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THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 B'^X 
 
 PHEBE a: HANAFORD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " LIFE OF PEABODY," " LIFE OF LINCOLN," ETC. 
 
 I have always striven in my writings to express veneration for the life and 
 lessons of our Saviour; because I feel it." — Charles Dickens. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY, 
 
 32 FRANKLIN STREET. 
 1882. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 /"CHARLES DICKENS was a popular writer. "The common 
 ^-^^ people heard him gladly," and read his books with an avidity 
 which showed that he reached the heart with his graphic and sympathiz- 
 ing pen. His genius was evident to all classes of readers ; and editions 
 of his attractive novels have been so multiplied and so varied, that they 
 are found in the houses of the lofty and the lowly. The Queen of En- 
 gland gives his admirable creations place in her private library ; and the 
 humble cottager on her broad lands prizes also his copy of "Nicholas 
 Xickleby"and " Oliver Twist ;" and both read his books with a zest 
 which shows that the genius of the writer claimed the admiration of 
 the reader, and his tender sympathy with lowly worth touched answering 
 chords in many a human heart. 
 
 This world-wide interest in the works of Dickens has induced the publi- 
 cation, in many forms, of his books, and, now that he has passed from 
 earth, will induce the publication of many sketches of his life, more or 
 less exhaustive. On the shelves of booksellers, on both sides the Atlantic, 
 may now be seen biographies, sketches, and other memorial volumes, 
 giving some picture, more or less distinct, of the earthly career of this 
 prince among novelists. 
 
 This volume is one of the many. It is not pretended that it is exhaust- 
 ive : it is not designed to be such. Across the broad waters, among his 
 own immediate friends, are found biographers wholly prepared to do full 
 justice to the man and the author. Meanwhile, his admirers this side the 
 Atlantic, speaking the language whose literature he has helped to enrich, 
 will render loving tribute to his genius, and a grateful acknowledgment 
 S 
 
6 PREFACE. 
 
 of the pleasure experienced in perusing his masterly creations, by publish- 
 ing various volumes in his memor}',briefly sketching his life, and pointing 
 out some of the most beautiful and excellent passages in his numerous 
 books. This is what is attempted here. 
 
 The young have greatly enjoyed his writings. They have wept over 
 little Nell, and Paul Dombey, and poor Joe ; they have laughed over the 
 inimitable wit which flashed along the pages of Pickwick and others of 
 his works. This book is issued with the hope that all will enjoy it, and be 
 benefitted by its perusal ; being at least lifted into closer sympathy with 
 one who saw the pathetic and the ridiculous very clearly, and used his 
 power to depict both for the benefit of humanity at large, and the poorer 
 classes in particular. Some writers see, to use Shakespeare's familiar 
 words, — 
 
 "Tongues in the trees, books in the running brooks, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in everything." 
 
 And Charles Dickens saw in rich and poor, in high and low, in English- 
 man and American, in men and women, in boys and girls, something 
 which his unique pen could portray for the advantage of his readers. 
 Such an individual, faulty as he is sometimes confessed to be both as a 
 man and a writer, should be prized in a nation. His death is a calamity 
 to his readers, and a loss to the literature of his age ; and with this senti- 
 ment prominent in the writer's heart, is prepared this Memorial. 
 
 P. A- H. 
 
OOIN^TEl^TS. 
 
 PASB. 
 
 8 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 EARLY LIFE. 
 
 Birthplace. —Youthful Labors. — The Attorney's Clerk. — Finding his Place. — 
 
 Beginnings. — The Young Reporter 9 
 
 CH^iPTER II. 
 adv.a:n-cd.'g. 
 Steadily On. — Sketches by Boz. — Wine-drinking Countries. — Our Next-door 
 
 Neighbors. — The Drunkard's Grave. — Sporting Papers .... 14 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 CLIMBING THE LADDER. 
 
 Willis's Description of Dickens. — His Inimitable Humor. — Emerson's 
 Criticism. — Hugh Miller's Opinion. — London Review. — Pickwick Pa- 
 pers. — Sam Weller's Valentine. — Tiie Ivy Green . — Death in the Prison , 46 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 FAMOUS. 
 
 The Novelist. — E. P. Whipple's Testimony. — Oliver Twist. — Asking for 
 
 More. — Pauperism In England. — Nancy Sykes. — Jew Fagin ... 71 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 OXE OF HIS BEST. 
 
 Nicholas Nickleby. — Opinion of "The Methodist."— Thackeray's.— The 
 
 Squeers School. — Henry Ward Beecher's Testimony . . . .109 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OTHER N0\T:LS. 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock.— London Years Ago. — Country Picture. — Bamaby 
 Rudge.- Old Curiosity Shop. — Death of Little Nell. — Mr. Dickens's 
 Speech. — Funeral of Little Null. — Landor's Testimony. — Child-Pictures 
 from Dickens. — Memoirs of Grimaldi 141 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 FIRST VISIT TO THE tJSITED STATES. 
 
 Testimony of the New -York Tribune. — American Notes for General 
 Circulation. — Wholesome Truths for a Nation. — Slavery.- Bad Man- 
 ners.- AUeghanies. — Niagara . . . . 17£ 
 
 CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 CHRISTM.A.S CAROLS. 
 
 NTartln Chuzzlewit. — Pictures from Italy. — First Carol.— Tiny Tim.— The 
 
 Chimea. — Cricket on the Hearth . . 2M 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER rx. 
 
 WHAT ARE THE WILD WAVES SATINO? 
 
 TheDaUy News.— Dombey and Sou. — Death of Little Paul .... 290 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 HIS MASTERPIECE. 
 
 Tlie Reality of Fiction. — David Copperfleld. — Opinion of Fraser's Magazine. — 
 
 The Shipwreck. — Uriah Heep. — Little Era'ly. — A Lone, Lom Creetur . 307 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 RET0EN3 TO HIS EARLY PRACTICE. 
 
 Bleak Houae.— Death of Poor Jo.— Uncommercial Traveller . . . .319 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 LATER WORKS. 
 
 LittleDorritt.— Hard Times.— Dr. Marigold 324 
 
 CHAPTER Xm. 
 
 AS AN EDITOR. 
 
 Household Words. — All the Year Round. — Great ExpectationB. — Tale of 
 
 Two Cities • . . 328 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AMERICAN POPULARITY. 
 
 The Diamond Edition. — Portraits of Mr. Dickens. — Our Mutual Friend . . 33S 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SECOND VISIT TO AMERICA. 
 
 Dickens as a Reader aad Actor. — His First Appearance in Boston. — His Last 
 
 Reading in Boston 340 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 DICKENS AT HOME. 
 
 His Domestic Relations. — Gad's Hill. — Shakspeare's Mention of it . . .853 
 CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 THE UNFINISHED STORY. 
 
 Mystery of Edwin Drood. — Sudden Illness. —Death 368 
 
 CHAPTER XVm. 
 
 LAST WORDS. 
 
 Last Letters of Mr. Dickens. — The Queen's Sorrow. — A Nation mourns.— 
 
 The Funeral of the Great Novelist 377 
 
 CHAPTER XrX. 
 
 AMERICA'S SYMPATHY. 
 
 How the News of Mr. Dickens's Donth was received. — Henry Ward Beecher's 
 
 Sermon.- The Voice of the Press 386 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Bj-mpathy for the Poor. — Love for the Yoxing. — The Golden Rule . . 898 
 
LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 OF 
 
 CHAELES DICKEISrS, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 EARLY LIFE. 
 
 Birthplace.— Youthful Labors. — The Attorney's Clerk.— Slndhig his Place.— B» 
 
 ginnlngs. — The Young Reporter. 
 
 " There's a divinity that shapes our ends, 
 Rough-hew them how we will." 
 
 Hamlet. 
 " There Is a spirit In men, and the inspiration of the Almighty giveth them under- 
 standing."— Job XXX. 11. 8. 
 
 CROSS the broad Avaters to the daughter- 
 land has been borne once more the tidings 
 of a sudden and lamented departure ; and 
 the two nations that have been united 
 in sympathy and in posthumous honor to a 
 great philanthropist unitedly mourned the loss of 
 a great novelist. George Peabody and Charles Dickens 
 are honored on both sides the Atlantic, and wherever 
 else their native tongue is spoken, or the value of a 
 
 9 
 
to LIFE AND WPaTl^;GS OF 
 
 benevolent heart or a genius for story-telling is known. 
 The departure of Charles Dickens at least awakened 
 sad emotions in many hearts. Well does "The Inde- 
 pendent " call it '' The General Sorrow," and go on to 
 say, — 
 
 " It makes our hand quiver to write the obituary 
 of Charles Dickens. Death jarred two nations when 
 it struck this man. What reader did not claim this 
 author for a friend ? Which of his critics was not also 
 his lover? Both in England and America, there are 
 multitudes of men, women, and children, who, as long 
 as they live, will remember exactly where they were, 
 what they were doing, and what hour of the clock it 
 was, when they heard the sudden announcement that 
 Charles Dickens was no more. The telegraph that car- 
 ried the news of his fatal illness flew in one sad moment 
 round the whole earth, to spread a shadow on all Eng- 
 lish-speaking lands. The first answering voice of the 
 American press acknowledged that the mournful mes- 
 sage was the saddest which the Atlantic cable had ever 
 conducted to our coasts. Almost everybody whom Ave 
 have met since Friday mornmg has seemed bearing in 
 his hands a chaplet for the dead man's bier. No other 
 author ever came so near as Dickens to the hearts of the 
 niilUon ; and his death has been like the opening of a 
 grave at their very feet. A hundred pens, in writing 
 their first notice of the event, spontaneously said (and 
 more truly than Dj . Johnson said of the death of Gar- 
 
CHARLES DICKEiiS. 11 
 
 rick) that it ' eclipsed the gayety of nations.' There 
 have been many greater men in literature than Dick- 
 ens, but none who were ever so universally loved and 
 mourned. To be loved in life, and moui-ned in death ! 
 What better fortune can the earth afford to any one 
 who lives or dies ? This is the most successful of all 
 success. Charles Dickens achieved it. 
 
 " What manner of man, therefore, must he have been? 
 Of what fibre was his genius made ? He was the John 
 Bunyan of the secular world. He was the unpriestly 
 preacher to the wayside multitude, rebuking them for 
 their follies, vices, and deceits. His novels are little 
 gospels of charity and good-will to all mankind. And 
 great was his reward. ' The common people heard him 
 gladly.' To win the world's ear is a nobler victory than 
 to win a nation's throne. He was a British subject 
 whose empire was wider than a British sovereign's. He 
 knocked at the common heart of the Anglo-Saxon race, 
 opened it like a gate, entered in, took possession, and 
 will not go hence even to his burial, but will there re- 
 main affectionately enshiined for years to come." 
 
 The many thousands who have read the incompara- 
 ble works of Charles Dickens's ready pen, while mourn- 
 ing OA'er the fact that his farewell readings in England 
 were indeed as a farewell to all the earth, are eager to 
 read any memorial sketch of their favorite novehst ; and 
 to them, at least, it will be of interest to know that ho 
 was born at Landport, Portsmouth, England, in the year 
 
12 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 of the second war between England and America, 
 1812. 
 
 His father's name was John Dickens, and he held a 
 position in the Navy Pay Department. At the close of 
 the war with the United States, Mr. Dickens removed 
 to London, having received a pension upon retiring. 
 He there became connected with one of the daily jour- 
 nals as reporter of parliamentar}^ debates. As time 
 rolled on, his son Charles became of years sufficient to 
 justify him in marking out a path in life for him ; and 
 he chose that of the law, and placed Charles in an at- 
 torney's office as clerk. But the study of law was dis- 
 tasteful to the youthful genius, whose talents for writ- 
 ing were early evident. Literary occupations were his 
 delight ; and, though he was a diligent student, it was 
 human nature and human life that he preferred to study, 
 and then depict with his glowing pen. He was not the 
 first, by any means, to whose young mind the occupation 
 chosen by a parent was utterly devoid of attraction. 
 The attorney's clerk only found his place when he left 
 off poring over " Blackstone," *' Coke upon Littleton," 
 and kindred volumes, weighty with legal lore, and be- 
 gan to picture those scenes which live in the reader's 
 memory forever. God called him to be a writer ; and, 
 until he found his place, he was not content. 
 
 Yet he did not commence at once to write novels, and 
 l-,o display his marvellous power in delineating char- 
 acter, and creating personages in literature that will 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 13 
 
 never die. He began, as many a bright star in the lit- 
 erary firmament has begun, by shining first with the 
 occasional beams of a newspaper contributor. He be- 
 came connected with " The Morning Chronicle," as a 
 reporter. This was a newspaper of great popularity, 
 under the management of Mr. John Black, who saw at 
 once the ability of the young re]3orter, and gave him 
 ample opportunity to display his talent for making word 
 pictures, and for calling forth both tears and smiles, by 
 publishing in his paper the " Sketches of English Life 
 and Character;" which were collected and reprinted 
 under the title of " Sketches by Boz," in 1836 and 1837. 
 "Boz " was his signature in " The Morning Chyonicle ;" 
 and he gave, as the reason for his use of it, that it " was 
 the nickname of a pet child, — a younger brother, — 
 whom I had dubbed Moses, in honor of the ' Vicar of 
 Wakefield,' which, being facetiously pronounced through 
 the nose, became Bases, and, being shortened, Boz. Boz 
 was a very familiar household word to me long before I 
 was an author, and so I came to adopt it." This begin- 
 ning of his true work showed both the writer and his 
 readers that English literature could claim as a charm- 
 ing story-writer young Charles Dickens. 
 
CHAPTER n. 
 
 ADVANCING. 
 
 Steadily On. — Sketches by Boz.— Wine-drinking Countries. — Our Kert-dooi 
 Neighbors. — The Drunkard's Grave. — Sporting Papers. 
 
 " Though a pledge I had to shiver, 
 And the longest ever was, 
 Ere his vessel leaves our river, 
 I would drink a health to Boz." 
 
 ' The pen of a ready writer." 
 
 Psalm xlv. 1. 
 
 S already intimated, Charles Dickens was 
 persevering, and kept steadily on in the 
 path of literature, which to him was most 
 alluring. He held " the pen of a ready 
 writer ; " and he was disposed to use it in 
 the interests of morality and good order. He showed, 
 in the "Sketches by Boz," a faculty of illustration 
 which marked him as one who must be successful. The 
 pathos and humor which blended in his tales were even 
 then seen to be remarkable. From those sketches, these 
 pages are enriched by extracts proving the truth of the 
 assertion, which, to the reader familiar with the works 
 
 14 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 15 
 
 of Dickens, needs no proof. These extracts are far from 
 indicating that Dickens favored intemperance, or failed 
 to see its folly and sin. He had himself the bad habits 
 of an Englishman who is not in favor of total absti- 
 nence ; but it is not right to say of him that he encour- 
 aged the drunkard in his evil course. While the be- 
 lievers in the duty of total abstinence cannot but regret 
 that the great novelist did not use his powerful pen 
 in favor of teetotalism, they cannot but acknowledge 
 that he left on record evidence that he did not approve 
 of a career of intemperance. His testimony in refer- 
 ence to wine countries is often adduced by temperance 
 lecturers, as conclusive against the wine-drinking habits 
 of many foreign lands. It first appeared in " Household 
 Words," Dickens's journal, and has been copied into 
 " The Good Templar," an American temperance paper, 
 as an evidence that Charles Dickens did not favor the 
 prevalence of wine-shops. These are the words : — 
 
 " The wine-shops are the colleges and chapels of the 
 poor in France. History, morals, pohtics, jurispru- 
 dence, and literature, in iniquitous forms, are all taught 
 in these colleges and chapels, where professors of evil 
 continually deliver those lessons, and where hymns are 
 sung nightly to the demons of demoralization. In those 
 haunts of the poor, theft is taught as the morahty of 
 propriety, falsehood as speech, and assassination as the 
 justice of the people. It is in the wine-shop the cab- 
 
16 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 man is taught to think it heroic to slioot the middle- 
 class man who disputes his fare. It is in the wine-shop 
 the workman is taught to admire the man who stabs his 
 faithless mistress. It is in the wine-shop the doom is 
 pronounced of the employer who lowers the pay of the 
 employed. The wine-shop breeds, in a physical atmos- 
 phere of malaria and a moral pestilence of envy and 
 vengeance, the men of crime and revolution. Hunger 
 is proverbially a bad counsellor, but drink is worse." 
 
 From his " Sketches by Boz," the following is given, 
 as an example of the mingling of humor and pathos so 
 noticeable in his writings. It is entitled, — 
 
 " OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBORS. 
 
 " We are very fond of speculating, as we walk 
 througli a street, on the character and pursuits of the 
 people who inhabit it ; and nothing so materially assists 
 us in these sx^eculations as the appearance of the house- 
 doors. The various expressions of the human coun- 
 tenance afford a beautiful and interesting study ; but 
 ihere is something m the physiognomy of street-door 
 knockers, almost as characteristic, and nearly as infal- 
 lible. Whenever we visit a man for the first time, we 
 contemplate the featui'es of his knocker with the great- 
 est curiosity ; for we well know, that, between the man 
 and his knocker, there will inevitably be a greater oi 
 less degree of resemblance and sympathy. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 17 
 
 " For instance, there is one description of knockei that 
 used to be common enough, but which is fast passing 
 away, — a large round one, with the jolly face of a con- 
 vivial lion smiling blandly at you, as you twist the sides 
 of your hair into a curl, or pull up your shirt-collar 
 while you are waiting for the door to be opened. We 
 never saw that knocker on the door of a churlish man : 
 so far as our experience is concerned, it iuvariably 
 bespoke hospitality and another bottle. 
 
 '' No man ever saw this knocker on the door of 
 a small attorney or bill-broker : they always patronize 
 the other lion, — a heavy, ferocious-looking fellow, with 
 a countenance expressive of savage stupidity, — a sort 
 of grand master among the knockers, and a great 
 favorite with the selfish and brutal. 
 
 " Then there is a little pert Egyptian knocker, with 
 a long, thin face, a piuched-up nose, and a very sharp 
 chin : he is most in vogue with your government-office 
 people ; in light drabs and starched cravats ; little, 
 spare, priggish men, who are perfectly satisfied with 
 their own opinions, and consider themselves of para- 
 moimt importance. 
 
 " We were greatly troubled, a few years ago, by the 
 innovation of a new kind of knocker, without any face 
 at all, composed of a wreath depending from a hand 
 or small truncheon. A little trouble and attention, 
 however, enabled us to overcome this difficulty, and to 
 reconcile the new system to our favorite theory. You 
 
iS LIFE AND WRITINGS OP 
 
 will invariably find this knocker on the doors of cold 
 and formal people, who always ask you why you donU 
 come, and never say do. 
 
 " Everybody knows the brass knocker is common to 
 suburlian villas and extensive boarding-schools; and, 
 having noticed this genus, we have recapitulated all 
 the most prominent and strongly-defined species. 
 
 " Some phrenologists affirm, that the agitation of 
 a man's brain by different passions produces correspond- 
 ing developments in the form of his skull. Do not let 
 us be understood as pushing our theory to the length 
 of assertmg that any alteration in a man's disposition 
 would produce a visible effect on the feature of his 
 knocker. Our position merely is, that, in such a case, 
 the magnetism which must exist between a man and his 
 knocker would induce the man to remove, and seek- 
 some knocker more congenial to his altered feehngs. 
 If you ever find a man changing his habitation without 
 any reasonable pretext, depend upon it, that, although 
 he may not be aware of the fact himself, it is because 
 he and his knocker are at variance. 
 
 " Entertaining these feelings on the subject of knock- 
 ers, it will be readily imagined with what consternation 
 we viewed the entire removal of the knocker from the 
 door of the next house to the one we lived in some time 
 ago, and the substitution of a bell. This was a calamity 
 we had never anticipated. The bare idea of anybody 
 being able to exist without a knocker appeared so wild 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 19 
 
 and visionary, that it had never for one instant entered 
 our imagination. 
 
 " We sauntered moodily from the spot, and lent oui 
 steps towards Eaton Square, then just building. What 
 was our astonishment and indignation to find tliat bells 
 were fast becoming the lule, and knockers the excep- 
 tion ! Our theory trembled beneath the shock. We 
 hastened home ; and fancying we foresaw, in the swift 
 progress of events, its entire abolition, resolved from 
 that day forward to vent our speculations on our next- 
 door neighbors in person. The house adjoining ours on 
 the left hand was uninhabited, and we had, therefore, 
 plenty of leisure to observe our next-door neighbors on 
 the other side. 
 
 " The house without the knocker was in the occupa- 
 tion of a city clerk ; and there was a neatly- written bill 
 in the parlor window, intimating that lodgings for 
 a single gentleman were to be let within. 
 
 " It was a neat, dull little house, on the shady side 
 of the way, with new, narrow floor-cloth in the passage, 
 and new natrow stair-carpets up to the first floor. The 
 paper was new, and the paint was new, and the furniture 
 was new ; and all three — paper, paint, and furniture 
 — bespoke the limited means of the tenant. There was 
 a little red-and-black carpet in the drawing-room, with 
 a border of flooring all the way round ; a few stained 
 chairs, and a Pembroke table. A pink shell was dis- 
 played on each of the little sideboards ; whicl , with the 
 
20 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP 
 
 addition of a tea-tray and caddy, a few more shells 
 on the mantle-piece, and three peacock's feathers taste- 
 fully arranged above them, completed the decorative 
 furniture of the apartment. 
 
 " Tin's was the room destined for the reception of the 
 single gentleman during the day ; and a little back room 
 on the same floor was assigned as his sleeping apartment 
 by night. 
 
 " The biU had not been long in the window, when 
 a stout, good-hnmored-looldng gentleman, of about five 
 and thirty, appeared as a candidate for the tenancy. 
 Terms were soon arranged, for the bill was taken down 
 immediately after his first visit : in a day or two, the 
 single gentleman came in, and shortly afterwards his 
 real character came out. 
 
 " First of all, he displayed a most extraordinary par- 
 tiality for sitting up till three or four o'clock in the 
 morning, drinking whiskey and water, and smoking 
 cigars ; then he invited friends home, who used to come 
 at ten o'clor-k, and begin to get happy about the small 
 hours, when they evinced their perfect contentment by 
 singing songs with half a dozen verses of two lines each, 
 and a chorus of ten, which chorus used to be shouted 
 forth by the whole strength of the company, in the 
 most enthusiastic and vociferous manner, to the great 
 annoyance of the neighbors, and the special discomfort 
 of another single gentleman overhead. 
 
 " Now, this was bad enough, occurring as it did three 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 21 
 
 times a week on the average. But this was not all ; 
 when the company did go awaj^ instead of walking 
 quietly down the street, as anybody else's company 
 would have done, they amused themselves by making 
 alarming and frightful noises, and counterfeiting the 
 shrieks of females in distress. And, one night, a red-faced 
 gentleman in a white hat knocked in a most urgent 
 manner at the door of the powdered-headed old gentle- 
 man at No. 3 ; and when the powdered-headed old gen- 
 tleman, who thought one of his married daughters must 
 have been taken ill prematurely, had groped down 
 stau's, and, after a great deal of unbolting and key-turn- 
 ing, opened the street-door, the red-faced man in the 
 wliite hat said he hoped he'd excuse his giving him so 
 much trouble, but he'd feel obliged if he'd favor hira 
 Avith a glass of cold spring water, and the loan of a shil- 
 ling for a cab to take him home : on which the old gen- 
 tleman slammed the door, and went up stairs, and threw 
 the contents of his water-jug out of the window, — very 
 straight, only it went over the wrong man, and the 
 whole street was involved in confusion. 
 
 " A joke's a joke ; and even practical jests are very 
 capital in their way, if you can only get the other party 
 to see the fun of them : but the population of our street 
 were so dull of apprehension as to be quite lost to the 
 drollery of this proceeding ; and the consequence was, 
 that our next-door neighbor was obliged to tell the 
 single i^eutleman, that, unless he gave up entertaining 
 
22 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 his friends at home, he really must be compelled to pari 
 with him. The single gentleman received the remon- 
 strance with great good-humor, and promised, from that 
 time forward, to spend his evenings at a coffee-house, — 
 a determination which afforded general and unmixed 
 satisfaction. 
 
 " The next night passed off very well ; everybody 
 was delighted with the change : but, on the next, the 
 noises were renewed with greater spirit than ever. The 
 single gentleman's friends, being unable to see him in his 
 own house every alternate night, had come to the de- 
 termination of seeing him home every night ; and what 
 with the discordant greeting of the friends at parting, 
 and the noise created by the single gentleman in liis 
 passage up staus, and his subsequent struggles to get 
 his boots off, the evil was not to be borne. So our next- 
 door neighbor gave the single gentleman, who was a 
 very good lodger in other respects, notice to quit ; and 
 the single gentleman went away, and entertained his 
 friends in other lodgings. 
 
 " The next appUcant for the vacant first floor was of 
 a very different character from the troublesome single 
 gentleman who had just quitted it. He was a tall, thin 
 young gentleman, with a profusion of brown hair, red ■ 
 dish whiskers, and very slightly developed mustachios. 
 He wore a braided surtout, with frogs behind, light 
 gray trousers, and wash-leather gloves, and had alto- 
 gether rather a military appearance. So unlike the 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 23 
 
 roystering single gentleman ! Such insinuatiug man- 
 ners, and such a delightful address ! So seriously dis- 
 posed too ! When he first came to look at the lodgings, 
 he inquired most particularly whether he was sure to be 
 able to get a seat in the parish church ; and, when he 
 had agreed to take them, he requested to have a Hst of 
 the different local charities, as he intended to subscribe 
 his mite to the most deserving among them. 
 
 " Our next-door neighbor was perfectly happy. He 
 had got a lodger at last of just his own way of think- 
 ing, — a serious, well-disposed man, who abhorred 
 gayety, and loved retirement. He took down the bill 
 with a light heart, and pictured in imagination a long 
 series of quiet Sundays, on which he and his lodger 
 would exchange mutual civilities and Sunday papers. 
 
 " The serious man arrived, and his luggage was to 
 arrive from the country next morning. He borrowed 
 a clean shirt and a prayer-book from our next-door 
 neighbor, and retired to rest at an early hour, requesting 
 that he might be called punctually at ten o'clock next 
 morning, — not before, as he was much fatigued. 
 
 " He was called, and did not answer : he was called 
 again, but there was no reply. Our next-door neigh- 
 bor became alarmed, and biu'st the door open. The se- 
 rious man had left the house mysteriously, carrying with 
 him the shirt, the prayer-book, a tea-spoon, and the bed- 
 clothes. 
 
 " Whether this occurrence, coupled with the irregu- 
 
24 LIFE AND AVRITINGS OF 
 
 larities of his former lodger, gave our next-door neigh 
 bor an aversion to single gentlemen, we know not : we 
 only loiow that the next bill which made its appearance 
 in the parlor window intimated, generally, that there 
 were furnished apartments to let on the first floor. The 
 bill was soon removed. The new lodgers at first at- 
 tracted our curiosity, and afterwards excited our inter- 
 est. 
 
 " They were a young lad of eighteen or nineteen, and 
 his mother, a lady of about fifty, or it might be less. The 
 mother wore a widow's weeds, and the boy was also 
 clothed in deep mourning. They were poor, very 
 poor; for their only means of support arose from the 
 pittance the boy earned by copying writings, and trans- 
 lating for the booksellers. 
 
 " They had removed from some country place, and 
 settled in London ; partly because it afforded better 
 chances of employment for the boy, and partly, perhaps, 
 with the natural desire to leave a place where they had 
 been in better circumstances, and where their poverty 
 was known. They were proud under their reverses, 
 and above revealing their wants and privations to stran- 
 gers. How bitter those privations were, and how hard 
 the boy worked to remove them, no one ever knew but 
 themselves. Night after night, two, three, four hours 
 after midnight, could we hear the occasional raking of 
 the scanty fire, or the hollow and half-stifled cough, 
 whicli indicated his being still at work ; and day after 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 25 
 
 day could we see more plainly that Nature had set that 
 unearthly hght in his plaintive face which is the beacon 
 of her worst disease. 
 
 " Actuated, we hope, by a higher feeling than mere 
 curiosity, we contrived to establish first an acquaint- 
 kince, and then a close intimacy, with the poor stran- 
 gers. Our worst fears were realized, — the boy was 
 sinking fast. Through a part of the winter, and the 
 whole of the following spring and summer, his labors 
 A^ere unceasingly prolonged ; and the mother attempted 
 to procure needle-work, embroidery, — any thing for 
 ^read. 
 
 " A few shillings, now and then, were all she could 
 ta.ni. The boy worked steadily on ; dying by minutes, 
 6ut never once giving utterance to complaint or mur- 
 mur. 
 
 " It was a beautiful autumn evening when we went 
 to pay our customary visit to the invalid. His little 
 remaining strength had been decreasing rapidly for two 
 or three days preceding ; and he was lying on the sofa 
 at the open window, gazing at the setting sun. His 
 mother had been reading the Bible to him ; for she 
 closed the book as we entered, and advanced to meet us. 
 ' 1 was teUing William,' she said, ' that we must man- 
 age to take him into the country somewhere, so that he 
 may get well. He is not ill, you know ; but he is not 
 very strong, and has exerted himself too much lately.' 
 Poor thing ! The tears that streamed through her fin- 
 
26 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 gers, as she turned aside, as if to adjust her close widow's 
 cap, too plainly showed how fruitless was the attempt 
 to deceive herself. 
 
 " The boy placed one hand in ours, grasped his moth- 
 er's arm with the other, drew her hastily towards him, 
 and fervently kissed her cheek. There :vas a bhort 
 pause. He sunk back upon his pillow, and looked with 
 appalling earnestness in his mother's face. ' WUliam, 
 William ! ' said the terrified parent, ' don't look at me 
 so — speak to me, dear ! ' The boy smiled languidly ; 
 but an instant afterwards his features resolved into the 
 same cold, solemn gaze. 
 
 " ' William, dear William ! ' said the distracted moth- 
 er, ' rouse yourself, dear : don't look at me so, love, — 
 pray don't ! O my God ! what shall I do ! — m}^ dear, 
 dear boy ! — he is dying ! ' 
 
 " The boy raised himself by a violent effort, and folded 
 his hands together : ' Mother ! dear, dear mother I 
 bury me in the open fields, anywhere but in these 
 dreadful streets. I should like to be where you can see 
 my grave, mother, but not in these close, crowded 
 streets : they have killed me. Kiss me again, mother ; 
 put your arm round my neck ' — 
 
 "He fell back: a strange expression stole upon his 
 features ; not of pain or suffering, but an indescribable 
 fixing of every line and muscle, — the boy was dead." 
 
 The following sketch, from the same early writings 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 27 
 
 of Mr. Dickens, cannot surely be open to the charge of 
 favoring intemperance. It is a sad comment on the un- 
 bridled appetite of the drunkard. It warns the mod- 
 erate drinker to beware of that which " biteth hke a 
 serpent and stingeth like an adder." 
 
 '^THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH. 
 
 " We will be bold to say, that there is scarcely a 
 man in the constant habit of walking, day after day, 
 through any of the crowded thoroughfares of London, 
 who cannot recollect, among the people whom he ' knows 
 by sight,' to use a familiar phrase, some being, of abject 
 and wretched appearance, whom he remembers to have 
 seen in a very different condition, whom he has observed 
 sinkmg lower and lower by almost imperceptible de- 
 grees, and the shabbiness and utter destitution of whose 
 appearance at last strike forcibl}- and painfuUy upon 
 him as he passes by. Is there any man who has mixed 
 much with society, or whose avocations have caused 
 him to mingle, at one time or other, with a great num- 
 ber of people, who cannot call to mind the time when 
 some shabby, miserable wretch, in rags and filth, who 
 shuffles past him now in all the squalor of disease and 
 poverty, was a respectable tradesman, or a clerk, or 
 a man following some thriving pursuit, with good pros- 
 pects and decent means ; or cannot any of our readers 
 call to mind, from among the list of their quondam ac- 
 quaintance, some fallen and degraded man, who lingers 
 
28 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 about the pavement in hungry misery : from whom 
 every one turns coldly away, and who preserves him- 
 self from sheer starvation, nobody knows how ? Alas ! 
 such cases are of too frequent occurrence to be rare 
 items in any man's experience ; and they arise from one 
 cause, — drunkenness, that fierce rage for the slow, sure 
 poison, that oversteps every other consideration ; that 
 casts aside wife, children, friends, happiness, and sta- 
 tion, and hurries its victims madly on to degradation 
 and death. 
 
 " Some of these men have been impelled by misfor- 
 tune and misery to the vice that has degraded them. 
 The ruin of worldly expectations, the death of those 
 they loved, the sorrow that slowly consumes but will 
 not break the heart, has driven them wild ; and they 
 present the hideous spectacle of madmen, slowly dying 
 by their own hands. But by far the greater part have 
 wilfully, and with open eyes, plunged into the gulf from 
 which the man who once enters it never rises more, but 
 into which he sinks deeper and deeper down, until re- 
 covery is hopeless. 
 
 " Such a man as this once stood by the bedside of his 
 dying wife, while his children knelt around, and mingled 
 low bursts of grief with their innocent prayers. The 
 room was scantily and meanly furnished ; and it needed 
 but a glance at the pale form from wliich the light of 
 ^ife was fast passing away, to know that grief and want 
 and anxious care had been busy at the heart for many 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 29 
 
 a weary year. An elderly female, with her face bathed 
 in tears, was supporting the head of the dying woman 
 — her daughter — on her arm. But it was not towards 
 her that the wan face turned : it was not her hand 
 that the cold and trembling fingers clasped. They 
 pressed the husband's arm : the eyes so soon to be 
 closed in death rested on his face ; and the man shook 
 beneath their gaze. His dress was slovenly and disor- 
 dered, his face inflamed, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. 
 He had been summoned from some wild debauch to the 
 bed of sorrow and death. 
 
 " A shaded lamp by the bedside cast a dim light on 
 the figures around, and left the remainder of the room 
 in thick, deep shadow. The silence of night prevailed 
 Avithout the house, and the stillness of death was in the 
 chamber. A watch hung over the mantle-shelf. Its low 
 ticking was the only sound that broke the profound 
 quiet: but it was a solemn one; for well they knew, 
 who heard it, that before it had recorded the passing of 
 another hour, it would beat the knell of a departed 
 spirit. 
 
 "It is a dreadful thing to wait and watch for the 
 approach of death ; to know that hope is gone, and 
 recovery impossible ; and to sit and count the dreary 
 hours through long, long nights, — such nights as only 
 watchers by the bed of sickness know. It chills the 
 blood to hear the dearest secrets of the heart, the pent- 
 up, hidden secrets of many years, poured forth by the 
 
30 LIFE AND WBITINGS OF 
 
 unconscious, helpless being before you; and to think 
 how little the reserve and cunning of a whole life will 
 avail when fever and delirium tear off the mask at last. 
 Strange tales have been told in the wanderings of dying 
 men, — tales so full of guilt and crime, that those who 
 stood by the sick person's couch have fled in horror and 
 affright, lest they should be scared to madness by what 
 they heard and saw ; and many a wretch has died alone, 
 raving of deeds, the very name of which has driven the 
 boldest man away. 
 
 " But no such ravings were to be heard at the bed- 
 side by which the children knelt. Their half-stifled 
 sobs and meanings alone broke the silence of the lonely 
 chamber. And when at last the mother's grasp re- 
 laxed ; and, turning one look from the children to their 
 father, she vainly strove to speak, and fell backward on 
 the pillow, all was so calm and tranquil, that she seemed 
 to sink to sleep. They leant over her : they called upon 
 her name, softly at first, and then in the loud and 
 piercing tones of desperation ; but there was no reply. 
 They listened for her breath, but no sound came. Thf^y 
 felt for the palpitation of the heart, but no faint throb 
 responded to the touch. That heart was broken, ani^ 
 she was dead. 
 
 " The husband sunk into a chair by the bedside, and 
 clasped his hands upon his burning forehead. He gazed 
 from child to child ; but, when a weeping eye met his, he 
 quailed beneatli its look. No word of comfort was 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 31 
 
 whispered in his ear, no look of kindness lighted on 
 his face. All shrunk from and avoided liim ; and when, 
 at last, he staggered from the room, no one sought to 
 follow or console the widower. 
 
 " The time had been when many a friend would have 
 crowded round him in his affliction, and many a heart- 
 felt condolence would have met him in his grief. 
 Where were they now ? One by one, friends, relations, 
 the commonest acquaintance even, had fallen off from 
 and deserted the drunkard. His wife alone had clung 
 to him in good and evil, in sickness and poverty ; and 
 how had he rewarded her? He had reeled from the 
 tavern to her bedside in time to see her die. 
 
 " He rushed from the house, and walked swiftly 
 through the streets. Remorse, fear, shame, all crowded 
 on his mind. Stupefied with drink, and bewildered 
 with the scene he had just witnessed, he re-entered the 
 tavern he had quitted shortly before. Glass succeeded 
 glass. His blood mounted, and his brain whirled round. 
 Death ! Every one must die, and why not she ? She 
 was too good for him : her relations had often told him 
 so. Curses on them ! Had they not deserted her, and 
 left her to whine away the time at home ? Well, she 
 was dead, and happy perhaps. It was better as it was. 
 Anol-her glass, — one more I Hurrah ! It was a merry 
 life V, hile it lasted ; and he would make the most of it. 
 
 " Time went on. The three children who were left to 
 him grew up, and were children no longer : the father 
 
32 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 remained tlie same, — poorer, shabbier, and more disso- 
 lute-looking, but the same confirmed and irreclaimable 
 (Uunkard. The boys had, long ago, run wild in the 
 streets, and left him. The girl alone remained ; but she 
 worked hard, and words or blows could always procure 
 him something for the tavern. So he went on in the 
 old course, and a merry life he led. 
 
 " One night, as early as ten o'clock, — for the girl had 
 been sick for many days, and there was, consequently, 
 little to spend at the public house, — he bent his steps 
 homewards, bethinldng himself, that, if he would have 
 her able to earn money, it would be as well to apply to 
 the parish surgeon, or, at all events, to take the trouble 
 of inquiring what ailed her, which he had not yet 
 thought it worth while to do. It was a wet December 
 night : the wind blew piercing cold, and the rain poured 
 heavily down. He begged a few half-pence from a 
 passer-by ; and, having bought a small loaf (for it was 
 his interest to keep the girl alive if he could), he 
 shuffled onwards as fast as the wind and rain would 
 let him. At the back of Fleet Street, and lying between 
 it and the water-side, are several mean and narrow 
 courts, which form a portion of Whitefriars; and it 
 was to one of these that he directed his steps. 
 
 " The alley into which he tui^ned might, for filth and 
 misery, have competed with the darkest corner of this 
 ancient sanctuary in its dirtiest and most lawless time 
 The houses, varying from two stories in height to four, 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 33 
 
 were stained with every indescribable hue that long 
 exposure to the weather, damp, and rottenness, can 
 impart to tenements composed originally of the roughest 
 and coarsest materials. The windows were patched 
 with paper, and stuffed with the foulest rags ; the 
 doors were falling from their hinges ; poles, with lines 
 on which to dry clothes, projected from every casement ; 
 and sounds of quarrelling or drunkenness issued from 
 every room. 
 
 " The solitary oil-lamp in the centre of the court had 
 been blown out, either by the violence of the wind, or 
 the act of some inhabitant who had excellent reasons 
 for objecting to his residence being rendered too con- 
 spicuous ; and the only light which fell upon the broken 
 and uneven pavement was derived from the miserable 
 candles that here and there twinkled in the rooms of 
 such of the more fortunate residents as could afford to 
 indulge in so expensive a luxury. A gutter ran down 
 the centre of the aUey, all the sluggish odors of which 
 had been called forth by the rain ; and, as the wiud 
 whistled through the old houses, the doors and shutters 
 creaked upon their hinges, and the windows shook in 
 their frames with a violence which every moment 
 seemed to threaten the destruction of the whole place. 
 
 " TJie man whom we have followed into this den 
 walked on in the darkness ; sometimes stumbling into 
 the main gutter, and at others into some branch reposi- 
 tories of garbage which had been formed by the rain 
 
 8 
 
34 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 until lie reached the last house in the court. The door, 
 or rather what was left of it, stood ajar for the con- 
 venience of the numerous lodgers ; and he proceeded 
 to grope his way up the old and broken stair, to the 
 attic story. 
 
 " He was within a step or two of his room-door, when 
 it opened ; and a girl, whose miserable and emaciated 
 appearance was only to be equalled by that of the 
 candle wliich she shaded with her hand, peeped anx- 
 iously out. 
 
 '"Is that you, father ? ' said the girl. 
 
 " ' Who else should it be ? ' replied the man gruffly. 
 ' What are you trembling at ? It's little enough that I 
 have had to drink to-day ; for there's no drink without 
 money, and no money without work. What the d — I's 
 the matter with the gui ? ' 
 
 '"I am not well, father — not at all well,' said the 
 girl, bursting into tears. 
 
 " ' Ah ! ' replied the man, in the tone of a person who 
 is compelled to admit a very unpleasant fact, to which 
 he would rather remain blind if he could. ' You must 
 get better somehow, for we must have money. You 
 must go to the parish doctor, and make him give you 
 some medicine. They're paid for it, d — n 'em. What 
 are j^ou standing before the door for ? Let me come in, 
 can't you ? ' 
 
 " ' Father,' whispered the girl, shutting the door be- 
 hind her, and placing herself before it, ' William has 
 come back.' 
 
CHARLES IMCKENS. 36 
 
 ** ' Who ? ' said the man, with a start. 
 
 " ' Hush ! ' rephed the girl : ' William, Brother Wil- 
 liam.' 
 
 "'And what does he want?' said the man. with an 
 effort at composure, — 'money? meat? diink? He's 
 come to the wrong shop for that, if he does. Give me 
 the candle ; give me the candle, fool : I ain't going to 
 hurt him.' He snatched the candle from her hand, and 
 walked into the room. 
 
 Sitting on an old box, with his head resting on hia 
 hand, and his eyes fixed on a wretched cinder-fire that 
 was smouldering on the hearth, was a young man of 
 about two and twenty, miserably clad in an old coarse 
 jacket and trousers. He started up when his father 
 entered. 
 
 " ' Fasten the door, Mary,' said the young man hastily, 
 — 'fasten the door. You look as if you didn't know 
 me, father. It's long enough since you drove me from 
 home : you may well forget me.' 
 
 " ' And what do you want here now ? ' said the father, 
 seating himself on a stool, on the other side of the fire- 
 place. ' What do you want here now ? ' 
 
 " ' Shelter,' replied the son : ' I'm in trouble ; that's 
 enough. If I'm caught I shall swing ; that's certain. 
 Caught I shall be, unless I stop here ; that's as certain. 
 And there's an end of it.' 
 
 " ' You mean to say you ve been robbing or murder- 
 ing, then ? ' said the father. 
 
86 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " Yes, I do,' replied the son. ' Does it surprise you, 
 ather ? ' He looked steadily in the man's face ; but he 
 withdrew his eyes, and bent them on the ground. 
 
 "'Where's your brothers?' he said, after a long 
 pause. 
 
 " ' Where they'll never trouble you,' replied the son : 
 * John's gone to America, and Henry's dead.' 
 
 " ' Dead ! ' said the father, with a shudder which even 
 he could not repress. 
 
 "'Dead,' replied the young man. 'He died in my 
 arms, — shot like a dog, by a gamekeeper. He staggered 
 back: I caught him, and his blood trickled down my 
 hands. It poured out from his side like water. He was 
 weak, and it blinded him ; but he threw himself down 
 on his knees, on the grass, and prayed to God, that, if 
 his mother was in heaven, he would hear her prayers for 
 pardon for her youngest son. " I was her favorite boy, 
 Will," he said ; " and I am glad to think now, that when 
 she was dying, though I was a very young child then, 
 and my little heart was almost bursting, I knelt down at 
 the foot of the bed, and thanked God for having made 
 me so fond of her as to have never once done any thing 
 to bring the tears into her eyes. O Will ! why was 
 she taken away, and father left?" There's his dying 
 words, father,' said the young man: 'make the best 
 you can of 'em. You struck him across the face, in a 
 drunken fit, the morning we ran away ; and here's the 
 end of it 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 37 
 
 "The girl wept aloud; and the father, sinking his 
 head upon his knees, rocked himself to and fro. 
 
 '"If I am taken,' said the young man, * I shall be 
 carried back into the country, and hung for that man's 
 murder. They cannot trace me here, without your 
 assistance, father. For aught I know, you may give me 
 up to justice ; but, unless you do, here I stop imtil I can 
 venture to escape abroad.' 
 
 " For two whole days, all three remained in the 
 wretched room, without stirring out. On the third 
 evening, however, the girl was worse than she had been 
 yet, and the few scraps of food they had were gone. It 
 was indispensably necessary that somebody should go 
 out ; and, as the girl was too weak and ill, the father 
 went, just at night-fall. 
 
 " He got some medicine for the girl, and a trifle in the 
 way of pecuniary assistance. On his way back, he 
 earned sixpence by holding a horse ; and he turned 
 homewards with enough money to supply their most 
 pressing wants for two or three days to come. He had 
 to pass the pubhc-house. He lingered for an instant, 
 wall5:ed past it, turned back again, lingered once more, 
 and finally slunk in. Two men whom he had not ob- 
 served were on the watch. They were on the point of 
 giving up their search in despair, when his loitering 
 attracted their attention ; and, when he entered the pub- 
 lic-house, they followed him. 
 
 " ' You'll di'ink with me, master,' said one of them, 
 proffering him a glass of liquor. 
 
88 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " ' And me too,' said the other, repleaishing the glasa 
 as soon as it was drained of its contents. 
 
 " The man thought of his hungry children, and his 
 son's danger. But they were nothing to the drunkard. 
 He did di'ink ; and his reason left him. 
 
 "• ' A wet night, Warden,' whispered one of the men 
 in his ear, as he at length turned to go away, after 
 spending in liquor one-half of the money on which, per- 
 haps, his daughter's life depended. 
 
 " ' The right sort of night for our friends in hiding, 
 Master Warden,' whispered the other. 
 
 " ' Sit down here,' said the one who had spoken first, 
 drawing him into a corner. ' We have been looking 
 arter the young 'un. We came to tell him it's all right 
 now ; but we couldn't find him, 'cause we hadn't got 
 the precise direction. But that ain't strange ; for I don't 
 think he know'd it himself when he came to London, 
 did he?' 
 
 "■ ' No, he didn't,' replied the father. 
 
 " The two men exchanged glances. 
 
 " ' There's a vessel down at the docks, to sail at mid- 
 night, when it's high water,' resumed the first speaker; 
 '• and we'll put him on board. His passage is taken in 
 another name ; and, what's better than that, it's paid for. 
 It's lucky we met you.' 
 
 " ' Very,' said the second. 
 
 " ' Capital luck,' said the first, with a wink to his com- 
 [)anion. 
 
CHAKLES DICKENS. 39 
 
 " ' Great,' replied the second, with a slight nod of in- 
 telligence. 
 
 '"Another glass here; quick,' said the first speal;er. 
 And, in five minutes more, the father had unconsciously 
 yielded up his own son into the hangman's hands. 
 
 " Slowly and heavily the time dragged along, as the 
 brother and sister, in their miserable hiding-place, listened 
 in anxious suspense to the slightest sound. At length, 
 a heavy footstep was heard upon the stair ; it approached 
 nearer ; it reached the landing ; and the father staggered 
 into the room. 
 
 " The girl saw that he was intoxicated, and advanced 
 with the candle in her hand to meet him : she stopped 
 short, gave a loud scream, and fell senseless on the 
 ground. She had caught sight of the shadow of a man, 
 reflected on the floor. They both rushed' in ; and in 
 another instant the young man was a prisoner, and 
 handcuffed. 
 
 "'Very quietly done,' said one of the men to his 
 companion, ' thanks to the old man. Lift up the girl, 
 Tom. Come, come, it's no use crying, young woman. 
 It's all over now, and can't be helped.' 
 
 " The young man stooped for an instant over the girl, 
 and then turned fiercely round upon his father, who had 
 reeled against the wall, and was gazing on the group 
 with drunken stupidity. 
 
 " ' Listen to me, father,' he said, in a tone that made 
 the drunkard's flesh creep. ' My brother's blood, and 
 
40 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 mine, is on your head : I never had kind look or word, 
 or care, from you ; and, alive or dead, I never will .for- 
 give you. Die when you will, or how, I will be with 
 you. I speak as a dead man now ; and I warn you, fath- 
 er, that as surely as you must one day stand before your 
 Maker, so surely shall your children be there, hand in 
 hand, to cry for judgment against you.' He raised his 
 manacled hands in a threatenuig attitude, fixed his eyes 
 on his shrinking parent, and slowly left the room ; and 
 neither father nor sister ever beheld him more, on this 
 side the grave. 
 
 " "When the dim and misty Hght of a winter's morning 
 penetrated into the narrow court, and struggled through 
 the begrimed window of the wretched room, AVarden 
 awoke from his heavy sleep, and found himself alone. 
 He rose, and looked round him. The old flock mattress 
 on the floor was undisturbed : every thing was just as he 
 remembered to have seen it last ; and there were no signs 
 of any one, save himself, haviag occupied the room during 
 the night. He inquired of the other lodgers, and of the 
 neighbors ; but his daughter had not been seen or heard 
 of. He rambled through the streets, and scrutinized 
 each wretched face among the crowds that thronged 
 them with anxious eyes. But his search was fruitless ; 
 and he returned to his garret when night came on, des- 
 olate and weary. 
 
 " For many days, he occupied himself in the same 
 manner ; but no trace of his daughter did he meet with, 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 41 
 
 and no word of her reached his ears. At length, he gave 
 up the pursuit as hopeless. He had long thought of the 
 probability of her leaving him, and endeavoring to gain 
 her bread in quiet elsewhere. She had left him, at last, 
 to starve alone. He ground his teeth, and cursed her. 
 
 " He begged his bread from door to door. Every 
 halfpenny he could wring from the pity or credulity of 
 those to whom he addressed himself was spent in the 
 old way. A year passed over his head : the roof of a 
 jail was the only one that had sheltered him for many 
 months. He slept under archways and in brick-fields, 
 
 — anywhere where there was some warmth or shelter 
 from the cold and rain. But, in the last stage of pover- 
 ty, disease, and houseless want, he was a drunkard still. 
 
 " At last, one bitter night, he sunk down on a door- 
 step in Piccadilly, faint and ill. The premature decay 
 of vice and profligacy had worn him to the bone. His 
 cheeks were hollow and livid ; his eyes were sunken, and 
 their sight was dim. His legs trembled beneath his 
 weight, and a cold shiver ran through every limb. 
 
 " And now the long-forgotten scenes of a misspent life 
 crowded thick and fast upon him. He thought of the 
 time when he had had a home, — a happy, cheerful home 
 
 — and of those who peopled it, and flocked about him 
 then, until the forms of his elder children seemed to 
 rise from the grave and stand about him, — so plain, so 
 clear, and so distinct they were, that he coiild touch 
 and feel them. Looks that he had long forgotten were 
 
42 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP 
 
 fixed upon him once more ; voices long since hushed in 
 death sounded in his ears like the music of village-bells. 
 But it was only for an instant. The rain beat heavily 
 upon him ; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his 
 heart again. 
 
 " He rose, and dragged his feeble hmbs a few paces 
 farther. The street was silent and empty ; the few pas- 
 sengers who passed by at that late hour hurried quickly 
 on, and his tremulous voice was lost in the violence of 
 the storm. Again that heavy chill struck through his 
 frame; and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. 
 He coiled himself up in a projecting doorway, and tried 
 to sleep. 
 
 " But sleep had fled fi'om his dull and glazed eyes. 
 His mind wandered strangely, but he was awake and con- 
 scious. The well-known shout of drunken mirth sound- 
 ed in his ear, the glass was at his lips, the board was cov- 
 ered with choice, rich food. They were before him : he 
 could see them all ; he had but to reach out his hand, 
 and take them ; and, though the illusion was reality 
 itself, he knew that he was sitting alone in the deserted 
 street, watching the rain-drops as they pattered on the 
 stones ; that death was coming upon him by inches ; and 
 that there were none to care for or help him. 
 
 " Suddenly he started up, in the extremity of terror. 
 He had heard his own voice shouting in the night air, 
 he knew not what, or why. Hark ! A groan ! An- 
 other 1 His senses were leaving him : half-formed and 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 43 
 
 incoherent words burst from his lips, and his hands 
 sought to tear and lacerate his flesh. He was going 
 mad, and he shrieked for help till his voice failed him. 
 
 " He raised his head, and looked up the long, dismal 
 street. He recollected that outcasts like himself, con- 
 demned to wander day and night in those dreadful 
 streets, had sometimes gone distracted with their own 
 loneliness. He remembered to have heard, many years 
 before, that a homeless wretch had once been found in 
 a solitary corner, sharpening a rusty knife to plunge 
 into his own heart, preferring death to that endless, 
 weary wandering to and fro. In an instant, his resolve 
 was taken. His limbs received new life : he ran quickly 
 from the spot, and paused not for breath until he 
 reached the river-side. 
 
 " He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that 
 lead from the commencement of Waterloo Bridge down 
 to the water's level. He crouched into a corner, and 
 held his breath, as the patrol passed. Never did prison- 
 er's heart throb with the hope of liberty and life half so 
 eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect 
 of death. The watch passed close to him, but he re- 
 mained unobserved ; and, after waiting till the sound of 
 footsteps had died away in the distance, he cautiously 
 descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that 
 forms the landing-place from the river. 
 
 " The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet. 
 The rain had ceased, the wind was lulled, and all was. 
 
44 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 for the moment, still and quiet, — so quiet that the 
 slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rippling 
 of the water against the barges that were moored there, 
 was distinctly audible to his ear. The stream stole lan- 
 guidly and sluggishly on. Strange and fantastic forms 
 rose to the surface, and beckoned him to approach ; dark, 
 gleaming eyes peered from the water, and seemed to 
 mock his hesitation, while hollow murmurs from behind 
 urged him onwards. He retreated a few x^aces, took a 
 short run, a desperate leap, and plunged into the river. 
 
 " Not five seconds had passed when he rose to the 
 water's surface ; but what a change had taken place, in 
 that short time, in all his thoughts and feelings ! Life, 
 life, in any form, — poverty, misery, starvation, any thing 
 but death. He fought and struggled with the water 
 that closed over his head, and screamed in agonies of ter- 
 ror. The curse of his own son rang in his ears. The 
 shorB, but one foot of dry ground, — he could almost 
 touch the step. One hand's-breadth nearer, and he was 
 saved; but the tide bore him onward, under the dark 
 arches of the bridge, and he sank to the bottom. 
 
 " Again he rose, and struggled for life. For one in- 
 stant, — for one brief instant, — the buildings on the riv- 
 er's banks, the lights on the bridge through which the 
 current ha/:l borne liim, the black water, and the fast fly- 
 ing clouds, were distinctly visible. Once more he sunk, 
 and once again he rose. Bright flames of fire shot up 
 from earth to heaven, and reeled before his eyes, while 
 
CHAKLES DICKENS. 45 
 
 the water thundered in his ears, and stunned him with 
 its furious roar. 
 
 "A week afterwards, the body was washed ashore, 
 some miles down the river, a swollen and disfigured 
 mass. Unrecognized and unpitied, it was borne to the 
 grave ; and there it has long since mouldered away." 
 
CHAPTER in. 
 
 CLIMBING THE LADDER. 
 
 Willis's Description of Dickens. — His Inimitable Humor. — Emerson's Criticiem. — 
 Hugh Miller's Opinion. — London Review. —Pickwick Papers. — Sam Weller'i 
 Valentine. — The Ivy Green. — Death in the Prison. 
 
 " O spirits gay, and kindly heart I 
 Precious the blessings ye impart I " 
 
 Joanna Bailue. 
 
 ' A merry heart doeth good like a medicine," — Prov. xvii. 22. 
 
 ILIGENCE gains its reward. Charles 
 Dickens was not weary in effort, and he 
 believed in climbing the ladder round by 
 round. So he was faithful as a reporter 
 till he found himself able to fill a different, 
 and, as far as regards fame and pecuniary reward, an 
 advanced position. Of those reportorial days, our own 
 N. P. Willis wrote once, and described his first meeting 
 with Charles Dickens. He states that he was invited by 
 the publisher, Macrone, to visit Newgate ; and proceeds 
 to say : — 
 
 " I willingly agreed, never having seen this famous 
 prison ; and, after I was seated in the cab, he said that 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 47 
 
 he was to pick up a young paragraphist for ' The Morn- 
 ing Chronicle," who wished to write a description of it. 
 In the most crowded part of Holborn, within a door 
 or two of the Bull and Mouth Inn (the great starting 
 and stopping place of the stage-coaches), we pulled up 
 at the entrance of a large building used for lawyers' 
 chambers. Not to leave me sitting in the rain, Macrone 
 asked me to dismount with him. I followed by a long 
 flight of stairs to an upper story, and was ushered into 
 an uncarpeted and bleak-looldng room, with a deal ta- 
 ble, two or tln^ee chairs, a few books, a small boy, and 
 Mr. Dickens, for the contents. I was only struck at first 
 with one thing (and I made a memorandum of it that 
 evening, as the strongest instance I had ever seen of 
 English obsequiousness to employers), — the degree to 
 which the poor author was overpowered with the honor 
 of his publisher's visit ! I remember saying to myself, 
 as I sat down on a rickety chair, ' My good fellow, if 
 you were in America, with that fine face and your ready 
 quill, you would have no need to be condescended to 
 by a pubhsher.' Dickens was dressed very much as he 
 has since described Dick Swiveller, minus the swell 
 look. His hair was cropped close to his head, his 
 clothes scant, though jauntily cut ; and, after changing 
 a ragged o£&ce-coat for a shabby blue, he stood by the 
 door, coUarless and buttoned up, the very personifica- 
 tion, I thought, of a close sailer to the wmd. We went 
 down, and crowded into the cab (one passenger more 
 
48 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 than the law allowed) ; and, Dickens partly in my lap 
 partly in Macrone's, we drove on to Newgate. In his 
 works, if you remember, there- is a description of the 
 prison, drawn from this day's observation. We were 
 there an hour or two, and were shown some of the cele- 
 brated murderers, confined for life, and one young sol- 
 dier waiting for execution ; and, in one of the passages, 
 we chanced to meet Mrs. Fry on her usual errand of 
 benevolence. Though interested in Dickens's face, I 
 forgot him, naturally enough, after we entered the pris- 
 on ; and I do not think I heard him speak during the two 
 hours. I parted from him at the door of the prison, and 
 continued my stroll into the city. Not long after this, 
 Macrone sent me the sheets of ' Sketches by Boz,' with 
 a note saying that they were by the gentleman who 
 went with us to Newgate. I read the book with amaze- 
 ment at the genius displayed in it, and, in my note of 
 reply, assured Macrone that I thought his fortune was 
 made as a publisher if he could monopolize the author. 
 
 " Two or three years afterwards, I was in London, 
 and was present at the complimentary dinner given to 
 Macready. Samuel Lover, who sat next me, pointed out 
 Dickens. I looked up and down the table, but was whol- 
 ly unablf! to single him out, without getting my friend to 
 number ihe people who sat above him. He was no more 
 like the same man I had seen than a tree in June is like 
 the same tree in February. He sat leaning his head on 
 his hand while Bulwer was speaking ; and, with his very 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 49 
 
 long hair, his very flashy waistcoat, his chains and rings, 
 and withal a paler face than of old, he was totally un- 
 recognizable. The comparison was very interesting to 
 me, and I looked at him a long time. He Avas then 
 in the culmination of popularity, and seemed jaded to 
 stupefaction. 
 
 " Remembering the glorious works he had written 
 since I had seen him, I longed to pay him my homage, 
 but had no opportunity ; and I did not see him again till 
 he came over to reap his harvest and upset his hay-cart 
 in America. When all the ephemera of his impru- 
 dences and improvidences shall have passed away, — 
 say twenty years hence, — I should like to see him 
 again, renowned as he will be for the most original and 
 remarkable works of his time." Willis referred to his 
 first visit to America, which Dickens signalized by the 
 publication of those " Notes " which were so unaccept- 
 able. When the great novelist again trod the Amer- 
 ican shore, the poet who thus wrote of him had gone to 
 the spmt-land. 
 
 It has been difficult sometimes to decide in regard to 
 the humor of Dickens, whether it was the chief char- 
 acteristic of his writings, or whether it was exceeded 
 by his pathos : most readers seem to consider them 
 about equal. 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson speaks of Dickens as a writer 
 " with preternatural apprehension of the language of 
 nianners and the varieties of street-life, with patho.« 
 
50 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 and laughter, with patriotic and still enlarging gener- 
 osity." He calls him " a painter of English details, like 
 Hogarth ; local and temporary in his tints and style, 
 and local in his aims." But, notwithstanding this crit- 
 icism, Emerson enjoyed Dickens, and the reading world 
 accepted him as a novelist. 
 
