, " if I did not love his 
genius I should wish he had never been 
born. To please the object of my attection, 
and other less particular friends, I stood 
eight hours in the cold, cold blawst, with a 
villanous tobacco pipe before me and a 
shocking bad hat immediately behind, the 
owner of which last-named article beguiled 
the tiiue by poking me in the back and ask- 
ing me whether I wouldn't swap tiles and 
improve my personal appearance. After 
enduring several hours of pufiiiig and pok- 
ing, I rather wished that Charles Dickens 
had never crossed the Atlantic. When I 
did reach the ticket-office, my patience was 
requiteil with reserved seats in a rear gal- 
lery ! The friends for whom I fought and 
froze, failed to appreciate ray valuable ser- 
vices, and assured me that they might better 
have remained at home and saved their 
money. The object of my affections could 
only be appeased by my purchasing tickets 
of speculators, at ten dollars apiece. Upon 
going down town, after my arctic expedi- 
tion, I discovered that I had lost an oppor- 
tunity of making five thousand dollars in 
stocks; but then, as an offset, I did gain, at 
considerable cost, a first-class inJluenza 
that terminated in acute rhenmatism, to 
wliicli I am likel}- to be subject for the re- 
mainder of my life. The British govern- 
ment owes me a pension." 

Such was the excitement attending the 
sale of tickets for the first course of Mr. 
Dickens's Readings in Boston; and the 
second was like unto it, yet, lest the seem- 
ingly Munchausen tale be received with in- 
credulity, tlie report of a Boston journal is 
here given, verbatim et literatim : — 

" As early as half-past seven o'clock in the 
evening, tlie crowd commenced to gather, and 
a few persons stationed tlicmselves at the 
door of the Meionaon, determined to secure 
good seats even at the cost of a night of 



waiting. From that time to the time of open- 
ing of the doors in the morning, the numbers 
gradually increased. At ten o'clock, p. m., 
about fifty persons had assembled; at elev- 
en, the number had increased to sixty ; at 
midnight, there Ave re one hundred inline; 
and at two o'clock, from one hundred to 
two hundred Avere Availing. The line by 
this time extended into Montgomery 
Place, and various were the means devised 
by those avIio composed it to make the 
time pass quickly and agreeably. 

" Some of those in Avaiting brought arm- 
chairs in Avhich to rest their Aveary limbs, 
and one person, determined to be as com- 
fortable as possible, rolled himself up in 
blankets and stretched out on a matti'ess 
which he had provided. The crowd were 
in good spirits, and every little incident 
was made the subject of a joke and laugh. 
As usual, on such occasions, the musical 
element was not Avanting, and by the sing- 
ing of popular airs, 'Johnny comes march- 
ing home,' 'John Brown's body,' 'We 
Avon't go home till morning,' etc., etc., the 
hours were beguiled, more to their own 
amusement probably than to the gratifica- 
tion of tlie residents on Montgomery Place, 
whose slumbers must have been somewhat 
disturbed by the noise without. Tlie crowd 
was not altogether composed of represent- 
atives from the better portion of our com- 
munity, and ominous black bottles Avere 
frequently passed from one to the other, 
the contents of which seemed to add not a 
little to the hilarity of the occasion. 

"On the following morning the crowd 
Avas very great. IMany late comers, not in- 
clined to play fairl}', Avere assembled about 
the entrance, determined, if possible, Avhen 
the doors were opened, to make a rush and 
obtain an early admission. Others formed 
an additional line up Tremont Street as 
f;\r as Montgomery Place. The 'genuine' 
line extended down the north side of IMont- 
gomery Place, across the end and out to 
Tremont Street again. Citizens on their 
Avay to business were much amused at 
the bustling among the crowd of Avaiters, 
and the strife after a good position in 
line, and many stopped opposite to view 
the exciting spectacle. The steps and 
Avindows of the Tremont House were 
crowded Avith spectators, and all teams 
stopping in the vicinity were put into req- 
uisition for standing places. 
" At about half-past eight o'clock, the out- 
side door Avas opened. The rush towards 
it for a while was terrible, and it was only by 



8 



PEX PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



the most strenuous efforts that the force of 
fifteen policemen, who were present, under 
Sergeant Fostei', could hold them at bay. 
As it was, quite a number who had not a 
position in line succeeded in getting within 
the doors, to which so many were anxiously 
looking forward. In a few minutes, how- 
ever, the police force rallied, and with a free 
use of their clubs, giving not a few an ach- 
ing head, and one at least a wound from 
which the blood flowed freely, they suc- 
ceeded in clearing the sidewalk of all but 
the original line. After this, the long pro- 
cession moved steadily forward with little 
interruption until about five minutes of 
nine, when the checks which gave the right 



to purchase tickets, five hundred in number, 
having been all distributed, the dooi's were 
closed, and the line which even then was 
some two hundred feet long, was broken 
up and many of the persons in waiting went 
away disappointed. Others remained about 
to purchase tickets of those more fortunate. 
Several ladies were noticed in line among 
those who succeeded in obtaining admis- 
sion." 

With this chronicle we may well exclaim 
"Ohc! jam satis," and turning to New 
York, mark the ravages made by the Dick- 
ens fever upon metropolitan constitutions. 



THE WELCOME IE NEW YORK. 



Not being a bird, and consequently hav- 
ing no particular fondness for worms as an 
article of diet, I never could be made to see 
the beauties of early rising. It is a poeti- 
cal delusion. It means wet feet in summer 
and cold feet in winter. It means a total 
"want of appreciation of those delightful 
daj'-dreams that possess the brain which 
refuses to wake up all over and emulate the 
lark in a very bad habit. It is satisfactory 
to look back upon my life and know that 
larks have received no moral support from 
me; and yet I must confess that when I 
took up the " Tribune" on the 29th of last 
November, at the respectable and civilized 
hour of ten o'clock, a. m., my young blood 
froze, and each particular hair stood on end, 
as I read with terror and dismay that tick- 
ets for Charles Dickens's readings had been 
selling for two hours ! My first impulse 
was to drink a cup of cold poison and 
quietly retire from this vale of tears in a 
way becoming disappointed aflections ; but 
I finally decided^ that before going to the 
Dickens by a process which would seriously 
interfere with my return to a mundane 
sphere, — a return which might be desirable 
should a change of base not prove all that 
fancy painted it, — I would follow the im- 
mortal Mrs. Chick's advice and " make an 
eff'ort." 

It is an immutable law that "things " are 
never to be found when the salvation of 
human beings depends upon their immediate 
possession. The agony I endured in col- 
lecting myself on that Friday morning, no 
words can describe. Never in my life had 
I played such an aggravating game of hide- 
and-seek, and I finally rushed out of the 
house with a white glove on one hand and 
a black glove on the other. Perhaps I 
walked to Stcinway Hall, but my private 
opinion is that I flew on the wings of that 
bird of which I so much disapprove. 
Whether I walked or flew, I know that at 
eleven o'clock I stood in front of Steinway 



Hall, hopelessly gazing at a queue of my 
fellow beings that extended far beyond the 
bounds of human patience. Encountering 
the glance of a benevolent policeman, who 
seemed to feel for me, and having heard 
that there is safety in the law, I ventured to 
address this imposing guardian of the peace. 

" IIow long have these people been stand- 
ing here ? " I asked. 

*' Well, some on 'em two and some on 'em 
three hours." 

" And when did people begin to stand 
here ? " 

" Nigh about seven o'clock, and they 
wriggled round Irving Place just like a 
snake." 

" I suppose all the good seats are gone? " 

" Certain, sure." 

" What do you think ray chances would be 
if I should take my place at the end of that 
file ? " 

" Well, I wouldn't give twenty-five cents 
for 'em. By the time you get to that 'ere 
ticket office, there won't be standing-room 
for sale." 

I gazed at that ticket office and thought 
of the touching song, "Thou art so near, 
and yet so far." Once more the idea of 
cold poison suggested itself, but suddenly I 
was seized with a brilliant inspiration. 

"Have members of the press no privi- 
leges?" I inquired, endeavoring to look 
like a distinguished individual. 

I am afraid I did not succeed in my at- 
tempt, for a part}"- in the file, who, under 
the crushing influence of humanity before 
and behind him, was gradually being de- 
prived of his breath, panted out in a shrill 
voice, " 'Reckon we're all memhers of the 
pres's to-day ! " 

I glanced reproachfully at that " party," 
nor was I consoled by the tender interest 
of the policeman, who evidently thought 
that members of the press were something 
lower than angels, — which they are. Many 
are a great deal lower. 

9 



10 



PEN PHOTOGEAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



" The best thing for you to do is to see 
Mr. Dolby, and you'll find him inside — 
perhaps." 

I went inside. I wandered up and down 
that capacious building in vain. Nobody 
seemed to know that any one bearing the 
name of Dolby had ever been born. One 
Teutonic individual had the impertinence to 
ask me " how I spell him, and what for I 
want him?" This was too much. I was 
about to beat a hasty retreat, when I en- 
countered a person who looked as if he pos- 
sessed considerable information, but had an 
inborn reluctance to part with any of it. 
Nevertheless I ventured to address him in 
a persuasive voice. 

" Is Mr. Dolby here, sir? " 

" No." (Spoken as if it had been bitten 
in two.) 

" Has he been here? " 

"Yes." 

" Do you know where he is? " 

" No." 

" Can you tell me the name of his hotel? " 

" Westminster." 

Delightful man ! " Conversational " man ! 
"What a noticing" man! "What a man 
for repartee ! " At last I had a lever with 
which to work. I would employ strategy. 
The greatest battles had been won by it. 
Mr. Dolby was a scholar and a gentleman. 
Mr. Dolby was handsome ; Mr. Dolby was 
good-natured. I would appeal to him as one 
human being to another. I would appeal to 
him as a son, as a brother, as a husband, as 
a father! He might not be a brother, nor a 
husband, nor a father, but lie could not pos- 
sibly escape being a son, and the reference 
to him in other domestic relations would be 
accepted as a tribute to his worth ; it would 
signify that, if he is not, he ought to be, a 
brother, a husband, and a father. I would 
tell him of the tremendous influence of the 
press, and, as an original peroration which 
could not fail to take his i-eason captive, I 
would tell him that " the pen is mightier 
than the sword ! " 

I did. I wrote Mr. Dolby a letter which 
would have "drawn tears from even the 
manliest eye," and then retired to my native 
heath to recuperate my shattered forces. 
Need I say that Mr. Dolby hearkened to my 
petition? There stood beside him as he 
opened that letter a guardian angel in the 
garb of man, who said unto Dolby, "The 
press is a mighty organ ; respect its organ- 
ists." 

The way iu which I went about with those 



tickets iu my pocket, — the way in which I 
exhibited them to those who had no tickets, 
and, what was more, never expected to get 
any, not being people who would encourage 
speculatoi's, — ought to make Mr. Dolby feel 
that he has not lived in vain. I slept with 
those tickets under my pillow, lest some one 
should get over the wall of the back yard 
and steal them, and, had I not lost confidence 
in banks, I should have deposited my treas- 
ures in a vault during the day. 

Such a crowd as assembled in front of 
Steinway Hall on the night of the first read- 
ing! Carriage after carriage deposited its 
human contents on the sidewalk, while a 
throng of men and boys, who may be called 
the " outs," choked up the passage-way and 
gazed at the fortunate possessors of tickets 
with about the same expression of face as 
that Avith which hungry children eye the 
coutents of pastry-cook windows. Specu- 
lators to right of us, speculators to left of 
us, speculators in front of us, volleyed and 
thundered. The very best seats in the 
house were held by these vampires. They 
knew it, and great was the profit thereof; 
for it would have cost some people a great 
deal more — iu feelings — to have remained 
away, than to have paid ten dollars or twenty 
dollars for a ticket. An American public is 
not to be hold in check by gigantic swin- 
dling; hence the breed of vampires. 

Past "outs "and speculators, we began 
the ascent of stairs that never were quite 
so long as on this occasion, but which ac- 
complished, we felt as Hercules must have 
felt after the termination of one of his la- 
bors. The entrance into the hall was quite 
curious, the assemblage being one vast in- 
terrogation point. Everybod}^ was on the 
qui vive to see who had been shrewd enough 
to secure seats, and apparently seemed as- 
tonished that anybody had been as clever as 
himself. The salutation between friends 
was not the ordinary, " How are you ? " but, 
for this night only, " Where did you gL't 
your ticket?" Then followed a thrilling 
narration of hairbreadth 'scapes, listened 
to with breathless attention. 

Once seated, it was a pleasure to look 
upon the multitude that completely filled the 
vast hall. If Charles Dickons was not to 
be tried by his peers, — a good fortune tiiat 
never yet befell genius, — he had invoked the 
best audience that New York can produce. 
There were poets, authors, artists, actors, 
and managers ; there were women of cul- 
ture, lawyei's, doctors, bankers, and "mer- 



PEN" PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



11 



cliant-priuces." The fourth estate shone 
with uuusual lustre. " Dailies " and " "Week- 
lies " were scattered in every direction, and 
the very air seemed redolent of printer's 
ink. 
Then Charles Dickens came, and we saw 



and heard, and he conquered, — not all at 
once, but gradually, slowly, and surely. 

However, "let me not anticipate;" yet 
must I say that 

" All my reports go with the modest truth; 
No more, nor clipped, but so." 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS 



OF 



dfltarh^ girltjens'^ ll^atlinjg^. 



I. 



THE DESK AND THE READER. 



One glance at the platform is sufficient to 
convince the audience that Mr. Dickens 
thoroughly appreciates "stage effect." A 
large screen of maroon cloth occupies the 
background ; before it stands a light table 
of peculiar design, on the inner left-hand 
corner of which there peers forth a minia- 
ture desk, large enough to accommodate 
the reader's book. On the right hand of 
the table, and somewhat below its level, 
is a shelf, where repose a carafe of water 
and a tumbler. 'Tis " a combination and a 
form indeed," covered with velvet somewhat 
lighter in color than the screen. No dra- 
pery conceals the table, whereby it is plain 
that Mr. Dickens believes in expression of 
figure as well as of face, and does not tlu'ow 
away everything but his head and arms, ac- 
cording to tlie ordinary habit of ordinary 
speakers. About twelve feet above the plat- 
form, and somewhat in advance of the table, 
is a horizontal row of gas-jets with a tin 
reflector; and midway in both perpendic- 
ular gas-pipes there is one powerful jet 
with glass chimney. By this admirable 
arrangement, Mr. Dickens stands against 
a dark background in a frame of gas-light 
which throws out his face and figure to 
the best advantage. With the book " Dick- 
ens " stranded on the little desk, the come- 
dian, Dickens, can transform a table into 
a stage, and had the great novelist con- 
cluded at the last moment not to appear 
before us, this ingenious apparatus would 
have taught us a lesson in the art of reading. 

He comes! A lithe, energetic man, of 



medium stature, crosses the platform at the 
brisk gait of five miles an hour, and takes his 
position behind the table. This is Charles 
Dickens, whose name has been a household 
word in England and America for thirty 
years ; whose books have been the joy and 
solace of many a weary heart and head. A 
first glance disappointed me. I thought I 
should prefer to have him entirely unlike him- 
self; but when I began to speculate on how 
Charles Dickens ought to look, I gave the 
matter up, and wisely concluded that nature 
knew her own intentions better thau any 
one else. Mr. Dickens has a broad, full 
brow, a fine head, — which, for a man of such 
power and energy, is singularly small at the 
base of the brain, — and a cleanly cut profile. 

There is a slight resemblance between 
Mr. Dickens and Louis Napoleon in the lat- 
ter respect, owing mainly to the nose ; but 
it is unnecessary to add that the faces of the 
two men are totally different. Mr. Dickens's 
eyes are light-blue, and his mouth and jaw, 
without having any claim to beauty, pos- 
sess a strength that is not concealed by the 
veil of iron-gray mustache and generous 
imperial. Ilis head is but slightly graced 
with iron-gray hair, and his complexion is 
florid. 

If any one thinks to obtain an accurate 
idea of Mr. Dickens from the photographs 
that flood the country, he is mistaken. He 
will see Mr. Dickens's clothes, Mr. Dickens's 
features, as they appear when "Nicholas 
Nickleby" is in the act of knocking down 
"Mr. Wackford Squcers; " but he will not 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



13 



see what makes Mr. Dickens's face attrac- 
tive ; the geniality and expression that his 
heart and brain» put into it. In his photo- 
graphs Mr. Diclvcns looks as if, previous to 
posing, he had been put under an exhausted 
receiver and had had his soul pumped out 
of him. This process is nobeautifler. There- 
fore if any one has not been able to judge for 
himself, let him believe that Mr. Dickens's 
face is capable of wonderfully varied expres- 
sion. Hence it is the best sort of face. 



There is a twinkle in the eye, that, like 
a promissory note, pledges itself to any 
amount of fim — within sixty minutes. 
After seeing this twinkle I was satisfied 
with Mr. Dickens's appearance, and became 
resigned to the fact of his not resembling 
the Apollo Belvedere. One thing is cer- 
tain, — that if he did resemble this classical 
young gentleman, he never could have writ- 
ten one of his novels. Laying this flatter- 
ing unction to my soul I listen. 



14 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



II. 



"THE CHRISTMAS CAROL." 



" Ladies akd Gentlemen, — I have the 
honor to read to you A Christmas Carol in 
four staves. Stave one, Marley's Ghost. 
Marley was dead. There is no doubt what- 
ever about that. The register of his burial 
was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, 
the undertaker, and the chief mourner. 
Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name 
was good upon 'Change, for anything he 
chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was 
as dead as a door-nail." 

At the close of this paragraph the critic 
beside me, whispers : " Mr. ])ickens's voice 
is limited in power, husky, and naturally 
monotonous. If he succeeds in overcoming 
these defects, it will be by dramatic 
genius." I begin to take a gloomy view of 
the situation, and wouder why Mr. Dickens 
constantly employs the rising inflexion, and 
never comes to a full stop; but we are 
so pleasantly and naturally, introduced to 
" Sci'ooge," that my spirits revive. " Foul 
weather didn't know where to have him. The 
heaviest rain and snow and hail and sleet 
could boast of the advantage over him in only 
one respect, — they often ' came down ' hand- 
somely, and Scrooge never did." Here the 
magnetic current between reader and lis- 
tener sets in, and when " Scrooge's " clerk 
" put on his white comforter and tried to 
warm himself at the candle ; in which effort, 
not being a man of strong imagination, he 
failed," the connection is tolerably well es- 
tablished. I see old " Scrooge," very plain- 
ly, growling and snarling at his pleasant 
nephew, and when that nephew invites that 
uncle to eat a Christmas dianer with him, 
and Mr. Dickens says that " Scrooge " said 
"that he would see him — yes, I am very 
sorry to say he did, — he went the whole 
length of the expression, and said he would 
see him in that extremity, first," — he makes 
one dive at our sense of humor and takes it 
captive. Mr. Dickens is " Scrooge; " he is 
the two portly gentlemen on a mission of 
charity ; he is twice " Scrooge " when, upon 
one of the portly gentlemen remarking that 
many poor people would rather die than go 
to the work-house, he replies, "If they 



would rather die, they had better do it and 
decrease the surplus population ; " and 
thrice " Scrooge " when, turning upon his 
clerk, he says, " You'll want all day to-mor- 
row, I suppose ? " It is the incarnation of 
a hard-hearted, hard-fisted, hard-voiced 
miser. 

" If quite convenient, sir." A few words, 
but they denote "Bob Cratchit" in three 
feet of comforter exclusive of fringe, in 
well-darned, thread-bare clothes, with a 
mild, frightened voice, so thin that you can 
see through it ! 

Then there comes the change when 
" Scrooge " upon going home "saw in the 
Knocker, Marley's face I " Of course 
"Scrooge "saw it, because the expression 
of Mr. Dickens's face makes me see it, " with 
a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in 
a dark cellar." There is good acting in this 
scene, and there is fine acting when the 
dying flame leaps up as though it cried, " I 
know him ! Marley's ghost ! " With what 
gusto Mr. Dickens reads that description 
of " Marley," and how, " looking through 
this waistcoat, 'Scrooge' could seethe two 
buttons on his coat behind;" and how 
" Scrooge " would persist in doubting liis 
senses because "Marley" might be "au 
undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a 
crumb of cheese, a fragment of an under- 
done potato. There's more of gravy thah 
of grave about you, whatever you are." It 
is excellent, and at the conclusion of Stave 
One, my friend, the critic, and I say, "Mr. 
Dickens is an actor." 

Nothing can be better than the rendering 
of the "Fezziwig" party in Stave Two. 
You behold "Scrooge" gradually melting 
into humanity; " Scrooge " as a joyous ap- 
prentice; that model of employers, "Fezzi- 
wig; " " Mrs. Fezziwig" " one vast substan 
tial smile," and all the "Fezziwigs." Mr 
Dickens's expression, as he relates how " ia 
came the house-maid with her cousin the 
baker, and in came the cook with her brother's 
particular friend the milkman," is delightfully 
comic, while his complete rendering of that 
dance where " all were top couples at last. 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKEXSS READINGS. 



15 



and not a bottom one to help them," is ow- 
ing to the inimitable action of his hands. 
They actually perform upon the table, as if 
it were the floor of " Fezziwig's " room, and 
every finger were a leg belonging to one of 
the "Fezziwig" family. This feat is only 
surpassed by Mr. Dickens's illustration of 
Sir Roger De Coverley, as interpreted by 
" Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig," when " a positive 
light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's 
calves," and he " cut so deftly that he ap- 
peared to wink with his legs ! " It is a 
maze of humor. Before the close of the 
stave, "Scrooge's" horror at sight of the 
young girl once loved by him and put aside 
for gold, shows that Mr. Dickens's power is 
not purely comic. 

Ah, but the best of all is Stave Three. I 
distinctly see that "Cratchit" family. 
There are the potatoes that " knocked 
loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out 
and peeled;" there is "Mrs. Cratchit," 
fluttering and cackling like a motherly hen 
with a young brood of chickens ; and there 
is everybody. The way those two young 
" Cratchits " hail "Martha" and exclaim, 
" There's such a goose, Martha ! " can never 
be forgotten. By some prestidigitation, 
Mr. Dickens takes olf his own head and 
puts on a " Cratchit's." Later, "Bob Crat- 
chit " and " Tiny Tim " come in. Assuredly 
it is "Bob's" thin voice that pipes out, 
"Why, Where's our Martha?" and it is 
"Mrs. Cratchit" who shakes her head and 
replies, "Not coming!" But murder will 
out; and then, "Bob" relates " how Tiny 
Tim " behaved ; " as good as gold and better." 
Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by 
himself so much, and thinks the strangest 
things you ever heard. He told me, coming 
home, that he hoped the people saw him in 
the church, because he was a cripple, and 
it might be pleasant to them to remember, 
iipon Christmas day, who made lame beg- 
gars walk, and blind men see. There is a 
volume of pathos in these words, which are 
the most delicate and artistic rendering of 
the whole reading. 

Ah, that Christmas dinner! I feel as if 
I were eating every morsel of it. There 
are " the two young Cratchits," who 
" crammed spoons into their mouths, lest 
they should shriek for goose before their 
turn;" thei'e is Tiny Tim, who "beat on 
the table with the handle of his knife, and 
feebly cried, ' Hoorray,' " in such a still, 
small voice. And there is that goose ! I 
see it with my naked eye. And O, the 
pudding! "A smell like a washing day! 



That was the cloth. A smell like an eat- 
ing-house and a pastrj^-cook's next door to 
each other, with a laundress's next door to 
that! That was the pudding! " Mr. Dick- 
en's snifling and smelling of that pudding 
would make a starving family believe that 
they had swallowed it, holly and all. It is 
infectious. 

What Mr. Dickens does is very frequently 
infinitely better than anything he says, or 
the way he says it ; yet the doing is as deli- 
cate and intangible as the odor of violets, 
and can be no better described. Nothing 
of its kind can be more touchingly beautiful 
than the manner in which " Bob Cratchit " 
— previous to proposing " a merry Christ- 
mas to us all, my dears, God bless us " — 
stoops down, with tears in his eyes, and 
places "Tiny Tim's" withered little hand 
in his, "as if he loved the child, and wished 
to keep him by his side, and dreaded that 
he might be taken from him." It is panto- 
mime wbrthy of the finest actor. 

Admirable is "Mrs. Cratchit's" ungra- 
cious drinking to " Scrooge's" health, and 
"Martha's " telling how she had seen a lord, 
and how he " was much about as tall as 
Peter ! " 

It is a charming cabinet pictui'e, and so 
likewise is the glimpse of Christmas at 
"Scrooge's" nephew's. The plump sister 
is "satisfactory, O perfectly satisfactory," 
and "Topper" is a magnificent fraud on the 
understanding; a side-splitting fraud. I 
see Fred get off the sofa and stamp at his 
own fun, and I hear the plump sister's voice 
when she guesses the wonderful riddle, 
" It's your uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge ! " Alto- 
gether, Mr. Dickens is better than any 
comedy. 

What a change in Stave Four! There sit 
the gray-haired rascal, " old Joe," with his 
crooning voice ; " Mrs. Dilber," and those 
robbers of dead men's shrouds ; there lies 
the body of the plundered unknown man ; 
there sit the "Cratchits" weeping over 
" Tiny Tim's " death, a scene that would be 
beyond all praise were "Bob's" cry, "My 
little, little child ! " a shade less dramatic. 
Here, and only here, Mr. Dickens forgets 
the nature of "Bob's" voice, and employs 
all the power of his own, carried away ap- 
parently by the situation. "Bob" Avould 
not thus give wa}' to his feelings. Finally 
there is " Scrooge," no longer a miser, but 
a human being, screaming at the "conver- 
sational" boy in Sunday clothes, to buy 
him the prize Turkey " that never could 
have stood upon his legs, that bird. lie 



16 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



uould have snapped 'em off in a minute, 
like sticks of sealing-wax." There is 
"Bob Cratchit" behind time, trying "to 
overtake nine o'clock " that iled fifteen min- 
utes before ; there is " Scrooge " poking 
" Bob " in the ribs, and vowing he will 
raise his salary ; and there is at last happi- 
ness for all, as " Tiny Tim " exclaims, "God 
bless us every one ! " 

I do not see how "The Christmas Carol" 
can be read and acted better. The only im- 
provement possible is iu "The Ghosts," 
who are perhaps too monotonous; a way 
ghosts have when they return to earth. 
It is generally believed that ghosts, being 
"damp, moist, uncomfortable bodies," lose 
their voices beyond redemption and are 



obliged to pipe through eternity on one 
key. I am at a loss to see the wisdom of this 
hypothesis. Solemnity and monotony are 
not synonomous terms, yet ever}' theatric:.! 
ghost insists that they are, and Mr. Dickeas 
is no exception to the rule. If monotony 
is excusable in any one, however, it is iu 
him ; for when one actor is obliged to rep- 
resent twenty-three different characters, giv- 
ing to every one an individual tone, he 
may be pardoned if his ghosts are not col- 
loquial. 

Talk of sermons and churches I There 
never was a more beautiful sermon than 
this of "The Christmas Carol." Sacred 
names do not necessarily mean sacred 
things. 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



17 



III. 



•'DAVID COPPERFIELD." 



Nothing is more unjust than severe criti- 
cism of an artist lieard or seen but once. 
Mr. Diclvcns's first rendering of " David 
Copperfleld," disappointed me sadly in the 
more serious portions, and had I been 
obliged to give an opinion then and there, I 
should have declared that his tragedy wanted 
force, and that his description of the ship- 
wreck at Yarmouth lacked vividness and 
intensity. Second and third hearings 
provetl to me that Mr. Dickens depends 
upon the sympathy of his audiences for 
inspiration, and does not do liimself full 
justice, unless warmly supported by them. 
This dependence is especially apparent in 
•'David Copperfleld," which is undoubtedly 
the most difficult, and most exhausting of 
Mr. Dickens's five readings, — being the 
most dramatic. I write of the reader at 
)iis best. 

Ordinarily, descriptions are " most tol- 
erable and not to be endured." In novels 
the eye blinks at them, and rushes off in 
pursuit of dialogue. In hearing them read, 
the ear stops itself with imaginary cot- 
ton until the plot thickens and somebody 
says something to somebody else. But 
with Boz all signs fail. You cannot pos- 
sibly overlook his descriptions if you 
would. He runs his pen through the heart 
of a fact so dexterously, — after the manner 
of naturalists, — that it lies before you in 
all its length, breadth, and local coloring, 
and you can no more ignore it than you can 
ignore sunshine. Attractive then as Mr. 
Dickens's descriptions are in reading, they 
become doubly so when read by him. 
Without being an orator, possessing (as 
has been previously stated) a naturally 
monotonous voice, he, by the keen appreci- 
ation of his own meaning and by a most 
original emphasis, develops every possi- 
bility of his text, and what was previously 
latent stands out in bold relief. It did not 
take me long to discover that " Dickens," 
however familiar, becomes a revelation 
when interpreted by the author. 

Thus when Mr. Dickens begins his read- 
ing of "David Copperfleld" with the de- 
2 



scription of the interior of Mr. Peggotty's 
boat-house, I realize that I have never be- 
fore had a good look at the walls whereon 
" were colored pictures of Abraham in red 
going to sacrifice Isaac in blue, and of 
Daniel in yellow, being cast into a den of 
green lions." I never clearly saw " Mrs. 
Gummidge " until I looked into his face, 
and heard her declare that she was " a lone, 
lorn creetur, and everythink went con- 
trairy with her." It is the look and queru- 
lous voice of the good old grumbling soul. 
Soon we are in the presence of generous,, 
genial " Mr. Peggotty," who grows quite 
red in the face with delight at shaking 
hands with "Copperfleld," and "Steer- 
forth," and chucks " little Em'ly " under his- 
arm just as if she were there to be chucked.. 
In his broad, hearty, tarpaulin voice, tie- 
joyfully and simply tells of "Ham's" courtr- 
ship, concluding with those mighty blows 
upon "Ham's" imaginary shoulders that 
make us wonder how Mr. Dickens can poke 
the air so naturally as to make us believe it 
to be "Ham." Yet surely this is " Ilamj" 
bashful, rubbing his hands with emotion, 
and, with a tear in his voice, saying, "I'd, 
lay down my life for her, Mas'r Davy, — oh,, 
most content and cheerful. There- aint a, 
gentl'man in all the land, nor yet a sailing 
upon all the sea, that can love his lady, more 
than I love her, though there's -many a com- 
mon man as could say better- what he 
meant." Childlike, noble-hearted "Ham ! " 
child-like saving in the kiss Mr. Dickens 
wafts after "Em'l}'," whereinthere is more 
of the salon than of the boat-house. 

" Mr. Peggotty," says " Steerforth, " " you 
are a thoroughly good fellbw and deserve 
to be as happy as 3'ou are to-night, my hand 
upon it. Ham, I give you joy, my boy. 
My hand upon that, too ! " Mr. Dickens's 
change of intonation and expression in 
addi-essing the father and son;, is striking, 
but I am inclined to think too striking, 
for had " Steerforth " exhibited the hatred 
of "Ham" that darkens Mr. Dickens's face 
it could not have passed unnoticed. It is 
a hatred that admirably suits " Steer- 



18 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHAKLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



forth" when Liter he calls "Ilam" "a 
chuckle-headed fellow" and vehemently 
rails at himself " in that devil's bark of 
a boat," but not before. Ah, " Steerforth," 
other actors may interpret you better, 
but I doubt whether any one can equal 
the solemn yet tender sorrow with which 
Mr. Dickens as " Copperfleld" exclaims, 
" O God forgive you, Steerforth, to touch 
that passive hand in love and friendship, 
never, never moi'e!" It is a sigh from a 
heavy, heavy heart. 

First, in Chapter Second, is that second 
glimpse of fretful " Mrs. Gummidge," who 
is as complete a character as if she were a 
whole play, and then Mr. Dickens again be- 
comes old "Mr. Peggotty." There never 
was more rough-shod naivete than his when 
he calls himself a " babby in regard o' Em'l}' ; 
not to look at, but to — to consider on, you 
know," and thinks his beautiful love for his 
little niece must be " along of my havin' 
played with Em'ly so much when she was a 
child, and havin' made believe as we was 
lions, and whales, and sharks, and French, 
and Turks, and porpuses, and nvtnj ivarietij 
offurriners," We could listen to the simple 
prattle of this overflowing heart all the 
evening; but alas! the pleasant comedy 
must give way to di'ama. Quickly the scene 
changes. Ilei-e is " Ham," with horror- 
stricken face, whispering that " Em'ly's run 
away ; " here is " Copperfleld" reading in a 
plaintive voice " Em'ly's " touching letter to 
her old lover. Dazed and stunned, the 
loved and loving uncle asks in a grufl" voice, 
"Who's the man? I want to know his 
name." Poor " Ham" ! " It is your friend, 
Steerforth," he says to " Copperfleld " with 
concentrated emotion, " and he's a damned 
villain ! " Is this caged lion thirsting for ven- 
geance upon " Em'ly's " seducer the genial 
soul of a minute ago? I see "Mr. Peggot- 
ty " pull down his great-coat from its peg- 
in the corner and sti'uggle to put it on as 
he cries out, " Hear a liand with this ! I'm 
struck of a heap, and can't do it ; " and as 
his mind wanders in the agonized refrain, 
" I'm going fur to seek my niece. I'm going 
fur to seek my Em'ly. No one stop me ! 
I'm going to seek her fur and wide ! " — who 
could have believed that in fretful " Mrs. 
Gummidge " " Mr. Peggotty " had cherished 
unawares an angel of peace that would 
bring comfort to his bruised soul in its hour 
of trial? Yet it is even so, and liere she 
stands, her trembling hands aflectionately 
stroking " Dan'l," her querulous voice soft- 
ened, repi'oaching hers';lf for ever havin^j 



been a " worrit," and gradually soothing the 
old man to tears. 

How Mr. Dickens can pass from grave to 
gay without a moment's pause is a problem 
difficult to solve. He does, however; and 
while eyes are still dimmed by the sad 
scene in the boat-house, we find ourselves 
laughing heartily at " David Copperfleld " 
in his " top set of chambers in Buckingham 
Street Strand," where he " lived principally 
on Dora and coflee," and at which ecstatic 
era of his existence he " laid the foundation 
of all the corns he ever had." " If the boots 
at that period," declares " Copperfleld," in 
a tone that is Dickens's own, and nobody's 
else, " could only be produced and com- 
pared with the natural size of my feet, they 
Avould show in a most afiecting manner 
what the state of my heart was." More 
ridiculous still is " Mrs. Crupp," the house- 
keeper, whose voice and facial expression 
are as good farce acting as humanity de- 
serves. If her manner of asking for " a lit- 
tle tincture of cardamums, mixed with rhu- 
barb, and flavored with seven drops of the 
essence of cloves ; or, if he had not such a 
thing by him, icith a little brandy," could be 
impossibly caught, transfixed, and perpetu- 
ated forever, so that everybody might have 
it in the house and take it whenever a de- 
pressed state of the market or of individual 
fluances required, it would harden manj^ a 
softening brain and materially decrease the 
number of suicides. Mrs. Dickens Crupp, 
or Mrs. Crupp Dickens, whichever she may 
be, is a fascinating woman. " What makes 
you suppose there is any young lady in the 
case, Mrs. Crupp?" asks "Copperfleld." 

It is worth a day's imprisonment, with 
Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy as an article 
of diet, to hear " Mrs. Crupp's " reply : 

•' Mr. Copperfull, I'm a mother myself. 
Your boots and your waist is equally too 
small, and you don't eat enough, sir, nor yet 
drink. Sir, I have laundresscd other young 
gentlemen besides you. It was but the 
gentleman who died here before yourself 
that fell in love, — with a bar-maid, — and 
had his waistcoats took in directly, though 

much swelled by drinking. Keep a 

good heart, sir, and know your loahie. If 
you was to take to something, sir, — if you 
was to take to nine-pins now, which is a 
werry healthy game, — j'ou might flnd it di- 
vert your mind and do you good." 

Well, " Mrs. Crupp " no sooner makes 
her exit than "Copperfleld" greets his 
friends, the " Micawbers," and " Traddles." 
Traddles says but three words, "Not at 



PEN niOTOGRAniS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



19 



all," clnriii;^ the entire visit; nevertheless 
three words are quite enough for Mr. Dick- 
ens to make a man out of, and "Traddles" 
is no myth, but a confiding human being, 
with a propensity to eat his own fingers. 
"Traddles" is "not at all," and "not at 
all" is " Traddles." 

In "Micawbcr," Mr. Dickens undergoes 
quite as much of a transformation as if he 
enjoyed a patent-right to the necromancer's 
"Presto, change." I see him "swelling 
"wisibly before my Avery eyes," as he tips 
backward and forward, first on his heels and 
then on his toes. Before he stops swelling, 
he l)ecomes just about the size of our ideal 
"Micawbcr;" his foce, quite apopletic in 
hue, is fenced in by a wall of shirt-collar; 
he twirls his eye-glass with peculiar grace, 
and when he exclaims, " My dear Copper- 
field, this is lux-zt-rioits ; this is a way of 
life which reminds me of the period when I 
was myself in a state of celibacy," — nearly 
choking himself to death before he arrives 
at "a state of celibacy," — the picture is 
complete. It is "Micawber"in "one of 
those momentous stages in the life of man," 
when he has " fallen back for a spring,'" and, 
previous to " a vigorous leap," is quite 
ready to fortify himself and the deai'cst 
partner of his greatness with a bachelor 
dinner and punch. " Jlicawber's" waiting 
for things to "turn up; " his eloquent trib- 
ute to " the influence of Woman in the lofty 
character of Wife ; " his magnificent trifling 
with the word ^'Discount;" and the all- 
pervading cough, as inseparable from his 
speech as ox3-geu from air, are delect- 
able. 

Mr. Dickens could no more be " Micaw- 
bcr " without that cough than " Micawber" 
could have ever been at all without Mr. 
Dickens. It is the salt that gives the char- 
acter savor. None but a great man misun- 
derstood ever had such a propensity to 
choke. And when "Mr. Micawber" does 
cough, the two lapels of hair brushed 
above Jlr. Dickens's ears, appear to be 
drawn bj' capillary attraction towards the 
sentiments spoken, and, waxing rampant, 
nod approvingly, as if to say, "just so." 
Neither cough nor lapels are to be found 
in the text, but when did fi.jite words ever 
express a man's soul? 

"Mr. Micawber" is so great a man that 
it is hardly possible for " Mrs. Micawber" 
to be a greater. Nevertheless, she is. Those 
lapels subside, and " Mrs. Micawber" sits 
before you, sipping her punch, smoothing 
her hair, " comparatively lovehj," as " Cop- 



perfleld " remarks, and blandly discusses 
" Mr. Micawber's " prospects. To describe 
the indescribable is absurd ; yet it must 
not go iinrecorded that " Mrs. Micawber's 
sublimest moment is reached when she he- 
roically remarks : " That, at least, is m>j 
view, my dear Mr. Copperfleld and Mr. 
Traddles, of the obligation which I took 
upon myself when I repeated the irrevocable 
words, ' I, Emma, take thee, Wilkins.' I 
read the service over with a bedroom can- 
dle, on the previous night, and the conclu- 
sion I derived from it was, that I never 
could or would desert Mr. Micawber." As 
she utters these words, "Mrs. Micawber" 
is not to be trifled with. There is a deter- 
mination in her eye that is equal to any 
amount of opposition ; yet, if possible, her 
courage takes still another flight, and her 
mien becomes still more majestic in her 
final answer to her final argument: "And 
here is Mr. Micawber without any suitable 
position or employment. Where does that 
responsibility rest? Clearly on societ3% 
Then I would make a fact so disgraceful 
known, and boldly challenge society to set 
it right. It appears to me, my dear Mr. 
Copperfleld, that what Mr. Micawber has to 
do is to throw down the gauntlet to society, 
and say, in eflect, ' Show me who will take 
that up. Let the party immediately step 
forward.'" Wliy the party does Jioi! imme- 
diately step forward, the part.v alone can 
explain, for "]Mrs. IMicawber" has her eye 
on him, and looks as if the secrets of his 
prison-house were no secrets at all to her, 
and that the perennial employment of " Mr. 
Micawber," on remunerative terms, would 
be but slight compensation for her discreet 
silence. 

Then the account of that dinner ! Lan- 
guage is usuallj'^ thrown awa\' upon read- 
ers; it is snubbed unmercifully, as if every 
word wore the same hue instead of being 
possessed of a peculiar coloring, which is 
shaded however according to situation. Mr. 
Dickens is an artist, and, therefore, never 
takes language in vain. He embraces every 
opportunity; hence, when he tells us thai 
"the pigeon pie was not bad, but it was a 
delusive p'", Lhe crust being like a disap- 
pointed phrenological head, — full of lumps 
and bumps, with nothing particular under- 
neath!" that adjective "delusive" pre- 
pares us for all the good things to come. 
It takes aim and fires at tlie pie, bringing 
down pigeons, crust, and all. 

The pie no sooner disappears than mer- 
riment ceases and "Mr. Peggotty" in all his 



20 



PEN niOTOGKAPIIS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



noble simplicity relates to Copperfield " how 
he went through France "fur to seek his 
niece." "And many a woman Mas'r Davy, 
as has had a daughter about Em'ly's age, 
I've found awaiting for me, at our Saviour's 
cross outside the village, fur to do me sim'- 
lar kindnesses. Some has had daughters 
as was dead. And God only knows how 
good them mothers was to me!" Tears? 
yes, tears are in the old sailor's eyes, and he 
is not the only one who brushes them 
away. " I never doubted her. No ! Not a 
bit! On'y let her see my face, — on'y let 
her heer my voice, — on'y let my stanning 
afore her bring to her thoughts of the home 
she fled away from, and the child she had 
been, — and if she had growed to be a royal 
lady, she'd have fell down at ray feet!" 
What a lesson of love and charity is taught 
in these few solemn words and that expres- 
sive gesture of the arm ! " All that troubles 
me is, to think that any harm might come 
to me afore this money was give back. If 
I was to die, and it was lost or stole, or 
elseways made away with, and it was 
never know'd by him but what I'd accepted 
of it, I believe the t'other world wouldn't 
hold me ! I believe I must come back ! " 
Grand, old " Mr. Peggotty " (for it is he, not 
Mr. Dickens that speaks), well may every- 
thing be hushed in reverence as you step 
out into the rigorous night, for there is 
harbored within your breast an angel of the 
Lord. 

The snow has suddenly ceased to fall, 
and all is again sunshine. " Copperfield " is 
steeped in " Dora," and romantically calling 
on the night to shield his "Doi'a" "from 
mice, to which she had a great objection." 
There are not many more delightful come- 
dies than this short scene at " Miss Mills's." 
On the stage, "Miss Mills" would be a 
silly supernumerary, in a doubtful white 
muslin dress, with no more idea of the 
importance of her one little remark than a 
dejected canary-bird has of the importance 
of specie payment. But the art with which 
Mr. Dickens rescues the most trifling char- 
acter from obscurity is positively marvel- 
lous. When "Miss Mills" is "very sorry 
her poprt is not at home," that young lady 
proves herself to be an admirable actress. 
The love-making between "Dora" and 
"Copperfield" is perfect; so is the little 
dog "Jip," although he does nothing but 
bark. When "Copperfield" asks "Dora" 
if she can love a beggar, and she begins to 
cry anl "take on" and wants to go to 



"Julia Mills," and " Copperfield" ravages a 
work-box for a sinelliug-bottle and applies 
an ivory needle-case instead, and drops all 
the needles over "Dora; " and when at last 
the pretty doll is soothed and her lover 
asks, " Is your heart mine still, dear 
Dora?" 

" 0, yes ! O, yes ! it's all yours. Only 
don't be dreadful! Don't talk about beg- 
gars ! " 

" My dearest love, the crusts well- 
earned — " 

" O, yes; but I don't want to hear any 
more about crusts. And after we are 
married, Jip must have a imitton chop every 
day at twelve, or he'll die!'" — Mr. Dickens 
is so funny that any one who loves humor 
as tenaciously as most people love their 
lives, feels deeply indebted to him. 

" O, because I am such a little goose, 
and she knoics I am! " she being "Mary 
Anne," the servant who had "a cousin in 
the Life Guards, with such long legs that 
he looked like the afternoon shadow of some- 
body else!" Well, into that short sentence 
and in its accompanying expression, Mr. 
Dickens condenses the whole of "Copper- 
field's" "Child-wife," — yet not the whole, 
for the pretty little creature has a heart full 
of love for her husband, and signs her own 
death warrant as she says with plaintive 
sentiment, " When you miss what you 
would like me to be, and what I think I 
never can be, say ' Still my foolish child- 
wife loves me.' For indeed I do." 

But trippings of the tongue are soon for- 
gotten in the storm raging at Yarmouth 
that terrible September night; in the ap- 
pearance off the coast next morning of a 
shipwrecked schooner from Spain or Portu- 
gal ; in the mad frenzy of the sea ; in the 
daring of the solitary man who wears a 
singular red cap that he waves while cling- 
ing to the mast, and who was the once dear 
friend, — " Steerforth"; in the sublime 
courage of " Ham," who " watched the sea 
until there w^as a great retiriug wave, when 
he dashed in after it. . . At length he 
neared the wreck. He was so near, that 
with one more of his vigorous strokes he 
would be clinging to it, when a high, green, 
vast hill-side of water moving on shorewai'd 
from beyond the ship, he seemed to leap up 
into it loith a mighty bound, — and the ship 
was gone ! " 

With the going down of that ship, — with 
the solemn, significant nod of the fisherman 
who leads " Copperfield " to the shore 
where "Steerforth" lies "with his head 



TEN rilOTOGRAPIIS OF CIIAKLES DICKE2\S'S READINGS. 



21 



upon Lis arm as he had often laia at 
school," — all doubt as to Mr. Dickens's 
tragic power is at an end. Thrilling as 
this iine description is in reading, it be- 
comes still more so when recited by the 
author; yet it is no ill compliment to him to 
say that it is capable of still greater effect. 
The scene admits of wonderful scope for a 
mighty voice and mighty action. 

Take it for all in all " David Copperfield " 
is an extraordinary performance. On the 
stage fine actors might render " Steer- 
forth" and " Copperfield" better, and might 



do as much justice to " Mr. Peggotty " and 
" Ham." A fine actress might throw more 
pathos into "Emily's" letter; but "Mrs. 
Crupp," " Mr. and Mrs. Micawber," " Trad- 
dies," "Dora" and "Julia Mills" are in- 
comparable, and no one actor living can 
embody the twelve characters of this read- 
ing with the individuality given them by 
Mr. Dickens, unaided too as he is by 
theatrical illusion. Few realize what a 
triumph of art it is to overcome the chilling 
and depressing influence of the lecture- 
room. 



22 



PEN rnOTOGRAPUS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



lY. 



"NICHOLAS NICKLEBY AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL." 



It is strange, inasmuch as no English 
novelist, living or dead, has created so many 
dramatic pictures, that more of Mr. Dick- 
ens's novels have not been put upon the 
stage. Born an actor, Mr. Dickens regards 
everything from a dramatic stand-point. 
Even in reading, you see his characters 
talk. So natural is his dialogue, that whole 
scenes may be taken from his books for 
private theatricals, without any adaptation 
whatever. They will play themselves, pro- 
vided the amateurs are endowed with ordi- 
nary intelligence, and it is whispered in 
Gath that private theatricals are the severest 
test to which any literary work can be put. 
This power is peculiarly Dickensesque, 
and certainly other novelists could not pub- 
licly interpret their own works with similar 
efl'ect. They may read skilfully from the 
poets, or they' may gracefully deliver lec- 
tures, as Thackeray once did, but their nov- 
els are constructed on entirely diflereut prin- 
ciples, and though they be as blood-fi'eezing 
as W ilkie Collins's " Woman in "White," they 
cannot possibly be set before an audience 
after the manner of Dickens. It is in the 
nature of Dickens to hold the mirror up to 
nature on the stage. 

That wonderfully knowing person. Mon- 
sieur On Dit, who is perpetually "cooling 
his eyes " and ears at other people's key- 
holes, most positively declares that Mr. 
Dickens seriously objects to have his nov- 
els dramatized ; but as Mr. Dickens is held 
responsible for many opinions that never 
entered into his most fantastic dreams, it 
is quite safe to conclude that he makes no 
such wholesale objection. Eor an author 
to protest against very bad adaptations 
very badly acted, is natural ; but a clever 
dramatization cleverly delineated, is far 
more likely to please than displease him. 

Many critics are radically opposed to the 
dramatization of any novel whatsoever, 
principally on the ground that no play can 
give the original work entire, and that at 
best it must be a sketch with much left to 
the imagination. As a rule, this opposition 
Ls wise, because, as a rule, novels are unfit 



to be trusted outside their covers. Dickens 
is an exception ; and any one who remem- 
bers Burton's "Captain Cuttle," the late 
J. M. Field's " Mantilini," Mrs. Field's 
" Smike," Charlotte Cushraan's " Nancy 
Sykes," E. L. Davenport's " Bob Sykes," 
and James W. Wallack's "Fagin," will 
never cease to congratulate himself upon 
seeing Dickens embodied. To condemn a 
" sketch," is to be ignorant of the fiict that 
an artist frequently puts more inspiration 
into it than into more lengthy and elal)orate 
work, for the reason that the colors can be 
laid on in a moment of enthusiasm. The 
sketch of a master is a daring concentration 
of his genius. Putting Dickens on the stage 
finely is stamping every character indelibly 
upon the mind. It is quite possible to for- 
get what we read, but it is impossible to 
forget a fine picture that tails as well as 
looks. The terrible lesson of " Oliver Twist " 
is not fully learned until taught by the actor 
If we object to Sketches from Boz in the 
theatre, we must, to be logical, object to 
Sketches from Boz by Boz in the lecture- 
room. What lover of Dickens is prepared 
to do this? And who would forego the 
delight of supping upon delicious tidbits 
because we cannot have put before us the 
entire joint off which these tidbits have 
been cut? 

Of all Dickens's dramatizations, that of 
" Nicholas Nickleby " is, perhaps, most fa- 
miliar to the public. In spite of this fact, 
Mr. Dickens more fully fills out the 
entire picture than we can ever expect to 
see it filled on the stage. Small parts, how- 
ever important to the ensemble, are invaria- 
bly delegated to incompetent actors, and 
theatrical " children " are the dreariest of 
all spectacles. 

Mr. Dickens's "Squeers" is a complete 
embodiment. From beginning to end he is 
the brutal, cunning, diabolically funny beast 
the author's fancy paints him, and it is com- 
plimentary to Mr. Dickens's versatility of 
facial expression to say that with his one 
eye, with the blank side of his face much 
puckered up, and with the comers of his 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



23 



mouth drawn the wrong way, he looks the 
monster he depicts. 

"This is twopenn' 'orth of millj, is it 
waiter? " The mug is not on that desk, but 
it seems to be, as " Mr. Squeers "looks into 
it and gives his order. " What a rare article 
milk is, to be sure, in London! Just till 
tliat mug up with lukewarm water, Wil- 
liam, will you? " 

Then botii eyes are wide open, the sinis- 
ter appearance vanishes, and there stands 
the waiter, " William," asking if it must be 
filled, "To the very top, sir? Why, the 
milk will be dvowuded." 