 Hugh Miller classed Dickens with great writers, but 
 at the lower end of a descending scale. The great geol- 
 ogist went to view the place where Shakspeare was 
 born, and there found a set of albums, in which visitors 
 placed their names. Among those presented to his no- 
 tice were, first that of Walter Scott, and then that of 
 Charles Dickens. Mr. Miller wrote of the matter : "It 
 is a curious coincidence, — Shakspeare^ Scott ^ Dickens ! 
 The scale is a descending one ; so is the scale from the 
 lion to the leopard, and from the leopard to the tiger-cat : 
 but cat, leopard, and lion belong to one great family ; 
 and these three poets belong unequivocally to one great 
 family also. They are generically one ; masters, each in 
 his own sphere, not simply of the art of exhibiting char- 
 acter in the truth of nature, — for that a Hume or a 
 Tacitus may possess, — but of the rarer and more diffi- 
 cult dramatic art of making characters exhibit them- 
 selves. It is not uninstructive to remark how the 
 peculiar ability of portraying character in this form is 
 so exactly proportioned to the general intellectual power 
 of the writer who possesses it. . . . Viewed with ref- 
 erence to this simple rule, the higher characters of 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 51 
 
 Scott, Dickens, and Shakspeare curiously indicate the 
 intellectual status of the men wlio produced them. . . . 
 The higher characters of Dickens do not stand by any 
 means so high [as Scott's] ; the fluid in the original 
 tul e rests at a lower level ; and no one seems better 
 aware of the fact than Dickens himself. He knows 
 his proper walk ; and, content with expatiating in a 
 comparatively humble province of human life and char- 
 acter, rarely stands ' on tiptoe, in the vain attempt to 
 portray an intellect taller than his own. . . . Dickens, 
 ere he became the most popular of living English au- 
 thors, must have been a first-class reporter ; and the 
 faculty that made him so is the same which now leads 
 us to speak of him in the same breath with Shakspeare. 
 ... In this age of books, I marvel no bookseller has 
 ever thought of presenting the public with the Bow- 
 street reports of Dickens. They would form, assuredly, 
 a curious work, — not less so, though on a different 
 principle, than the Parliamentary reports of Dr. Samuel 
 Johnson." 
 
 Undoubtedly Dickens wrought into his next book 
 some of his experiences and observations while a re- 
 porter ; and he gave the delighted public another vol- 
 ume, called " The Pickwick Papers." It is said that 
 the freshness and humor of the "Sketches by Boz," 
 and the dramatic power indicated by the "Village 
 Coquettes," a comic opera which Mr. Dickens wrote 
 about the same time, attracted the attention of Messrs. 
 
52 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 Chapman and Hall, the publishers, who applied to 
 " Boz " for a serial story to be issued in monthly parts 
 The result was the " Posthumous Memoirs of the Pick- 
 wick Club," with illustrations at first from the pencil of 
 Seymour, and, after he committed suicide, illustrations 
 from Hablot K. Browne, — " Phiz." 
 
 " The success of the ' Pickwick Papers ' was imme- 
 diate and great. Its wit, pathos, and shrewd picturing 
 of English character, high and low, touched the heart 
 and fancy of all classes. The sayings of Sam Weller 
 were quoted by speakers in the House of Parliament 
 and the ragged gamins in the slums of London." 
 
 " The London Quarterly Review," in October, 1837, 
 said of Mr. Dickens, " The popularity of this writer is 
 one of the most remarkable literary phenomena of recent 
 times ; for it, has been fairly earned, without resorting 
 to any of the means by which most other writers have 
 succeeded in attracting the attention of their contem- 
 poraries. He has flattered no popular prejudice, and 
 profited by no passing folly ; he has attempted no cari- 
 cature of the manners or conversation of the aristocracy ; 
 and there are very few political or personal allusions in 
 his works. Moreover, his class of subjects is such as to 
 expose him, at the outset, to the fatal objection of vul- 
 garity ; and, with the exception of occasional extracts 
 in the newspapers, he received little or no assistance 
 from the press. And yet, in less than six months from 
 the appearance of the first number of the ' Pickwick 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 53 
 
 Papers,' the whole reading public was talking about 
 them : the names of Winkle, Wardle, Weller, Snod- 
 grass, Dodson, and Fogg, had become familiar in our 
 mouths as household terms ; and Mr. Dickens was the 
 grand object of interest to the whole tribe of ' Leo- 
 hunters,' male and female, of the metropolis. Nay, 
 Pickwick chintzes figured in linen-drapers' windows, 
 and Weller corduroys in breeches-makers' advertise- 
 ments ; Boz cabs might be seen rattling through the 
 streets ; and the portrait of the author of ' Pelham ' or 
 ' Crichton ' was scraped down or pasted over, to make 
 room for that of the new popular favorite, in the omni- 
 buses. This is only to be accounted for on the suppo- 
 sition that a fresh vein of humor had been opened, that 
 a new and decidedly original genius had sprung up ; and 
 the most cursory reference to preceding English writers 
 of the comic order will show, that, in his own peculiar 
 walk, Mr. Dickens is not simply the most distinguished, 
 but the first." 
 
 Mr. Dickens was but about twenty-three when he 
 Avas asked to write " Pickwick ; " and of that invitation 
 he thus speaks in a later preface to that humorous vol- 
 
 " When I opened my door in Furnival's Inn to the 
 partner who represented the firm, I recognized in him 
 the person from whose hands I had bought, two or three 
 years previously, and whom I had never seen before oi 
 
54 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 since, my first copy of the magazine in which my first 
 effusion — a paper in the ' Sketches,' called ' Mr. Minns 
 AND HIS Cousin,' dropped stealthily one evening at 
 twilight, with fear and trembling, into a dark letter-box, 
 in a dark office, up a dark court in Fleet Street — ap- 
 peared in all the glory of print ; on which occasion I 
 walked down to Westminster Hall, and turned into it 
 for half-an-hour, because my eyes were so dimmed with 
 joy and pride that they could not bear the street, and 
 were not fit to be seen there. I told my visitor of the 
 coincidence, which we both hailed as a good omen, and 
 so fell to business." 
 
 The high moral purpose of the " Pickwick Papers " 
 can be seen by these words from the same preface : — 
 
 " Who knows, but, by the time the series reaches its 
 conclusion, it may be discovered that there are' even 
 magistrates in town and country who should be taught 
 to shake hands every day with Common-sense and Jus- 
 tice ; that even poor-laws may have mercy on the weak, 
 the aged, and unfortunate ; that schools, on the broad 
 principles of Christianity, are the best adornment for 
 the length and breadth of this civilized land ; that 
 prison-doors should be barred on the outside no less 
 heavily and carefully than they are barred within ; that 
 the universal diffusion of common means of decency 
 and health is as much the right of the poorest of the 
 poor as it is indispensable to the safety of the rich and 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 55 
 
 of the State ; that a few petty boards and bodies — less 
 than drops in the great ocean of humanity which roars 
 around them — are not forever to let loose fever and 
 consumption on God's creatures at their will, or always 
 to keep their jobbing little fiddles going, for a Dance of 
 Death." 
 
 In " Pickwick Papers " may be found the following 
 BOng, which was exceedingly popular in its day, entitled 
 
 " THE IVY GREEN. 
 
 " Oh, a dainty plant is the ivy green, 
 That creepeth o'er ruins old I 
 Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, 
 
 In his cell so lone and cold. 
 The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, 
 
 To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
 And the mouldering dust that years have made 
 Is a merry meal for him. 
 
 Creeping where no life is seen, 
 A rare old plant is the ivy green. 
 
 Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings; 
 
 And a staunch old heart has he. 
 How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, 
 
 To his friend the huge oak-tree ! 
 And slyly he traileth along the ground, 
 
 And his leaves he gently waves. 
 As he joyously hugs and crawleth round 
 The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
 
 Creeping where grim death has been, 
 A rare old plant is the ivy green. 
 
66 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, 
 
 And nations have scattered been ; 
 But the stout old ivy shall never fade 
 
 From its hale and hearty green. 
 The brave old plant in its lonely days 
 Shall fatten upon the past ; 
 For the stateliest building man can raise 
 Is the ivy's food at last. 
 
 Creeping on, where time has been, 
 A rare old plant is the ivy gi-een." 
 
 One of the humorous sketches in " Pickwick" is that 
 well-known and oft-quoted description of Sam Weller's 
 valentine, which is here inserted. 
 
 " Mr. Weller having obtained leave of absence from 
 Mr. Pickwick, who in his then state of excitement and 
 worry was by no means displeased at being left alone, 
 set forth, long before the appointed hour, and, having 
 plenty of time at his disposal, sauntered down as far as 
 the Mansion House, where he paused and contemplated, 
 with a face of great calmness and philosophy, the nu- 
 merous cads and drivers of short stages who assemble 
 near that famous place of resort, to the great terror and 
 confusion of the old-lady population of these realms. 
 Having loitered here for half an houi' or so, Mr. Weller 
 tuined, and began wending his way towards Leadenhall 
 Market, through a variety of by-streets and courts. 
 As he was sauntering away his spare time, and stopped 
 to look at almost every object that met his gaze, it is by 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 67 
 
 no means surprising that Mr. Weller should have paused 
 before a small stationer's and print-seller's window ; but, 
 without further explanation, it does appear surprising 
 that his eyes should have no sooner rested on certain 
 pictures which were exposed for sale therein, than he 
 gave a sudden start, smote his right leg with great vehe- 
 mence, and exclaimed with energy, ' If it hadn't been 
 for this, I should ha' forgot all about it till it was too 
 late ! ' 
 
 " The particular picture on which Sam Weller's eyes 
 were fixed, as he said this, was a highly-colored repre- 
 sentation of a couple of human hearts skewered together 
 with an arrow, cooking before a cheerful fire, while a 
 male and female cannibal, in modern attire, — the gentle- 
 man being clad in a blue coat and white trousers, and 
 the lady in a deep-red pelisse with a parasol of the same, 
 — were approaching the meal with hungry eyes, up a 
 serpentine gravel-path leading thereunto. A decidedly 
 indelicate young gentleman, in a pair of wings and 
 nothing else, was depicted as superintending the cook- 
 ing ; a representation of the spire of the church in Lang- 
 ham Place, London, appeared in the distance ; and the 
 whole formed a ' valentine,' of which, as a written in- 
 scription in the window testified, there was a large 
 assortment within, which the shopkeeper pledged him- 
 self to dispose of to his countrymen generally, at the 
 reduced rate of one-aud-sixpeuce each. 
 
 "'I should ha' forgot it ; I should certainly ha' for- 
 
<58 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 got it ! ' said Sam : so saying, he at once stei)ped into 
 the stationer's shop, and requested to be served with 
 a sheet of the best gilt-edged letter-paper, and a hard- 
 oibbed pen which could be warranted not to splutter. 
 These articles having been promptly supplied, he walked 
 on direct towards Leadenhall Market at a good r':und 
 pace, very different from his recent lingering one. 
 Looldng round him, he there beheld a sign-board, on 
 which the painter's art had delineated something re- 
 motely resembling a cerulean elephant with an aquiline 
 nose in lieu of a trunk. Rightly conjecturing that this 
 was the Blue Boar himself, he stepped into the house,- 
 and inquired concerning his parent. 
 
 " ' He won't be here this three-quarters of an hour 
 or more,' said the young lady who superintended the 
 domestic arrangements of the Blue Boar. 
 
 " ' Werry good, my dear,' replied Sam. ' Let me 
 have nine-penn'orth o' brandy-and-water luke, and the 
 inkstand, — will you, miss ? ' 
 
 "The brandy-and-water luke and the inkstand 
 having been carried into the little parlor, and the young 
 lady having carefully flattened down the coals to pre- 
 vent their blazing, and carried away the poker to pre- 
 clude the possibility of the fu-e being stuTed without 
 the full privity and concurrence of the Blue Boar being 
 first had and obtained, Sam Weller sat himself down 
 in a box near the stove, and pulled out the sheet of 
 gilt-edged letter-paper and the hard-nibbed pen. Then, 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 59 
 
 looking carefully at the pen to see that there were no 
 hairs in it, and dusting down the table, so that there 
 might be no crumbs of bread under the paper, Sam 
 tucked up the cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and 
 composed himself to write. 
 
 " To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit 
 of devoting themselves practically to the science of pen- 
 manship, writing a letter is no very easy task ; it being 
 always considered necessary in such cases for the writer 
 to recline his head on his left arm, so as to place his eyes 
 as nearly as- possible on a level with the paper, while 
 glancing sideways at the letters he is constructing, to 
 form with his tongue imaginary characters to corre- 
 spond. These motions, although unquestionably of the 
 greatest assistance to original composition, retard, in 
 some degree, the progress of the Avriter ; and Sam had 
 unconsciously been a full hour and a half writing words 
 in small text, smearing out wrong letters with his little 
 finger, and putting in new ones which required going 
 over very often to render them visible through the old 
 blots, when he was roused by the opening of the door 
 and the entrance of his parent. 
 
 " ' Veil, Sammy,' said the father. 
 
 " ' Veil, my Prooshan Blue,' responded the son, lay- 
 ing down his pen. ' What's the last bulletin about moth- 
 er-in-law ? ' 
 
 " ' Mrs. Veller passed a wery good night, but is un- 
 common perwerse and unpleasant this mornin'. Signed 
 
60 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 upon oath, S. Veller, Esquire, Senior. That's the last 
 vun as wos issued, Sammy,' repHed Mr. Weller, untying 
 his shawl. 
 
 " ' No better yet ? ' inquired Sam. 
 
 " ' All the symptoms aggerawated,' replied Mr. "Wel- 
 ler, shaking his head. ' But wot's that you're a doin' 
 of ? Pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, Sammy ? ' 
 
 *' ' I've done now,' said Sam, with slight embarrass- 
 ment : ' I've been a writin'.' 
 
 " ' So I see,' replied Mr. Weller. ' Not to any young 
 'oman, I hope, Sammy.' 
 
 " ' Why it's no use a sayin' it ain't,' replied Sam. ' It's 
 a walentine.' 
 
 " ' A wot ! ' exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror- 
 stricken, by the word. 
 
 " ' A walentine,' replied Sam. 
 
 " ' Samivel, Samivel,' said Mr. Weller, in reproachful 
 accents, ' I didn't think you'd ha' done it. Arter the 
 warnin' you've had o' your father's wicious propensities ; 
 arter all I've said to you upon this here wery subject ; 
 arter actiwally seein' and bein' in the company o' your 
 own mother-in-law, vich I should ha' thought wos a 
 moral lesson as no man could never ha' forgotten to his 
 dyin' day, — I didn't think jou'd ha' done it, Sammy, I 
 didn't think you'd ha' done it ! ' These reflections were 
 too much for the good old man. He raised Sam's tum- 
 bler to his lips, and drank off its contents. 
 
 " * Wot's the matter now ? ' said Sam. 
 
CHAKLES DICKENS. 61 
 
 " * Nev'r mind, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller. ' It'll be 
 a wery agonizin' trial to me at my time of life ; but I'm 
 pretty tough, that's vun consolation, as the wery old 
 turkey remarked wen the farmer said he wos afeerd he 
 should be obliged to kill him for the London market.' 
 
 " ' Wot'U be a trial ? ' inquired Sam. 
 
 " ' To see you married, Sammy, — to see you a dilluded 
 wictim, and thinkin' in your innocence that it's all wery 
 capital,' replied Mr. Weller. ' It's a dreadful trial to 
 a father's feelin's, that 'ere, Sammy.' 
 
 " ' Nonsense,' said Sam. ' I ain't a goin' to get mar- 
 ried : don't you fret yourself about that. I know youh:e 
 a judge of these things. Order in your pipe, and I'U 
 read you the letter. There I ' 
 
 " We cannot distinctly say whether it was the pros- 
 pect of the pipe, or the consolatory reflection that a 
 fatal disposition to get married ran in the family and 
 couldn't be helped, which calmed Mr. Weller's feelings, 
 and caused his grief to subside. We should be rather 
 disposed to say that the result was attained by com- 
 bining the two sources of consolation ; for he repeated 
 the second in a low tone, very frequently, ringing the 
 bell, meanwhile, to order in the first. He then divested 
 himself of his upper coat ; and lighting the pipe, and 
 placing himself in front of the fire with his back to- 
 wards it, so that he could feel its full heat and rechne 
 against the mantle-piece at the same time, turned to- 
 wards Sam, and, with a countenance greatly moUified 
 
62 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 by the softening influence of tobacco, requested him to 
 ' fire away.' 
 
 " Sam dipped his pen into the ink, to be ready for any 
 corrections, and began, with a very theatrical air, — 
 
 " ' " Lovely ." ' 
 
 "'Stop,' said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. 'A 
 double glass o' the inwariable, my dear.' 
 
 " ' Very well, sir,' replied the girl, who with great 
 quickness appeared, vanished, returned, and disap- 
 peared. 
 
 " ' They seem to know your ways here,' observed Sam. 
 
 "'Yes,' replied his father: 'I've been here before in 
 my time. Go on, Sammy.' 
 
 ** ' " Lovely creetur," ' repeated Sam. 
 
 " ' 'Tain't in poetry, is it ? ' interposed his father. 
 
 " ' No, no,' replied Sam. 
 
 " ' Wery glad to hear it,' said Mr. Weller. ' Poetry's 
 unnat'ral : no man ever talked poetry 'cept a beadle on 
 boxin' day, or Warren's blackin', or Rowland's oil, or 
 some o' them low fellows ; never you let yourself down 
 to talk poetry, my boy. Begin agin, Sammy.' 
 
 " Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with a critical solemni- 
 ty; and Sam once more commenced, and read as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " ' " Lovely creetur, i feel myself a dammed " ' — 
 
 " ' That ain't proper,' said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe 
 from his mouth. 
 
 " ' No : it ain't " dammed," ' observed Sam, holding 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 63 
 
 the letter up to the light, 'it's "shamed,": — there's a 
 blot there, — "I feel myself ashamed."' 
 
 " ' Wery good,' said Mr. Weller. ' Go on.' 
 
 " ' " Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir "— I 
 forget what this here word is,' said Sam, scratching his 
 head with the pen, in vain attempts to remember. 
 
 " ' Why don't you look at it, then ? ' inquired Mr. 
 Weller. 
 
 "' So I am a lookin' at it,' replied Sam ; ' but there's 
 another blot. Here's a " c," and a " i," and a " d." ' 
 
 " ' Circumwented, p'haps,' suggested Mr. Weller. 
 
 " ' No : it ain't that,' said Sam : ' '* circumscribed ; " 
 that's it.' 
 
 " ' That ain't as good a word as circumwented, Sam- 
 my,' said Mr. Weller gravely. 
 
 " ' Think not ? ' said Sam. 
 
 " ' Nothin' like it,' replied his father. 
 
 " ' But don't you think it means more ? ' inquired Sam. 
 
 "'Veil, p'raps it is a more tenderer word,' said Mr. 
 Weller, after a moment's reflection. ' Go on, Sammy.' 
 
 " ' " Feel myself ashamed and completely circum- 
 scribed in a dressin' of you ; for you are a nice gal, and 
 nothin' but it." ' 
 
 " ' That's a wery pretty sentiment,' said the elder Mr. 
 Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark. 
 
 '"Yes, I think it is rayther good,' observed Sam, 
 highly flattered. 
 
 " ' Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin," ' said the 
 
64 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 elder Mr. Weller, ' is, that tliere ain't no callin' names • 
 in it, — no Wenuses, nor notliin' o' that kind. Wot's 
 the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel, 
 Sammy ? ' 
 
 " ' Ah ! what, indeed ? ' replied Sam. 
 
 " ' You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a uni- 
 corn, or a king's-arms at once, which is wery well 
 known to be a collection o' fabulous animals,' added 
 Mr. Weller. 
 
 " ' Just as well,' rephed Sam. 
 
 " ' Drive on, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller. 
 
 ** Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as 
 follows ; his father continuing to smoke, with a mixed 
 expression of wisdom and complacency which was par- 
 ticularly edifying. 
 
 " ' " Afore I see you, I thought all women was 
 alike." ' 
 
 " ' So they are,' observed the elder Mr. Weller paren- 
 thetically. 
 
 " ' " But now," ' continued Sam, ' " now I find what a 
 reg'lar soft-headed, ink-red'lous turnip I must ha' been ; 
 for there ain't nobody like you, though I like you better 
 than no thin' at all." I thought it best to make that 
 rayther strong,' said Sam, looking up. 
 
 " Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed. 
 
 " ' " So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear, 
 —as the gen'l'm'n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of 
 a Sunday, — to tell you, that, the first and only time I see 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 65 
 
 you, your likeness was took on my hart in mucli quickei 
 time and brighter colors than ever a likeness was took 
 by the profeel macheen (wich p'raps you may have 
 heerd on, Mary, my dear), altho' it does finish a portrait 
 and put the frame and glass on complete, with a hook 
 at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and 
 a quarter." ' 
 
 " ' I am afeered that werges on the poetical, Sammy,' 
 said Mr. Weller dubiously. 
 
 " ' No, it don't,' replied Sam, reading on very quickly, 
 to avoid contesting the point, — 
 
 " ' " Except of me, Mary, my dear, as your walentine, 
 and think over what I've said. My dear Mary, I will 
 now conclude." That's all,' said Sam. 
 
 " ' That's rather a sudden pull-up, ain't it, Sammy ? ' 
 inquired Mr. Weller. 
 
 " ' Not a bit on it,' said Sam. ' She'll vish there wos 
 more, and that's the great art o' letter-writin.' 
 
 " ' Well,' said Mr. Weller, ' there's somethin' in that ; 
 and I wish your mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her 
 conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you 
 agoin' to sign it ? ' 
 
 "'That's the difficulty,' said Sam. 'I don't know 
 what to sign it.' 
 
 " ' Sign it Veller,' said the oldest surviving proprietor 
 of that name. 
 
 " ' Won't do,' said Sam. ' Never sign a walentine 
 with your own name.' 
 
66 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " ' Sign it " Pick^^ck," then,' said Mr. Weller. ' It's 
 a weiy good name, and a easy one to spell.' 
 
 " ' The weiy thing,' said Sam. ' I could end with a 
 werse : what do you think ? ' 
 
 " ' I don't like it, Sam,' rejoined Mr. Weller. ' I never 
 know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept 
 one, as made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore 
 he wos hung for highway robbery ; and he was only a 
 Cambervell man : so even that's no rule.' 
 
 " But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical 
 idea that had occurred to him ; so he signed the let- 
 ter, — 
 
 " * Your love-sick 
 Pickwick.' 
 
 And, having folded it in a very intricate manner, 
 squeezed a down-hill direction in one corner : ' To 
 Mary, Housemaid, at Mr. Nupkins's Mayor's, Ipswich, 
 Suffolk;' and put it into his pocket, wafered, and ready 
 for the General Post." 
 
 Among the old English customs which modern eyes 
 look upon with contempt and displeasure, that of im- 
 prisonment ■ for debt is one of the worst. In "Pick- 
 wick," the death in prison of one confined for years for 
 debt is thus touchingly described : — 
 
 " ' I'm sorry to say that your landlord's wery bad to- 
 aight, sir,' said Roker, setting down the glass, and in- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 67 
 
 specting the lining of his hat preparatory to putting it 
 on again. 
 
 " ' What ! The Chancery prisoner ! ' exclaimed Mr. 
 Pickwick. 
 
 " ' He won't be a Chancery prisoner wery long, sir,' 
 replied Roker, turning his hat round, so as to get the 
 maker's name right-side upwards, as he looked into it. 
 
 " ' You make my blood run cold,' said Mr. Pickwick. 
 * What do you mean ? ' 
 
 " ' He's been consumptive for a long time past,' said 
 Mr. Roker, ' and he's taken wery bad in the breath to- 
 night. The doctor said, six months ago, that nothing 
 but change of air could save liim.' 
 
 " ' Great Heaven ! ' exclaimed ]\Ir. Pickwick : ' has 
 this man been slowly murdered by the law for six 
 months ? ' 
 
 " ' I don't know about that,' replied Roker, weighing 
 the hat by the brims in both hands. ' I suppose he'd 
 have been took the same, wherever he was. He went 
 into the infirmary this morning : the doctor says his 
 strength is to be kept up as much as possible ; and the 
 warden's sent him wine and broth and that, from his 
 own house. It's not the warden's fault, you know, sir.' 
 
 " ' Of course not,' repHed Mr. Pickwick hastily. 
 
 " ' I'm afraid, however,' said Roker, shaking his head, 
 ' that it's all up with him. I offered Neddy two six- 
 penn'orths to one upon it just now; but he wouldn't 
 take it, and quite right. Thankee, sir. Good -night, 
 
68 ' LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " ' Stay,' said Mr. Pickwick earnestly. ' Where is 
 this infirmary ? ' 
 
 " ' Just over where you slept, sir,' replied Roker. ' I'D 
 show you, if you like to come.' Mr. Pickwick snatched 
 up his hat without speaking, and followed at once. 
 
 " The turnkey led the way in silence ; and, gently rais- 
 ing the latch of the room-door, motioned Mr. Pickwick 
 to enter. It was a large, bare, desolate room, with a 
 number of stump bedsteads made of iron, on one of 
 which lay stretched the shadow of a man, — wan, pale, 
 and ghastly. His breathing was hard and thick, and he 
 moaned painfuUy as it came and went. At the bedside 
 sat a short old man in a cobbler's apron, who, by the aid 
 of a pair of horn spectacles, was reading from the Bible 
 aloud. It was the fortunate legatee. 
 
 " The sick man laid his hand upon his attendant's 
 arm, and motioned him to stop. He closed the book, 
 and laid it on the bed. 
 
 " ' Open the window,' said the sick man. 
 
 " He did so. The noise of carriages and carts, the 
 rattle of wheels, the cries of men and boys, all the busy 
 sounds of a mighty multitude instinct with life and occu- 
 pation, blended into one deep murmur, floated into the 
 room. Above the hoarse, loud hum, arose, from time to 
 time, a boisterous laugh ; or a scrap of some jingling 
 song, shouted forth by one of the giddy crowd, would 
 strike upon the ear for an instant, and then be lost 
 amidst the roar of voices and the tramp of footsteps, — 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 69 
 
 the breaking of the billows of the restless sea of life, 
 that rolled heavily on, without. Melancholy sounds to 
 a quiet listener, at any time : how melancholy to the 
 watcher by the bed of death ! 
 
 " ' There's no air here,' said the sick man faintly. 
 * The place pollutes it. It was fresh round about, when 
 I walked there, years ago ; but it grows hot and heavy 
 in passing these walls. I cannot breathe it.' 
 
 " ' We have breathed it together for a long time,' said 
 the old man. ' Come, come.' 
 
 " There was a short silence, during which the two 
 spectators approached the bed. The sick man drew 
 a hand of his old fellow-prisoner towards him, and, 
 pressing it affectionately between his own, retained it in 
 his grasp. 
 
 " ' I hope,' he gasped after a while, — so faintly that 
 they bent their ears close over the bed to catch the half- 
 formed sounds his pale lips gave vent to, — 'I hope my 
 merciful Judge will bear in mind my heavy punishment 
 on earth. Twenty years, my friend, twenty years in 
 this hideous grave ! My heart broke when my child 
 died, and I could not even kiss him in his little coffin. 
 My loneliness since then, in all this noise and riot, has 
 been very dreadful. May God forgive me ! He has 
 seen my sohtary, lingering death.' 
 
 " He folded his hands, and, murmuring something 
 more they could not hear, fell into a sleep, — only a 
 sleep at first, for they saw him smile. 
 
CHAPTER rV. 
 
 Ilie Novelist. — E. P. Whlpple'B Testimony. — Oliver Twist. — Asking for ICora. — 
 Pauperism in England. — Nancy Sykes. — Jew Fagin. 
 
 " Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame I 
 A draught that mantles high, 
 And seems to lift this earthly frame 
 
 Above mortality." Mrs. BteMANS. 
 
 " I have made thee a great name, like unto the name of the great men that are in 
 the earth." — 2 Sam. vii. 9. 
 
 HE brilliant " Pickwick Papers " prepared 
 the way for yet greater success. Leading 
 London publishers made proposals at once 
 to the popular author. He accepted the 
 editorship of Mr. Bentley's " Miscellany," 
 and in the second number (February, 1837) appeared 
 the first instalment of " Oliver Twist." This became at 
 once a favorite story, and Mr. Dickens took rank at once 
 among novelists. " Oliver Twist " was " admirably illus- 
 trated by George Cruikshank, and is still regarded as 
 one of the author's most striking novels." It talked in 
 story fashion of the cruelties and abuses that prevailed 
 too largely in certain public institutions, and was hap- 
 
 71 
 
70 LIFE AND WRITINGS. 
 
 " They whispered together for a little time ; and the 
 turnkey, stooping over the pillow, drew hastily back. 
 ' He has got his discharge ! ' said the man. 
 
 " He had. But he had grown so like death in life, 
 that they knew not when he died." 
 
72 LIFE AXD WRITINGS OP 
 
 pily instrumental in repealing laws that sanctioned gross 
 injustice. One can hardly read a page of his novels, 
 without perceiving that Mr. Dickens has contended 
 bravely against some hidden wrong in society ; and while 
 adding to English literature many gems, and a host of 
 imperishable creations, has at the same time rebuked 
 wrong fearlessly, and taught the lessons of humanity 
 and good will. 
 
 A portion of the manuscript of " Oliver Twist," which 
 originally, as above stated, appeared in Bentley's " Mis- 
 cellany," is still in Mr. Bentley's possession. " The 
 British Museum " says one, " might fittingly place it by 
 the side of the manuscript of Sterne's ' Sentimental Jour- 
 ney.' " As a novelist, our own brilliant essayist, E. P. 
 Whipple, says of Mr. Dickens,* " Dickens, as a novehst 
 and prose poet, is to be classed in the front rank of the 
 noble company to which he belongs. He has revived 
 the novel of genuine practical life as it existed in the 
 works of Fielding, Smollett, and Goldsmith, but, at the 
 same time, has given to his materials an individual coloring 
 and expression peculiarly his own. His characters, like 
 those of his great exemplars, constitute a world of their 
 own, whose truth to Nature every reader instinctively 
 recognizes in connection with their truth to Dickens. 
 Fielding delineates with more exquisite art, standing 
 more as the spectator of his personages, commenting on 
 their actions with an ironical humor and a seeming inno- 
 
 • North- American Review, Ixix., 392, 393, October, 1849. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 73 
 
 cence of insight, which pierces not only iiito but through 
 their very nature, laying bare their most unconscious 
 scenes of action, and in every instance indicating that 
 he understands them better than they understand them- 
 selves. It is this perfection of knowledge and insight 
 which gives to his novels their naturalness, their free- 
 dom of movement, and their value as lessons in human 
 nature, as well as consummate representations of actual 
 life. Dickens's eye for the forms of things is as accu- 
 rate as Fielding's, and his range of vision more extended; 
 .but he does not probe so profoundly into the heart of 
 what he sees, and he is more led away from the sim- 
 plicity of truth by a tricky spirit of fantastic exagger- 
 ation. Mentally he is indisputably below Fielding ; but 
 in tenderness, in pathos, in sweetness and purity of feel- 
 ing, in that comprehensiveness of sympathy which 
 springs from a sense of brotherhood with mankind, he 
 is indisputably above him." 
 
 Mr. Dickens gave in his preface to " Oliver Twist," 
 good and sufficient reasons for the choice of the charac- 
 ters there represented, in the following words : — 
 
 " I have yet to learn that a lesson of the purest good 
 may not be drawn from the vUest evil. I have always 
 believed this to be a recognized and established truth, 
 laid down by the greatest men the world has ever seen, 
 constantly acted upon by the best and wisest natures. 
 
74 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 and confirmed hy the reason and experience of everj' 
 thinking mind. 
 
 " In this spirit, when I wished to show, in little Oliver, 
 the principle of good surviving through every adverse 
 circumstance, and triumphing at last ; and when I consid- 
 ered among what companions I could try him best, hav- 
 ing regard to that kind of men into whose hands he would 
 most naturall}^ fall, — I bethought myself of those who 
 figure in these volumes. When I came to discuss the 
 subject more maturely with myself, I saw many strong 
 reasons for pursuing the course to which I was inclined. 
 I had read of thieves by scores, — seductive fellows (ami- 
 able for the most part), faultless in dress, plump in 
 pocket, choice in horse-flesh, bold in bearing, fortunate 
 in gallantry, great at a song, a bottle, a pack of cards, or 
 dice-box, and fit companions for the bravest. But I had 
 never met (except in Hogarth) with the miserable 
 reality. It appeared to me, that to 'draw a knot of such 
 associates in crime as really do exist ; to paint them in 
 all their deformity, in all their wretchedness, in all the 
 squalid poverty of their lives ; to show them, as they 
 really are, forever skulldng uneasily through the dirtiest 
 paths of life, with the great, black, ghastly gallows 
 closing up their prospect, turn them where they may, — 
 it appeared to me that to do this would be to attempt 
 a something which was greatly needed, and which would 
 be a service to society. And, therefore, I did it as I best 
 could," 
 
CHAKLES DICKENS. 76 
 
 Oliver Tavist commenced life in a workhouse. The 
 graphic pictiu-e drawn by Mr. Dickens of the workhouses 
 in his day was not one calculated to give a favorable 
 impression of English benevolence or justice. " Oliver 
 asking for more " has become a proverb. The manner 
 in which the fare of the poor boys was dealt out to 
 them, is thus described : — 
 
 " The room in which the boys were fed was a large 
 stone hall, with a copper at one end, out of which the 
 the master, dressed in an apron for the purpose, and as- 
 sisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel at meal- 
 times. Of this festive composition, each boy had one por- 
 ringer, and no more, except on occasions of great pub- 
 lic rejoicing, when he had two ounces and a quarter of 
 bread besides. The bowls never wanted washing. The 
 boys polished them with their spoons till they shone 
 again ; and, when they had performed this operation 
 (which never took very long, the spoons being nearly 
 as large as the bowls), they would sit staring at the 
 copper, with such eager eyes, as if they could have de- 
 voured the very bricks of which it was composed ; em- 
 ploying themselves, meanwhile, in sucking their fingers 
 most assiduously, with a view of catching up any stray 
 splashes of gruel that might have been cast thereoa 
 Boys have, generally, excellent appetites. Oliver Twist 
 and his companions suffered the tortures of slow starva- 
 tioD for three months : at last, they got so voracious and 
 
76 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 wild with hunger, that one boy, who was tall for his age, 
 and hadn't been used to that sort of thing (for his father 
 had kept a small cook's shop), hinted darkly to his com- 
 panions, that, unless he had another basin of gruel per 
 diem, he was afraid he might some night happen to eat 
 the boy who slept next him, who happened to be a 
 weakly youth of tender age. He had a wild, hungry 
 eye ; and they implicitly believed him. A council was 
 held : lots were cast who should walk up to the master 
 after supper that evening, and ask for more ; and it 
 fell to Oliver Twist. 
 
 " The evening arrived : the boys took their places. The 
 master, in his cook's uniform, stationed himself at the 
 copper ; his pauper assistants ranged themselves behind 
 him ; the gruel was served out ; and a long grace was 
 said over the short commons. The gruel disappeared : 
 the boys whispered each other, and winked at Oliver, 
 while his next neighbors "nudged him. Child as he was, 
 he was desperate with hunger, and reckless with misery. 
 He rose from the table ; and advancing to the master, 
 basin and spoon in hand, said, somewhat alarmed at his 
 own temerity, — 
 
 " ' Please, sir, I want some more.' 
 
 " The master was a fat, healthy man ; but he turned 
 very pale. He gazed in stupefied astonishment on the 
 small rebel for some seconds, and then clung for sup- 
 port t- ' the copper. The assistants were paralyzed with 
 wonder, the boys with fear. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 7? 
 
 " ' What ! ' said the master at length, in a faint voice. 
 
 " ' Please, sir,' replied Oliver, ' I want some more.' 
 
 " The master aimed a blow at Ohver's head with the 
 ladle, pinioned him in his arms, and shrieked aloud for 
 the beadle. 
 
 " The board was sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. 
 Bumble rushed into the room in great excitement, and, 
 addressing the gentleman in the high-chair, said, — 
 
 " ' Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir ! Oliver Twist 
 has asked for more ! ' 
 
 " There was a general start. Horror was depicted on 
 every countenance. 
 
 " ' For more ! ' said Mr. Limbkins. ' Compose j^our- 
 self, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I under- 
 stand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the 
 supper allotted by the dietary ? ' 
 
 " ' He did, sir,' replied Bumble. 
 
 " ' That boy will be hung,' said the gentleman in the 
 white waistcoat. ' I know that boy will be hung.' 
 
 " Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman's opin- 
 ion. An animated discussion took place. Oliver was 
 ordered into instant confinement ; and a bill was next 
 morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a 
 reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oli- 
 ver Twist off the hands of the parish. In other words, 
 five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man 
 or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade, busi- 
 ness, or calling." 
 
If8 LIFE AND WHITINGS OF 
 
 The pen of the novelist was not lacking in powei 
 when he portrayed the abject wretchedness of some of 
 the miserable dwellers in crowded haunts of poverty, and 
 showed, with a noble fearlessness, the heartless treat- 
 ment they sometimes received from those whose duty it 
 was to aid them to the extent of their power, or, at least, 
 to manifest a Christian sympathy for them. Here is an 
 example of such pen-pictures, horrible in its truthful- 
 ness. Oliver had been requested by his employer, the 
 undertaker, to accompany him : — 
 
 " They walked on, for some time, through the most 
 crowded and densely-inhabited part of the town ; and 
 then, striking down a narrow street more dirty and mis- 
 erable than any they had yet passed through, paused to 
 look for the house wliich was the object of their search. 
 The houses on either side were high and large, but very 
 old, and tenanted by people of the poorest class, as 
 their neglected appearance would have sufficiently de- 
 noted, without the concurrent testimony afforded by 
 the squalid looks of the few men and women, who, 
 with folded arms and bodies half-doubled, occasionally 
 skulked along. A great many of the tenements had 
 shop-fronts ; but these Avere fast closed, and mouldering 
 away, only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some 
 houses which had become insecure from age and decay 
 were prevented from falling into the street by huge 
 beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. /9 
 
 planted in the road : but even these crazy dens seemed 
 to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some 
 homeless wretches ; for many of the rough boards, which 
 supplied the place of door and window, were wrenched 
 from their positions to afford an aperture wide enough 
 for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stag- 
 nant and filthy. The very rats, which here and there lay 
 putrefying m its rottenness, were hideous with famine. 
 
 " There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the 
 open door where Oliver and his master stopped: so, 
 groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, 
 and bidding OHver keep close to him, and not be afraid, 
 the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of 
 stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing, he 
 rapped at it with his knuckles. 
 
 " It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or four- 
 teen. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the 
 room contained to know it was the apartment to which 
 he had been directed. He stepped in. Oliver followed 
 him. 
 
 " There was no fire in the room ; but a man was 
 crouching mechanically over the empty stove. An old 
 woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, 
 and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged 
 children in another corner ; and in a small recess, oppo- 
 site the door, there lay upon the ground something cov- 
 ered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast 
 bis eyes towards the place, and crept involuntarily closer 
 
80 LIFE AND WAITINGS OF 
 
 to his master ; for, though it was covered up, the boj/ 
 felt that it was a corpse. 
 
 " The man's face was thin and very pale ; his hair and 
 beard were grizzly ; his eyes were bloodshot. The old 
 woman's face was wrinkled ; her two remaining teeth pro- 
 truded over her underlip ; and her eyes were bright and 
 piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the 
 man : they seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. 
 
 " ' Nobody shall go near her,' said the man, starting 
 fiercely up, as the undertaker approched. ' Keep back ! 
 d — n you, keep back, if you've a life to lose ! ' 
 
 " ' Nonsense, my good man,' said the undertaker, who 
 was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. ' Non- 
 sense ! ' 
 
 " ' I tell you,' said the man, — clinching his hands, 
 and stamping furiously on the floor, — ' I tell you I 
 won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest 
 there. The worms would worry her, — not eat her, — 
 she is so worn away.' 
 
 " The undertaker offered no reply to this raving ; 
 but, producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a 
 moment by the side of the body. 
 
 " ' Ah ! ' said the man, bursting into tears, and sink- 
 in r on his knees at the feet of the dead womau : 
 'kii?el down, kneel down, — kneel round her, every 
 one of you, and mark m}^ words ! I say she was starved 
 to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fevei 
 came upon her ; and then her bones were starting 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 81 
 
 through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle ', 
 she died in the dark, — in the dark ! She couldn't even 
 see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping 
 out their names. I begged for her in the streets ; and 
 they sent me to prison. When I came back, she was 
 dying ; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for 
 they starved her to death. I swear it before the God 
 that saw it ! They starved her ! ' He twined his hands 
 in his hair ; and, with a loud scream, rolled grovelling 
 upon the floor, his eyes fixed, and the foam covering 
 his lips. 
 
 "The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old 
 woman, who had hitherto remained as quiet as if she 
 had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them 
 into silence. Having unloosed the cravat of the man, 
 who still remained extended on the ground, she tottered 
 towards the undertaker. 
 
 " ' She was my daughter,' said the old woman, nod- 
 ding her head in the direction of the corpse, and 
 speaking with an idiotic leer, more ghastly than even 
 the presence of death in such a place. ' Lord, Lord ! 
 Well, it is strange that I, who gave birth to her, and 
 was a woman then, should be alive and merry now, and 
 she l3'ing there, — so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord! to 
 tliitik of it : it's as good as a play, — as good as a play ! ' 
 
 "As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in 
 her hideous merriment, the undertaker turned to go 
 away. 
 
 • 
 
82 LIFE AND WRITINGS OV 
 
 " ' Stop, Stop ! ' said the old woman, in a loud whis- 
 per. ' Will she be buried to-morrow, or next day, or 
 to-! light ? I laid her out ; and I must walk, you know. 
 Send me a large cloak, — a good warm one ; for it is bit- 
 ter cold. "We should have cake and wine, too, before 
 we go ! Never mind : send some bread, — only a loaf 
 of bread, and a cup of water. Shall we have some 
 bread, dear ? ' she said eagerl}^, catching at the under- 
 taker's coat, as he once more moved towards the door. 
 
 " ' Yes, yes,' said the undertaker, ' of course. Any 
 thing you like ! ' He disengaged himself from the old 
 woman's grasp, and, drawing Oliver after him, hurried 
 away. 
 
 " The next day (the family having been meanwhile 
 relieved with a half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, 
 left with them by Mr. Bumble himself), Oliver and his 
 master returned to the miserable abode ; where Mr. 
 Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men 
 from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An 
 old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the 
 old woman and the man ; and the bare coffin, having 
 been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the 
 bearers, and carried into the street. 
 
 " ' Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old 
 lady ! ' whispered Sowerberry in the old woman's ear 
 * we are rather late ; and it won't do to keep the clergy- 
 man waiting. Move on, my men, as quick as you like ! ' 
 
 " Thus dii-ected, the bearers trotted on under their 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 83 
 
 light burden ; and the two nutuincrs kept as near them 
 as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at 
 a good smart pace in front ; and Oliver, whose legs were 
 not so long as his master's, ran by the side. 
 
 " There was not so great a necessity for huiTying as 
 Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however: for when 
 they reached the obscure corner of the church} ard in 
 which the nettles grew, and where the parish-graves 
 were made, the clergyman had not arrived ; and the 
 clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed 
 to think it by no means improbable that it might be an 
 hour or so before he came. So they put the bier on 
 the brink of the grave, and the two mourners waited 
 patiently in the damp clay, with a cold rain drizzling 
 down ; while the ragged boys, whom the spectacle had 
 attracted into the churchyard, played a noisy game at 
 hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their 
 amusements by jumping backward and forward over 
 the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being per- 
 sonal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and 
 read the paper. 
 
 , " At length, after a lapse of something more than an 
 hour, Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry and the clerk were 
 seen running towards the grave. Immediately after- 
 ward the clergyman appeared, putting on his surplice 
 as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or 
 two, to keep up appearances ; and the reverend gentle- 
 man, having read as much of the burial-service as could 
 
84 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplioe to the 
 clerk, and walked away. 
 
 " ' Now, Bill ! ' said Sowerberry to the grave-digger, 
 'fill up!' 
 
 " It was no very difficult task ; for the grave was so 
 full that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of 
 the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth, 
 stamped it loosely down with his feet, shouldered his 
 spade, and walked off, followed by the boys, who mur- 
 mured very loud complaints at the fun being over so 
 soon. 
 
 " ' Come, my good fellow ! ' said Bumble, tapping the 
 man on the back. ' They want to shut up the yard.' 
 
 " The man, who had never once moved since he had 
 taken his station by the grave-side, started, raised his 
 head, stared at the person who had addressed him, 
 walked forward for a few paces, and fell down in a 
 swoon. The crazy old woman was too miuch occupied 
 in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker 
 had taken off) to pay him any attention : so they threw 
 a can of cold water over him ; and, when he came to, 
 saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, 
 and departed on their different ways." 
 
 At the present day, when so much more is done to 
 reclaim the fallen women than was ever done before, a 
 rare interest attaches to the chapter in " Oliver Twist " 
 where poor lost Nancy converses with pure Rose May- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 85 
 
 lie. Hood's exquisitely touching poem, " The Biidge' 
 of Sighs," and Miss Phelps's far later " Hedged In," are 
 remembered as one reads the words of Dickens, written 
 so many years ago, and showing a Christian sympathy 
 with the outcast. Read the description of the interview 
 between the two young women. Poor Nancy ! — 
 
 " The girl's life had been squandered in the streets 
 and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of 
 London : but there was something of the woman's ori- 
 ginal nature left in her still ; and when she heard a light 
 step approaching the door opposite to that by which she 
 had entered, and thought of the Avide contrast which the 
 small room would in another moment contain, she felt 
 burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and 
 shrank as though she could scarcely bear the presence 
 of her with whom she had sought this interview. 
 
 " But struggling with these better feelings was pride, 
 the vice of the lowest and most debased creature no 
 less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable 
 companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of 
 low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails 
 and hulks, living within the shadow of the galloAv^s it- 
 self, — even this degraded being felt too proud to betray 
 a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought 
 a weakness, but which alone connected her with that 
 humanity of which her wasting life had obliterated so 
 many, many traces when a very child. 
 
86 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the 
 figure which presented itself was that of a slight and 
 beautiful girl ; and then, bending them on the ground, 
 tossed her head with affected carelessness, as she said, — 
 
 " ' It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had 
 taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, 
 you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without 
 reason, either.' 
 
 " ' I am very sorr^^ if any one has behaved harshly to 
 you,' replied Rose. ' Do not think of that. Tell me 
 why you wished to see me. I am the person you in- 
 quired for.' 
 
 " The Idnd tone of this answer, the sweet voice, 
 the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haugh- 
 tiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by sur- 
 prise, and she burst into tears. 
 
 " ' O lady, lady ! ' she said, clasping her hands pas- 
 sionately before her face : ' if there was more like you, 
 there would be fewer like me ! There would, — there 
 would ! ' 
 
 " ' Sit down,' said Rose earnestly : ' you distress mo. 
 If you are in poverty or affliction, I shall be truly glad 
 to relieve you if I can. I shall indeed. Sit down. ' 
 
 " ' Let me stand, lady,' said the girl, still weeping 
 " and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me 
 better. It is growing late. Is — is — that door shut ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes,' said Rof^e, recoiling a fe^\■ steps, as if to be 
 nearer assistance in case she should require it. ' Why ? ' 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 87 
 
 " ' Because,' said the giii, ' I am about to put m}^ life, 
 and the lives of others, in 3^0111 hunds. I am the girl 
 that dragged little Olirer back to old Fagin's the Jew's, 
 on the night when he went out from the house in Pen- 
 ton ville.' 
 
 " ' You ! ' said Rose Maylie. 
 
 '"I, lady!' replied the girl. 'I am the infamous 
 creature you have heard of, that lives among the tliieves, 
 and that never, from the first moment I can recollect my 
 eyes and senses opening on London streets, have known 
 any better Ufe, or kinder words than they have given me, 
 — so help me God ! Do not mind shrinking openly from 
 me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look 
 at me ; but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall 
 back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement. 
 
 " ' What dreadful things are these ! ' said Rose, invol- 
 untarily falling from her strange companion. 
 
 " ' Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady,' cried 
 the girl, ' that you had friends to care for and keep you 
 in your childhood, and that 3'ou were never in the midst 
 of cold and hunger and riot and drunkenness, and — 
 and something worse than all, as I have been from my 
 cradle. I may use the word ; for the alley and the gut- 
 ter were mine, as they will be my deathbed.' 
 
 "'I pity you ! ' said Rose in a broken voice. ' It 
 wrings my heart to hear you ! ' 
 
 " ' Heaven bless you for your goodness ! ' rejoined the 
 girl. ' If you knew what I am sometimes, you would 
 
88 LIFE AND WETTINGS OF 
 
 pity me indeed. But I have stolen away from those 
 who would surely murder me if they knew I had been 
 here to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know 
 a man named Monks ? ' 
 
 " ' No,' said Rose. 
 
 " ' He knows you,' replied the girl, ' and knew you 
 were here ; for it was by hearing him tell the place that 
 I found you out.' 
 
 "'I never heard the name,' said Rose. 
 
 " ' Then he goes by some other amongst us,' rejoined 
 the girl ; ' which I more than thought before. Some time 
 ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on 
 the night of the robbery, I — suspecting this man — 
 listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin 
 in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that 
 Monks — the man I asked you about, you know " — 
 
 " ' Yes,' said Rose, ' I understand.' 
 
 " — ' That Monks,' pursued the girl, ' had seen him 
 accidentally with two of our boys on the day we first 
 lost him, and had known him directly to be the same 
 child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make 
 out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that, if 
 Oliver was got back, he should have a certain sum ; and 
 he was to have more for making him a thief, which this 
 Monks wanted for some purpose of his own.' 
 
 " ' For what purpose ? ' asked Rose. 
 
 " ' He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I 
 listened, in the hope of finding out,' said the girl ; ' and 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 89 
 
 there are not many people besides me that could have 
 got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But 
 I did ; and I saw him no more till last night.' 
 
 " ' And what occurred then ? ' 
 
 " ' I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. 
 Again they went up stairs ; and I, wrapping myself up 
 so that my shadow should not betray me, again listened 
 at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were 
 these : ' So the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at 
 the bottom of the river, and the old hag that re- 
 ceived them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.' 
 They laughed, and talked of his success in doing 
 this : and Monks, talking on about the boy, and 
 getting very wild, said, that, though he had got the 
 young devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it 
 the other way ; for what a game it would have been to 
 have brought down the boast of the father's will, by 
 driving him through every jail in town, and then haul- 
 ing him up for some capital felony, which Fagin could 
 easily manage, after having made a good profit of him 
 besides.' 
 
 " ' What is all this? ' said Rose. 
 
 " ' The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips,' 
 repHed the girl. ' Then he said, with oaths common 
 enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that, if he could 
 gratify his hatred by taldng the boy's life without bring- 
 ing his own neck in danger, he would : but, as he couldn't, 
 he'd be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in 
 
90 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 life ; and, if he took advantage of his birth and history, 
 he might harm him yet. ' In short, Fagin,' he says 
 ' Jew as you are, you never laid such snares as I'll con- 
 trive for my young brother Oliver.' 
 
 " ' His brother ! ' exclaimed Rose. 
 
 " ' Those were his words,' said Nancy, glancing un- 
 easily round, as she had scarcely ceased to do since she 
 began to speak ; for a vision of Sykes haunted her per- 
 petually. ' And more. When he spoke of you and the 
 other lady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or 
 the Devil, against him, that Oliver should come into 
 your hands, he laughed, and said there was some com- 
 fort in that too ; for how many thousands and hundreds 
 of thousands of pounds would you not give, if you had 
 them, to know w no your two-legged spaniel was ! ' 
 
 " ' You do not mean,' said Rose, turning very pale, 
 * to tell me that this was said in earnest ? ' 
 
 " ' He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever 
 did,' replied the girl, shakmg her head. ' He is an ear- 
 nest man when his hatred is up. I know many who do 
 worse things ; but I'd rather listen to them all a dozen 
 times than to that Monks once. It is growing late, and 
 I have to reach home without suspicion of having been 
 on such an errand as this. I must get back quickly.' 
 
 " ' But what can I do ? ' said Rose. ' To what use can 
 I turn this communication without you ? Back ! Why 
 do you wish to return to companions you paint in such 
 terrible colors ? If you repeat this information tc a 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. . 91 
 
 gentleman whom I can summon in an instant from the 
 next room, you can be consigned to some place of safety 
 without half an hour's delay.' 
 
 " ' I wish to go back,' said the girl. ' I must go back, 
 because — how can I tell such things to an innocent 
 lady like you ? — because, among the men I have told 
 you of, there is one — the most desperate among them 
 all — that I can't leave ; no, not even to be saved from 
 the life I am leading noAv.' 
 
 " ' Your having interfered iu this dear boy's behalf be- 
 fore,' said Rose ; ' your coming here, at so great a risk, 
 to tell me what you have heard ; your manner, which 
 convinces me of the truth of what you say ; your evi- 
 dent contrition, and sense of shame, — all lead me to be- 
 lieve that you might be yet reclaimed. Oh ! ' said the 
 earnest girl, folding her hands as the tears coursed down 
 her face, ' do not turn a deaf ear to the entreaties of one 
 of your own sex, the first — the first, I do beheve — who 
 ever appealed to you in the voice of pity and compas- 
 sion. Do hear my words, and let me save you yet for 
 better things ! ' 
 
 " ' Lady,' cried the girl, sinking on her knees, ' dear, 
 sweet, angel lady, you are the first that ever blessed me 
 with such words as these ; and, if I had heard them 
 years ago, they might have turned me from a life of sin 
 and sorrow ; but it is too late, — it is too late ! ' 
 
 " ' It is never too late,' said Rose, ' for penitence and 
 atonement.' 
 
92 LIFE AND WEITINGS OF 
 
 " ' It is,' cried the girl, writhing in the agony of hex 
 mind : ' I cannot leave him now ! I could not be his 
 death.' 
 
 " ' Why should you be ? ' asked Rose. 
 
 " ' Nothing could save him,' cried the girl. ' If I told 
 others what I have told you, and led to their being 
 taken, he would be sure to die. He is the boldest, and 
 has been so cruel.' 
 
 " ' Is it possible," cried Rose, ' that, for such a man as 
 this, you can resign every future hope, and the certainty 
 of immediate rescue ? It is madness.' 
 
 " ' I don't know what it is,' answered the girl : ' I 
 only know that it is so ; and not with me alone, but 
 with hundreds of others, as bad and wretched as myself. 
 I must go back. Whether it is God's wrath for the 
 wrong I have done, I do not know : but I am drawn 
 back to liim through ever}- .suffering and ill-usage ; and 
 should be, I believe, if I knew that I was to die by his 
 hand at last.' 
 
 " ' What am I to do ? ' said Rose. ' I should not let 
 you depart from me thus.' 
 
 " ' You should, lady, arid I know you will,' rejoined 
 the girl, rising. ' You will not stop my going, because I 
 have trusted in your goodness, and forced no promise 
 from you, as I might have done.' 
 
 " ' Of what use, then, is the communication you have 
 made ?' said Rose. ' This mystery must be investigated, 
 or how will its disclosure to me benefit Oliver, whom 
 you are anxious to serve ? ' 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 93 
 
 " ' You must have some kind gentleman about you 
 that will hear it as a secret, and advise you what to do,' 
 rejoined the girl. 
 
 " ' But where can I find you again, when it is neces- 
 sary ? ' asked Rose. ' I do not seek to know where 
 these dreadful people live ; but where will you be walk- 
 ing, or passing, at any settled period from this time ? ' 
 
 " ' Will you promise me that you will have my secret 
 strictly kept, and come alone, or with the only other 
 person that knows it, and that I shall not be watched 
 or followed ? ' asked the girl. 
 
 " ' I promise you solemnly,' answered Rose. 
 
 " ' Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock 
 strikes twelve,' said the ghl, without hesitation, ' I will 
 walk on London Bridge, if I am alive.' 
 
 " ' Stay another moment,' interposed Rose, as the girl 
 moved hurriedly towards the door. ' Think once again 
 on your own condition, and the opportunity you have of 
 escaping from it. You have a claim on me, not only 
 as the voluntary bearer of this intelligence, but as a 
 woman lost, almost beyond redemption. Will you re- 
 turn to this gang of robbers, and to this man, when a 
 word can save you ? What fascination is it that can 
 take you back, and make you cling to wickedness and 
 miser} ? Oh ! is there no chord in your heart that I can 
 touch ? Is there nothing left to which I can appeal 
 against this terrible infatuation?' 
 
 '' '"When ladies as young and good and beautiful as 
 
94 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 you are,' replied the girl steadily, ' give away your 
 hearts, love will carry you all lengths, — even such as 
 you, who have home, friends, other admirers, every 
 thing to fill them. When such as I, who have no cer- 
 tain roof but the coffin-lid, and no friend in sickness or 
 death but the hospital-nuise, set our rotten hearts on 
 any man, and let him fill the place that has been a 
 blank through all our wretched lives, who can hope to 
 cure us ? Pity us, lady, — pity us for having only one 
 feeling of the woman left, and for having that turned, 
 by a heavy judgment, from a comfort and a pride into a 
 new means of violence and suffering.' 
 
 " ' You will,' said Rose after a pause, ' take some 
 money from me, which may enable you to live without 
 dishonesty, — at all events until we meet again ? ' 
 
 " ' Not a penny,' replied the girl, waving her hand. 
 
 " ' Do not close your heart against all my efforts to 
 help you,' said Rose, stepping gently forward. ' I wish 
 to serve you, indeed.' 
 
 " ' You would serve me best, lady,' replied the girl, 
 wringing her hands, ' if you could take my life at once ; 
 for I have felt more grief to think of what I am to- 
 night than I ever did before ; and it would be something 
 not to die in the same hell in which I have lived. God 
 bless you, sweet lady, and send as much happiness ou 
 your head as I have brought shame on mine ! ' 
 
 "Thus speaking, and sobbing aloud, the unhappy 
 creature turned away ; while Rose Maylie, overpowered 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 95 
 
 by this extraordinary interview, whicli had more the 
 semblance of a rapid dream than an actual occurrence, 
 sank into a chair, and endeavored to collect her wander- 
 ing thoughts." 
 
 Space forbids, in this chapter, further selection fiom 
 this soul-reaching novel, save that about the wicked 
 Jew's last night on earth, just before he was about to 
 meet the penalty so richly deserved. Shakspcare's Jew 
 Shylock, and the Jew Fagin of Dickens, will ever live 
 in literature as ghastly warnings to those who would 
 be wealthy at whatever cost, — weighing honor and in- 
 tegrity in the balance against gold and silver. 
 
 As one reads the graphic word-picture of the de- 
 parted novelist, one seems to see the court-room, the 
 prison, the scaffold. 
 
 " The court was paved from floor to roof with hu- 
 man faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes peered from 
 every inch of space. From the rail before the dock, 
 away into the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in 
 the galleries, all looks were fixed upon one man, — the 
 Jew. Before him and behind ; above, below, on the 
 right, and on the left : he seemed to stand surrounded 
 by a firmament, all bright with gleaming eyes. 
 
 " He stood there, in all this glare of living light, with 
 one hand resting on the wooden slab before him, the 
 other held to his ear, and his head thrust forward to en- 
 able him to catch with greater distinctness every word 
 
96 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 that fell from the presiding judge, who was delivering 
 his charge to the jury. At times, he turned his eyes 
 sharply upon them, to observe the effect of the slightest 
 feather-weight in his favor, and, when the points against 
 liim were stated with terrible distinctness, looked to- 
 wards his counsel, in mute appeal that he would, even 
 then, urge something in his behalf. Beyond these man- 
 ifestations of anxiety, he stirred not hand or foot. He 
 had scarcely moved since the trial began ; and, now that 
 the judge ceased to speak, he still remained in the same 
 strained attitude of close attention, with his gaze bent 
 on him as though he listened still. 
 
 " A slight bustle in the court recalled him to himself. 
 Looking round, he saw that the jurymen had turned to- 
 gether, to consider of their verdict. As his eyes wan- 
 dered to the gallery, he could see the people rising 
 above each other to see his frvcc, — some hastily applying 
 their glasses to their eyes, and others whispering their 
 neighbors with looks expressive of abhorrence. A few 
 there were who seemed uumindful of him, and looked 
 only to the jury, in impatient wonder how they could 
 delay. But in no one face — not even among the wo- 
 men, of whom there were many there — could he read 
 the faintest sympathy with himself, or any feeling but 
 one of all-absorbing interest that he should be con- 
 demned. 
 