" Serve it right for being so dear;" and 
back comes '• Squeers" in a jifiy. Ilis stir- 
ing of that milk and water, exclaiming the 
while, " Here's richness," and his talking to 
those hungry little boys looking on with 
hungry eyes, about conquering their pas- 
sions and not being eager after vittles, 
must rejoice the soul of the devil, if that dis- 
tinguished individual has such an unneces- 
sary appendage. There is an " atmosphere " 
about Mr. Dickens's " Squeers " which im- 
presses us with the belief that he enjoys be- 
ing a brute and is not an actor trying to 
be brutal. " Mrs. Squeers," too, — she who 
thanked God for not being a grammarian, — 
is quite as well individualized as her more 
important husband. The short dialogues be- 
tween " Squeers" and herself are quite en- 
tertaining, — after their peculiar fashion, 
— the climax being attained when, with 
an eye to " Nickleby's " accommodation, 
"Squeers" asks, "Who sleeps in Brooks's 
bed, my dear?" "In Brooks's bed?" re- 
plies "Mrs. Squeers," in her most winning 
manner; "well, there's Jennings, — there's 
little Bolder, — there's Graymarsh, — and 
there's What's-his-name." "Mrs. Squeers" 
makes each syllable an independent name, 
so that our mind's eye contemplates ten 
boj's in Brooks's bed. 

"So there is. Yes! Brooks's is full;" 
and "Squeers" out-Squeers himself when 
turning to poor "Nickleby," he say-s, "I 
don't know, by the by, what place on whose 
towel to put you on ; but if you'll make shift 
with your pocket-handkerchief to-morrow 
morning, Mrs! Squeers will arrange that in 
the course of the day." Search through 
every edition of Dickens, and you won't 
find that place in the towel, nor that 
pocket-handkerchief, nor in fact many of 
the cleverest " points" made by Mr. Dick- 
ens, wliich interpolations flash upon us 
as unexpectedly as comets, and give some 
good people much concern because they 



are not down in the book ! These comets 
dash about most wildly in tlie first school- 
room scene, when, in reviewing the tirst 
class, " Squeers " is in his element. 
" W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, \\m([c\-, preposition, 
a casement. . . . B-o-t, bot, t-i-n, tin, 
bottin, n-e-y, ney, bottiuney, adjective, a 
knowledge of plants. When he has learned 
that bottiuney means a knowledge of plants, 
he goes and knows 'em. That's our system, 
Nickleby. It's exactly like the use of the 
globes. Third boy, what is a horse ? " 

" A beast, sir ! " (Poor little boy, what a 
frightened little voice it is !) 

" So it is, aint it, Nickleby?" 

"I believe there is no doubt of that, sir." 

"Of course there ain't. A horse is a 
quadruped, and quadruped's Latin, or G-reek, 
or Uebreio, or some other language that's dead 
and deserves to be, for beast." Nobody who 
has not heard Mr. Dickens's "Squeers" 
make this profound explanation, knows how 
satirical and funny he makes it. 

Squeers's reading of the boy's letters is 
so good that we Avish those letters would 
never finish ; but when he arrives at 
" Mobbs's mother-in-law," we become ex- 
cessively amused. "Mobbs's mother-in- 
law took to bed on hearing that he wouldn't 
eat fat and has had a succession of cold and 
boiling icater running down her back ever 
since. She wishes to know, by an early post, 
where he expects to go to, if he quarrels 
with his vittles ; and with what feelings he 
cozikl turn up his nose at the cow's-Uver 
broth, after his good master had asked a 
blessing on it. This Avas told her in the 
London newspapers, — not by Mr. Squeers, 
for he is too kind and too good to set any- 
body against anybody. Moljbs's mother-in- 
law is sorry to find Mobbs is discontented, 
which is sinful and horrid, and hopes Mr. 
Squeers will flog him into a happier state 
of mind. With this view she has also stopped 
his lialf-peuny a week pocket-money, and 
given a double-bladed knife with a cork- 
screw in it, which she had brought on pur- 
pose for him, to the missionaries. A sulky 
state of feeling won't do. Cheerfulness and 
contentment must be kept up. Mobbs 
come to me ! " What varnish is to an oil- 
painting, Mr. Dickens's delivery is to this 
letter, wherein satire and humor share 
equal honors. The other scenes of " Mr. 
and Mrs. Squeers " are portrayed as well as 
they can be, and the little boy, who, upon 
hearing the missing " Smike " inquired for 
by his watchful master, makes his entrance 
;ind his exit in the shrill answer, " Please, 



24 



TEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICItENS'S READINGS. 



sir, I think Sniike's run away, sir," is quite 
as much of a little boy as ever lived and 
talked incessantly; and the school-room 
melee between "Nickleby" aud"Squeers" 
is vividly and vigorously related. 

There are invariably three degrees of 
excellence. In ''Nicholas Nickleby" Mr. 
Dickens is not his best until the appear- 
ance of " Fannj' Squeers," "'Tilda Price," 
and " John Browdie." "Very comical is the 
interview between "Fanny Squeers" and 
" Nickleby." By means of leger-de-fig- 
ure Mr. Dickens portrays "Nickleby" on 
one side of his face, and the susceptible 
"Fanny" on the other, for that simper, 
lisp, and mien certainly belong to " Mr. 
Squeers's " offspring. Her " thank you " 
is perfect, and her reply to "Nickleby's" 
question, " Shall it be a hard or soft nib?" 
— referring to the pen which is her ex- 
cuse for appearing before the young mas- 
ter of arts, — '^ As soft, as possible, if you 
please," deserves to be perpetuated by a John 
e.' Le^ch; although, now I think of it, could 
only one moment of this dialogue be made 
enduring, I should fasten my affections upon 
that wherein, walking away with the pen, 
she exclaims, in a Squeersian ecstasy, " I 
never saw such legs in the lohole course of my 
life!" — (" the general run of legs at Dothe- 
boys Hall being crooked.") 

But there are more plums in the memo- 
rable tea-party. " Fanny's " introduction of 
"Nickleby" to "Matilda Price" — "Mr. 
Nickleby, 'Tilda; 'Tilda, Mr. Nickleby" — 
is a fitting overture to oue of the cleverest of 
petite comedies. " John Browdie " with 
his rich Yorkshire dialect and voluminous 
laughter is absolutely equal to an epidemic. 
He breaks out in every direction, and when 
the interest increases by the appearance of 
the green-eyed monster, which in " Fanny 
Squeers " assumes the spiteful, and in the 
Yorkshireman displays itself in flattening 
his nose with his clenched fist, it increases 
after the spectator's own heart. Then when 
"John Browdie" " dangs his boans and 
boddy," and " Miss Squeers " makes a face at 
"'Tilia" (no child, however cultivated in 
the art, can " make a face" superior to Mr. 
Dickens), and the two bosom friends call 
each other names, winding up with that 
beautiful climax, "'Tilda, artful and de- 
signing 'Tilda ! — I wouldn't have a child 
named 'Tilda, — not to save it from its 
grave," — the Tragic Muse herself would 
smile, and would be forced to laugh outright 
at John Browdie's retort, " As to the matter 
o' that, it '11 be time eneaf to think aboot 



neaming of it when it cooms." Glorious 
" John Browdie ! " there's not a trace of Mr. 
Dickens in him. Yorkshire triumphs over the 
dress-coat even, and the scene closes while 
we, like "Oliver," long for "more." How 
Mr. Dickens ne'er o'ersteps the modesty of 
nature is particulai-ly apparent in this 
speech of " Browdie's." Few are the actors 
who would not transcend the bounds of pro- 
priety, but Mr. Dickens is never more a 
gentleman than in dealing with passages 
that are capable of being vulgai'ly construed. 
His humor, though always in character, is 
never tinged with coarseness of manner. 

At the conclusion of this admirable read- 
ing, impartial criticism declares that of 
the eight characters portrayed, "Fanny 
Squeers," " 'Tilda Price," and " John Brow- 
die " are unapproachable; that "Mr. and 
Mrs. Squeers " could be equally well done 
by actors born for the purpose ; that " Nich- 
olas Nickleby " might be better done on the 
stage, but never is; and that "Smike" is the 
only character wherein Mr. Dickens fails. 
To demand of Mr. Dickens that he shall 
equal the finest "Smikes" of the stage, 
is asking too much. Mr. Dickens is hu- 
man, not superhuman. Let it be remem- 
bered also that the word failure is used 
with reservation. Mr. Dickens has set a 
very difficult task for himself, and one to 
which nobody else is equal. Compared 
with his other characters, Mr. Dickens's 
" Smike " is unsuccessful because it is 
vulnerable. " Smike " is not poorly done, 
but it can be better done. Mr. Dickens's 
" Smike" is earnest, pathetic, and his sigh- 
ing is as truly touching as it is artistically 
fine. But " Smike" is not pathetic enough, 
and his monotonous voice frequently degen- 
erates into a whine. This voice undoubt- 
edly arises from Mr. Dickens's desire to 
give " Smike" a distinct individuality, and 
to prevent the intonation of one character 
from encroaching upon that of another. 
This individuality he most certainly pre- 
serves. There is not a trace of the 
"Squeers's," or of " Nickleby," or of " Brow- 
die " in it, but the monotonous intonation 
is unnatural, and therefore unworthy of 
Mr. Dickens, whose best manner is thorough 
naturalness. Mr. Dickens could give more 
variety of tone and still keep " Smike " 
intact, and had he but this one character 
to assume, it would undoubtedly be vastly 
better carried out. At the same time it 
must be confessed, that the finest " Smikes " 
known on the stage thus far, could not 
embody the seven remaining dramatis per- 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



25 



soTKT, whose idiosyncrasies Mr. Dickens 
puts on as easily as he would put on old 
gloves. It is this versatility that almost 
silences criticism ; and that I am not silent 
proves a loyalty to art above any other con- 
sideration. 

Apart from this disappointment in 
*' Smike," one thing must ever be regretted 
by lovers of Dickens : i.e., that he has not 



thought fit to incorporate in this rejb,I- 
iug a scene between "Monsieur and Mad- 
ame Mantilini." Mr. Dickens has deprived 
us of what would have been a " thing of 
beauty aud a joy forever." The desire is 
unreasonable, inasmuch as the " Manti- 
lini's" did not attend "Mr. Squeers's" 
school, but it is human nature to be unrea- 
sonable. 





2G 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHAELES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



V. 



''THESTOEY OF LITTLE DOMBEY." 



" Charles Dickens is onlj'^ a caricaturist." 
And he wrote the story of " Richard Double- 
dick, the poor soldier," which, for natural- 
ness and pathos, is unrivalled in the English 
language. " Charles Dickens is only a hu- 
morist." And one half of his creations is 
as tragic as the other half is comic. 
"Charles Dickens is only a farce actor." 
And the tears are still fresh that fell in lis- 
tening to "The Story of Little Dombey." 
Ah, well ! whoever escapes being misinter- 
preted, likewise escapes being head and 
shoulders above his fellows. Who wears a 
crown at all must wear a crown of thorns. 

Mr. Dickens's Reading of "Little Dom- 
bey "is peculiar; for while the tragic ele- 
ment enters largely into several other 
Readings, it is so relieved by comedy that 
laughter holds the balance of power. Ev- 
ery chapter of " Little Dombey," on the 
contrary, is written in a minor key. Here 
and there scherzos are interspersed ; but the 
voice of the "old, old-fashioned child" re- 
turns like a sad refrain, and the general 
effect is melancholy. It- is the only one of 
Mr. Dickens's Readings that contains a 
death-bed scene. The Angel of Death hov- 
ers over "David Copperfleld," but we do 
not see " Ham Peggotty " and " Steerforth " 
die. The ocean yields up its victims and 
lays their bodies upon the shore at our feet. 
There is solemnity without pathos. But 
the spirit of "Little Dombey" takes wing 
before our eyes, and in its flight touches 
heart-strings that respond with saddest 
music. Therefore "The Story of Little 
Dombey" is the least popular of all Mr. 
Dickens's Readings. He, the comedian, the 
farce-actor, succeeds in making people very 
miserable ; and people dislike to be made 
miseralsle. They prefer to laugh. They 
object to any draft upon their sympathies. 
Put tragedy before them in such guise as 
to excite no emotion, and they enjoy it. 
Make them feel it, and it ceases to be an 
amusement. " I don't like Ristori's ' Maine 
Antoinette,'" said an unknown voice be- 
hind me not long ago. "I don't call that 
acting ; it is real. If she didn't make me 



cry, I'd enjoy it. I tell you, that's not what 
I call art." In the most popular of all dic- 
tionaries, art is defined thus : " Art n., The 
reverse of nature." 

We ai'c first ushered into the presence of 
"Rich Mr. Dombey," who "sat in the cor- 
ner of his wife's darkened bedchamber, in 
the great arm-chair by the bedside," and of 
" Rich Mr. Dombey's sou," who " lay tucked 
up warm in a little basket, carefully placed 
on a low settee in front of the fire and close 
to it, as if his constitution were analogous 
to that of a muflin, and it was essential to 
toast him brown while he was very new." 
In the reading sf one sentence Mr. Dickens 
places before us both father and son. " Mr. 
Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and 
rather stern and pompous. Mr. Dombey's 
son was very bald, and very red, and rather 
crushed and spotty in his general eft'ect, — as 
yet." With Mr. Dickens, one or two adjec- 
tives answer the purpose of a whole paint- 
box. 

" ' He will be christened Paul, of course. 
His fiither's name, Mrs. Dombey, ami his 
grandfather's. I wish his grandfather Avere 
alive this day.' And again he said, 'Dom- 
bey and Son.'" After this, " Mr. Dombey, 
Sr." takes positive form and substance. 
"Mr. Micawber"is pompous, "Dr. Blim- 
ber" is pompous; but the pomposity of this 
rich gentleman, in a blue coat and bright 
buttons, is as unlike other styles of pom- 
posity as Anno Domini is unlike Anno Dora- 
bei. "Mr. Dombey" is so pleased with 
himself — and his firm — that he is abso- 
lutely genial — for him; so much so, that 
he positively acknowledges the presence of 
that other child, six years old, and says, 
" Florence, you may go and look at your 
pretty brother, if you like. Don't touch 
him!" "How is it possible," asks Scudo, 
" to transmit to posterity, through the me- 
dium of cold language, an inflexion of voice, 
a look, a gesture, a pause, those thousand 
shades of art and beauty that characterize 
the style of a great virtuoso ? " I thought 
of this, and nothing but this, when Mr. 
Dickens paused, and summed up " rich Mr. 



PEN PIIOTOGllArilS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 



27 



Dombey and Son" in a motion of the hands 
and tliat one short command, '^ Don't touch 
him!" If he had crushed " Florence " be- 
neath his heel, her insignificance could not 
have been made more apparent. 

She is not a " Dombey." " Mrs. Chick is" 
and when the sister of her brother flings 
her arms about that brother's neck, exclaim- 
ing, — 

"My dear Paul! This last child is quite 
a Dombey ! He's such a perfect Dombey ! " 
— Mr. Dickens assumes the air of that lady 
whose immortal receipt will be incorporated 
in the world's proverbial philosoi^hy as the 
grand moral panacea. How like a "Dom- 
bey " she is, in her exhortation there in the 
chamber of death; how she advises 
"Fanny" "to make an effort;" how she 
places her ear close to the mother's face in 
expectation of a reply; how she touches 
her and almost shakes her in order that 
"Mrs. Dombey" may be roused "to make 
an effort ! " It is very real, this monologue 
of " Mi"s. Chick's," but no more real than 
" Florence's " appealing cry, "Mamma! 
dear mamma ! O dear mamma ! " — no 
more real than the silence of that departing 
spirit, — no better than the closing of this 
scene. " The doctor gently brushed the 
scattered ringlets of the child aside from 
the face and mouth of the mother. And 
thus, clinging fast to the frail spar within 
her arms, the mother drifted out upon the 
dark and unknown sea that rolls round all 
the world." The I'eadiug is worthy of the 
writing. 

In scene second the "odd child" is no 
longer "crushed and spotty in general 
effect," but sits in a little chair beside his 
father and talks, and it seems to me that 
Mr. Dickens is particularly happy — if such 
an adjective can be applied to so unhappy a 
subject — in the voice he assumes in "Little 
Dombey." It is almost the same voice em- 
ployed by him in "Sraike;" but what is 
objectionable in the latter, appears to be 
eaiincnlly characteristic of the former. 
" Smike " is a youth of nineteen, and may 
possess variety of intonation; whereas a 
treble monotone harmonizes with " Paul's " 
years. Mr. Dickens's management of this 
voice, too, so completely expresses phys- 
ical exhaustion and premature decay, — is 
so removed from anything groion up or 
manly, — that having once heard his " Little 
Dombey," it is difficult to conceive how 
else the child can be successfully treated. 
The dialogue between "Dombey and Son" 
about money is a wonderful contrast of 



two natures, considering that the two 
natures are delineated by one man, and 
when "Paul" silences his father by say- 
ing, " As you are so rich, if money can 
do anything, and isn't cruel, I wonder 
it didn't save me my mamma. It can't 
make me strong and quite well either. I 
am so tired sometimes, and my bones ache 
so, that I don't know what to do," — a feel- 
ing of utter weariness possesses the atten- 
tive listener. 

Mr. Dickens is also very effective in his 
description of "Mrs. Pipchin" the great 
manager of children, "whose husband had 
broken his heart in pumping water out of 
some Peruvian mines." — "Well! a very 
respectable way of doing it," mused "Mr. 
Dombey " to whose voice Mr. Dickens ac- 
cords a hard, metallic ring. " Miss Pan- 
kej'^" never is quite so much of " amild, lit- 
tle blue-eyed morsel," as when Mr. Dickens 
relates how "she was led in from captivity 
by the ogress herself, and instructed that 
nobody icho sniffed before visitors ever went to 
heaven," and " Master Bitherstone's" peren- 
nial agony at being borne away "to have 
something else done to him with salt-vvatei", 
from which he always returned very blue 
and dejected," is not fully realized until 
the author's reading throws light upon it. 
But the comedy does not get fully under 
way until the interview between "Little 
Dombey" and the exemplary "Pipchin," 
where the old-fashioned child so " fixes " 
his teacher that she finally says, — 

" Never you mind, sir. Eemember the 
story of the little boy that was gored to 
death by a mad bull, for asking questions." 

"If the bull was mad, how did he know 
that the boy had asked questions? Nobody 
can go and whisper secrets to a mad bulL 
I don't believe that story." 

" You don't believe it, sir? " 

"No." 

" Not if it should happen to have been a 
tame bull, you little infidel? " 

The weird, reasoning boy is seen one mo- 
ment, the mottled-faced, hook-nosed, hard 
gray-eyed "Pipchin" next, and "Little 
Paul's" earnestness is inexpressibly droll 

Although Mr. Dickens never waits for his 
"points "to "tell," — insisting that they 
shall take effect as they fly, or pass unrecog- 
nized, — he never neglects a word that can 
be dressed up to make an appearance. 
" Little Paul " on the sea-shore dislikes the 
company of his nurse, and is well pleased 
when she strolls away to ' ^ pick up shells and 



28 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



acquaintancrs." It never occurred to me 
that there was a world of meaning in this 
final word, and yet, after Mr. Dickens pro- 
nounces it, its significance dawns upon me 
and I behold that nurse in all manner of 
situations with all manner of people. 

Solemnly funny with " Mrs. Plpchin," 
" Paul " is solemnly grave with " Florence." 

"If j'ou were in India, Floy, I should — 
what is it that mamma did ? I forget." 

"Love me? " 

"No, no. Don't I love you now, Floy? 
What is it? — Died. If you were in India, 
I should die, Floy." 

How the tired head grows more and more 
tired in the endeavor to remember what 
mamma did ! But there is hope in the voice 
and eagerness in the look when "Paul" 
points to the horizon and asks what it is 
that the sea keeps on saying. 

"Very often afterwards, in the midst of 
their talk, he would break ofi", to try to un- 
derstand what it was that the waves were 
always saying; and would rise up in his 
couch to look towards that invisible re- 
gion, — far away." 

Mr. Dickens is not a reader as others are 
readers. He is something better. There is 
a death-knell in those concluding words, 
^'far away." 

Dropping the minor and taking up a major 
key, Mr. Dickens inti'oduces us to " Dr. 
Blimber's " hot-house for the blowing of 
young gentlemen. He dives into the intel- 
lectual garden and brings forth all the plums 
with such gusto that we feast upon them as 
if they were a fruit just discovered and 
eaten for the first time. When Mr. Dick- 
ens produces the plum, " Mrs. Blimber," it 
cannot be truthfully said that the lady " who 
was not learned herself but pretended to 
be, and that did* quite as well," is good 
enough to eat ; but this particular plum is 
most certainly good enough to stuff and put 
under a glass case. She makes but one re- 
mark, 1. e., "that if she could have known 
Cicero " (going from the bottom to the top 
of a vocal staircase on the name of this 
distinguished Roman gentleman), "she 
thought she could have died contented." 
Given a bone, and the naturalist can draw 
the skeleton. Given "Mrs. Blimber" as 
she vocally goes upstairs with Cicero, and 
the mother of "Miss Blimber" lives as 
long as we live. 

As for " Dr. Blimber," he may at any 
moment burst with importance. " ' And how 
do you do, sir? he said to Mr. Dombey, 



' and how is my little friend?' " When the 
doctor left off, the great clock in the hall 
seemed (to Paul, at least) to take him up, 
and to go on saying, over and over again, 
" How, is, my, lit, tie, friend, — how, is, my, 
lit, tie, friend." Mr. Dickens defies the 
great clock by ticking himself. 

Ah, but "Toots." "Young Toots," other- 
wise " P. Toots, Esquire, Brighton, Sus- 
sex ! " You may have loved him from child- 
hood, you may have seen him without his 
boots and sympathized with him in his un- 
requited afi'ection, but until you have made 
Toots's acquaintance, through the medium 
of Mr. Dickens, you have no idea how he 
looks, or how he talks. When "Toots" 
puts his thumb in his mouth, looks sheep- 
ish, and roars forth, "How are you?" I 
feel (and I am sure you experience the 
same sensation) as the man in the play 
must feel when, for the first time, he recog- 
nizes his long-lost brother with the straw- 
berry mark on his left arm. . Mr. Dickens's 
" Toots " bears the unmistakable straw- 
berry mark. His sheepishness is not that 
of a country-bumpkin, not by any means. 
" Toots " is a gentleman. It is such sheep- 
ishness as only can accompany a voice that 
appears to proceed from some cavern in- 
geniously concealed in " Toots's " boots. 

Dramatic genius may soar higher than 
Mr. Dickens soars in " Toots," but when 
this heavily good-natured young gentleman 
says, — 

" Sit down, Dombey," — 

When, after inspecting " Dombey," he 
asks, — 

" Who's your tailor? " — 

When, turning the crank of his organ 
with one tune, he stares and puts the 
question, " I say, — It's not of the slightest 
consequence, you know, but I should wish 
to mention it, — how ai'e you, you know ? " — 
When he dashes into " Paul's " bedroom 
and blurts forth, " I say — Dombey — what 
do you think about ? " 

" Oh, I think about a great many things." 

" Do you though? — I don't myself " — 

When " Mr. Toots " finishes his academic 
career, puts on a ring, and calls his former 
head gardener, ^^ Blimber !" — when at the 
"Blimber" party his brain and fingers be- 
come chaotic in buttoning and unbuttoning 
the bottom button of, his waistcoat, and 
turning his wristbands up and down, — 
when, finally, upon being asked by " Mr. 
Baps," the dancing-master, what is to be 
done with " your raw materials," he re- 



PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OP CHARLES DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 



29 



/ 



plies, " Cook 'em" — I fear that I am 
tempted to throw off my allegiance to the 
Tragic Muse and acknowledge that comedy 
is, after all, the greatest blessing in life. 
The oftener " Toots " says " Hoioareyou ?" 
the better you like this profound question. 
It improves upon acquaintance, and you 
would very gladly take it tlirce times a day 
all the year round — before eating. I hope 
tlierefore I may be pardoned if I venture to 
declare that the tout ensemble is perfect. 
Who can ever forget little " Briggs " that 
has seen Mr. Dickens mournfully rub his 
face, — I mean " Briggs's " face, — mutter- 
ing that ." his head ached ready to split, 
and that he should wish himself dead if 
it wasn't for his mother and a blackbird 
he had at home ? " That blackbird brings 
out the boy-nature as nothing else can. 
When "Miss Blimber," tells "Dombey" 
that she is " going out for a con-sti-tu- 
tion-al," she is just as comical as such a 
'•dr3', crisp, sandy Ghoul" can be; and 
more so. As "Miss Blimber" pronounces 
" con-sti-tu-tion-al," it sounds like a vocal 
illustration of a Virginia fence. It is hei'e, 
there, and everywhere. " Miss Blimber " 
peppers "Uorabey" with it, and although 
nobody in the flesh ever took such liberties 
with a respectable word of Ave syllables, 
yet the effect of this "con-sti-tu-tion-al" is 
so exhilarating that the sturdiest pre- 
Eaphaelite is disarmed. Se non i vero, e 
ben trovato. " Mr. Feeder B. A." also 
comes out beautifully in the recitation of 
that remarkable poetry, — 

"Had I a lienrt for falsehood framed, 
I ne'er could uijure you!" 

But the old refrain of the old, old 
fashioned cliild breaks in upon the merri- 
ment, and while laughter still rings through 
the air, we stand upon the verge of a young 
grave. The little, thoughtful face, the 
tired, treble voice come back and ask, — 

" What do you think I mean to do when 
I grow up, Mrs. Pipchin? ... I mean to put 
my money all together in one bank, — never 
try to get any more, — go away into the 
country with my darling Florence, — have 
a beautiful garden, fields, and woods, and 
live tliere with her all my life. . . . That's 
what I mean to do, when I — 'he stopped 
and pondered for a moment — ' i/ I grow 



up.'" "Dombey, Sr.," "Dombey, Sr.," if 
one of your type is within sound of that 
piteous voice, his heart will soften, and his 
godless pride fail him ! 

To describe a death-bed scene, which is 
its own best description, would be to 
attempt to paint the lily. Mr. Dickens 
breathes a vital spark into the text, and 
what was previously an outline, is filled out 
with the substance. There stands the stern 
father, who bends down to the pillowed 
head, listening as the child murmurs, 
"Don't be so sorry forme! Indeed, I am 
quite happy!" — There is the loving nurse 
who holds the wasted hand in hers and puts 
it to her lips and breast. — There are brother 
and sister locked in each other's arms. — 
There is the final moment when, folding his 
hands prayerfully behind his sister's neck, 
the dying boy exclaims, "Mamma is like 
you, Floy. I know lier by the fiice ! But 
tell them that the picture on the stairs at 
school is not divine enough. The light 
about the head is shining as I go ! " 

"The golden ripple on the wall came 
back again, and nothing else stirred in the 
room. The old, old fashion ! The fashion 
that came in with our first g^arments, and 
will last unchanged until our race has run 
its course, and the wide firmament is rolled 
up like a scroll. The old, old fashion, — 
Death ! " 

" Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that 
older fashion yet, of Immortality! And 
look upon us, angels of young children, 
with regards not quite estranged, when the 
swift river bears us to the ocean ! " 

Why is it that through glistening tears 
we see the imaginary pillow illuminated? 
Why do we know that mothers who have 
lost young children listen with bowed heads 
and yet with overfiowing gratitude? Be- 
cause " out of the fulness of the heart the 
mouth speaketh." Because the reader 
leads us through the dark valley of the 
shadow of Death into the bright gladness 
of Immortality. 

Ten characters! and Mr. Dickens fills 
them all without fear and without re- 
proach ! 



30 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



YI. 

««DOCTOE MARIGOLD." 



Of all Mr. Dickens's Readings, this of 
"Doctor Marigold" is from a literary 
point of view, the most complete. It is the 
most complete, because with the exception 
of a few paragraphs here and there, it 
embraces the entire story as origiually 
written. " Doctor Marigold's Prescription " 
is given and taken without any perceptible 
diminution of the original dose. What a 
happy, healthy world this would be if all 
prescriptions were equally beneficial in 
their results! 

Who that has grown sick at heart at the 
hoUowness and conventionality of " soci- 
ety" wondei-s that Mr. Dickens selects 
his heroes and heroines from humble life ? 
No author has done so much to raise the 
level of human nature by simply laying bare 
the generous impulses of the lowly. The 
obscurer the profession the more tenderly 
Mr. Dickens treats its followers; carrying 
out the scriptural prophecy of the first 
being last, and the last first. 

In rescuing the Cheap Jack from the 
inevitable oblivion entailed by tke expand- 
ing network of railroads, Mr. Dickens has 
laid a beautiful offering upon a neglected 
altar, and in himself assuming the charac- 
ter of " Doctor Marigold," he has made at 
least one Cheap Jack known to thousands 
who otherwise would have passed him by 
on the other side, failing to recognize an 
innate nobility worthy of the highest sta- 
tion. 

Less difficult of portrayal than any other 
Reading, — changes of character being less, 
— " Doctor Marigold " is nevertheless more 
entirely sympathetic, for, to use one of the 
"Doctor's" own expressions, his simple, 
touching story takes hold of you and " rolls 
upon you " at the beginning and continues 
to roll on to the end. The moment that 
Mr. Dickens stands before his desk, which 
on this^ occasion is transformed into the 
footboard of a Cheap Jack Cart, he makes 
you feel that "Doctor Marigold" is a man 
to be loved. How is it possible then, being 



en rapport with his second self, not to love 
him? 

To all intents and purposes Mr. Dickens 
appears in a sleeved- waistcoat, " the strings 
of which is always gone behiud," and those 
who may boast of their eyes as "a pair o' 
patent double million magnifyin' gas micro- 
scopes of hextra power," can very dis- 
tinctly perceive an old white hat reposing 
peacefully upon Mr. Dickens's head. 

Perhaps Mr. Dickens does not give as 
much color and eflect as might be given to 
the parallel drawn between Cheap Jacks 
and Dear Jacks, — as fine a satire on politi- 
cal hawkers as ever was written, — but the 
moment " Doctor Marigold" arrives at the 
Ipswich market-place and notices his wife 
that is to be, " appreciatiug him wery 
highly," the admirable portraitui'c begins. 

" Doctor Marigold's " description of his 
wife is inimitable. "A man can't write 
his eye, nor yet can a man write his voice, 
nor the rate of his talk, nor the quick- 
ness of his action, nor his general spicy 
way," remarks the original "Doctor Mari- 
gold," so it is useless to make the at- 
tempt ; but those who have not and never 
expect to hear it, will go down to their 
graves in complete ignorance of what 
a "temper in a cart" means. "Thirteen 
years of temper in a palace would try the 
worst of you; but thirteen years of teraper in 
a cart would try the best of you. You are 
kept so very close to it, — in a cart, — you 
see. There's thousands of couples, among 
you, getting on like sweet-ile upon a whet- 
stone', in houses five and six pairs of stairs 
high, that would go to the Divorce Court, — 
in a cart. Whether the jolting makes it 
worse, I don't undertake to decide ; but in 
a cart it does come home to you and stick to 
you. Wiolence — in a cart — is so wiolent, 
and aggrawatiou — in a cart — is so aggra- 
watin'." No one but Dickens would have 
dreamed of this conceit. No one but Dick- 
ens can endow the doleful confession with 
such unconscious humor. There never was 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S PvEADIXGS. 



31 



so much good humor iu so much bad hu- 
mor. 

And what an important creature "Doctor 
Marigokl's " dog becomes just from one or 
two references to liis extraordinary sagac- 
ity! "My dog knew as well when she 
was on the turn as I did. Before she broke 
out, he would give a lioicl — and bolt." 
(The tone of the " howl " and action of the 
" bolt " are unutterably expressive.) " How 
he knew it, was a mystery to me; but the 
sure and certain knowledge of it would 
wake him out of his soundest sleep, and he 
would give a howl, — and bolt. At such 
times lu-ixhed Iioas him." As the dog bolts 
I think I recognize the breed, but not beiug 
quite certain on this point, I shall not 
commit myself. 

" The worst of it was," continues " Doc- 
tor Marigold," " we had a daughter born to 
us, and I love children with all ray heart." 
When the good " Doctor" clasps his hands 
and presses them to his breast, as if he were 
embracing that pretty daughter with the 
dark curling hair, you feel as if he really (7u? 
love children. Moreover, you feel morally 
certain that Mr. Dickens loves children too. 
Does he not put a child into his books when- 
ever an opportunity oflers? And does he 
not make opportunities when they refuse to 
otter themselves? Think of " Little Nell," 
" The Marchioness," " Paul and Florence 
Dombcy," "Oliver Twist," "Little Dick," 
"Tiny Tim," and the many outlines of little 
folks that are as good and better than most 
people's real children. Then he has written 
" A Child's History of England," and I am 
quite sure that he did not undertake it be- 
cause children's books " pay." Of course 
"Doctor Marigold" loves children. Most 
expressive of tenderness is the way in which 
he holds a book to his breast when he is 
supposed to be selling goods with the suf- 
fering "little Sophy" clinging around his 
neck. The curly head is surely there, and 
the transition from the Cheap Jack with 
which " Marigold " hurls at his gaping audi- 
ence, to tlie caresses and questionings of 
the father, are as artistic as they are natu- 
rah When, however, "Little Sophy" dies 
without warning in " Marigold's " arms, and 
he staggers back into the cart, exclairaiug 
to his wufe, " Quick ! Shut the door ! Don't 
let those laughing people see ! . . . 
woman, woman, you'll never catch my little 
Sophy by her hair again, for she's dead and 
has flown awaj' from you ! " the father's ex- 
pression of grief is too loud for the situa- 



tion. " Marigold's " endeavor is to keep tlic 
crowd in ignorance of his sorrows; there- 
fore, however terrible his agony, he must 
surely muffle the cry of his heart. Did 
"Doctor Marigold " shout as Mr. Dickens 
does, he would alarm the entire ueighboi*- 
hood. Therefore, iu spite of his earnestness 
at this particular moment, Mr. Dickens may 
be criticised on the score of exaggeration. 
The same words, delivered in an undertone, 
would be equally intense, and much more 
natural. 

All liberally educated persons have seen 
at least one giant, and some of us have 
speculated with melancholy interest upon 
the private lives of giants in general ; but 
none of us kuew what any giant iu particu- 
lar went through until " Doctor IMarigold " 
became acquainted with "Einaldo di Ve- 
lasco, otherwise Pickleson," wlio, when on 
view, figured at leiujth " as a hancient Ro- 
man." " He had a little head, and less in it ; 
he had weak eyes and weak knees ; and, alto- 
gether you couldn't look at him without 
feeling that there icas greatly too much of him, 
both fur his jints and his mind." Add Dick- 
ens's manner to Dickens's matter, and what 
wonder that our feelings are too much for 
us, and find vent in laughter over the " han- 
cient Roman's " extremities? This " giant, 
otherwise Pickleson," confides to "Doctor 
Marigold " the sad story of " Mini's " deaf 
and dumb step-daughter, whereupon the 
" Doctor " remarks : "He was such a very 
languid young man, that I don't know how 
long it didn't take him to get this story out; 
bat it passed thro^ujh his djfectivs circulation 
to his top extremity in course (f time." Well, 
I don't know how Mr. Dickens does it, and 
I almost believe he does not know himself, 
— the inspiration of the divine afllatus de- 
scends upon him, — but the complete vacuity 
of his fiice as he pronounces the word 
" very," and the languor which accompanies 
his delivery of this sentence, absolutely 
make you as limp in joints and mind as 
"Rinaldo di Velasco" himself. You begin 
to feel attenuated, and are only saved fi'om 
the long-drawn agony by "Doctor Mari- 
gold's " pi'csentation to the giant of a six- 
pence, "and he laid it out iutwo threepenn' 
orths of gin-and- water, which so brisked 
him up that he sang the Favorite Comic of 
Shivery Shalry, aint it cold ? — a popular ef- 
fect which his master had tried every other 
means to get out of him, as a hancient Bo- 
man, xcholly in vain." The ludicrousness of 
" a hancient Roman " singing the " Favorite 



32 



PEX PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHAELES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



Comic of Shivery Sliakey " is brought out 
so cleverly by Mr. Dickens that if you have 
never before been guilty of the indiscretion, 
you become enamored of the Queen's Eng- 
lish, convinced that no other language, liv- 
ing or dead, can express such humor-as this. 

Then Mr. Dickens goes to work — no, he 
never seems to work, and that's the beauty 
of his Readings; everj'thing comes without 
any apparent effort, — and makes a character 
out of two remarks. Nobody can forget 
" Mini," the " wery hoarse man," the giant's 
master, after his declaration, in a bron- 
chiti:3-ial voice, — sounding as if it had been 
rasped with a blunted file all the way 
down, — tliat he will exchange his deaf and 
dumb step-daughter for a " pair of braces ;" 
and nobodj' can forget the tender humor of 
'• Doctor Marigold " in his narration of how 
he taught his second " Sophy " her alphabet, 
nor tlie "Doctor's" account of his loneli- 
ness when " Sophy" is sent to school. At 
last the two years pass by, and " Doctor 
Marigold" goes to fetch "Sophy." "The 
new cart was finished, — 3'ellow outside, re- 
lieved loith viermilion, and brass fittings." 
Now the words " relieved with wermilion," 
as words, are not funny, and yet when 
Mr. Dickens is "relieved with wermilion" 
his face looks such unutterable things 
that even the most stoical fancies, as 
did " Sophy " herself, once, that the " Doc- 
tor" is the c-a-r-t. But it is only a 
fancy. Mr. Dickens is the living, loving 
"Doctor Marigold" when he starts at 
sight of " Sophy," who has grown np to 
be a won; in ; when he dares not go to her, 
but rubs h\s hands together, and, looking 
down, sajs timidly, " I feel that I am but a 
rough chap in a sleeved-waistcoat;" when 
he at last t& \es courage to give her the old 
sign, and " Sophy " clasps him round the 
neck. 

" I don't k now what a fool I didn't make 
of myself," i<ays the "Doctor," " until we 
all three setticd down into talking without 
sound, as if taere was a something soft and 
pleasant spread over the Avhole world for 
us." 

That is it. Mr. Dickens 7(«s spread some- 
thing soft and pleasant over the whole world 
for us. 

Having acquired an affection for "Rinaldo 
di Velasco, otherwise Pickleson" ("whose 
mother let him out and spent the money "), 
it is with delight that we at last hear him 
speak. "'Doctor Marigold,' — I give his 
words without a hope of conveying their 
<'eeblcncss, — who is the strange young man 



that hangs about your carts ? ' ' The strange 
young man?' I gives him back, thinking he 
meant Sophy, awl his languid circulation had 
dropped a syllable. ' Doctor,' he returns, 
with a pathos calculated to draw a tear from 
even a manly eye, ' I am weak, but not so 
weak yet as that I don't know my words. I 
repeat them, Doctoi\ The strange — young 
— man ! ' " 

" Bottom " once saw a voice. If every- 
body could be "Bottom " and see the giant's 
voice, everybody might go about with his 
own theatre in his own pocket. Mr. Dick- 
ens outdoes himself. The contrast between 
the giant's purple face, swelling with effort, 
and the trickle of sound squeezed out at 
the risk of breaking every blood-vessel in 
" Pickleson's " head, is absolute perfection. 
A mountain never brought forth a smaller 
mouse, nor one that was so much worth the 
trouble. 

What can be said of the remainder of 
"Doctor Marigold's" story, saving that it 
is charmingly narrated? When the unselfish 
" Doctor" puts " Sophy's " hand in that of 
her young husband, saying, " Doctor Mari- 
gold's last prescription, to betaken for life," 
— it seems very life-like; when "Sophy" 
writes from China, "Dearest father, not a 
week ago I had a darling little daughter, but 
I am so well that they let me wi'ite these 
words to you. Dearest and best father, I 
hope my child may not be deaf and dumb, 
but I do not yet know," — " Sophy " herself 
could hardly read the letter with more feel- 
ing; when the "Doctor" "knocks up" his 
Christmas-eve dinner and declared that such 
a beefsteak pudding as he made " is enough 
to put a man in good-humor with everything 
except the two bottom buttons of his waist- 
coat," — even the occupant of a boai'ding- 
house inclines to the belief that he too has had 
a sufiicientl}^ good dinner to be at variance 
with the two bottom buttons of his waist- 
coat; and when the "Doctor" is startled 
out of his after-dinner nap by the real tread 
of a real child, who peeps in at the door of 
the cart, exclaiming, "Grandfather!" and 
the grandfather cries out, " m^' God ! she 
can speak ! " and when " Sophy," and her 
husband, and their child, and the " Doctor" 
are " shaking themselves together, and the 
happy yet pitying tears fall rolling down the 
Doctor's face," — those tears steal into our 
eyes as well; and when Mr. Dickens hur- 
ries away, there seems to be more love and 
unselfishness in the world than before we 
took Doctor Marigold's prescription. 

" If that fellar hasn't a heart," muttered 



PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF CHARLES DICIH^NS'S EEADIXGS. 



33 



a broad-shouldered, fine-looking country- 
roan who sat behind me at a reading of 
"Doctor Marigold," and who emphasized 
his words by thumping a soft felt hat, — "if 
3 



that fellar hasn't a heart, may I be everlast- 
ingly skewered ! He's made me make a fool 
of myself, and I swiney! I wish Sal was 
here 1 " 



34 



PEX PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS- 



YII. 

''BOOTS AT THE HOLLY TREE INN." 



Theke are some things that, once pos- 
sessed, become so inalienably portions of 
ourselves as to render it a marvel how any 
one ever lived without them. Rubber boots 
for women, horse-cars, and watches are 
among them. What rubber boots, horse- 
cars, and watches are to the outer man 
and woman, certain works of art are to the 
inner man and woman. The light of the 
world would grow dim to many were cer- 
tain bits of music, of canvas, of sculpture, 
and of architecture annihilated. This feel- 
ing is especially excited by particular books. 
Some books we approach on state occasions 
with much dignity and ceremony, kuowing 
it to be highly literary and respectable to 
claim their acquaintance. We bind them in 
calf aud give them the place of honor on 
our library shelves, where we permit them 
to I'emain undisturbed the greater part of 
the year. There are other books that we 
love just as we love intimate friends. We 
care not how they look, whether they are 
well or ill-dressed, and in all probability we 
never ask them into the library. But we do 
ask them into our private room, and insist 
upon their remaining, that we may enjoy 
their companionship at all times and sea- 
sons. These are the human books. They 
are not too good to speak to us in a language 
that we all understand, and confess to a 
sympathy with the frailty of our common 
nature. Such are the books of Charles 
Dickens. Occasionally we do permit his 
two-volume novels to go downstairs, and be 
imposing; but when it comes to his shorter 
stories, particularly those inspired by the ap- 
proach of Christmas, we oblige them to re- 
main en deshabille upstairs, that we may be 
talked to whenever we are In the mood to 
listen. 

Unique, among these Christmas Stories, 
is " The Holly Tree." That cold, heartless 
monster, the snow, never did a better deed 
than when it snowed up the bashful man, 
" Charley," at the Yorkshire wayside inn, in 
consequence of which the bashful man " be- 
gan to associate the Christmas time of year 
with humau interest, and with some iu- 



quir}"-, into, and some care for, the lives of 
those by whom he found himself sur- 
rounded." The snow, I repeat, never did a 
better deed, for otherwise, by the bashful 
man's own confession, we never should 
have been made the happier by his " Christ- 
mas Carols," and " Boots " never would 
have related the adventures of " Mr. and 
Mrs. Harry Walmars, Junior." So for once 
the snow thawed when it was coldest. 

" But ' Boots's ' story is utterly impossi- 
ble." Why, so much the better ! Are not 
some of the most delightful stories in the 
world as removed fnnn fact as foncy can 
make them? Was not fancy made for this 
purpose? Are we always to sit on a pre- 
Raphaelite stump and contemplate a pre- 
Raphaelite cabbage ? Do any of us believe 
in the possibility of " The Tempest," or of 
" Midsurumer Night's Dream," and yet 
could we live comfortably without them? 
If no one ever dreamed, where would be 
the consolation of waking hours? Fancy 
is the oil that keeps Reality's wheels in mo- 
tion. " Mr. and Mrs. Harry Walmars, Ju- 
nior," never thought of a way to Gretna 
Green. Of course not; but the story is 
charmingly quaint aud is as pure and fresh 
as morning dew. I would not lose the 
recollection of that little creature, in the 
sky-blue mantle tucked under the arm of 
her young lover, who walks off "much 
bolder than Brass " (with a capital B) — for 
a wilderness of disagreeable facts. Truth 
is not necessarily a virtue. 

There are three branches on the original 
" Holly Tree." Leaviug untouched the first 
and third branches, which are better on the 
tree than off it, Mi*. Dickens cuts down the 
second and brings it into the Reading-Room 
that we may enjoy its refreshing verdure. 
In Mr. Dickens's rendering of " The Boots," 
criticism does not know " where to have 
him." Search as you may for a weak point, 
the search is in vain ; and after a first hear- 
ing j^ou abaudon yourself to unalloyed 
pleasure. "Boots" stands before you tell- 
ing his story in his own naive, natural way. 

And "Boots "is a captivating fellow. J 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



35 



am not surprised that " Mr. and Mrs. IIarr,v 
Walmars, Junior" were excessively fond of 
him and decided to g^ive him two thousand 
guineas a year as head-gardener, — when 
the time should come for them to have a 
house in a forest, keep bees and a cow, and 
live entirely on milk and honey. Such a 
man deserves such a salary, particularly if 
condemned to such a diet. You cannot 
avoid liking "Boots" when you read him; 
but when you see and hear him, the rela- 
tionship is of a tenderer nature. For 
" Boots " is a diamond in the rough. He is 
distantly related to "Sam Weller." He is 
a " Sara Weller," whose natural keenness 
has received no polish from city life, and 
whose humor has been softened by senti- 
ment and a contemplation of nature as seen 
in garden-bulbs. I am not quite sure, — 
it is very didicnlt to make up one's mind on 
such an important point, — but I think tliat 
if I were in affliction, or even comfortably 
unhappy, I should prefer the services of 
'• Boots " to those of " Sam Weller." Pros- 
perity, and the prejudice "Tony Weller" 
entertained against poetry, robbed " Sara " 
of the one attribute needed to make him an 
angel. This attribute " Boots " possesses. 
He is a poet in disguise. This is proved by 
his delicate appreciation of the loves of 
" Mr. and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior." 
" Ou the whole, sir, the contemplation o' 
them two babbies had a tendency to make 
me feel as if I was in love myself, — only I 
didn't exactly know who with. ... I 
dou"t know, sir, — perhaps you do, — why 
it made a man fit to make a fool of himself, 
to see them two pretty babbies a-lying there 
in the clear, still, sunny day, not dreaming 
half so hard when they was asleep as they 
done when they was awake.' But Lord! 
when you come to think of yourself, you know, 
and ivhat a game you have been xtp to ever 
since you loas in your mon cradle, and what a 
poor sort of a chap you are, arter all, that's 
where it is ! Don't you see, sir ?" "Here's 
wisdom for you ; chunks of it ! " " Boots's " 
sum total of life is as philosophical as his con- 
templation of youthful innocence is poetical. 
" What was the curious-es-est thing Boots 
had seen? Well! He didn't know. He 
couldn't momently guess what was the curi- 
ous-es-est thing he had seen, — unless it was 
a Unicorn, — and he see him once in spirits at 
a fair." However clever we may be in the 
specialty for which we were naturally de- 
signed, not one of us but desires to be con- 
sidered as born for something else, and we 
are never so complacent as when attempt- 



ing that unattainable something. Even 
"Boots" betrays this amiable weakness. 
He approaches the word " curious-es-est," 
with a look of admiration, clings to every 
syllalile with affection, and ouly lets go his 
hold because conversation would otherwise 
come to a dead lock. Therefore " Boots " goes 
on, and the richness, the flavor, the bouquet 
of his tone, is as appetizing as transfigured 
bitters. When " Master Harry " says, 
" Cobbs," how should you spell Norah if you 
was asked?" and when "Cobbs". gives 
him "his individual views, sir, respectiu' 
the spelling o' that name," one understands 
what is meant by the rare word "unction." 
The dialogue between " Master Ilai-ry " and 
"Cobbs" respecting "Norah" is to the 
manner born, and childhood never was 
more deliciously illustrated than in the air 
and expression assumed by "Master 
Harry" when, stopping at " The Holly Tree 
Inn" en route for Gretna Green, he gives 
his orders to "Cobbs." "We should like 
some cakes after dinner, and two apples 

— and jam!" If you have ever been a 
child and loved jam to distraction, — you 
never were a child unless you did love jam to 
distraction, — and remember how you gajjod 
at it in hermetically sealed glass jars, with 
eyes as big as saucers, — wishing your eyes 
loere saucers full of jam, — you know how 
Mr. Dickens treats this cabalistic word. It 
is your youthful aspiration, your eyes, your 
hermetically sealed jars reduced to sound. 
While " Cobbs " describes " Master Harry " 
sitting " behind his breakfast cup a tearing 
away at the jelly, as if he had been his own 
father," you understand just how he is tear- 
ing. 

" The way in which the women of that 
house," says " Cobbs," "without exception, 

— everyone of them — marvicd and single 
took to that boy when they heard the story, 
is saperizing." ("Cobbs "is almost as de- 
voted in his attentions to this word as to 
his former verbal Dulcinea.) "It was as 
much as could be done to keep 'em from 
dashing into the I'oom and kissing him. — 
They climbed up all sorts of places, at the 
risk of their lives, to look at him through a 
pane of glass, — and they loas seven deep at 
the key-hole." By means of this key-hole 
"Cobbs" unlocks the door to such sense 
of humor as has not been exhausted by the 
previous drain upon it. 

Great as "Master Harry" is at the mo- 
ment of his calling for '■'■jam," I think he is 
equally so when, upon being asked whether 
"Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior" is fatigued, 



36 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



he replies, " Yes, she is tired, Cobbs ; 
but slie is not used to be away from home, 
and she has been in low spirits again. 
Cobbs, do you think you could bring a 
baked apple, please ? Norah's rather partial 
to baked apples, and I think one loould rouse 
her." A father of a large family — John 
Rogers for example — could not speak 
with more confidence, or with greater 
knowledge of human nature. 

But the pretty story, perfect as it is, will 
come to an end, and when, — ' ' Master Harry " 
stooping down to kiss " Norah" for the last 
time, — one of the many chambermaids 
peeping through the door, shrilly cries out, 
'•/it's a shame to part 'em I" that chamber- 



maid springs from Mr. Dickens's head as 
Minerva sprang from the head of Jove, and 
stands armed and equipped for the fray. 

Who, after listening to " Cobbs," does not 
wish with him " that there was an impos- 
sible place where two such babies could 
make an impossible marriage, and live im- 
possibly happy ever after?" and who does 
not shudder at thought of the era when 
universal education will have made such 
inroads upon even "The Holly Tree Inn" 
as to abolish all use of bad grammar, and 
proclaim " Cobbs's " occupation gone ! See 
Mr. Dickens in his "Boots" and you 
wish universal education at the bottom of 
that well where truth is said to lie. 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



37 



yii. 



"MR. BOB SAWYER'S PARTY." 