 "As he saw all this in one. bewildei-ed glance, the 
 death-like stillness came again ; and, looking back, he 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 97 
 
 saw that the jurymen had turned towards the judge. 
 Hush I 
 
 " They only sought permission to retire. 
 
 " He looked wistfully into their faces, one by one, 
 when they passed out, as though to see which way the 
 greater number leaned; but that was fruitless. The 
 jailer touched him on the shoulder. He followed me- 
 chanically to the end of the dock, and sat down on a 
 chau\ The man pomted it out, or he would not have 
 seen it. 
 
 " He looked up into the gallery again. Some of the 
 people were eating, and some fanning themselves with 
 handlcerchiefs ; for the crowded place was very hot. 
 There was one young man sketching his face in a little 
 note-book. He wondered whether it was like, and 
 looked on when the artist broke liis pencil-point, and 
 made another with his knife, as any idle spectator might 
 have done. 
 
 " In the same way, when he turned his eyes towards 
 the judge, his mind began to busy itself with the fashion 
 of his dress, and what it cost, and how he put it on. 
 There was an old, fat gentleman on the bench, too, who 
 had gone out, some half an hour before, and now came 
 back. He wondered within himself whether this man 
 had been to get his dinner, what he had had, and where 
 he had had it ; and pursued this train of careless thought 
 until some new object caught his eye and roused another. 
 
 " Not that all this time his mind was, for an instant, 
 T 
 
98 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 free from one oppressive, overwlielming sen&e of the 
 grave that opened at his feet: it was ever present to 
 him, but in a vague and general way, and he could not 
 fix his thoughts upon it. Thus, even while he trem- 
 bled, and turned burning hot at the idea of speedy 
 death, he fell to counting the iron spikes before him, 
 and wondering how the head of one had been broken 
 off, and whether they would mend it, or leave it as it 
 was. Then he thought of all the horrors of the gallows 
 and scaffold, — and stopped to watch a man sprinkhng 
 the floor to cool it, — and then went on to tliink again. 
 
 " At length, there was a cry of silence, and a breath- 
 less look from all towards the door. The jurj^ returned, 
 and passed him close. He could glean nothing from 
 their faces : they might as well have been of stone. 
 Perfect silence ensued — not a rustle — not a breath. 
 Guilty. 
 
 " The building rang with a tremendous shout, and an- 
 other, and another ; and then it echoed deep, loud groans, 
 that gathered strength as they swelled out, like angry 
 thunder. It was a peal of joy from the populace out- 
 side, greeting the news that he would die on Monday. 
 
 " The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had any 
 thing to say why sentence of death should not be passed 
 upon him. He had resumed his listening attitude, and 
 looked intently at his questioner while the demand was 
 made : but it was twice repeated before he seemed to 
 hear it ; and then he only muttered that he was an 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. ' 99 
 
 old man — an old man — an old man; and so, dropping 
 into a whisper, was silent again. 
 
 " The judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner 
 still stood with the same air and gesture. A woman in 
 the gallery uttered some exclamation, called forth by 
 tliis dread solemnity. He looked hastily up as if angry 
 at the interruption, and bent forward ^et more atten- 
 tively. The address was solemn and impressive, the 
 sentence fearful to hear. But he stood, like a marble 
 figure, without the motion of a nerve. His haggard 
 face was still thrust forward, his under-jaw hanging 
 down, and his eyes staring out before him, when the 
 jailer put his hand upon his arm, and beckoned him 
 away. He gazed stupidly about him for an instant, and 
 obeyed. 
 
 " They led him through a paved room under the 
 court, where some prisoners were waiting till their 
 turns came, and others were talking to their friends, 
 who crowded round a grate which looked into the open 
 3'ard. There was nobody to speak to him : but, as he 
 passed, the prisoners fell back to render him more visi- 
 ble to the people who were clinging to the bars ; and 
 they assailed him with opprobrious names, and screeched 
 and hissed. He shook his fist, and would have spat 
 upon them ; but his conductors hurried him on through 
 a gloomy passage, lighted by a few dim lamps, into the 
 interior of the prison. 
 
 " Here he was searched, that he might not have 
 
100 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 about him the means of anticipating the law : this cere- 
 mony performed, they led hun to one of the condemned 
 cells, and left him there — alone. 
 
 " He sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, 
 which served for seat and bedstead, and, casting his 
 bloodshot eyes upon the ground, tried to collect his 
 thoughts. After a while, he began to remember a feW 
 disjointed fi-agments of what the judge had said ; though 
 it had seemed to him, at the time, that he could not 
 hear a word. These gradually fell into their proper 
 places, and by degrees suggested more : so that, in a Ht- 
 tle time, he had the whole, almost as it was delivered. 
 To be hanged by the neck till he was dead, — that was 
 the end. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead. 
 
 "As it came on very dark, he began to think of all 
 the men he had known who had died upon the scaffold, 
 some of them through his means. They rose ujd in 
 such quick succession that he could hardly count them. 
 He had seen some of them die, — and had joked, too, be- 
 cause they died with prayers upon their lips. With 
 what a rattling noise the drop went down ; and how sud- 
 denly they changed from strong and vigorous men to 
 dangling heaj)s of clothes ! 
 
 " Some of them might have inhabited that very cell, 
 — sat upon that very spot. It was ver}^ dark: why 
 didn't they bring a light ? The cell had been built for 
 many years. Scores of men must have passed their last 
 hours there. It was like sitting in a vault strewn with 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 101 
 
 dead bodies, — the cap, the noose, the pinioned arms, 
 the faces that he knew, even beneath that hideous veil. 
 Light! light! 
 
 " At length, when his hands were raw with beating 
 against the heavy door and walls, two men appeared, — 
 one bearing a candle, which he thrust into an iron can- 
 dlestick fixed against the wall ; the other dragging in a 
 mattress on which to pass the night, for the prisoner 
 was to be left alone no more. 
 
 " Then came night, — dark, dismal, silent night. Other 
 watchers are glad to hear the church-clocks strike, 
 for they tell of life and coming day. To the Jew, they 
 brought despair. The boom of every iron bell came 
 laden with the one deep, hollow sound, — Death. What 
 availed the noise and bustle of cheerful morning, which 
 penetrated even there, to him ? It was another form of 
 knell, with mockery added to the warning. 
 
 *' The day passed off, — day ! There was no day : it 
 was gone as soon as come, and night came on again, — 
 night so long, and 3'-et so short ; long in its dreadful si- 
 lence, and short in its fleeting hours. At one time, he 
 raved and blasphemed ; and, at another, hoAvled and tore 
 his hair. Venerable men of his own persuasion had 
 come to pray beside him, but he had driven them away 
 with curses. They renewed their charitable efforts, and 
 he beat them off. 
 
 " Saturday night. He had only one night more to 
 live. And, as he thought of this, the day broke, — Sun- 
 day. 
 
102 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " It was not until the niglit of this last awful day, 
 that a withering sense of his helpless, desperate state 
 came in its full intensity upon his blighted soul : not 
 that he had ever held any defined or positive hope of 
 mercy, but that he had never been able to consider more 
 than the dim probability of dying so soon. He had spo- 
 ken little to either of the two men who relieved each 
 other in their attendance upon him ; and they, for their 
 parts, made no effort to rouse his attention. He had sat 
 there, awake, but dreaming. Now he started up every 
 minute, and, with gasping mouth and burning skin, hur- 
 ried to and fro, in sach a paroxysm of fear and wrath, 
 that even they — used to such sights — recoiled from 
 him with horror. He grew so terrible at last, in all the 
 tortures of his evi] conscience, that one man could not 
 bear to sit there eying him alone ; and so the two kept 
 watch together. 
 
 " He cowered down upon his stone bed, and thought 
 of the past. He had been wounded with some missiles 
 from the crowd on the day of his capture, and his head 
 was bandaged with a linen cloth. His red hair hung 
 down upon his bloodless face ; his beard was torn, and 
 twisted into knots ; his eyes shone with a terrible light ; 
 his unwashed flesh crackled with the fever that burnt 
 him up. Eight — nine — ten. If it was not a trick to 
 frighten him, and those were the real hours treading on 
 each other's heels, where would he be when they came 
 round again ! Eleven ! Another struck, before the voice 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 10.1 
 
 of the previous hour had ceased to ^dbrate. At eight, 
 he would be the only mourner in his own funeral train ; 
 at eleven — 
 
 " Those dreadful walls of Newgate, which have hid- 
 den so much misery and such unspeakable anguish, not 
 only from the eyes, but, too often and too long, from the 
 thoughts, of men, never held so dread a spectacle as 
 that. The few who lingered as they passed, and won- 
 dered what the man was doing who was to be hung to- 
 morrow, would have slept but ill that night if they 
 could have seen him. 
 
 " From early in the evening until nearly midnight, lit- 
 tle groups of two and three presented themselves at the 
 lodge-gate, and inquired, with anxious faces, whether 
 any reprieve had been received. These, being answered 
 in the negative, communicated the welcome intelKgence 
 to clusters in the street, who pointed out to one another 
 the door from which he must come out, and showed 
 where the scaffold would be built, and, walking with 
 unwilHng steps away, turned back to conjure up the 
 scene. By degrees they fell off, one by one ; and for an 
 hour, in the dead of night, the street was left to solitude 
 and darlvness. 
 
 " The space before the prison was cleared, and a few 
 strong barriers, painted black, had been already thrown 
 across the road to break the pressure of the expected 
 3rowd, when Mr. Brownlow and Oliver appeared at the 
 wicket, and presented an order of admission to the pris« 
 
104 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 oner, signed by one of the sheriffs. They were immedi- 
 ately admitted into the lodge. 
 
 " ' Is the young gentleman to come too, su* ? ' said the 
 man whose duty it was to conduct them. ' It's not a 
 sight I'or children, sir. ' 
 
 " ' It is not indeed, my friend,' rejoined Mr. Brown- 
 low ; ' but my business with this man is intimately con- 
 nected with him ; and, as this child has seen him in the 
 full career of his success and viUany, I think it well, 
 even at the cost of some pain and fear, that he should 
 see him now.' 
 
 " These few words had been said apart, so as to be in- 
 audible to Ohver. The man touched his hat ; and, glan- 
 cing- at Oliver with some curiosity, opened another gate, 
 opposite to that by which they had entered, and led 
 them on, through dark and winding ways, towards the 
 cells. 
 
 " ' This,' said the man, stopping in a gloomy passage 
 where a couple of workmen were making some prepara- 
 tions in profound silence, — ' this is the place he passes 
 through. If you step this way, you can see the door he 
 goes out at. ' 
 
 " He led them into a stone kitchen, fitted with cop- 
 pers for dressing the prison food, and pointed to a door. 
 There was an open grating above it, through which came 
 the sound of men's voices, mingled with the noise of 
 hammering, and the throwing down of boards. They 
 were putting up the scaffold. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 105 
 
 " From tliis place, they passed through several strong 
 gates, opened by other turnkeys from the inner side ; 
 and, having entered an open yard, ascended a flight of 
 narrow steps, and came into a passage with a row of 
 strong doors on the left hand. Motioning them to re- 
 main where they were, the turnkey knocked at one of 
 these with his bunch of keys. The two attendants, after 
 a little whispering, came out into the passage, stretching 
 themselves as if glad of the temporary relief, and mo- 
 tioned the visitors to follow the jailer into the cell. 
 They did so. 
 
 " The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, 
 rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance 
 more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. 
 His mind was evidently wandering to his old life ; for he 
 continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of 
 their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision. 
 
 " ' Good boy, Charley — well done ! ' — he mumbled. 
 ' Ohver too, — Ha ! ha ! ha ! Oliver too — quite the gen- 
 tleman now — quite the — take that boy away to bed ! ' 
 
 " The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver ; and, 
 whispering him not to be alarmed, looked on without 
 speaking. 
 
 " ' Take him away to bed ! ' cried the Jew. ' Do you 
 hear me, some of you ? He has been the — the — some- 
 how the cause of all this. It's worth the money to 
 bring him up to it — Bolter's throat. Bill ; never mind 
 the girl — Bolter's throat as deep as you can cut. Saw 
 his head off I ' 
 
106 LIFE AND WRITINGS Oh 
 
 " ' Fagin,' said the jailer. 
 
 " ' That's me ! ' cried the Jew, falling instantly into 
 the attitude of listening he had assumed upon his trial. 
 ' An old man, my lord, — a very old, old man ! ' 
 
 " ' Here,' said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his 
 breast to keep him down. ' Here's somebody wants to 
 see you, — to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, 
 Fagin ! Are you a man ? ' 
 
 " ' 1 sha'n't be one long,' replied the Jew, looking up 
 with a face retaining no human expression but rage and 
 terror. ' Strike them all dead ! what right have they to 
 butcher me ? ' 
 
 "As he spoke, he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. 
 Brownlow. Shrinking to the farthest corner of the seat, 
 he demanded to know what they wanted there. 
 
 " ' Steady, ' said the turnkey, still holding him down. 
 ' Now, sir, tell him what you want, — quick, if you 
 please, for he grows worse as the time gets on.' 
 
 " ' You have some papers,' said Mr. Brownlow, ad- 
 vancing, ' which were placed in your hands, for better 
 security, by a man called Monks.' 
 
 " ' It's all a lie together,' replied the Jew. ' I 
 haven't one, — not one.' 
 
 " ' For the love of God,' said Mr. Brownlow solemnly, 
 ' do not say that now, upon the very verge of death ; but 
 tell me where they are. You know that Sykes is dead, 
 that Monks has confessed, that there is no hope of any 
 further gain. Where are those papers ? ' 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 107 
 
 " ' Oliver,' cried the Jew, beckoning to him. ' Here, 
 here ! Let me whisper to you.' 
 
 " ' I am not afraid,' said Oliver in a loud voice, as he 
 relinquished Mr. Brownlow's hand. 
 
 " ' The papers,' said the Jew, drawing him towards 
 him, ' are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up the 
 chimney, in the top front room. I want to talk to yon, 
 my dear. I want to talk to you.' 
 
 " ' Yes, yes,' returned Oliver. ' Let me say a prayer. 
 Do ! Say only one, upon your knees, with me, and we 
 wUl talk tm morning.' 
 
 " ' Outside, outside,' replied the Jew, pushing the boy 
 before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over 
 his head. ' Say I've gone to sleep : they'll believe you. 
 You can get me out if you take me so. Now, then ; 
 now, then ! ' 
 
 " ' O God, forgive this wretched man ! ' cried the 
 boy with a burst of tears. 
 
 " ' That's right, that's right,' said the Jew. ' That'll 
 help us on. This door first. If I shake and tremble, 
 as we pass the gallows, don't you mind, but hurry on. 
 Now, now, now ! ' 
 
 " ' Have you nothing else to ask him, sir ? ' inquired 
 the turnkey. 
 
 " ' No other question,' replied Mr. Brownlow. ' If I 
 hoped we could recall him to a sense of his position ' — 
 
 " ' Nothing will do that, sir,' replied the man, shaking 
 his head. ' You had better leave him.' 
 
108 LIFE AND WRITINGS. 
 
 " The door of the cell opened, and the attendants re- 
 turned. 
 
 " ' Press on, press on ! ' cried the Jew. ' Softly, but 
 not so slow. Faster, faster ! ' 
 
 " The men laid hands upon him, and, disengaging 
 Ohver from his grasp, held him back. He struggled 
 with the power of desperation for an instant, and then 
 sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive 
 walls, and rang in their ears until they reached the open 
 yard. 
 
 " It was some time before they left the prison. Oliver 
 nearly swooned after tliis frightful scene, and was so 
 weak that for an hour or more he had not the strength 
 to walk. 
 
 " Day was dawning when they again emerged. A 
 great multitude had already assembled: the windows 
 were filled with people, smoking, and playing cards, to 
 beguile the time. The crowd were pushing, quarrelling, 
 and joking. Every thing told of life and animation, 
 but one dark cluster of objects, in the very centre of all, 
 — the black stage, the cross-beam, and the rope, and all 
 the hideous apparatus of death." 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 ONE OF HIS BEST. 
 
 Nicholas Nlckleby. — Opinion of "The Methodist." — Thackeray's. — The 8a»««w 
 School.— Henry "Ward Beecher's Testimony. 
 
 "Have pity on them, for their life 
 Is full of grief and care. 
 You do not know one-half the woes 
 
 The very poor must bear; 
 Ton do not see the silent tears 
 
 By many a mother shed, 
 As childhood oflfers up the prayer, — 
 ' Give us our daily bread.' " 
 
 Mrs. Jane F. Worthington. 
 
 " Hath not God chosen the poor of this world rich in faith, and heirs of the king- 
 dom which he hath promised to them that love him." — Jas. ii. 5. 
 
 BOUT the year 1839 was published, in 
 shilling numbers, uniform with " Pick- 
 wick," another characteristic novel from 
 the pen of Charles Dickens. This was 
 entitled Nicholas Nickleby. It became 
 very popular abroad, as well as in England, and was 
 dramatized in France, as were also several other of his 
 works. Thackeray once wrote a laughable account of a 
 performance of " Neekolass Neeklbee " which he attended 
 in Paris. At present, a French edition of Dickens's novels 
 is annouiiced ; and the news of his death was unwelcome 
 
 109 
 
110 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 in foreign lands as well as in " merrie " England. Those, 
 in all lands, most familiar with the creations of Mr. Dick- 
 ens's genius, and most capable of appreciating such 
 creations, render him a verdict of praise and thanks. 
 " The Methodist," with wise discrimination, says, — 
 
 " His volumes have reformed some of the most pro- 
 found vices of Enghsh life, — the Yorkshire schools, the 
 Debtors' Prison, the intolerable grievances of €hancery. 
 What defects of British society has he not attempted to 
 amehorate ? But, aside from his sarcasm, his humorous 
 caricature, the genial method by which he would correct 
 grievous evils, he has infused a moral vitality into all 
 the veins and arteries of English common life by his 
 genial teachings, his boundless illustration of character, 
 the habitual humanity and benevolence of his senti- 
 ments, and the general high tone of his morality. His 
 pages are unsullied with any of that grossness which;' 
 had, down to his day, seemed inseparable from English; 
 humor. ' 
 
 " The greatest of the British humorists, — for we do 
 not hesitate to accord him this pre-eminence, — he is also 
 the pui.'est of them all. Not to speak of Swift and Sterne 
 and Fielding and Smollett, he is even less blemished 
 than Goldsmith or Addison. He does, indeed, too often 
 draw humor from drinking scenes ; but in this he repre- 
 sents the standard sentiment of his countrymen. No 
 other taint can be detected by the acutest moral analysis 
 of his pages. . . . 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. Ill 
 
 " His works can be unreservedly placed in any vir- 
 tuous household. The}^ cannot be read by the }oung 
 without neutralizing a taste for lower literature ; with- 
 out imparting freshness, healthfulness, geniality, and 
 moral tone to the susceptibilities of youth." 
 
 " Nicholas Nicldeby " dealt with the abuses in cheap 
 Yorkshire schools, at which body and mind were both 
 kept on starvation diet, and broke up a system which 
 was disgraceful to a civilized country. It showed, as 
 did " Ohver Twist," that the author was still working 
 for the emancipation of boyhood. He drew from real 
 life his pictures of Dotheboys Hall and the miserable 
 Squeers who domineered therein. It was only a humor- 
 ous exaggeration, if it was an exaggeration at all, of 
 evils really existing which he desired to expose in order 
 to correct. And he did correct them. After-years 
 showed that he labored not in vain ; so that, in his pref- 
 ace to a later edition, he could say of the cheap York- 
 shire schools he dexDicted, " There are very few now." 
 The righteous indignation. and Christian disgust he felt in 
 regard to such miserable substitutes for good schools led 
 him to characterize the masters in this forcible language. 
 
 " Of the monstrous neglect of education in England, 
 and the disregard of it by the State as the means of 
 forming good or bad citizens and miserable or happy 
 men, private schools long afforded a notable example. 
 
112 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 Although any man, who had proved his unfitness for any 
 other occupation in life, was free, without examination 
 or quahfication, to open a school anywhere ; although 
 preparation for the functions he undertook was required 
 in the surgeon who assisted to bring a boy into the 
 world, or might one day assist, perhaps, to send him out 
 of it; in the chemist, the attorney, the butcher, the 
 baker, the candlestick-maker, the whole round of crafts 
 and trades, the schoolmaster excepted; and although 
 schoolmasters, as a race, were the blockheads and impos- 
 tors who might naturally be expected to spring from 
 such a state of things, and to flourish in it, — these York- 
 shh'e schoolmasters were the lowest and most rotten 
 round in the whole ladder. Traders in the avarice, in- 
 difference, imbecility, of parents, and the helplessness of 
 children ; ignorant, sordid, brutal men, to whom few 
 considerate persons would have intrusted the board and 
 lodging of a horse or a dog, — they formed the worthy 
 corner-stone of a structure, which, for absurdity and a 
 magnificent, high-minded, laissez-aller neglect, has rarely 
 been exceeded in the world." 
 
 And solemnly in the preface, Mr. Dickens affirmed 
 that his picture of the Squeers school was a truthful 
 one, saying, — 
 
 " The author's object in calling public attention to 
 the system would be very imperfectly fulfilled, if he did 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 113 
 
 not state now, in his own person, emphatically and ear- 
 nestly, that Mr. Squeers and his school are faint and fee- 
 ble pictures of an existing reahty, purposely subdued 
 and kept down lest they should be deemed impossible. 
 That there are, upon record, trials at law in which dam- 
 ages have been sought as a poor recompense for lasting 
 agonies and disfigurements inflicted upon children by 
 the treatment of the master in these places, involving 
 such oftensive and foul details of neglect, cruelty, and 
 disease, as no writer of fiction would have the boldness 
 to imagine. And that, since he has been engaged upon 
 these Adventures, he has received, from private quarters 
 far beyond the reach of suspicion or distrust, accounts 
 of atrocities, in the perpetration of which upon neglected 
 or repudiated children these schools have been the main 
 instruments, very far exceeding any that appear in these 
 pages. " 
 
 Charles Dickens loved children. He wrote for their 
 good. He may be called the children's friend. The 
 brilliant Thackeray, in one of his lectures on " English 
 Humorists of the Nineteenth Century, " paid an eloquent 
 and touching tribute to the pure genius of Dickens, and 
 in it referred thus to him and to '' Nicholas Nickleby." 
 
 " As for this man's love of children, that amiable or- 
 gan at the back of his honest head must be perfectly 
 monstrous. All children ought to love him. I know 
 
 s 
 
114 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 two that do, and read Lis books ten times for once that 
 they peruse the dismal preachments of their father. I 
 know one who, when she is haj^py, reads ' Nicholas Mc- 
 kleby ; ' when she is unhappy, reads ' Nicholas Nickleby ; ' 
 when she is tired, reads ' Nicholas Nicldeby ; ' when she 
 is in bed, reads ' Nicholas Nickleby ; ' when she has noth- 
 ing to do, reads ' Nicholas Nickleby ; ' and, when she has 
 finished the book, reads ' Nicholas Nickleby ' over again. 
 This candid young critic, at ten years of age, said, ' I 
 like Mr. Dickens's books much better than I do your 
 books, papa ; ' and frequently expressed her desire that 
 the latter author should write a book like one of Mr. 
 Dickens's books. Who can ? Every man must say his 
 own thoughts . in his own voice, in liis own way : lucky 
 is he who has such a charming gift of nature as this, 
 which brings all the children in the world trooping to 
 him and being fond of him. 
 
 " I remember, when the famous ' Nicholas Nickleby ' 
 came out, seeing a letter from a pedagogue in the north 
 of England, which, dismal as it Avas, was immensely com- 
 ical. ' Mr. Dickens's ill-advised publication,' wrote the 
 poor schoolmaster, ' has passed like a whirlwind over the 
 schools of the north.' He was the proprietor of a cheap 
 school. Dotheboys Hall was a cheap school. There 
 were many such establishments in the northern coun- 
 ties. Parents were ashamed that never were ashamed 
 before until the kind satirist laughed at them ; relatives 
 were frightened; scores of little scholars were taken 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 115 
 
 away ; poor schoolmasters had to shut their shops up . 
 every pedagogue was voted a Squeers, and many suf- 
 fered, no doubt, unjustly ; but afterwards school-boys' 
 backs were not so much caned, school-boys' meat was 
 less tough and more plentiful, and school-boys' milk 
 was not so sky-blue. What a kind light of benevolence 
 it is that plays round Crummies and the Phenomenon, 
 and all those poor theatre people in that charming book ! 
 What a humor ! And what a good humor ! I coincide 
 with the youthful critic whose opinion has, just been 
 mentioned, and own to a family admiration for Nicholas 
 Nickleby. " 
 
 This side the water, the great Brooklyn preacher, 
 whom all Christians love, bore this testimony concern- 
 ing Mr. Dickens and his book : — 
 
 " Many ameliorations of bad laws and cruel customs 
 can be traced to the influence of his pen. I remember 
 his saying to me in the room adjoining, in a modest 
 way, that since his account of Mr. Squeers's school, in 
 which Nicholas Nickleby was not educated, such schools 
 had passed away from England. His writings led the 
 way to many reforms, and made many abuses ashamed." 
 
 • No one who has read " Nicholas Nickleby " can fail 
 to remember the description of Mr. Squeers, or to de- 
 spise the Yorkshire schoolmaster thus described : — 
 
116 UTE AND WRITINGS OP 
 
 *• Mr. Squeers"s appearance was nor prepossessing. 
 He iiad but one ere ; and the popular prejudice runs in 
 favor of TWO. The eve he had was unquestionable 
 iKefol, but decidedlr not ornamental ; being of a green- 
 ish gray, and in shape resembling the fan-light of a 
 street-door. The blank side of his face was much wrin- 
 kled and puckered up, which gave him a veiy sinister 
 i5)pearance. especiallY when he smiled ; at which times 
 his expression bordered closely on the yillanous. His 
 hair was tcit flat and shiny, save at the ends, where ir 
 was brushed stiffly up from a low, protruding forehead, 
 which assorted well with Ms harsh voice and coarse 
 manner. He was about two or three and fifty, and a 
 tiifle below the middle size. He wore a white necker- 
 chief with long ends, and a suit of scholastic black : but 
 Ms coat-sleeves being a great deal too long, and his 
 trousers a great deal too short, he appeared ill at ease in 
 Ms clothes, and as if he were in a perpetual state of 
 astonishment at finding himself so respectable. 
 
 ** Mr. Squeers was standing in a box by one of the 
 coffee-room fireplaces, fitted with one such table as i- 
 usoally seen in coffee-rooms, and two of extraordinary 
 shapes and dimensions, made to suit the angles of the 
 partition. In a comer of the seat was a very small deal 
 tronk, tied round with a scanty piece of cord : and on 
 the trunk was perched — his lace-up half-boots and cor- 
 duroy trousers dangling in the air — a diminutive boy, 
 witii ahoolders drawn up to his ears, and his handf: 
 
^ ac the s^ftool- 
 '- --^- _ T .^T-i dread sod ap- 
 
 ■ -"1 : - - : . Squeezs. turning' 
 
 cl'>:-k. • 7 . • -r/ 
 
 "* AIucll TcicO. C'T Litis - - " 
 
 at the little boy to stt? wl _ . _ . _ ... : 
 
 he could beat him for. As if ^ ..irtz 
 
 any thing at alL he merelT boxc-l 1-s e^^ 
 not to do it again. 
 
 *■ • Ar roidsmmner,' mnttexed Mr. Sqneers, _ _ 
 
 his complaint. • I took down ten boys : ten. tTr^niyi is 
 two hnndred poond. I go back at eight o'clock to- 
 morrow morning, and hare got only three. — three 
 oughts is an onght. three twos is six. — axry pound. 
 What's come of all the boys? What's parents got in 
 their heads ? What does it aU mean ? ' 
 
 '* Here the little boy on the top of the trunk gave a 
 violent sneeze. 
 
 •• • Holloa, sir I ' growled the schoolmaster, taming 
 roimd. • What's that, sir ? ' 
 
 " ' Nothing, please, sir," said the little boy. 
 
 '' ' Nothing, sir ! ' exclaimed Mr. Squeers. 
 
 " ■ Please, sir, I sneezed/ rejoined the boy, trembling 
 tiQ the little trunk shook under him. 
 
 "'Oh! sneezed, did you?' retorted Mr. SqueersL 
 ' Then what did vou sav. *• Nothiui;" for, sir? ' 
 
U8 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " In default of a better answer to this qaestion, the 
 little boy screwed a couple of knuckles into each of his 
 eyes, and began to cry ; wherefore Mr. Squeers knocked 
 him off the trunk with a blow on one side of his face, 
 and knocked him on again with a blow on the other. 
 
 " ' Wait till I get you down into Yorkshire, my young 
 gentleman,' said Mr. Squeers, ' and then I'll give you the 
 rest. Will you hold that noiae, sir ? ' 
 
 " ' Ye-ye-yes,' sobbed the little boy, rubbing his face 
 very hard with the ' Beggar's Petition ' in printed calico. 
 
 " ' Then do so at once, sir,' said Squeers. ' Do you 
 hear?' 
 
 " As tliis admonition was accompanied with a threat- 
 ening gesture, and uttered with a savage aspect, the 
 little boy rubbed his face harder, as if to keep the tears 
 back, and, beyond alternately sniffing and choking, gave 
 no further vent to his emotions. 
 
 " ' Mr. Squeers,' said the waiter, looking in at this 
 juncture, ' here's a gentleman asldng for you at the bar.' 
 
 " ' Show the gentleman in, Richard,' replied Mr. 
 Squeers in a soft voice. ' Put your handkerchief in 
 your pocket, you little scoundrel, or I'll murder you 
 when the gentleman goes.' 
 
 " The schoolmaster had scarcely uttered these words 
 in a fierce whisper, when the stranger entered. Affect- 
 ing not to see him, Mr. Squeers feigned to be intent 
 upon mending a pen, and offering benevolent advice to 
 his youthful pupil. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 119 
 
 " ' My dear chiJd,' said Mr. Squeers, ' all peojjle have 
 their trials. This early trial of yours, that is fit to make 
 your little heart burst, and your very eyes come out of 
 your head with crying, what is it ? Nothing, less than 
 nothing. You are leaving your friends ; but you will have 
 a father in me, my dear, and a mother in Mrs. Squeers. 
 At the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta 
 Bridge, in Yorkshire, where youth are boarded, clothed, 
 booked, washed, furnished with pocket-money, provided 
 with all necessaries " — 
 
 " ' It is the gentleman,' observed the stranger, stop- 
 ping the schoolmaster in the rehearsal of his advertise- 
 ment. ' Mr. Squeers, I believe, sir ? ' 
 
 " ' The same, sir,' said Mr. Squeers, with an assump- 
 tion of extreme surprise. 
 
 " ' The gentleman,' said the stranger, ' that advertised 
 in " The Times " newspaper ? ' 
 
 — " ' " Morning Post," " Chronicle," " Herald," and 
 " Advertiser," regarding the Academy called Dotheboys 
 Hall, at the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta 
 Bridge, in Yorkshire,' added Mr. Squeers. ' You come on 
 business, su', I see by my young friends. How do you 
 do, my little gentleman ? and how do //ou do, sir ? ' 
 With this salutation, Mr. Squeers patted the heads of two 
 hollow-eyed, small-boned little boys, Avhom the appli- 
 cant had brought with him, and waited for further com- 
 munications." 
 
120 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 After such a description of the master, what may be 
 expected as a picture of the school ? The introduction 
 which Nicholas Nickleby had to the young noblemen 
 of Dotheboys Hall, and the manner in which they were 
 treated in regard to food and medicine, gives the answer. 
 Mr. Squeers led Nicholas to the schoolroom, saying, 
 
 " ' This is our shop, Nickleby.' 
 
 "It was such a crowded scene, and there were so 
 many objects to attract attention, that, at first, Nicholas 
 stared about him, reall}^ without seeing any thing at all. 
 By degrees, however, the place resolved itself into a 
 bare and dirty room, with a couple of windows, whereof 
 a tenth part might be of glass, the remainder being 
 stopped up with old copybooks and paper. There were 
 a couple of long, old, rickety desks, cut and notched 
 and inked, and damaged in every possible way ; two or 
 three forms ; a detached desk for Squeers, and another 
 for his assistant. The ceiling was supported, like that 
 of a barn, by cross-beams and rafters ; and the walls 
 were so stained and discolored that it was impossible to 
 tell whether they had ever been touched with paint or 
 whitewash. 
 
 " But the pupils, — the young noblemen ! How the 
 last faint traces of hope, the remotest ghmmering of any 
 good to be derived from his efforts in this den, faded 
 from the mind of Nicholas as he looked in dismay 
 around ! Pale and haggard faces, lank and bony fig 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 121 
 
 ures, cMldren with the countenances of old men, de- 
 formities with irons upon their limbs, boys of stunted 
 growth, and others whose long, meagre legs would 
 hardly bear their stooping bodies, all crowded on the 
 Tiew together. There were the bleared eye, the hair-lip, 
 the crooked foot, and every ugliness or distortion that 
 told of unnatural aversion conceived by parents for their 
 offspring, or of young lives which, from the earliest 
 dawn of infancy, had been one horrible endurance of 
 cruelty and neglect ; there were little faces which 
 should have been handsome, darkened with the scowl 
 of sullen, dogged suffering ; there was childhood, with 
 the light of its eye quenched, its beauty gone, and its 
 helplessness alone remaining ; there were vicious-faced 
 boys, brooding, with leaden eyes, like malefactors in a 
 jail ; and there were young creatures, on whom the sins 
 of their frail parents had descended, weeping even for 
 the mercenary nurses they had known, and lonesome 
 even in their loneliness. With every kindly sympathy 
 and affection blasted in its birth, with every young and 
 healthy feeling flogged and starved down, with every 
 revengeful passion that can fester in swollen hearts eat- 
 ing its evil way to then- core in silence, what an incipient 
 hell was breeding here ! . 
 
 " And yet this scene, painful as it was, had its gro- 
 tesque features, which, in a less interested observer than 
 Nicholas, might have provoked a smile. Mrs. Squeers 
 stood at one of the desks, presiding over an immense 
 
122 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 basin of brimstone and treacle, of whicii delicious com< 
 pound she administered a large instalment to each boy 
 in succession, using for the purpose a common wooden 
 spoon, which might have been originally manufactured 
 for some gigantic top, and which widened every young 
 gentleman's mouth considerably ; they being all obliged, 
 under heavy corporal penalties, to take in the whole of 
 the bowl at a gasp. In another corner, huddled to- 
 gether for companionship, were the little boys who had 
 arrived on the preceding night, — three of them in very 
 large leather breeches, and two in old trousers, a some- 
 what tighter fit than drawers are usually worn. At no 
 great distance from these was seated the juvenile son 
 and heir of Mr. Squeers, — a striking likeness of his 
 father, — kicking, with great vigor, under the hands of 
 Smike, who was fitting upon him a pair of new boots 
 that bore a most suspicious resemblance to those which 
 the least of the little boys had worn on the journey 
 down, as the little boy himself seemed to think, for 
 he was regarding the appropriation with a look of most 
 rueful amazement. Besides these, there was a long row 
 of boys waiting, with countenances of no pleasant anti- 
 cipation, to be treacled ; and another file, who had just 
 escaped from the infliction, maldng a variety of wry 
 mouths indicative of any thing but satisfaction. The 
 whole were attired in such motley, ill-sorted, extraordi- 
 nary garments, as would have been irresistibly ridicu- 
 lous, but for the foul appearance of dirt, disorder, and 
 disease, with which they were associated. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 123 
 
 " ' Now,' said Squeers, giving the desk a great rap 
 with his cane, which made half the Httle boys nearly 
 jump out of theu' boots, ' is that physicking over ? ' 
 
 "- ' Just over,' said Mrs. Squeers, choking the last boy 
 in her hurry, and tapping the crown of his head with 
 the wooden spoon to restore him. ' Here, 3^ou Smike I 
 take away now. Look sharp ! ' 
 
 " Smike shuffled out with the basin; and Mrs. Squeers, 
 having called up a little boy with a curly head, and 
 wiped her hands upon it, hurried out after him into a 
 species of wash-house, where there was a small fire, and 
 a^ large kettle, together with a number of little wooden 
 bowls which were arranged upon a board. 
 
 " Into these bowls, Mrs. Squeers, assisted by the hun- 
 gry servant, poured a brown composition, which looked 
 like diluted pincushions without the covers, and was 
 called porridge. A minute wedge of brown bread was 
 inserted in each bowl ; and, wlien they had eaten their 
 porridge by means of the bread, the boys ate the bread 
 itself, and had finished their brealvfast : whereupon Mr. 
 Squeers said, in a solemn voice, ' For what we have re- 
 ceived, may the Lord make us trul}^ thankful!' — and 
 went away to his own. 
 
 " Nicholas distended his stomach with a bowl of por- 
 ridge, for much the same reason which induces some 
 savages to swallow earth, — lest they should be incon- 
 veniently hungry when there is nothing to eat. Having 
 further disposed of a shoe of bread and butter, allotted 
 
124 LIFE AND WRITINGS Oi 
 
 to him in virtue of his office, he sat himself down to 
 wait for school-time. 
 
 " He could not but observe how silent and sad the 
 boys all seemed to be. There was none of the noise 
 and clamor of a school-room ; none of its boisterous 
 play or hearty mirth. The children sat crouching and 
 shiyering together, and seemed to lack the spirit to move 
 about. The only pupil who evinced the slightest ten- 
 dency towards locomotion or playfulness was Master 
 Squeers ; and, as his chief amusement was to tread upon 
 the other boys' toes in his new boots, his flow of spirits 
 was rather disagreeable than otherwise. 
 
 "After some half-hour's delay, Mr. Squeers re-ap- 
 peared ; and the boys took their places and their books, 
 of which latter commodity the average might be about 
 one to eight learners. ' A few minutes having elapsed, 
 during which Mr. Squeers looked very profound, as if 
 be had a perfect apjprehension of what was inside all the 
 books, and could say every word of their contents by 
 heart if he only chose to take the trouble, that gentle- 
 man called up the first class. 
 
 " Obedient to this summons, there ranged themselves 
 in front of the schoolmaster's desk half a dozen scare- 
 crows, out at knees and elbows ; one of whom placed a 
 torn and filthy book beneath his learned eye. 
 
 " ' This is the first class in English spelling and phi- 
 losophy, Nickleby,' said Squeers, beckoning Nicholas to 
 Btand beside him, ' We'll get up a Latin one, and 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 125 
 
 hand that over to you. Now, then, where's the first 
 boy?' 
 
 •' ' Please, sir, he's cleaning the back-parlor window,' 
 said the temporary head of the philosophical class. 
 
 " ' So he is, to be sure,' rejoined Squeers. ' We go 
 upon the practical mode of teaching, Nickleby ; the 
 regular education system. C-1-e-a-n, clean, verb active, 
 to make bright, to scour. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, winder, 
 a casement. When the boy knows this out of book, he 
 goes and does it. It's just the same principle as the use 
 of the globes. Where's the second boy ? ' 
 
 " ' Please, sir, he's weeding the garden,' replied a 
 small voice. 
 
 " ' To be sure,' said Squeers, by no means discon- 
 certed : ' so he is. B-o-t, bot, t-i-n, tin, bottin, n-e-y, 
 ney, bottinney, noun substantive, a knowledge of plants. 
 When he has learned that bottinney means a knowledge 
 of plants, he goes and knows 'em. That's our system, 
 Nickleby : what do you think of it ? ' 
 
 " ' It's a very useful one, at any rate,' answered 
 Nicholas. 
 
 " ' I believe you,' rejoined Squeers, not remarking 
 the emphasis of his usher. ' Third boy, What's a 
 horse ? ' 
 
 " ' A beast, sir,' replied the boy. 
 
 " ' So it is,' said Squeers. ' Ain't it, Nickleby ? ' 
 
 " ' I believe there is no doubt of that, sir,' answered 
 Nicholas. 
 
126 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " ' Of course, there isn't,' said Squeers. ' A horse is 
 a quadruped, and quadruped's Latin for beast, as every- 
 body that's gone through the grammar knows ; or else 
 Where's the use of having grammars at all ? ' 
 
 " ' Where, indeed ! ' said Nicholas abstractedly. 
 
 " 'As you're perfect in that,' resumed Squeers, turn- 
 ing to the boy, ' go and look after my horse, and rub him 
 down well, or I'll rub you down. The rest of the class 
 go and draw water up till somebody tells you to leave' 
 off; for it's washing-day to-morrow, and they want the 
 coppers filled.' 
 
 " So saying, he dismissed the first class to their ex- 
 perunents in practical philosophy, and eyed Nicholas 
 with a look, half- cunning and half- doubtful, as if he 
 were not altogether certain what he might think of him 
 by this time. 
 
 " ' That's the way we do it, Nickleby,' he said after a 
 pause. 
 
 " Nicholas shrugged his shoulders in a manner that 
 was scarcely perceptible, and said he saw it was. 
 
 " ' And a very good way it is too,' said Squeers. 
 'Now, just take them fourteen little boys, and hear 
 them some reading, because, you know, you must begin 
 to be useful. Idling about here won't do.' 
 
 " Mr. Squeers said this as if it had suddenly occuired 
 to him, either that he must not say too much to his as- 
 sistant, or that his assistant did not say enough to him 
 in praise of the establishment. The children were ar« 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 127 
 
 ranged in a semicircle round the new master , and he 
 was soon listening to their dull, drawling, hesitating re- 
 cital of those stories of engrossing interest which are to 
 be found in the more antiquated spelling-books. 
 
 " In this exciting occupation the morning lagged 
 heavily on. At one o'clock, the boys, having previously 
 had their appetites thoroughly taken away by stir-about 
 and potatoes, sat down in the Idtchen to some hard salt- 
 beef, of which Nicholas was graciously permitted to 
 take his portion to his own solitary desk to eat it there 
 in peace. After this, there was another hour of crouch- 
 ing in the school-room, and shivering with cold; and 
 then school began again." 
 
 In connection with Nicholas, the poor drudge, Smike, 
 is always remembered. That he was the cousin of 
 Nicholas is afterwards shown ; but neither of them 
 dreamed of the relationship while they were together. 
 Not until Smike found the friendly shelter of the grave 
 did the long-hidden secret become revealed. The fol- 
 lowing is the account of their first conversation : — 
 
 "As he was absorbed in these meditations, he all at 
 once encountered the upturned face of Smike, who was 
 on his knees before the stove, picking a few stray cin- 
 ders from the hearth, and planting them on the fire. 
 He had paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and, when he 
 Baw that he was observed, shrunk back, as if expecting 
 a blow. 
 
128 LIFE AND WRITINGS Ol* 
 
 " ' You need not fear me,' said Nicholas kindly 
 ' Are you cold ? ' 
 
 " ' N-n-o.' 
 
 " ' You are shivering.' 
 
 '"I am not cold,' replied Smike quickly. ' I am 
 used to it.' 
 
 " There was such an obvious fear of giving offence in 
 his manner, and he was such a timid, broken-spirited 
 creature, that Nicholas could not help exclaiming, ' Poor 
 fellow ! ' 
 
 " If he, had struck the drudge, he would have slunk 
 away without a word. But now he burst into tears. 
 
 " ' Oh, dear, oh, dear ! ' he cried, covering his face 
 with his cracked and horn)' hands. ' My heart will 
 break. It wiU, it will.' 
 
 " ' Hush ! ' said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his 
 shoulder. ' Be a man ! you are nearly one by years, 
 God helj) you ! ' 
 
 " ' By years ! ' cried Smike. ' Oh, dear, dear, how 
 many of them ! How many of them since I was a little 
 child, younger than any that are here now ! Where are 
 they all ? ' 
 
 " ' Whom do you speak of? ' inquired Nicholas, wish- 
 hig to rouse the poor, half-witted creature to reason ; 
 ' Tell me. ' 
 
 " ' My friends,' he replied, ' myself — my — oh 1 what 
 sufferings mine have been ! ' 
 
 " ' There is always hope,' said Nicholas : he knew not 
 what to say. 
 
CHAKLES DICKENS. 129 
 
 " * No,' rejoined the other. ' No : none for me.' Do 
 you remember the boy that died here ? ' 
 
 " ' I was not here, you know,' said Nicholas gently ; 
 'but what of him?' 
 
 " ' Why,' replied the youth, drawing closer to his 
 questioner's side, ' I was with him at night ; and, when 
 it was all silent, he cried no more for friends he wished to 
 come and sit with him, but began to see faces round his 
 bed that came from home. He said they smiled, and 
 talked to him ; and he died, at last, lifting his head to kiss 
 them. Do you hear ! ' 
 
 " ' Yes, yes,' rejoined Nicholas. 
 
 " ' What faces will smile on me when I die ! ' cried 
 his companion, shivering. ' Who will talk to me in 
 those long nights ! They cannot come from hotoe : they 
 would frighten me, if they did, for I don't know what it 
 is, and shouldn't know them. Pain and fear, pain and 
 fear, for me, alive or dead. No hope, no hope ! ' 
 
 " The bell rang to bed ; and the boy, subsiding at the 
 sound into his own hstless state, crept away as if anxious 
 to avoid notice. It was with a heavy heart that Nicho- 
 las soon afterwards — no, not retired ; there was no re- 
 tirement, there — followed — to his dirty and crowded 
 dormitory." 
 
 Nicholas proved the friend of the friendless boy. 
 Their adventures together served to interest them still 
 paore deeply in each other ; and, when poor Smike passed 
 
 9 
 
1^10 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 on to the other life, his faithful cousin was found near 
 him to smooth his dying pillow. For Smike's health, 
 the two friends went into the country ; and then Mr. 
 Dickens says, — 
 
 " They procured a humble lodging in a small farm- 
 house, surrounded by meadows, where Nicholas had 
 often revelled, when a child, with a trpop of merry 
 schoolfellows ; and here they took up their rest. 
 
 "At first, Smike was strong enough to walk about, 
 for short distances at a time, with no other support or 
 aid than that which Nicholas could afford him. At this 
 time, nothing appeared to interest him so much as visit- 
 ing those places which had been most familiar to his 
 friend in • bygone days. Yielding to this fancy, and 
 pleased to find that its indulgence beguiled the sick boy 
 of many tedious hours, and never failed to afford him 
 matter for thought and conversation afterwards, Nicho- 
 las made such spots the scenes of their daily rambles ; 
 driving him from place to place in a little pony-chair, 
 and supporting him on his arm while they walked slowly 
 among these old haunts, or lingered in the sunlight to 
 take long parting looks of those which were most quiet 
 and beautiful. 
 
 " It was on such occasions as these, that Nicholas, 
 yielding almost unconsciously to the interest of old 
 associations, would point out some tree that he had 
 climbed a hundred times to peep at the young birds 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 131 
 
 in their nest, and the branch hom which he used to 
 shout to little Kate, who stood below, terrified at the 
 height he had gained, and yet urging him higher still 
 by the intensity of her admiration. There was the old 
 house, too, which they would pass every day, looking 
 up at the tiny window through which the sun used to 
 stream in, and wake him on the summer mornings 
 (they were all summer mornings then) ; and climbing 
 up the garden-wall, and looking ov^r, Nicholas could see 
 the very rose-bush which had come, a present to Kate, 
 from some little lover, and she had planted with her 
 own hands. There were the hedgerows where the 
 brother and sister had often gathered wild-j&owers to- 
 gether, and the green fields and shady paths where they 
 had often strayed. There was not a lane or brook or 
 copse or cottage near, with which ,some cliildish event 
 was not intwined ; and back it came upon the mind 
 (as events of childhood do), nothing in itself, — perhaps 
 a word, a laugh, a look, some slight distress, a passing 
 'thought or fear, — and yet more strongly and distinctly 
 marked, and better remembered, than the hardest trials 
 or severest sorrows of a year ago. 
 
 " One of these expeditions led them through the 
 churchyard where was his father's grave. ' Even here,' 
 said Nicholas softly, ' we used to loiter before we knew 
 what death was, and when we little thought whose 
 ashes would rest beneath, and, wondering at the 
 silence, sit down to rest, and speak below our breath. 
 
132 LIFE AND WAITINGS OF 
 
 Once Kate was lost; and, after an hour of fruitlesa 
 search, they found her fast asleep under that tree which 
 shades m}^ father's grave. He was very fond of her, and 
 said when he took her up m his arms, still sleeping, that, 
 whenever he died, he would wish to be buried where 
 his dear little child had laid her head. You see his wish 
 was not forgotten.' 
 
 " Nothing more passed at the time ; but that night, 
 as Nicholas sat beside his bed, Smike started from what 
 had seemed to be a slumber, and, laying his hand in his, 
 prayed, as the tears coursed down his face, that he would 
 make him one solemn promise. 
 
 "'What is that?' said Nicholas kindly. 'If I can 
 redeem it, or hope to do so, you know I will.' 
 
 " ' I am sure you will,' was the reply. ' Promise me, 
 that, when I die, I shall be buried near — as near as 
 they can make my grave — to the tree we saw to-day.' 
 
 " Nicholas gave the promise. He had few words to 
 give it in ; but they were solemn and earnest. His poor 
 friend kept his hand in his, and turned as if to sleep. 
 But there were stifled sobs ; and the hand was pressed 
 more than once or twice or thrice before he sank tc 
 rest, and slowly loosed his hold. 
 
 " In a fortnight's time, he became too ill to move 
 about. Once or twice, Nicholas drove him out, propped 
 up with pillows ; but the motion of the chaise was 
 painful to him, and brought on fits of fainting, which, 
 in his weakened state, were dangeroas. There was an 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 133 
 
 old couch in the house, which was his favorite resting- 
 place by day: when the sun shone, and the weather 
 was warm, Nicholas had this wheeled into a little or- 
 chard which was close at hand ; and his charge bemg 
 well wrapped up, and carried out to it, they used to sit 
 there sometimes for hours together. 
 
 " It was on one of these occasions that a cu'cumstance 
 took place, which Nicholas, at the time, thoroughly be- 
 lieved to be the mere delusion of an imagination affected 
 by disease, but which he had afterwards too good reason 
 to know was of real and actual occurrence. 
 
 " He had brought Smike out in his arms — poor fel- 
 low ! a child might have carried him then — to see the 
 sunset, and, having arranged his couch, had taken his 
 seat beside it. He had been watching the whole of the 
 night before, and, being greatly fatigued both in mind 
 and body, gradually fell asleep. 
 
 " He could not have closed his eyes five minutes, 
 when he was awakened by a scream, and, starting up in 
 that kind of terror which affects a person suddenly 
 roused, saw, to his great astonishment, that his charge 
 had struggled into a sitting posture, and with eyes al- 
 most starting from their sockets, cold dew standing on 
 his forehead, and, in a fit of trembling which quite con- 
 vulsed his frame, was calling to him for help. 
 
 " ' Good heaven ! what is this ? " said Nicholas, bend- 
 ing over him. " Be calm : you have been dreaming." 
 
 *' ' No, no, no I ' cried Smike, clinging to him. ' Hold 
 
134 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 me tight. Don't let me go. There, there ! Behind 
 the tree ! 
 
 " Nich3las followed his eyes, which were directed 
 to some distance behind the chair from which he him- 
 self had just risen. But there was nothing there. 
 
 " ' Tliis is nothing but your fancy,' he said, as he 
 strove to compose him : ' nothing else indeed.' 
 
 " ' I know better. I saw as plain as I see now,' was 
 the answer. ' Oh, say you'll keep me with you ! Swear 
 you won't leave me, for an instant ! ' 
 
 " ' Do I ever leave you ? ' returned Nicholas. ' Lie 
 down again : there ! You see I'm here. Now, tell me, 
 what was it ? ' 
 
 " ' Do you remember,' said Smike in a low voice, and 
 glancing fearfully round, — ' do you remember my telling 
 you of the man who first took me to the school ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, surely.' 
 
 " ' I raised my eyes, just now, towards that tree, — 
 that one with the tliick trunk, — and there, with his eyes 
 fixed on me, he stood ! ' 
 
 " ' Only reflect for one moment,' said Nicholas. 
 ' Granting, for an instant, that it's likely he is alive and 
 wandering about a lonely place like this, so far re- 
 moved from the public road, do you think, that, at this 
 distance of time, you could possibly know that man 
 again ? ' 
 
 " ' Anywhere, — in any dress,' returned Smike ; ' but, 
 just now, he stood leaning upon his stick and looking 
 
UHARLES DICKENS. 135 
 
 at me, exactly as I told you I remembered him. He 
 was dusty with walking, and poorly dressed, — I think 
 his clothes were ragged; but, directly I saw him, the 
 wet night, his face when he left me, the parlor I was 
 left in, the people who were there, — all seemed to come 
 back together. When he knew I saw him, he looked 
 frightened ; for he started, and shrank away. I have 
 thought of him by day, and dreamt of him by night. 
 He looked in my sleep when I was quite a little child, 
 and has looked in my sleep ever since, as he did just now." 
 " Nicholas endeavored, by every persuasion and argu- 
 ment he could think of, to convince the terrified creature 
 that his imagination had deceived him, and that this 
 close resemblance between the creation of his cbeams 
 and the man he supposed he had seen was a proof of it ; 
 but all in vain. When he could persuade him to remain, 
 for a few moments, in the care of the people to whom 
 the house belonged, he instituted a strict inquiry whether 
 any stranger had been seen, and searched, himself, behind 
 the tree, and through the orchard, and upon the land 
 immediately adjoining, and in every place near, where 
 it was possible for a man to lie concealed ; but all in 
 vain. Satisfied that he was right in his original con- 
 jecture, he applied himself to calming the fears of 
 Smike : which, after some time, he partially succeeded 
 in doing, though not in removing the impression upon 
 his mind ; for he still declared, again and again, in the 
 most solemn and fervid manner, that he had positively 
 
136 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 seen what he had described, and that nothing could 
 ever remove his conviction of its reahty. 
 
 " And now Nicholas began to see that hope was gonC; 
 and that upon the partner of his poverty and the sharei 
 of his better fortune the world was closing fast. There 
 was httle pain, little uneasiness ; but there was no rally- 
 ing, no effort, no struggle for life. He was worn and 
 wasted to the last degree ; his voice had sunk so low 
 that he could scarce be heard to speak ; nature was 
 thoroughly exhausted, and he had lain him down to die. 
 
 " On a fine, mild, autumn day, when all was tranquil 
 and at peace, when the soft, sweet air crept in at the open 
 window of the quiet room, and not a sound was heard 
 but the gentle rustling of the leaves, Nicholas sat in 
 his old place by the bedside, and knew that the time was 
 nearly come. So very still it was, that, every now and 
 then, he bent down his ear to hsten for the breathing of 
 him who lay asleep, as if to assure himself that life was 
 still there, and that he had not fallen into that deep 
 slumber from which on earth there is no waking. 
 
 " While he was thus employed, the closed eyes opened, 
 and on the pale face there came a placid smile. 
 
 " ' That's well,' said Nicholas. ' The sleep has done 
 you good.' 
 
 " ' I have had such pleasant dreams ! ' was the answer, 
 — " such pleasant, happy dreams ! ' 
 
 " ' Of what? ' said Nicholas. 
 
 " The dying boy turned towards him, and, putting hia 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 137 
 
 arm about his neck, made answer, ' I shall soon be 
 there ! ' 
 
 " After a short silence he spoke again. 
 
 " ' I am not afraid to die,' he said : ' I am quite con- 
 tented. I almost think, that, if I could rise from this 
 bed quite well, I would not wish to do so now. You 
 have so often told me we shall meet again, — so very 
 often, lately, — and now I feel the truth of that so 
 strongly, that I can even bear to part from you.' 
 
 " The trembling voice and tearful eye, and the closer 
 grasp of the arm, which accompanied these latter words, 
 showed how they filled the speaker's heart ; nor were 
 there wanting indications of how deeply they had 
 touched the heart of him to whom they were ad- 
 dressed. 
 
 " ' You say well,' returned Nicholas at length, ' and 
 comfort me very much, dear fellow. Let me hear you 
 say you are happy, if you can.' 
 
 " ' You must tell me something first. I should not 
 have a secret from you. You will not blame me at a 
 time like this, I know." 
 
 " ' / blame you ! ' exclaimed Nicholas. 
 
 " ' I am sure you will not. You asked me why I was 
 so changed, and — and sat so much alone. Shall I tell 
 you why ? ' 
 
 " ' Not if it pains you,' said Nicholas. ' I only asked, 
 that I might make you happier if I could.' 
 
 " ' I know. I felt that at the time.' He drew his 
 
138 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 .friend closer to him. ' You will forgive me : I could not 
 help it; but, though I would have died to make her 
 happy, it broke my heart to see — I know he loves her 
 dearly — oh ! who could find that out so soon as I ? ' 
 
 " The words which followed were feebly and faintly 
 uttered, and broken by long pauses ; but from thein 
 Nicholas learned, for the first time, that the dying bo/, 
 with all the ardor of a nature concentrated on one 
 absorbing, hopeless, secret passion, loved his sister 
 Kate. 
 
 " He had procured a lock of her hair, which hung at 
 his breast, folded in one or two slight ribbons she had 
 worn. He prayed, that, when he was dead, Nicholas 
 would take it off, so that no eyes but his might see it, 
 and that, when he was laid in his coffin and about to be 
 placed in the earth, he would hang it round his neck 
 again, that it might rest with him in the grave. 
 
 " Upon his knees, Nicholas gave him this pledge, and 
 promised again that he should rest in the spot he had 
 pointed out. They embraced, and Idssed each other on 
 the cheek. 
 
 " ' Now,' he murmured, ' I am happy.' 
 
 " He fell into a light slumber, and, waking, smiled as 
 before : then spoke of beautiful gardens, which he said 
 stretched out before him, and were filled with figures 
 of men, women, and many children, all with light upon 
 their faces ; then whispered that it was Eden ; and so 
 died." 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 13S 
 
 From these extracts it may be seen, that, as a writer 
 in " The Edinburgh Review " says, — 
 
 '• There is no misantliropy in his satire, and no coarse- 
 ness in his descriptions, — a merit enhanced by the na- 
 ture of his subjects. His works are chiefly pictures of 
 humble life, — frequently of the humblest. The reader 
 is led through scenes of poverty and crime, and all the 
 characters are made to discourse in the appropriate lan- 
 guage of their respective classes ; and yet we recollect 
 no passage which ought to cause pain to the most sensi- 
 tive delicacy, if read aloud in female society. We have 
 said that his satire was not misantliropic. This is emi- 
 nently true. One of the qualities we the most admire 
 in him is his comprehensive spirit of humanity. The 
 tendency of his writings is to make us practically be- 
 nevolent ; to excite our sympathy in behalf of the 
 aggrieved and suffering in all classes, and especially 
 in those who are most removed from observation. He 
 especially directs our attention to the helpless victims 
 of untoward circumstances or a vicious system, — to the 
 imprisoned debtor, the orphan pauper, the parish ap- 
 prentice, the juvenile criminal, and to the tyranny, 
 which, under the combination of parental neglect with 
 the mercenary brutality of a pedagogue, may be exer- 
 cised with impunity in schools. His humanity is plain, 
 practical, and manly. It is quite untainted with senti- 
 mentality. There is no monkish wailing for ideal dis- 
 
140 LIFE AND WRITINGS. 
 
 tresses ; no morbid exaggeration of the evils incident to 
 our lot ; no disposition to excite unavailing discontent, 
 or to turn our attention from remedial grievances to 
 those which do not admit a remedy Though he ap- 
 peals much to our feelings, we can detect no instance in 
 which he has employed the verbiage of a spurious phi- 
 lanthropy. He is equally exempt from the meretricious 
 cant of a spurious philosophy." * 
 
 • Bdinborgh Review, Ixriii. 77, October, 1889 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OTHER NOVELS. 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock. — London Years Ago. — Country Picture. — Barnaby 
 Rudge. — Old Curiosity Shop. — Death of Little Nell. — Mr. Dickens's Speech.— 
 Funeral of Little Nell. — Landor's Testimony. — Child Pictures from Dickens.— 
 Memoirs of Grimaldi. 
 
 " A blessing on the printer's art I 
 Books are the Mentors of the heart." 
 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 ' Of making many books there Is no end." — Eccles. xii. 12. 
 