" There's a destiny in these things, gen- 
tlemen, we can't help it," said Dickens's 
Bagman, upon recounting the prowess of 
his uncle iu absorbing the contents of 
quart measures. The Bagman was undoubt- 
edly correct in his deduction. There must 
be a destiny in these things and in all 
things, else Mr. Dickens would have gone 
down to his grave before being able to de- 
cide upon what selections from " The Pick- 
wick Papers " to make for his Readings. To 
the mind unillumined by destiny there seems 
no good reason why " Mr. Bob Sawyer's Par- 
ty " should have been preferred to a thousand 
and one equally good episodes. In reading 
the book, this particular party takes no 
more hold of our afl'ections than many 
others. Hence it is safe to conclude that 
there is a destiny in these things, and that 
Mr. Dickens was as much born to read 
" Mr. Bob Sawyer's Party " as he was to 
create it. After seeing him at this party, 
the hypothesis becomes as self-evident as 
any axiom iu Euclid. What has struck 
you heretofore as a diamond no better than 
its fellows, is magically transformed into a 
Kohinoor. 

And when I say " magically transformed," 
I mean it in all soberness of criticism. 
Whoever thought, in reading " Pickwick," 
of giving any special attention to "Mi"s. 
Raddle's " housemaid ? Her appearance and 
disappearance are almost simultaneous. She 
is a dirty, slip-shod girl, in black cotton 
stockings. That is all. And what does she 
say? "Please, Mr. Sawyer, Missis Raddle 
wants to speak to you." 

An3'thing else ? Yes. 

"Does Mr. Sawj'cr live here?" mildly 
inquires "Mr. Pickwick " at "Mrs. Raddle's " 
front door. 

" Sawyer !" slowly echoes the Black Stock- 
ings, whose mental circulation is almost as 
languid as " Rinaldo di Velasco's" physical 
circulation. " O, yes. Sawyer ; he lives here. 
Sawyer's the first floor. It's the door 
straight afore you, when you gets to the top 
of the stairs." 



And is this all? No; there is one m:re 
scene. 

"You can't have no warm water." 

"No warm water?" exclaims the horri- 
fied host, "Bob." 

" No," continues " Betsy." " IMissis Rad- 
dle said you wai'n't to have none." 

" Bring up the water instantly, — in- 
stantly ! " 

" No, I can't. Missis Raddle raked out 
the kitchen fire afore she went to bed, and 
locked up the kittle." 

Here is the whole of " Betsy." From this 
small side bone that any but a consummate 
artist would throw away as having very little 
meat upon it, Mr. Dickens creates an incom- 
parably comic character. The moment " Bet- 
sy " opens her mouth she is an accomplished 
fact. A dirtier, more slip-shod, more stolid, 
more Irretrievably stupid girl never lived. 
Mr. Dickens's list of her clothes includes 
nothing but a pair of black cotton stockings, 
but when he brings her on the stage she not 
only wears black stockings with slippers 
down at the heel that drop off on the stairs, 
but a short gown, the original color of 
which is cleverly concealed by dirt, and a 
check apron, one-half of which is conspicu- 
ous by its absence. Her sleeves are rolled 
up, displaying very red arms, and that por- 
tion of her sci'ubby hair which is not stand- 
ing on end, is maliciously attempting to put 
out "Betsy's" eyes. "Betsy's" legs look 
like sticks of black sealing-wax, as if in 
mourning for the rest of her neglected per- 
son, and are finished ofl' at the knees with 
white strings. An owl in the brightest 
noonday sun never was more dazed or more 
incapable of an idea. A voice never ex- 
pressed more thorough individuality, for 
" Betsy " has a cold in the head. She could 
not possibl}^ fulfil her mission on earth if 
she had not a cold in the head. It gives a 
muffled, sepulchral tone to her words abso- 
lutely necessary to make what she says 
produce the desired efiect upon " Bob Saw- 
yer " and his guests. " Betsy," however, is 



38 



PEX PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



not such a fool as to be unaware that some- 
thiug must be amiss between " Mr. Sawyer " 
and his lancUady. Consequently, the air 
of mystery with which she idiotically glares 
at " Mr. Sawyer," or darts her head for- 
ward, — like a turtle from beneath its shell, 
— or slowly shakes that head, is not without 
solemnity. The amiable landlady, "Mrs. 
Raddle," is quite as well portrayed; but 
something is expected of " Mrs. Raddle," 
whereas " Betsy " takes you entirely by sur- 
prise. If a donkey lisped in numbers you 
could not be more astonished. The former 
merely realizes fond hopes. The scene be- 
tween "Mrs. Raddle," "Mr. Sawyer," and 
" Mr. Ben Allen," is a farce in itself, while 
"Mrs. Raddle's" final <'a;j:)0S(/ of "Mr. Saw- 
yer's " delinquencies, as she scolds over the 
banisters, the rumbling of ''Mr. Raddle's" 
voice, proceeding from beneath distant bed- 
clothes, and the lady's parting compliments 
to iuoflensive " Mr. Pickwick," " Get along 
with you, you old wretch ! Old enough to be 
his grandfather, you villain! You're worse 
than any of 'em," — are rich in humor. 

" Mr. Bob Sawyer " is not evcri/ inch him- 
self, for the reason that " Mr. Sawyer" la- 
bors under depressing influences through- 
out the entire evening. He is as much him- 
self as he can be, considering the condition 
of his mind and pocket, and is really sublime 
in his impudence, when, seeing his guests 
ordered out of the house by " Mrs. Raddle," 
he turns to " Jack Hopkins " with an injured 
look, and informs " Jack" that it is all his 
fault, " because he will sing chorus, — that 
he was born chorus-y,*lives chorus-y, and 
will die chorus-y." This impudence is 
rather the more delightful for being an in- 
terpolation. 

The only time we hear dear " Mr. Pick- 
wick's " voice is on this occasion. He says 
very little, merely putting a few leading 
questions that keep conversation afloat, yet 
we recognize our old benefactor at once in 
the countenance that " glows with an ex- 
pression of universal philanthropy," and 
in a blanduess of speech that cannot be- 
long to any one else. Several young gen- 
tlemen who attended the original party are 
not present at its repetition, " Mr. Gun- 
ter," among others, being absent. His share 
in the quarrel with " Mr. Noddy" is neces- 
sarily transferred to " Jack Hopkins," and 
the quarrel is really so enlivening that you 
long to have it become general ; but at the 
most promising moment, " Mr. Noddy " 
"allows his feelings to overpower him," and 
"Mr. Hopkins" prefers "Mr. Noddy" "to 



his own mother" whereupon the combatants 
shake hands with so much efi'usiou that your 
blood-thirsty aspirations are strangled. 

" Jack Hopkins " is what " Bob Sawyer " 
would have been, had not "Mrs. Raddle's" 
" malevolence " thrown cold water upon his 
ardent spirits. He is the ideal of all the 
medical students that ever had a talent for 
lying combined with a tendency to black 
velvet waistcoats, thunder-and-lightning 
buttons, blue striped shirts, and false white 
collars. The general inflation of "Jack 
Hopkins's " person ; the professional cast of 
countenance; the voice which makes its es- 
cape as best it can between closed teeth, and 
from a mouth apparently full of mush ; the 
hands that are thrust into pantaloon-pock- 
ets, as if to be carefully preserved for the 
next surgical operation, — an attitude that, 
when accompanied by an oscillation of the 
])od3', as in " Jack Hopkins's " case, alwaj'S 
indicates superior wisdom, — avesui generis. 
He represents a type in caricature. All 
" Jack's " medical stoi'ies are good, but all 
are obscured by the boy that swallowed a 
necklace. Even " Betsy " is obliged to di- 
vide the honors with this infant plienome- 
non. It may be doing Mr. Dickens great 
injustice, but it really seems as if ho were 
as funny as he can be in this absurdest of 
burlesques. The law of self-preservation 
should prevent him from being any funnier, 
for, if he has no regard for his own feelings, 
he should consider those of others, and I'e- 
member that people have been tickled to 
death. " Peggotty " would burst every but- 
ton, hook-and-eye that ever approached her 
jovial person. Mr. Dickens makes the 
story; the story does not make him. The 
inflexions of his voice are in themselves 
mirth-provoking, the mere pronunciation of 
the word "necklace" inspiring as much 
laughter as is usually accorded to a low 
comedy man's best " point." In one short 
sentence he rushes up and down the gamut 
most originally. Words can give no idea 
of the efl'ect produced ; perhaps a wretched 
outline drawing may. For example : — 
" Child 

toys, 



cribbed 



being fond of 

lace, 

neck 



hid 



neck 



lace, 



cut string 



of 



neck 



,lace, 



\ 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



39 



bead!" 
and a 

swallowed 

Those who have heard Mr. Dickeus, will 
understand this illustration, and may per- 
haps thank me for it. Those who have not 
heard him, will not understand it, and will 
not thank me. When, after hearing a noise 
"like a small hail-storm," t>e father ex- 
claims, — 

hoy ! " 
" Don't my 

do that, 

and the child replies, — 

" I aint a doin' nothing " — 
whereupon the father rejoins, — 

,gain!" 



y 



" Well, 



do it 



don't 



— fun appears to have reached its perihelion, 
but when, after shaking the boy, the father 
cries out, — 



" Why, 

God bless my soul, 
in 
its the child ! 

in the place I " 

got the croup 
He's 

wro7ig 
—nothing is left for human nature but to 
laugh at every pore. If the public eye were 
not upon you, you would abandon your- 
self to an ecstasy of delight. Dreading that 
public eye, you swallow, not a necklace, 
but a pocket-handkerchief, and rather fear 
spontaneous combustion. Indeed, this story 
puts you in such good-humor that you are 
quite i-eady to shake hands with your worst 
enemy, quite ready to withdraw your former 
desire that he might write a book, and you 
go home from "Bob Sawyer's Party," wish- 
ing that all parties were equally select and 
equally entertaining. 



40 



TEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



X. 



"THE TRIAL FROM PICKWICK." 



There have been many trials for breach 
of promise of marriage, but none ever shooir 
the world to its centre as that of " Bardell 
versus Picliwick " has shalien it. Build- 
ing his reputation on a Pickwickian founda- 
tion, the corner-stone of which is this same 
renowned Trial, it was meet that Mr. Dick- 
ens should again bring this interesting case 
into court to be sat upon by an impartial 
jury of a New World. 

Mr. Dickens's manner of conducting the 
Trial is irreproachable, saving in one re- 
spect. In other Readings he has dis- 
played great art and sagacity in the selec- 
tions made from his novels, and in the 
trimming down of these selections; but 
in depriving The Trial of its fair propor- 
tions he subjects ns to the "most uukind- 
est cut of all." Assuredly the reader 
should be the best judge of what is, and 
what is not suited to his purpose, and yet 
there seems to be no good reason for the 
wholesale employment of a pruning-knife in 
this particular instance. What Mr. Dick- 
ens suppresses would not materially add to 
the length of the Reading, while the amount 
of effect lost is very considerable. Mr. 
Dickens is guilty of unjustifiable homicide. 
How he can wilfully cut the throat of 
" Thomas Groffin," the chemist, thereby pre- 
venting him from being sworn in as a juror 
and indulging in an edifying conversation 
with " Mr. Justice Stareleigh," passeth all 
understanding. Robbing " Sergeant Buz- 
fuz " of one of the greatest points in his 
address to the jury, is even more extraordi- 
nary. " Let me tell him " (Pickwick), " gen- 
tlemen, that any gestures of dissent or 
disapprobation in which he may indulge in 
this court will not go down Avith you; that 
you will know how to value and how to 
appreciate them; and let me tell him 
further, as my lord will tell you, gentlemen, 
that a counsel, in the discharge of his duty 
to his client, is neither to be intimidated 
nor bullied, nor put down; and that any 
attempt to do either the one or the other, 
or the first or the last, will recoil on the 
head of the attempter, be he plaintiff or be 



he defendant, be his name Pickwick, or 
Noakes, or Stoakes, or Stiles, or Brown, 
or Thompson!" That Mr. Dickens should 
ignore this sentence, which may be called 
the heart of the address, and is full of just 
such effects as he best- knows how to pro- 
duce, appears almost incredible. Less 
strange is the suppression of " Mr. Win- 
kle's " cross-examination by " Mr. Phun- 
key"and "Sergeant Buzfuz," although no 
one who has seen Mr. Dickens in his great 
character of " Winkle " will ever cease to 
sigh over its omission. The most unpar- 
donable sin of all, however, is Mr. Dick- 
ens's inhuman treatment of " Sara Weller." 
He actually prevents " Sam" from making 
two of his best speeches. Said " Sam," 
"I had a reg'larfit out o' clothes thatmorn- 
in,' gen'l'men of the jury, and that was a 
wery particler and uncommon circumstance 
with me in those days." " The little judge, 
looking with an angry countenance over his 
desk, said, ' You had better be careful, sir.' " 

" ' So Mr. Pickwick said -at the time, my 
Lord,' replied Sam, ' and I was wery careflil 
o' that 'ere suit o' clothes ; wery careful in- 
deed, my lord.' " Astounding though it be, 
the little judge does not give "Sara "his 
cue, " You had better be careful ; " conse- 
sequently "Sam" cannot make the retort 
courteous. And what is worse, — so bad 
that if there were a degree beyond the su- 
perlative it should be expressed by it, — 
" Sam's " final interrogatory remark to the 
Court, " Would any other gen'l'man like to 
ask me anythin' ? " is treated with as much 
silent contempt as if it had never been 
made. The friends of "Sara Weller" 
should protest as one man against this in- 
dignity, and demand satisfaction of Mr. 
Dickens. Is this indignity to be taken " in 
a common sense ? " or is it to be regarded 
from " a Pickwickian point of view? " 

It may be ungrateful to look a gift-horse 
in the mouth ; but when that horse has a 
beautiful mane and tail which are unneces- 
sarily curtailed by too much "Englishing," 
should we not demur, particularly when 
that horse is Mr. Dickens's chevalde hataille? 



PEX PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKEXS'S READINGS. 



41 



Inner cousciousness will accomplish 
miracles. It once evolved a camel ; and I 
thought, not long ago, that it had evolved 
this famous " Pickwick Trial," so com- 
pletely as to contest the honors with 
reality. I was mistaken, and now confess 
that I never knew how great the Trial was 
until Mr. Dickens made a panorama of him- 
self, turned a crank, and unwound the en- 
tire scene. The eight characters that fig- 
ure in the court-room are matchlessly de- 
lineated, while the assumption of the court 
itself is truly wonderful. When Mr. Dick- 
ens appeal's as " the little judge," the the- 
ory of metempsychosis seems to be practi- 
cally carried out. Mr. Dickens steps out 
of his own skin which, for the time being, 
is occupied by "Justice Stareleigh." His 
little round eyes, wide-open and blink- 
ing; his elevated eyebrows that are in a 
constant state of interrogation ; his mouth, 
drawn down by the weight of the law ; the 
expression of the ensemble which clearly 
denotes that everybody is a rascal whether 
found guilty or not; and the stern, iron- 
clad voice, apparentljMneasuring out justice 
in as small quantities as possible, and never 
going foster than a dead march, — make up 
an impersonation that is extraordinary, even 
for Mr. Dickens. 

Court. "Who is with you, brother Buz- 
fuz? . . . Anybody with you, brother Snub- 
bin?" 

" Mr. PImnky, my lord." 

Court. "Go on." This "go on" seals 
" Justice Stareleigh's " fate. The door of 
the court seems to shut with a gruff click, 
and the satire is complete. 

Though a less original creation, " Ser- 
geant Buzfuz " is truly admirable. He 
whispers to " Dodson," confers briefly with 
" Fogg," settles his wig, and proceeds to ad- 
dress the jury. The rising inflexion — 
which, if not natural to Mr. Dickens, has 
been adopted by him to overcome the de- 
fects of an imperfect voice — here produces 
most comical eflects. " Never, from the 
very first moment of his applying himself to 
the study and practice 

law, 
the 
of 
had he approached a case with such a heavy 
re-spou-si-bi-li-ty imposed 

him, — 
upon 
a re-spon-si-bi-li-ty he could never have 
sup- 
ped, 
port 



were he not buoyed up and sustained by a 
conviction, so strong that it amounted to 
positive 

/ty, 

«e^, . / 

^tain 
that the cause of truth and justice, or, in 
other words, the cause of his much-in- 
jured and most oppressed client, 

vail — 



must 
must 



pre 



/' 



pre 



X 



vail ! ' 



The intonation and action accompanying 
the repetition of these final words, are de- 
lightfully burlesque. " Sergeant Buzfuz " 
draws back his head and then tlirows it 
forward to add impressiveness to speech, 
while a muscular contortion going on at 
the back of his neck and rippling down his 
shoulders, suggests memories of a heavy 
swell on the ocean. Truth and justice are 
evidently convulsed. 

The "sergeant" thrills his auditors by 
suiting the action to the word, and bring- 
ing down his hand with a mighty bang on 
the "box" in which "the unimpeachable 
female," " Mrs. Bardell," is to be placed. 

" Here one poor word a hundred clinches makes I " 

He is no less affecting when, speaking 
of his client as a widow, "yes, gentlemen, a 
widow," he produces a pocket-handkerchief 
for appropriate application, and refers to 
the late Mr. Bardell's having " glided al- 
most imperceptibly from the world, to seek 
elsewhere for that repose and peace which 
a custom-house 

7iever yforcl ! " 

can / 

af 

yhoy," 

" lif-tle ^^' 
If the '" ^^^ 

on whom Mr. Bardell "stamped his like- 
ness," was ever as funny as " Sergeant 
Buzfuz's " mention of him, he ought to have 
fully compensated "the unimpeachable fe- 
male " for the loss of her custom-house offi- 
cer. The same learned gentleman's render- 
ing of the inscription, — 
" Apartments furnished for 

sin gentleman, 

a ^gle 

l7i in ! " 

\ quire with^ 
is such oratory as might move the most 
obdurate to tears. (I do not specify what 
kind of tears.) 
A single gentleman is no sooner invited to 



PEN PIIOTOGEAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



inquire within, than ii juror Tvith an anx- 
ious countenance, expressive of a profound 
sense of responsibility, starts up, and in- 
quires without, "There is no date to that, 
is there, sir? " If I were a court, I should 
nlwaj^s insist upon having that conscientious 
man impanelled. 

" Mr. Pickwick " merely writhes in silence, 
but Avhen " Sei'geant Buzfuz " directs at- 
tention to him — " if he be in court as I am 
informed 

is / " — 
he 
and aims the forefinger of his right hand at 
the defendant's head, it becomes a query 
whether grotesque action is not as difficult 
to excel in as absolute grace. Mr. Dickens 
has learned its secret. 

The gi-eat points of " Mr. Pickwick's " 
having once patted " Master Bardell " " on 
the head," 

"on 

tlie head," 
and of his having made use of the remark- 
able expression, — 

" How should you like to have 

oth ther?" 

an^ ^er fa^ 

are brought out most effectively, while 
" Chops ! Gracious heavens ! and Tomato 
sauce ! " and that other very remarkable 
expression, " Don't trouble yourself about 
the warming-pan," together with the "Ser- 
geant's " surprised inquiry, — 

"Why, gentlemen, what lady 
trouble herself about 
does ^pan?" 

a warming 
are received with all the approbation they so 
richly deserve. When "Sergeant Buzfuz" 
appeals for damages " to an enlightened, a 
high-minded, aright-feeling, a conscientious, 
a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contem- 
plative, and I may say a highly poetic inry of 
her civilized countiymen," his peroration 
takes instant effect, and he retires behind a 
round of applause. 

" Mrs. Cluppins " is no sooner called than 
she appears, and in voice and physiognomy 
does ample justice to "Mrs. Bardell's 
bosom-friend, number one." She assures 
my lord and jury that she will not deceive 
them, whereupon the little judge almost 
entirely covers himself with glory, by 
slowly shaking his profound head at her 
and saying, — 

"You had better not, ma'am." The little 
of the little judge left unadorned, by the 
before-mentioned enviable article of ap- 



parel, is quickly covered, upon "Mrs. Clnp- 
piu's" remarking that she " see Mrs. 
Bardell's street door on the jar." 

" 0)1 the what?" asks the judge in a state 
of owl-like astonishment. 

"Partly open, my lord, partly open." 

" She said on the jar," and the little 
judge is at this moment a parody on all the 
legal stupidity that ever ornamented Eug 
laud's bar. 

"Nathaniel Winkle," cries "Mr. Skim- 
pin." — 

"He-ah, he-ah," replies an embarrassed 
voice, and we meet our old friend of the 
green shooting-coat, plaid neckerchief and 
closcly-fitted drabs, face to face. This 
easily discomposed gentleman is surely he 
who was so brave at duelling ; who attempted 
to mount his horse on the wrong side, 
and when he got off the animal's back could 
notpossibly get up again ; who fired at rooka 
and brought down the left arm of his friend, 
"Mr. Tupman." By the professional way 
in which "Mr. Skimpiu" badgers our 
sporting friend and rolls the badgering as a 
sweet morsel under his tongue, — the ex- 
pi*ession of his countenance denoting pos- 
itive delight in the work before him, — one 
might believe tliat Mr. Dickens hud passed 
the greater part of his life in trying the 
law, or being tried by it. The scene Avhere- 
in the little judge browbeats "Winkle" on 
the subject of the latter's name, ought to 
be handed down to posterity ; but alas ! it 
never can be and this is the worst of act- 
ing. 

Court. " Have — you — any— Christian — 
name, sir?" 

"Nathaniel, sir?" 

Court. " Dan-iel. Have — you — any — 
other — name?" 

"'^•dthaniel, sir, — my lord, I mean." 

Court. "'Sa-thaniel Baii-ia], — or Dan- 
iel ISathanicl? " 

"No, my lord, only 'Natha7iicl; not Dan- 
iel at all, my lord. 'Nathaniel." 

Court. " What — did — you — tell — me 

— it — was — Daniel, for, then, sir?" 
"I didn't, my lord." 

Court. "You — did — sir. How — coula 

— I — possibly — have — got — Daniel — on 

— my — notes — unless — you — told me so, 
sir?" 

The contrast between the flustered stam- 
mering of poor " Winkle," and the impene- 
trable infallibility of "Justice Stareleigh," 
delivered in a slow, authoritative tone, as 
if founded on the Rock of Ages, is remarka- 
ble. Then "Mr. Skiinpin" resumes his pleas- 



PEX PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



43 



ant pastime, — which may be likened to a 
mental biiil-flght, "Mr. Skimpin" being the 
triumphant bull engaged in goring " Win- 
kle," the inexperienced matador. 

" O, you don't know the plaintiff, but you 
have seen her? Now will you please to tell 
the gentlemen of the jur}' what you mean 
hy that, Mr. Winkle?" 

After hearing Mr. Winkle's reply to this 
aggravating question, it is possible to be- 
lieve that "even a worm will turn." Our 
sporting friend, as we all know, is not very 
rombulive, but wherever his conibativeness 
may be situated, the goring has at last 
reached it. "Mr. Winkle" does not as- 
sault "Mr. Skimpin," — for under greater 
provocation it would be contrary to our 
friend's constitution to assault anybody, — 
but he does all that doth become a " AVin- 
kle." He squirms in the witness-box ; he 
grows so red in the face as to render his 
plaid neckerchief pale by comparison, and 
is only saved from strangulation by finding 
vent for his feelings in the words, " God 
hless my soul ! I mean that I am not inti- 
mate with her, but that I have seen her when 
I went to call on Mr. Pickwick in Goswell 
street." 

At this crisis "Mr. Winkle" is immensely 
satisfactory to his friends, yet he is almost 
as delightful when he endeavors to gulp 
down the confession that he did see " Mrs. 
Bardell" in "Mr. Pickwick's" arms, and 
did hear him ask "the good creature to 
compose herself." " Mr. Winkle's " attempt 
to swallow several of the most implicative 
words, which attempt is finally overwhelmed 
by a stern devotion to trulh that draws out 
the facts with a species of mental cork- 
screw, leaves nothing more to be desired. 

At the close of this incompai'able exam- 
ination, Susannah Saunders, " bosom friend 
number two," performs her small part with 
credit to herself and "Mr. Saunders," after 
which " vScrgeant Buzfuz " rises to the oc- 
casion and cries out, " Call Samuel Wel- 
le r ! " 

If conclusions may be drawn from the 
applause that greets this announcement, 
there nev^erwas so universal a favorite as 
"Samuel Weller." Everybody looks intensely 
pleased and everybody settles himself as 
if saying, " Now I shall enjoy myself 
more than I ever did in my life." Is it 
strange that many ai*e disappointed? Almost 
everybody has a pet theory with regard to 
" Sam Weller," and no two of these innu- 
merable theories agree. Surely then it is 
not astonishing that Mr. Dickens's inter- 



pretation of this character fails to satisfy 
unreasonable expectations. People look 
upon " Sam" as neither fish, flesh, nor 
fowl; as some lusus natures to be impossi- 
bly portrayed. Mr. Dickens's " Sam Wel- 
ler" is a human being, very like other 
human beings belonging to the same pro- 
fession, and his resemblance in voice and 
expression to an English coachman of my 
acquaintance is so striking that the two 
might readily pass for brothers. " Sam " 
has comparatively little to do in court, yet 
he is expected to crowd his entire life into 
a few sentences, that, from the ver}' nature 
of the case, must be delivered quietly and 
with sly rather than boisterous humor. 
"Sam" never is boisterous, hoAvever. If 
there ever was a cool, self-possessed indi- 
vidual with a supreme contempt for people 
who, like " Weller Senior," are given to 
explosions of mirth, it is "Sam." It does 
not necessarily follow because Mr. Dickens 
has created " Sam," that he is therefore 
most competent to delineate him. Shakes- 
peare never soared higher than " The 
Ghost" in "Hamlet," and the impression 
left upon posterity is that he was a better 
manager than actor. Lee read liis dramatic 
works like an angel; but when he strode the 
stage, the angel became a walking-stick. 
Sheridan Knowles was a shocking bad ac- 
tor. But Mr. Dickeus is so saturated with 
dramatic ideas, and embodies these ideas so 
well, that it is safe to declare him a better 
judge of "Sam's" nature than any ono' 
else. If Americans were Englishmen they, 
would see the truthfulness of this portrait- 
ure. But nothing in the world can save 
" Sam " from being entirely eclipsed by 
" Justice Stareleigh." 

"Little to do and plenty to get, I sup*- 
pose," exclaims " Sergeant Buzfuz," refer- 
ring to " Sam's" situation with " Mr. Pickr 
wick." 

" Oh, quite enough to get, sir, as the 
soldier said ven they ordered him three 
hundred and fifty lashes." 

Court. " You -must -not-telJ-its-Vj'hat the- 
sol-dier-said. The-evi-dence-of-that-sol-dier- 
can-not-be - received - tmless - that-soldier-is-in 
court,-and-is-cx-am-ined-in-tlie-usual-ioay." 

The little judge covers himself with a 
second coat of glory, and the text furnishes 
" Sam " with no opportunity to establish 
his superiority over the most stupid and 
learned bigwig. As intimated once before, 
Sam's best chance of being as slyly funny as 
he can be, is tin the expurgated question, 
" Would any other gen'l'man like to ask me 



44 



PEN PHOTOGEAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



anythin'?" By restoring it, and by illus- 
trating how " Sam " retires from the wit- 
ness-box, Mr. Dickens might add another 
green leaf to his laurels. 

No one is disappointed in " Tony Weller," 
because "Tony Weller's" most remarka- 
ble characteristics are his "hoarse voice, 
like some strange effort of ventriloquism," 
" the extreme tip of a very rubicund nose," 
"an underdone roast-beef complexion," 
and an unbounded stomach. Consequently, 
" Tony Weller " has but to open his mouth 
to stand before us in his full proportions ; 
that is, when Mr. Dickens assumes the role. 
Ilis exclamation, " Quite right too, Samivel, 



quite right. Put it down a ice, my Lord, put 
it down awe!" takes the audience by storm, 
the author's identification with the charac- 
ter being complete. He not only talks like 
" Tony," but, expanding under the influence 
of beer and countless wrappers, he suggests 
the immortal stage-driver's personnel; and 
when the trial is ov^er, and " Tony Weller " 
moralizes over it, saying, " I kuow'd what 
'ud come o' this here way o' doing bisniss. 
Samivel, Samivel, vy warn't there a alley 
bi!" it seems hardly possible that the 
slight, energetic man, who, a moment later, 
walks briskly off the stage, can have pro- 
duced so perfect an illusion. 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICIiENS'S READINGS. 



45 



XI. 

«'MIIS. GAMP." 



There still live Americans, who, forget- 
ting the condition of this country thirty 
years ago, insist uj^on talcing their Dickens 
with a clillerence. But young as we still 
are, — for we have not yet shed our sopho- 
nioric skin, — I do not believe there is an 
American "erect upon tvvo legs" who is 
capable of writing a book as " a just retali- 
ation" upon English criticism of these 
thoroughly pure and perfect United States. 
There once did live such a lusus naturce. In 
1837, one "Nil Adrairari, Esq." felt himself 
called upon to resent foreign insult in "a 
satire" entitled "The Trollopiad; or, Trav- 
elling Gentleman in America." It is a sorry 
satire, yet it points a moral of such homely 
use, that it may be worth while to resusci- 
tate a few lines of such verse as would now 
pass for something worse : — 

" Ingenious Trollope I name forever dear, 
Well known at home, but quite notorious here; 
To you, as first andforemost in the band, 
I bow my obsequious head, and kiss — my hand; 
Oh, smootiily, — softly, flows this verse of mine, 
So sweet a name should grace a lay divine. 
Yield up the palm, ye scribblers, great and small. 
Faux, — Feasoa, — Fiddler, — Stuart, — Captain 

Hall; 
Behold your chief I " 

Fanny Wright is vituperously annihilated 
as "brawling Fanny," and Fanny Kemble, 
the woman whom we are all pleased to hon- 
or, is impaled through pages of invective. 

" Since truth must out, in vain the truth we fly, 
We ' can't be silent,' and ' we will not lie.' 
When known initials meet the public gaze. 
And Fanny's pointless chatter sues for praise. 
The rising voice of censure wherefore hush ? 
For checks no longer conscious of a blush." 

This is American susceptibility thirty 
years ago, and although, when, Ave years 
later, " American Notes " were put in circu- 
lation, and were succeeded by "Martin 
Chuzzlewit," the indignation of no Nil Adrai- 
rari, Esq., rose to the lofty height of a book, 
the press and people shrieked with rage, 
and Charles Dickens was more roundly 
rated than ever man or woman can be again, 
tbank Heaven ! It was very foolish, it was 



very unnecessary rage, that reflected dis- 
credit upon this country without in any way 
injuring Mr. Dickens. It was foolish, be- 
cause it was childish ; it was unnecessary, 
because, under the most aggravated circum- 
stances, such an exposition is beneath the 
dignity of a self-respecting people. 

No impartial, clear-headed reader of the 
present generation can lash himself into a 
fury over the "American Notes." He is 
amazed that anybody ever did become 
infuriated, and closes the book with a feel- 
ing of agreeable disappointment. For my- 
self, I honor Mr. Dickens for speaking the 
truth. lie did not come to America as a 
political economist, and therefore did not 
attempt to deal in profundities after the 
manner of De Tocqueville. He reported 
society as he saw it, knowing full well the 
consequences it entailed, yet knowing also, 
as he then said, " that what I have set down 
in these pages cannot cost me a single friend 
on the other side of the Atlantic who is in 
anything deserving of the name. For the 
rest, I put my trust implicitly in the spii'it 
in which they have been conceived and 
penned; and I can bide my time." That 
time has arrived, and when George William 
Curtis spoke for himself, at the dinner given 
to Mr. Dickens by the New York press, he 
spoke for the majority of his countrymen. 

"Fidelity to his own observation is all 
that we can ask of any reporter. However 
grateful he may be for our hospitalit}', we 
cannot insist that he shall pour our cham- 
pagfle into his eyes so that he cannot see, 
nor stuff our pudding into his ears so that 
he cannot hear. Mr. Dickens was obliged 
to hear and see, and report many things that 
were not pleasant nor flattering. It is the 
fate of all reporters. I do not remember 
that those very competent observers, Mr. 
Emerson and Mr. Hawthorne, whom we 
sent to England, represented that country 
as altogether a paradise and John Bull as a 
saint without blemish. They told a great 
deal of truth about England, as it seems to 
me our friend told a great many wholesome 
and valuable truths about us Naturally we 
did not find every part of his report very 



46 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



entertaining; but neither, I suppose, did 
Lord Dedlocli find Bleak House very amus- 
ing, and I am sure that to this day neither 
Sergeant Buzfuz nor the Lord Chief Justice 
Stareleigh have ever been able to find the 
least fun in Pickwick. For my undivided 
thirty-millionth part of the population, I 
thank the reporter with all my heart, and I 
do not forget that if his touch, like the ray 
of a detective's lantern, sparkled for a mo- 
ment upon some of oui" defects, the full 
splendor of its light has been always turned 
upon the sins and follies of his own country." 
I honor Mr. Dickens most especially for 
daring to cuter his solemn and indignant 
protest against the great wrong that in 
those distant days spread its virus over all 
the land, and made America a republic but 
in name. The wrong now righted, our flag 
is no longer a caricature on liberty. So 
to-day, conscious that we can look Europe 
in the face without danger of being up- 
braided for a national sin, wiser in head, 
calmer in temper, and with more regard 
for the amenities of life, we accept the 
" American Notes " as a record of a past to 
which we can never return, and agree with 
Lord Francis JefiVey in the estimate which 
he made of the book in a letter that I can- 
not forego transplanting to American soil. 

" Craigcrook, Oct. IG, 18-1:2. 

" My dhar Dickens, — A thousand thanks 
to you for your charming book! and for all 
the pleasure, profit, and rdicf it has afforded 
me. You have been very tender to our sen- 
sitive friends beyond the sea, and really said 
nothing which should give serious offence 
to any moderately rational patriot among 
them. The slavers, of course, will give you 
no quarter, and I suppose you did not ex- 
pect they should. But I do not think you 
could have said less, and my whole heart 
goes along with every word you have writ- 
ten. Some people will be angry, too, that 
you have been so strict to observe their 
spitting and neglect of ablutions, etc. And 
more, that you should have spoken with so 
little reverence of their courts of law, and 
state legislatures, and even of their grand 
Congress itself. But all this latter part is 
done in such a spirit of good-humored play- 
fulness, and so mixed up with clear intima- 
tions that you have quite as little venera- 
tion for things of the same sort at home, 
that it will not be easy to represent it as the 
fruit of English insolence and envy. 

" As to the rest, I think you have per- 
fectly accomplished all that you profess, or 



undertake to do; and that the world has 
never yet seen a more faithful, grapliic, 
amusing, kind-hearted narrative than you 
have now bestowed on it. Always graceful 
and lively, and sparkling and indulgent, and 
yet relieved, or rather (in the French sense 
of the word) exalted by so many suggestions 
of deep thought, and so many touches of 
tender and generous sympathy (caught at 
once, and recognized like the signs of free- 
masonry, by all whose hearts have been in- 
structed in these mysteries), that it must 
be our own fault if we are not as much 
improved as delighted by the perusal. Your 
account of the silent or solitary imprison- 
ment sj'stem is as pathetic and powerful 
a piece of writing as I have ever seen ; and 
your sweet, airy little snatch of the happy 
little woman, taking her new babe home 
to her young husband, and your manly and 
feeling appeal in behalf of the poor Irish 
(or rather of the affectionate poor of all 
races and tongues), who are patient and 
tender to their children, under circum- 
stances which would make half the exem- 
plary parents among the rich, monsters of 
selfishness and discontent, remind us that 
we have still among us the creator of Nelly, 
and Smike, and the school-master, and his 
dying pupil, etc. ; aud must continue to 
win for you still more of that homage of 
the heart, that love and esteem of the just 
and the good, which, though it should 
never be disjoined from them, I think you 
must already feel to be better than fortune 
or fame. 

"Well, I have no doubt your three thou- 
sand copies will be sold in a week ; and I 
hope you will tell me that they have put one 
thousand pounds at least into your pocket. 
Many people will say that the work is a 
slight one, and say it perhaps truly. But 
everybodj^ will read it; and read it with 
pleasure to themselves, and growing regard 
for the author. More — and perhaps with 
better reason, for I am myself in the number 
— will think there is rather too much of 
Laura Bridgmau, and penitentiaries, etc., 
in general. But that, I believe, is chiefiy 
because we grudge being so long parted 
from the personal presence of our enter- 
tainer as we are by these interludes, and 
therefore we hope to be forgiven by him." 

As for certain American portraits, painted 
in " Martin Chuzzlewit," I should as soon 
think of objecting to them as I should think 
of objecting to any other discovery in nat- 
ural history. To deny the existence of 



PEN niOTOGRAPIIS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



47 



"Elijah Pognira," "Jefferson Brick," "Col. 
Diver," " Mrs. Hominy," and " Miss Codg- 
er," is to deny facts, somewhat exagger- 
ated, that are patent to any keen observer 
who has ever travelled through the United 
States. The character of " Elijali Pogram " 
is so well known as to constantly figure in 
the world of illustration ; and we can well 
afford to laugh at foibles of native growth 
when Mr. Dickens devotes the greater part 
of this same novel to the exposifiou of 
English vice and selfishness. But if ever 
Americans thought they had reason to feel 
aggriet'cd, the night of the eigliteenth of 
April, 1SG3, closed the old wound forever. 
It can never be opened afresh by any word 
or deed of Charles Dickens. Frank, gen- 
erous and just, every inch the man we be- 
lieve hira to be, he stood up before the 
Press of New York, and pledged his man- 
hood in these memorable words : — 

"I henceforth charge myself, not only here, 
but on every suitable occasion, whatsoever 
and wheresoever, to express my high and 
grateful sense of ray second reception in 
America, and to bear my honest testimony 
to the national generosity and magnanim- 
ity. Also, to declare how astounded I have 
been by the amazing changes that I have 
seen around me on every side, — changes 
moral, changes physical, changes in the 
amount of land subdued and cultivated, 
changes in the rise of vast new cities, 
changes in the growth of older cities almost 
out of recognition, changes in the growth 
of the graces and amenities of life, changes 
in the press, without whose advancement 
no advancement can take place anywhere. 
Nor am I, believe me, so arrogant as to 
suppose that in five and twenty years tliere 
have been no changes in me, and that I had 
nothing to learn, and no extreme impres- 
sions to correct when I was here first. . . 

What I have intended, 

wliat I have resolved upon is, on m}'' return 
to Euuiand, in my own English journal, 
manfully, promptly, plainly, in my own per- 
son, to bear, for the behoof of my countr}'- 
men, such testimony to the gigantic changes 
in tliis country as I have hinted to-night. 
Also, to record that wherever I have been, 
in the smallest places equally with the 
largest, I have been received with unsur- 
passable politeness, delicac}'^, sweet temper, 
hospitality, and consideration, and with un- 
surpassable respect for the privacy daily 
enforced upon me by the nature of my avo- 
cation here, and the state of my health. 
This testimony, so long as I live, and so 



long as my descendants have any legal right 
in my books, I siiall cause to be republished, 
as an appendix to every copy of those two 
books of mine in which I have referred to 
America. And this I will do, and cause to 
be done, not in mere love and thankfulness, 
but because I regard it as an act of plain 
justice and honor." 

What more can the most rampant patriot 
demand of Charles Dickens? Who Is there 
that can henceforth refuse to do justice to 
his manhood, if not to his art? 

I may be accused of having wandered far 
away from the heading of this chapter, and 
yet how can any of us think of "Mrs. 
Gamp" without first recalling " I\Iartin 
Chuzzlewit"? and how can the mind dwell 
upon " Martin Chuzzlewit" without reviv- 
ing memories of "The American Notes"? 
It seems to me that, at the present time, 
such a digression is most pardonable, as it 
brings America and Charles Dickens i'ace to 
fiice, and leaves them sliaking hands in great 
good-humor, and vowing everlasting friend- 
ship. 

When "SaraWeller" concluded the val- 
entine which he wrote to the young lady 
whom he regarded with a favorable eye, he 
remarked to his father, " She'll vish there 
vos more, and thafs the great art o' letter- 
writiu'." In his reading of " Mrs. Gamp," 
Mr. Dickens seems to act upon this Welle- 
rian principle, for we most certainly wish 
there was more, and look upon it as an ag- 
gravation. To be deprived of an introduc- 
tion to " Mrs. Todgers " and her Commer- 
cial Boarding House; not to hear the sound 
of " Mark Tapley's " voice ; not to listen to 
"Elijah Pogram" as he exclaims, "Our fel- 
low-countryman is a model of a man, quite 
fresh from Nature's mould! He is a true- 
born child of this free hemisphere ! Ver- 
dant as the mountains of our country; 
bright and flowing as our mineral licks ; un- 
spiled by withering conventionalities as 
air our broad and boundless perearers! 
Rough he maybe; so air our barrs. Wild 
he may be; so air our buflalers. But he is 
a ciiild of Natur', and a child of Freedom; 
and his boastful answer to the despot and 
the tyrant is, tliat his brigiit home is in the 
settin' sun;" not to witness the present- 
ation of " Miss Toppett" and " Miss Codg- 
er" to the "Honorable Pogram," and hear 
their eloquent outpourings on that thrill- 
ing occasion, — "To be presented to a Po- 
gram by a Hominy indeed, a thrilling mo- 
ment is it in its impressiveness on what we 
call our feelings. But why we call them so, 



48 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



or wJij' impressed they are, or if impressed 
tliej' are at all, or if at all we are, or if there 
reall.v is, O gasping one ! a Pogram or a 
Honiinj', or any active principle, to which 
we give those titles, is a topic, spirit-search- 
ing, light-abandoned, much too vast to en- 
ter on, at this unlooked-for crisis." — " Mind 
and matter glide swift into the vortex of 
immensity. Howls the sublime and soft- 
ly sleeps the calm ideal in the whispering 
chambers of imagination. To hear it, 
sweet it is. But then, outlaughs the stern 
philosopher, and saith to the Grotesque, 
' What ho I arrest for me that agency. Go 
1)iing it here!' And so the vision fadeth." 
— To be deprived of all of these inaliena- 
ble rights, I repeat, is bad enough, but when 
"Mrs. Gamp's" identical self is presented 
to ns, in a mangled condition, we are im- 
pelled to "fling language " at Mr. Dickens. 
"Mrs. Gamp," is seen iu sections. Large 
slices having been taken out of her, she is 
put together again so deftly as to look like 
quite a good-sized individual ; but those of 
us, who " know her for our own," perceive 
that she has been " led a Martha to the 
stakes " of inexorable time's decrees, and 
that her garrulous tongue has been so reefed 
as to carry but half sail. Such liberties are 
"Bragian boldness" and quite sufficient to 
draw tears from " Mrs. Harris's " eyes; but 
by "Mrs. Gamp's" own confession, her 
"constitooshun" is made of " bricks," and 
thci'efore is capable of untold endurance. 
Besides, "Mrs. Gamp" is religiously sub- 
missive, as she herself confesses. " We 
gives no trust ourselves, and puts a deal o' 
trust elsewhere ; these is our religious feel- 
ings, and we finds 'em answer." And " Mrs. 
Harris" also will take comfort, for "seech 
is life. Vich likeways is the hend of all 
things ! " 

Nevertheless, even in the form of a pastic- 
cio "Mrs. Gamp" is exceedingly palatable, 
for no one knows better than Mr. Dick- 
ens what ingredients to put into a pastic- 
cio, or how to cook it. Taking that por- 
tion of "Mrs. Gamp" which is to be found 
in the beginning of the nineteenth chapter 
of "Martin Chuzzlewit," where this cele- 
brated lady is first brought before the pub- 
lic, the feast is not permitted to be a mova- 
ble one, but by extracting a speech here 
and a speech there, and by addressing con- 
versations to different characters from those 
in the novel, the entire scene is made to 
transpire at the house of "Jonas Chuzzle- 
wit." The episodes, the dialogues, are well 
chosen. — nothing could be better, — until 



the closing scene, when the human mind 
revolts at a gross injustice to " Mrs. Gamp " 
and her great contemporary " Betty Prig." 
It was not to be expected, from the very na- 
ture of the case, that the whole of the im- 
mortal fortj'-uinth chapter, " in which Mrs. 
Harris, assisted by a teapot, is the cause of 
a division between friends," should have 
been added to "Mrs. Gamp's" remains at 
the "Chuzzlewit" mansion; but it ims to 
be expected, in bringing " Mrs. Gamp " to a 
conclusion by the introduction of her difl"er- 
ence with " Betsy Prlgg," that the finale of 
this difference would be given in its en- 
tirety. AVhat disappoints in " Mrs. Gamp " is 
the absence of a climax. It is the only one 
of Mr. Dickens's Readings that is not thor- 
oughly worked up. Extreme length can- 
not be advanced as a plea, because " Mrs. 
Gamp" is provokingly short. Indeed, it 
may be truthfully claimed of her, that she is 
as broad as she is long. 

" Man needs but little here below, 
But needs that little " strong. 

No one is better acquainted with this uni- 
versal law than Mr. Dickens. Yet, in the face 
of what "Mrs. Gamp" would call a "mor- 
tar," he concludes his reading with this brief 
extract from the Battle of the Tea-pot : — 

" ' Mrs. Harris, Betsy — ' 

" ' Bother, Mrs. Harris ! ' 

" Mrs. Gamp looked at Betsy with amaze- 
ment, incredulity, and iudignation. Mrs. 
Prig, winking her eye tighter, folded her 
arms and uttered these tremendous words : — 

" ' I don't believe there's no sich a per- 
son ! ' 

" With these expressions, she snapped 
her fingers, once, twice, thrice, each time 
nearer to the face of Mrs. Gamp, and then 
turned away as one who felt that there was 
now a gulf between them which nothing 
could ever bridge across." 

Fancy the hardness of a heart that can 
steel itself against the Gampian exclama- 
tion, "Who dcniges of it, Betsy? Bets}% 
who deniges of it?" when the tone of that 
exclamation might have been everlastingly 
embalmed in our memories. Think of the 
mental depravity which ignores that solemu 
injunction, "No, Betsy! Drink fair, wot- 
ever you do ! " — that turns its metaphorical 
back upon the sage proverb, " We never 
knows wot's hidden in each other's 'arts ; 
and if we had glass winders there, we'd need 
to keep the shetters up, some on us, I do 
assure 3^ou." Finally, — and this is the rank 
oflence, — think of the inhumanity of an 



TEN PHOTOGRAPIIS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



49 



author who puts aside so touching and re- 1 
criniinatln-j; a peroration as tlie following: 
" The words Betsj' Prig spoke of Mrs. Harris, 
lambs could not forgive. No, Betsy ! nor 
worms forget ! , . O Betsy Prig, wot wick- 
edness you've showed this night, but uever 
sliall j'ou darkeu Sairey's doors agen, you 
twining serpiant!" With this peroration, 
all the other reefs in the Gampian sails 
might have been overlooked ; without it, we 

" Will fight with him upon tliis theme, 
Until ' our' eyelids will no longer wag." 

" Her name was Gamp." AVhat the phi- 
losophy of the fact may be, I am not prepared 
to state under oath, but it is a fact that, of 
all the characters brought before the public 
by Mr. Dickens at his Readings in America, 
but two have received what, on the stage, is 
called a " reception." These are " Sam 
AVeller," and "Mrs. Gamp," the first men- 
tion of either name being sufticient to evoke 
a round of applause. "Why " Sam Weller" 
should be hailed with demonstrations of re- 
gard is obvious enough; but why " Sairey 
Gamp " should be honored above the good, 
the true, and the ijrave, is almost as great a 
mj'stery as the existence of " ]Mrs. Harris " 
herself. For " Sairey Gamp " is not beauti- 
ful to sight, or sound, or sense of smell. 
She takes snuff externally as well as inter- 
nally; she wears a rusty black gown, and a 
red, swollen nose, and is irretrievably given 
over to cant and lying. What, then, is the 
secret of her immense popularity? If lam 
not mistaken, the applause that greets her 
name is the homage man pays to mother- 
wit as wit, regardless of its tenor. Man, in a 
sympathetic state of culture, can no more help 
appreciating humor, than he can help being 
born. Now, "Sairey Gamp "is a delight- 
ful old wretch, because her mother-wit leads 
her into labyrinthine humor, the virtue of. 
which lies in its unconsciouness, and the end 
of which is arrived at by means of a special 
providence. '■'■II parait qiCclle fait de la prose 
sans le savoii:" When "Sairey Gamp" 
once begins to talk, there seems to be no 
good reason why she should ever stop ; but 
she does stop and al\va3's at the proper time. 
Some people, who never wish to give credit 
where credit is due, insist that this is en- 
tirely owing to Mr. Dickens, who reports 
only so much of her conversation as suits 
his purpose ; but /believe that " Mrs. Gamp" 
is a spiritual medium in more ways than 
one, and speaks .when the spirit moves. 
Hers, too, is satisfactor}' hypocrisy. It is 
DO "huge translation," but, like her false 
i 



curls, so visible to the naked eye as to be 
"innocent of deception." She is her own 
signboard, and points in the direction in 
which she is sure to go. And, after all, 
"Mrs. Gamp" is not without sympa- 
thies ; she does go down to see poor 
" Mrs. Jonas Chuzzlewit" off on that " Con- 
fusion Steamer" the " Ankworks package," 
and delivers a feeling oration. Human na- 
ture is very much according to circumstan- 
ces, and did we occupy " Mrs. Gamp's" posi- 
tion in life, it is quite possible that we might 
look upon death and disease from a purely 
commercial point of view, and heartily 
sympathize with the nurse, as she wishes 
"Betsy Prig" "lots o' sickness, my dar- 
lin'creetur; .... and may our next meet- 
in' be at a large family's, where they takes 
it reg'lar, one from another, turn and turn 
about, and has it business-like." 

When " Mr. Pecksniff" applies himself to 
the knocker of "Mrs. Gamp's" front door, 
in Ivlngsgate Street, High Holborn, and the 
neighborhood becomes ^^ alive with female 
heads," Mr. Dickens's eyes are so distend- 
ed at the extraordinary spectacle that all 
doubt as to the possibility of such a com- 
motion is set at rest. When these ladies 
cry out with one accord, in a peculiarly anx- 
ious and feminine voice, " Knock at the win- 
der, sir, knock at the winder. Lord bless 
yon, don't lose no more time than you can 
help, — knock at the winder," the evidence 
is conclusive. The street is alive witli mar- 
ried ladies, and they cry aloud "as one 
man." There is the lady of measured me- 
dium voice and scrutinizing eye, who men- 
tally sketches in "Mr. Pecksniff" and 
observes, " He's as pale as a muffin." There 
is the lady of nervous, sanguine tempera- 
ment, who quickly retorts, with a toss of 
the head, " So he ought to be, if he's the 
feelings of a man." There is the lady of a 
melancholy turn of mind and cast of coun- 
tenance, the born victim of circumstances, 
who sees in " Mr. Pecksniff" her unrelenting 
Nemesis, and in a dejected, but just-what- 
was-to-be-expected toue of voice, remarks, 
that it " always happens so with her." The 
three types of character are defined with 
photographic accuracy. " The old motto, 
" Life is short, and art is long," finds no ex- 
emplification in Mr. Dickens. He so fully 
appreciates human exigencies that, by a 
graphic short-hand of his own, he brings a 
vast deal of art within the boundaries of no 
time at all. Thus, when "Mrs. Gamp's" 
dulcet voice is heard for the first time in 
answer to Mr, Pecksniff's raid upon the 



50 



TEN rilOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



flower-pots, and she replies " I'm a-comin'," 
"Mrs. Gamp" is her " indivvigle " self to 
such a degree that, although we have never 
seen her befoi'e, the recognition is immedi- 
ate and the applause euthusuistic. AVere 
Mr. Dickens nothing more than a voice, this 
mos.t expressive she would still live, for it is 
such a voice! Take a comb, cover it with 
tissue paper, and attempt to sing thi'ough 
it, and you have an admirable idea of the 
quality of " Mrs. Gamp's " vocal organ, pro- 
vided you make the proper allowance for an 
inordinate use of snuff. 