 HE busy pen moved on. After " Nicholas 
 Nickleby " came a series of tales, or nov- 
 els, published in weekly numbers, under 
 the general title of " Master Humphrey's 
 Clock." In this series, " Barnaby Rudge " 
 and " The Old Curiosity Shop " appeared. It Avas in 
 April, 1840, that the first number of this serial was 
 written. The thirty years which have since passed have 
 only added to the author's reputation, which was even 
 then so far established, that, of the three-penny num- 
 bers containing his "Master Humphrey's Clock," there 
 were no less than forty thousand copies when first is- 
 sued ; and to this were soon added twenty thousand 
 
142 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 more. Yet the work, as first designed, was not a de- 
 cided success. It failed to meet the demand of the 
 public, which desired the long stories, and not frag- 
 ments. Therefore Mr. Dickens wrote " The Old Curi- 
 osity Shop," and " Barnaby Rudge;" which are novels 
 purely, and not, like his previous stories, righteous as- 
 saults on abuses and social wrongs. The latter, as one 
 biographer says, "is one of his two historical novels, 
 and shows a respectable degree of power in that depart- 
 ment of fiction. But Mr. Dickens's peculiar gift, and 
 his best gift, was not the accumulation and delineation 
 of such items as paint a past period, — costume, anti- 
 quarian lexicography, archaeology generally. These are 
 transitory, and are already dead. There have been great 
 masters in the art of grouping and painting them, no 
 doubt. But the art of this master was in painting the 
 qualities of humanity, not of its costume ; the feelings, 
 sentiments, and passions, that are everlasting as man. 
 It might, therefore, have been expected that this part 
 of the work would usurp upon the other in the compo- 
 sition of historical fiction ; and so it was accordingly. 
 The ignoblenesses of Miggs and Tappertit ; the brutali- 
 ties of Dennis and Hugh ; the gross, stolid obstinacy of 
 old Willetts ; the steadfast goodness of Varden ; the 
 bright, loving sweetness of Dolly ; the misery of the 
 Widow Rudge ; the fantastic, innocent vagaries of her 
 crack-brained darling ; and we may, perhaps, add to 
 this catalogue of human quahties those which Grip, the 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 143 
 
 raven, had acquired from hiunan teaching, — these are 
 the staple of the story." 
 
 From " Barnaby Rudge " a few extrac ts may properly 
 here be given. The first gives a graphic picture of Lon- 
 don in days gone by, wherein Dickens says, — 
 
 " A series of pictures representing the streets of Lon- 
 don in the night, even at the comparatively recent date 
 of this tale, would present to the eye sometliing so very 
 different in character from the reality which is witnessed 
 in these times, that it would be difficult for the beholder 
 to recognize his most familiar walks in the altered aspect 
 of little more than half a century ago. 
 
 " They were, one and all, from the broadest and best 
 to the narrowest and least frequented, ver}^ dark. The 
 oil and cotton lamps, though regularly trimmed twice 
 or thrice in the long winter nights, burnt feebly at the 
 best ; and at a late hour, when they were unassisted by 
 the lamps and candles in the shops, cast but a narrow 
 track of doubtful light upon the footway, leaving the 
 projecting doors and house-fronts in the deepest gloom. 
 Many of the courts and lanes were left in total dark- 
 ness ; those of the meaner sort, where one ghmmering 
 light twinkled for a score of houses, being favored in no 
 slight degree. Even in these places, the inhabitants had 
 often good reason for extinguishing theii- lamp as soon 
 as it was lighted ; and, the watch being utterly ineffi- 
 
144 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 cient and powerless to prevent them, they did so at 
 their pleasure. Thus, in the lightest thoroughfares, 
 there was, at every turn, some obscure and dangerous 
 spot whither a thief might fly for shelter, and few would 
 care to follow ; and the city, being belted round by 
 lields, green lanes, waste grounds, and lonely roads, 
 dividing it at that time from the suburbs that have 
 joined it since, escape, even where the pursuit was hot, 
 was rendered easy. 
 
 " It is no wonder, that, with these favoring circum- 
 stances in full and constant operation, street robberies, 
 often accompanied by cruel wounds, and not unfre- 
 quently by loss of life, should have been of nightly 
 occurrence in the very heart of London, or that quiet 
 folks should have had great dread of traversing its streets 
 after the shops were closed. It was not unusual for 
 those who wended home alone at midnight, to keep the 
 middle of the road, the better to guard against sui-prise 
 from lurking footpads. Few would venture to repair at 
 a late hour to Kentish Town or Hampstead, or even to 
 Kensington or Chelsea, unarmed and unattended ; while 
 he who had been loudest and most vahant at the sup- 
 per-table or the tavern, and had but a mile or so to go, 
 war> glad to fee a link-boy to escort liim home. 
 
 '* There were many other characteristics — not quite 
 so disagreeable — about the thoroughfares of London 
 then, with which they had been long familiar. Some 
 of the shops, especially those to the eastward of Temple 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 145 
 
 Bar, still adhered to the old practice of hanging out a 
 sign ; and the creaking and swinging of these boards in 
 their iron frames, on windy nights, formed a strange and 
 mournful concert for the ears of those who lay awake in 
 bed, or hurried through the streets. Long stands of 
 hackney- chahs, and groups of chairmen, — compared 
 Avith whom the coachmen of our day are gentle and 
 pohte, — obstructed the way, and filled the air with 
 clamor; night-cellars, indicated by a little stream of 
 light crossing the pavement, and stretching out half- 
 way into the road, and by the stifled roar of voices from 
 below, yawned for the reception and entertainment of 
 the most abandoned of both sexes ; under every shed 
 and bulk small groups of link-boys gamed away the 
 earnings of the day ; or one, more weary than the rest, 
 gave way to sleep, and let the fragment of his torch fall 
 hissing on the puddled ground. 
 
 " Then there was the watch, with staff and lantern, 
 crying the hour, and the kind of weather; and those 
 who woke up at his voice, and turned them round in 
 bed, were glad to hear it rained, or snowed, or blew, or 
 froze, for very comfort's sake. The solitary passenger 
 was startled by the chairmen's cry of ' By your leave, 
 there ! ' as two came trotting past him with their empty 
 veliicle, — carried backwards to show its being disen- 
 gaged, — and hurried to the nearest stand. Many a 
 private chair, too, enclosing some fine lady, monstrously 
 hooped and furbelowed, and preceded by running foot- 
 
 19 
 
146 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 men bearing flambeaux, — for which extinguishers are 
 yet suspended before the doors of a few houses of the 
 better sort, — made the way gay and light as it danced 
 along, and darker and more dismal when it had passed. 
 It was not unusual for these running gentry, who carried 
 it with a very high hand, to quarrel in the servants' hall 
 while waiting for their masters and mistresses ; and, fall- 
 ing to blows either there or in the street without, to 
 strew the place of skirmish with hair -powder, frag- 
 ments of bag-wigs, and scattered nosegays. Gaming, the 
 vice which ran so high among all classes (the fashion 
 being of course set by the upper), was generally the 
 cause of these disputes ; for cards and dice were as 
 openly used, and worked as much mischief, and yielded 
 as much excitement, below stairs as above. While inci- 
 dents like these, arising out of drums and masquerades 
 and parties at quadrille, were passing at the west end 
 of the town, heavy stage-coaches, and sca,rce heavier 
 wagons, were lumbering slowly towards the city, the 
 coachmen, guard, and passengers armed to the teeth ; 
 and the coach — a day or so, perhaps, behind its time, 
 but that was nothing — despoiled by highwaymen, who 
 made no scruple to attack, alone and single-handed, a 
 whole caravan of goods and men, and sometimes shot 
 a passenger or two, and were sometimes shot themselves, 
 just as the case might be. On the morrow, rumors of 
 this new act of daring on the road yielded matter for a 
 few hours' conversation through the town ; and a Public 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 147 
 
 Progress of some fine gentlemen (half drunk) to Ty- 
 burn, dressed in the newest fashion, and damning the 
 ordinary with unspeakable gallantry and grace, fur- 
 nished to the populace at once a pleasant excitement, 
 and a wholesome and profound example." 
 
 The next extract is a country picture, and exhibits 
 the minuteness of a close observer, while it conveys re- 
 ligious lessons of hope and comfort, proving that the 
 writer believed in the everlasting love of God. 
 
 In the picture of the poor, weak-minded Barnaby, we 
 have a vivid sketch of one, who, witless himself, was 
 under the protection of the Infinitely AVise ; and it calls 
 to mind what Lucy Larcom wrote of Larkin Moore, — 
 
 " And so he wandered east and west, 
 
 And up and down the land ; 
 But where he paused for food or rest, 
 
 'Twas hard to understand. 
 He surely had one sheltering nest, — 
 
 The hollow of God's hand." 
 
 Poor Barnaby Rudge and his mother are thus de- 
 scribed : — 
 
 "Leaving the favored and well - received and flat- 
 tered of the world, — him of the world most worldly, 
 who never compromised himself by an ungentlemanly 
 action, and never was guilty of a manly one, — to lie 
 smilingly asleep ; for even sleep, working but little 
 
148 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 change in his dissembling face, became with him a piece 
 of cold, conventional hypocrisy, — we follow in the 
 steps of two slow travellers on foot, making towards 
 Chigwell. 
 
 " Barnaby and his mother. Grip in their company, of 
 coarse. 
 
 '" The widow, to whom each painful mile seemed 
 longer than the last, toiled wearily along ; while Bar- 
 naby, yielding to every inconstant impulse, fluttered 
 here and there, now leaving her far behind, now linger- 
 ing far behind himself, now dartmg into some by -lane or 
 path, and leaving her to pursue her way alone until he 
 stealthily emerged again, and came upon her with a wild 
 shout of merriment, as his wayward and capricious na- 
 ture prompted. Now he would call to her from the top- 
 most branch of some high tree by the roadside ; now, 
 using his tall staff as a leaping-pole, come fljdng over 
 ditch or hedge or five-barred gate ; now run with sur- 
 prising swiftness for a mile or more on the straight road, 
 and, halting, sport upon a patch of grass with Grip till 
 she came up. These were his delights ; and when his 
 patient mother heard his merry voice, or looked into his 
 flushed and healthy face, she would not have abated 
 them by one sad word or murmur, though each had 
 been to her a source of suffering in the same degree as 
 it was to him of pleasure. 
 
 " It is something to look upon enjoyment, so that it 
 be free and wild, and in the face of Nature, though it is 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 149 
 
 but the enjoyment i 'f p.n idiot ; it is something to know 
 that Heaven has left the capacity of gladness in such a 
 creature's breast : it is something to be assured, that, 
 however lightly men may crush that faculty in their fel- 
 lows, the great Creator of mankind imparts it even to 
 his despised and slighted work. Who would not rather 
 see a poor idiot happy in the sunlight than a wise man 
 pining in a darkened jail ? 
 
 " Ye men of gloom and austerity, who paint the face 
 of Infinite Benevolence with an eternal frown, read in 
 the everlasting book wide open to youj view, the les- 
 son it would teach. Its pictures are not in black and 
 sombre hues, but bright and glowing tints ; its music, 
 save when ye drown it, is not in sighs and groans, 
 but songs and cheerful sounds. Listen to the million 
 voices in the summer air, and find one dismal as your 
 own. Remember, if ye can, the sense of hope and 
 pleasure which every glad return of day awakens in the 
 breast of all your kind who have not changed their na- 
 ture ; and learn some wisdom, even from the witless, 
 when their hearts are lifted up, they know not why, by 
 all tlie mirth and happiness it brings. 
 
 " The widow's breast was full of care, was laden 
 heavily with secret dread and sorrow ; but her boy's 
 gayety of heart gladdened her, and beguiled the long 
 journey. Sometimes he would bid her lean upon hia 
 arm, and would keep beside her steadily for a short dis- 
 tance ; but it was more his nature to be rambling to and 
 
160 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 fro : and she better liked to see him free and happy 
 even than to have him near her, because she loved him 
 better than herself. 
 
 " She had quitted the place to which they were trav- 
 elling, directly after the event which had changed her 
 whole existence, and for two and twenty years had 
 never had courage to revisit it. It was her native vil- 
 lage. How many recollections crowded on her mind 
 when it appeared in sight ! 
 
 " Two and twenty years, — her boy's whole Hfe and 
 history. The last time she looked back upon those 
 roofs among the trees, she carried him in her arms, 
 an infant. How often since that time had she sat be- 
 side him night and day, watching for the dawn of mind 
 that never came ! how had she feared and doubted, and 
 yet hoped, long after conviction forced itself upon her ! 
 The little stratagems she had devised to try him, the 
 little tokens he had given in his childish way, — not of 
 dulness, but of something infinitely worse, so ghastly 
 and unchildlike in its cunning, — came back as vividly 
 as if but yesterday had intervened. The room in which 
 they used to be ; the spot in which his cradle stood ; he 
 old and elfin-like in face, but ever dear to her, gazing at 
 her with a wild and vacant eye, and crooning some un- 
 couth song as she sat by and rocked him, — every cir- 
 cumstance of his infaiicy came thronging back; and the 
 most trivial, perhaps, the most distinctly. 
 
 " His older childhrod too ; the strange imaginings he 
 
CHAELES DICKENS. 151 
 
 had ; his terror of certain senseless things, — familiar 
 objects he endowed with life ; the slow and gradual 
 breaking-out of that one horror, in which, before his 
 bii'th, his darkened intellect began ; how, in the midst 
 of all, she had found some hope and comfort in his being 
 unhke another child, and had gone on almost believing 
 in the slow development of his mind, until he grew a 
 man, and then his childhood was complete and lasting, 
 — one after another, all these old thoughts sprung up 
 within her, strong after their long slumber, and bitterer 
 than ever. 
 
 " She took his arm ; and they hurried through the vil- 
 lage street. It was the same as it was wont to be in old 
 times, yet different too, and wore another air. The 
 change was in herself, not it ; but she never thought of 
 that, and wondered at its alteration, — where it lay, and 
 what it was. 
 
 " The people all knew Barnaby ; and the children of 
 the place came flocking round him, as she remem- 
 bered to have done with their fathers and mothers, 
 round some silly beggar- man, when a child herself. 
 None of them knew her. They passed each well-remem- 
 bered house and yard and homestead, and, striking into 
 the fields, were soon alone again." 
 
 In after-time, Barnaby and his mother are described 
 as being at home in the country, where she gives him 
 some wholesome lessons : which he receives to the best 
 
152 LIFE AND WRITINGS 01" 
 
 of his ability, and which would benefit many others, ii 
 they would receive them. 
 
 " While the worst passions of the worst men were 
 thus working in the dark, and the mantle of religion, 
 assumed to cover the ugliest deformities, threatened to 
 become the shroud of all that was good and peaceful in 
 society, a circumstance occurred which once more altered 
 the position of two persons from whom tliis history has 
 long been separated, and to whom it must now return. 
 
 " In a small English country town, the inhabitants of 
 which supported themselves by the labor of their hands 
 in plaiting and preparing straw for those who made 
 bonnets and other articles of dress and ornament from 
 that material, — concealed under an assumed name, and, 
 living in a quiet poverty which knew no change, no 
 pleasures, and few cares but that of struggling on from 
 day to day in the one great toil for bread, — dwelt Bar- 
 naby and his mother. Their poor cottage had known 
 no stranger's foot since they sought the shelter of its 
 roof five years before ; nor had they in all that time 
 held any commerce or communication with the old world 
 from which they had fled. To labor in peace, and de- 
 vote her labor and her life to her poor son, was all the 
 widow sought. If happiness can be said at any time to 
 ho the lot of one on whom a secret sorrow preys, she 
 was happy now. Tranquillity, resignation, and her 
 strong love of hhn who needed it so much, formed the 
 
CHABLES DICKENS. 153 
 
 small circle of her quiet joys ; and, while that remained 
 unbroken, she was contented. 
 
 " For Barnaby himself, the time which had flown by 
 had passed him Like the wind. The daily suns of years 
 had shed no brighter gleam of reason on his mind : no 
 dawn had broken on his long, dark night. He would sit 
 sometimes, often for days together, on a low seat by 
 the fire or by the cottage-door, busy at work (for he had 
 learnt the art his mother plied), and listening (God help 
 him !) to the tales she would repeat as a lure to keep him 
 in her sight. He had no recollection of these little nar- 
 ratives (the tale of yesterday was new upon the mor- 
 row) ; but he liked them at the moment, and, when the 
 humor held him, would remain patiently within doors, 
 hearing her stories like a little child, and working cheer- 
 fully from sunrise until it was too dark to see. 
 
 " At other times, and then their scanty earnings 
 were scarcely sufficient to furnish them with food, though 
 of the coarsest sort, he would wander abroad from 
 dawn of day until the twilight deepened into night. 
 Few in that place, even of the children, could be idle ; 
 and he had no companions of his own kind. Indeed, 
 there were not many who could have kept up with him 
 m his rambles, had there been a legion. But there were 
 a score of vagabond dogs belonging to the neighbors, 
 who served his purpose quite as well. With two or 
 three of these, or sometimes with a full half-dozen, bark- 
 iug at his heels, he would sally forth on some long expe- 
 
154 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP 
 
 dition that consumed the day; and though, on their 
 fetiu:n at nightfall, the dogs would come home limping 
 and sore-footed, and almost spent with their fatigue, 
 Barnaby was up and off again at sunrise with some new 
 attendants of the same class, with whom he would re- 
 tui'n in like manner. On all these travels, Grip, in his 
 little basket at his master's back, was a constant member 
 of the party ; and, when they set off in fine weather and 
 in high spirits, no dog barked louder than the raven. 
 
 " Their pleasures on these excursions were simple 
 enough. A crust of bread and scrap of meat, with 
 water from the brook or spring, sufficed for their repast. 
 Barnaby's enjoyments were to walk and run and leap 
 till he was tired ; then to lie down on the long grass, or 
 by the growing corn, or in the shade of some tall tree, 
 looking upward at the hght clouds as they floated over 
 the blue siu'face of the sk}', and listening to the lark as 
 she poured out her brilliant song. There were wild- 
 flowers to pluck, — the bright-red poppy, the gentle 
 harebell, the cowslip, and the rose. There were birds 
 to watch, fish, ants, worms ; hares or rabbits, as they 
 darted across the distant pathway in the wood, and so 
 were gone ; millions of living things to have an interest 
 in, and lie in wait for, and clap hands and shout in 
 memory of when they had disappeared. In default of 
 these, or when they wearied, there was the merry sun- 
 light to hunt out, as it crept in aslant through leaves and 
 boughs of trees, and hid far down — deep, deep in hoi- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 155 
 
 low places — like a silver pool, where nodding bianches 
 seemed to bathe and sport ; sweet scents of summer air 
 breathing over fields of beans or clover ; the perfume of 
 wet leaves or moss ; the life of waving trees, and 
 shadows always changing. When these or any of them 
 tired, or, in excess of pleasing, tempted him to shut his 
 eyes, there was slumber in the midst of all these soft 
 delights, with the gentle wind murmuring like music in 
 his ears, and every thing around melting into one de- 
 licious dream. 
 
 " Their hut, for it was little more, stood on the 
 outskirts of the town, at a short distance from the high- 
 road, but in a secluded place, where few chance passen- 
 gers strayed at any season of the year. It had a plot 
 of garden-ground attached, which Barnaby, in fits and 
 starts of working, trimmed, and kept in order. Within 
 doors and without, liis mother labored for their common 
 good ; and hail, rain, snow, or sunshine found no differ- 
 ence in her. 
 
 " Though so far removed from the scenes of her past 
 life, and with so little thought or hope of ever visiting 
 them again, she seemed to have a strange desire to know 
 what happened in the busy world. Any old newspapers 
 or scrap of intelligence from London, she caught at with 
 avidity. The excitement it produced was not of a pleas- 
 urable kind, for her manner at such times expressed the 
 keenest anxiety and dread ; but it never faded in the 
 least degree. Then, and in stormy winter nights, when 
 
156 LIFE AND WRJTINGS OF 
 
 the wind blew loud and strong, the old expression came 
 into her face ; and she would be seized with a fit of 
 trembling, like one who had an ague. But Barnaby 
 noted little of this ; and, putting a great constraint upon 
 herself, she usually recovered her accustomed manner 
 before the change had caught his observation. 
 
 " Grip was by no means an idle or unprofitable mem- 
 ber of the humble household. Partly by dint of Bar- 
 naby's tuition, and partly by pursuing a species of self- 
 instruction common to his tribe, and exerting his powers 
 of observation to the utmost, he had acquired a degree 
 of sagacity which rendered him famous for miles round. 
 His conversational powers and surprising performances 
 were the universal theme ; and as many persons came 
 to see the wonderful raven, and none left his exertions 
 unrewarded (when he condescended to exhibit, which 
 was not always ; for genius is capricious), his earnings 
 formed an important item in the common stock. Indeed, 
 the bird himself appeared to know his value well ; for, 
 though he was perfectly free and unrestrained in the 
 presence of Barnaby and his mother, he maintained in 
 public an amazing gravity, and never stooped to any 
 other gratuitous performances than biting the ankles of 
 vagabond boys (an exercise in which he much delighted), 
 killing a fowl or two occasionally, and swallowing the 
 dinners of various neighboring dogs, of whom the bold- 
 est held him in great awe and dread, 
 
 " Tune had glided on in this way, and nothing had 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 157 
 
 happened to disturb or change their mode of life, when, 
 one summer's night in June, they were in their little 
 garden, resting from the labors of the day. The widow's 
 work was yet upon her knee, and strewn upon the ground 
 about her ; and Barnal^y stood leaning on his spade, 
 gazing at the brightness in the west, and singing softly 
 to himself. 
 
 " ' A brave evening, mother ! If we had, chinking in 
 our pockets, but a few specks of that gold wliich is 
 piled up yonder in the sky, we should be rich for life.' 
 
 " ' We are better as we are,' returned the widow with 
 a quiet smile. ' Let us be contented, and we do not 
 want and need not care to have it, though it lay shining 
 at oiu' feet.' 
 
 " ' Ay ! ' said Barnaby, resting with crossed arms on 
 his spade, and looking wistfully at the sunset, 'that's 
 well enough, mother ; but gold's a good thing to have. 
 I wish that I knew where to find it ! Grip and I could 
 do much with gold, be sure of that.' 
 
 " ' What would you do ? ' she asked. 
 
 " ' What ? A world of things. We'd dress finely, — 
 you and I, I mean, not Grip, — keep horses, dogs, wear 
 bright colors and feathers, do no more work, live deli- 
 cately and at our ease. Oh ! we'd find uses for it, mother, 
 and uses that would do us good. I would I knew where 
 gold was buried ! How hard I'd work to dig it up ! ' 
 
 " ' You do not know,' said his mother, rising from her 
 Beat, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, ' what men 
 
158 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP 
 
 have done to win it, and how they ha-^'e found, too late, 
 that it glitters brightest at a distance, and turns quite 
 dim and dull when handled.' 
 
 " ' Ay, ay ! so you say, so you think,' he answered, 
 still looking eagerly in the same direction. ' For all 
 that, mother, I should like to try.' 
 
 " ' Do you not see,' she said, ' how red it is ? Noth- 
 ing bears so many stains of blood as gold. Avoid it. 
 None have such cause to hate its name as we have. Do 
 not so much as think of it, dear love. It has brought 
 such misery and suffering on your head and mine as few 
 have known, and God grant few may have to undergo. 
 I would rather we were dead, and laid down in our 
 graves, than you should ever come to love it.' 
 
 " For a moment, Barnaby withdrew his eyes, and 
 looked at her with wonder. Then, glancing from the 
 redness in the sky to the mark upon his wrist, as if he 
 would compare the two, he seemed about to question 
 her with earnestness, when a new object caught his 
 wandering attention, and made him quite forgetful of 
 his purpose." 
 
 "The Old Curiosity Shop" brought to the pubUc 
 view that dear Little Nell,* who has henceforth "a name 
 to live." The first mention of this sweet child, who 
 was one of the most beautiful creations of Dickens, is 
 in the following form : — 
 
 * A Que cast of Little Nell, in a sitting posture, may be seen among the Btataary 
 at the Boston Athentetun. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 159 
 
 "One night, I had roamed into the city, and was 
 walldng slowly on in my usual way, musing upon a 
 great many things, when I was arrested by an inquiry, 
 the purport of which did not reach me, but which 
 seemed to be addressed to myself, and was preferred in 
 a soft, sweet voice, that struck me very pleasantly. I 
 turned hastily round, and found at my elbow a pretty 
 little girl, who begged to be directed to a certain street 
 at a considerable distance, and indeed in quite another 
 quarter of the town. 
 
 " ' It is a very long way from here,' said I, ' my 
 chHd.' 
 
 " ' I know that, sk,' she replied timidly. ' I am afraid 
 it is a very long way ; for I came from there to-night.' 
 
 " 'Alone ? ' said I in some surprise. 
 
 " ' Oh, yes ! I don't mind that. But I am a little 
 frightened now; for I have lost my road." 
 
 "'And what made you ask it of me? Suppose I 
 should tell you wrong ? ' 
 
 '"I am sure you will not do that,' said the little 
 creature : ' you are such a very old gentleman, and walk 
 so slow yourself.' 
 
 " I cannot describe how much I was impressed by 
 this appeal, and the energy with which it was made, 
 which brought a tear into the child's clear eye, and 
 made her slight figure tremble as she looked up into my 
 face. 
 
 " * Come,' said I : 'I'll take you theie.' 
 
160 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP 
 
 " She put her hand in mine as confidingly as if she 
 had known me from her cradle, and we trudged away 
 together ; the little creature accommodating her pace to 
 mine, and rather seeming to lead and take care of me 
 than I to be protecting her. I observed that every now 
 and then she stole a curious look at my face, as if to 
 make quite sure that I was not deceiving her, and that 
 these glances (very sharp and keen they were too) 
 seemed to increase her confidence at every repetition. 
 
 " For my part, my curiosity and interest were, at 
 least, equal to the child's ; for child she certainly was, 
 although I thought it probable, from what I could make 
 out, that her very small and dehcate frame imj)arted a 
 peculiar youthfulness to her appearance. Though more 
 scantily attired than she might have been, she was 
 dressed with perfect neatness, and betrayed no mark 
 of poverty or neglect. 
 
 " ' Who has sent you so far by yourself ? ' said I. 
 
 " ' Somebody who is very kind to me, sir.' 
 
 " ' And what have you been doing ? ' 
 
 " ' That I must not tell,' said the child. 
 
 " There was something in the manner of this reply, 
 which caused me to look at the little creature with an 
 invol untary expression of surprise ; for I wondered what 
 kind of errand it might be that occasioned her to be 
 prepared for questioning. Her quick eye seemed to 
 read my thoughts. As it met mine, she added, that 
 there was no harm in what she had been doing ; but it 
 
CHAELES DICKENS. 161 
 
 was a great secret, — a secret which she did not even 
 know herself. 
 
 " Tliis was said with no appearance of cunning or de- 
 ceit, but with an unsuspicious frankness that bore the 
 impress of truth. She walked on as before, growing 
 more familiar with me as we proceeded, and talking 
 cheerfully by the way ; but she said no more about her 
 home, beyond remarking that we were going quite a 
 new road, and asking if it were a short one. 
 
 " While we were thus engaged, I revolved in my mind 
 a hundred explanations of the riddle, and rejected them 
 every one. I really felt ashamed to take advantage of 
 the ingenuousness or grateful feeling of the child for 
 the purpose of gratifying m}' curiosity. I love these 
 little people ; and it is not a slight thing when they who 
 are so fresh from God love us. As I had felt pleased, 
 at first, by her confidence, I determined to deserve it, 
 and to do credit to the nature which had prompted her 
 to repose it in me. 
 
 " There was no reason, however, why I should refrain 
 from seeing the person who had inconsiderate^ sent her 
 to so great a distance by night, and alone ; and as it 
 was not improbable, that, if she found herself near 
 home, she might take farewell of me, and deprive me 
 of the opportunity, I avoided the most frequented ways, 
 and took the most intricate. Thus it was not until we 
 arrived in the street itself that she knew where we 
 were. Clapping her hands with pleasure, and running 
 
162 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 on before me for a short distance, my little acquaintance 
 stopped at a door, and, remaining on the step till T came 
 up, knocked at it when I joined her. 
 
 "A part of this door was of glass, unprotected by 
 any shutter, which I did not observe at first ; for all 
 was very dark and silent within, and I was anxious (as 
 indeed the child was also) for an answer to her sum- 
 mons. When she had knocked twice or thrice, there 
 was a noise as if some person were moving inside ; and 
 at length a faint light appeared through the glass, which, 
 as it approached very slowly, — the bearer having to 
 make his way through a great many scattered articles, 
 — enabled me to see both what kind of person it was 
 who advanced, and what kind of place it was through 
 which he came. 
 
 " He was a little old man, with long gray hair, whose 
 face and figure, as he held the light above his head, and 
 looked before him as he approached, I could plainly see. 
 Though much altered by age, I fancied I could recog- 
 nize in his spare and slender form something of that 
 dehcate mould which I had noticed in the child. Their 
 bright blue eyes were certainly alike ; but his face was 
 so deeply furrowed, and so very full of care, that here 
 all resemblance ceased. 
 
 " The place, through which he made his way at leis- 
 ure, was one of those receptacles for old and curious 
 things which seem to crouch in odd corners of this 
 town, and to hide their musty treasures from the public 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 163 
 
 eye in jealousy and distrust. There were suits of mail 
 standing, like ghosts in armor, here and there ; fantastic 
 carvings brought from monkish cloisters ; rusty weapons 
 of various kinds ; distorted figures in china and wood 
 and iron and ivory ; tapestry, and strange furniture that 
 might have been designed in dreams. The haggard as- 
 pect of the little old man was wonderfully suited to the 
 place : he might have groped among old chui-ches and 
 tombs and deserted houses, and gathered all the spoils 
 with his own hands. There was nothing in the whole 
 collection but was in keeping with himself ; nothing that 
 looked older or more worn than he. 
 
 " As he turned the key in the lock, he surveyed me 
 with some astonishment, which was not diminished 
 when he looked fi-om me to my companion. The 
 door being opened, the child addressed him as her 
 grandfather, and told him the little story of our com- 
 panionship. 
 
 " ' Why, bless thee, child ! ' said the old man, patting 
 her on the head, ' how couldst thou miss thy way ? 
 What if I had lost thee, NeU ? " 
 
 " ' I would have found my way back to you^ grand- 
 father,' said the child boldly : ' never fear. ' 
 
 " The old man kissed her ; then turned to me, and 
 begged me to walk in. I did so. The door was closed 
 and locked. Preceding me with the light, he led me 
 through the place I had already seen from without, into 
 a small sitting-room behind, in which was another door 
 
164 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 opening into a kind of closet, where I saw a little bed 
 that a fairy might have slept in, it looked so very smaP., 
 and was so prettily arranged. The child took a candle, 
 and trippe'd into this little room, leaving the old man and 
 me together. 
 
 " ' You must be tired, sir,' said he as he placed a 
 chair near the fire. ' How can I thank you ? ' 
 
 " ' By taking more care of your grandchild another 
 time, my good friend,' I replied. 
 
 " ' More care ! ' said the old man in a shrill voice ; ' more 
 care of Nelly ! Why, who ever loved a child as I love 
 NeU?' 
 
 " He said this with such evident surprise, that I was 
 perplexed what answer to make ; the more so, because, 
 coupled with something feeble and wandering in his 
 manner, there were, in his face, marks of deep and anx- 
 ious thought, which convinced me that he could not be, 
 as I had been at first inclined to suppose, in a state of 
 dotage or imbecility. 
 
 " ' I don't think you consider ' — I began. 
 
 " ' I don't consider ! ' cried the old man, interrupting 
 me, — ' I don't consider her ! Ah, how little you know 
 of the truth ! Little Nelly, Little Nelly ! ' 
 
 " It would be impossible for any man — I care not 
 what his form of speech might be — to express more af- 
 fection than the dealer in curiosities did in these four 
 words. I waited for him to speak again ; but he rested 
 his chin upon his hand, and, shaking his head twice or 
 thrice, fixed his eyes upon the fire. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 165 
 
 " While we were sitting thus, in silence, the door oi 
 the closet opened, and the child returned, her light 
 Irown hair hanging loose about her neck, and her face 
 flushed with the haste she had made to rejoin us. She 
 busied herself immediately in preparing supper. While 
 she was thus engaged, I remarked that the old man took 
 an opportunity of observing me more closely than he 
 had done yet. I was surprised to see, that, all this 
 time, every thing was done by this child, and that there 
 appeared to be no other persons but ourselves in the 
 house. I took advantage of a moment, when she was 
 absent, to venture a hint on this point, to which the old 
 man replied that there were few grown persons as trust- 
 worthy or as careful as she. 
 
 " ' It always grieves me,' I observed, roused by what 
 I took to be his selfishness : ' it always grieves me to 
 contemplate the initiation of children into the ways of 
 life when they are scarcely more than infants. It 
 checks their confidence and simplicity, — two of the 
 best qualities that Heaven gives them^ — and demands 
 that they share our sorrows before they are capable of 
 entering into our enjoyments.' 
 
 ^ ' It will never check hers,' said the old man, looldng 
 steadily at me : ' the springs are too deep. Besides, the 
 children of the poor know but few pleasures. Even the 
 cheap delights of childhood must be bought and paid 
 for/ " 
 
166 LIFE AND WETTINGS OF 
 
 On Mr. Dickecs's first visit to this country, he made a 
 speech at the dinner given him in Boston ; in which he 
 thus alluded to Little Nell : — 
 
 " ' There is one other point connected with the labors, 
 if I may call them so, that you hold in such generous 
 esteem, to which I cannot help adverting. I cannot 
 help expressing the delight, the more than happiness, it 
 was to me to find so strong an interest awakened on this 
 side of the water in favor of that little heroine of mine 
 to whom your president has made allusion ; who died in 
 her youth. I had letters about that child, in England, 
 from the dwellers in log-huts among the morasses and 
 swamps, and densest forests, and deep sohtudes of the 
 Far West. Many a sturdy hand hard with the axe and 
 spade, and browned by the summer's sun, has taken up 
 the pen, and written to me a little history of domestic 
 joy or sorrow, always coupled, I am proud to say, with 
 sometning of interest in that little tale, or some comfort 
 or happiness derived from it ; and the writer has always 
 addressed me, not as a writer of books for sale, resident 
 some four or five thousand miles away, but as a friend 
 to whom he might freely impart the joys and sorrows of 
 his own fireside. Many a mother — I could reckon them 
 now by dozens, not by units — has done the like ; and 
 has told me how she lost such a child at such a time, and 
 where she lay buried, and how good she was, and how. 
 In this or that respect, she resembled Nell. I do assure 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 167 
 
 you that no circumstance of my life has given me one- 
 hundredth part of the gratification I have derived from 
 this source. I was wavering at the time, whether or not 
 to wind up my clock, and come and see this country ; 
 and this decided me. I feel as if it were a positive 
 duty ; as if I were bound to pack up my clothes, and 
 come and see my friends ; and even now I have such an 
 odd sensation in connection with these tilings, that you 
 have no chance of spoiling me. I feel as though we 
 were agreeing — as indeed we are, if we substitute for 
 fictitious characters the classes from which they are 
 drawn — about thu'd parties in whom we had a com- 
 mon interest. At every new act of kindness on your 
 part, I say it to myself, ' That's for Oliver ; I should not 
 wonder if that was meant for Smike ; I have no doubt 
 that it was intended for Nell ; ' and so become a much 
 happier, certainly, but a more sober and retiring man, 
 than ever I was before.' " 
 
 Every reader of Dickens feels as if Little Nell was 
 almost a reality, and takes, therefore, a sad interest in 
 recalling the final scene of her life. Thus pathetically 
 does the author of that sweet character depict the death 
 of Little Nell : — 
 
 " She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so 
 free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She 
 seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and 
 
168 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 waiting for the breath of life ; not one who had lived, 
 and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with here 
 and there some winter berries and green leaves, gath- 
 ered in a spot she had been used to favor. ' When I 
 die, put near me something that has loved the hght, ar d 
 had the sky above it always.' These were her words. 
 
 " She was dead ! — dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell 
 was dead. Her little bird, a poor, slight thing the 
 pressure of a finger would have crushed, was stirring 
 nimbly in his cage ; and the strong heart of its child-mis- 
 tress was mute and motionless forever ! Where were 
 the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues ? 
 All gone. Sorrow was dead, indeed, in her; but peace 
 and perfect happiness were born, imaged in her tranquil 
 beauty and profound repose. 
 
 " And stUl her former self lay there, unaltered in its 
 change. Yes, the old fireside had smiled upon that 
 same sweet face. It had passed like a dream through 
 the haunts of misery and care. At the door of the poor 
 schoolmaster on the summer evening ; before the fur- 
 nace-fire upon the cold, wet night ; at the still bedside 
 of the dying boy, — there had been the same mild and 
 lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their 
 majesty after death. 
 
 " The old man held one languid arm in his, and the 
 small, tight hand folded to his breast for warmth. It 
 was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last 
 smile, — the hand that had led him on thi'ough all their 
 
CHAKLES DICKENS. 1G9 
 
 wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips , 
 then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it 
 was warmer now : and, as he said it, he looked in agony 
 to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help 
 her. 
 
 ".She was dead, and past all help, or need of help. 
 The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even 
 while her own was waning fast ; the garden she had 
 tended ; the eyes she had gladdened ; the noiseless 
 haunts of many a thoughtless hour ; the paths she had 
 trodden, as it were, but yesterday, — could know her 
 no more. 
 
 " ' It is not,' said the schoolmaster, as he bent down 
 to kiss her on the cheek, and gave his tears free vent, — 
 ' it is not in this world that Heaven's justice ends. 
 Think what it is, compared with the world to which her 
 young spirit has winged its early flight ; and say, if one 
 deliberate wish, expressed in solemn tones above this 
 bed, could call her back to hfe, which of us would 
 utter it?' 
 
 " She had been dead two days. They were all about 
 her at the time, knowing that the end was drawing on. 
 She died soon after daybreak. They had read and 
 talked to her in the earlier portion of the night ; but, as 
 the hours crept on, she sank to sleep. They could tell, 
 by what she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they 
 were of her journeyings with the old man. They were 
 of no painful scenes, but of those who had helped them, 
 
170 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 and used them kindly ; for she often said, ' God bless 
 you ! ' with great fervor. 
 
 " Waldng, she never wandered in her mind but once ; 
 and that was at beautiful music, which, she said, Avas in 
 the air. God knows. It may have been. Opening her 
 eyes at last from a very quiet sleep, she begged that 
 they would kiss her once again. That done, she turned 
 to the old man, with a lovely smile upon her face, such, 
 they said, as they had never seen, and could never for- 
 get, and clung with both arms about his neck. She 
 had never murmured or complained, but with a quiet 
 mind, and a manner quite unaltered, save that she every 
 day became more earnest and more grateful to them, 
 faded like the light upon the summer's evening." 
 
 In its most pathetic and beautiful passages, the prose 
 of Dickens runs easily and naturally into rhyme and 
 metre, and shows him to be a poet, no less than a novel- 
 ist, of a high order. This tendency of his writing is 
 very vividly illustrated by the account of the funeral of 
 Little NeU in " The Old Curiosity Shop; " which is ap- 
 pended exactly as it stands in the book, with the excep- 
 tion of three slight verbal alterations : — 
 
 " And now the bell — the bell 
 She had so often heard by night and day, 
 And listened to with solemn pleasure, 
 E'en as a living voice — 
 Rung its remorseless toll for her, 
 So young, so beautiful, so good. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 171 
 
 " Decrepit age, and vigorous life, 
 And blooming youth, and helpless Infancy, 
 
 Poured forth — on crutches, in the pride of strength 
 And health, in the fuU blush 
 Of promise, the mere dawn of life — 
 To gather round her tomb. Old men were there, 
 Whose eyes were dim, 
 And senses failing ; 
 Grandames, who might have died ten years ago, 
 And still been old ; the deaf, the blind, the lame, 
 
 The palsied, — 
 The living dead in many shapes and forms, — 
 To see the closing of this early grave. 
 
 What was the death it would shut in 
 To that which still could crawl and keep above it I 
 Along the crowded path they bore her now, 
 
 Pure as the new-fallen snow 
 That covered it, whose day on earth 
 
 Had been as fleeting. 
 Under that porch where she had sat when Heaven 
 In mercy brought her to that peaceful spot, 
 
 She passed again ; and the old church 
 Received her In its quiet shade." 
 
 In Forster's " Life of Landor," light is thrown on the 
 manner in which the fancy which gave us Little Nell 
 took form in the mind of Mr. Dickens. This is the 
 testimony of that biographer : — 
 
 ••' When I first visited Landor in Bath, the city was 
 only accessible by coach ; and no coach left after eight 
 o'clock in the morning. But these difficulties in the 
 
172 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 way of intercourse soon disappeared ; and the travelling 
 that had occupied two entire days took up little more 
 than double the same number of hours. The first time 
 Mr. Dickens went with me, the railroad was open ; and 
 it had become possible to leave in the afternoon, dine 
 and pass the evening with Landor, and- breakfast the 
 next morning in London. Still vividly remembered by 
 both are such evenings, when a night's sleep pur- 
 chased for us cheaply the pleasure of being present with 
 him on his birthday ; and I think it was at the first 
 celebration of the kind, in the first of his Bath lodgings 
 (35 St. James Square), that the fancy which took the 
 form of Little Nell in " The Curiosity Shop " first 
 dawned on the genius of its creator. No character in 
 prose-fiction was a greater favorite of Landor. He 
 thought that upon her Juliet might for a moment have 
 turned her eyes from Romeo ; and that Desdemona 
 might have taken her hair-breadth escapes to heart, so 
 interesting and pathetic did she seem to him : and when, 
 some years later, the circumstance I have named was re- 
 called to him, he broke into one of those whimsical bursts 
 of comical extravagance out of which arose the fancj-^ of 
 Boythorn. With tremendous emphasis, he confirmed tlie 
 fact, and added, that he had never in his life regretted 
 any thing so much as his having failed to carry out an 
 intention he had formed respecting it ; for he meant to 
 have purchased that house (3.3 St. James Square), and 
 then and there to have burned it to the ground, to 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 173 
 
 the end that no meaner association siiould ever dese- 
 crate the birthplace of Nell. Then he would pause a 
 little, become conscious of our sense of his absurdity, 
 and break into a thundering peal of laughter." 
 
 In America, the admiration of the sketches drawn of 
 children by Mr. Dickens reached so great a pitch of en- 
 thusiasm, that there was a demand for those pictures in 
 separate form ; and, accordingly, a neat little book, called 
 " Child-Pictures from Dickens," was issued by his Bos- 
 ton pubUshers, well' illustrated ; and of which he said 
 himself, — 
 
 " These chapters, as being especially associated with 
 children, have been selected from m}' various books for 
 separate publication, under the title appended to the 
 volume. . . . The compilation is made for American chil- 
 dren, with my consent." They are the stories of " Lit- 
 tle Nell," " Paul and Florence," " The Fat Boy," and 
 others. 
 
 " Master Humphrey's Clock" ticked on but a short time. 
 In the introductory framework of the tales from which 
 we have made extracts, Mr. Pickwick, with Sam Weller 
 and his father, was brought in, but scarcely successfully. 
 Several small contributions to " Bentley's Miscellany " 
 are not to be found in Mr. Dickens's collected works, as 
 too large a sum was required for permission to reprint 
 them. 
 
 During Mr. Dickens's connection with Bentley, he 
 
174 L.IFE AND SVRITING8. 
 
 compiled "Memoirs of Joseph Grimaldi," illustrated by 
 Cruikshank, from a sort of autobiography which the 
 great clown had written, at immense length, before his 
 death. It is as good a theatrical biography as the aver- 
 age, which is not saying much, and was with the com- 
 piler mamly a labor of love. It was published in 1840, 
 in two volumes, and shows, at least, that the rising 
 author was not afraid of hard work. 
 
 " It is said, that when Dickens saw a strange or odd 
 name on a shop-board, or in walking through a village 
 or country town, he entered it in his pocket-book, and 
 added it to his reserve list. Then, runs the story, when 
 he wanted a striking surname for a new character, he 
 had but to take the first half of one real name, and to 
 add to it the second half of another, to produce the 
 exact effect upon the eye and ear of the reader he 
 desired." 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FIRST VISIT TO THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 Testimony of -'The New-York Tribune."— American Notes for General Circula 
 tiou. — Wholesome Truths for a Nation. — Slavery. — Bad Manners. — Allegha 
 nies. — Niagara. 
 
 " There is no other land like thee, 
 No dearer shore; 
 Thou art the shelter of the free : 
 The home, the port, of liberty, 
 Thou hast been, and shalt ever be 
 Till time is o'er." 
 
 Percivai,. 
 
 " God that made the world . . . hath made of one blood all nations of men for to 
 dwell on all the face of the earth."— Acts xvii. 26. 
 
 ELL does "The New- York Tribune" de- 
 clare that, — 
 
 " It will be the glory of Charles Dickens, 
 Avhen his fame, comes to be fairly weighed, 
 not that he has created some of the most beautiful 
 and by far the most humorous characters in English 
 fiction, not that he has drawn scenes of real life with 
 a vividness no artist ever attained before, but that he 
 has acquired such an absolute mastery over the human 
 heart, that we take his ideal men and women at once to 
 
 176 
 
176 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 our bosoms, and make every one of his books a gallery 
 of our personal friends. Little Nell is not the most 
 beautiful creation in our literature by any means ; but 
 is there any loved so well ? ' Oliver Twist ' is not re- 
 markably good as a novel ; but ever since we read it, — 
 thirty years ago, — we have been crying ' for more.' Bob 
 Crat(;liit and his lame child, Bob Sawyer and Mr. Ben- 
 jamin Micawber, Pickwick, — dear old monarch of them 
 all, — these are not for us the airy fictions of the brain, 
 but fiesh-and-blood friends, whom we love with all our 
 hearts, and hope to meet some day in this very world. 
 It is the greatness of Dickens, that he can inspire us 
 with feelings like these ; and no other man has ever done 
 it in an equal degree. 
 
 " Ten or twenty milhons of people keep a corner in 
 their hearts for Dickens, because he has seen so perfectly 
 the poetry, the beauty, the hundi-ed lessons, which the 
 life of the masses contains ; and in all that he has done 
 he has striven for their good. ' I have always had, and 
 always shall have,' said he on his first visit to this coun- 
 try, ' an earnest and true desire to contribute, as far as 
 in me lies, to the common stock of healthful cheerfulness 
 and enjoyment. I believe that Virtue shows quite" as 
 well in rags and jpatches as she does in purple and fine 
 linen. I believe that she, and every beautiful object in 
 external Nature, claims some sympathy in the breast of 
 the poorest man who breaks his scanty loaf of daily 
 bread.' So, in the faith that literature was not for the 
 
CHARLES DICKEKS. 177 
 
 rich alone, and the noblest work was the work done for 
 the poor, he bent himself bravely to his splendid task. 
 Whether battling with the weapons of his wit for the 
 release of poor prisoners or poor schoolboys, or humanity 
 for almshouse paupers, or relief for befogged and plun- 
 dered clients and a public ridden to death by aristo- 
 cratic office-holders, or founding a great liberal news- 
 paper in the interest of popular government and free 
 education, or refusing with dignity an invitation to 
 attend as an actor the court where he could not be re- 
 ceived as a private man, Charles Dickens, without a 
 suspicion of demagogism, without the affectation of 
 condescendmg, without uttering one insincere or flatter- 
 ing word, made himself as truly the poet and prophet 
 of the people in prose as Burns was their chosen singer 
 in verse. It is for this reason, that, wherever the English 
 language is spoken, Charles Dickens was cherished as a 
 friend. It is for this reason, that liis death awakens 
 such universal sorrow, and that his name will be held, 
 in sincerely affectionate remembrance to the latest gen- 
 erations." 
 
 According to Mr. Perkins, — 
 
 " By the time that ' Barnaby Rudge ' was finished, 
 during the j^ear 1841, even the vigorous and enduring 
 frame of the new novelist was sensibly fatigued. No 
 wonder. In six years, he had fully established a new 
 department of romance, erecting a reputation which 
 
178 V LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 would have remained a lasting one without anothei 
 word or volume ; and had proved himself, besides his 
 unquestioned supremacy as a novelist, a laborious and 
 able workman in three other departments of literary 
 labor, — reporting, editing, and biography. The exer- 
 tion thus invested was intense as well as enjoyable ; 
 for no quaUty of genius is more invariable than the in- 
 tensity which marks its activity. No human standard 
 of measurement can estimate the total of labor, repre- 
 sented by the twenty volumes, or thereabouts, which 
 the young man of twenty-nine had produced in six 
 years. The very penmanship of so many pages is no 
 inconsiderable accumulation of labor. The contrivance 
 of all these stories, the adaptation to them of the char- 
 acters and groups supplied by the mind, the shaping-out 
 of plot and dialogue, situation and catastrophe, consti- 
 tute another far higher and immeasurably greater body 
 of labor; and behind all these was that vast mass 
 of seeing, understanding, and remembering, which may 
 be called the professional training and experience of the 
 author, and which was really the whole of his past life, 
 including both the circumstances of his own home and 
 social position, and the extraordinary series of researches 
 and studies that he was always making into the actuali- 
 ties of the humanity around him. The mere quantity 
 of labor involved in all this, leaving its quality out of 
 the question, and treating it merely as an enterprise in 
 acquiring and recording knowledge, is something tre- 
 
OHARLES DICKENS. 179 
 
 mendoiis. The higher mental operations are not less 
 exhausting, but more so, than the lower ; and it is not 
 wonderful, but natural, that by this time a vacation was 
 necessary even to this vividly-energetic, swift, and en- 
 diuMng organism." 
 
 Therefore Mr. Dickens decided to visit America, 
 and embarked with his wife in January, 1842, for 
 
 " The land of the free, and the home of the brave." 
 
 They reached Boston on the 22d ; went by New York 
 to Baltimore, Washington, and Richmond ; then by 
 York, Penn., and Pittsburg, down the Ohio to Cincin- 
 nati, Cairo, and St. Louis ; thence back to Cincinnati, 
 northward to the Lakes, to Niagara, and down the St. 
 Lawrence to Montreal and Quebec ; and thence by Lake 
 Champlain back to New York ; from which he re-em- 
 barked for England, June 7 of the same year. 
 
 Mr. Dickens was desirous of securing an international 
 copyright law, in which he, as an author, was specially 
 interested, but did not succeed. 
 
 On liis return to England, he published a book con- 
 taining some account of his travels and adventures, and 
 conveying his impressions of the country and its people. 
 This book was received in America with great dis- 
 pleasure. The popularity of the author sank far below 
 any zero of agreeable measurement. All but the truly 
 discriminating cried out against him ; for he assailed the 
 
180 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 iniquitous system of AiiKMica): .slavery, he exposed the 
 vileness of politics and the craftiness of poHticians, and he 
 showed how the public press catered too often to public 
 vices. Time has wiped away some of these stains from 
 the brow of America; and the red hand of War has 
 slain the foe of our prosperity. Slaver}^ no longer 
 exists ; and the nation confesses, by its action towards 
 the black man, that the strictures of Charles Dickens 
 were deserved. Yet much remains to be done before 
 the land shall be free from reproach, and its people 
 from objectionable habits. God speed the day when it 
 shall be wholly " a nation whose God is the Lord"! 
 With all its faults, we love it; and its truest friends 
 pray for its peace and prosperity, and for the time when 
 its sons and daughters in home and Church and State 
 shall labor together' for its permanent welfare. 
 
 Extracts from " The American Notes " will be of in- 
 terest; and the following portrays a portion of the 
 voyage hither : — 
 
 " It is the third morning. I am awakened out of my 
 sleep by a dismal shriek from my wife, who demands to 
 know whether there's any danger. I roase myself, and 
 look out of bed. The water-jug is plunging and leaping 
 like a lively dolphin ; all the smaller articles are afloat, 
 except my shoes, which are stranded on a carpet-bag 
 high and dry, like a couple of coal-barges. Suddenly 
 I see them spring into the air, and behold the looking- 
 
OHAELES DICKENS. 181 
 
 glass, which is nailed to the wall, sticking fast upon the 
 ceiling. At the same time, the door entirely disappears, 
 and a new one is opened in the floor. Then I begin to 
 comprehend that the state-room is standing on its head. 
 
 " Before it is possible to make any arrangement at all 
 compatible with this novel state of things, the shij: 
 rights. Before one can say, ' Thank Heaven ! ' she 
 wrongs again. Before one can cry, ' She is wrong ! ' she 
 seems to have started forward, and to be a creature ac- 
 tively running of its own accord, with broken knees and 
 failing legs, through ever}' variety of hole and pitfall, 
 and stumbling constantly. Before one can so much as 
 wonder, she takes a high leap into the air. Before she 
 has well done that, she takes a deep dive into the water. 
 Before she has gained the surface, she throws a somer- 
 set. The instant she is on her legs, she rushes backward. 
 And so she goes on, staggering, heaving, wrestling, leap- 
 ing, diving, jumping, pitching, throbbing, rolling, and 
 rocking, and going through all these movements, some- 
 times by turns, and sometimes all together, until one 
 feels disposed to roar for mercy. 
 
 " A steward passes. ' Steward ! ' — ' Sir ? ' — ' What is 
 the matter ? What do you call this ? ' — ' Rather a heavy 
 sea on sir, and a head wind.' 
 
 " A head wind ! Imagine a human face upon the 
 vessel's prow, with fifteen thousand Samsons in one, 
 bent upon driving her back, and hitting her exactly 
 between the eyes whenever she attempts to advance an 
 
182 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP 
 
 inch ; imagiue the ship herself, with every pulse and 
 artery of her huge body swollen and Ijii'sting undel 
 this maltreatment, sworn to go on or die ; imagine the 
 wind howling, the sea roaring, the rain beating, all in 
 furious array against her ; picture the sky both dark 
 and wild, and the clouds, in fearful sympathy with the 
 waves, making another ocean in the air ; add to all this 
 the clattering on deck and down below, the tread of 
 hui^ried feet, the loud, hoarse shouts of seamen, the 
 gurgling in and out of water through the scuppers, with 
 every now and then the striking of a heavy sea upon 
 the planks above, with the deep, dead, heavy sound of 
 thunder heard within a vault, — and there is the head 
 wind of that January morning. 
 
 " I say nothing of what maj^ be called the domestic 
 noises of the ship, — such as the breaking of glass and 
 crockery, the tumbling-down of stewards, the gambols 
 overhead of loose casks and truant dozens of bottled 
 porter, and the very remarkable and far from exhilarat- 
 ing sounds raised in their various state-rooms by the 
 seventy passengers who were too ill to get up to break- 
 fast, — I say nothing of them ; for, although I lay listen- 
 ing to this concert for three or four days, I don't think 
 I heard it for more than a quarter of a minute, at the 
 expiration of which term I lay down again excessively 
 seasick. . . . 
 
 " It was materially assisted, I have no doubt, by a 
 heavy gale of wind, which came slowly up at sunset, 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 183 
 
 when we were about ten days out, and raged witL grad- 
 ually-increasing fury until morning, saving that it lulled 
 for an hour a little before midnight. There was some- 
 tliing in the unnatural repose of that hour, and in the 
 after-gathering of the storm, so inconceivably awful 
 and tremendous, that its bursting into full violence was 
 almost a rehef. 
 
 " The laboring of the ship in the troubled sea on this 
 night I shall never forget. ' Will it ever be worse than 
 this ? ' was a question I had often heard asked when 
 every thing was sliding and bumping about, and when it 
 certainly did seem difficult to comprehend the possibility 
 of any thing afloat being more disturbed, without top- 
 pling over, and going down. But what the agitation of 
 a steam-vessel is, on a bad winter's night in the wild 
 Atlantic, it is impossible for the most ^dvicl imagination 
 to conceive. To say that she is flung down on her side 
 in the waves, with her masts dipping into them, and 
 that, springing up again, she rolls over on the other 
 side, until a heavy sea strikes her with the noise of a 
 hundred great guns, and hurls her back ; that she 
 stops and staggers and shivers, as though stunned, and 
 then, with a violent throbbing at her heart, darts on- 
 ward Uke a monster goaded into madness, to be beaten 
 down and battered and crushed and leaped on by the 
 angry sea ; that thunder, lightning, hail, and rain and 
 wind, are all in fierce contention for the mastery ; that 
 eveij' plank has its groan, every nail its shriek, and every 
 
184 LIFE AND WAITINGS OF 
 
 drop of water in the great ocean its howling voice, — i& 
 nothing. To say that all is grand, and all appalling and 
 horrible in the last degree, is nothing. Words cannot 
 express it. Thoughts cannot convey it. Only a dream 
 can call it up again in all its fury, rage, and passion. 
 
 " And yet, in the very midst of these terrors, I was 
 placed in a situation so exquisitely ridiculous, that even 
 then I had as strong a sense of its absurdity as I have 
 now, and could no more help laughing than I can at 
 any other comical incident happening under circum- 
 stances the most favorable to its enjoyment. About 
 midnight, we shipped a sea, which forced its way through 
 the skylights, burst open ' the doors above, and came 
 raging and roaring down into the ladies' cabin, to the 
 unspeakable consternation of my wife and a little Scotch 
 lady, who, by the way, had previously sent a message 
 to the captain by the stewardess, requesting him, with 
 her compliments, to have a steel conductor immediately 
 attached to the top of every mast, and to the chimney, 
 in order that the ship might not be struck by lightning. 
 They, and the handmaid before mentioned, being in such 
 ecstasies of fear that I scarcely knew what to do with 
 them, I naturally bethought myself of some restorative 
 or comfortable cordial ; and, nothing better occurring to 
 me at the moment than hot brandy and water, I pro- 
 cured a tumblerful without dela3^ It being impossible 
 to stand or sit without holding on, they were all heaped 
 together in one corner of a long sofa, — a fixture ex- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 185 
 
 tending entirely across the cabin, — where they clung to 
 each other in momentary expectation of being drowned. 
 When I approached this place with my specific, and 
 was about to administer it, with many conciliatory ex- 
 pressions, to the nearest sufferer, what was my dismay 
 to see them all roll slowly down to the other end ! And 
 when I staggered to that end, and held out the glass 
 once more, how immensely baffled were my good inten- 
 tions by the ship giving another lurch, and their all 
 rolling back again ! I suppose I dodged them up and 
 down this sofa for at least a quarter of an hour, without 
 reaching them once ; and, by the time I did catch them, 
 the brandy and water was diminished, by constant 
 spilling, to a teaspoonful. To complete the group, it is 
 .necessary to recognize in this disconcerted dodger an 
 individual very pale from sea-sickness, wlio had shaved 
 his beard and brushed his hair last at Liverpool, and 
 whose only articles of drt-ss (linen not included) were 
 a pair of dreadnought trousers, a blue jacket formerly 
 admired upon the Thames at Richmond, no stockings, 
 and one slipper. 
 
 " Of the outrageous antics performed by that ship 
 next morning, whicli made bed a practical joke, and 
 getting up, by any process short of falling out, an im- 
 possibility, I say notliing ; but any thing like the utter 
 di'eariness and desolation that met my eyes when I lit- 
 erally ' tumbled up ' on deck, at noon, I never saw. Ocean 
 and sky were all of one dull, heavy, uniform lead-color. 
 
186 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP 
 
 There was no extent of prospect, even over tl e di-earj 
 waste that lay around us ; for the sea ran high, and the 
 horizon encompassed us like a large black hoop. Viewed 
 from the air, or some tall bluff on shore, it would have 
 been imposing and stupendous, no doubt; but, seen 
 from the wet and rolling decks, it only impressed one 
 giddily and painfully. In the gale of last night, the life- 
 boat had been crushed by one blow of the sea, like a 
 walnut-shell ; and there it hung dangling in the air, a 
 mere fagot of crazy boards. The planking of the paddle- 
 boxes had been torn sheer away. The wheels were ex- 
 posed and bare ; and they whirled and dashed their 
 spray about the decks at random. Chimney white with 
 crusted salt, topmast struck, storm-sails set, rigging 
 all knotted, tangled, wet, and drooping, — a gloomier 
 picture it would be hard to look upon." 
 