"Mrs. Gamp" in the distance behind 
her flower-pots, is — "Mrs. Gamp;" but 
when she throws open the windows, and 
exclaims, " Is it Mrs. Perkins? " eye as well 
as ear, acknowledges an unswerving faith in 
her identity. "Mr. Pecksuifl'" repudiates 
the Pcrkinsian theory, whereupon " Mrs. 
Gamp" again draws upon her imagination 
in the exclamation, "What, Mr. Whilks! 
Don't say it's yon, Mr. Whilks, and that 
poor creetur, Mrs. Whilks, with not even a 
pincushion ready. Don't say it's you, Mr. 
Whilks ! " 

I have said that "Mrs. Gamp" exclaims. 
It is a mistake. This pride of her sex never 
exclaims. There is an intellectual ponder- 
osity about her that renders an exclamation 
impossible. She carries too much ballast 
in the guise of that ale known as " Brighton 
old tipper," likewise of "gin-and-water, 
warm," to give way to anything like im- 
pulse. The exclamation of ordinary mor- 
tality is with her a good solid period. She 
scorns staccato passages, and her vocaliza- 
tion may be said to be conflned to the use 
of seraibreves, on which she lingers as if 
desirous of developing her voice by what is 
technically known as " swelling." She 
holds all notions of light and shade in con- 
tempt, and Avith monotonous cadence pro- 
duces effects upon her hearers undreamed 
of by her readei's. 

"It isn't Mr. Whilks. It's nothing of 
Mr. Whilks's sort," responds " Mr. Peck- 
sniff" somewhat testily. It is very funny, 
but Mr. Dickens is not " Mr. Pecksniff," 
either here or elsewhere. We do not " be- 
hold the moral Pecksniff." Mr. Dickens's 
.throat is not moral, nor does his collar say, 
" There is no deception, ladies and gentle- 
men, — all is peace ; a holy calm pei'vades 
me." His hair does not stand bolt upright, 
nor are his eyelids heavy, nor is his person 
sleek, nor is" his manner soft and oily. It 
must be allowed that "Mr. Pecksniff" is 
hardly more than a supernumerary in this 



serio-comic afterpiece, but Mr. Dickens 
treats supernumeraries with such invariably 
distinguished consideration, that with him 
we are nothing if not critical. The old 
book-keeper, " Chuffey," on the coutraiy, is 
seen and heard but once, and yet the char- 
acter stands out vividly. "My old master 
died at threescore and ten, — ought and 
carry seven. Some men are so strong that 
they live to fourscore, — four times ought's 
an ought, four times two's an eight — 
eighty. Oh ! why — why — why — didn't 
he live to four times ought's an ought, and 
four times two's an eight — eighty ? Why 
did he die before his poor old crazy ser- 
vant? Take him from me, and what re- 
mains? I loved him. He was good to me. 
I took him down once, eight boys in the 
arithmetic class at school. O God, for- 
give me ! Had I the heart to take him 
down?" The fine "points" of this short 
monologue are seized by Mr. Dickens. 
The picture of the meek, lieart-broken, 
maundering, faithful servant, with decrepit 
figure, quavering voice, and trembling 
hands, whose ruling passion is strong even 
in the presence of death, and who can only 
calculate grief as an arithmetical problem, 
is painted in natural colors ; nor is there 
exaggeration in the drawing. No less 
clever is the suggestive sketch of " Jonas 
Chuzzlewit." "There isn't any one you'd 
like to ask to the funeral, is there, Peck- 
sniff? . . . Because if there is, you know, 
ask him. We don't want to make a secret 
of it. . . . We'll have the doctor, Pecksniff, 
because he knows what was the matter with 
my father, and that it couldn't be helped." 
With nervous manner, twitching fingers, 
and with terror written upon his fixce, the 
bullying coward, now bullied by his own 
conscience, gasps, rather than speaks, in a 
hoarse voice, laying his hand to his throat 
as if ready to choke down telltale words, 
should any inadvertently escape his lips. 
Mr. Dickens may not be able to look like a 
Pecksniffian hypocrite, but he certainly can 
look like a murderer. 

Mr. Dickens is not as successful in the 
slight character of " Mr. Mould," on ac- 
count of " Mr. Mould's " strong resemblance 
to " Mr. Micawber." The little bald under- 
taker is very highly tinctured with the es- 
sence of the incomparable " Wilkins ; " and 
although the essence is in itself good, nev- 
ertheless, when employed as a flavoring ex- 
tract, it fails to perform its earthly mission. 
There is, undoubtedly, something Micaw- 
berish in the vast importance of " Mr. 



PEN PIIOTOGEAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



51 



Mould's " mannei*; but " Mr. Mould" is too 
exccUeut a character not to be originally 
delineated. Mr. Dickens's "Mr. Mould" is 
a very amusing person, epsecially when 
turning to "Mr. Pecksniff " he says, in an 
"aside," "Very shrewd woman, Mr. Peck- 
sniff, sir," referring to "Mrs. Gamp." 
" Woman whose intellect is immensely su- 
perior to her station in life ; sort of woman 
one would really almost feel disposed to 
bury for nothing, and do it neatly too." 
Cut "Mr. Mould" will never hang in the 
Dickens Portrait Gallery. " C'est viar/ni- 
fique, mats ce n'' est pas la guerre." 

Nor, alas! can we ever see there the 
classic features of "Betsey Prig" ! The 
outline drawn by Mr. Dickens is not the 
" counterfeit presentment," but a hasty 
limning, executed apparently without any 
careful study of the original. This is the only 
theory upon which the absence of a speak- 
ing likeiiess can be accounted for. "Mrs. 
Prig" has "a gruff voice, and a beard," 
— a mannish voice, if you like, — but is not 
"a man for a' that; " and as the author of 
her being depicts this " interesting lady," 
she is superlatively a man. It does not, for 
an instant, occur to us that Mr. Dickens 
is anybody but Mr. Dickens in a demoral- 
ized condition of mind and countenance. 
There is no illusion, and notwithstanding 
that " the best of creeturs " bothers " Mrs. 
Harris," assumes an attitude of defiance, 
winks her eye, "declai'es there's no sich a 
person," and snaps her fingers in " Mrs. 
Gamp's" face, It is not the " Mrs. Prig" we 
have known these many years. With Beau 
Brummel's unaccomplished neckties, this 
present portrait must be recorded as among 
"our failures," — a fiiilure that were easily 
retrieved did the artist pose his model care- 
fully and begin on a new canvas. Should 
he do so, may he not forget to introduce a 
" cowcumber." 

" Xous revenons totijours a 7ios premiers 
amours," and "Mrs. Gamp "so generously 
overflows the measure of our content, that 
the heart softens towards her professional 
partner. " And so the gentleman's dead, 
sir! Ah! the more's the pity. But it's 
what we must all come to. It's as certain 
as being born, except that we can't make 
our calkilations as exact. Ah I poor dear ! " 
" Mrs. Gamp's " " ahs," like " Mr. Mould's " 
coflius, are ready-made to suit all custom- 
ers, and are as long or as short as circum- 
stances require. Sighs become the lady's 
station in life. " When time shall serve, 
there shall be smiles ; " and whenever 



"Mrs. Gamp" sighs she smiles in obedi- 
ence to Shakespeare's text. The expression 
of her glowing face, at this juncture, defies 
language however live, particularly as she 
remarks to " Mrs. Harris," with a pendulum 
wag to her head, in the temper of a funeral 
march, "7/" / co^ikl possible afford to lay all 
my feller-creeturs out for nothiiik, I loould 
gladly do it, sich is the love I bears 'em." 
Dore, in his best manner, which was j'ears 
ago, could not have been more grotesque 
than Mr. Dickens is when " Mrs. Gamps's" 
"half a pint 'o porter fully satisfies; per- 
wisin, Mrs. Harris, which I makes confes- 
sion, that it is brought reglar, and draw\l 
mild." Like the warrior's charger, she 
smells, not the battle, but the bottle afar off, 
and her whole spiritual nature expands un- 
der the genial influence. " She would in- 
fect the north star." 

But there are chords in " Mrs. Gamp's " 
heart that porter cannot reach. Those 
chords are only touched when " Mrs. Gamp " 
appears in the beautiful character of wife and 
mother. "The blessings of a daughter 
was deniged me," she informs " Mr. Mould,'' 
with a maternal tremolo in her voice, 
"which if we had had one, Gamp would 
certainly have drunk its little shoes right 
ofl' its feet, as with our preglous boy he 
did, and afterwards send the child a errand, 
to sell his wooden leg for any liquor it 
would fedge, as matches in the rough ; which 
was truly done beyond his years, for ev'ry 
Indiwidgle penny that child lost at tossing 
for kidney-pies, and come home afterwai'ds 
quite sweet and bold, to break the news, 
and offering to drown himself if sech would 
be a satlsfagiou to his parents." " Mrs. 
Gamp " may not speak the Queen's English 
in obedience to royal commands ; but the 
sublimity of her ignorance raises her so 
far above the rules regulating ordinary hu- 
manity, as to render her conversation infi- 
nitely superior to that of the schools. A 
little learning is not only dangerous but 
stupid, whereas a great deal of human na- 
ture "in the rough" carries a force that 
big-wigs confess while they condemn. What 
flight of rhetoric, for example, can equal 
"Mrs. Gamp's" reply to Mrs. Harris's 
" awful" question, " Sairey, tell me wot is 
my iudividgle number "? referring to family 
extension. " No, Mrs. Harris, ex-cuge me. 
If you please. My own family has fallen 
out three pair backs, and has had damp 
doorsteps settled on their lungs, and one 
was turned up smilin' in a bedstead unbC' 
known." (Here "Mrs. Gamp" suits the 



52 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



action to the word and smiles the smile of 
confiding youth and innocence. It appeals 
so irresistibly to the feelings that we I'ather 
wish Vesuvius were conveniently near and 
would repeat, in a small way, its dramatic 
performance entitled " Pompeii," that we 
might possess a cast in lava of an extraor- 
dinai'y countenance.) "Therefore, ma'am, 
seek not to protigipate, but take 'em as 
they come and as they go. Mine is all gone, 
my dear young chick. And as to husband's, 
there's a loooden leg gone likewise home to its 
account, which in its constangy of walking 
into public 'ouses, and never coming out again 
till fedged by forge, was quite as weak as 
flesh, if not tneaker." (Could a constant 
stream of molten lava play over "Mrs. 
Gamp's" features, and by this peculiar form 
of douche bath obtain her lasting impres- 
sions, it would be better still.) As that 
wooden leg goes home to its account, the 
bereaved widow follows its translation 
with moist, upturned eyes, while her refer- 
ence to its superiority in weakness over 
flesh, is made in tones that carry enthusias- 
tic conviction to the most sceptical minds. 
After this insight into "Mrs. Gamp's" do- 
mestic relations, it does not seem strange 



that the thrifty relict should have "dis- 
posed of her husband's remains " — partic- 
ularly the wooden leg — " for the benefit of 
science." 

Lastly, " Mrs. Gamp" is a philosopher, 
and sluues as brightly in this capacity as in 
all others. She is a proverbial philosopher, 
and brings wisdom to a focus in fewer 
words than many another of greater repute. 
There is a sibylline tendency in her look 
as she ecstatically gazes toward heaven 
and speaks of " this Pilgian's Progiss of a 
mortal wale," giving as her text for the ser- 
mon of life, " You ought to know that you 
was born in a wale, and that you live in a 
wale, and that you must take the conse- 
quences of sich a sitivation." Thus is the 
whole ground of existence covered. Misery 
can find no greater consolation, unless it 
hug itself with the equally incontrovertible 
Gampian proverb that " Rich folks may 
ride on camels, but it aint so easy for them 
to see out of a needle's eye. That's my 
comfort, and I hope I knows it." Soothed 
by these reflections, we take the conse- 
quences of our situation and depart in 
peace as " Mrs. Gamp " withdraws from 
view. 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



53 



"FAKEWELL." 



•' Should we be taking leave 
As long a term as yet we have to live, 
The loathness to depart would grow." 

" Othello's occupation's gone. The last 
reading has been heard ; the last photograph 
has been taken, and the camera obscura, 
which has done its work so imperfectly, is 
put aside. There is nothing left, alas ! but 
leave-taking; and for the last time we sit 
in Boston's Tremont Temple to listen to the 
voice that has swayed us to smiles and tears 
so many, many nights. Crowded to its 
utmost capacity, the brilliant hall might be 
called, in honor of "Mrs. Fezziwig," "one 
vast substantial smile," were it not for the 
clouds flitting over sunny faces at thought 
that the pleasure must be fleeting. There is 
a cordial warmth in the atmosphere, for the 
audience has been magnetized into perfect 
sympathy, and feels how good it is to be 
bound together by a common interest. 
The reading-stand wears an unaccustomed 
look, concealed as it is by a Florentine 
mosaic of Nature's making. Roses, full- 
blown, blossoming, and of every hue — 
roses without thorns — breathe their silent 
language of love ; the heliotrope proclaims 
devoted attachment ; "violets dim" grow 
bold to catch a glimpse of the hero of the 
niglit; imperial lilies bow their graceful 
heads iu homage; the palm-leaf, flower- 
laden, tells the story of a huudi'ed victories. 
"And there are pansies, that's for 
thoughts," which rear their little smiling 
heads that they may whisper in genial Boz's 
ear the words, ' Forget me not.' " 

We sliall not forget the hearty welcome 
that greets the entrance of Charles Dickens, 
nor will he forget this red-letter night, the 
eighth of April, 1SG8. The reception, so 
full of tenderness and regard, steals away 
the artist's self-possession, and laj's bare 
the emotion of the man. Looking at his 
new friends, that do not applaud, and yet 
dare encroach upon his stand, Charles 
Dickens says : "Before allowing Dr. Mari- 
gold to tell his story iu his own peculiar 
way, I kiss the kind, fair hands unknown, 
which have so beautifully decorated my 
table this evening." I 

This graceful, characteristic acknowl- I 



edgment, so feelingly delivered, brings" the 
spealcer and his audience still nearer to one 
another, and the "hands unknown" wish 
the path, as well as the table, were strewn 
with flowers. 

Then follows the story of "Dr. Mari- 
gold," — never better told, never heard with 
more responsive appreciation. The story 
is well chosen, for the marigold is " the 
flower of the calends" that blossoms the 
whole year, and symbolizes grief, yet turns 
towards the sun as it speeds from east to 
west. However, the good " Doctor's " grief 
merges itself in joy, and so does ours while 
"Mrs. Gamp" discourses; but "Mrs. 
Gamp " is a fleeting shadovv, and we stand at 
last in the presence of that grim skeleton, 
Farewell. It is in vain for Charles Dickens 
to attempt to retire. Persistent hands de- 
mand "one word more." Returning to his 
desk, pale, with a tear in his eye that flnds its 
way to his voice, Charles Dickeu speaks : — 

" Ladies and Gentlemen, — My gracious and 
generous welcome in America, which can 
never be obliterated from my remembrance, 
began here. My departure begins here, 
too; for I assure you that I have never 
until this moment really felt that I am going 
away. In this brief life of ours it is sad to 
do almost anything for the last time, and I 
cannot conceal from you, although ni}'^ face 
will so soon be turned towards my native 
land and to all that makes it dear, that it is 
a sad consideration with me that in. a very 
few moments from this time this brilliant 
hall and all that it contains will fade from 
my view — forevermore. But it is my con- 
solation that the spirit of the bright faces, 
the quick perception, the ready response, 
the generous and the cheering sounds that 
have made this place delightful to me, will 
remain; and you maj^ rely upon it that that 
spirit will abide with me as long as I have 
sense and sentiment left. 

"I do not say this with aiy limited refer- 
ence to private friendships that have for 
years upon years made Boston a memorable 
and beloved spot to me, for such private 
references have no business in this public 
place. I say it purelj' iu I'emembrance of, 



54 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



and iu homage to, the great public heart 
before me. 

" Ladies and Gentlemen : I beg most ear- 
nestly, most gratefully, and most affection- 
ately, to bid you, each and all, farewell." 

«« Forevermore." We seem to hear a 
fnneral knell. The sad, earnest words, so 
exquisitely spoken that they are set aside 
as never to be equalled, go straight to every 
heart, and when "farewell" is said, there's 
not an eye iu the vast assemblage that does 
not glisten, there's not a face that does not 
reflect the hour's solemnity. Yet cheer 
after cheer resounds through the hall, hats 
go up, and fluttering handkerchiefs wave in 
the air, uutil Charles Dickens, fearing " the 
little more " that is too much for fortitude, 
passes out of Boston's sight. The good, 
true, commonwealth has taken Charles 
Dickens to its good, true heart, and there 
will his memory ahiAe forevermore. 

We follow Boz to New Yorlc, and on the 
twentieth of April, witness the "last scene 
of all." Sufi"ering physically, sitting, not 
standing, Charles Dickens goes through 
the final ordeal, reading, "The Christmas 
Carol," and " The Pickwick Trial," well, 
although but half himself. New York pays 
floral tribute, as well as Boston ; New York 
applauds, aud then comes the second leave- 
taking : — 

"iod/es and Gentlemen, — The shadow 
of one word has impended over me all this 
evening, and the time has come at last 
when the shadow must fall. It is but a 
very short one, but the wciglit of such 
things is not measured by their length ; and 
two much shorter words express the whole 



realm of our human existence. When I 
was reading 'David Copperfield,' here, 
last Thursday night, I felt that there was 
more than usual significance for me iu Mr. 
Peggotty's declaration : ' My future life 
lies over the sea.' And when I closed this 
book just now, I felt keenly that I was 
shortly to establish such an alihi as would 
have satisfied even the elder Mr. Weller 
himself. The relations that have been set 
up between us in this place — relations sus- 
tained on ray side, at least, by the most 
earnest devotion of myself to my task; 
sustained by 3'ourselvcs, on your side, by 
the readiest sympathy and kindliest ac- 
knowledgment — must now be broken for- 
ever. But I eutreat you to believe that in 
passing from my sight you will not pass 
from my memory. I shall often, often re- 
call you as I see you now, equally by my 
winter flre, and in the green, English sum- 
mer weather. I shall never recall j'ou as a 
mere public audience, but rather as a host 
of personal friends, and ever with the 
greatest gratitude, tenderness, and consid- 
eration. Ladies and gentlemen, I beg to 
bid you farewell. And I pray God bless 
you, and God bless the land in which I 
have met you." 

Rise, one and all, follow him with your 
cheers, aud let silvery-tongued George 
William Curtis speak for America, as he 
exclaims, " Old ocean, bear him safely 
over! English hedges, welcome him with 
flowers cf the May ! English hearts, he is 
ours as he is yours ! We stand upon the 
shore; we say farewell; and as he sails 
away, we pra}^ with love aud gratitude, 
May God bless him ! " 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



55 



''THE VERDICT." 



Tnn curtain has fallen, aud nothing re- 
mains but to hear the final verdict passed 
upon Charles Dickens. The impanelled 
jury pronounce him guilty of all the 
charges brought against him, aud now, as 
in duty bound, sum them up. 

FiusT Charge. — That, as an author, 
Charles Dickens is without a peer. William 
Makepeace Thackery, foreman of the jury, 
claims that he is the master of all the 
English humorists now alive. " Think," he 
argues, " of all we owe Mr. Dickens, — 
the store of happy hours that he has made 
us pass, the kindly and pleasant companions 
whom he has introduced to us ; the harm- 
less laugliter, the generous Avit, the frank, 
manly, human love which he has taught us 
to feel ! Every month has brought us some 
kind token from this delightful genius. 
His books may have lost in art, perhaps, 
but could we afford to wait? Since the 
days when the 'Spectator' was produced, 
by a man of kindred mind, and temper, 
what books have appeared that have taken 
so atfoctionate a hold of the English public 
as these? They have made millions of rich 
and poor happy ; they might have been 
locked up for nine years, doubtless, and 
pruned here and there, and improved 
(which I doubt) ; but where would have 
been the reader's benefit all this time, while 
the author was elaborating his perform- 
ance? Would the communion between the 
writer and the public have been what it is 
now, — something continual, confidential, 
something like personal afl'ection? I do 
not know whether these stories are written 
for future ages ; many sage critics doubt on 
this head. There are always such con- 
jurors to tell literary fortunes; and, to my 
certain knowledge, Boz, according to them, 
has been sinking, regularl}', these six years 
(184-1). I doubt about that m3'sterious 
writing for futurity which certain big-wigs 
prescribe. Snarl has a chance, certainly. 
His works, which have not been read in 
this age, maj be read in future ; but the re- 
ceipt for that sort of writing has never yet 
been clearly ascertained. Shakespeare did 
not write for futurity; he wrote his plays 
for the same purpose which inspires the pen 
of Alfred Buun, Esquire, viz., to fill his 



Theatre Royal. And yet we read Shakes- 
peare now. Le Sage and Fielding wrote 
for their public; and though the great 
Doctor Johnson put his peevish protest 
against the fame of the latter, and voted 
him 'a dull cTog, sir, — a low fellow,' yet 
somehow Harry Fielding has survived in 
spite of the critic, and Parson Adams is, at 
this minute, as real a character, as much 
loved by us, as the old doctor himself. 
What a noble, divine power this of genius 
is, which, passing from the poet into his 
reader's soul, mingles with it, and there 
engenders, as it were, real creatures, which 
is as strong as history, which creates be- 
ings that take their place by nature's own! 
All that we know of Don Quixote, or Louis 
XIV., we got to know in the same way — 
out of a book. I declare I love Sir Roger 
de Coverley quite as much as Izaak Walton, 
and have just as clear a consciousness of 
the looks, voice, habit, and manner of being, 
of the one as of the other. 

"And so with regard to this question of 
futurity; if any benevolent being of .the 
present age is imbued with a yearning de- 
sire to know what his great-great-grand- 
child will think of this or that author, — of 
Mr. Dickens especially, whose claims- to 
fame have raised the question, — the only 
way to settle it is by the ordinary historic 
method. Did not your great-great-grand- 
father love and delight in Don Quixote aud 
Sancho Panza? Have they lost their vital- 
ity by their age ? Don't they move laughter 
and awaken aflection, now, as three hun- 
dred years ago? And so with Don Pick- 
wick and Sancho Weller; if their gentle hu- 
mor and kindly wit, and hearty, benevolent 
natures, touch us aud convince us, as it 
were, now, why should they not exist for 
our children as well as for us, and make the 
twenty-fifth century happy, as they have 
the nineteenth? Let Snarl console himself, 
then as to the future." .... "There are 
creations of Mr. Dickens which seem to 
me to rank as personal benefits ; figures so 
delightful, that one feels happier and better 
for knowing them, as one does for being 
brought into the society of very good men 
and women. The atmosphere in which 
these people live is wholesome to breathe 



■)G 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CIIAELES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



in ; you feel that to be allowed to speak to 
them is a personal kindness ; you come 
away better for your contact with them ; 
your- hands seem cleaner from having the 
privilege of shaking theirs. ... I may 
quarrel with Mr. Dickens's art a thousand 
and a thousand times. I delight and wonder 
at his genius. I recognize in it — I speak 
with awe and reverence — a commission 
from that Divine Beneficence, whose blessed 
task we know it will one day be to wipe 
every tear from every eye. Thankfally I 
take ray share of the feast of love and k;r.d- 
ness, which this gentle, and generous, and 
charitable soul has contributed to the hap- 
piness of the world. I take and enjoy my 
share, and say a benediction for the meal." 
Second Charge. — That Mr. Dickens is one 
of the best of actors, and, as an interpreter of 
himself, stands unrivalled. Our indebtedness 
to him is vastly increased b}' his visit to this 
country, for he has demonstrated, by personal 
illustration, the meaning of the long-neglect- 
ed art of reading. He has sliowu us that 
it means a perfectly easy, unaffected man- 
ner, a thoroughly colloquial tone, and an en- 
tire absence of the stilted elocution that has 
heretofore passed current for good reading, 
the virus of which has well-nigh ruined our 
school of public speaking. Mr. Dickens 
has done more ; he has proved that the very 
best reading is such as approaches the very 
best acting, and in adopting the actor's pro- 
fession he has paid the highest tribute to a 
noble art, — one to which he has always 
been an earnest and devoted friend. Charles 
Dickens is now twice Charles Dickens. He 
is author and actor, as only Shakespeare 
has been before him; and the balance be- 
tween the two may be considered almost 
even, for while Shakespeare is of course the 
greater author, it is safe to regard Charles 
Dickens as the finer actor! Herein the lat- 
ter resembles the magician who pours out 
numberless wines and liquors from one 
small, black bottle. He " costumes his 
mind," as Carlyle once declared, and with- 
out change of scene presents a repertoire 
of eighty-six characters ! This is but a small 
percentage of his Fancy's children, — the 
dramatis personce of his fourteen principal 
■works numbering no less than seven hun- 
dred and ninety-two, — yet it is enough. 
Nevertheless, were we, the jurj^omnipotent, 
we would have Mr. Dickens luxuriously 
incarcerated until he had made a dramatic 
study of every one of his books, and was 
pi'epared to read them by instalments. Per- 
haps in another world, where time is of no 



consequence, Mr. Dickens may give his 
mind to a like occupation. With such audi- 
ences as he can there draw around him, it 
will indeed be " a feast of reason and a flow 
of soul." 