 Mr. Dickens touched Boston first, and, of course, vis- 
 ited Boston's famous institutions, — among them that 
 for the blind, at South Boston, which was then, as now, 
 presided over by his personal friend, that world -re- 
 nowned philanthropist, Dr. Samuel G. Howe. Mr. 
 Dickens says, — 
 
 " I went to see this place one very fine winter morn- 
 ing, an Italian sky above, and the air so clear and bright 
 on every side, that even my eyes, which are none of the 
 best, could follow the minute lines and scraps of tracery 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 187 
 
 in distant buildings. Like most otlier public institutions 
 in America, of the same class, it stands a mile or two 
 without the town, in a cheerful, health}^ spot ; and is an 
 airy, spacious, handsome edifice. It is built upon a 
 height commanding the harbor. When I paused for 
 a moment at the door, and marked how fresh and free 
 the whole scene was, — what sparkling bubbles glanced 
 upon the waves, and welled up every moment to the 
 surface, as though the world below, like that above, 
 were radiant with the bright daj", and gushing over in 
 its fulness of light ; when I gazed from sail to sail away 
 upon a ship at sea, a tiny speck of ;-}\ining white, the only 
 cloud upon the still, deep, distant blue, — and, turning, 
 saw a blind boy with his sightless face addressed that 
 way, as though he, too, had some sense within him of 
 the glorious distance, I felt a kind of sorrow that the 
 place should be so very light, and a strange wish that 
 for his sake it were darker. It was but momentary, of 
 course, and a mere fancy; but I felt it keenly for all that. 
 " The children were at their daily tasks in different 
 rooms, except a few who were already dismissed, and 
 were at play. Here, as in many institutions, no uniform 
 is worn ; and I was very glad of it for two reasons. 
 Firstly, because I am sure that nothing but senseless 
 custom, and want of thought, would reconcile us to the 
 liveries and badges we are so fond of at home. Sec- 
 ondly, because the absence of these things presents each 
 child to the visitor in his or her own proper character, 
 
188 LIFE AND WKITINGS O^ 
 
 with its individuality unimpaired, — not lost in a dull, 
 ugiy, monotonous repetition of the same unmeaning 
 garb, which is really an important consideration. The 
 wisdom of encouraging a little harmless pride in per- 
 sonal appearance, even among the blind, or the whimsi- 
 cal absurdity of considering charity and leather breeches 
 inseparable companions, as we do, requires no comment. 
 
 " Good order, cleanliness, and comfort pervaded every 
 corner of the building. The various classes, who were 
 gathered round their teachers, answered the questions 
 put to them with readiness and intelligence, and in a 
 spirit of cheerful contest for precedence which pleased 
 me very much. Those who were at play were gleesome 
 and noisy as other children. More spiritual and affec- 
 tionate friendships appeared to exist among them than 
 would be found among other young persons suffering 
 under no deprivation ; but this I expected, and was 
 prepared to find. It is a part of the great scheme of 
 Heaven's merciful consideration for the afflicted. 
 
 " In a portion of the building set apart for that pur- 
 pose are workshops for blind persons whose education is 
 finished, and who have acquired a trade, but who can- 
 not pursue it in an ordinary manufactory, because of 
 their deprivation. Several people were at work here, 
 making brushes, mattresses, &c. ; and the cheerfulness, 
 industry, and good order discernible in every other part 
 of the building, extended to this department also. 
 
 " On the ringing of a bell, the pupils all repaired. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 189 
 
 without any guide or leader, to a spacious inusic-hall. 
 where tliey took their seats in an orchestra erected for 
 that purpose, and listened with manifest delight to a 
 voluntary on the organ, played by one of themselves. 
 At its conclusion, the perfornjor, a boy of nineteen or 
 twenty, gave place to a girl : aiid to her accompaniment 
 they all sang a hymn, and afterwards a sort of chorus. 
 It was very sad to look upon and hear them, happy 
 though their condition unquestionably was ; and I saw 
 that one blind girl, who (being for the time deprived 
 of the use of her limbs by illness) sat close beside me, 
 with her face towards them, wept silently the while 
 she listened. 
 
 " It is strange to watch the faces of the blind, and see 
 how free they are from all concealment of what is pass- 
 ing in their thoughts ; observing which, a man with his 
 eyes may blush to contemplate the mask he wears. Al- 
 lowing for one shade of anxious expression, which is 
 never absent from their countenances, and the like of 
 which we may readily detect in our own faces if we try 
 to feel our way in the dark, every idea, as it rises within 
 them, is expressed with the lightning's speed and Na- 
 ture's truth. If the company at a rout, or drawing-room 
 at court, could only for one time be as unconscious of 
 the eyes upon them as blind men and women are, what 
 secrets would come out ! and what a worker of hypoc- 
 risy this sight, the loss of wljich we so much pity, would 
 appear Ic be I 
 
190 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " The thought occurred to rue as I sat down in another 
 room before a girl, blind, deaf, and dumb, destitute of 
 smell, and nearly so of taste, — before a fair young 
 croature with every human faculty and hope, and power 
 of goodness and affection, enclosed within her delicate 
 frame, and but one outward sense, — the sense of touch. 
 There she was before me ; built up, as it were, in a mar- 
 ble cell, impervious to any ray of light or particle of 
 sound ; with her poor white hand peeping thi'ough a 
 chink in the wall, beckoning to some good man for help, 
 that an immortal soul might be awakened. 
 
 " Long before I looked upon her, the help had come 
 Her face was radiant with intelligence and pleasure ; her 
 hair, braided by her own hands, was bound about a head 
 whose intellectual capacity and development were beau- 
 tifully expressed in its graceful outline and its broad, 
 open brow ; her dress, arranged by herself, was a pat- 
 tern of neatness and simplicity ; the work she had knit- 
 ted lay beside her ; her writing-book was on the desk 
 she leaned upon. From the mournful ruin of such be- 
 reavement, there had slowly risen up this gentle, tender, 
 guileless, grateful-hearted being. 
 
 " Like other inmates of that house, she had a green 
 ribbon bound round her eyelids. A doll she had dressed 
 lay near upon the ground. I took it up, and saw that 
 she had made a green fillet, such as she wore herself, 
 and fastened it about its mimic eyes. 
 
 " She was seated in a httle enclosure made by school- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 191 
 
 desks and forms, writing her daily journal. But, soon 
 finishing this pursuit, she engaged in an animated com- 
 munication with a teacher who sat heside her. This 
 was a favorite mistress with the poor pupil. If she could 
 see the face of her fair instructress, she would not love 
 hei les&, I am sure." 
 
 Dr. Howe was the good genius who unlocked the 
 treasures of the mind and soul to that poor benighted 
 child. As Dickens said, — 
 
 " Well may this gentleman call that a delightful mo- 
 ment, in which some distant promise of her present state 
 first gleamed upon the darkened mind of Laura Bridg- 
 man. Throughout his life, the recollection of that mo- 
 ment will be to him a source of pure, unfading happi- 
 ness ; nor will it shine least brightly on the evening of 
 his days of noble usefidness. 
 
 " The affection that exists between these two — the 
 master and the pupil — is as far removed from all ordi- 
 nary care and regard as the circumstances in which it 
 has had its growth are apart from the common occur- 
 rences of life. He is occupied now in devising means 
 of imparting to her higher knowledge, and of conveying 
 to her some adequate idea of the great Creator of that 
 universe, in which, dark and silent and scentless though 
 it be to her, she has such deep delight and glad enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
192 LIFE AND WHITINGS OF 
 
 " Ye who have eyes, and see not ; and have ears, and 
 hear not ; ye who are as the hypocrites of sad counte- 
 nances, and disfigure your faces that ye may seem unto 
 men to fast, — learn healthy cheerfulness, and mild con- 
 tentment from the deaf and dumb and blind ! Self- 
 elected saints with gloomy brows, this sightless, care- 
 less, voiceless child may teach you lessons you will do 
 well to follow. Let that poor hand of hers lie gently 
 on your hearts ; for there may be something in its heal- 
 ing touch akin to that of the great Master, whose pre- 
 cepts you misconstrue, whose lessons you pervert, of 
 whose charity and sympathy with all the world not one 
 among you in liis daily practice Imows as much as many 
 of the worst among those fallen sinners to whom you 
 are liberal in nothing but the preachment of perdition. 
 
 " As I rose to quit the room, a pretty little child pf 
 one of the attendants came running in to greet his 
 father. Ft a- the moment, a child with eyes, among the 
 sightless crowd, impressed me almost as painfully as the 
 blind boy in the porch had done two hours ago. Ah ! 
 how much brighter and more deeply blue, glowing and 
 rich though it had been before, was the scene without, 
 contrasting with the darkness of so many youthful lives 
 within ! " 
 
 While describing his ride to Lowell, Mr. Dickens 
 paints a picture which travellers will readily recog- 
 nize ; — 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 193 
 
 " Except when a branch-roacl joins the main one, 
 there is seldom more than one track of rails ; so that 
 the road is very narrow, and the view, where there is 
 a deep cutting, by no means extensive : when there 
 is not, the character of the scenery is always the same, 
 — mile after mile of stunted trees, some hewn down by 
 the axe, some blown down by the wind, some half fallen, 
 and resting on their neighbors, many mere logs half 
 hidden in the swamp, others mouldered away to spongy 
 chips. The very soil of the earth is made up of minute 
 fragments such as these. Each pool of stagnant water 
 has its crust of vegetable rottenness : on every side, 
 there are the boughs and trunks and stumps of trees in 
 every possible stage of decay, decomposition, and neg- 
 lect. Now you emerge for a few brief minutes on an 
 open country, glittering with some bright lake or pool, 
 broad as many an English river, but so small here, that 
 it scarcely has a name ; now catch hasty glimpses of a 
 distant town, with its clean white houses and their cool 
 piazzas, its prim New-England church and schoolhouse ; 
 when, whi-r-r-r ! almost before you have seen them, 
 comes the same dark screen, the stunted trees, the 
 stumps, the logs, the stagnant water, — all so like the 
 last, that you seem to have been transported back again 
 by magic. 
 
 " The train calls at stations in the woods, where the 
 wild impossibility of anybody having the smallest reason 
 to get c»nt !?< only to be equalled by the apparently des- 
 
 18 
 
194 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 perate hopelessness of there being anybody to get in 
 It rushes across the turnpike-road, where there is no 
 gate, no policeman, no signal, nothing but a rough 
 wooden arch, on which is painted, ' When the bell 
 
 RINGS, LOOK OUT FOR THE LOCOMOTIVE.' On it whil'ls 
 
 lieadlong, dives through the woods again, emerges in 
 the light, clatters over frail arches, rumbles upon the 
 heav}' ground, shoots beneath a wooden bridge which 
 intercepts the light for a second like a wink, suddenly 
 awakens all the slumbering echoes in the main street 
 of a large town, and dashes on hap-hazard, pell-mell, 
 neck-or-nothing, down the middle of the road. There, 
 — with mechanics working at their trades, and people 
 leaning from their doors and windoAvs, and boys flying 
 kites and playing marbles, and men smoking, and women 
 talking, and children crawling, and pigs burrowing, and 
 unaccustomed horses plunging and rearing, close to the 
 very rails, — there, on, on, on, tears the mad dragon 
 of an engine with its train of cars ; scattering in all 
 directions a shower of burning sparks from its wood- 
 fire, screeching, hissing, yelling, panting, until at last 
 the thirsty monster stops beneath a covered way to 
 di'ink, the people cluster round, and you have time to 
 breathe again." 
 
 Mr. Dickens paid due tribute to the industry, energy, 
 and intelligence of the factory-operatives then in Lowell, 
 most of whom were Americans. He was here In the 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 195 
 
 palmy days of " The Lowell Ofifering," and carried 
 home with him four hundred pages of proof that the 
 factory-girls of New England were both moral and 
 literary. 
 
 Of Now Haven, he wrote thus : — 
 
 " New Haven, known also as the ' City of Elms,' is a 
 fine town. Many of its streets (as its alim sufficiently 
 imports) are planted with rows of grand uicl clia-trees ; 
 and the same natural ornaments surround Yale College, — 
 an establishment of considerable eminence and reputation. 
 The various departments of this institution are erected 
 in a Idnd of park, or common, in tlie middle of the town, 
 where they are dimly visible among the shadowing trees. 
 The effect is very like that of an old cathedral-yard in 
 England, and, when their branches are in full leaf, must 
 be extremely picturesque. Even in the winter-time, 
 these groups of well-grown trees, clustering among the 
 busy streets and houses of a thriving city, have a very 
 quaint appearance ; seeming to bring about a kind of 
 compromise between town and country, as if each had 
 met the other half-way, and shaken hands upon it ; which 
 is at once novel and pleasant." 
 
 With a natural and righteous disgust at the practice 
 which Mr. Dickens so sharply reproves, and whose 
 reproof the author of this volume, and every othei 
 true woman in the land, fully indorses, the follow- 
 
196 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 Ing quotation is given. Said Mr. Dickens in the 
 " Notes," — 
 
 " As Washington may be called the headquarters of 
 tobacco-tinctured saliva, the time is come when I must 
 confess, without any disguise, that the prevalence of 
 those two odious practices, of chewing and expecto- 
 rating, began about this time to be any thing but agree- 
 able, and soon became most offensive and sickening. In 
 all the public places of America, this filthy custom is 
 recognized. In the courts of law, the judge has his spit- 
 toon, the crier his, the witness his, and the prisoner his ; 
 while the jurymen and spectators are provided for, as 
 so many men, who, in the course of nature, must desire 
 to spit incessantly. In the hospitals, the students of 
 medicine are requested, by notices upon the wall, to 
 eject their tobacco-juice into the boxes provided for that 
 purpose, and not to discolor the stairs. In public build- 
 ings, visitors are implored, through the same agency, to 
 squirt the essence of their quids, or ' plugs,' as I have 
 heard them called by gentlemen learned in this kind of 
 sweetmeat, into the national spittoons, and not about 
 the bases of the marble columns. But, in some parts, 
 this custom is inseparably mixed up with every meal and 
 morning call, and with all the transactions of social life. 
 The stranger who follows in the track I took myself 
 will find it in its full bloom and glory, luxuriant in all 
 its alarming recklessness, at Washington ; and let him 
 
OHAELES DICKENS. 19^ 
 
 not persuade himself (as T once did, to my shame) that 
 previous tourists have exaggerated its extent. The 
 thing itself is an exaggeration of nastiness whidi cannot 
 be outdone. 
 
 " On board this steamboat, there were two young 
 gentlemen, with shirt-collars reversed, as usual, and 
 armed with very big walking-sticks, who planted two 
 seats in the middle of the deck, at a distance of some 
 four paces apart, took out their tobacco-boxes, and sat 
 down opposite each other to chew. In less than a quar- 
 ter of an hour's time, these hopeful youths had shed 
 about them on the clean boards a copious shower of 
 yellow rain ; clearing, b}- that means, a kind of magic 
 circle, within whose limits no intruders dared to come, 
 and which they never failed to refresh and re-refresh, 
 before a spot was dry. This, being before breakfast, 
 rather disposed me, I confess, to nausea ; but, looking 
 attentively at one of the expectorators, I plainly saw 
 that he was young in chewing, and felt inwardly uneasy 
 himself. A.glow of delight came over me at this dis- 
 covery ; and as I marked his face turn paler and paler, 
 and saw the ball of tobacco in his left cheek quiver with 
 his suppressed agony, while yet he spat and chewed, and 
 spat again, in emulation of his older friend, I could have 
 fallen on his neck, and implored him to go on for hours." 
 
 The little touches of description given by Dickens aa 
 he passed along by canal, and afterward by railroad, 
 
198 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 towards and over the Alleghanies, jre worth perusal 
 He says, — 
 
 " There was much in this mode of travelling which I 
 heartily enjoyed at the time, and look back upon with 
 great pleasure. Even the running-up, bare-necked, at 
 five o'clock in the morning, from the tainted cabin to 
 the dirty deck, scooping up the icy water, plunging 
 one's head into it, and drawing it out all fresh and 
 glowing with the cold, was a good thing. The fast, 
 brisk walk upon the towing-path, between that time 
 and breakfast, when every vein and artery seemed to 
 tingle with health ; the exquisite beauty of the opening 
 day, when light came gleaming off from every thing ; 
 the lazy motion of the boat, when one lay idly on the 
 deck, looldng through, rather than at, the deep-blue 
 sky ; the gliding-on at night, so noiselessly, past frown- 
 ing hills sullen with dark trees, and sometimes angiy in 
 one red, burning spot high up, where unseen men lay 
 crouching round a fire ; the shining-out of the bright 
 stars, undisturbed by noise of wheels or stream, or any 
 other sound than the liquid rippling of the water as the 
 boat went on, — all these were pure delights. 
 
 " Then there were new settlements, and detached log- 
 cabins and frame-houses, full of interest for strangers 
 from an old country, — cabins with simple ovens out- 
 side, made of clay ; and lodgings for the pigs nearly as 
 good as many of the human quarters ; broken windows 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 199 
 
 patched with worn-out hats, old clothes, olil boards, 
 fragments of blankets, and paper ; and home - made 
 dressers sfcanding in the open air without the door, 
 whereon was ranged the household store, not hard to 
 count, of earthen jars and pots. The eye was pained 
 to see the stumps of great trees thickly strewn in every 
 field of wheat, and seldom to lose the eternal swamp 
 and dull morass, with hundreds of rotten trunks and 
 twisted branches steeped in its unwholesome waters. 
 It was quite sad and oppressive to come upon great 
 tracts where settlers had been burning down the trees, 
 and where their wounded bodies lay about, like those of 
 murdered creatures ; while here and there some charred 
 and blackened giant reared aloft two withered arms, and 
 seemed to call down curses on his foes. Sometimes, at 
 night, the way wound through some lonely gorge, like 
 a mountain-pass in Scotland, shining and coldly glitter- 
 ing in the light of the moon, and so closed in by high, 
 steep hills all round, that there seemed to be no egress, 
 save through the narrower paths by which we had come, 
 until one rugged hillside seemed to open, and, shutting 
 out the moonlight as we passed into its gloomy throat, 
 wrapped our new course in shade and darkness. 
 
 " We had left Harrisburg on Friday. On Sunday 
 morning, we arrived at the foot of the mountain, which 
 is crossed by railroad. There are ten inclined planes ; 
 five ascending, and five (descending. The carriages are 
 dragged up the former, and let slowly down the latter, 
 
200 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 by means of stationary engines ; the comparatively level 
 spaces between being traversed, sometimes by horse, and 
 sometimes by engine-power, as the case demands. Oc- 
 casionally, the rails are laid upon the extreme verge of a 
 giddy precipice ; and, looking from the carriage-window, 
 the traveller gazes sheer down, without a stone, or scrap 
 of fence, between, into the mountain - depths below. 
 The journey is very carefully made, however (only two 
 carriages travelling together), and, while proper pre- 
 cautions are taken, is not to be dreaded for its dangers. 
 " It was very pretty, travelling thus at a rapid pace 
 along the heights of the mountain in a keen wind, to 
 look down into a valley full of light and softness ; 
 catching glimpses, through the tree-tops, of scattered 
 cabins ; children running to the doors ; dogs bursting 
 out to bark, whom we could see without hearing ; ter- 
 rified pigs scampering homewards ; families sitting out 
 in their rude gardens ; cows gazing upward with a 
 stupid indifference; men in their shirt - sleeves look- 
 ing on at their unfinished houses, planning out to- 
 morrow's work ; and we riding onward, high above 
 (hem, like a whirlwind. It was amusing, too, when we 
 had dined, and rattled down a steep pass, having no 
 other moving-power than the weight of the carriages 
 themselves, to see the engine, released long after us, 
 come buzzing down alone, like a great insect ; its back 
 of green and gold so shining in the sun, that, if it had 
 spread a pair of wings, and soared away, no one would 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 201 
 
 have had occasion, as I fancied, for the least surprise. 
 But it stopped short of us, in a very business-like man- 
 ner, when we reached the canal, and, before we left the 
 wharf, went panting up this hill again, with the passen- 
 gers who had waited our arrival for the means of trav- 
 ersing the road by which we had come/' 
 
 Mr. Dickens was not favorably impressed with the 
 Mississippi ; and his description is fraught with horror, 
 and would drive away from the great river those who 
 wished to see only pleasant sights. He says, — 
 
 " Nor was the scenery, as we approached the junction 
 of the Oliio and Mississippi Rivers, at all inspiriting in 
 its influence. The trees were stunted in their growth ; 
 the banks were low and flat ; the settlements and log- 
 cabins fewer in number, their inhabitants more wan 
 and wretched, than any we had encountered yet. No 
 songs of birds were in the air, no pleasant scents, no 
 moving lights and shadows from swift-passing clouds. 
 Hour after hour, the changeless glare of the hot, unwink- 
 ing sky, shone upon the same monotonous objects. Hour 
 after hour, the river rolled along as wearily and slowly 
 as the time itself. 
 
 "At length, upon the morning of the third day, we 
 arrived at a spot so much more desolate than any we 
 had yet beheld, that the forlornest places we had passed 
 were, in comparison with it, full of interest. At the 
 
:i02 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 junction of the two rivers, on ground so fiat and low 
 and marsliy, that, at certain seasons of the year, it is 
 inundated to the house-tops, lies a breeding - place for 
 fever, ague, and death ; vaunted in England as a mine 
 of golden hope, and speculated in, on the faith of mon- 
 strous representations, to many people's ruin. A dismal 
 swamp, on which the haK-built houses rot away, cleared 
 here and there for the space of a few yards, and teem- 
 ing then with rank, unwholesome vegetation, in whose 
 baleful shade the wretched wanderers who are tempted 
 hither droop and die, and lay their bones ; the hateful 
 Mississippi circling and eddying before it, and turning 
 off upon its southern course, a shmy monster hideous to 
 behold ; a hotbed of disease ; an ugly sepulchre ; a grave 
 uncheered by any gleam of promise ; a place without 
 one smgle quality in earth or air or water to commend 
 it, — such is this dismal Cako. 
 
 " But what words shall describe the Mississippi, the 
 great ' Father of Rivers,' who (praise be to Heaven !) has 
 no young children like him ! An enormous ditch, some- 
 times two or three miles wide, running liquid mud six 
 miles an hour ; its strong and frothy current choked and 
 obstructed everywhere by huge logs and whole forest- 
 trees, — now twining themselves together in great rafts, 
 from the interstices of which a sedgy, lazy foam works 
 up to float upon the water's top ; now rolling past, like 
 monstrous bodies, their tangled roots showing like mat- 
 ted hair; now glancing singly by, like giant leeches, 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 20S 
 
 and now writhing round and round in the vortex of 
 some small wliirlpool, like wounded snakes ; — the banks 
 low ; the trees dwarjEish ; the marshes swarming with 
 frogs ; the wretched cabins few and far apart, their in- 
 mates hollow-cheeked and pale ; the weather very hot ; 
 mosquitoes penetrating into every crack and crevice of 
 the boat ; mud and slime on every thing ; nothing pleas- 
 ant in its aspect but the harmless lightning, which flick- 
 ers every night upon the dark horizon. 
 
 " For two days, we toiled up this foul stream, striking 
 constantly against the floating timber, or stopping to 
 avoid those more dangerous obstacles, the snags, or saw- 
 yers, which are the hidden trunks of trees that have 
 their roots below the tide. When the nights are very 
 dark, the lookout stationed in the head of the boat 
 knows by the rippling of the water if any great impedi- 
 ment be near at hand, and rings a bell beside him, which 
 is the signal for the engine to be stopped : but always 
 in the night this bell has work to do ; and, after every 
 ring, there comes a blow which renders it no eas}- matter 
 to remain in bed. 
 
 " The decline of da}'' here was very gorgeous, tinging 
 the firmament deeply with red and gold up to the very 
 keystone of the arch above us. As the sun went down 
 behind the bank, the slightest blades of grass upon it 
 seemed to become as distinctly visible as the arteries in 
 the skeleton of a leaf ; and when, as it slowly sank, the 
 red and golden bars upon the water grew dimmer and 
 
204 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 dimmer yet, as if they were sinking too, and all the 
 glowing colors of departing day paled, inch by inch, 
 before the sombre night, the scene became a thousand 
 times more lonesome and more dreary than before, and 
 all its influence darkened with the sky. 
 
 " We drank the muddy water of this river wliilc we 
 were upon it. It is considered wholesome by the na- 
 tives, and is something more opaque than gruel." 
 
 But one thing, at least, Mr. Dickens enjoyed as well 
 as the Americans do, — and that was our cataract. From 
 " The Notes," one would judge that he did not visit Goat 
 Island ; and one cannot but regret that he did not, 
 and there view the marvellous rapids, whose grandeur 
 is scarcely surpassed by that of the great falls them- 
 selves. Mr. Dickens thus refers to his visit : — 
 
 " It was a miserable day, — chilly and raw, a damp mist 
 falling, and the trees in that northern region quite bare 
 and wintry. Whenever the train halted, I listened for 
 the roar, and was constantly straining my eyes in the 
 direction where I knew the falls must be from seeing 
 the river rolling on towards them ; every moment ex- 
 pecting to behold the spray. Within a few minutes of 
 our stopping, not before, I saw two great white clouds 
 rising up slowly and majestically from the depths of the 
 earth : that was all. At length we alighted ; and then, 
 for the first time, I heard the mighty rusli of water, and 
 felt the ground tremble underneath my feet. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 206 
 
 " The bank is very steep, and was slippery with rain 
 and half-melted ice. I hardly know how I got down ; 
 but I was soon at the bottom, and climbing, with two 
 English officers who were crossing, and had joined me, 
 over some broken rocks, deafened by the noise, half 
 bhnded by the spray, and wet to the skin. We were at 
 the foot of the American Fall. I could see an immense 
 torrent of water tearing headlong down from some great 
 height, but had no idea of shape or situation or any 
 thing but vague immensity. 
 
 " When we were seated in the little ferry-boat, and 
 were crossing the swollen river immediately before both 
 cataracts, I began to feel what it was ; but I was in a 
 manner stunned, and unable to comprehend the vastness 
 of the scene. It was not until I came on Table Rock, 
 and looked, — great Heaven, on what a fall of bright 
 green water ! — that it came upon me in its full might 
 and majesty. 
 
 Then, when I felt how near to my Creator I was 
 standing, the first effect, and the enduring one, — in- 
 stant and lasting, — of the tremendous sjiectacle, was 
 peace, — peace of mind, tranquillit}^ calm recollections of 
 the dead, great thoughts of eternal rest and happiness, 
 nothing of gloom or terror. Niagara was at once 
 stamped upon my heart an image of beauty, to re- 
 main thorc, changeless and indelible, until its pulsea 
 cease to beat forever. 
 
 " Oh I how the strife and trouble of daily life receded 
 
206 LIFE AND WRITINGS UF 
 
 from mj' view, and lessened in the distance, during 
 the ten memorable days we passed on that enchanted 
 ground ! What voices spoke from out the thundering 
 water ! what faces, faded from the earth, looked out 
 upon me from its gleaming depths ! what heavenly- 
 promise glistened in those angels' tears, the drops of 
 many hues, that showered around, and twined them- 
 selves about the gorgeous arches which the changing 
 rainbows made ! 
 
 " I never stirred in all that time from the Canadian 
 side, whither I had gone at first. I never crossed the 
 river again : for I knew there were people on the other 
 shore ; and, in such a place, it is natural to shun strange 
 company. To wander to and fro all day, and see the 
 cataracts from all points of view ; to stand upon the 
 edge of the great Horseshoe Fall, marking the hurried 
 water gathering strength as it approached the verge, yet 
 seeming, too, to pause before it shot into the gulf below ; 
 to gaze from the river's level up at the torrent as it came 
 streaming down ; to cUmb the neighboring heights, and 
 watch it through the trees, and see the wreathing water 
 in the rapids hurrying on to take its fearful plunge ; to 
 linger in the shadow of the solemn rocks three miles 
 below, watching the river, as, stirred by no visible cause, 
 it heaved and eddied, and awoke the echoes, being trou- 
 bled yet far down beneath the surface by its giant leap ; 
 to have Niagara before me, lighted by the sun and by 
 the moon, red in the day's decline, and gray as even* 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 20V 
 
 ing slowly fell upon it ; to look upon it every day, and 
 wake up in the night, and hear its ceaseless voice, — this 
 was enough. 
 
 " I think in every quiet season now, still do those 
 waters roll and leap and roar and tumble all day long ; 
 still are the rainbows spanning them a hifeidred feet 
 belcw ; still, when the sun is on them, do they shine 
 and glow like molten gold ; still, when the day is 
 gloomy, do they fall like snow, or seem to crumble away 
 like the front of a great chalk-cliff, or roll down the rock 
 like dense white smoke : but always does the mighty 
 stream appear to die as it comes down ; and always from 
 its unfathomable grave arises that tremendous ghost of 
 spray and mist which is never laid, which has haunted 
 this place with the same dread solemnity since darkness 
 brooded on the deep, and that first flood before the 
 Deluge — light — came rushing on creation at the word 
 of God. 
 
CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 CHRISTMAS CAROLS. 
 
 Martin Chuzilowit.— Pictures from Italy.— First Carol. — Tiny Tim. —The Chime* 
 — Cricket on the Hearth. 
 
 " lovely voices of the sky, 
 
 Which hymned the Saviour's birtb t 
 Are ye not singing still on high, 
 
 Ye that sang, ' Peace on earth ' ? 
 To us yet speak the strains 
 
 Wherewith, in times gone by, 
 Te blessed the Syrian swains, 
 O voices of the sky I '•' 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 "Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace, good- will toward men." — LcKl 
 1.14. 
 
 fOLLOWING his "Notes," on his return 
 from America, Mr. Dickens wrote a novel 
 called " Martin Chiizzlewit," which, like 
 " The Notes," created great excitement 
 on this side of the water ; and they who 
 had been fulsome in their adulation of the novelist were 
 extremely indignant that he should repay, as they felt, 
 their kind welcome with abuse and sarcasm. This book 
 appeared in numbers during 1844. A writer in " The 
 Illustrated London News" thinks that Mr. Dickens's 
 
 90S 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 209 
 
 "method of composing aucl publishing his tales in 
 monthly parts, or sometimes in weekly parts, aided the 
 experience of this immediate personal companionship be- 
 tween the writer and the reader. It was just as if we 
 received a letter or a visit, at regular intervals, from a 
 kindly observant gossip, who was in the habit of watcli- 
 ing the domestic life of the Nicklebys or the Chuzzlewits, 
 and who would let us know from time to time how they 
 were going on. There was no assumption, in general, of 
 having a complete and finished history to deliver: he 
 came at fixed periods, merely to report what he had per- 
 ceived since his last budget was opened for us. The 
 course of his narrative seemed to run on, somehow, al- 
 most simultaneously with the real progress of events, only 
 keeping a little behind, so that he might have time to 
 write down whatever happened, and to tell us. This 
 periodical and piece-meal form of publication, being at- 
 tended by a fragmentary manner of composition, was not 
 at all favorable to the artistic harmony of his work as a 
 whole. But few persons ever read any of Dickens's sto- 
 ries as a whole for the first time, because every one was 
 eager to enjoy the parts as they were printed ; going on a 
 t,welve-month or twenty months in due succession, and 
 growing in popularity as the pile of them increased. The 
 obvious effect was to inspire all his constant readers — say 
 a million or two — with a sense of habitual dependence 
 on their contemporary, the man Charles Dickens, for a 
 continued supply of the entertainment which he alone 
 
210 IIPE AND WRITINGS OP 
 
 could furnish. He was personally indispensable to 
 them, as a favorite actor might be to the inveterate 
 playgoers of a former age, who lived upon their Gai- 
 rick or their Kemble. If each of his stories had ap- 
 peared complete in three octavo volumes, with the lapse 
 of a couple of years between one work and another, the 
 feeling of continual dependence on the living author 
 would have been less prevalent among us. 
 
 " But it was not by dint of this mechanical contrivance 
 of publishing, and the corresponding talent of quick and 
 manifold invention, jDresenting novel scenes and inci- 
 dents, with a crowd of new figures, in each section of a 
 story, that Charles Dickens obtained his immense com- 
 mand over the minds of the English people. Other 
 novelists have shown the same power of inventing a 
 multiplicity of incidents to strike the fancy, and filling 
 every corner with countless persons or personal names, 
 intended to represent the diversities of human life and 
 character. The result is bewildering and fatiguing, if 
 we should attempt to read any of those second-rate 
 serial novels as a connected story. They found accept- 
 ance in monthly morsels ; there was some vitality in 
 their scattered limbs : but, when the body is put to- 
 gether, we find it is dead, so that it lies shut between 
 the boards of the bound volume, as though enclosed in a 
 coffin, extinct to the end of time. Such would have 
 been the fate, likewise, of these stories of Dickens's, if 
 he had been merely a writer of extraordinary talent and 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 211 
 
 skill ; but he was also a man of genius, — ..et us say, a 
 prose poet. The genius of the poet, in which term we 
 beg leave to include that of the genuine humorist, who 
 is equally the man of imagination, cannot die, and be 
 shut up in a coffin, and so buried and forgotten. Try 
 to dispose of your Shakspeare in that manner ! The 
 forms of poetry inay pass out of fashion ; they may 
 change or perish ; they may have been imperfect at 
 their best, for they were borrowed from the custom of 
 the day : but the spirit of poetry is immortal. And we 
 reckon true humor as a peculiar exhibition of this spnit ; 
 and we esteem Dickens, next after Shakspeare, as the 
 greatest of English humorists, — that is to say, with ref- 
 erence to literary history, the greatest of all humorists ; 
 for none of the foreigners, ancient or modern, — Aris- 
 tophanes, Boccaccio, Rabelais, Cervantes, or Jean Paul, 
 — have come near Shakspeare in this faculty, though 
 possessing it in a large measure. That none of the 
 ' English humorists of the eighteenth century ' — not 
 even Swift or Fielding, much less Smollett or Sterne — 
 is to be compared with Dickens in this respect, we be- 
 lieve Thackeray himself would have been ready to 
 admit. Hogarth, if the two arts of painting and novel- 
 writing allow their comparison, may be deemed a pre- 
 cursor of Dickens. Many of our poets, from Chaucer 
 onwards, — we cannot, indeed, name Milton or Words- 
 worth, but Robert Burns and Walter Scott on the north 
 side of the Tweed, — have been richly endowed with 
 
212 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP 
 
 humor. It is a British or English gift ; and Washing- 
 ton Irving has shown that it flourishes in transplantation 
 to America. With the spirit of sympathetic fun and 
 genial caprice is allied the special power of imagination 
 that enters into the motives of eccentric characters, and 
 of whimsical or absurd actions and behavior. This be- 
 longs to poetry, and chiefly to dramatic poetry, qaite 
 as much as those other special faculties of imagination 
 which go to the conception and representation of ex- 
 alted passions, or to the ideal combination of sublime 
 and beautiful forms. Shakspeare's cloAvns, and his fool- 
 ish varlets or blundering louts, are, equally with his 
 heroes, the creation of a great poet. Shall we not say 
 the same of Pickwick, of Sam Weller, of Pecksniff, of 
 Mrs. Gamp, and of many other queer characters which 
 only a mighty creative imagination could have formed ? 
 
 " His genius was the gift of Nature ; but, for his art 
 as a writer, he seems to have early studied two of the 
 best examples m our language, — Henry Fielding and 
 Washington Irving. The mock-heroic strain of his 
 prsambles to many chapters of ' Pickwick,' ' Nicholas 
 Nickleby,' and ' Martin Chuzzlewit,' was tuned in the 
 key of similar diversions attending the history of Tom 
 Jones ; and the shrewd, sly commentary, enhvened by 
 a variety of playful fancies and whimsical conceits, with 
 which Dickens j)eeps into the minutest details of scenery 
 "and costume, reminds us of ' The Sketch Book,' and of 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 213 
 
 ' Bracebridge Hall.' His propensity to indulge :n th<j 
 use of ii'ony, almost too persistently, and soiiiciimes to 
 dwell upon a single witty caprice, turned a]l manner of 
 ways, tlirough several paragraphs or pages, is one of those 
 splendid faults of excess from which even Shakspeare 
 is not wholly free. We know what was said of him who 
 had never blotted out a line of his writing, ' Oh that 
 he had blotted out a thousand ! ' Dickens, if we re- 
 member rightly, made an express acknowledgment, 
 when he first visited America, of his obligations to 
 Washington Irving as a literary model ; and he could 
 scarcely have chosen a better, for style, tone, and man- 
 ner, amongst the prose- writers of the age. The inclina- 
 tion, encouraged by Thackeray, to go fartlier back — 
 namely, to Swift and Addison — for patterns of good 
 English thinking and writing, has nearly worn itself 
 out ; and we again recognize in the best of our nine- 
 teenth-century authors a style of greater energy and 
 capacity than that of the eighteenth, with equal clear- 
 ness and easy grace. Dickens possessed as full command 
 of all the resources of our language as Ruskin ; and he 
 could, when it suited his purpose, write with as much 
 force and precision as Macaulay. A volume of ' elega^.l 
 extracts ' might be gathered from his works to exemplll'y 
 the rules of idiomatic English prose-composition." 
 
 From " Martin Chuzzlewit," a few extracts are here 
 -ive-.i. The following presents a vivid picture of au 
 autumnal sunset and the autumn breeze : — 
 
214 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " It was pretty late in the autumn of the year, when 
 the declining sun, struggling through the mist which 
 had obscured it all day, looked brightly down upon a 
 little Wiltshire village, within an easy journey of the 
 fair old town of Salisbury. 
 
 " Like a sudden flash of memory or spirit kindling up 
 tJie mind of an old man, it shed a glory upon the scene, 
 ill which its departed youth and freshness seemed to live 
 again. The wet grass sparkled in the light ; the scanty 
 patches of verdure in the hedges — where a few green 
 twigs yet stood together bravely, resisting to the last 
 the tyranny of nipping winds and early frosts — took 
 heart, and brightened up ; the stream, which had been 
 dull and sullen all day long, broke out into a cheerful 
 smile ; the birds began to cliirp and twitter on the naked 
 boughs, as though the hopeful creatures half believed 
 that winter had gone by, and spring had come already ; 
 the vane upon the tapering spire of the old church 
 ghstened from its lofty station in sympathy with the 
 general gladness ; and from the ivy-shaded windows 
 such gleams of light shone back upon the glowing sky, 
 that it seemed as if the quiet buildings were the hoard- 
 ing-place of twenty summers, and all^ their ruddiness 
 and warmth were stored within. 
 
 " Even those tokens of the season which emphatically 
 whispered of the coming winter graced the landscape, 
 and, for the moment, tinged its livelier features with no 
 oppressive air of sadness. The fallen leaves, with v/liicb 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 215 
 
 the ground was strewn, gave forth a pleasant fragrance, 
 and, subduing all harsh sounds of distant feet and wheels, 
 created a repose in gentle unison with the light scatter- 
 ing of seed hither and thither by the distant husband- 
 man, and with the noiseless passage of the plough as it 
 turned up the rich brown earth, and wrought a graceful 
 pattern in the stubbled fields. On the motionless 
 branches of some trees, autumn berries hung like clus- 
 ters of coral beads, as in those fabled orchards where 
 the fruits were jewels ; others, stripped of all their gar- 
 niture, stood, each the centre of its little heap of bright 
 red leaves, watcliing their slow decay ; others again, 
 still wearing theirs, had them all crunched and craclded 
 up, as though they had been burnt ; about the stems of 
 some were piled in ruddy mounds the apples they had 
 borne that year; while others (hardy evergreens this 
 class) showed somewhat stern and gloomy in their vigor, 
 as charged by Nature with the admonition, that it is not 
 to her more sensitive and joyous favorites she grants the 
 longest term of life. Still, athwart their darker boughs, 
 the sunbeams struck out paths of deeper gold ; and the 
 red light, mantling in among their swarthy branches, 
 used them as foils to set its brightness off, and aid the 
 lustre of the dying day. 
 
 " A moment, and its glory was no more. The sun 
 went down beneath the long dark lines of hill and cloud 
 which piled up in the west an airy city, wall heaped on 
 wall, and battlement on battlement ; the light was all 
 
•Jltj LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 withdrawn ; the shining church turned cold and dark ; 
 the stream forgot to smile ; the birds were silent ; and 
 the gloom of winter dwelt on every thing. 
 
 " An evening wind uprose too ; and the slighter 
 branches cracked and riittled as they moved, in skeleton 
 dances, to its moaning music. The withering leaves, no 
 longer quiet, hurried to and fro in search of shelter from 
 its chill pursuit ; the laborer unyoked his horses, and, 
 with head bent down, trudged briskly home beside 
 them ; and from the cottage-windows lights began to 
 glance and wink upon the darkening fields. 
 
 " Then the village forge came out in all its bright 
 importance. The lusty bellows roared, ' Ha, ha ! ' to the 
 clear fire, which roared in turn, and bade the shining 
 sparks dance gayly to the merry clinking of the hammers 
 on the anvil. The gleaming iron, in its emulation, 
 sparkled too, and shed its red-hot gems around pro- 
 fusely. The strong smith and his men dealt such strokes 
 upon their work as made even the melancholy night 
 rejoice, and brought a glow into its dark face as it hov- 
 ered about the door and windows, peeping curiously in 
 above the shoulders of a dozen loungers. As to this 
 idle company, there they stood, spell-bound by the 
 place, and, casting now and then a glance upon the 
 darkness in their rear, settled their lazy elbows more at 
 ease upon the sill, and leaned a little further in, no 
 more disposed to tear themselves away than if they had 
 been born to cluster round the blazing hearth like so 
 many cricketB. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 217 
 
 " Out upon the angry wind ! how, from sighing, it 
 began to bluster round the merry forge, banging at the 
 wicket, and grumbling in the chimney, as if it bullied 
 the jolly bellows for doing any thing to order. And 
 what an impotent swaggerer it was too, for all its noise ! 
 for, if it had any influence on that hoarse companion, i t 
 was but to make him roar his cheerful song the louder, 
 and, by consequence, to make the fire burn the brighter, 
 and the sparks to dance more gayly yet : at length, they 
 whizzed so madly round and round, that it was too much 
 for such a surly wind to bear : so off it flew with a howl, 
 giving the old sign before the ale-house door such a cuff 
 as it went, that the Blue Dragon was more rampant than 
 usual ever afterwards, and, indeed, before Christmas, 
 reared clean out of its crazy frame. 
 
 " It was small tyranny for a respectable wind to go 
 wreaking its vengeance on such poor creatures as the 
 fallen leaves ; but this wind, happening to come up with 
 A great heap of them just after venting its humor on the 
 insulted Dragon, did so disperse and scatter them, that 
 they fled away, pell-mell, some here, some there, rolling 
 over each other, whirUng round and round upon their 
 thin edges, taking frantic flights into the air, and playing 
 all manner of extraordinary gambols in the extremity 
 of their distress. Nor was this enough for its malicious 
 fury; for, not content with driving them abroad, it 
 charged small parties of them, and hunted them into the 
 wheelwright's saw-pit, and below the planlcs and timbers 
 
218 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 in the yard, and, scattering tlie sawdust in the air, it 
 looked for them underneath ; and, when it did meet with 
 any, whew ! how it drove them on, and followed at their 
 heels ! 
 
 " The scared leaves only flew the faster for all this, 
 and a giddy chase it was ; for the}^ got into unfrequented 
 places, where there was no outlet, and where their pur- 
 suer kept them eddying round and round at his pleasure ; 
 and they crept under the eaves of houses ; and clung 
 tightly to the sides of hay-ricks, like bats ; and tore in 
 at open chamber-windows ; and cowered close to hedges ; 
 and, in short, went anywhere for safety. But the oddest 
 feat they achieved was to take advantage of the sudden 
 opening of Mr. Pecksniff's front-door, to dash wildly 
 into his passage, whither the wind, following close upon 
 them, and finding the back-door open, incontinently 
 blew out the lighted candle held by Miss Pecksniff, and 
 slammed the front-door against Mr. Pecksniff, who was 
 at that moment entering, with such violence, that, in the 
 twinkhng of an eye, he lay on his back at the bottom of 
 the steps. Being by this time weary of such trifling per- 
 formances, the boisterous rover hurried away rejoicing, 
 roaring over moor and meadow, hill and flat, until it got 
 out to sea, where it met with other winds similarly dis- 
 posed, and made a night of it." 
 
 A fine word-pictui'e, too, is the opening of that chap- 
 ter, " the burden whereof is, ' Hail, Columbia I ' " 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 219 
 
 Thus it reads : — 
 
 "A dark and dreary night; people nestling in their 
 beds, or circling late about the fire ; Want, colder than 
 Charity, shivering at the street-corners ; church-towers 
 humming with the faint vibration of their own tongues, 
 but newly resting from the ghostly preachment ' One ! ' 
 the earth covered with a sable pall as for the burial of 
 yesterday ; the clumps of dark trees, its giant plumes of 
 funeral-feathers, waving sadly to and fro, — all hushed, all 
 noiseless, and in deep repose, save the swift clouds that 
 skim across the moon, and the cautious wind, as, creep- 
 ing after them upon the ground, it stops to listen, and 
 goes rusthng on, and stops again, and follows, like a 
 savage on the trail. 
 
 " Whither go the clouds and wind so eagerly ? If, 
 like guilty spirits, they repair to some dread conference 
 with powers like themselves, in what wild regions do 
 the elements hold council, or where unbend in terrible 
 disport ? 
 
 " Here, free from that cramped prison called the 
 earth, and out upon the waste of waters. Here, roar- 
 ing, raging, shrieldng, howUng, all night long. Hither 
 come the sounding voices from the caverns on the coast 
 of that small island, sleeping, a thousand miles away, 
 so quietly in the midst of angry waves ; and hither, to 
 meet them, rush the blasts from unknown desert places 
 of the world. Here, in the fury of their unchecked 
 liberty, they storm and buffet with each other until the 
 
220 LIFE AND WRITINGS OU' 
 
 sea, lashed into passion like their own, leaps up in 
 ravings mightier than theirs, and the whole scene is 
 madness. 
 
 " On, on, on, over the countless miles of angry space, 
 roll the long, heaving billows. Mountains and caves are 
 here, and yet are not ; for what is now the one is now 
 the other ; then all is but a boiling heap of rushing 
 water. Pursuit and flight, and mad return of wave on 
 wave, and savage struggle, ending in a spouting-up of 
 foam that whitens the black night ; incessant change 
 of place and form and hue, constancy in no tiling, but 
 eternal strife ; on, on, on, they roll, and darker grows 
 the night, and louder howls the wind, and more clam- 
 orous and fierce become the million voices in the sea, 
 when the wild cry goes forth upon the storm, ' A ship ! ' 
 
 " Onward she comes, in gallant combat with the ele- 
 ments, her tall masts trembling, and her timbers starting 
 on the strain ; onward she comes, now high upon the 
 curling billows, now low down in the hollows of the 
 sea, as hiding for the moment from its fury ; and ever}' 
 storm-voice in the air and water cries more loudly yet, 
 ' A ship ! ' 
 
 " Still she comes striving on ; and, at her boldness and 
 the spreading crj^, the angry waves rise up above each 
 other's hoary heads to look ; and round about the vessel, 
 far as the mariners on the decks can pierce into the 
 gloom, they press upon her, forcing each other down, 
 and starting up, and rusliing forward from afar, in 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 221 
 
 dreadful curiosity. Higli over her they break, and 
 round her surge and roar, and, giving place to others, 
 moaningly depart, and dash themselves to fragments in 
 their baffled anger. Still she comes onward bravely ; 
 and though the eager multitude crowd thick and fast 
 upon her all the night, and dawn of day discovers the 
 untiring train yet bearing down upon the ship in an 
 eternity of troubled water, onward she comes, with dim 
 lights burning in her hull, and people there asleep ; as 
 if no deadly element were peering in at every seam an(? 
 chink, and no drowned seaman's grave, with but a plank 
 to cover it, were yawning in the unfathomable depthi 
 below." 
 
 Sairey Gamp appears in " Martin Chuzzlewit ; " and 
 as the author of this memorial volume had the greaf 
 pleasure of hearing Mr. Dickens read this himself in 
 Tremont Temple, Boston, a place is here assigned to this 
 humorous sketch with more than usual satisfaction. 
 
 " Mr. PecksnijBF, in the innocence of his heart, appHed 
 himself to the knocker; but, at the first double knock, 
 every window in the street became alive with female 
 heads ; and, before he could repeat the performance, 
 whole troops of married ladies (some about to trouble 
 Mrs. Gamp themselves very shortly) came flocking 
 round the steps, all crying out with one accord, and 
 with uncommon interest, ' Knock at the winder, sir, 
 
222 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 knock at the winder ! Lord bless you, don't lose no 
 more time than you can help : knock at the winder ! ' 
 
 " Acting upon this suggestion, and borrowing the 
 driver's whip for the purpose, Mr. Pecksniff soon made 
 a commotion among the first-floor floAver-pots, and 
 roused Mrs. Gamp, whose voice — to the great satisfnc- 
 tion of the matrons — was heard to say, ' I'm coming.' 
 
 " ' He's as pale as a mufl&n,' said one lady, in allusion 
 to Mr. Pecksniff. 
 
 " ' So he ought to be, if he's the feelings of a maji,' 
 observed another. 
 
 " A third lady (with her arms folded) said she wished 
 he had chosen any other time for fetching Mrs. Gamp ; 
 but it always happened so with her. 
 
 " It gave Mr. Pecksniff much uneasiness to find, from 
 these remarks, that he was supposed to have come to 
 Mrs. Gamp upon an errand touching, not the close of 
 life, but the other end. Mrs. Gamp herself was under 
 the same impression ; for, throwing open the window, 
 she cried behind the curtains, as she hastily attired her- 
 self, — 
 
 " ' Is it Mrs. Perkins ? ' 
 
 " ' No ! ' returned Mr. Pecksniff sharply. ' Nothing 
 of the sort.' 
 
 " ' What, Mr. Whilks ! ' cried Mrs. Gamp. ' Don't 
 Bay it's you, Mr. Whilks, and that poor creetur Mrs. 
 Whilks with not even a pincushion ready. Don't saj 
 it's you, Mr, Whilks 1 ' 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 223 
 
 " ' It isn't Mr. Whilks,' said Pecksniff. ' I don't know 
 the man. Nothing of the kind. A gentleman is dead ; 
 and, some person being wanted in the house, you have 
 been recommended by Mr. Mould the undertaker.' 
 
 " As she was by this time in a condition to appear, 
 Mrs. Gamp, who had a face for all occasions, looked out 
 of the window with her mourning-countenance, and 
 said she would be down directly. But the matrons 
 took it very ill, that Mr. Pecksniff 's mission was of so 
 unimportant a kind : and the lady with her arms folded 
 rated him in good round terms, signifj^ing that she would 
 be glad to know what he meant by terrifying delicate 
 females ' with his corpses ; ' and giving it as her opinion 
 that he was quite ugly enough to know better. The 
 other ladies were not at all behindhand in expressing 
 similar sentiments ; and the cliildren, of whom some 
 scores had now collected, hooted and defied Mr. Peck- 
 sniff quite savagely. So, when Mrs. Gamp appeared, 
 the unoffending gentleman was glad to hustle her with 
 very little ceremony into the cabriolet, and drive off, 
 overwhelmed with popular execration. 
 
 " Mrs. Gamp had a large bundle with her, a pair of 
 pattens, and a species of gig-umbrella; the latter ar- 
 ticle in color like a faded leaf, except where a circular 
 patch of a lively blue had been dexterously let in at the 
 top. She was much Hurried by the haste she had made, 
 and labored under the most erroneous views of cabrio- 
 lets, which she appeared to confound with mail-coachea 
 
224 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 or stage-wagons : inasmuch as she was constantly en- 
 fleavoring for the first half-mile to force her luggage 
 through the little front-window, and clamoring to the 
 driver to ' put it in the boot.' When she was disabused 
 of this idea, her whole being resolved itself into an ab- 
 r<orbing anxiety about her pattens, with which she played 
 innumerable games at quoits on Mr. Pecksniff's legs. 
 It was not until they were close upon the house of 
 mourning, that she had enough composure to observe, — 
 
 " ' And so the gentleman's dead, sir ? Ah ! The more's 
 the pity.' She didn't even know his name. ' But it's 
 Avhat we must all come to. It's as certain as being born, 
 except that we can't make our calculations as exact. 
 Ah ! Poor dear I ' 
 
 " She was a fat old woman, this Mrs. Gamp, with a 
 liusky voice and a moist eye, which she had a remarka- 
 ble power of turning up, and only showing the white 
 of it. Having very little neck, it cost her some trouble 
 to look over herself, if one may say so, at those to 
 whom she talked. She wore a very rusty black gown, 
 rather the worse for snuff, and a shawl and bonnet to 
 correspond. In these dilapidated articles of dress, she 
 had, on principle, arrayed herself, time out of mind, on 
 such occasions as the present ; for tliis at once expressed 
 a decent amount of veneration for the deceased, and in- 
 \ ited the next of kin to present her with a fresher suit 
 of weeds, — an appeal so frequently successful, that the 
 very fetch and ghost of Mrs. Gamp, bonnet and alL 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 225 
 
 might be seen hanging up, any hour in the day, in at 
 least a dozen of the second-hand-clothes shops about 
 Holborn. The face of Mrs. Gamp — the nose in par- 
 ticular — was somewhat red and swollen ; and it was 
 difficult to enjoy her society without becoming conscious 
 of a smell of spirits. Like most persons who have at- 
 tained to great eminence in their profession, she took 
 to hers very kindly ; insomuch, that, setting aside her 
 natural predilections as a woman, she went to a lying-in 
 or a laying-out with equal zest and relish. 
 
 " ' Ah ! ' repeated Mrs. Gamp ; for it was always a 
 safe sentiment in cases of mourning, — ' ah, dear ! When 
 Gamp was summoned to his long home, and I see him a- 
 lying in Guy's Hospital with a penny-piece on each eye, 
 and his wooden leg under his left arm, I thought I should 
 have fainted away ; but I bore up.' 
 
 " If certain whispers current in the Kingsgate-street 
 circles had any truth in them, she had indeed borne up 
 surprisingly, and had exerted such uncommon fortitude 
 as to dispose of Mr. Gamp's remains for the benefit of 
 science. But it should be added, in fairness, that this 
 had happened twenty years before ; and that Mr. and 
 Mrs. Gamp had long been separated, on the ground of 
 incompatibility of temper in their diink. 
 
 " ' You have become indifferent since then, I sup- 
 pose ? ' said Mr. Pecksniff. ' Use is second nature, 
 Mrs. Gamp.' 
 
 " ' You may well say second nater, sir,' returned that 
 
226 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 lady.. ' One's first ways is to find sich things a trial to 
 the feelings, and so is one's lasting custom. If it wasn't 
 for the nerve a little sip of liquor gives me (I never was 
 able to do more than taste it), I never could go through 
 with what I sometimes has to do. " Mrs. Harris," I says 
 at the very last case as ever I acted in, which it was but 
 a young person, — " Mrs. Harris," I says, " leave the bottle 
 on the chimney-piece, and don't ask me take none, but 
 let me put my lips to it when I am so clispoged ; and then 
 I will do what Fm engaged to do, according to the best 
 of my ability." — " Mrs. Gamp," she says in answer, " if 
 ever there was a sober creetur to be got at eighteen 
 pence a day for working-people, and three-and-six for 
 gentlefolks," — night- watching,' said Mrs. Gamp with 
 emphasis, ' being a extra charge, — " you are that in- 
 wallable person." — " Mrs. Harris," I says to her, " don't 
 name the charge ; for, if I could afford to lay all my feller- 
 creeturs out for nothink, I would gladly do it, sich is the 
 love I bears 'em. But what I always says to them as 
 has the management of matters, Mrs. Harris " (here she 
 kept her eye on Mr. Pecksniff) " be they gents, or be 
 they ladies, is. Don't ask me whether I won't take none, 
 or whether I will, but leave the bottle on the chimney- 
 piece, and let me put my lips to it when I am so dis- 
 poged." ' 
 
 " The conclusion of this affecting narrative brought 
 them to the house. In the passage, they encountered 
 Mr. Mould the undertaker, — a little elderly gentleman, 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 227 
 
 bald, and in a suit of black, with a noi e-book in his 
 hand, a massive gold watch-chain dangling from his fob, 
 and a face in which a queer attempt at melancholy was 
 at odds with a smirk of satisfaction ; so that he looked 
 as a man might, who, in the very act of smacking his 
 lips over choice old wine, tried to make believe it was 
 physic. 
 
 " ' Well, Mrs. Gamp ; and how are you, Mrs. Gamp ? ' 
 said this gentleman in a voice as soft as his step. 
 
 " ' Pretty well, I thank you, sir,' dropping a courtesy. 
 
 " ' You'll be very particular here, Mrs. Gamp. This 
 is not a common case, Mrs. Gamp. Let every thing be 
 very nice and comfortable, Mrs. Gamp, if you please,' 
 said the undertaker, shaking his head with a solemn air. 
 
 " ' It shall be, sir,' she replied, courtesying again. ' You 
 knows me of old, sir, I hope.' 
 
 " ' I hope so too, Mrs. Gamp,' said the undertaker 
 'and I think so also.' Mrs. Gamp courtesied again, 
 ' This is one of the most impressive cases, sir,' he con- 
 tinued, addressing Mr. Pecksniff, ' that I have seen in 
 the whole course of my professional experience.' 
 
 " ' Indeed, Mr. Mould ! ' cried that gentleman. 
 
 " ' Such affectionate regret, sir, I never saw. There 
 is no limitation, there is positively no limitation,' — open- 
 ing his eyes wide, and standing on tiptoe, — ' in point of 
 exper.se. I have orders, sir, to put on my whole estab- 
 lishment of mutes, — and mutes come very dear, Mr. Peck- 
 sniff, not to mention their drink, — to provide silver- 
 
228 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 plated handles of the very best description, ornamented 
 with angels' heads from the most expensive, dies ; to be 
 perfectly profuse in feathers ; in short, sir, to turn out 
 something absolutely gorgeous.' 
 
 " ' My friend Mr. Jonas is an excellent man,' said 
 Mr. Pecksniff. 
 
 " ' I have seen a good deal of what is filial in my time, 
 sir,' retorted Mould, ' and what is unfilial too. It is our 
 lot. We come into the knowledge of those secrets. 
 But any thing so filial as this, any thing so honorable to 
 human nature, so calculated to reconcile all of us to the 
 world we live in, never yet came under my observation. 
 It only proves, sir, what was so forcibly observed by the 
 lamented theatrical poet, — buried at Stratford, — that 
 there is good in every thing.' 
 
 " ' It is very pleasant to hear you say so, Mr. Mould,' 
 observed Pecksniff." . . . 
 
 " Mrs. Gamp, with the bottle on one knee, and a glass 
 on the other, sat upon a stool, shaking her head for a 
 long time, until, in a moment of abstraction, she poured 
 out a dram of spirits, and raised it to her lips. It was 
 succeeded by a second, and by a third ; and then her 
 eyes — either in the sadness of her reflections upon life 
 and death, or in her admiration of the liquor — were so 
 turned up as to be quite invisible. But she shook her 
 head still." 
 
 Mrs. Gamp's failings evidently did not •' lean to viP' 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 229 
 
 tue's side," or to the side of temperance, if we may 
 judge from facts rather than her own statements. When 
 she called afterwards at Mr. Mould's, a glass of rum is 
 cffered her. 
 
 ■•' Mrs. Gamp took the chair that was nearest the door, 
 and, casting up her eyes towards the ceiling, feigned to 
 be wholly insensible to the fact of a glass of rum being 
 in preparation, until it was placed in her hand by one 
 of the young ladies ; when she exhibited the greatest 
 surprise. 
 
 " ' A thing,' she said, ' as hardly ever, Mrs. Mould, 
 occurs with me, unless it is when I am indispoged, and 
 find my half a pint of porter settling heavy on the chest. 
 Mrs. Harris often and often says to me, " Sairey Gamp," 
 she says, " you raly do amaze me ! " — " Mrs. Harris," I 
 says to her, " why so ? Give it a name, I beg." — " Telling 
 the truth, then, ma'am," says Mrs. Harris, and " shaming 
 him as shall be nameless betwixt you and me, never did 
 I think, till I know'd you, as any woman could sick- 
 nurse and monthly likeways, on the little that you takes 
 to drink." — " Mrs. Harris," I says to her, "none on us 
 knows what we can do till we tries ; and wunst, when 
 me and Gamp kept ouse, I thought so too. But now," I 
 says, " my half a pint of porter fully satisfies, perwisin', 
 Mrs. Harris, that it is brought reg'lar, and draw'd mild. 
 Whether I sicks or monthlies, ma'am, I hope I does my 
 duty ; but I am but a poor woman, and I earns my living 
 
230 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 hard : therefore I do require it, which I makes confession, 
 to be brought reg'lar, and draw'd mild." ' 
 
 " The precise connection between these observations 
 and the glass of rum did not appear ; for Mrs. Gamp, 
 proposing as a toast, ' The best of lucks to all ! ' took 
 off the dram in quite a scientific manner, without any 
 further remarks. 
 
 " ' And what's your news, Mrs. Gamp ? ' asked Mould 
 again, as that lady wiped her lips upon her shawl, and 
 nibbled a corner off a soft biscuit, which she appeared to 
 carry in her pocket as a provision against contingent 
 drams. ' How's Mr. Chuffey ? ' 
 
 " ' Mr. Chuffey, sir,' she replied, ' is jest as usual : he 
 an't no better, and he an't no worse. I take it very kind 
 in the gentleman to have wrote up to you, and said, " Let 
 Mrs. Gamp take care of him till I come home ; " but 
 ev'ry think he does is kind. There an't a many like 
 him : if there was, we shouldn't want no churches.' 
 
 " ' What do you want to speak to me about, Mrs. 
 Gamp ? ' said Mould, coming to the point. 
 
 " ' Jest this, sir,' Mrs. Gamp returned, ' with thanks 
 to you for asldng. There is a gent, sir, at the Bull in 
 Holborn, as has been took ill there, and is bad abed. 
 They have a day-nurse as was recommended from Bar- 
 tholomew's ; and well I knows her, Mr. Mould, her name 
 bein' Mrs. Prig, — the best of creeturs. But she is other- 
 ways engaged at night ; and they are in wants of night- 
 watching : consequent she says to them, having reposed 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 2B1 
 
 the greatest friendliness in me for twenty year. " The 
 soberest person going, and the best of blessings in a sick- 
 room, is Mrs. Gamp. Send a boy to Kingsgate Street," 
 she says, " and snap her up at any price ; for Mrs. Gamp 
 is worth her weight and more in goldian guineas." My 
 landlord brings the message down to me, and says, " Bein' 
 in a light place where you are, and this job promising so 
 well, why not unite the two ? " — " No, sir," I says, " not 
 unbeknown to Mr. Mould ; and therefore do not think 
 it. But I will go to Mr. Mould," I says, " and ask him, 
 if you like." ' Here she looked sideways at the under- 
 taker, and came to a stop. 
 
 " ' Night-watching, eh ? ' said Mould, rubbing his chin. 
 
 " ' From eight o'clock till eight, sir. I will not deceive 
 you,' Mrs. Gamp rejoined." 
 
 The undertaker consented ; and Sairey Gamp went to 
 the place indicated. Arrived, she felt the necessity of 
 advancing, bundle in hand, and introducing herself. 
 
 " ' The night-nurse,' she observed, ' from Kingsgate 
 Street, well beknown to Mrs. Prig, the day-nurse, and 
 the best of creeturs. How is the poor dear gentleman, 
 to-night ? If he an't no better yet, still that is what 
 must be expected and prepared for. It an't the fust 
 time by a many score, ma'am,' dropping a courtesy to the 
 landlady, ' that Mrs. Prig and me has nussed together, 
 turn and turn about, — one off, one on. We knows each 
 
232 LIFE AND WKITINGS OF 
 
 other's ways, and often gives relief when others fail. 
 Our charges is but low, sir,' Mrs. Gamp addressed her- 
 self to John on this head, ' considerin' the nater of our 
 painful dootj. If they wos made accordin' to our wishes, 
 they would be easy paid.' 
 
 " Regarding herself as having now delivered her inau- 
 guration-address, Mrs. Gamp courtesied all round, and 
 signified her wish to be conducted to the scene of her 
 official duties. The chambermaid led her through a va- 
 riety of intricate passages, to the top of the house, and, 
 pointing at length to a solitary door at the end of a 
 gallery, informed her that yonder was the chamber where 
 the patient lay. That done, she hurried off with all the 
 speed she could make. 
 
 " Mrs. Gamp traversed the gallery in a great heat from 
 having carried her large bundle up so many stairs, and 
 tapped at the door, which was immediately opened by 
 Mrs. Prig, bonneted and shawled, and all impatience to 
 be gone. Mrs. Prig was of the Gamp build, but not so 
 fat ; and her voice was deeper, and more like a man's. 
 She had also a beard. 
 
 " ' I began to think you warn't a-coming,' Mrs. Prig 
 observed, in some displeasure. 
 
 " ' It shall be made good to-morrow night,' said Mrs. 
 Gamp, ' Aonorable. I had to go and fetch my things.' 
 She had begun to make signs of inquiry in reference to 
 the position of the patient, and his overhearing them, — 
 for there was a screen before the door, — when Mrs. Prig 
 settled that point easily. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 233 
 
 " ' Oh ! ' she said aloud, ' he's quiet ; but lis wits is 
 gone. It an't no matter wot you say.' 
 
 " ' Any thin' to tell afore you goes, my dear ? ' asked 
 Mrs. Gamp, setting her bundle down inside the door, 
 and looking affectionately at her partner. 
 
 " ' The pickled salmon,' Mrs. Prig replied, ' is quite 
 delicious. I can partick'ler recommend it. Don't have 
 nothink to say to the cold meat; for it tastes of the stable. 
 The drinks is all good.' 
 
 " Mrs. Gamp expressed herself much gratified. 
 
 " ' The physic and them things is on the drawers and 
 mankleshelf,' said Mrs. Prig cursorily. ' He took his 
 last slime-draught at seven. The easy-chair an't soft 
 enough. You'll want his piller.' 
 
 " Mrs. Gamp thanked her for these hints, and, giving 
 her a friendly good-night, held the door open until she 
 had disappeared at the other end of the gallery. Hav- 
 ing thus performed the hospitable duty of seeing her 
 safely off, she shut it, locked it on the inside, took up 
 her bundle, walked round the screen, and entered on 
 her occupation of the sick-chamber. 
 
 " ' A Httle dull, but not so bad as might be,' Mi-s. 
 Gamp remarked. ' I'm glad to see a parapidge, in case 
 of fire, and lots of roofs and chimney-pots to walk upon.' 
 
 " It will be seen, from these remaiks, that Mrs. Gamp 
 was looking out of window. When she had exhausted 
 the prospect, she tried the easy-chair, which she indig- 
 nantly declared was ' harder than a brickbadge.' Next 
 
234 LIFE AND WEITINGS OF 
 
 she pursued her researches among the physic bottles, 
 glasses, jugs, and tea-cups ; and, when she had entirely 
 satisfied her curiosity on all these subjects of investiga- 
 tion, she untied her bonnet-strings, and strolled up to 
 the bedside to take a look at the patient. 
 
 " A young man, dark, and not ill-looking, with long 
 black hair, that seemed the blacker for the whiteness of 
 the bed-clothes. His eyes were partly open ; and he 
 never ceased to roll his head from side to side upon the 
 pillow, keeping his body almost quiet. He did not utter 
 words ; but every now and then gave vent to an expres- 
 sion of impatience or fatigue, sometimes of surprise ; 
 and still his restless head — oh, weary, weary hour ! — 
 went to and fro without a moment's intermission. 
 
 " Mrs. Gamp solaced herself with a pinch gf snuff, and 
 stood looking at him with her head inclined a little side- 
 ways, as a connoisseui' might gaze upon a doubtful work 
 of art. By degrees, a horrible remembrcince of one 
 branch of her calling took possession of the woman ; and, 
 stooping down, she pinned his wandering arms against his 
 sides to see how he would look if laid out as a dead man. 
 Hideous as it may appear, her fingers itched to compose 
 his limbs in that last marble attitude. 
 
 " ' Ah ! ' said Mrs. Gamp, walking away from the bed, 
 ' he'd make a lovely corpse.' 
 
 " She now proceeded to unpack her bundle ; hghted 
 a candle with the aid of a fire-box on the drawers ; 
 filled a small kettle as a prehminary to refreshing her- 
 
OHARLES DICKENS. 235 
 
 self with a cup of tea in the course of the night ; laid 
 what she called ' a little bit of fire,' for the same philan- 
 thropic purpose ; and also set forth a small teaboaid, 
 that nothing might be wanting for her comfortable en- 
 joyment. These preparations occupied so long, that, 
 when they were brought to a conclusion, it was high 
 time to think about supper : so she rang the bell, and 
 ordered it. 
 
 " ' I think, young woman,' said Mrs. Gamp to the as- 
 sistant chambermaid, in a tone expressive of wealmess, 
 ' that I could pick a little bit of pickled salmon, with a 
 nice little sprig of fennel, and a sprinlding of wliite pep- 
 per. I takes new bread, my dear, with jest a little pat 
 of fresh butter, and a mossel of cheese. In case there 
 should be such a thing as a cowcumber in the 'ouse, will 
 you be so kind as bring it? for I'm rather partial to 'em; 
 and they does a world of good in a sick-room. If they 
 draws the Brighton Old Tipper here, I takes that ale at 
 night, my love ; it bein' considered wakeful by the doc- 
 tors. And whatever you do, young woman, don't bring 
 more than a sliilling's-worth of gin and water warm 
 when I rings the bell a second time ; for that is always 
 my allowance, and I never takes a drop beyond.' 
 
 " Having preferred these moderate jequests, Mrs. 
 Gamp observed, that she would stand at the door until 
 the order was executed, to the end that the patient 
 might not be disturbed by her opening it a second time ; 
 and therefore she would thank the young woman to 
 ' look sharp.' 
 
236 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " A tray was brought with every thing upon it, even 
 to the cucumber ; and Mrs. Gamp accordingly sat down 
 to eat and drink in high good-humor. The extent to 
 which she availed herself of the vinegar, and supped 
 up that refreshing fluid with the blade of her knife, can 
 scarcely be expressed in narrative. 
 
 " ' Ah ! ' sighed Mrs. Gamp, as she meditated over the 
 warm shilling's-worth, ' what a blessed thing it is — liv- 
 ing in a wale — to be contented ! What a blessed thing 
 it is to make sick people happy in their beds, and never 
 mind one's self as long as one can do a service ! I don't 
 believe a finer cowcumber was every grow'd. I'm sure 
 I never see one.' 
 
 " She moralized in the same vein until her glass was 
 empty, and then administered the patient's medicine by 
 the simple process of clutching his windpipe to make 
 him gasp, and immediately pouring it down his throat. 
 
 " ' I a'most forgot the piller, I declare ! ' said Mrs. 
 Gamp, drawing it away. ' There ! Now he's comforta- 
 ble as he can be, J'm sure ! I must try to make myself 
 as much so as I can.' 
 
 " With this view, she went about the construction of 
 an extemporaneous bed in the easy-chair, with the addi 
 tion of the next easy one for her feet. Having formed 
 the best couch that the circumstances admitted of, she 
 took out of her bundle a yellow nightcap, of prodigious 
 size, in shape resembling a cabbage ; which article of 
 dress she fixed and tied on with the utmost care, pre- 
 
CHA'RLE& DICKENS. 237 
 
 viously divesting herself of a row of bald old curls that 
 could scarcely be called false, they were so very inno- 
 cent of any thing approaching to decepti()n. From the 
 same repository she brought forth a night -jacket, in 
 which she also attired herself. Finally, she produced a 
 watchman's coat, which she tied around her neck by the 
 sleeves, so that she became two people, and looked, be- 
 hind, as if she were in the act of being embraced by one 
 of the old patrol. 
 
 " All these arrangements made, she lighted the rush- 
 light, coiled herself up on her couch, and went to sleep. 
 Ghostly and dark the room became, and full of lowering 
 shadows. The distant noises in the streets were gradu- 
 ally hushed ; the house was quiet as a sepulchre ; the 
 dead of night was coffined in the silent city. 
 
 '' Oh, weary, weary hour ! Oh, haggard mind, grop- 
 ing darkly through the past ; iucapable of detaching 
 itself from the miserable present ; dragging its heavy 
 chain of care through imaginary feasts and revels, and 
 scenes of awful pomp; seeking but a moment's, rest 
 among the long-forgotten haunts of childhood, and the 
 resorts of yesterda}- ;. and dimly finding fear and horroi 
 everj-where ! Oh, weary, weary hour ! — what were the 
 wanderings of Cain to these ! 
 
 " Still, -without a moment's interval, the burning heiid 
 tossed to and fi'o. Still, from time to time, fatigue, im- 
 patience, suffering, and surprise found utterance upou 
 that rack, and plainly too, though never ouce in words. 
 
238 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 At length, in tlie solemn hoar of midnight, he began to 
 talk, waiting awfully for answers sometimes, as though 
 invisible companions were about his bed, and so reply- 
 ing to their speech, and questioning again. 
 
 " Mrs. Gamp awoke, and sat up in her bed, present- 
 i]ig on the wall the shadow of a gigantic night-constable 
 struggling with a prisoner. 
 
 " ' Come ! Hold your tongue 1 ' she cried in sharp 
 reproof. ' Don't make none of that noise here ! ' 
 
 " There was no alteration in the face, or in the inces- 
 sant motion of the head ; but he talked on wildly. 
 
 " ' Ah! ' said Mrs. Gamp, coming out of the chair with 
 an impatient shiver, ' I thought I was a-sleepin' too 
 pleasant to last. The Devil's in the night, I think, it's 
 turned so chilly.' 
 
 " ' Don't drink so much ! ' cried the sick man. ' You'll 
 ruin us all. Don't you see how the foui.taiu sinks ? 
 Look at the mark where the sparkling water was just 
 now ! ' 
 
 " ' Sparkling water, indeed ! ' said Mrs. Gamp. ' I'll 
 have a sparkling cup o' tea, I think. I wish you'd hold 
 your noise ! ' 
 
 " He bm-st into a laugh, which, being prolonged, fell 
 off into a dismal wail. Checking himself, with fierce 
 inconstancy he began to count, fast. 
 
 " ' One — two — three — four — five — six.' 
 
 " ' " One, two, buckle my shoe," ' said Mrs. Gamp, 
 who was now on her knees, lighting the fire ; ' " three. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 239 
 
 four, shut the door," — I wish you'd shut your mouth, 
 young man ; " five, six, picking up sticks." If I'd got 
 a few handy, I should have the kettle bihng all the 
 sooner.' 
 
 " Awaiting this desirable consummation, she sat down 
 60 close to the fender (which was a high one), that her 
 nose rested upon it ; and for some time she drowsily 
 amused herself by sliding that feature backwards and 
 forwards along the brass top, — as far as she could with- 
 out changing her position to do it. She maintained, all 
 the while, a running commentary upon the wanderings 
 of the man in bed. 
 
 " ' That makes five hundred and twenty-one men, all 
 dressed alike, and with the same distortion on their faces, 
 that have passed in at the window, and out at the door,' 
 he cried anxiously. ' Look there ! Five hundred and 
 twenty-two — twenty-three — twenty-four. Do you see 
 them ? ' 
 
 "'Ah! J see 'em,' said Mrs. Gamp. 'All the whole 
 kit of 'em numbered like hackney-coaches ; an't they ? ' 
 
 " ' Touch me ! Let me be sure of this. Touch me ! ' 
 
 '» ' You'll take your next draught when I've made 
 the kettle bile,' retorted Mrs. Gamp composedly ; ' and 
 you 11 be touched then. You'll be touched up, too, if 
 you don't take it quiet.' 
 
 " ' Five hundred and twenty-eight, five hundi-ed and 
 twenty-nine, five hundred and thirty, — look heie ! ' 
 ♦ ' What's the matter now ? ' said Mis. Gamp. 
 
240 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " ' They're coming four abreast, — each man with his 
 arm intwined in the next man's, and his hand upon his 
 shoulder. What's that upon the arm of every man, and 
 on the flag ? ' 
 
 " ' Spiders, p'raps,' said Mrs. Gamp. 
 
 " ' Crape ! — blacl^ crape ! Good God ! why do they 
 wear it outside ? ' 
 
 " ' Would you have 'em carry black crape in their in- 
 sides ? ' Mrs. Gamp retorted. ' Hold your noise ! hold 
 your noise ! ' 
 
 " The fire beginning by this time to impart a grateful 
 warmth, Mrs. Gamp became silent, gradually rubbed 
 her nose more and more slowly along the top of the 
 fender, and fell into a heavy doze. She was awakened 
 by the room ringing (as she fancied) with a name she 
 knew, — 
 
 " ' Chuzzlewit ! ' 
 
 " The somid was so distinct and real, and so full of 
 agonized entreaty, that Mrs. Gamp jumped up in terror, 
 and ran to the door. She expected to find the passage 
 filled with people come to tell her that the house in the 
 city had taken fire : but the place was empty ; not a 
 soul was there. She opened the window, and looked 
 out. Dark, dull, dingy, and desolate housetops. As 
 she passed to her seat again, she glanced at the patient. 
 Just the same, but silent. Mrs. Gamp was so warm 
 now, that she threw off the watchman's coat, and fanned 
 herself. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 241 
 
 " ' It seemed to make the wery bottles ring,' she said. 
 ' What could I have been a-dreaming of ? That dratted 
 Chuffey, I'll be bound ! ' 
 
 " The supposition was probable enough. At any rate, 
 a pinch of snuff, and the song of the steaming kettle, 
 quite restored the tone of Mrs. Gamp's nerves, which 
 were none of the weakest. She brewed her tea, made 
 some buttered toast, and sat down at the tea-board, 
 with her face to the fire ; when once again, in a tone 
 more terrible than that which had vibrated in her slum- 
 bering ear, these words were shrieked out, — 
 
 " ' Chuzzlewit ! Jonas ! No ! ' 
 
 " Mrs. Gamp dropped the cup she was in the act of 
 raising to her lips, and turned round with a start that 
 made the little tea-board leap. The cry had come from 
 the bed. 
 
 " It was bright morning the next time Mrs. Gamp 
 looked out of the window ; and the sun was rising cheer- 
 fully. Lighter and ligliter grew the sky, and noisier the 
 streets ; and high into the summer air uprose the smoke 
 of newly-kindled fires, until the busy day was broad 
 awake. 
 
 " Mrs. Prig relieved punctually, having passed a good 
 night at her other patient's. Mr. Westlock came at the 
 same time ; but he was not admitted, the disorder being 
 infectious. The doctor came too. The doctor shook 
 his head. It was all he could do, under the circum- 
 stances ; and he did it well. 
 
242 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " ' What sort of a night, nmse ?' 
 
 " ' Restless, sir,' said Mrs. Gamp. 
 
 " ' Talk much ? ' 
 
 " ' Middling, sir,' said Mrs. Gamp. 
 
 " ' Nothing to the purpose, I suppose ? ' 
 
 " ' Oh, bless you, no, sir ! Only jargon.' 
 
 " ' Well,' said the doctor : ' we must keep him quiet, 
 Keep the room cool, give him his draughts regularly, 
 and see that he's carefully looked too. That's all ! ' 
 
 " ' As long as Mrs. Prig and me waits upon him, sir, 
 no fear of that,' said Mrs. Gamp. 
 
 " ' I suppose,' observed Mrs. Prig, when they had 
 courtesied the doctor out, ' there's nothin' new ? ' 
 
 " ' Nothin' at all, my dear,' said Mrs. Gamp. ' He's 
 rather wearin' in his talk from making up a lot of 
 names : elseways you needn't mind him.' 
 
 " ' Oh ! I sha'n't mind liim,' Mrs. Prig returned. ' I 
 have somethin' else to think of.' 
 
 " ' I pays my debts to-night, you know, my dear, and 
 comes afore my time,' said Mrs. Gamp. ' But Betsey 
 Prig,' — speaking with great feeling, and laying her 
 hand upon her arm, ' try the cowcumbers, God bless 
 you ! ' " 
 
 In the summer of 1844, Mr. Dickens, with his family, 
 went to Italy, and remained there about a year, having 
 Genoa for his headquarters. On his retui-n, he published 
 a volume of very readable sketches, entitled " Pictures 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 243 
 
 from Italy." The following extract from this book gives 
 a fine picture of his palatial home in Genoa, and the 
 view from thence : — 
 
 '* There is not in Italy, they say (and I believe them), 
 a lovelier residence than the Palazzo Peschiere, or Palace 
 of the Fishponds, whither we removed as soon as our 
 three months' tenancy of the Pink Jail at Albaro had 
 ceased and determined. 
 
 " It stands on a height within the walls of Genoa, but 
 aloof from the town, surrounded b}' beautiful gardens 
 of its own, adorned with statues, vases, fountains, marble 
 basins, terraces, walks of orange-trees and lemon-trees, 
 groves of roses and camellias. All its apartments are 
 beautiful in their proportions and decorations ; but the 
 great hall, some fifty feet in height, with three large 
 windows at the end, overlooking the whole town of 
 Genoa,^ the harbor, and the neighboring sea, affords one 
 of the most fascinating and delightful prospects in the 
 world. Any house more cheerful and habitable than 
 the great rooms are within^ it would be difficult to con- 
 ceive ; and certainly nothing more delicious than the 
 scene without, in sunshine or in moonlight, could be 
 imagined. It is more like an enchanted palace in an 
 Eastern story than a grave and sober lodging. 
 
 " How you may wander on, from room to room, and 
 never tire of the wild fancies on the walls and ceilings, 
 as bright in their fi'esh coloring as if they bad been 
 
244 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 painted yesterday ; or how one floor, or even the great 
 hall which opens on eight other rooms, is a spacious 
 promenade ; or how there are corridors and bed-cham- 
 bers above, which we never use, and rarely visit, and 
 scarcely know the way through ; or how there is a view 
 of a perfectly different character on each of the four 
 sides of the building, — matters little. But that prospect 
 from the hall is like a vision to me. I go back to it in 
 fancy, as I have done in calm realit}^ a hundred times 
 a day, and stand there, looking out, with the sweet 
 scents from the garden rising up about me, in a perfect 
 dream of happiness. 
 
 " There lies all Genoa, in beautiful confusion, with its 
 many churches, monasteries, and convents pointing up 
 into the sunny sky ; and down below me, just where the 
 roofs begin, a solitary convent-parapet, fashioned like a 
 gallery, with an iron cross at the end, where sometimes, 
 early in the morning, I have seen a little group of dark- 
 veiled nuns ghding sorrowfully to and fro, and stoj^ping 
 now and then to peep down upon the waking world in 
 which they have no part. Old Monte Faccio, brightest 
 of hills in good weather, but sulkiest when storms are 
 coming on, is here, upon the left. The fort within the 
 walls (the good king built it to command the town, and 
 beat the houses of the Genoese about their ears, in case 
 they should be discontented) commands that height upon 
 the right. The broad sea lies beyond, in front there ; 
 and that line of coast, beginning by the light-house, and 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 24.5 
 
 tapering away, a mere speck in the rosy distance, is the 
 beautiful coast-road that leads to Nice. The garden near 
 at hand, among the roofs and houses, — all red wi th roses, 
 and fresh with Httle fountains, — is the Acqua Sola, a 
 public promenade, where the military band plays gayly, 
 and the white veils cluster thick, and the Genoese nobil- 
 ity ride round and round and round, in state-clothes and 
 coaches at least, if not in absolute wisdom. Within a 
 stone's-throw, as it seems, the audience of the day-theatre 
 sit ; their faces turned this way. But, as the stage is hidden, 
 it is very odd, without a knowledge of the cause, to see 
 their faces change so suddenly from earnestness to laugh- 
 ter, and odder still to hear the rounds upon rounds of 
 applause, rattling in the evening air, to which the cur- 
 taui falls. But, being Sunday night, the} act their best 
 and most attractive play. And now the sun is going 
 down in such magnificent array of red and green and 
 golden light, as neither pen nor pencil could depict ; 
 and, to the ringing of the vesper-bells, darkness sets in 
 at once, without a twilight. Then lights begin to shine 
 in Genoa, and on the country-road ; and the revolving 
 lantern out at sea there, flashing for an instant on this 
 palace front and portico, illuminates it as if there were 
 a bright moon bursting from behind a cloud, then 
 merges it in deep ol)scurity. And this, so far as I know, 
 is the only reason why the Genoese avoid it after dark, 
 and think it haunted. 
 
 " My memory will haunt it, many nights, in time to 
 
246 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 come, but nothing worse, I will engage. The same 
 ghost will occasionally sail away, as I did one pleasant 
 autumn evening, into the bright prospect, and snuff the 
 morning air at Marseilles." 
 
 A graphic portraiture of Rome, and of Mr. Dickens's 
 emotions on viewing the Coliseum, is in the following 
 words : — 
 
 " We entered the Eternal City at about four o'clock 
 in the afternoon, on the 30th of January, by the Porta 
 del Popolo, and came immediately (it was a dark, 
 muddy day, and there had been heavy rain) on the 
 skirts of the Carnival. We did not then know that we 
 were only looking at the fag-end of the masks, who 
 were driving slowly round and round the Piazza until 
 they could find a promising opportunity for falling into 
 the stream of carriages, and getting, in good time, into 
 the thick of the festivity ; and coming among them so 
 abruptly, all travel-stained and weary, was not coming 
 very well prepared to enjoj^ the scene. 
 
 " We had crossed the Tiber by the Ponte Molle, two 
 or three miles before. It had looked as yellow as it 
 ought to look, and, hurrying on between its worn-away 
 and miry banks, had a promising aspect of desolation 
 and ruin. The masquerade dresses on the fringe of the 
 Carnival did great violence to this promise. There 
 were no great ruins, no solemn tokens of antiquity, to 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 247 
 
 be seen: they all lie on the ' ther side of the city, 
 There seemed to be long streets of commonplace shops 
 and houses, such as are to be found in any European 
 town : there were busy people, equipages, ordinary 
 walkers to and fro, a multitude of chattering strangers. 
 It was no more my Rome — the Rome of anybody's 
 fancy, man or boy, degraded and fallen and lying asleep 
 in the sun among a heap of ruins — than the Place de 
 la Concorde in Paris is. A cloud}^ sky, a dull, cold 
 rain, and muddy streets, I was prepared for, but not for 
 this ; and I confess to having gone to bed that night in 
 a very indifferent humor, and with a very considerably 
 quenched enthusiasm. 
 
 " Immediately on going out next day, we hurried off 
 to St. Peter's. It looked immense in the distance, but 
 distinctly and decidedly small, by comparison, on a near 
 approach. The beauty of the piazza in which it stands, 
 with its clusters of exquisite columns, and its gushing 
 fountains, — so fresh, so broad and free and beautiful, 
 — nothing can exaggerate. The first burst of the inte- 
 rior, in all its expansive majesty and glory, and, most of 
 all, the looldng-up into the dome, is a sensation never to 
 be forgotten. But there were preparations for a festa. 
 The pillars of stately marble were swathed in some im- 
 pertinent frippery of red and yellow ; the altar, and 
 entrance to the subterranean chapel, — which is before 
 it, in the centre of the church, — were Uke a goldsmith's 
 shop, or one of the opening scenes in a very lavish panto- 
 
248 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 mime. And, though I had as high a sense of the beauty of 
 the building (I hope) as it is possible to entertain, I felt 
 no very strong emotion. I have been infinitely more af- 
 fected in many English cathedrals, when the organ has 
 been playing, and in many English country churches, 
 when the congregation have been singing. I had a 
 tuLich greater sense of mystery and wonder in the Ca- 
 thedi-al of San Mark at Venice. 
 
 " When we came out of the church again (we stood 
 nearly an hour staring up into the dome, and would not 
 have 'gone over 'the cathedral then for any money), 
 we said to the coachman, ' Go to the Coliseum.' In a 
 quarter of an hour or so, he stopped at the gate, and we 
 went in. 
 
 " It is no fiction, but plain, sober, honest truth, to say, 
 — so suggestive and distinct :s it at this hour,. — that, 
 lor a moment, — actually in passing in, — they who will 
 may have the whole great pile before them, as it used to 
 be, with thousands of eager faces staring down into the 
 arena, and such a whirl of strife and blood and dust 
 going on there as no language can describe. Its soli- 
 tude, its awful beauty, and its utter desolation, strike 
 upon the stranger the next moment like a softened sor- 
 1 ow ; and never in his life, perhaps, will he be so moved 
 and overcome by any sight not immediately connected 
 with his own affections and afilictions. 
 
 " To see it crumbling there, an inch a year, its walla 
 and arches overgrown with green ; its corridors open 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 249 
 
 to the day ; the long grass growing in its porches ; 
 young trees of yesterday springing up on its ragged 
 parapets, and bearing fruit (chance produce of the 
 seeds dropped there by the birds who build their nests 
 within its chinks and crannies) ; — to see its Pit of 
 Fight fiUed up with earth, and the peaceful Cross 
 planted in the centre ; to climb into its upper halls, and 
 look down on ruin, ruin, ruin, all about it ; the triumphal 
 arches of Constantine, Septimus Severus, and Titus ; 
 the Roman Forum ; the Palace of the Caesars ; the tem- 
 ples of the old religion, — fallen down and gone, — is 
 to see the ghost of old Rome — wicked, wonderful old 
 city — haunting the very ground on which its people 
 trod. It is the most impressive, the most stately, the 
 most solemn, grand, majestic, mournful sight conceiv- 
 able. Never, in its bloodiest prime, can the sight of 
 the gigantic Coliseum, full and running over with the 
 lustiest life, have moved one heart as it must move all 
 who look upon it now, a ruin. God be thanked ! a 
 ruin ! 
 
 " As it tops the other ruins, standing there, a moun- 
 tain among graves, so do its ancient influences outlive 
 all other remnants of the old mythology and old butchery 
 of Rome, in the nature of the fierce and cruel Roman 
 people. The Italian face changes as the visitor ap- 
 proaches the city : its beauty becomes devilish ; and 
 there is scarcely one countenance in a hundred, among 
 the common people in the streets, that would not be 
 
250 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 at home and happy in a renovated Coliseum to-mor- 
 row. 
 
 " Here was Rome indeed, at last, a ad such a Rome as 
 no one can imagine in its full and awful grandeur. We 
 wandered out upon the Appian Way, and then went on, 
 through miles of ruined tombs and broken walls, with 
 here and there a desolate and uninhabited house, — past 
 the Circus of Romulus, where the course of the chariots, 
 the stations of the judges, competitors, and spectators, 
 are yet as plainly to be seen as in old time ; past the 
 tomb of Cecilia Metella; past all enclosure, hedge or 
 stake, wall or fence : away upon the open Campagna, 
 where, on that side of Rome, nothing is to be beheld but 
 ruin. Except where the distant Apennines bound the 
 view upon the left, the whole wide prospect is one field 
 of ruin. Broken aqueducts left in the most picturesque 
 and beautiful clusters of arches, broken temples, 
 broken tombs, — a desert of decay, sombre and desolate 
 beyond all expression, and with a history in every stone 
 that strews the ground." 
 
 " Pictures from Italy " closes with the following allu 
 sion to beautiful Florence, and words of hope concern 
 ing Italy, which are characteristic of Dickens. He 
 says, — 
 
 " But how much beauty is there, when, on a fair, 
 clear morning, we look from the summit of a hill on 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 251 
 
 Florence ! See where it lies before us in a sun-lighted 
 valley, bright with the winding Arno, and shut in by 
 swelling hills ; its domes and towers and palaces rising 
 from the rich countrj- in a glittering heap, and shining 
 in the sun like gold ! 
 
 " Magnificently stern and sombre are the streets of 
 beautiful Florence ; and the strong old piles of building 
 make such heaps of shadow on the ground and in "the 
 river, that there is another and a different city of rich 
 forms and fancies always Ijang at our feet. Prodigious 
 palaces, constructed for defence, with small, distrustful 
 windows heavily barred, and walls of great thickness, 
 formed of huge masses of rough stone, frown in their 
 old sulky state on every street. In the midst of the 
 city — in the piazza of the grand duke, adorned with 
 beautiful statues and the Fountain of Neptune — rises 
 the Palazzo Vecchio, with its enormous overhanging 
 battlements, and the Great Tower that watches over 
 the whole town. In its court-yard, worthy of the 
 Castle of Otranto in its ponderous gloom, is a massive 
 staircase, that the heaviest wagon and the stoutest team 
 of horses might be driven up. Within it is a great 
 saloon, faded and tarnished in its stately decorations, 
 and mouldering by grains, but recording yet, in pictures 
 on its walls, the triumphs of the Medici and the wars of 
 the ol'd Florentine people. The prison is hard by, in an 
 adjacent court-yard of the building, — a foul and dismal 
 place, where some men are shut up close in small cells 
 
252 LIFi:. AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 like ovens, and where others look through bars, and beg ; 
 where some are playing draughts, and some are talking 
 to their friends, who smoke, the wliile, to purify the air ; 
 and some are buying fruit and wine of women-venders ; 
 and all are squalid, dirty, and vile to look at. ' They 
 are merry enough, signore,' says the jailer. ' They are 
 all blood-stained here,' he adds, indicating with his hand 
 three-fourths of the whole building. Before the hour 
 is out, an old man, eighty years of age, quarrelling over 
 a bargain with a young girl of seventeen, stabs her dead, 
 in the market-place full of bright flowers, and is brought 
 in prisoner to swell the number. 
 
 " Among the four old bridges that span the river, the 
 Ponte Vecchio, that bridge which is covered with the 
 shops of jewellers and goldsmiths, is a most enchant- 
 ing feature in the scene. The space of one house in 
 the centre, being left open, the view beyond is shown 
 as in a frame ; and that precious glimpse of sky and 
 water and rich buildings, shining so quietly among the 
 huddled roofs and gables on the bridge, is exquisite 
 Above it, the gallery of the grand duke crosses the 
 river. It was built to connect the two great palaces by 
 a secret passage ; and it takes its jealous course among 
 the streets and houses with true despotism, going 
 where it lists, and spurning every obstacle away be- 
 fore it. 
 
 "The grand duke has a worthiei' secret passage 
 through the streets, in his black robe and hood, as a 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 253 
 
 member of the Compagnia della Mi^ericordia ; which 
 brotherhood includes all ranks of men. If an accident 
 take place, their office is to raise the sufferer, and bear 
 him tenderly to the hospital. If a fire break out, it is 
 one of their functions to repair to the spot, and render 
 their assistance and protection. It is also among their 
 commonest offices to attend and console the sick ; and 
 they neither receive money, nor eat, nor drink, in any 
 house they visit for this purpose. Those who are on 
 duty for the time are called together, on a moment's 
 notice, by the tolling of the great bell of the tower ; and 
 it is said that the grand duke has been seen, at this 
 sound, to rise from his seat at table, and quietly with- 
 draw to attend the summons. 
 
 " In this other large piazza, where an irregular kind 
 of market is held, and stores of old iron and other small 
 merchandise are set out on stalls or scattered on the pave- 
 ment, are grouped together the cathedral with its great 
 dome, the beautiful Italian Gothic tower, the cam- 
 panile, and the baptistery with its wrought bronze 
 doors. And here, a small untrodden square in the 
 pavement, is ' the stone of Dante,' where (so runs the 
 story) he was used to bring his stool, and sit in contem- 
 plation. I wonder was he ever, in liis bitter exile, with- 
 held from cursing the very stones in the streets of 
 Florence the ungrateful, b}^ an}^ kind remembrance 
 of this old musing-place, and its association with gentle 
 thoughts of little Beatrice. 
 
264 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " The Chapel of the Medici, the good and bad angels 
 of Florence ; the Church of Santa Croce, where Michael 
 Angelo lies buried, and where every stone in the clois- 
 ters is eloquent on great men's deaths ; innumerable 
 churches, often masses of unfinished heavy brickwork 
 externally, but solemn and serene within, — arrest our 
 lingering steps in strolling through the city. 
 
 " In keeping with the tombs among the cloisters is 
 the Museum of Natural History, famous through the 
 world for its preparations in wax, beginning with the 
 models of leaves, seeds, plants, inferior animals, and 
 gradually ascending, through separate organs of the 
 human frame, up to the whole structure of that won- 
 derful creation, exquisitely presented, as in recent 
 death. Few admonitions of our frail mortality can be 
 more solemn and more sad, or strike so home upon the 
 heart, as the counterfeits of youth and beauty that are 
 lying there upon their beds in their last sleep. 
 
 " Beyond the walls, the whole sweet Valley of the 
 Arno, the convent at Fiesole, the Tower of GaUleo, 
 Boccaccio's house, old villas and retreats, innumerable 
 spots of interest, — all glowing in a landscape of sur 
 passing beauty steeped in the richest light, — are spread 
 before us. Returning from so much brightness, how 
 solemn and how grand the streets again, with their 
 great, dark, mournful palaces, and many legends, not 
 of siege and war and might, and iron hand alone, but of 
 the triumphant growth of peaceful arts and sciences ! 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 255 
 
 " What light is shed upon the world, at this day, 
 from amidst these rugged palaces of Florence ! Here, 
 open to all comers, in then* beautiful and calm retreats, 
 the ancient sculptors are immortal, side by side with 
 Michael Angelo, Canova, Titian, Rembrandt, Raphael, 
 poets, historians, philosophers, — those illustrious men 
 of history, beside whom its crowned heads and har- 
 nessed warriors show so poor and small, and are so soon 
 forgotten. Here the imperishable part of noble minds 
 survives, placid and equal, when strongholds of assault 
 and defence are overthrown ; when the tyranny of the 
 many or the few, or both, is but a tale ; when pride 
 and power are so much cloistered dust. The fire within 
 the stern streets, and among the massive palaces and 
 towers, kindled by rays from heaven, is stUl burning 
 brightly when the flickering of war is extinguished, and 
 the household-fires of generations have decayed ; as 
 thousands upon thousands of faces, rigid with the strife 
 and passion of the hoLU", have faded out of the old 
 squares and public haunts, while the nameless Floren- 
 tine lady, preserved from oblivion by a painter's hand, 
 yet lives on in enduring grace and youth. 
 
 " Let us look back on Florence while we may, and, 
 when its shining dome is seen no more, go travelling 
 through cheerful Tuscany with a bright remembrance 
 of it ; for Italy will be the fairer for the recollection. 
 The summer-time being come, and Genoa and Milan, 
 and the Lake of Como, lying far behind us, and we rest- 
 
256 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 ing at Faido, a Swiss village, near the awful rocks and 
 mountains, the everlasting snows and roaring cataracts, 
 of the Great St. Gothard, hearing the Italian tongue 
 for the last time on this journey, — let us part from 
 Italy, with all its miseries and wrongs, affectionately, in 
 our admiration of the beauties, natural and artificial, of 
 which it is full to overflowing, and in our tenderness 
 towards a people naturally well disposed and patient 
 and sweet-tempered. Years of neglect, oppression, and 
 misrule, have been at work to change their nature, and 
 reduce their spirit ; miserable jealousies, fomented by 
 petty princes to whom union was destruction, and di- 
 vision strength, have been a canker at the root of their 
 nationality, and have barbarized their language : but 
 the good that was in them ever is in them yet, and a 
 noble people may be one day raised up from these 
 ashes. Let us entertain that hope ! And let us not 
 remember Italy the less regardfuUy, because in every 
 fragment of her fallen temples, and every stone of her 
 deserted palaces and prisons, she helps to inculcate the 
 lesson that the wheel of time is rolling for an end, and 
 that the world is, in all great essentials, better, gentler, 
 more forbearing, and more hopeful, as it rolls ! " 
 
 For several years, at the merry Christmas-time, Mr. 
 Dickens furnished to his admiring readers some brief 
 romances, which greatly added to his fame. There were 
 five in the series. They were " The Christmas Carol," 
 
OHARLES DICKENS. 257 
 
 pubHshed in 1843 ; " The Chimes," 1844 ; '^ The Cricket 
 on the Hearth," 1845 ; " The Battle of Life," 1846 ; and 
 *' The Haunted Man," 1847. " Some critics," it is said, 
 " have supposed that the last one or two of these series 
 showed evidences of a fatigued mind. TMs may le 
 true ; in which case, it was evidence of practical sense 
 and self-knowledge to discontinue them." 
 
 In the peroration of the concluding lecture which 
 Thackeray gave on " English Humorists of the Eigh- 
 teenth Century," he paid an eloquent and touching trib- 
 ute to the genius of Mr. Dickens, and said, — 
 
 " As for the charities of Mr. Dickens, multiplied kind- 
 nesses which he has conferred upon us all, — upon our 
 children, upon people educated and uneducated, upon 
 the myriads here and at home who speak our common 
 tongue, — have you not, have not I, all of us, reason to be 
 thankful to this kind friend, who soothed and charmed 
 so many hours, brought pleasure and sweet laughter to 
 so many homes, made such multitudes of children hap- 
 py, endowed us with such a sweet store of gracious 
 thoughts, fair fancies, soft sympathies, hearty enjoy- 
 ments? There are creations of Mr. Dickens's which 
 seem to me to rank as personal benefits ; figui-es so de- 
 lightful, 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 hve is wholesome to breathe in ; you feel, 
 
258 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 that to be allowed to speak to them is a jiersonal kind 
 ness ; you come away better for your contact with them ; 
 your hands seem cleaner from having the privilege of 
 shaking theirs. Was there ever a better charity-sermon 
 preached in the world than Dickens's ' Christmas Carol ' ? 
 I beheve it occasioned immense hospitality throughout 
 England ; was the means of lighting up hundreds of 
 kind fires at Christmas-time ; caused a wonderful out- 
 pouring of Christmas good feeling, of Christmas punch- 
 brewing ; an awful slaughter of Christmas turkeys, and 
 roasting and basting of Christmas beef." 
 
 Thackeray's private library was sold after his death ; 
 and a copy of " The Christmas Carol," presented him 
 by the author, with a note, sold for twenty-five pounds. 
 
 The following is the closing portion of the first 
 " Christmas Carol : " — 
 
 " Yes ! and the bedpost was his own ; the bed was 
 his own ; the room was his own ; best and happiest of 
 all, the time before him was his own, to make amends in. 
 
 " ' I will live in the past, the present, and the future,' 
 Scrooge repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. ' The 
 spirits of all three shall strive within me. O Jacob 
 Marley! Heaven and the Christmas-time be praised 
 for this ! I say it on my knees, old Jacob, — on my 
 knees ! ' 
 
 " He was so fluttered, and so glowing with his good 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 259 
 
 intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer 
 to his call. He had been sobbing violently in his con- 
 flict with the spirit ; and his face was wet with tears. 
 
 " ' They are not torn down ! ' cried Scrooge, folding one 
 of his bed-curtains in his arms, — ' they are not torn 
 down, rings and all. They are here, — I am here. The 
 shadows of the things that would have been may be dis- 
 pelled. They will be : I know they will ! ' 
 
 " His hands were busy with his garments all this 
 time, turning them inside out, putting them on upside 
 down, tearing them, mislaying them, making them par- 
 ties to every kind of extravagance. 
 
 " ' I don't know what to do ! ' cried Scrooge, laughing 
 and crying in the same breath, and making a perfect 
 Laocoon of himself with his stockings. ' I am as light 
 as a feather ; I am as happy as an angel ; I am as merry 
 as a school-boy ; I am as giddy as a drunken man. A 
 merry Christmas to everybody ! A happy New -Year to 
 all the world ! Halloo, here ! Whoop ! Halloo ! ' 
 
 " He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now 
 standing there, perfectly winded. 
 
 " ' There's the saucepan that the gruel was in ! ' cried 
 Scrooge, starting off again, and going round the fire- 
 place. ' There's the door b}^ which the ghost of Jacob 
 Marley entered ! There's the corner where the ghost of 
 Christmas Present sat ! There's the window where I 
 saw the wandering spirits ! It's all right, it's all true, 
 it all happened. Ha, ha, ha I ' 
 
260 LIFE AND WKITINGS Oif 
 
 " Really, for a man who had been out of practice for 
 so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious 
 laugh, — the father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs. 
 
 " ' I don't know what day of the month it is,' said 
 Scrooge ; ' I don't know how long I have been among 
 the spirits. I don't know any thing. I'm quite a baby. 
 Never mind. I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. Hal- 
 loo ! Whoop ! Halloo, here ! ' 
 
 " He was checked in his transports by the churches 
 ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clash, 
 clang, hammer ; ding, dong, bell. Bell, dong, ding ; 
 hammer, clang, clash ! Oh, glorious, glorious ! 
 
 " Running to the window, he opened it, and put out 
 his head. No fog, no mist ; clear, bright, jovial, stir- 
 ring, cold ; cold, piping for the blood to dance to ; 
 golden sunlight ; heavenly sky ; sweet, fresh au- ; merry 
 bells. Oh, glorious, glorious ! 
 
 " ' What's to-day ? ' cried Scrooge, calling downward 
 to a boy in Sunday clothes, who, perhaps, had loitered in 
 to look about him. 
 
 " ' Eh ? ' returned the boy, with all his might of 
 wonder. 
 
 " ' What's to-day, my fine fellow ? ' said Scrooge. 
 
 " ' To-day ! ' replied the boy. ' Why, Christmas Da y ! ' 
 
 " ' It's Christmas Day ! ' said Scrooge to himself. ' I 
 haven't missed it. The spirits have done it all in one 
 night. They can do any thing they like. Of course, 
 they can. Halloo, my fine fellow I ' 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 261 
 
 " ' Halloo ! ' returned the boy. 
 
 " ' Do you know the poulterer's, in the next street but 
 one, at the corner ? ' Scrooge inquired. 
 
 " ' I should hope I did,' replied the lad. 
 
 " ' An intelligent boy ! ' said Scrooge, — ' a remarkable 
 hoy ! Do you know whether they've sold the prize-t ir- 
 key that was hanging up there ? — not the little prize- 
 turkey, the big one ? ' 
 
 " ' What, the one as big as me ? ' returned the boy. 
 
 " ' What a delightful boy ! ' said Scrooge. ' It's a 
 pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck ! ' 
 
 " ' It's hanging there now,' rephed the boy. 
 
 " ' Is it ? ' said Scrooge. ' Go and buy it.' 
 
 " ' Walk-ER ! ' exclaimed the boy. 
 
 " ' No, no,' said Scrooge : ' I am in earnest. Go, and 
 buy it, and tell 'em to bring it here, that I may give 
 them the directions where to take it. Come back with 
 the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with 
 him in less than five minutes, and I'll give half a 
 crown ! ' 
 
 " The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a 
 steady hand at a trigger who could have got a shot off 
 half so fast. 
 
 " ' I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's,' whispered Scrooge, 
 rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh. ' He 
 sha'n't know who sends it. It's twice the size of Tiny 
 Tim. Joe Miller never made such a joke as sending it 
 to Bob's will be I ' 
 
262 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " The hand in which he wrote the addi-ess was not a 
 steady one; but write it he did, somehow, and went 
 down stairs to open the street door, ready for the com- 
 ing of the poulterer's man. As he stood there, waiting 
 his arrival, the knocker caught his eye. 
 
 " ' I shall love it as long as I live ! ' cried Scrooge, 
 pattuig it with his hand. ' I scarcely ever looked at it 
 before. What an honest expression it has in its face I 
 It's a wonderful knocker ! Here's the turkey. Halloo ! 
 Whoop ! How are you? Merry Christmas ! ' 
 
 " It was a turkey ! He never could have stood upon 
 his legs, that bird. He would have snapped 'em short 
 off in a minute, hke sticks of sealing-wax. 
 
 " ' Why, it's impossible to carry that to Camden 
 Town,' said Scrooge. ' You must have a cab.' 
 
 " The chuckle with which he said this, and the 
 chuckle with which he paid for the turkey, and the 
 chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle 
 with which he recompensed the boy, were only to be 
 exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down breath- 
 less in his chair again, and chuckled till he cried. 
 
 " Shaving was not an easy task : for his hand con- 
 tinued to shake very much ; and shaving requires at- 
 tention, even when you don't dance while you are at it. 
 But, if h •; had cut the end of his nose off, he would have 
 put a pie^e of sticking-plaster over it, and been quite 
 satisfied. 
 
 " He dressed himself ' aU in his best,' and at last got 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 263 
 
 out into the streets. The people were by this time 
 pouring forth, as he had seen them with the ghost of 
 Christmas Present ; and, walking with his hands behind 
 him, Scrooge regarded every one with a delightful smile. 
 He looked so irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three 
 or four good-humored fellows said, ' Good-morning, sir ! 
 A merry Christmas to you ! ' And Scrooge said often 
 afterwards, that, of all the blithe sounds he had ever 
 heard, those were the blithest in his ears. 
 
 " He had not gone far, when, coming on towards him, 
 he beheld the portly gentleman who had walked into 
 his counting-house' the day before, and said, ' Scrooge 
 and Marley's, I believe ? ' It sent a pang across his heart 
 to think how this old gentleman would look upon him 
 when they met ; but he knew what path lay straight 
 before him, and he took it. 
 
 " ' My dear sir,' said Scrooge, quickening his pace, and 
 taking the old gentleman by both his hands. ' How do 
 you do ? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very 
 kind of you. A merry Christmas to you, sir ! ' 
 
 '"Mr. Scrooge?' 
 
 " ' Yes,' said Scrooge. ' That is my name ; and I fear 
 it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your 
 pardon. And will you have the goodness ? ' — here 
 Scrooge whispered in his ear. 
 
 " ' Lord bless me ! ' cried the gentleman, as if his 
 breath were taken away. ' My dear Mr. Scrooge, are 
 you serious ? ' 
 
264 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " ' If you please,' said Scrooge. ' Not a farthing less 
 A great many back-payments are included in it, I assure. 
 Will you do me that favor ? ' 
 
 " ' My dear sir,' said the other, shaking hands with 
 him. ' I don't know what to say to such munifi ' — 
 
 " ' Don't say any thing, please,' retorted Scrooge. 
 * Come and see me. Will you come and see me ? ' 
 
 " ' I will,' cried the old gentleman. And it was clear 
 he meant to do it. 
 
 " ' Thank' ee,' said Scrooge. ' I am much obHged to 
 you. I thank you fifty times. Bless you ! ' 
 
 " He went to church, and walked about the streets, 
 and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted 
 the children on the head, and questioned beggars, and 
 looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the 
 windows, and found that every thing could yield him 
 pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk, that 
 any thing, could give him so much happiness. In the 
 afternoon, he turned his steps towards his nephew's 
 house. 
 
 " He passed the door a dozen times before he had the 
 courage to go up and knock ; but he made a dash, and 
 did it. 
 
 " ' Is your master at home, my dear ? ' said Scrooge to 
 the girl. ' Nice girl. Very.' 
 
 " ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 " ' Where is he, my love ? ' said Scrooge. 
 
 " ' He's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress. 
 I'll show you up stairs, if you please.' 
 
CHARLES lUCKENS. 265 
 
 " ' Thank'ee. He knows me,' said Scrooge, with his 
 hand akeady on the dining-room lock. ' I'll go in here, 
 my dear.' 
 
 " He turned it gently, and sidled his face in round 
 the door. They were looking at the table (which was 
 spread out in great array) ; for these young housekeep- 
 ers are always nervous on such points, and like to see 
 that every thing is right. 
 
 " ' Fred ! ' said Scrooge. 
 
 " Dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage started I 
 Scrooge had forgotten, for the moment, about her sitting 
 in the corner with the footstool, or he wouldn't have 
 done it, on any account. 
 
 " ' Why, bless my soul ! ' cried Fred. ' Who's that ? ' 
 
 " ' It's I, — your Uncle Scrooge. I have come to din- 
 ner. Will you let me in, Fred ? ' 
 
 " Let him in ! It's a mercy he didn't shake his arm 
 off. He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could 
 be heartier. His niece looked just the same. So did 
 Topper when he came. So did the plump sister when 
 she came. So did every one when they came. Wonder- 
 ful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, won- 
 derful happiness. 
 
 " But he was early at the office next morning. Oh I 
 he was early there. If he could only be there first, and 
 catch Bob Cratchit coming late ! — that was the thing he 
 had set his heart upon. 
 
 " Aod he did it ; yes, he did ! The clock struck nine. 
 
266 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 No Bob. A quarter past. No Bob. He was full eigh- 
 teen minutes and a half behind his time. Scrooge sat 
 with his door wide open, that he might see him come 
 into the Tank. 
 
 " His hat was off before he opened the door ; his 
 comforter too. He was on his stool in a jiffy, driving 
 away with his pen as if he were tr}dng to overtake nine 
 o'clock. 
 
 " ' Halloo ! ' growled Scrooge in his accustomed voice, 
 as near as he corQd feign it. ' What do you mean by 
 coming here at this time of day ? * 
 
 " ' I am very sorry, sir,' said Bob. ' I am behind my 
 time.' 
 
 " ' You are ! ' repeated Scrooge. ' Yes, I think you 
 are. Step this way, sir, if you please.' 
 
 " It's only once a year, su-,' pleaded Bob, appearing 
 from the Tank. ' It shall not be repeated. I was mak- 
 ing rather merry, yesterday, sir.' 
 
 " ' Now, I tell you what, my friend,' said Scrooge. 
 * I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer ; 
 and therefore,' he continued, leaping from his stool, and 
 giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered 
 back into the Tank again, — ' and therefore I am about 
 to raise your salary ! ' 
 
 " Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. 
 He had a momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down 
 with it, holding him, and calUng to the people in the 
 court for help and a strait-waistcoat. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 267 
 
 " ' A merry Christmas, Bob I ' said Scrooge, with an 
 earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped 
 him on the back. ' A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good 
 fellow, than I have given you for many a year ! I'll 
 raise your salary, and endeavor to assist your struggling 
 family ; and we will discuss your affairs this very after- 
 noon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob ! 
 Make up the tires, and buy another coal-scuttle, before 
 you dot another i, Bob Cratchit ! * 
 
 " Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, 
 and infinitely more ; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, 
 he was a second father. He became as good Ti friend, 
 as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old 
 city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough 
 in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the 
 alteration in him : but he let them laugh, and little heed- 
 ed them ; for he Avas wise enough to know that nothing 
 ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some 
 people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset ; 
 and, knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, 
 he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up 
 their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive 
 forms. His own heart laughed ; and that was quite 
 enough for him. 
 
 " He had no further intercourse with spirits, but lived 
 upon the total-abstinence principle ever afterwards ; 
 and it was always said of him, that he knew how to 
 keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the 
 
f68 LIFE AND WRITINGS OJr 
 
 knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of 
 us ! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, ' God bless us, 
 
 The following is from " The Chimes," and conveys a 
 Bolemn lesson to the soul : — 
 
 " This was the belfry, where the ringerb came. He 
 had caught hold of one of the frayed ropes which hung 
 down through apertures in the oaken roof. At first, he 
 started, thinking it was hair ; then trembled at the very 
 thought of waking the deep bell. The bells themselves 
 were higher. Higher, Trotty, in his fascination, or in 
 working out the spell upon him, groped his way, — by 
 ladders new and toilsomely ; for it was steep, and not too 
 certain holding for the feet. 
 
 " Up, up, up ; and climb and clamber : up, up, up, — 
 higher, higher, higher up ! 
 
 " Until, ascending through the floor, and pausing with 
 his head just raised above its beams, he came among the 
 bells. It was barely possible to make out their great 
 shapes in the gloom ; but there they were, shadowy 
 and dark and dumb. 
 
 " A heavy sense of dread and loneliness fell instantly 
 upon him as he climbed into this airy nest of stone and 
 metal. His head went round and round. He listened, 
 and theu raised a wild ' Halloo ! ' 
 
 " ' Halloo I ' was mournfully protracted by the echoes. 
 
Charles dickens. 269 
 
 " Giddy, confused, and out of breath, and frightened, 
 Trott}' looked about him vacantly, and sunk down in a 
 swoon. 
 
 " Black are the brooding clouds, and troubled the deep 
 wfiters, when the sea of thought, first heaving from a 
 calm, gives up its dead. Monsters uncouth and wild 
 arise in premature, imperfect resurrection ; the several 
 parts and shapes of different things are joined and mixed 
 by chance : and when and how, and by what wonderful 
 degrees, each separates from each, and every sense and 
 object of the mind resumes its usual form, and lives 
 again, no man — though erevy man is every day the 
 casket of this type of the great mystery — can tell. 
 
 "• So when and how the darkness of the night-black 
 steeple changed to shining light ; when and how the soli- 
 tary tower was peopled with a myriad figures ; when 
 and how the whispered ' Haunt and liunt him,' breathing 
 monotonously through his sleep or swoon, became a voice 
 exclaiming in the waldng ears of Trotty, ' Break his 
 slumbers ; ' when and how he ceased to have a sluggish 
 and confused idea that such things were companioning 
 a host of others that were not, — there are no dates or 
 means to tell. But awake, and standing on his feet 
 upon the boards where he had lately lain, he saw this 
 goblin sight. 
 
 " He saw the tower, whither his charmed footsteps had 
 brought him, swarming with dwarf phantoms, spirits, 
 elfin creatures of the bells. He saw them leaping, flying, 
 
270 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 dropping, pouring, from the bells without a pause. HtJ 
 saw them round him on the ground, above him in the 
 air, clambering from him by the ropes below, looldng 
 down upon him from the massive iron-girded beams, 
 peeping in upon him through the chinks and loopholes 
 in the walls, spreading away and away from him in en- 
 larging circles, as the water-ripples give place to a huge 
 stone that suddenly comes plashing in among them. He 
 saw them of all aspects and all shapes ; he saw them 
 ugly, handsome, crippled, exquisitely formed ; he saw 
 them young ; he saw them old ; he saw them kind ; he 
 saw them cruel ; he saw them merry ; he saw them grin ; 
 he saw them dance, and heard them sing ; he saw them 
 tear their hair, and heard them howl ; he saw the air 
 thick with them ; he saw them come and go incessant- 
 ly ; he saw them riding downward, soaring upward, 
 sailing off afar, perching near at hand, — all restless, and 
 all violently active. Stone and brick and slate and tile 
 became transparent to him as to them. He saw them in 
 the houses, busy at the sleepers' beds ; he saw them 
 soothing people in their dreams ; he saw them beating 
 them with knotted whips ; he saw them j^elling in their 
 ears ; he saw them playing softest music on their pillows ; 
 he saw them cheering some with the songs of birds and 
 the perfume of flowers ; he saw them iiashing awful 
 faces on the troubled rest of others, from enchanted 
 mirrors which they carried in their hands. 
 
 " He saw these creatures, not only among sleeping 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 271 
 
 men, but waking also ; active in pursuits irreconcilable 
 with one another, and possessing or assuming natures 
 the most opposite. He saw one buckling on innumera- 
 ble wings to increase his speed, another loading him- 
 self with chains and weights to retard his. He saw 
 some putting the hands of clocks forward, some putting 
 the hands of clocks backward, some endeavoring to stop 
 the clock entirely. He saw them representing, here a 
 marriage-ceremony, there a funeral ; in this chamber an 
 election, in that a ball. He saw, everywhere, restless 
 and untiring motion. 
 
 " Bewildered by the host of shifting and extraordinary 
 figures, as well as by the uproar of the bells, which all 
 this while were ringing, Trotty clung to a wooden pillar 
 for support, and turned his white face here and there 
 in mute and stunned astonishment. 
 
 " As he gazed, the chime stopped. Instantaneous 
 change ! The whole swarm fainted : their forms col- 
 lapsed, their speed deserted them, they sought to fly, 
 but, in the act of falling, died, and melted into air. No 
 fresh supply succeeded them. One straggler leaped down 
 pretty briskly from the surface of the great beU, and 
 alighted on his feet ; but he was dead and gone before 
 he could turn round. Some few of the late company 
 who had gambolled in the tower remained there, spin- 
 ning over and over a little longer ; but these became at 
 every turn more faint and few and feeble, and soon 
 went the way of the rest. The last of all was one small 
 
272 LIFE AND WEITINGS OF 
 
 hunchback, who had got into an echoing cornt r, where 
 he twirled and twirled, and floated by himself a long 
 time ; showing such perseverance, that at last he dwin- 
 dled to a leg, and even to a foot, before he finally retired : 
 but he vanished in the end, and then the tower was silent. 
 
 " Then, and not before, did Trotty see in every bell a 
 bearded figure of the bulk and stature of the bell, — in- 
 comprehensibly, a figure and the bell itself, — gigantic, 
 grave, and darkly watchful of him, as he stood rooted 
 to the ground. 
 
 " Mysterious and awful figures, resting on nothing ; 
 poised in the night-air of the tower, with their draped 
 and hooded heads merged in the dim roof ; motionless 
 and shadowy, — shadowy and dark, although he saw 
 them by some light belonging to themselves (none else 
 was there), each with its muffled hand upon its goblin 
 inouth. 
 
 " He could not plunge down wildly through the open- 
 ing in the floor ; for all power of motion had deserted 
 him : otherwise he would have done so, — ay, would 
 liave thrown himself head foremost from the steeple- 
 top, rather than have seen them watching him with eyes 
 I hat would have waked and watched, although the pupils 
 liad been taken out. 
 
 " Again, again, the dread and terror of the lonely 
 place, and of the wild and fearful night that reigned 
 tliore, touched him like a spectral hand. His distance 
 from all help ; the long, dark, winding, ghost-beleaguered 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 273 
 
 way that lay between him and the earth on which men 
 lived ; his being high, high, high, up there, where it had 
 made him dizzy to see the birds fly in the day, cut off h'om 
 all good people, who at such an hour were safe at home, 
 and sleeping in thek beds, — all this struck coldly through 
 liim, not as a reflection, but a bodily sensation. Mean- 
 time his eyes and thoughts and fears were fixed upon 
 the watchful figures, which, rendered unlike any figures 
 of this world by the deep gloom and shade inwrapping 
 and infolding them, as well as by their looks and forms, 
 and supernatural hovering above the floor, were, never- 
 theless, as plainly to be seen as were the stalwart oaken 
 frames, cross-pieces, bars, and beams set up there to 
 support the bells. These hemmed them in a very forest 
 of hewn timber, from the entanglements, intricacies, 
 and depths of which, as from among the boughs of a dead 
 wood blighted for their phantom use, they kept their 
 darksome and unwinking watch. 
 
 " A blast of air — how cold and shrill ! — came moan- 
 ing through the tower. As it died away, the great bell, 
 or the goblin of the great bell, spoke. 
 