Third Charge. — That, gladly borrowing 
the language of Horace Greeley, we regard 
him as " the most thoroughly successful lit- 
erary man of our time, " whose success " is 
an encouragement to every one of us." All 
reporters, all editors cannot be Charles 
Dickens ; but, did all reporters report, did 
all editors edit, as their great example re- 
ported and edited, then might their light 
shine as it is not wont to shine. Let those 
who would know the secret of this success 
turn to "David Copperfleld," wherein there 
is undoubtedly more of the author's person- 
ality than can be found elsewhere, and read 
the creed by which Charles Dickens has 
been guided : — 

" I have been very fortunate in worldly 
matters ; many men have worked much hard- 
er and not succeeded half so well; but I 
never could have done what I have done, 
without the habits of punctualitj% order, and 
diligence, without the determination to con- 
centrate myself on one object at a time, no 
matter how quickly its successor should 
come upon its heels, which I then formed. 
Heaven knows I write this in no spirit of 
self-laudation. The man Avho reviews his 
own life, as I do mine, in going on here, 
from page to page, had need to have been a 
good man indeed, if he would be spared the 
sharp consciousness of many talents neglect- 
ed, many opportunities wasted, many er- 
ratic and perverted feelings constantly at 
war within his breast, and defeating him. 
I do not hold one natural gift, I dare say, 
that I have not abused. My meaning sim- 
ply is, that whatever I have tried to do in 
life, I have tried with all my heart to do 
well ; that whatever I have devoted myself 
to, I have devoted myself to completely; 
that in great aims and iu small I have al- 
ways been thoroughly iu earnest. I have 
never believed it possible that any natural 
or improved ability can claim immunity from 
the companionship of the steadj^ plain, 
hard-working qualities, and hope to gain its 
end. There is no such thing as such fulfil- 
ment on this earth. Some happy talent and 
some fortunate opportunity may form the 
two sides of the ladder on which some men 
mount, but the rounds of that ladder must 
be made of stuff to stand wear and tear; and 
there is no substitute for tliorough-going, 
ardent, and sincere earnestness. Never to 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



57 



put one hand to anythini^, on which I could 
throw my whole self, and never to affect 
depreciation of my work, whatever it was ; 
I find now to have been ray golden rules." 

Founrii Ciiahge. — That Charles Dickens 
has ever been faithful to the profession of 
letters ; that his career, as George William 
Curtis says so admirably, "illustrates what 
Charles Lamb called the sanity of genius. 
He has never debased it to unworthy ends. 
He has shown us that he is not a denizen 
of Bohemia only, but a citizen of the world. 
He has always honored his profession by 
asserting its dignity in his name." Assert- 
ed by the man, it has been maintained by 
the author. The prefiice of the first book 
written by Boz — " The Pickwick Pa- 
pers " — is a grateful dedication to Thomas 
Noon Talford, in acknowledgment of his 
efforts in behalf of an author's copyright. 
Never has this subject, so vital to writers, 
been out of his thoughts. " With regard 
to such questions as are not political," re- 
marks " Mr. Grcgsbury," the member of 
Parliament to whom "Nicholas Nickleby" 
applies for the situation of secretary, — 
and " which one can't be expected to care a 
damn about, beyond the natural care of 
not allowing inferior people to be as well 
off as ourselves, else where are our privi- 
leges ? I should wish my secretary to get 
together a few little flourishing speeches 
of a patriotic sort. For instance, if any 
preposterous bill Avere brought forward for 
giving poor grubbing devils of authors a 
right to their own property, I should like to 
say, that I, for one, would never consent to 
opposing an insurmountable bar to the diffu- 
sion of literature among the people, — j'ou 
understand? that the creations of the pock- 
et being man's, might belong to one man, or 
one family; but tiiat the creations of the 
brain, being God's, ought, as a matter of 
course, to belong to the people at large, — 
and, if I was pleasantly disposed, I should 
like to make a joke about posterity', and say 
that those who wrote for posterity, should 
be content to be rewarded by the approba- 
tion of posterity ; it might take with the 
house, and could never do me any harm, be- 
cause posterity can't be expected to know 
anything about me or my jokes either, — 
don't you see ? . . . You must always bear 
in mind, in such cases as this, where our 
interests are not affected, to put it very 
strong about the people, because it comes 
out very well at election time ; and you could 
be as funny as you liked about the authors ; 



because I believe the greater part of them 
live in lodgings and are not voters." 

Some years after the publicatiou of 
"Nicholas Nickleby," at that memorable 
dinner given to Charles Dickens by the 
young men of Boston, twenty-six years 
ago, the subject of international copyright 
found expression in words that, be it said 
to our shame, still remain unheeded. " Be- 
fore I sit down," said the honored guest, 
" there is one topic on which I am desirous 
to lay particular stress. It has, or should 
have, a strong interest for us all, since to 
its literature every country must look for 
one great means of refining and improving 
its people, and one great source of national 
pride and honor. You have in America 
great writers — great writers — who will 
live in all time, and are as familiar to our 
lips as household words. Deriving (which 
they all do in a greater or less degree, in 
their sevei'al walks,) their inspiration from 
the stupendous country that gave them 
birth, the}'' difl'use a better knowledge of it, 
and a higher love for it, over the civilized 
world. I take leave to say, in the presence 
of some of those gentlemen, that I hope 
the time is not far distant when they, in 
America, will receive of right some sub- 
stantial profit and return in England from 
their labors; and when we, in England, 
shall receive some substantial profit and re- 
turn in America from ours. Pray do not 
misunderstand me. Securing to mj'self 
from day to day the means of an honorable 
subsistence, I would rather have the aflec- 
tionate regard of my fellow-men, than I 
would have heaps and mines of gold. But 
the two things do not seem to me incompat- 
ible. They cannot be, for nothing good is 
incompatible with justice. There must be 
an international arrangement in this re- 
spect ; England has done her part ; and I 
am confident that the time is not far distant 
when America will do hers. It becomes the 
character of a great country, firsthj, because 
it is justice; secondly, because without it 
you never can have, and keep, a literature 
of your own." With this noble record 
Charles Dickens may rightly claim "that 
the cause of art generally has been safe in 
his keeping, and that it has never been 
falsely dealt with by him; that he has al- 
ways been true to his calling; that never 
unduly to assert it on the one hand, and 
never, on any pretence or consideration, to 
permit it to l)o patronized in his person,has 
been the steady endeavor of his life, and 



58 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



that he will leave its social position In 
England better than he found it." Thank 
God that "morals have something to do 
with ai't," and that the genius of Dickens 
has realized this solemn fact. 

EiFTU AND LAST CiiARGE. — - That by his 
second visit to America Charles Dickens 
has fulfilled the prophecy that he would 
" lay down a third cable of intercommuni- 
cation and alliance between the Old World 
and the New." Twelve years ago he wrote 
of the American nation : " I know full well, 
whatever little motes my beamy eyes may 
have descried in theirs, that they are a kind, 
large-hearted, generous, and great people." 
In that faith he came to see us ; in that foith 
he is more fully confirmed than ever; In 
that faith he, on the eighteentji of April, 
1868, pledged himself in the presence of the 
New York press, " to be in England as 
faithful to America as to England herself." 
" Points of dift'erence there have been," he 
said, "points of difference there are, points 
of difference there probably always will be 
between the two great peoples. But broad- 
cast in England is sown tlie sentiment that 
those two peoples are essentially one, and 
that it rests with them jointly to uphold the 
great Anglo-Saxon race, to which our presi- 
dent has referred, and all its great achieve- 
ments before the world. If I know any- 
thing of my countrymen, and they give me 
credit for knowing something, if I know 
any thing of my countrymen, gentlemen, 
the English heart is stirred by the fluttering 
of those stars and stripes, as it is stirred 
by no other flag that flies except its own. 
If I know my countrymen, in any and every 
relation toward America, they begin, not as 
Sir Anthony Absolute recommended lovers 



to begin, with " a little aversion," but with 
a great liking and pi'ofonnd respect; and 
whatever the little sensitiveness of the mo- 
ment, or the little ofHcial passion, or the 
little official policy, now, or then, or here, 
or there, may be, take my word for it, that 
the first, enduring, great popular consider- 
ation in England is a generous construction 
of justice. Finally, gentlemen, and I say 
this, subject to your correction, I do believe 
that, from the great majority of honest 
minds on both sides, there cannot be ab- 
sent the conviction that it would be better 
for this globe to be riven by an earthquake, 
fired by a comet, overrun by an iceberg, 
and abandoned to the Arctic fox and bear, 
than that it should present the spectacle of 
these two great nations, each of whom has, 
in its own way and hour, striven so hard 
and so successfully for freedom, ever again 
being arrayed the one against the other." 

Amen, amen, amen ! AVith Landor of 
old we of to-day are ready to exclaim : — 

" JJere comes the minister! 

Yes, thou art lie, although not sent 
By cabinet or jjarliaraent: 
Yes, thou art he." 

Charles Dickens is a minister of peace 
and light, and the toast once given by him 
in Boston is the fitting conclusion of a 
manly, generous speech : — 

"America and England; may they never 
have any division but the Atlantic between 
them ! " 

In Charles Dickens, author and actor, 
man and minister, the New World bids the 
Old World welcome; and thus, "putting 
a girdle round the earth," we say, as the new 
"minister" has often said, "God bless us 
every one." 



THE ROUA PASS; 
Or Englishmen in the Highlands. 

By Erick Mackenzie. Neat paper covers. Price 75 cents. 

Ten years ago this brilliant novel was first published in London, and like " Tique," by its own merits 
has grown stronger in popular favor with every succeeding year. 

Several copies were added to " Loring's Circulating Library," which at once became great favorites, 
and have kept constantly in demand, through the hearty recommendation of one friend to another. 

This test of merit is strong enough to warrant the issue of an American edition in the popular form of 




The London Saturday lierieio says of it,— 

" It is very seldom that we have to notice so good a book as ' The Roua Pass.' It does not aim at excellence 
of the highest order, but it displays almost every quality that ensures the attainment of a success. The 
story is well contrived and well told, the incidents are natural and varied ; several of the characters are 
skilfully drawn, and one, that of the heroine, is fresh, powerful, and original. 

" The Highland scenery is described with truth and feeling, with a command of language that leaves a 
vivid impression. Probably, therefore when we say that, without bearing any trace of imitation, 'The 
Roua Pass,' is a tale of the same kind and attaining the same degree of excellence as ' The Initials,' we 
shall give our readers a better clue to the pleasure they may expect in reading it, than if we were to fill 
columns in analyzing and eulogizing its contents. 

"'The Koua Pass 'lias this in common with ' The Initials,' that the main Interest of the story turns 
upon the behavior of a simple, noble-hearted girl, who finds herself thrown into the society of a foreign 
lover, who is, in some respects at least, lier superior. And like ' The Initials,' it contains many parts 
which are more or less connected with the story, but which mainly charm us because they have a local 
coloring, and give us pictures of maHners and traits of national character. 

" We have, for instance, a description of ' Loch Fishing,' of a ' Barn Ball,' and of the ' Sunday Congre- 
gation of a Highland Church,' each admirable for life and truth, and a subdued flavor of the ludicrous. 

" Later in the story we have a picture of the hospitality of a Highland Vassal welcoming his Laird, 
and his Laird's Family; and a very touching account of the fate of a ' Highland Shepherd,' lost in the 
enow. 

" There are also some comic scenes, powerfully based on the oddities of a warm-hearted old maid, that 
show the author had an eye to the peculiarities of the last generation of the Scotch. 

" We do not mean to speak of ' The iloua Pass ' as a boolf without faults ; but the faults are very few 
and very trifling, and novel-readers may think themselves fortunate to have a story oflfere . them so 
pleasant, so new, and so evenly good." 

IN A 

Freiicli Coiiiitry-House. 

By Mrs. Adelaide (Kemble) Sartoris. Neat paper covers. Price 30 cents. 

" The author of this fresh story is a sister of Fanny Kemble Butler. It is bright, piquant, and racy, 
and just lone i nough to be read during a trip to the country. In its convenient form it will just fit into 
a pocKet ; and its type will hold the e> e, in spite of joltings, while its brilliancy and humor will provoke 
many a lieaity laugh. No one could be more charmingly absurd than Mons. Jacques ; no one more de- 
liciously independent than Ursula. In sliort, it is Frenoh, it is graceful. It is charming, — as shrewd a bit 
of portraitui e, as racy a sketch of social life, as we have seen this many a day. No doubt it will make 
enjoyable many a long ride before summer is gone, and, perhaps, give rise to more serious thoughts, for 
it is not without its pathetic side." — Boston Transcript. 

" We have read it, and we must confess, with great gusto. R is written with remarkable pithiness 
and spirit. The various individuals encountered, from the lofty Madame Olympe to tlie erratic Monsieur 
Kiowski, are portrayed witli a raciness and piquancy, showing great strength in the delineation of char- 
acter. Ursula Hamilton is the masterpiece of the book. Neglected by titled kindred when poor and 
dependent, — scorning their patron.ige and obsequiousness, when, through fortuitous circumstances, be- 
coming an heiress,- in dignity, strength, nobleness, she rivets the attention and e.xcites the admiration 
of all reailers. Her relation to the singular Monsieur Jacques is striking, from its peculiar novelty and 
originality. The dialogues between them have made our editor's room resonant with peals of laughter. 
There is evidently no plagiarism here. We have but one regret in connection with this book, wliich can 
be e.\ercised in regard to very few ; namely, its brevity. We feel, after reading it, as if we had followed 
Franklin's maxim, and gotten up from our dinner hungry. — ^Vaijojia/ liepublican, irashington. 



Their magic power causes tlie one faint, almost lost, (tlvine spark lo shoot forth its one sad ray; develops 
it, by and by, into a radiant star; and finally causes it to make warm and joyous again the nature but just 
now dark, and cold, and wretched. Thus does Florence Marryat, in her own peculiar way, and from 
her convictions and experience, teach the lessons true souls are ever teaching. 
We think all will agree with us when we say that her fifth book is her best. 

The Confessions of Gerald Estcoiirt. 

How long the man's world has venerated woman, for how long looked upon her with eyes full of love, 
guarding her with weapons of war, and holding her with arms of absolute strength I and yet until " Jane 
Eyre" made its appearance, that book of terrible brain muscle, followed by Miss Mulock's " John Hali- 
fax," and George Eliot's (Hiss Evans) great novel of" Adam Bede," we men swore by Bulwer, and other 
of the masculine goose-quills, and never dreamed that any woman lived who had observed the minute 
shades of character in order to develop the plot of a life narrative. It is true that Jane Porter, Miss 
Edgeworth, and that rollicking Irish authoress, weak and strong Lady Morgan, and Mrs. Kadcliffe, had 
meandered through the superficial and reached the natural results; but when "Jane Eyre " burst upon 
the literary world, and its author was found out to be a woman, man's heart called upon man's brain to 
join in a willing addition of gallantry, and our loves became purified by the process of intellectual appre- 
ciation, 

■Whoever has seen a photograph, in the bookstores, of a bright, sunny woman, leaning good temperedly 
forward over the back of a chair, will have seen a sun-ray likeness of 

FLORENCE MARRYAT, 

she whose last and best book, 

Tk Coiifessloiis of Gerald Eslcoiol, 

is lying upon our table as we write. 

This book is indeedher best, — may be called, in fact, as "best" as anybody can write. 

It is a book with great touches of character, and incidents enough to charm a deeper reader than the 
usual time-killer of a railway train. The wife passing through the ordeal of a husband's family jealousy ; 
the husband ruled in his conduct to his wife by his mother, type of that proverbially terrible " mother-in- 
law," so well known, and so often met at tea-tables, — the fussy, sarcastic, ruling, interfering " mother-in- 
law,"— is painted to the life ; and the sisters-in-law (legalized relationship), those fearfully fearless poachers 
upon knick-knacks and other lying around pretty things, which they have only to admire to obtain from 
the proud brother, — wife's property, — and wife willing or unwilling of not the sligliest consequence; 
and then it is glorious reading to follow up the course of Gerald, first as boy, afterward through all the 
stages of his difficult course. Father taught, mother loved, they separated, and both striving for the 
child love and the man's love. 

How powerfully in all this stands forth the great truth that woman is mother as much of the man as 
of the untoothed baby I for none but a woman, entering into the maternal moods, assimilating herself to 
the maternal needs, could carry this Gerald through all he has to pass through, comprehending him, 
feeling for him, and with the subtle force of supreme nature, making us participants and sympathizers in 
all that appertains to her model or her instrument of intellectual inspiration and conception. 

American readers will, we feel assured, seek out this new and noblest effort of the great sea-captain's 
daughter ; and after the first four pages are got through with, woe betide the intruding visitor who shall 
break the rapt attention seeking for the entire context. 



FLORENCE MARRYAT'S BOOKS. 



Flokexce Maruyat is now well known to the reading world as the author of five well-written nov 
els. They are extremely well-developed fictions, and well worth the time employed in reading them, 
They are distinct stories, without parallelism, having nothing in common but their style. 

Miss Makk VAT possesses great talent and great power of expression; power to picture to our minds 
the conceptions wliich occupy her own. Her style is graphic, nervous, vital. Added to these merits is 
the still greater one of progressiveness. She never stands still; every step is an advance, every succeed* 
Ing story better than the last. Her first book, 

LOVE'S CONFLICT, 

was most cordially welcomed by the London Press, was added to "Tauchnitz" famous " Collection of 
British Authors," and was reprinted in America in " Loring's Railway Library." 

It made its mark at once. 

The atmosphere of this book is pure and sweet, the delineation of character fine, the incidents various ; 
we find ourselves surrounded by stately yet gentle people, well-born and well-bred. Meaner characters 
come upon tlie stage, but they only serve to make more manifest the purity of the others. 

We thought her talent fully established when we read her second book, 

TOO GOOD FOR HIM; 

a book inculcating the grandest deeds of mercy and nobility; a book full of intense life, broad and deep 
experience, heiglits of joy, depths of woe ; and, about all the scenes and all the characters, a sweet 
pathos, a holy charity. Her third book, 

WOMAN AGAINST "WOMAN, 

is a very remarkable one; and in it she illustrates what all of us have too often seen, that woman is 
woman's worst enemy, and man her truest friend. The life, incidents, and characters are essentially 
English ; the latter are vividly portrayed and consistently carried out in all their action. 
But still higher does our author go when she gives us her fourth book, 

• 

FOK-EVER AND EVER. 

A Drama of Life. In this story Florence Marryat evinces more than her usual power; and from 
the task of depicting lives full of error and sin, side by side with li^ es full of magnanimity and self-sac- 
rilice, unconscious as all true self-sacrifice must ever be, — from all the varied scenes, and various char- 
*cters wliich she knows so well how to portray, leading tlie reader oftentimes to the contemplation of 
vice in its most horrid forms, — from all this plodding tlirougli the mire, she rises at the close of her story 
to the sweetest, saddest pathos, tlie sublimest conceptions of souls conquering wrong, out-growing error, 
learning through work and wail of years the hard lesson of submission. "Even length of days forever 
and ever " is tlie motto of the book and its real title. It teaches the highest principles of morality and 
charity. Tlie acts of mercy and forgiveness related there cause the heart to glow with enthusiasm. The 
vicious cliaracters but act as foils to the nobler ones, giving the latter the more opportunities for the ex- 
ercise of their noblest traits. In this novel, as in life, people sometimes seem all vile, — circumstances 
wholly evil; yet all this becomes transformed and glorilied by the purity, and lovingness of the good. 



LORDS AND LADIES. 



By the Author of " Margaret and her Bridesmaids," " The Queex of 
THE County," etc., etc. 



JTEAT PAPER COVERS. PRICE SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS, 



" Depend upon it, squire, there is neither peace nor comfort to be had in 
a house overrun by petticoats." Smoking drew forth this ungallant speech, 
and led to "A Challenge" between the "Lords and Ladies." 

"What it was, how it was carried out, how it ended, makes one of the most 
delightful stories you ever read. 

The London Post says of it : — 

" ' Lords and Ladies' is one of the most charming books with which the literature 
of fiction lias been enriched this season. 

" The truth and the value of the moral of the story will recommend it as highly as 
the vivacity and humor of its style, and the ingenuity of its construction.',' 

The London Morning Star says of it : — 

" A most amusing novel. The plot is thoroughly original, worked out with much 
humor and skUl. The characters are capitally drawn. This book is an admirable one 
for the holiday time." 

"Puff" and "Luff" will live in the memory of every reader of this 
thoroughly bewitching English novel. 



A l4 



l/t\. 



CVv-eoS?^ 



PEN PHOTOGRAPHS 



<:2)'B-' 



ulliiuljlju 1 




READINGS. 

BY 

KATE FIELD. 

NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION. 



The Welcome in Boston. 
The Welcome in New York. 
The Desk and the Reader. 
The Christmas Carol. 
David Copperfield. 
Nicholas Nickleby. 
Dombey and Son. 



Doctor Marigold. 

Boots at the Holly Tree Inn. 

Bob Sawyer's Party. 

The Trial from Pickwick. 

Mrs. Gamp. 

Farewell. 

The Verdict. 




LORING, Publisher 



BOSTON 



VmCT:, 50 CENTS. 



Loriiig's Publications. 



CHOICE FICTION. 



THE GAYWORTHYS. 

(arlhoiid.'. 



Bv the Author of ' Faith Gartney's 
. . 8tli Edition. ' I 



15tli Ed 



A Tale of the English 
. 3d Ed 



INTO THE LIGHT i or, THE JEWESS. 

PIQUE ! A Tale of the English Aristocracy. 

SIMPLICITY AND FASCINATIOIJ 
Greutry, 

MAINSTONE'S HOUSEKEEPER ; A Tale of the Manufac 
turing Districts. 

THE QUEEN OF THE COUNTY, 

BROKEN TO HARNESS. liy Edmum) Yat 

RUNNING THE GAUNTLET. " 

MOODS. By Louisa M. Alcott. 

A LOST LOVE, Hy Ashford Owkn. 



9th Ed. 
4tli Ed. 
4th Ed. 

3d Ed. 

3d Ed. 
4tli Ed. 



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MARGARET AND HER BRIDESMAIDS. ■ 4th Ed. . 1,50 

MILLY ; or, THE HIDDEN CROSS. A Romance of School 

Life 3d E.I. . 1.50 

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HoKATio Alger, .jr., 1,50 

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PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE. " " ... L25 

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News Boys. 1.25 

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for Boys and Girls 75 

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HOW I MANAGED MY HOUSE ON £200 A YEAR. . 50 

COMFORT FOR SMALL INCOMES 50 

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HOW TO FURNISH A HOUSE WITH SMALL MEANS, ■ 50 



LORING'S PUBLICATIONS. 



L()RL\Ti'S RAILWAY IVOVELS. 



THE ROUA PASS : or, Englishmen in the Highlands. 
TWICE LOST : A Story of RemarkaWe Power. 
LINNET'S TRIAL. By the Author of 'Twice Lost.' 

I'lorence. Murrtfat's s^iccfssfiil Novels. 
LOVE'S CONFLICT. . 
TOO GOOD FOR HIM. 
WOMAN AGAINST WOMAN. 
FOR EVER AND EVER. • 
THE CONFESSIONS OF GERALD ESTCOURT. 
NELLY BROOKE ; A Homely Story. 



LORDS AND LADIES. By Author of 'Queen of the County.' 75 

HUNTED TO DEATH : A Story of Love and Adventure. • 75 

BAFFLED SCHEMES. A Sensation Novel 75 

THE FORLORN HOPE. ByKojiuND Yates. ... 75 

BROKEN TO HARNESS. " " • ■ • 75 

RUNNING THE GAUNTLET. " " • • 75 

MOODS. By Louisa M. Alcott 75 

A LOST LOVE. By Ashford Owkn 75 

PIQUE ! A Tale of the English Aristocracy 75 

SIMPLICITY AND FASCINATION 75 

MEDUSA AND OTHER STORIES 

ADELE DUBOIS ! A Story of the lovely Miramichi 

MAINSTONE'S HOUSEKEEPER. • • . 

LUCY; Or, MARRIED FROM PIQUE. 

LESLIE TYRRELL. By Georgian a M. Crair. 

A WEEK IN A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. Mad.Sartoris. 25 

PROVERB STORIES. By Loni.«A M. Alcott. . . 25 



Valley, 



$0.75 
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75 
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75 
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WAS IT A GHOST? 



The Murders in Bnssey's Wood, 

is not a "sensational" story, as many suppose. It is a simple recital 
of all the facts that are or can be known in connection with this feai'ful 
tragedy, by one who lived in the Immediate vicinity. The spiritual 
apparition was to him a reality. 

A dual murder, so unaccountable, should not be allowed to die out 
till Justice is satisfied. 

In this sense this book has a mission. 



Loring's New Books. 



A Week in a French Country House, 

By Mrs. Adelaide (Keinble,) Sartoris. 




Cts. 25 



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French Country House." . . . . . .35 

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A new edition, greatly enlarged, ...... 50 

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the German of E. Junker. ...... 30 

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Was it a Ghost V The 3Iurders in Bussey's Wood. 75 

(All extraordinary Narrative.) 
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Louisa M. Alcott's Proverb Stories, — (" great favorites,") . . 25 

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Leslie Tyrrell. By Georgiana M. Craik, .... 30 

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Christmas Story. By Bellamy Brownjohn. . . . 10 

The American Colony in Paris, 1867; What they do — how they 

appear to a Frenchman, . . . . . . . 10 



NEARLY READY 



Baron Leo von Oberg, M. D. : A story of Lovi> Unspoken. 
From the German. 



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the Country — by the Book Messenyer^^ on the KaUroad Trains, 
Or sent by Mail, free of Postage, on receipt of the advertised price. 



319 Washington Street, Boston. 












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