 " ' What visitor is this ? ' it said. The voice was low 
 and deep ; and Trotty fancied that it sounded in the 
 other figures as well. 
 
 " ' I thought my name was called by the chimes,' 
 said Trotty, raising his hands in an attitude of supplica- 
 tion. ' I hardly know why I am here, or how I came. 
 I have lisicued to the chimes these many years. They 
 have cheered me often.' 
 
274 LIFE AND WRITINGS Off* 
 
 " ' And you have thanked them ? ' said the bell. 
 
 " ' A thousand times ! ' cried Trotty. 
 
 "'How?' 
 
 " ' I am a poor man,' faltered Trotty, ' and could Dnly 
 thank them in words.' 
 
 " ' And always so ? ' inquired the goblin of the bell. 
 ' Have you never done us wrong in words ? ' 
 
 " ' No ! ' cried Trotty eagerly. 
 
 " ' Never done us foul and false and wicked wrong in 
 words ? ' pursued the goblin of the bell. 
 
 " Trotty was about to answer, ' Never ! ' But he 
 stopped, and was confused. 
 
 " ' The voice of Time,' said the phantom, ' cries to 
 man. Advance ! Time is for his advancement and im- 
 provement, for his greater worth, his greater happiness, 
 his better life, his progress onward to that goal within 
 its knowledge and its view, and set there in the period 
 when Time and he began. Ages of darkness, wicked- 
 ness, and violence, have come and gone, millions un- 
 countable, have suffered, lived, and died, to point 
 the way before him. Who seeks to turn him back, or 
 stay him on his course, arrests a mighty engine which 
 will strike the meddler dead, and be the fiercer and the 
 wilder ever for its momentary check.' 
 
 " ' I never did so to my knowledge, sir,' said Trotty. 
 ' It was quite by accident if I did. I wouldn't go to do 
 it, I'm sure.' 
 
 " * Who puts into the mouth of Time, or of its ser- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 275 
 
 vants,' said the goblin of the bell, ' a cry of lamentation 
 for days which have had their trial and their failure, and 
 have left deep traces of it w^hich the blind may see, — a 
 cry that only serves the present time, by showing men 
 how much it needs their help when any ears can listert 
 to regrets for such a past, — who does this, does a wrong. 
 And you have done that wrong to us, the chimes.' 
 
 " Trotty's first excess of fear was gone. But he had 
 felt tenderly and gratefully towards the bells, as you 
 have seen ; and, when he heard himself arraigned as one 
 who had offended them so weightily, his heart was 
 touched with penitence and grief. 
 
 " ' If you knew,' said Trotty, clasping his hands ear- 
 nestly, — ' or perhaps you do know, — if you knew how 
 often you have kept me company, how often 3'ou have 
 cheered me up when I've been low, how you were quite 
 the plaything of my little daughter INIeg (almost the only 
 one she ever had) when first her mother died, and she 
 and me were left alone, you won't bear malice for a 
 hasty word ! ' 
 
 " ' Who hears in us, the chimes, one note bespeaking 
 disregard, or stern regard, of any hope or joy or pain 
 01 sorrow of the many-sorrowed throng ; who hears us 
 make response to any creed that gauges human passions 
 and affections as it gauges the amount of miserable food 
 on which humanity may pine and wither, — does us 
 wrong. That wrong you have done us,' said the bell. 
 
 " ' I have I ' said Trotty. ' Oh, forgive me ! ' 
 
276 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " ' Who hears us echo the dull vermin of the earth ; 
 the putters-down of crushed and broken natures, formed 
 to be raised up higher than such maggots of the time 
 can crawl or can conceive,' pursued the goblin of the 
 bell, — ' who does so, does us wrong. And 3'ou have 
 done us wrong.' 
 
 " ' Not meaning it,' said Trotty. ' In my ignorance. 
 Not meaning it I ' 
 
 " ' Lastly, and most of all," pursued the bell, ' who 
 tui-ns his back upon the fallen and disfigured of his 
 kind, abandons them as \'ile, and does not trace and 
 track with pitying eyes the unfenced precipice by wliich 
 they fell from good, — grasping in their fall some tufts 
 and shi-eds of that lost soil, and clinging to them still 
 when bruised and dying in the gulf below, — does wrong 
 to Heaven and man, to time, and to eternity. And you 
 have done that wrong.'" 
 
 From the opening pages of the sweet fauy-tale of 
 home, " The Cricket on the Hearth," the following is 
 taken : — 
 
 " The kettle began it ! Don't tell me what Mrs. 
 Peerybingle said. I know better. Mrs. Peerybingle 
 may leave it on record to the end of time that she 
 couldn't say which of them began it ; but I say the 
 kettle did. I ought to know, I hope. The kettle be- 
 gan it full five minutes by the little waxy-faced Dutch 
 clock in the corner before the cricket uttered a chirp. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 27T 
 
 " As if the clock hadn't finished striking, and the 
 convulsive little haymaker at the top of it, jerking 
 a^aj right and left with a scythe in front of a Moorish 
 palace, hadn't mowed down half an acre of imaginary 
 grass before the cricket joined in at all ! 
 
 " ^\Tiy, I am not naturally positive. Every one knows 
 that. I wouldn't set my own opinion against the opinion 
 of Mi-s. Peerybingle, unless I were quite sure, on any ac- 
 count whatever. Nothing should induce me ; but this 
 is a question of fact. And the fact is, that the kettle 
 began it, at least five minutes before the cricket gave 
 any sign of being in existence. Contradict me, and I'll 
 say ten. 
 
 " Let me narrate exactly how it happened. I should 
 have proceeded to do so in my very first word, but for 
 this plain consideration. — if I am to tell a story, I must 
 begin at the beginning ; and how is it possible to begin 
 at the beginning without beginning at the kettle ? 
 
 " It appeared as if there were a sort of match, or trial 
 of skill, you must understand, between the kettle and 
 the cricket. And this is what led to it, and how it 
 came about. 
 
 " Mrs. Peerybingle, going out into the raw twiliglit, 
 and clicking over the wet stones in a pair of pattens 
 that worked innumerable rough impressions of the fii'st 
 proposition in Euclid all about the yard, — Mrs. Peery- 
 bingle filled the kettle at the water-butt. Presently re- 
 turning, less the pattens (and a good deal less ; for they 
 
•2~S> LIFE A>'D 'WRITINGS OF 
 
 were tall, and Mrs. Peerybingle was but short), she set 
 the kettle on the fire ; in doing which, she lost her tem- 
 per, or mislaid it for an instant ; for the water, being 
 uncomfortably cold, and in that shppy, slushy, sleety 
 sort of state wherein it seems to penetrate through 
 everv kind of substance, patten-rings included, had 
 laid hold of Mrs. Peerybingle's toes, and even splashed 
 her legs. And when we rather plume ourselves (with 
 reason too) upon our legs, and keep ourselves particu- 
 larlv neat in point of stockings, we find this, for the 
 moment, hard to bear. 
 
 •• Besides, the kettle was aggravating and obstinate. 
 Ii wouldn't allow itself to be adjusted on the top bar ; 
 ii wouldn't hear of accommodating itself kindly to the 
 knobs of coal : it would lean forward with a drunken air, 
 and dribble — a very idiot of a kettle — on the hearth ; 
 it was quarrelsome, and hissed and spluttered morosely 
 at the fire. To sum up all, the lid, resisting Mrs. Peery- 
 bingle"s fingers, first of all turned topsy-turv}-, and then, 
 with an ingenious pertinacity deserving of a better cause, 
 dived sideways in, — down to the very bottom of the 
 kettle. And the hull of ' The Royal George,' has never 
 made haK the monstrous resistance to coming out of the 
 water which the hd of that kettle employed against 
 Mi's. Peerybingle before she got it up again. 
 
 " It looked sullen and pig-headed enough, even then ; 
 carrying its handle with an air of defiance, and cocking 
 its spout pertly and mockingly at Mi-s. Peerybingle, 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 27P 
 
 as if it said. ' I won't boil. Xothing shall iDduce 
 me !' 
 
 " But Mrs. Peerybingle, with restored good-humor, 
 dusted her chubby httle hands against each other, and 
 sat down before the kettle, laughing. Meantime, the 
 jolly blaze uprose and fell, flashing and gleaming on the- 
 little haymaker at the top of the Dutch clock, until one 
 might have thought he stood stock still before the Moor- 
 ish palace, and nothing was in motion but the flame. 
 
 " He was on the move, however, and had his spasms, 
 two to the second, all right and regular. But his suffer- 
 ings when the clock was goiug to strike were frightful 
 to behold ; and when a cuckoo looked out of a trap- 
 door in the palace, and gave note six times, it shook 
 him, each time, Uke a spectral voice, — or like a some- 
 thing wiry, plucking at his legs. 
 
 " It was not imtil a violent commotion, and a whir- 
 ring noise among the weights and ropes below him, had 
 quite subsided, that this terrified haymaker became 
 himself again. Nor was he startled without reason ; 
 for these rattling, bony skeletons of clocks are very dis- 
 concerting ill their operation, and I wonder very much 
 how any set of men. but, most of all, how Dutchmen, 
 can have had a liking to invent them. There is a popu- 
 lar belief that Dutchmen love broad cases, and much 
 clothing for their own lower selves : and they might 
 know better than to leave their clocks so very lank and 
 unprotected surely. 
 
280 LIFE AND WETTINGS OF 
 
 " Now it was, you observe, that the kettle began to 
 spend the evening. Now it was, that the kettle, grow- 
 ing mellow and musical, began to have irrepressible 
 gurglings in its throat, and to indulge in short vocal 
 snorts, which it checked in the bud, as if it hadn't quite 
 made up its mind yet to be good company. Now it 
 was, that, after two or three such vain attempts to stifle 
 its convivial sentiments, it threw off all moroseness, all 
 reserve, and burst into a stream of song so cosey and 
 hilarious, as never maudlin nightiugale yet formed the 
 least idea of. 
 
 " So plain too ! Bless you, you might have under- 
 stood it like a book, — better than some books you and 
 I could name, perhaps. With its warm breath gushing 
 forth in a light cloud which merrily and gracefully as- 
 cended a few feet, then hung about the chimney-corner 
 as its own domestic heaven, it trolled its song with that 
 strong energy of cheerfulness, that its iron body hummed 
 and stirred upon the fire ; and the lid itself, the recent 
 rebellious lid, — such is the influence of a bright exam- 
 ple, — performed a sort of jig, and clattered like a deaf 
 and dumb young cymbal that had never known the use 
 of its twin brother. 
 
 " That this song of the kettle's was a song of invita- 
 tion and welcome to somebody out of doors, — to some- 
 body at that moment coming on towards the snug, small 
 home and the crisp fire, — there is no doubt whatever. 
 Mrs. Peerybingle knew it perfectly, as she sat musing 
 
CHARLES mCKENS. 281 
 
 before the hearth. It's a dark night, sang the kettle, 
 and the rotten leaves are lying by the way ; and, above, 
 all is mist and darkness, and, below, all is mire and 
 clay: and there's only one relief in all the sad and 
 murky air ; and I don't know that it is one ; for it's 
 nothing but a glare of deep and angry crimson, where 
 the sun and wind together set a brand upon the clouds 
 for being guilty of such weather ; and the widest open 
 country is a long, dull streak of black ; and there's hoar- 
 frost on the finger-post, and thaw upon the track ; and 
 the ice it isn't water, and the water isn't free ; and you 
 couldn't say that anj^ thing is what it ought to be. But 
 he's coming, coming, coming ! — 
 
 " And here, if you like, the cricket did chime in 
 with a chirrup, chirrup, chirrup, of such magnitude, by 
 way of chorus ; with a voice so astoundingly dispropor- 
 tionate to its »size, as compared with the kettle, (size ! 
 you couldn't see it ! ) that if it had then and there 
 burst itself like an overcharged gun, if it had fallen a 
 victim on the spot, and chirruped its little body into fifty 
 pieces, it would have seemed a natural and inevitable 
 consequence, for which it had expressly labored. 
 
 " The kettle had had the last of its solo performance. 
 It persevered with undiminished ardor ; but the cricket 
 took first fiddle, and kept it. Good heaven, how it 
 chirped ! Its shrill, sharp, piercing voice resounded 
 through the house, and seemed to twinkle in the outer 
 darkness like a star. There was an indescribable littla 
 
282 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 trill and tremble in it at its loudest, which suggested its 
 being carried off its legs, and made to leap again, by its 
 own intense enthusiasm. Yet they went very well to- 
 g^ether, the cricket and the kettle'. The burden of the 
 song was still the same ; and louder, louder, louder still, 
 they sang it in their emulation. 
 
 " The fair little listener — for fair she was, and young, 
 though something of what is called the dumpling shape ; 
 but I don't myself object to that — lighted a candle, 
 glanced at the haymaker on the top of the clock, who 
 was getting in a pretty average crop of minutes, and 
 looked out of the window, where she saw nothing, owing 
 to the darkness, but her own face imaged in the glass. 
 And my opinion is (and so would yours have been) 
 that she might have looked a long way, and seen noth- 
 ing half so agreeable. When she came back, and sat 
 down in her former seat, the cricket and the kettle were 
 still keeping it up with a perfect fury of competition ; 
 the kettle's weak side clearly being, that he didn't 
 know when he was beat. 
 
 • There was all the excitement of a race about it. 
 Chirp, chirp, chirp ! Cricket a mil« ahead. Hum, hum, 
 hum — m — m! Kettle making play in the distance, 
 like a great top. Chirp, chirp, chirp ! Cricket round 
 the corner. Hum, hum, hum — m — m ! Kettle stick 
 ing to him in his own way, — no idea of giving in. 
 Chirp, chirp, chirp ! Cricket fresher than ever. Hum, 
 hum, hum — m — m ! Kettle slow and steady. Chirp. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 288 
 
 chirp, chirp ! Cricket going in to finish him. Hum, 
 hum, hum — m — m ! Kettle not to be finished. Until 
 at last, they got so jumbled together in the hurrj^-skur- 
 ry, helter-skelter, of the match, that whether the ket- 
 tle chirped and the cricket hummed, or the cricket 
 chirped and the kettle hummed, or they both chirped 
 and both hummed, it would have taken a clearer head 
 than yours or mine to have decided with any thing like 
 certainty. But of this there is no doubt, — that the 
 kettle and the cricket, at one and the same moment, and 
 by some power of amalgamation best known to them- 
 selves, sent each his fireside song of comfort streaming 
 into a ray of the candle that shone out through the win- 
 dow, and a long way down the lane. And this light, 
 bursting on a certain person, who, on the instant, ap- 
 proached towards it through the gloom, expressed the 
 whole thing to him, literally in a twinkling, and cried, 
 ' Welcome home, old fellow ! Welcome home, my 
 boy!" 
 
 " Tliis end attained, the kettle, being dead beat, 
 boiled over, and was taken off the fire." 
 
 One brief passage from " The Battle of Life " is all 
 which can here be given ; but this is significant in a time 
 like this nineteenth century, fi-aught with " wars, and 
 rumors of wars," on the battle-fields of the Old World 
 and the New, and more full than ever of moral conflicts 
 and victories. 
 
284 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " ' I've a great mind to say it's a ridiculous world 
 altogether, and there's nothing serious in it," observed 
 the poor old doctor. 
 
 " ' You might take twenty affidavits of it, if you chose, 
 Anthony," said his sister ; ' but nobody would believe 
 you with such eyes as those.' 
 
 " ' It's a world full of hearts,' said the doctor, hugging 
 his younger daughter, and bending across her to hug 
 Grace (for he couldn't separate the sisters), ' and a 
 serious world, with all its folly, — even with mine, which 
 was enough to have swamped the whole globe ; and it 
 is a world on which the sun never rises but it looks 
 upon a thousand bloodless battles that are some set-off 
 against the miseries and wickedness of battle-fields ; and 
 it is a world we need be careful how Ave libel, — Heaven 
 forgive us ! — for it is a world of sacred mysteries ; and 
 its Creator only knows what lies beneath the surface of 
 his lightest image." 
 
 This chapter, though already so long, cannot be closed 
 without a few words from " The Haunted Man," whicli 
 are dear to all those parents who have angels in the 
 skies ; who say with " Mabelle," * that — 
 
 " In that land where sin can ne'er defile, 
 There waits for me this joy, — 
 To find, amid that bright and glittering host, 
 My angel blue-eyed boy. 
 
 • Mrs. Moses G. Farmer. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 285 
 
 A little wave thrown on the sea of life, 
 
 But not its storms to breast ; 
 Only a day to struggle with the tide, 
 
 And then to be at rest." 
 
 " In the few moments that elapsed while Milly silently 
 took him to the gate, the chemist dropped into his chair, 
 and covered his face with his hands. Seeing him thut^ 
 when she came back, accompanied by her husband and 
 his father (who were both greatly concerned for him), 
 she avoided disturbing him, or permitting him to be dis- 
 turbed, and kneeled down near the chair to put some 
 warm clothing on the boy. 
 
 " ' That's exactly where it is : that's what I always 
 say, father,' exclaimed her admiring husband, — ' there's 
 a motherly feeling in Mrs. William's breast that must 
 and will have went ! ' 
 
 " ' Ay, ay,' said the old man : ' you're right. My son 
 William's right.' 
 
 " ' It happens all for the best, Milly dear, no doubt,' 
 said Mr. William tenderly, ' that we have no children 
 of our own ; and yet I sometimes wish you had one 
 to love and cherish. Our httle dead child that joi 
 built such ho]3es upon, and that never breathed the 
 breath of life, — it has made you quiet-like. Mill}'.' 
 
 " ' I am very happy in the recollection of it,' William 
 dear,' she answered. ' I think of it every day.' 
 
 " ' I was afraid you thought of it a good deal.' 
 
 *' ' Don't say afraid. It is a comfort to me, it speaks 
 
286 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 to me in so many different ways. The innocent tMng 
 that never lived on earth is like an angel to me, Wil- 
 liam.' 
 
 " ' You are like an angel to father and me,' said Mr. 
 William softly. ' I know that.' 
 
 ■'• 'When I think of all those hopes I built upon it, 
 and tJie many times I sat and pictured to myself the 
 little smiling face upon my bosom that never lay there, 
 and the sweet eyes turned up to mine that never opened 
 to the light,' said Milly, ' I can feel a greater tenderness, 
 I think, for all the disappointed hopes in which there is 
 no harm. When I see a beautiful child in its fond 
 mother's arms, I love it all the better, thinking that my 
 child might have been like that, and might have made 
 my heart as proud and happy.' 
 
 " Redlaw raised his head, and looked towards her. 
 
 " ' All through life, it seems by me,' she continued, 
 ' to tell me something. For poor neglected children, 
 my little child pleads as if it were alive, and had a 
 voice I knew, with which to speak to me. When I hear 
 of youth in suffering or shame, I think that my child 
 might have come to that, perhaps, and that God took it 
 from me in his mercy. Even in age and gray haii', such 
 us father's, it is present, saj^ing that it, too, might have 
 lived to be old, long and long after you and I were gone, 
 and to have needed the respect and love of younger 
 people.' 
 
 '• Her q^uiet voice was quieter than ever as she took 
 her husband's arm, and laid her head against it. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 287 
 
 " ' Children love me so, that sometimes I half fancy — 
 it's a silly fancy, William — thej' have some way I don't 
 know of, of feeling for my little cliild and me, and un- 
 derstanding wliy their love is precious to me. If I have 
 been quiet since, I liave been more happy, WiUiani, 
 in a hundred ways; not least happy, dear, in this, 
 that even when my little child was born and dead but 
 a few days, and I was weak and sorrowful, and could 
 not help grieving a little, the thought arose, that, if I 
 tried to lead a good life, I should meet in heaven a 
 bright creature who would call me mother.' 
 
 " Redlaw fell upon his knees with a loud cry. 
 
 " ' O Thou,' he said, ' who, through the teaching of 
 pure love, hast graciously restored me to the memor}' 
 which was the memory of Christ upon the cross, and of 
 aU the good who perished in his cause, receive my 
 thanks, and bless her I " 
 
 " Then he folded her to his heart ; and Milly, sobbing 
 more than ever, cried, as she laughed, ' He is come back 
 to himself I He likes me very much indeed too I Oh, 
 dear, dear, dear me, here's another ! ' 
 
 " Then the student entered, leading by the hand a 
 lovely girl, who was afraid to come. And Redlaw, so 
 changed towards him, seeing in him and in his youthful 
 choice the softened shadow of that chastening passage 
 in his own life, to which, as to a shady tree, the dove so 
 long imprisoned in his solitary ark might fly for rest and 
 company, feU upon his neck, entreating them to be his 
 children. 
 
•288 LIFE AN]> WRITINGS OF 
 
 " Then, as Christmas is a time in which, of all times 
 in the year, the memory of every remediable sorrow, 
 wrong, and trouble in the world around us, should be 
 active with us, not less than our own experiences for all 
 good, he laid his hand upon the boy, and silently call- 
 ing Him to witness who laid his hand on children in old 
 time, rebuldng, in the majesty of his prophetic knowl- 
 edge, those who kept them from him, vowed to protect 
 him, teach him, and reclaim him." 
 
 No wonder, that, after reading these sweet Christmas- 
 carols, the Rev. Mr. Murray thus apostrophized the de- 
 parted author, and that tens of thousands echo his 
 words : — 
 
 " Nevermore will the bells ring at Christmas Eve but 
 that to me a- note of sadness will mingle with their 
 chimes : for he who taught the world the lesson of the 
 festival ; who, using it as a text, preached as no pulpit 
 ever preached, a sermon of charity and love ; the hand 
 that touched the bells of England, and made the whole 
 world melodious with Christian chimes, — is cold and 
 motionless forever. Farewell, gentle aiAvit I thou wast 
 not perfect until now. Thou didst have thy passions, 
 and thy share of human errors ; but death has freed 
 thee. Thou art no longer trammelled. Thou art de- 
 livered out of bondage ; and thy fi'eed spirit walks in 
 glory. Though dead, thou speakest. Thy voice is 
 
CHARLES DIGKENS. 289 
 
 universal in its reach. The ages will be thy audience. 
 Thy memory will be as a growing wreath above thy 
 grave : it will take root in the soil that covers thee, 
 and with the years renew its blossoms and its leaves 
 perennially." 
 
CHAPTER TX. 
 
 WHAT ARE THE WILD WAVES SAYTNG ? 
 The Daily News. — Dombey and Son. — Death of Little Paul. 
 
 " 'Tis the voice of the great Creator 
 That dwells in that miglity tone." 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 " The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than th# 
 mighty waves of the sea." — Ps. xciii. 4. 
 
 HEN Mr. Dickens returned to London 
 from Italy, he tried the experiment of 
 publishing a daily newspaper. He gath- 
 ered about him a brilliant staff of writers, 
 of whom he was the chief, and issued on 
 Jan. 21, 1846, the first number of " The Daily News," 
 a paper liberal in its politics, and of high literary 
 character. In this paper he published a column a day 
 of his sketches from Italy. But this new speculation 
 did not prove a success, and soon passed into the hands 
 of another. The vocation of Mr. Dickens was that of 
 a novelist ; and the drudgery of a daily editor's life was 
 not so pleasant or so profitable for him. The chief 
 editor of " The Daily News " could not find time or 
 890 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 291 
 
 strength for new novels, and therefore it was well for 
 the world of readers when the novel-writer returned to 
 the vocation for which he was speciall}^ fitted ; and 
 during the years 1847 and 1848 appeared " Dealings 
 with the Firm of Dombey and Son." This interesting 
 novel was written during a sojourn in Switzerland and 
 France ; and the closing paragraph of its preface is a con- 
 fidential reminiscence which is now tenderly cherished. 
 
 " I began this book," Mr. Dickens says, after an obser- 
 vation upon the character of Mr. Dombey, " by the 
 Lake of Geneva, and went on with it for some months 
 in France. The association between the writing and 
 the place of writing is so strong in my mind, that at thia 
 day, although I know every chair in the little midship- 
 man's house, and could swear to every pew in the 
 church in which Florence was married, or to every 
 young gentleman's bedstead in Dr. Blimber's establish- 
 ment, I yet confusedly imagine Capt. Cuttle as seclud- 
 ing lumself from Mrs. Mac Stinger among the moun- 
 tains of Switzerland. Similarly, when I am reminded 
 by any chance of what it was that the waves were 
 alwaj^s saying, I wander in my fanc}' for a whole win- 
 ter night about the streets of Paris, — as I really did, 
 with a heavy heart, on the night when my little friend 
 and I parted forever.' " 
 
 Mr. Perkins, in his biography of Mr. Dickens, thus 
 
292 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 refers to " Dombey and Son," and says, that, " like 
 * Martin Chuzzlewit,' it has what may be called a distinct 
 moral unity, resulting from the shaping of the characters 
 and the story so as to teach a definite moral lesson. In 
 ' Chuzzlewit,' this lesson is the evil of selfishness ; and in 
 the combining of this one quality with all the other 
 qualities of so many of the characters, so that it colors 
 both what is good and what is bad in them, very great 
 power and skill are shown. , . . . 
 
 " The place of selfishness in ' Martin Chuzzlewit ' is 
 occupied by pride in ' Dombey and Son ; ' and although 
 the evil quality is not exhibited in so many phases and 
 persons, yet its power and its unhappy consequences are 
 developed, in the frightful strife between the ill-matched 
 Dombey and his wife, with a gloomy intensity that 
 teaches its lesson most effectively." 
 
 The account which Mr. Dickens gave of the sisterly 
 kindness of Florence Dombey has proved an incentive 
 to many a young heart, as it has felt itself called to 
 assist others in the family circle. This is it: — 
 
 " O Saturdays ! O happy Saturdays I when Flor- 
 ence always came at noon, and never would, in any 
 weather, stay away, though Mrs. Pipchin snarled and 
 growled and worried her bitterly. Those Saturdays 
 were sabbaths for at least two little Christians among 
 all the Jews, and did the holy sabbath-work of strength- 
 ening and knitting up a brother's and a sister's love. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 293 
 
 " Not even Sunday nights — the hea\y Sunday nights, 
 whose shadow darkened the fii'st waldng burst of light 
 on Sunday mornings — could mar those precious Satur- 
 days. Whether it was the great seashore, where they 
 sat and strolled together, or whether it was only Mrs. 
 Piiochin's dull back-room, in which she sang to him so 
 softly, with his drowsy head upon her arm, Paul never 
 cared. It was Florence : that was all he thought of. 
 So on Sunday nights, when the doctor's dark door stood 
 agape to swallow him up for another week, the time was 
 come for taking leave of Florence, — no one else. . . . 
 
 " Miss Nipper had returned one Sunday night with 
 Florence, from walking back witb Paul to the doc- 
 tor's, when Florence took from her bosom a little 
 piece of paper on which she had pencilled down some 
 words. 
 
 " ' See here, Susan,' she said. ' These are the names 
 of the little books that Paul brings home to do those 
 long .exercises with when he is so tired. I copied them 
 last night while he was writing.' 
 
 '• ' Don't show 'em to me, Miss Floy, if j^ou please,' 
 returned Nipper. ' I'd as soon see Mrs. Pipchin.' 
 
 "■ ' I want you to bu}- them for me, Susan, if you will, 
 to-morrow morning. I have money enough,' said Flor- 
 ence. . , . 
 
 " ' Well, miss, and why do you want 'em ? ' replied 
 Nipper ; adding, in a lower voice, ' if it was to fling at 
 Mrs. Pipchin's head, I'd buy a cart-load.' 
 
1\)4. LIFE AND WKITINGS OF 
 
 *' ' I think I could, perhaps, give Paul some help, 
 Susan, if I had these books,' said Florence, ' and make 
 the coming week a little easier to him. At least, I want 
 to try. So buy them for me, dear, and I will never for- 
 get how kind it was of you to do it.' 
 
 " It must have been a harder heart than Susan Nij)- 
 per's that could have rejected the little purse Florence 
 held out with these words, or the gentle look of entreaty 
 with which she seconded her petition. Susan put the 
 purse in her pocket without reply, and trotted out at 
 once upon her errand. 
 
 " The books were not easy to procure ; and the an- 
 swer at several shops was, either that they were just out 
 of them, or that they never kejDt them, or they had had 
 a great many last month, or that they expected a great 
 many next week. But Susan was not easily baffled in 
 such an enterprise ; and having entrapped a white- 
 haired youth, in a black calico apron, from a library 
 where she was known, to accompany her in her quest, 
 she led him such a life in going up and down, that he 
 exerted himself to the utmost, if it were only to get 
 rid of her, and finally enabled her to return home in 
 triumph. 
 
 " With these treasures, then, after her own daily les- 
 sons were over, Florence sat down at night to track 
 Paul's footsteps through the thorny ways of learning ; 
 and being possessed of a naturally quick and sound 
 capacity, and taught by that most wonderful of mas- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 295 
 
 ters, love, it was not long before she gained upon Paul's 
 heels, and caught and passed him. 
 
 " Not a word of this was breathed to Mrs. Pipchin : 
 but many a night when they were all in bed ; and when 
 Miss Nipper, with her hair in papers and herself asleep 
 in some uncomfortable attitude, reposed unconscious by 
 her side ; and when the chinking ashes in the grate were 
 cold and gray ; and when the candles were burnt down 
 and guttering out, — Florence tried so hard to be a sub- 
 stitute for one small Dombey, that her fortitude and 
 perseverance might have almost won her a free right to 
 bear the name herself. 
 
 " And high was her reward, when one Saturday even- 
 ing, as little Paul was sitting down as usual to ' resume 
 his studies,' she sat down by his side, and showed him 
 all that was so rough made smooth, and all that was so 
 dark made clear and plain before him. It was nothing 
 but a startled look in Paul's wan face, — a flush, a 
 smile, and then a close embrace ; but God knows 
 how her heart leaped up at this rich payment for her 
 trouble. 
 
 " ' O Floy I ' cried her brother. ' How I love you ! 
 How I love you, Floy ! ' 
 
 " ' And I you, dear ! ' 
 
 ",' Oh! T am sure of that, Floy.' 
 
 " He said no more about it ; but all that evening sat 
 close by her, very quiet ; and in the night he called out 
 from his little room within hers, three or four times, that 
 be loved her. 
 
296 LIFE AND WRITINGS Of 
 
 " Reg^ilarly, after that, Florence was prepared to sit 
 down with Paul on Saturday night, and patiently assist 
 him through so much as they could anticipate together 
 of his next week's work." 
 
 The chapter treating of little Paul's last hours is very 
 touching and solemn. It is as follows : — 
 
 " Paul had never risen from his little bed. He lay 
 there, listening to the noises in the street, quite tran- 
 quilly ; not caring much how the time went, but watch- 
 ing it, and watching every thing about him, with ob- 
 serving eyes. 
 
 " When the sunbeams struck into his room through 
 the rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall 
 like golden water, he knew that evening was coming on, 
 and that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflec- 
 tion died away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, 
 he watched it deepen, deepen, deepen, into night. Then 
 lie thought how the long streets were dotted with lamps, 
 and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His 
 fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river, 
 which he knew was flowing through the great city ; and 
 now he thought how black it was, and how deep it would 
 look reflecting the hosts of stars, and, more than all, 
 how steadily it rolled away to meet the sea. 
 
 "As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the 
 street became so rare that he could hear them coming, 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 297 
 
 count them as they passed, and lose them in the hollow 
 distance, he would lie and count the many-colored rings 
 around the candle, and wait patiently for day. His 
 only trouble was the swift and rapid river. He felt 
 forced, sometimes, to try to stop it, — to stem it with 
 his childish hands, or choke its way with sand ; and, 
 when he saw it coming on resistless, he cried out. But 
 a word from Florence, who was always at his side, re- 
 stored him to himself ; and, leaning his poor head upon 
 her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled. 
 When ddij began to dawn again, he watched for the 
 sun ; and, when its cheerful Hght began to sparkle in 
 the room, he pictured to himself — pictured ! he saw — the 
 high church-towers rising up into the morning sky, 
 the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, 
 the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), 
 and the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and 
 cries came by degrees into the street below ; the servants 
 in the house were roused and busy ; faces looked in at 
 the door ; and voices asked Ms attendants softly how he 
 was. Paul always answered for himself, ' I am better : 
 I am a great deal better ! thank you. Tell papa so.' By 
 little and little, he got tired of the bustle of the day, — 
 the noise of carriages and carts, and people passing and 
 repassing, — and would fall asleep, or be troubled with a 
 restless and uneasy sense again — the child could hardly 
 tell whether this were in his sleeping or waking mo- 
 ments — of that rushing rivei. 'Why will it never 
 
298 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 stop, Floy ? ' he would sometimes ask her. ' It is bearing 
 me away, I think.' 
 
 " But Floy could always soothe and re-assure him ; 
 and it was his daily delight to make her lay her head 
 down on his pillow, and take some rest. 
 
 " ' You are always watching me, Floy : let me watch 
 you now.' They would prop him up with cushions in 
 a corner of his bed; and there he would recline tho 
 while she lay beside him, bending forward oftentimes to 
 kiss her, and whispering to those who were near, that 
 she was tired, and how she had sat up so man}- nights 
 beside him. Thus the flush of the day, in its heat and 
 its light, would gradually decline ; and again the golden 
 water would be dancing on the wall. 
 
 " He was visited by as many as three grave doctors 
 (they used to assemble down stairs, and come up to- 
 gether) ; and the room was so quiet, and Paul was so 
 observant of them (though he never asked of anybody 
 what they said), that he even knew the difference in 
 the sound of their watches. But his interest centred 
 in Sir Parker Peps, who always took his seat on the 
 side of the bed. For Paul had heard them say, long 
 ago, that the gentleman had been with his mamma when 
 she clasped Florence in her arms and died ; and he could 
 not forget it now. He liked him for it. He was not 
 afraid. 
 
 " The people round him changed as unaccountably as 
 on that first night at Dr. Blimber's (except Florence j 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 299 
 
 Florence never changed) ; and what had been Sir Par- 
 ker Peps was now his father, sitting with his head upon 
 his hand. Old Mrs. Pipchin, dozing in an easy-chair, 
 often changed to Miss Fox or his aunt ; and Paul was 
 quite content to shut his eyes again, and see what hap- 
 pened next without emotion. But this figure, with its 
 head upon its hand, returned so often, and remained so 
 long, and sat so still and solemn, never speaking, never 
 being spoken to, and rarely lifting up its face, that Paul 
 began to wonder languidly if it were real, and in the 
 night-time saw it sitting there with fear. 
 
 " ' Floy,' he said, ' what is that ? ' 
 
 " ' Where, dearest ? ' 
 
 " ' There, at the bottom of the bed.' 
 
 " ' There's nothing there, except papa.' 
 
 " The figure lifted up its head, and rose, and, coming 
 to the bedside, said, ' My own boy, don't you know 
 me?' 
 
 " Paul looked it in the face, and thought, Was this 
 his father? But the face so altered, to his thinking, 
 thrilled, as he gazed, as if he were in pain ; and before he 
 could reach out both his hands to take it between them, 
 and draw it towards him, the figure turned away quickly 
 from the little bed, and went out at the door. 
 
 " Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering heart ; but 
 he knew what she was going to say, and stopped her 
 with his face against her lips. The next time he ob- 
 seived the figui-e sitting at the bottom of the bed , he 
 called to it, — 
 
800 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " ' Don't be sorry for me, dear papa ! Indeed, I am 
 quite happy ! ' 
 
 " His father, coming, and bending down to him, 
 which he did quickly, and without first pausing by the 
 bedside, Paul held him round the neck, and repeated 
 those words to him several times, and ver^^ earnestly 
 and Paul never saw him in his room at any time, 
 whether it were day or night, but he called out, ' Don't 
 be so sorry for me ! Indeed, I am quite happy ! ' This 
 was the beginning of his always saying in the morning 
 that he was a great deal better, and that they were to 
 tell his father so. 
 
 " How many times the golden water danced upon the 
 wall, how many nights the dark, dark river rolled to- 
 wards the sea in spite of him, Paul never counted, 
 never sought to know. If their kindness, or his sense 
 of it, could have increased, they were more kind, and he 
 more grateful, every day ; but whether they were many 
 days or few appeared of little moment now to the 
 gentle boy. 
 
 " One night he had been thinldng of his mother, and 
 her picture in the drawing-room down stairs, and 
 thought she must have loved sweet Florence better 
 than his father did, to have held her in her arms when 
 she thought she was dying ; for even he, her brother, 
 who had such dear love for her, could have no greater 
 wish than that. The train of thought suggested to him 
 to inquire if he had ever seen his mother ; for he could 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 301 
 
 not remember whether they had told him yes or no, the 
 river running very fast, and confusing his mind. 
 
 " ' Floy, did I ever see mamma ? ' 
 
 " ' No, darling, why ? ' 
 
 " ' Did I ever see any land of face like marmna's look- 
 ing at me when I was a baby, Floy ? ' 
 
 " He asked incredulously, as if he had some vision of 
 a face before him. 
 
 " ' Oh, yes, dear ! ' 
 
 " ' Whose, Floy ? ' 
 
 " ' Your old, old nurse's : often.' 
 
 " ' And where is my old nurse ? ' said Paul. ' Is she 
 dead too ? Floy, are we all dead except you ? ' 
 
 " There was a hurry in the room for an instant, — 
 longer, perhaps ; but it seemed no more, — then all still 
 again ; and Florence, with- her face quite colorless, but 
 smiling, held his head upon her arm. Her arm trembled 
 very much. 
 
 " ' Show me the old nurse, Floy, if you please ? ' 
 
 " ' She is not here, darlmg. She shall come to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 " ' Thank you, Floy ! ' 
 
 " Paul closed his eyes with these words, and fell asleep. 
 When he awoke, the sun was high, and the broad day 
 was clear and warm. He lay a little while, looking at 
 the windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling 
 in the air, and waving to and fro ; then he said, 
 * Floy, is it to-morrow ? Is she come ? ' 
 
302 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " Some one seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it 
 was Susan, Paul thought he heard her telling him, 
 when he closed his ejes again, that she would soon be 
 back ; but he did not open them to see. She kept her 
 word, — perhaps she had never been away ; but the 
 next thing that happened was a noise of footsteps on the 
 stairs, and then Paul woke, — woke mind and body, — 
 and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about 
 him. There was no gray mist before them, as there 
 had been sometimes in the night. He knew them every 
 one, and called them by their names. 
 
 " ' And who is this ? Is this my old nurse ? ' said 
 the child, regarding with a radiant smile a figure coming 
 in. 
 
 " Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those 
 tears at the sight of him, and called him her boy, her 
 pretty bo}^, her own poor slighted child. No other 
 woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken 
 up his wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast as 
 one who had some right to fondle it. No other woman 
 would have so forgotten everybody else but him and 
 Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. 
 
 " ' Floy, this is a kind, good face,' said Paul. ' I am 
 glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse ; stay 
 here.' 
 
 " His senses were all quickened ; and he heard a name 
 he knew. 
 
 " ' Who was that who said, '■'■ Walter " ? ' he asked, and 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 303 
 
 looked around. ' Some one said, " Walter." Is he here ? 
 I should like to see him very much.' 
 
 " Nobody replied directly ; but his father soon said to 
 Susan, ' Call him back, then ; let him come up.' After 
 a short pause of expectation, during which he looked 
 with smiling interest and wonder on his nurse, and saw 
 that she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was brought 
 into the room. His open face and manner, and his 
 cheerful eyes, had alwa3^s made him a favorite with 
 Paul ; and, when Paul saw him, he stretched out his 
 hand, and said, ' Good-by ! ' 
 
 " ' Good-by, my child ! ' cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrying 
 to his bed's head. ' Not good-by ? ' 
 
 " For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful 
 face with which he had so often gazed upon her in his 
 corner by the fire. ' Ah, yes ! ' he said placidly, ' good- 
 by ! Walter, dear, good-by ! ' turning his head to where 
 he stood, and putting out his hand again. ' Where is 
 papa ? ' 
 
 " He felt his father's breath upon his cheek before the 
 words had parted from his lips. 
 
 " ' Remember Walter, dear papa,' he whispered, look- 
 mg in his face. ' Remember Walter. I was fond of 
 Walter.' The feeble hand in the air, as if it cried 
 ' Good-by ! ' to Walter once again. 
 
 " ' Now lay me down again,' he said ; ' and, Floy, 
 come close to me, and let me see 5^ou.' 
 
 "Sister and brother wound their arms around each 
 
304 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 other ; and the golden light came streaming in, and fell 
 upon them locked together. 
 
 " ' How fast the river runs between its green banks 
 and the rushes, Floy ! But it's very near the sea. I hear 
 the waves. They always said so.' 
 
 *' Presently he told her that the motion of the boat 
 upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How green 
 the banks were now ! how bright the flowers growing on 
 them ! and how tall the rushes ! Now the boat was out 
 at sea, but gliding smoothly on ; and now there was a 
 shore before him. Who stood on the bank ? 
 
 " He put his hands together as he had been used to 
 do at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it ; 
 but they saw him fold them so behind her neck. 
 
 " ' Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face. 
 But tell them that the print upon the stairs of school is 
 not divine enough. The light about the head is shining 
 as I go.' 
 
 " The golden ripple of the wall came back again, and 
 nothing else stkred in the room. The old, old fashion, — 
 the fashion that came in with our first garments, 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, — immortality. And look upon us, angels of young 
 children, with regard not quite estranged, when the 
 Bwift river bears us to the ocean." 
 
CaARLES DICKENS. 305 
 
 The chapter containing the fpregoing is headed in the 
 novel, " What are the wild waves saying ? " 
 
 A beautiful song has been written by some one with 
 that title, which is twined with the memory of Dickens 
 and little Paul. It will fitly close this chapter. 
 
 * What are the wild waves saying, 
 
 Sister, the whole day long, 
 That ever, amid our playing, 
 
 I hear but their low, lone song ? 
 Not by the seaside only 
 
 (There it sounds wild and free) ; 
 But at night, when 'tis dark and lonely 
 
 In dreams it is still with me. 
 
 * Brother, I hear no singing. 
 
 *Tis but the rolling wave, 
 Ever its lone course winging 
 
 Over some ocean cave : 
 'Tis but the noise of water 
 
 Dashing against the shore ; 
 A wind from some bleaker quarter 
 
 Mingling with its roar. 
 
 " No : it is something greater, 
 
 That speaks to the heart alone. 
 'Tis the voice of the great Creator 
 That dwells in that mighty tone. 
 
 " Yes : but the waves seem ever 
 
 Singing the same sad thing ; 
 And vain is my weak endeavor 
 
 To guess what the surges sing. 
 90 
 
306 LIFE AND WRITINGS. 
 
 What is that voice repeating 
 Ever by night and day ? 
 
 Is it a friendly greeting, 
 
 Or a warning that calls away? 
 
 « Brother, the inland mountain, 
 
 Hath it not voice and sound ? 
 Speaks not the dripping fountain 
 
 As it bedews the ground ? 
 E'en by the household ingle, 
 
 Curtained and closed and warm, 
 Do not our voices mingle 
 
 With those of the distant storm ? 
 
 ** Yes ; but there's something greater 
 That speaks to the heart alone : 
 'Tis the voice of the great Creator 
 That dwells in that mighty tone.*^ 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 HIS MASTERPIECE. 
 
 The Reality of Rctlon. — David Copperfield. — Opinion of Fraser's Magazine 
 The Shipwreck. —Uriah Heap. —Little Em'ly. —A Lone, Lorn Creetur. 
 
 " The gnashing billows heaved and fell; 
 Wild shrieked the midnight gale; 
 Far, far beneath the morning swell 
 Were pennant, spar, and sail." 
 
 O. W. Holmes. 
 
 ' There Is sorrow on the sea."— Jer. xlix. 23. 
 
 SENSIBLE writer in " The Christian Ex- 
 aminer" for September, 1863, discusses the 
 utility and moral effect of the drama and 
 the novel ; and, according to his method 
 of argument, Charles Dickens was a bene- 
 factor to the readers of " David Copperfield," and to 
 those who have witnessed the touching drama of " Lit- 
 tle Em'ly," founded upon the same. 
 
 The story-telling and the story-reading propensity are 
 utterly indestructible ; and the following passages from 
 that excellent article on " The Reality of Fiction " show 
 where lies the danger in the literature of the imagina- 
 tion : — 
 
H08 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " This ever-increasing enlargement of the domain of 
 that imaginative literature which already exists, or is to 
 be given to the world, refutes all the fears and lamenta- 
 tions about its decay and disappearance ; as if it were 
 to be submerged and lost under the flooding sweep of a 
 despotic and universal utilitarianism ; as if He who 
 made the soul would allow its finest and most delicate 
 powers to he dormant, and rust out ; as if, under the 
 Providence which arrays the lilies, piles up the splen- 
 dors of ever-changing cloud-scenery, flashes across the 
 north and up to the zenith the mystic brilliancy of the 
 aurora, bends the rainbow-hues of hope, and garlands 
 our daily bread with flowers, — as if, under this Provi- 
 dence, so prodigal in dispensations of beauty, and ever 
 revelling in infinite forms of grace, man will be suffered 
 to degenerate into a worshipper of machinery, and an 
 idolater of the golden calf. 
 
 "When the parables are stricken from the Bible, 
 when the story of Joseph ceases to be told, and David's 
 lyrics are no longer chanted, then the curtain will fall 
 upon the- last drama, and the poet sing his last note to 
 the deaf, and the novelist write his last romance for the 
 blind. The realm of imagination to be annihilated ! — 
 why, it came into existence when order came out of 
 chaos, and was in the joyous song the morning stars 
 sang together. All races and all climes have colonized 
 it. It is the realm of the spirit, wherein the spirit often 
 lives its purest life, gets its sweetest expression, and 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 309 
 
 leiti-na to transfigure the drudgery of the work-day world. 
 It shares the spirit's immortahty, and can never cease 
 to be." 
 
 "David Copperfield" is one of the greatest of the 
 novels of Dickens. A writer in " Fraser's Magazine" 
 for December, 1850, indicates the opinion of the Eng- 
 lish concerning it. He says, " This, the last, is, in our 
 opinion, the best of all the author's fictions. The plot 
 is better contrived, and the interest more sustained, than 
 in any other. Here there is no sickly sentiment, no 
 prolix description, and scarcely a trace of exaggerated 
 passion. The author's taste has become gradually more 
 and more refined : his style has got to be more easy, 
 graceful, and natural. The principal groups are delin- 
 eated as carefully as ever ; but, instead of the elaborate 
 Dutch painting to which we had been accustomed in his 
 backg-rounds and accessories, we have now a single 
 vigorous touch here and there, which is far more artis- 
 tic and far more effective. His winds do not howl, nor 
 his seas roar, through whole chapters, as formerly: he 
 has become better acquainted with his readers, and ven- 
 tures to leave more to their imagination. This is tlic 
 first time that the hero has been made to tell his own 
 story, — a plan which generally insures something like 
 epic unity for the tale. We have several reasons for 
 suggesting that here and there, under the name of 
 *• David Copperfield,' we have been favored with pas 
 
310 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 sages from the personal history, adventures, and expe- 
 riences of Charles Dickens. Indeed, this conclusion is 
 in a manner forced upon us by the peculiar professions 
 selected for the ideal character, who is first a news- 
 paper-reporter, and then a famous novelist. There is, 
 moreover, an air of reality pervading the whole book, 
 to a degree never attained in any of his previous works, 
 and which cannot be entirely attributed to the mere form 
 of narration. . . . David Copperfield the younger was 
 born at Blunderstone, near Yarmouth, — there is really 
 a village of that name. We do not know whether 
 Charles Dickens was born there too : at all events, the 
 number and minuteness of the local details indicate 
 an intimate knowledge of and fondness for Yarmouth 
 and its neighborhood." 
 
 The only quotation from " David Copperfield " which 
 will be given here is that portion where the wreck is 
 described in language which will call up similar sights 
 to many dwellers by the sea : — 
 
 " It was broad day, — eight or nine o'clock ; the 
 storm raging in lieu of the batteries, and some one 
 knocking and calling at my door. 
 
 " ' What is the matter ?' I cried. 
 
 " * A wreck, — close by 1 ' 
 
 " I sprung out of bed, and asked, ' What wreck ? ' 
 
 *' ' A schooner from Spain or Portugal, laden with 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 311 
 
 fruit and wine. Make haste, sir, if you want to see lier ! 
 It's thought, down on the beach, she'll go to pieces every 
 moment.' 
 
 " The excited voice went clamoring along the stair- 
 case ; and I wrapped myself in my clothes as quickly as 
 I could, and ran into the street. 
 
 " Numbers of people were there before me, all run- 
 ning in one direction, — to the beach. I ran the same 
 way, outstripping a good many, and soon came facing 
 the wild sea. 
 
 " The wind might by this time have lulled a little, 
 though not more sensibly than if the cannonading I had 
 dreamed of had been diminished by the silencing of half 
 a dozen guns out of hundreds. But the sea, having 
 upon it the additional agitation of the whole night, was 
 infinitely more terrific than when I had seen it last. 
 Every appearance it had then presented bore the ex- 
 pression of being swelled ; and the height to Avhich the 
 breakers rose, and, looldng over one another, bore one 
 another down, and rolled in in interminable hosts, was 
 most appalling. 
 
 " In the diflQculty of hearing any tiling but wind and 
 waves, and in the crowd, and the unspeakable confu- 
 sion, and my first breathless efforts to stand against 
 the weather, I was so confused, that I looked out to sea 
 for the wreck, and saw nothing but the foaming heads 
 of the great waves. A half-dressed boatman standing 
 next me pointed with his bare arm (a tattooed arrow od 
 
312 LIFE AND WKITINGS OF 
 
 it pointing in the same direction) to the left. Then, O 
 great Heaven ! I saw it close in upon us. 
 
 " One mast was broken short off six or eight feet from 
 the deck, and lay over the side, entangled in a maze 
 of sails and rigging; and all that ruin, as the ship 
 rolled and beat, — which she did without a moment's 
 pause, and with a violence quite inconceivable, — beat 
 the side as if it would stave it in. Some efforts were 
 even then being made to cut this portion of the wreck 
 away ; for as the ship, which was broadside on, turned 
 towards us in her rolling, I plainly descried her peo- 
 ple at work with axes, — especially one active figure with 
 long curling hair, conspicuous among the rest. But a 
 great cry, which was audible even above the wind and 
 water, rose from the shore at this moment. The sea, 
 sweeping over the rolUng wreck, made a clean breach, 
 and carried men, spars, casks, planks, bulwarks, heaps of 
 such toys, into the boiling surge. 
 
 " The second mast was yet standing, with the rags 
 of a rent sail, and a wild confusion of broken cordage 
 flapping to and fro. 'The ship had struck once,' the 
 same boatman hoarsely said in my ears, ' and then lifted, 
 and struck again.' I understood him to add, that she 
 was parting amidships ; and I could readily suppose so, 
 for the rolhng and beating were too tremendous for 
 any human work to suffer long. As he spoke, there 
 was another great cry of pity from the beach : four 
 men arose with the wreck out of the deep, clinging to 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 313 
 
 the rigging of the remaining mast, — uppermost, the 
 active figure with the curling hair. 
 
 " There was a bell on board ; and as the ship rolled 
 and dashed, like a desperate creature driven mad, — now 
 showing us the whole sweep of her deck, as she turned 
 on her beam-ends towards the shore ; now nothing but 
 her keel, as she sprang wildly over, and turned towards 
 the sea, — the bell rang ; and its sound, the knell of those 
 unhappy men, was borne towards us on the wind. 
 Again we lost her, and again she rose. Two men were 
 gone. The agony on the shore increased ; men groaned, 
 and clasped their hands ; women shrieked, and turned 
 away their faces. Some ran wildly up and down along 
 the beach, crying for help where no help could be. I 
 found myself one of these, frantically imploring a knot 
 of sailors whom I knew, not to let those two lost crea- 
 tures perish before our eyes. 
 
 " They were making out to me in an agitated way, — I 
 don't know how ; for the little I could hear I was 
 scarcely composed enough to understand, — that the 
 life-boat had been bravely manned an hour ago, and 
 could do nothing ; and that, as no man would be so 
 desperate as to attempt to wade off with a rope, and 
 establish a communication with the shore, there was 
 nothing left to try : when I noticed that some new 
 sensation moved the people on the beach, and saw them 
 part, and Ham come brealdng through them to the front. 
 I ran to him, as well as I know, to repeat my appeal foi 
 
314 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 help. But distracted though I was by a sight so new to 
 me, and terrible, the determination in his face, and his 
 look out to sea, — exactly the same look as I remem- 
 bered in connection with the morning after Em'ly's 
 flight, — awoke me to a knowledge of his danger. I 
 held him back with both arins, and implored the men 
 with whom I had been speaking not to listen to him, 
 not to do murder, not to let him stir off that sand. 
 
 " Another cry arose on shore ; and, looking to the 
 wreck, we saw the cruel sail, with blow on blow, beat 
 off the lower of the two men, and fly up in triumph 
 around the active figure left alone upon the mast. 
 
 " Against such a sight, and against such determination 
 as that of the calmly-desperate man who was already 
 accustomed to lead half the people present, I might as 
 hopefully have entreated the wind. ' Mas'r Davy,' he 
 said, cheerily grasping me by both hands, ' if my time 
 is come, 'tis come : if 't'aint, I'll bide it. Lord above, 
 bless you, and bless all ! Mates, make we ready ! I'm 
 agoing off ! ' 
 
 " I was swept away, but not unkindly, to some distance, 
 where the people around me made me stay ; urging, as 1 
 confusedly perceived, that he was bent on going, with 
 help or without, and that I should endanger the precau- 
 tions for his safety by troubling those with whom they 
 rested. I don't know what I answered, or what they 
 rejoined ; but I saw hurry on the beach, and men run- 
 ning with ropes from a capstan that was there, and pene- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 316 
 
 trating into a circle of figures that hid liim from me. Then 
 I saw him standing alone, in a seaman's frock and trou- 
 sers, a rope in his hand or slung to his wrist, another 
 round his body, and several of the best men holding, at 
 a little distance, to the latter, which he laid out himself, 
 slack upon the shore, at his feet. 
 
 " The wreck, even to my unpractised e^-e, was break- 
 ing up. I saw that she was parting in the middle, and 
 that the life of the solitary man upon the mast hung by a 
 thread. Still he clung to it. He had a singular red 
 cap on, — not like a sailor's cap, but of a finer color ; 
 and as the few 3delding planks between him and destruc- 
 tion rolled and bidged, and his anticipative death-knell 
 rung, he was seen by all to wave it. I saw him do it 
 now, and thought I was going distracted, when his 
 action brought an old remembrance to my mind of a 
 once dear friend. 
 
 " Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the 
 silence of suspended breath behind liim, and the storm 
 before, until there was a great retu'ing wave, when, 
 with a backward glance at those who held the rope, 
 which was made fast round his body, he dashed in 
 after it, and in a moment was buffeting with the water ; 
 rising "with the hills, falling with the valleys, lost be- 
 neath the foam, then drawn again to land. They 
 hauled in hastily. 
 
 " He was hurt. I saw blood on his face, from where 
 I stood ; but he took no thought of that. He seemed 
 
316 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP 
 
 hurriedly to give them some directions for leaving him 
 more free, or so I judged from the motion of his arm, 
 and was gone as before. 
 
 '' And now he made for the wreck, rising with the 
 hills, falling with the valleys, lost beneath the rugged 
 foam, borne in towards the shore, borne on towards 
 the ship, striving hard and valiantly. The distance was 
 nothing ; but the power of the sea and wind made the 
 strife deadly. 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 
 hillside of water, moving on shoreward from beyond 
 the ship, he seemed to leap up into it with a mighty 
 bound, and the ship was gone ! 
 
 " Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as if a 
 mere cask had been broken in running to the spot 
 where they were hauling in. Consternation was in 
 every face. They drew him to my very feet, insen- 
 sible, dead. He Avas carried to tlie nearest house ; 
 and, no one preventing me now, I remained near him, 
 busy, wliile every means of restoration were tried : but 
 he had been beaten to death by the great wave ; and his 
 generous heart was stilled forever. 
 
 " As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned, 
 and all was done, a fisherman, who had known me when 
 Em'ly and I were children, and ever since, whispered 
 my name at the door. 
 
CHARLES DlCKEisrS. 31t 
 
 " ' Sir,' said he, with tears starting to his weather- 
 beaten face, which, with his trembling lips, was ashj' 
 pale, ' will you come over yonder ? ' 
 
 " The old remembrance that had been recalled to me 
 was in his look. I asked him, terror-stricken, leaning 
 on the arm he held out to support me, — 
 
 " ' Has a body come ashore ? ' 
 
 " He said, ' Yes.' 
 
 " ' Do I know it ? ' I asked then. 
 
 " He answered nothing. 
 
 " But he led me to the shore. And on that part of it 
 where she and I had looked for shells, two children, — 
 on that part of it where some lighter fragments of the 
 old boat, blown down last night, had been scattered by 
 the wind ; among the ruins of the home he had 
 wronged, — I saw him lying with his head upon his 
 arm, as I had often seen him lie at school." 
 
 The whole story of " David Copperfield " deserves 
 perusal before any decision as to its real merits can be 
 rendered ; and then one ought to see it dramatized, that 
 the mean, cringing, despicable Uriah Heep, and tlie 
 self-reliant, decided Betsey Trotwood, the great-hearted 
 Peggotty, the lilial Agnes, and the poor Little Em'ly, 
 might be fully comprehended. Nor should the " lone, 
 lorn creetur," nor the irrepressible Mr. Micawber, evei 
 looking for something to "turn up," be overlooked. 
 
318 LIFE AND WRITINGS. 
 
 Both novel and drama will make one bless the name of 
 Charles Dickens, and write his name — 
 
 Among the few, the immortal 
 That were not born to die." 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 RETURNS TO HIS EARLY PRACTICE. 
 
 Bleak House. — Death of Poor Jo. — Uncommercial Traveller. 
 
 " Ay ! idleness ! The rich folks never fail 
 To find some reason why the poor deserve 
 Their miseries." 
 
 SOUTHET. 
 
 " For the oppression of the poor, for the sighing of the needy, now will I arise, 
 ■aith the Lord : I will set him in safety from him that puffeth at him." — Ps. xii. 5. 
 
 WO years after " David Copperfield " 
 found a warm greeting from the public, 
 Mr. Dickens gave " Bleak House " to the 
 ■vvorld ; which novel met a cooler recep- 
 tion. In this book, Mr. Dickens seemed 
 to return to his early practice of writing with some 
 definite piu-pose ; and, " though Skimpole and Boythorn 
 were genial caricatures of the external peculiarities and 
 individual mannerisms of Leigh Hunt and Walter Sav- 
 age Landor, the purpose of tlie novel was to satirize 
 the dilatory procedure of the court of chancery." So 
 says one writer ; and another adds, " It was thought by 
 many that this work was of a second grade ; that it did 
 
320 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 not show SO much force of thought, strength of repre- 
 sentation, brilliancy of fancy and of style, in short, 
 not so much of any of its author's great qualities, as 
 the pre\ious novels. Yet, if any distinction can be 
 di-awn between the two series of works, it is probably 
 only in the quantity of gayety and humor in them. 
 Whatever the power of the serious characters of the 
 later novels, as compared with the earlier, the mirthful 
 element is far less frequent in the later." 
 
 C. C. Terry, in " The Christian Leader," thus refers 
 to Mr. Dickens and to " Bleak House." 
 
 " The great secret of the success of Dickens was. 
 that all of his characters were human and real. . . . 
 
 " Dickens was the foe of all shams ; but instead of 
 using the keen blade of satire, like his great contem- 
 porary, Thackeray, he brought to bear the sunshine of 
 his humor on the wrongs of his times. . . . Shakspeare, 
 in the whole range of his delineation of character, has 
 produced no creation like Little Nell or Paul Dom- 
 bey ; nor has Sir Walter Scott, with the splendor of 
 kings and princes, and the pomp of tournaments, in all 
 (lie pages of his productions written a scene like the 
 death of Poor To, in ' Bleak House.' 
 
 "• ' It's time for me to go to that there berryin'-ground, 
 sir,' he returns, with a wild look. 
 
 -' ' Lie down, and tell me. What burying-ground, 
 Jo?' 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 321 
 
 " ' Where they laid him as was wery good to me ; 
 wery good to me indeed, he was. It's time for me to 
 go down to that there berryin'-ground, sir, and ask to 
 be put along with him.' 
 
 " ' By and by, Jo, by and by.' 
 
 " ' Ah ! p'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go my- 
 self. But will you promise to have me took there, sir, 
 and have me laid along with him ? ' 
 
 " ' I wiU, indeed.' 
 
 " ' Thankee, sii', thankee, sir ! They'll have to get 
 the key of the gate afore they, can take me in ; for it's 
 aUus locked. And there's a step there, as I used for to 
 clean with m}^ broom. It's turned wery dark, sir. Is 
 there any light a-comin' ? ' 
 
 " ' It is coming fast, Jo.' 
 
 " ' Fast ! The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the 
 rugged road is very near its end.' 
 
 " ' Jo, my poor felloAV ! ' 
 
 " ' I hear you, sir, in the dark ; but I'm a-gropin', 
 a-gropin' : let me catch hold of your hand.' 
 
 '"Jo, can you say what I say ? ' 
 
 " ' I'U say any think as you say, sir ; for I know it's 
 good.' 
 
 " ' Our Father.' 
 
 " ' Our Father, — yes, that's wery good, sir.' 
 
 " ' Which art in heaven.' 
 
 " ' Art in heaven, — is the light a-comin', sir ? ' 
 
 " ' It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name." 
 
322 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " ' Hallowed be — thy — name.' 
 
 " The light is come upon the dark benighted way. 
 Dead! 
 
 " ' Dead, your Majesty ; dead, my lords and gentle- 
 men ; dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of 
 every order ; dead, men and women born with heavenly 
 compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us 
 every day.' " 
 
 "Well does Mr. Terry say, " Two nations mourn for 
 the loss of Charles DicJiens ; but we cannot miss him 
 now as much as we shall when Christmas comes. When 
 the snow is on the ground, and through the naked 
 branches of the trees the red light of Christmas Eve 
 fades slowly away, and darkness settles down, and the 
 great stars come out one by one, we shall ask for the 
 enchantment of his genius ; and the only answer will be 
 the gloom of the night that has gathered around his 
 tomb in Westminster Abbey. But when the Christmas 
 chimes are rung, and the glad notes of the bells peal 
 out upon the frosty air, let us not forget the lessons of 
 Christian charity that Charles Dickens has taught to the 
 world." 
 
 Very sensibly does " The Boston Journal " remark, — 
 
 " "We trust, that, amid all the dispute which has raged 
 as to the religious and other pecuharities of Charles 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 323 
 
 Dickens, the true example of his life as a conscientious 
 and indefatigable worker will not be lost upon the young 
 of this generation. . . . His habits of labor were regu- 
 lar as those of a book-keeper or a bank-clerk, and 
 certainly no less arduous. An artist who occupied the 
 same room with him for some time was surprised at the 
 anxious assiduity with which he prosecuted his writing. 
 Said he, ' I looked in his face, and watched the anxiety 
 and care. I saw the blotting and the re-writing of his 
 works ; and I was astonished to find how much he owed 
 to his indomitable perseverance.' " 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 LATER WORKS. 
 Little Dorritt. — Hard Times. — Dr. Marigold. 
 
 " And the winds and the -waters 
 
 In pastoral measures 
 Go winding around us, with roll upon roll, 
 
 Till the soul lies within 
 In a circle of pleasures, 
 
 Which hideth the soul." 
 
 Miss Barrett. 
 
 •As the mountains are round ahout Jerusalem ; so the Lord ia roun I about his 
 people from henceforth, even forever." — Ps. cxv. 2. 
 
 FTER "Bleak House" came "Little 
 Dorritt," not so attractive as some of Mr. 
 Dickens's books, but yet full of its own 
 peculiar interest. It contains some fine 
 descriptions, among which is one of a 
 scene amid the Alps, for which we would gladly find 
 space if possible. 
 
 Among the serials afterwards published was one 
 called " Hard Times ; " the first book of which is called 
 " Sowing," the next " Reaping," the third " Garner- 
 ing," and wherein Mr. Gradgrind achieves his iiiSircjr- 
 tality, — "a man of realities, a man of fact« > \d 
 
 834 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 325 
 
 calculations." In this occur the thrilling passages de- 
 scribing poor Stephen's fall into the pit, and his rescue. 
 Very touching are Stephen's words concerning the star 
 which shone into the pit where he lay. And thus the 
 tale concludes : — 
 
 " The bearers being now ready to carry him away, 
 and the surgeon being anxious for his removal, those 
 who had torches or lanterns prepared to go in front of 
 the htter. Before it was raised, and while they were 
 arranging how to go, he said to Rachael, looking upward 
 at the star, — 
 
 " ' Often as I coom to myseln, and found it shinin' on 
 me down there in my trouble, I thowt it were the star 
 as guided to our Saviour's home. I awmust think 
 it be the very star.' 
 
 " They lifted him up ; and he was overjoyed to find 
 that they were about to take him in the direction 
 whither the star seemed to him to lead. 
 
 " ' Rachael, beloved lass, don't let go my hand. "We 
 may walk toogether t'night, my dear.' 
 
 " ' I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, 
 Stephen, all the way.' 
 
 " ' Bless thee ! Will soombody be pleased to coover 
 my face ? ' 
 
 " They carried him very gently along the fields, and 
 down the lanes, and over the wide landscape ; Rachael 
 always holding the hand in hers. Very few whispers 
 
326 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 broke the mournful silence. It was soon a funeral- 
 procession. The star had shown him where to find the 
 God of the poor ; and, through humility and sorrow 
 and forgiveness, he had gone to his Redeemer's rest." 
 
 Among the shorter sketches by Dickens, gathered into 
 one volume in some editions of his works, as " Addi- 
 tional Christmas Stories," was one wliich the writer 
 of this memorial volume had the delight of hearing him 
 read to his last Boston audience. It is called " Dr. 
 Marigold," and is a mixture of humor and pathos. 
 After telling of the deaf-and-dumb girl whom he 
 adopted, and of her refusal to go away with her lover, 
 Dr. Marigold pleasantly concludes with a narration of 
 his peculiar manner of giving consent to the marriage ; 
 then tells how lonely he was without Sophy ; and then, 
 one Christmas Eve, how he ate his lonely dinner, and 
 sat dreamily by his fireside. Then he says, — 
 
 " Sophy's books so brought up Sophy's self, that I 
 saw her touching face quite plainly before I dropped 
 off dozing by the fire. This may be a reason why 
 Sophy, with her deaf-and-dumb child in her arms, 
 seemed to stand silent by me all through my nap. I was 
 on the road, off the road, in all sorts of places, — north 
 and south and west and east ; winds liked best, and winds 
 liked least ; here and there, and gone astray ; over the 
 hills, and far away, — and still she stood sUent by me, with 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 327 
 
 her silent child in her arms. Even when I woke with 
 a start, she seemed to vanish, as if she had stood by me 
 in that very place only a single instant before. 
 
 " I had started at a real sound ; and the sound was on 
 the steps of the cart. It was the light, hurried tread of 
 a child coming clambering up. That tread of a child 
 had once been so familiar to me, that, for half a moment, 
 I believed I was going to see a little ghost. 
 
 " But the touch of a real child was laid upon the 
 outer handle of the door ; and the handle turned, and 
 the door opened a little way, and a real child peeped in, 
 — a bright little comely girl with large dark eyes. 
 
 " Looking full at me, the tiny creature took off her 
 mite of a straw hat ; and a quantity of dark curls fell all 
 about her face. Then she opened her lips, and said in 
 a pretty voice, — 
 
 " * Grandfather ! ' 
 
 " ' Ah, my God ! ' I cries out. ' She can speak ! ' 
 
 " ' Yes, dear grandfather ; and I am to ask you 
 whether there was ever any one that I remind you of.' 
 
 " In a moment, Sophy was round my neck, as well as 
 the child ; and her husband was a-wringiug my hand with 
 his face hid, and we all had to shake ourselves together 
 before we could get over it. And when we did begin 
 to get over it, and I saw the pretty child a-talking, 
 pleased and quick and eager and busy, to her mother in 
 the signs that I had first taught her mother, the happji 
 and yet pitying tears fell rolUng down my face." 
 
CHAPTER Xni. 
 
 AS AN EDITOR. 
 
 Household "Words. —All the Year Round. — Great Expectations. — Tale of Tw« 
 Cities. 
 
 " Nor need we power or splendor, 
 Wide hall or lordly dome : 
 The good, the true, the tender, — 
 These form the wealth of home." 
 
 Mrs. ILaxe. 
 
 " Let your speech be always with grace." — Col. iv. 6. 
 
 EARTH and home has need of pleasant 
 words, and words of wisdom. These Mr. 
 Dickens sought to give in the periodicals 
 of which he was editor. In 1850, he took 
 charge of a weekly literary paper caUed 
 " Household Words ;" and it became exceedingly popular. 
 He showed that he was " abimdantly competent to super- 
 intend a periodical with regularity and efficiency ; to 
 write, select, and edit with practical and workmanlike 
 skill ; and to select judiciously, and conduct with kind- 
 ness and decision, the necessary staff of subordinates." 
 In 1857, owing to a disagreement with his publishers, 
 Mr. Dickens discontinued " Household Words," aad 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 329 
 
 established " All the Year Round" instead; having his 
 old publishers, — Messrs. Chapman & Hall. His eldest 
 son became chief assistant on this periodical shortly be- 
 fore his death. Mr. Dickens was, in some sense, his own 
 publisher. Mr. Smalley, in " The New- York Tribune," 
 thus notices the fact : — 
 
 " Messrs. Chapman & Hall's names appear on the 
 titlepages of his books ; but they have been only Mr. 
 Dickens's agents. He owned the copyright of every 
 one of his novels. In early days, it is true, before his 
 fame had increased, and before the property in any one 
 of his novels had become a fortune, he had sold his 
 rights as author in a considerable number of his books. 
 All these he repurchased ; often by dint of great trouble, 
 and by difficult negotiations, always at a price far beyond 
 that which they had brought in the beginning. It was 
 not only a matter of calculation with Mr. Dickens, it 
 was a matter of pride. His books are his children : he 
 did not want them in a stranger's hand, nor subject to 
 the authority of anybody but their author. The copy- 
 rights were much dispersed ; and, when it became 
 known that Mr. Dickens was bent on buying them up, 
 the price, which was already high, advanced very 
 considerably. The British book-publisher is just as 
 capable of driving a hard bargain as his American rival ; 
 and Mr. Dickens had to pa}^ dearly for his discovery of 
 that interesting fact. At last he carried his point, and 
 
330 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 held in liis own grasp, by a good legal title, all his earliei 
 writings. With the latter he had never parted ; with 
 none, I sux3pose, during the last twenty years. Every 
 six. months, Messrs. Chapman & Hall handed in their 
 accounts. It was Mr. Dickens who settled the terms of 
 publication, the form in which each successive edition 
 should appear, and all other details. What is called the 
 ' Charles Dickens Edition ' was his idea, and his favorite, — 
 not on account of its beauty or readableness, for it is print- 
 ed compactly, in small type, but on account of its cheap- 
 ness. What pleased him was, that everybody should be 
 able to buy a complete set of his writings ; and so he had 
 them all condensed into, I think, seventeen volumes, sepa- 
 rately published, and sold at three shillings and six- 
 pence each. He understood the market, studied it, and 
 adapted the supply of his books to the demand. He 
 told me, four years ago, that the copyright of each one 
 of his books became every year more valuable ; that is, 
 brought in more actual money." 
 
 Of Mr. Dickens as an editor, " The London Daily 
 News " says, " We believe we are correct in stating, 
 that every article in ' Household Words ' and ' All the 
 Year Round ' passed under the conductor's eye, and 
 that every proof was read and corrected by him. It 
 was at one time the fashion to. assume that ' conducted 
 by Charles Dickens ' meant little more than a sleeping 
 partnership, — as if Dickens could have been a sleeping 
 
CflARLES DICKENS. 331 
 
 partner in any undertaking under the sun. But those 
 behind the scenes knew better ; and the readers of ' All 
 the Year Round ' may assure themselves that every 
 word in it was, up to this date, read before publication 
 by the great master whose name it bears. At this 
 moment, the ' Particulars for next number, ' in the neat 
 yet bold handwriting which it is impossible to mistake 
 hang by the side of the empty office-desk." 
 
 " His editorial position," Mr. Perkins says, " afforded 
 him many opportunities of aiding authors of all kinds ; 
 and very gladly and generously he used them. The rule 
 of contributing anonymously had its disagreeable side ; 
 and it prevented (for instance) Douglas Jerrold from 
 writing for the weekly. ' But the periodical is anony- 
 mous throughout,' remonstrated Dickens, one day, when 
 he had been suggesting to Mr. Jerrold to write for it. 
 ' Yes,' replied the caustic wit, opening a number, and 
 reading the title, ' " Conducted by Charles Dickens." I 
 see it is — wononymous throughout.' There was some 
 reason for this ; for Jerrold's name was worth money. 
 ... To young writers, the great novelist was acces- 
 sible, and as kind as his exacting employments rendered 
 it possible for him to be ; and very many are the papers 
 to which he gave many a grace by the judicious touches 
 of his magical pen." 
 
 Mr. Dickens wrote a " Child's History of England," 
 which is a well-prepared compendium for the young stu- 
 
832 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 dent, and may be read with advantage by older persons. 
 The miscellaneous sketches prepared for these papers 
 were published together by the name of " The Un- 
 commercial Traveller," and met with a warm recep- 
 tion. 
 
 " Great Expectations," and " A Tale of Two Cities," 
 also appeared first as serials ; and the latter is counted 
 the most intellectual of any of the works of Dickens. 
 From the " Tale of Two Cities," there is only space 
 here to present a slight sketch, which conveys a 
 sweet and holy picture of childhood, and refutes the 
 idea that Mr. Dickens thought irreverently of the Sa- 
 
 " A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, 
 — that corner where the doctor lived. Ever busil}^ wind- 
 ing the golden thread which bound her husband and 
 her father and herself, and her old directress and com- 
 panion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still 
 house, in the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to 
 the echoing footsteps of years. 
 
 " At first there were times, though she was a perfect- 
 1}' happy young wife, when her work would slowly fall 
 from her hands, and her eyes would be dimmed ; for 
 there was something coming in the echoes, something 
 light, afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her 
 heart too much. Fluttering hopes and doubts — hopes 
 of a love as yet unknown to her, doubts of her remain- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 333 
 
 ing upon earth to enjoy that new delight — divided her 
 breast. Among the echoes, then, there would arise the 
 sound of footsteps at her own earl}' grave ; and thoughts 
 of the husband who woidd be left so desolate, and who 
 would mourn for her so much, swelled to her eyes, and 
 broke like waves. 
 
 " That time passed ; and her little Lucie lay on her bo- 
 som. Then, among the advancing echoes, there w^as the 
 tread of her tiny feet and the sound of her prattling 
 words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the 
 young mother at the cradle-side could always hear those 
 coming. They came, and the shady house was sunny 
 \\ath a child's laugh ; and the divine Friend of children, 
 to whom, in her trouble, she had confided hers, seemed to 
 'iiike her child in his arms as he took the child of old, 
 and made it a sacred joy to her. 
 
 " Ever busily winding the golden tlu-ead that bound 
 them all together, weaving the service of her happ^^ in- 
 fluence through the tissue of all their lives, and making 
 it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the echoes of 
 years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her hus- 
 l)and's step was strong and prosperous among them ; her 
 father's firm and equal. Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of 
 btring, awakening the echoes, as an unruly charger, 
 whip-corrected, snorting, and pawing the earth under 
 I he plane-tree in the garden ! 
 
 '' Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the 
 lest, ihey were not harsh nor cruel. Even when golden 
 
334 LIFE AND WRITINGS. 
 
 hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a pillow round the 
 worn face of a little boy, and he said with a radiant 
 smile, ' Dear papa and mamma, I am very sotvj to leave you 
 both, and to leave my pretty sister ; but I am called, 
 and I must go ! ' — those were not tears all of agony that 
 wetted his 3'oung mother's cheek as the spirit departed 
 from her embrace that had been intrusted to it. Suffer 
 them, and forbid them not. They see my Father's face. 
 O Father, blessed words ! 
 
 " Thus the rustling of an angel's wings got blended 
 with the other echoes ; and they were not wholly of 
 earth, but had in them that breath of heaven. Sighs of 
 the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were 
 mingled with them also ; and both were audible to Lucie 
 in a hushed murmur, — like the breathing of a summer 
 sea asleep upon a sandy shore, — as the little Lucie, com- 
 ically studious at the task of the morning, or dressing a 
 doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues 
 of the two cities that were blended in her life." 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AMERICAN POPULARITY. 
 
 The Diamond Edition. —Portraits of Mr. Dickens. — Our Mutual Friend, 
 
 " Give me the boon of love: 
 Renown is but a breath. 
 Whose loudest echo ever floats 
 From out tlie halls of death." 
 
 H. T. TUCEERMAIT. 
 
 " A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rathe? 
 than silver or gold." — Prov. xiil. 1. 
 
 N America, the popularity of Mr. Dickens 
 is now as great, probably, as in his own 
 country. The picture-stores present his 
 portrait in an endless variety of forms, — 
 standing, sitting, writing. Magazines and 
 weekly literary periodicals often contain pictures of 
 him and of his place of residence. The rich and the poor 
 respect his memory ; for hearts everywhere in our-'broad 
 land have been cheered and blessed by the Aviitings of 
 Charles Dickens. Even the prisoner in his cell has been 
 blessed with the memory of his sweet, ennobling words. 
 At the State Prison in Massachusetts, the convicts once 
 
 986 
 
336 LIFE AND WHITINGS OIT 
 
 were allowed a Christmas festival, when the warden,* 
 read to them in the chapel from Dickens's " Christmas 
 Carol." 
 
 James T. Fields, his Boston publisher, bears testimony 
 of Mr. Dickens, which would lead one to suppose this 
 reading of his " Carol " to prisoners would especially 
 delight his benevolent heart ; for as Mr. Fields testi 
 fies: — 
 
 " When he came into the presence of squalid or de 
 graded persons, such as one sometimes encounters in 
 almshouses or prisons, he had such soothing words to 
 scatter here and there, that those who had been ' most 
 hurt by the archers' listened gladly, and loved him with- 
 out knowing who it was that found it in his heart to 
 speak so kindly to them." 
 
 Various editions of the works of Dickens have been 
 published in this country, of which the diamond edi- 
 tion is perhaps the most popular. The books are 
 small enough to take with one on a journe}", and well 
 illustrated; while the type, though small, is clear, and 
 easily read. " Of the many portraits of Charles Dick- 
 ens, that which has the approval of Dickens himself 
 is by Eytinge, the illustrator of the diamond edi- 
 tion, and published by Ticknor & Fields. The por- 
 
 • Hod. OldeoD HayneB, author of Prison-Life. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 337 
 
 trait is as near faultless as art can make one. As the 
 picture represents him, he is at his desk, pen in hand, 
 the head turned a little one side, wonderfully expres- 
 sive of the state of mind when considering ' how to do 
 it.'" 
 
 The first volume given to readers in that elegant little 
 diamond edition, was " Our Mutual Friend." This con- 
 tains many fine passages, exquisite in expression, and of 
 lofty sentiment. One of those sentences which shines 
 like a diamond among pebbles is this : " Evil often 
 stops short at itself, and dies with the doer of it ; but 
 good, never." When one reads the inimitable stories 
 of Dickens with an unprejudiced mind and liberal heart, 
 one must adopt the language of Thackeray, and say, — 
 
 " I may quarrel with Mr. Dickens's art a thousand 
 times ; I delight and wonder at his genius ; I recognize 
 in it — I speak with awe and reverence — a commis- 
 sion from that divine Beneficence whose blessed task 
 we know it wil^l one day be to wipe every tear from 
 every eye. 
 
 " Thankfully I take my share of the feast of love and 
 kindness which this gentle and generous and charitable 
 soul has contributed to the happiness of the world. I 
 take and enjoy my share, and say a benediction for the 
 meal." 
 
 In order to pass rapidly on to a mention of Mr. Dick- 
 89 
 
660 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 ens as a reader, only a brief extract frcm '• Our Mutual 
 Friend " is liere inserted. It is the close of the chapter 
 speaking of little Johnny's death at the children's hos 
 pital : — 
 
 " The family whom God had brought together were 
 not all asleep, but were all quiet. From bed to bed, a 
 light womanly tread, and a pleasant fresh face, passed in 
 the silence of the night. A little head would lift itself 
 up into the softened light here and there, to be kissed 
 as the face went by, — for these httle patients are very 
 loving, — and would then submit itself to be composed 
 to rest again. The mite with the broken leg was rest- 
 less, and moaned, but, after a while, turned his face 
 towards Johnny's bed to fortify himself with a view of 
 the ark, and fell asleep. Over most of the beds, the 
 toys were yet grouped as the children had left them 
 when they last laid themselves down ; and, in their inno- 
 cent grotesqueness and incongruity, they might have 
 stood for the children's dreams. 
 
 " The doctor came in, too, to see how it fared with 
 Johnny. And he and Rokesmith stood together, look- 
 ing down with compassion upon him. 
 
 '"What is it, Johnny?' Rokesmith was the ques- 
 tioner, and put an arm round the poor baby as he made 
 a struggle. 
 
 " ' Him ! ' said the little fellow. ' Those ! ' 
 
 " The doctor was quick to understand cliildren, and 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 339 
 
 taking the horse, the ark, the yellow-bird, and the man 
 in the. guards, from Johnny's bed, softly placed them 
 on that of his next neighbor, -^ the mite with the bro- 
 ken leg. 
 
 ^ With a weary and yet a pleased smile, and with an 
 action as if he stretched his httle finger out to rest, the 
 child heaved his body on the sustaining arm, and, seek- 
 ing Rokesmith's face with his lips, said, — 
 
 " ' A kiss for the boofer lady.' 
 
 *■' Having now bequeathed all he had to dispose of, 
 and arranged his affaks in this world, Johnny, thus 
 speaking, left it." 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SECOND VISIT TO AMERICA. 
 
 Dickens as a Reader and Actor. —His First Appearance in Boston. — His Last 
 Reading in Boston. 
 
 '* Land of the forest and the rock, 
 
 Of dark blue lake and mighty river, 
 Of mountains reared on high to mock 
 The storm's career and lightning's shock, 
 My own green land forever I " 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 " And he took the book . . . and read hi the audience of the people." — ExOD. 
 xxiv. 7. 
 
 UN December, 1867, Mr. Dickens made his 
 second visit to America. His fault in 
 writing the " Notes " had been forgiven, 
 since the common sense and Christian sen- 
 timent of the people acknowledged him to 
 be right in most, if not all, his criticisms ; and when he 
 came as a reader he was warmly welcomed. The news- 
 paper accounts of his appearance and readings will giv(; 
 the best idea of them. Of his first reading, " The Bos- 
 ton Journal " says, — 
 
 " Tremont Temple was completely filled ; every seat, 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 341 
 
 and nearly every standing-place, front of the platform, 
 except the central aisles, having an occupant. The 
 wealth, beauty, fashion, and intellect of the city, were 
 present in great numbers. Longfellow, Holmes, Lowell, 
 Quincy, and a host of others of our most eminent citi- 
 zens, attended to greet the inimitable ' Boz ' in his new 
 character of reader of his own works. The audience 
 began to assemble as early as seven o'clock ; but not all 
 were seated by eight o'cloqk: when this was accom- 
 phshed, the hall presented a magnificent appearance, 
 there were so many splendidly-dressed ladies present. 
 
 " The arrangements for the reading were somewhat 
 peculiar. .On the rear of the platform was a maroon- 
 colored screen about fifteen feet long by seven high, and 
 a carpet of the same color spread in front. Along the 
 front of the platform was a high framework of gas-pipe, 
 with burners upon the inner side, and a narrow screen 
 to cast the light upon the distinguished reader. In the 
 centre of the platform stood a little crimson-colored 
 stand, festooned with a bright fringe, with a tiny desk, 
 which an open book more than covered, on one corner. 
 Upon one side was a shelf, on which stood a glass de- 
 canter of water and a tumbler. 
 
 " This purple-bued paraphernalia interested the cui'i- 
 ous and expectant audience till three minutes past eight 
 o'clock ; when a slight clapping of hands, like the first 
 drops of a shower, announced the coming of ' Boz ' from 
 the ante-room. With an elastic step he ascended the plat- 
 
342 LIFE AND WRITINGS Off 
 
 form, and moved quickly to his crimson throne ; the ap- 
 plause, meanwhile, spreading and deepening till the 
 whole audience joined in one universal and enthusiastic 
 plaudit, which continued for several minutes. It was as 
 cordial a welcome as heart could wish ; and, had Mr. 
 Dickens been doubtful about his reception, every appre- 
 hension must have vanished as the swelling tide of 
 friendly greeting poured its music upon his ear. Al- 
 though time has laid a frosting upon his well-kept and 
 trimlj^-shaped beard, and thinned the locks that cover 
 his head, Mr. Dickens has still the air and port of a 
 young man, — his step firm and free, his bearing erect 
 and assured, and his dress the pink of propriety, though 
 pervaded by a touch of dandyism. Dressed in a suit of 
 faultless black, with two small flowers — one white, the 
 other red — deftly attached to his left lappel, a profusion 
 of gold chains festooned across his vest, his long goatee 
 spreading like a fan beneath his chin, his ear-locks 
 standing almost straight from his head, and with a 
 countenance still fresh, though no longer youtliful, 
 Charles Dickens stood, with book in hand, before his 
 audience, and gracefull}'^ acknowledged the hearty greet- 
 ings bestowed upon him. Those who saw him for the 
 first time last night hardly realized, Ave think, their 
 ideal of this, gifted author. His countenance lias not 
 that soft, refined, pre-eminently intellectual look which 
 one who so deeply stirs the finer feelings of our nature 
 would naturally be thouglit to present. The mark of 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 343 
 
 genius is not so obvious, at least by gas-light, as an ad- 
 mirer would expect. A dashy, good-natured, shrewd 
 English face it is, — one that would be associated with 
 the out-door life of a smart man of business not particu- 
 larly troubled with fine sentiments, and not unmindful 
 of good cheer ; brusque, not beautiful, wide awake, and 
 honest." 
 
 A lady writer in " The Chicago Advance " thus 
 graphically speaks of Dickens at Boston : — 
 
 " On Tuesday evening, I climbed, for the sake of Da- 
 vid Copperfield, and Mr. Bob Sawyer's party, the end- 
 less stairs of the Tremont Temple. The kindly fates 
 had wafted my ticket to the floor of the house, and to 
 the centre of the floor, and so near the platform, ex- 
 actly as one would wish to be : so I had but to open my 
 eyes, and I saw ; and my ears, and I heard. It is said 
 Mr. Dickens's voice by no means fills the hall : the back 
 galleries lost a large proportion of his words, and were 
 obliged to follow the libretto closely, to understand 
 him. 
 
 " Tlie arrangements on the platform are fresh. A 
 large sci-een, of a rich maroon-color, stands as a back- 
 ground for the reader. In front of it is a dainty little 
 crimson-velvet desk, with a tumbler, and decanter of 
 water. Mr. Dickens desires that every one be in his 
 seat, and the house still, at ten minutes before eight. A 
 
344 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP 
 
 fair approach towards meeting the request is made. At 
 eight precisely, the hush deepens. There is a stir, and a 
 gush of applause, and we have an idea of a tall gentle- 
 man walking very fast across the stage ; and, before we 
 liave a moment to find out what manner of man he is, 
 he has made his bow, and is already telling us in a 
 quick voice, with the rising inflection at his commas, 
 about those contrivances on Mr. Peggotty's table which 
 kept the Bible from tumbling down ; and how the Bible, 
 if it had tumbled down, would have broken the tea- 
 cups. For an instant, the effect is rather funny ; and 
 one can think only that he is determined to be on time, 
 and let us out at ten o'clock, according to agreement. 
 
 " Then we begin to look at him, — a florid-faced, keen- 
 looldng Englishman, with a bald forehead, — not a re- 
 markable forehead, indeed. At first sight, there seems 
 to he nothing remarkable about him. Two funny little 
 tufts of hair over each ear, and a gray goatee and mus- 
 tache ; dress-coat ; immaculate large shirt-front ; a suffi- 
 cient display of studs, and watch-chain, and diamond 
 rings ; white tie ; white kids, m, not on, his hand ; rose- 
 buds, red and white, in his buttonhole ; and red ribbons 
 on the little red-bevelled ' Condensed Copperfield,' which 
 lies upon the desk, scarcely referred to throughout the 
 evening. At the first glance, T think quite as much of 
 rosebuds and ribbon and watch-guard as of the man's 
 face. In three minutes, he might be all rosebuds, and I 
 ijliould see only the face. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 345 
 
 ** The trouble with Mr. Dickens's books is, that it is 
 next to impossible to accomplish such a thing as a selec- 
 tion from them. It is like a choice of pearls and opals. 
 Here in ' David Copperfield,' we must have Steerforth 
 and Little Em'ly, Ham, Mr. Peggotty, Dora, and Mr. 
 Micawber ; and where are Peggotty and Barkis and 
 Aunt Trotwood and Uriah Heep ? and how in the world 
 are we ever going to spare Agnes, with her little keys 
 and her quiet eyes ? and how could any other scene be 
 chosen before that of the night when Dora and the lit- 
 tle spaniel die ? But of course, in two hours, he cannot 
 suit everybody ; and we must believe that Mr. Dickens 
 made the selections best adapted to dramatic purposes, 
 and be content. 
 
 " It is not his voice, but his acting, which is the won- 
 der about Mr. Dickens. His voice is not what a public 
 speaker's voice should be : it has no ring to it, and, as I 
 said, cannot fill a large hall. But it is a fact scarcely 
 disputed, that there is no living actor to be found his 
 equal. What is art, and what is felt to be art, upon the 
 stage, is nature in him. He invests himself completely 
 with each of his characters in turn. They are the chil- 
 dren of his brain, a part of himself, dear to him. He 
 knows them through : he has wept with them, laughed 
 with them, suffered with them, joyed with them, borne 
 their temptations, moulded their fortunes, lived their 
 hves. They may be fireside friends to his audience* 
 they are more than that to him. 
 
.':{46 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " He is Steerfortli, the gentleman, the villain, at hia 
 best, at his worst ; he is simple-minded, true-hearted 
 Ham, — poor Ham! — saying in his awkward, honest 
 way, ' There's not a gentleman in all the land could 
 love his lady truer than I love her, sir.' He is Mrs. 
 Gummidge, lisping out, that ' every think goes con- 
 trairy with her.' Shut your eyes, and you would assert 
 that it was an old woman without teeth or hoops, chat- 
 tering up there behind the crimson desk. He is dainty 
 Dora, drawing a pencil-mark down her husband's nose, 
 and declaring in a little petulant sob, that she ' didn't 
 marry to be reasoned with, and he is a cruel, cruel boy ! ' 
 He is Mr. Sawyer, and Mr. Sawyer's landlady, and Mrs. 
 Sawyer's stupid servant, as flawlessly as he is Mr. Peg- 
 gotty, searching the world over for his lost Em'ly, and 
 rubbing the tears out of his eyes as he tells the story. 
 
 " It is noticeable, that, whatever few mistakes of tone 
 or gesture he may make, his face is invariably true. His 
 face is a marvel. His audience sit as one man, with their 
 eyes upon it. It unfolds, like a panorama, soul upon 
 soul, life upon life, crisis upon crisis. It scarcely misin- 
 terprets a pain, and always fairly bubbles over with a 
 joke. It is a face at prayer one instant ; it lights lu- 
 ridly with his wicked smile — his very wicked smile — • 
 the next. It is oftener said of him, perhaps, than of 
 any other living man, ' He is a master.' The common 
 words come up in threefold force as we watch and 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 347 
 
 listen. A master he certainly is ; and the world has 
 not many, 
 
 " He has laid Steerforth solemnly dead upon the 
 beach, taken liis five-minutes' recess, come back with 
 the rosebuds superseded by a large red carnation, engi- 
 neered poor Mr. Sawyer satisfactorily through his party, 
 and punctually at ten o'clock vanished — he and the 
 two breathless, bright hours — like a beautiful dream 
 from before us." 
 
 Of his last reading in Boston, " The Boston Tran- 
 script " thus speaks ; and the account is inserted here 
 with a vivid remembrance of the pleasure with which 
 that evening was spent : — 
 
 " The Final Reading. — When Mr. Dickens came 
 upon the stage last evening, to be greeted by a house as 
 packed and as appreciative as that which welcomed his 
 first appearance in this city, he found his table covered 
 with floral offerings, rare and beautiful as they were 
 abundant. He characteristically acknowledged this 
 compliment by saying, — 
 
 " ' Before allowing Dr. Marigold to tell his story 
 in his own peculiar way, I kiss the kind, fair hands, un- 
 known, which have so beautifully decorated my table 
 this evening.' 
 
 " The performance that followed was, or many fan- 
 cied it was, given with more feeling, especially in the 
 
348 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 pathetic portions, than on previous occasions. Be this 
 as it may, it is certain that Cheap Jack, quaint, kindly, 
 and tender, even in a sleeve-waistcoat, will ever be a 
 reality now to those who have heard his autobiography 
 from his own lips ; and Mrs. Gamp will remain here, for 
 a generation at least, as any thing but a model monthly- 
 nurse. 
 
 " The prolonged and enthusiastic applause at the 
 close of the reading compelled Mr. Dickens, as he was 
 retiring, to turn and come back, and make this graceful 
 and feeling speech: — 
 
 " ' Ladies and Crentlemen, — My gracious and generous 
 welcome in America, which can never be obliterated 
 from my remembrance, began here. My departure be- 
 gins 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 any thing for the 
 last time ; and I cannot conceal from you, although my 
 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 consolation, 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 may rel}^ upon it, that that spirit will abide with 
 me as long as I have sense and sentiment left. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 349 
 
 " ' I do not say this with any limited reference 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 purely in remembrance of and in homage to 
 the great public heart before me. 
 
 " ' Ladies and gentlemen, I beg most earnestly, most 
 gratefully, and most affectionately, to bid you each and 
 all farewell.' 
 
 "With heartiest rounds of applause, mingled with 
 cheers, and waving of handkerchiefs, the great assembly 
 bade adieu to Mr. Dickens, and gave expression to their 
 thanks for the rich enjoyment he had afforded them. 
 Thus ended a series of entertainments, of which it is 
 enough to say that the expectations raised before they 
 began have not been disappointed. The readings 
 have proved to be all that was claimed for them ; and 
 for theb peculiar characteristics, — elaborateness, truth- 
 fulness, and finish, as impersonations, — they have stood 
 the test of criticism, and been occasions of dehght to 
 thousands. 
 
 " Mr. Dickens came to this country as an artist, and 
 in a professional capacity, to present himself to the 
 public as the reciter of his own stories. He has labored 
 assiduously in his vocation ; and his visit has proved an 
 entire success. His interpretations of his writings will 
 increase their already wonderful and deserved popu- 
 larity, win to them multitudes of readers to be delighted 
 
350 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 with their wit, characterizations, and pictures of life 
 among the lowly. Meanwhile, on account of the hu- 
 manity in his works, their appeals to every home and 
 every heart, the man as well as the author will continue 
 to be the object of warm regard, as one whose genius 
 has been consecrated to the service of generous, liberal, 
 and unostentatious philanthropy. He will not only be 
 cherished as an unequalled humorist and a popular 
 novelist, but he will also be held in honor as a genial 
 reformer, and the advocate of the largest and truest 
 fraternal charity." 
 
 The Dickens excitement was as strong in Philadel- 
 phia as it was elsewhere. The speculators mustered in 
 force at eleven o'clock, p.m., to secure the tickets which 
 were offered at nine the next morning. 
 
 Before leaving America, Mr. Dickens was entertained 
 at a handsome banquet at Delmonico's, New York, on 
 the evening of April 18, 1868 ; and, in responding to an 
 eloquent speech from Mr. Greeley, the distinguished 
 guest bore strong and honest testimony to the change 
 which twenty-five years had wrought in his estimate of 
 America. He said, — 
 
 " This is the confidence I seek to place in you, that 
 on my return to England, in my own English journal, 
 manfully, promptly, plainly, in my own person to bear, 
 for the behoof of my countrymen, such testimony to 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 351 
 
 the gigantic changes in this country as I have hinted at 
 to-night. Also to recall, that wherever I have been, in 
 the smallest places equally with the largest, I have been 
 received with unsurpassable politeness, delicacy, sweet 
 temper, hospitality, consideration, with unsurpassable 
 I'espect for the privacy daily enforced upon me by the 
 nature of my avocation 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 shall 
 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 my loving-thankfulness, but because I regard it as an 
 act of plain justice and honor." 
 
 Taking leave of his last American audience, in New 
 York, April 20, 1868, Mr. Dickens closed his reading 
 with this touching speech : — 
 
 " Ladies and Gentlemen, — The shadow of one word 
 has impended over me all the evenmg ; and the time has 
 come at last when that shadow must fall. It is but a 
 xevj short one ; but the weight 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 in Mr. Peggotty's declamation, ' My futui*e life 
 
552 LIFE AND WRITINGS. 
 
 lies over tlie sea.' And, when I closed this book just 
 now, I felt keenly that I was shortly to establish such 
 an alibi as would even have satisfied the elder Mr. 
 WeUer himself. The relations that have been set up 
 between us here — relations sustained on my side, at 
 least, by the most earnest devotion of myself to my 
 task; sustained by yourselves, on your side, by the 
 readiest sympathy and Idndliest acknowledgment — 
 must now be broken forever. But I entreat you to be- 
 lieve, that, in passing from my sight, you will not pass 
 from my memory. I shall often, often recall you as I 
 see you now, equally by my winter fire, and in the 
 green English summer weather. I shall never recall 
 you as a mere public audience, but rather as a host of 
 personal friends, and ever with the greatest gratitude, 
 tenderness, and consideration. 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 ! " 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 DICKENS AT HOME. 
 HIb Domestic Relations. — Gad's Hill. — Shakspeare's Mention of tt. 
 
 " 'Mid pleasures and palaces, where'er we may roam, 
 Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home : 
 A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, 
 ■Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. 
 Home, home, sweet, sweet home 1 
 There's no place like home, oh I there's no place like home." 
 
 John Howard Payne. 
 
 " God setteth the solitary in families." — Ps. Ixviii. 6. 
 
 j^^^j^^^SlN this side the water, at such a dis- 
 'tt^ ' tance from the home of Dickens, and with 
 
 jd" so httle real knowledge of the circnm- 
 
 |t^ stances relating to his domestic relations, 
 
 it becomes all to judge charitably of both 
 parties, where there is any disagreement, arid, as a 
 general rule, to let such matters alQne. Quarrels are 
 always to be deprecated ; but there may be extenuating 
 circumstances on both sides. •' The New- York Evening 
 Post '' thus refers to the domestic relations of the great 
 novelist : — 
 
 18 88S 
 
354 J^IFE AND WHITINGS OF 
 
 " Mr. Dickens's private life was singularly unobtru- 
 sive, and withdrawn from the public eye. Years ago, his 
 domestic troubles made his family circle painfully con- 
 spicuous before the British people; and censure was freely 
 bestowed upon one or the other party to the deplorable 
 conjugal quarrel by the intimate friends of either. But 
 Dickens lived down the scandal ; and it is a sufficient 
 refutation of it, perhaps, that his children have alwa3^s 
 manifested for him the tenderest affection. One of 
 these, a son, has grown to man's estate, and is an hon- 
 ored member of society. Another is the Avife of Mr. 
 Charles Collins, author of ' After Dark,' ' A Cruise on 
 Wheels,' and other novels, which have been overshad- 
 owed by the greater popularity of the writings of his 
 brother, Mr. Wilkie ColUns. 
 
 "In London, Dickens lived mostly at the Garrick 
 Club, where he filled as large a place as John Dryden 
 used to fill at Will's Coffee-House. There was at one 
 time some alarm created lest he should leave the Gar- 
 rick in consequence, as it was whispered, of the fact that 
 one of his friends and pubhshers had been blackballed 
 there ; but the trouble was composed, and the Garrick 
 knew him to the last. His town apartments were com- 
 fortably fitted up, but were not in the fashionable quar- 
 ter. They constituted the second fioor of the house in 
 Wellington Street, Strand, the lower part of which was 
 occupied by the business-office of ' All the Year Round.' 
 Mayfair saw little of Dickens; nor was Belgravia one of 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 355 
 
 his familiar haunts. We believe he was nevei presented at 
 court ; but it was not long ago, — since his last return from 
 the United States, — that the queen invited him to come 
 and see her ; and he spent a day at Windsor Castle. 
 
 " When in London, Dickens might be seen at dinner 
 more frequently than anywhere else, at Verrey's, a les- 
 taurant in the upper part of Regent Street, where, often 
 with Wilkie Collins, he sat at a little table in the corner 
 reserved for him especially by the maitre d'hotel. 
 
 " Early' in life, — just after the publication of 'Pick- 
 wick,' — Mr. Dickens married the daughter of Mr. 
 George Hogarth, the author and critic. He separated 
 from her in 1858 ; and, as the event called forth a great 
 deal of ill-natured comment, the following letter was 
 written for the purpose of being shown to the public : — 
 
 " ' My Dear , Mrs. Dickens and I have lived un- 
 happily together for many 3'ears. Hardly any one who 
 has known us intimatel}^ can fail to have known that we 
 are, in all respects of character and temperament, won- 
 derfully unsuited to each other. I suppose that no two 
 people, not vicious in themselves, ever were joined to- 
 gether, who had greater difficulty in understanding one 
 another, or who had less in common. An attached 
 woman-servant (more friend to both of us than a ser- 
 vant), who lived with us sixteen years, and is now married, 
 and who was, and still is, in Mrs. Dickens's confidence 
 and mine, who had the closest familiar experience of 
 
856 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 this Linhappiness in London, in the country, in France, 
 in Italy, wherever we have been, year after year, month 
 after month, week after week, day after day, will bear 
 testimony to this. 
 
 " ' Nothing has, on many occasions, stood between us 
 and a separation, but Mrs. Dickens's sister, Georgino 
 Hogarth. From the age of fifteen, she has devoted her- 
 self to our house and children. She has been their 
 playmate, nurse, instructress, friend, protectress, adviser, 
 and companion. In the manly consideration towards 
 Mrs. Dickens which I owe to my wife, I will merely re- 
 mark of her, that the peculiarity of her character has 
 thrown aU the care of the children on some one else. I 
 do not know, I cannot by any stretch of fancy imagine, 
 what would have become of them but for tliis aunt, 
 who has grown up with them, to whom the}'^ are devoted, 
 and who has sacrificed the best part of her youth and 
 life to them. 
 
 " ' She has remonstrated, reasoned, suffered, and 
 toiled, and come again, to prevent a separation between 
 Mrs. Dickens and me. Mrs. Dickens has often ex- 
 pressed to her her sense of her affectionate care and de- 
 votion in the house, — never more strongly than in the 
 last twelve months. 
 
 " ' For some years past, Mrs. Dickens has been in the 
 habit of representing to me, that it would be better for 
 her to go away and live apart ; that her always increas- 
 ing estrangement made a mental disorder under wliich 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 357 
 
 she sometimes labors : more, she felt herself unfit for the 
 life she had to lead as my wife, ami that she would be far 
 better away. I have uniformly replied, that she must 
 bear our misfortune, and fight the fight out to the end ; 
 that the children were the first consideration ; and 
 that I feared they must bind us together " in appear- 
 ance." 
 
 " ' At length, within these three weeks, it was sug- 
 gested to me by Forester, that, even for their sakes, it 
 would be better to reconstruct and re-arrange the un- 
 liappy home. I empowered him to treat with Mrs. 
 Dickens, as the friend of both us for one and twenty 
 years. Mrs. Dickens wished to add, on her part, Mark 
 Lemon, and did so. On Saturday last, Lemon wrote to 
 For/!ster, that Mrs. Dickens " gratefully and thankfully 
 accepted" the terms I proposed to her. Of the pecu- 
 niar}^ part of them, I \vill say, that they are as generous 
 as if Mrs. Dickens were a lady of distinction, and I a 
 man of fortune. 
 
 " ' The remaining parts of them are easily described, 
 — my eldest boy to live with Mrs. Dickens, and to take 
 care of her ; my eldest girl to keep my house ; both my 
 girls, and all my children but the eldest son, to live with 
 me, in continued companionship of their Aunt Georgiiit', 
 for whom they have all the tenderest affections tliat 1 
 have ever seen among 3'oung people, and who has a 
 higher claim (as I have often declared for man}' }ears ) 
 upuu iii}- affecdon, respect, and gratitude than any- 
 body in this worl4. 
 
358 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 " ' I hope that no one who may become acquainted with 
 ■what I write here can possibly be so cruel and unjust as 
 to put any misconstruction on our separation so far. My 
 older (jhildren all understand it perfectly, and all accept 
 it as inevitable; 
 
 " ' There is not a shadow of doubt or concealment 
 among us. My eldest son and I are one as to it all. 
 
 " ' Two wicked persons, who should have spoken very 
 differently of me, in consideration of earned respect and 
 gratitude, have (as I am told, and, indeed, to my 
 pesonal knowledge) coupled with this separation the 
 name of a young lady for whom I have a great attach- 
 ment and regard. I will not repeat the name : I honor 
 it too much. Upon my soul and honor, there is not 
 upon this earth a more virtuous and spotless creature 
 than that young lady. I know her to be innocent and 
 pure, and as good as my own daughters. 
 
 " ' Further : I am quite sure that Mrs. Dickens, having 
 received this assurance from me, must now believe it, in 
 the respect I know her to have for me, and in the perfect 
 confidence I know her, in her better moments, to repose 
 in my truthfulness. 
 
 " ' On this head, again, there is not a shadow of a 
 doubt or concealment between my children and me. All 
 is open and plain among us as though we were brothers 
 and sisters. They are perfectly certain that I would not 
 deceive them ; and the confidence among us is without a 
 fear. C. D.' " 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 859 
 
 One of the sons of Charles Dickens is an officer in the 
 British army ; and another is a student at Trinity Hall, 
 Cambridge. 
 
 A lady writer in " The New-York Tribune" thus de- 
 scribes a party at the house of Dickens : — 
 
 " It was in June, 1852, just eighteen years before the 
 date of his death, that I first saw Charles Dickens in 
 London. I had sent a letter to him from his friend, Mr. 
 G. P. R. James. Mrs. Dickens called, at his request, and 
 invited me to a dinner, kindly promising that I should 
 meet a number of the authors and artists that I most 
 desired to see. I have in my mind still a perfectly dis- 
 tinct picture of the bright, elegant interior of Tavistock 
 House, and of its inmates, — of my host himself, then in 
 his early prime ; of Mrs. Dickens, a plump, rosy, Eng- 
 lish, handsome woman, with a certain air of absent- 
 mindedness, yet gentle and kindly ; Miss Hogarth, a 
 very lovely person, with charming manners ; and the 
 young ladies, then very young, real English girls, fresh 
 and simple, and innocent-looldng as English daisies. I 
 was received in the library. Mr. Dickens — how clearly 
 he stands before rae now, with liis frank, encouraging 
 smile, and the Hght ^f welcome in his eyes ! — was then 
 slight in person, and rather pale than otherwise. The 
 symmetrical form of his head, and the fine, spirited 
 bearing of the whole figure, struck me at once ; then 
 the hearty bonhomie^ the wholesome sweetness of his 
 
360 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 smile, but, more than any thing else, the great beauty of 
 his eyes. They were the eyes of a master, with no 
 consciousness of mastery in them : they were brilliant 
 without hardness, and searching without sharpness. I 
 felt, I always felt, that they read me clearly and deeply, 
 yet could never fear their keen scrutiny. They never 
 made you feel uncomfortable. I can but think it a pity, 
 that, in so many of the pictures we have of liim, the 
 effect of his eyes is nearly lost by their being cast down. 
 They had in them all the humor and all the humanity of 
 the man. You saw in them all the splendid possibilities 
 of his genius, all the manly tenderness of his nature. 
 
 " Approaching Mr. Dickens as I did, with what he 
 would have considered extravagant hero-worship, I was 
 surprised to find myself speedily and entirely at my ease. 
 Still he seemed to put forth no effort to make me feel so. 
 In manner he was more c[uiet than I expected, — simple, 
 and apparently unconscious. In conversation he was cer- 
 tainly not brilliant, after the manner of a professional 
 talker. His talk did not bubble with puns, nor scintil- 
 late with epigrams ; but it was racy and suggestive, with 
 a fine flavor of originality and satire ; and the effect of 
 every thing he said was doubled by the expression of 
 those wonderful eyes. They were great listening eyes. 
 When I remember how they would kindle at even my 
 crude criticisms, my awkward attempts to convey to him 
 the ideas and emotions which my visit to the Old World 
 liad called out, I can imagine the eager look, the kindred 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 361 
 
 flash, with which they must have responded to the won- 
 derful talk of Douglas Jerrold and the lightning-like 
 play of his wit, to the splendid cynicism of Carlyle, to 
 the titanic fancies of Landor, to the dramatic word- 
 painting of Browning. At such times, the whole sym- 
 pathetic, mobile face must almost have worn the look of 
 
 that of 
 
 ' Some watcher of the skies 
 When a new planet swims into his ken.' 
 
 " So completely, in his generous appreciation and hos- 
 pitable interest, did Mr. Dickens seem to pass out of 
 himself, that I had strange difficulty in realizing that he 
 was he; that the alert, jaunty figure, dressed with ex- 
 treme nicety, and in a style bordering on the ornate, 
 and with such elegant and luxurious surroundings, was 
 indeed the great friend of the people, the romancer of 
 common life ; that the kindly, considerate host who saw 
 every thing, heard every thing, was the poetic, dramatic 
 novelist, who, next to Shakspeare, had been for years 
 the ' god of my idolatry.' 
 
 " I need not here describe that dinner-party. A par- 
 tial list of the guests will show how brilliant it must 
 have been: Charles Kemble and his daughter Adelaide 
 (Madame Sartoris) ; Mr. Procter (Barry Cornwall ) 
 and his accomplished wife ; Emil Devrient, the great 
 German actor ; John Kenyon, the poet-banker ; and his 
 grand friend, Walter Savage Landor. . . . 
 
 " O night of nights ! I had heard Landor talk, and 
 
362 LIFJE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 Adelaide Kemble sing, and Charles Dickens handed me 
 to my carriage, taking leave of me with a ' God bless 
 you ! ' and I drove home through the soft summer air 
 with my head among the stars." 
 
 Charles Dickens's last earthly home was called Gad's 
 Hill. " The London News " tells how he obtained the 
 place : — 
 
 " Though not born at Rochester, Mr. Dickens spent 
 some portion of his boyhood there, and was wont to tell 
 how his father, the late Mr. John Dickens, in the course 
 of a country ramble, pointed out to him as a child the 
 house at Gad's-hill Place, saying, ' There, my boy, if 
 you work, and mind your book, you will perhaps one day 
 live in a house like that.' This speech sunk deep ; and 
 in after -years, and in the course of his many long 
 pedestrian rambles through the lanes and roads of the 
 pleasant Kentish country, Mr. Dickens came to regard 
 this Gad's-hill house lovingly, and to wish himself its 
 possessor. This seemed an impossibility. The property 
 was so held, that there was no likelihood of its ever 
 coming into the market ; and so Gad's Hill came to be 
 alluded to jocularly as representing a fancy which was 
 pleasant enough in dreamland, but would never be 
 realized. Meanwhile, the years rolled on, and Gad's 
 Hill became' almost forgotten ; then a further lapse of 
 time, and Mr. Dickens felt a strong wish to settle in the 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 363 
 
 country, and determined to let Tavistock House. About 
 this time, and by the strangest cc incidence, his intimate 
 friend and close ally, Mr. W. H. Wills, chanced to sit 
 next to a lady at a London dinner-party, who remarked, in 
 the course of conversation, that a house and grounds had 
 louie into her possession, of which she wanted to dispose. 
 The reader will guess the rest. The house was in Kent, 
 was not far from Rochester, had this and that distin- 
 guisliing feature wliich made it like Gad's Hill, and like 
 no other place ; and the upshot of Mv. Wills's dinner- 
 table chit-chat with a lady whom he had never met 
 before was, that Charles Dickens realized the dream of 
 his youth, and became the possessor of Gad's Hill. It 
 will now be sold, as well as the valuable collection of 
 original pictiu'es which Mr. Dickens gathered together 
 during his life, and many of which are illustrative of his 
 works." 
 
 Gad's Hill is near Rochester, on the London side, and 
 about twenty-five miles from London. Donald G. Mit- 
 chell, in " Hearth and Home,"' has given a very pleasant 
 picture of Gad's Hill, and Dickens at home. " Dinner 
 Ails a gala-time ; but unceremonious, and regardless of 
 dress, as he might be in the earlier hours of the day, 
 he, in his latter years at least, kept b}^ the uld English 
 ceremonial di-ess for dinner. His butler and servant 
 were also habited conventionally ; and the same notion 
 of conventional requii-ement, it will be remembered, he 
 
864 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 observed always in his readings and appearance on 
 public occasions. But the laws of etiquette, however 
 faithfull}^ and constantly followed, did not sit easily on 
 him ; and there is no portrait of him, which, to our mind, 
 is so agreeable as that which represents him in an old 
 loose morning-jacket, leanbig against a column of his 
 porch upon Gad's HiU, with his family grouped around 
 him. As dinner came to its close, the little grand- 
 children tottled in, — his ' wenerable ' friends, as he 
 delighted to call them ; and with their advent came 
 always a rollicking time of cheer." 
 
 Mr. Philp has thus pictured Gad's Hill. " The 
 house is a charming old mansion a little modernized, — 
 the lawn exquisitely beautiful, and illuminated by 
 thousands of scarlet geraniums. The estate is covered 
 vv^ith magnificent old trees ; and several cedars of 
 Lebanon I have never seen equalled. In the midst of 
 a small plantation across the road, opposite the house, 
 approached by a tunnel from the lawn under the turn- 
 pike-road, is a French chalet, sent to Dickens as a pres- 
 ent, in ninety-eight pacldng-cases. Here Mr. Dickens 
 does most of his writing, where he can be perfectly 
 quiet, and not disturbed by anybody. I need scarcely 
 say that the house is crowded with fine pictures, original 
 sketches for his books, choice engravings, &c. ; in fact, 
 one might be amused for a month in looking over the 
 objects of interest, which are nuraerous and beautiful- 
 
CSarles dickens. 365 
 
 Inside the hall are portions of the scenery painted by 
 Stanfield for 'The Frozen Deep,' the p'ay in which 
 Dickens and others performed for the benefit of Douglas 
 Jerrold's family ; written by Wilkie Collins. Just as 
 you enter, in a neat frame, written and illuminated by 
 Owen Jones, is the following : ' This house, Gad's-hill 
 Place, stands on the summit of Shakspeare's Gad's 
 Hill, ever memorable for its association, in his noble 
 fancy, with Sir John Falstaff. " But, my lads, my lads, 
 to-morrow morning, by four o'clock, early at Gad's Hill. 
 There are pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich offer- 
 ings, and traders riding to London with fat purses. I 
 have visors for you all : you have horses for yourselves.' " 
 " In the dining-room hangs Frith's original picture of 
 Dolly Varden, and Maclise's portrait of Dickens when 
 a young man ; also Cattermole's wonderful drawings, 
 illustrating some of Dickens's most touching scenes ; 
 besides several exquisite works by Marcus Stone (who 
 illustrated ' Our Mutual Friend'), David Roberts, Gal- 
 lon, Stanfield, and others. My bedroom was the per- 
 fection of a sleeping-apartment; the view across the 
 Kentish Hills, with a distant peep at the Thames, 
 charming. The screen shutting off the dressing-room 
 from the bedroom is covered with proof-impressions, 
 neatly framed, of the illustrations to ' Our Mutual 
 Friend,' and other works. In every room, I found a 
 table covered with writing-materials, headed note-paper 
 and envelopes, cut quill pens, wax, matches, sealing- 
 
3C6 lilFE AND WRITINGS OP 
 
 wax ; and all scrupulously neat and orderly. Th ere are 
 magnificent specimens of Newfoundland dogs on the 
 grounds, — such animals as Landseer would love to paint. 
 One of them, Bumble, seems to be a favorite with 
 Dickens. They are all named after characters in 
 Dickens's works. Dickens at home seems to be perpet- 
 ually jolly, and enters into the interests of games with 
 all the ardor of a boy. Physically, as well as men- 
 tally, he is immensely strong, having quite regained his 
 wonted health and strength. He is an immense walker, 
 and never seems to be fatigued. He breakfasts at eight 
 o'clock ; immediately after, answers all the letters re- 
 ceived that morning ; writes until one o'clock ; lunches ; 
 walks twelve miles (every day) ; dines at six ; and passes 
 the evening entertaining his numerous friends." 
 
 In a letter written long ago to a friend in America, he 
 thus describes his home : — 
 
 " Divers birds sing here all day, and the nightingales 
 all night. The place is lovely, and in perfect order. I 
 have put five mirrors in the Swiss cTidlet (Avhere I 
 write), and they reflect and refract, in all kinds of ways, 
 the leaves that are quivering at the windows, and the 
 great fields of waving corn, and the sail-dotted river. 
 My room is up among the branches of the trees ; and 
 the birds and the butterflies fly in and out ; and the green 
 branches shoot in at the open windows ; and the lights 
 
CFTARLES DICKENS. 3G7 
 
 and shadows of the clouds come and go with the rest 
 of the company. The scent of the flowers, and, indeed, 
 of every thing that is growing for miles and miles, ia 
 most delicious." 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE UNFINISHED STORY. 
 Mystery of Edwin Drood. — Sudden IllnesB. — Death. 
 
 " There is no death : what seems so is transition. 
 This life of mortal breath 
 Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
 Whose portals wo call death." 
 
 LONGFELLCr. 
 
 ' O death, where is thy sting ? O grave, where is thy victory ? " — 1 COR. rv. 66. 
 
 R. DICKENS'S readings interfered with 
 his writing ; and therefore he gave a long- 
 ing public no other work till the first num- 
 ber of " The Mystery of Edwin Drood," 
 which appeared in March, l!^TO. It was 
 to be completed in twelve parts, and was published 
 simultaneously in London and in Boston. Only three 
 numbers had been published when he passed away. 
 
 It is a remarkable coincidence that the last completed 
 work the novelist wrote ended with this paragraph : — 
 
 "(9w Friday^ the 9th of June, in the present year, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Boffin (in the manuscript-dress of receiv- 
 
 868 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 369 
 
 ing Mr. and Mrs. Lammle at breakfast) were in the 
 Soutli-Eastern Railway with me in a terribly destructive 
 accident. When I had done what I could to help oth 
 ers, I climbed back into my carriage, nearly turned ovei 
 a viaduct, and caught aslant upon the turn, to extricate 
 the worthy couple. They were much soiled, but other- 
 wise unhurt. The same happy result attended Miss 
 Bella Wilfer on her wedding-day, and Mr. Riderhood 
 inspecting Bradley Headstone's red neckerchief as he 
 lay asleep. I remember with devout thankfulness, that 
 I can never be much nearer parting company with my 
 readers forever than I was then, until there shall be 
 written against my life the two words with which I 
 have closed this book, — the end." 
 
 After his return from America, he continued to give 
 readings in different parts of England ; but on the even- 
 ing of March IG last he brought to a close, at St. James' 
 Hall, in London, his series of public readings. He said 
 in his remarks at the close, — 
 
 " I have thought it well, at the full flood-tide of your 
 favor, to retire upon those older associations between 
 us, which date from much farther back than these, and 
 henceforth to devote myself exclusively to the art that 
 first brought us together. [Great applause.] Ladies 
 and gentlemen, in but two short weeks from tliis time, I 
 hope that you may enter, in your own houses, on a new 
 
370 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 ' series of readings,' at which my assistance will be in- 
 dispensable ; but from this garish light I \anish now 
 forevermore, with a heartfelt, grateful, respectful, and 
 affectionate farewell." 
 
 Carlyle is "reported as saying, that he never saw nor 
 heard of any thing so extraordinary in its way as the 
 picturesque-dramatic power of Mr. Dickens in his read- 
 ings. ' Mr. Dickens, in some characters,' said his philo- 
 sophic observer, ' costumes his mind with a completeness 
 that is so absolutely perfect.' This puts it into my head 
 to tell a little story which I long since heard, — how, one 
 evening, the great novelist was reading, I think the trial- 
 scene in ' Pickwick,' to an audience of rank and fashion, 
 and all that, in London. Presently, rank and fashion 
 began to have their attention drawn to an explosive 
 merriment in one part of the hall. On the front bench 
 sat a tall man, blue-eyed and gray-haired, who ever and 
 anon swung his steeple-crowned felt hat forcibly down 
 on his knees, bursting into peals of such inextinguisha- 
 ble laughter as the gods on Homer's Olympus when 
 they beheld limp-footed Vulcan halting round the circle 
 as cup-bearer. Rank and fashion were inclined to be 
 shocked at this unconventional mirth : but by and by the 
 whisper went round that he of the steeple-hat was no 
 other than Thomas Carlyle of Chelsea ; and for the rest 
 of the evening Mr. Dickens had but a divided attention 
 from his reverently wondering audience." 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 371 
 
 Messrs. Chapman & Hall write, in correction of 
 sundry erroneous reports, to say that three numbers of 
 " The Mystery of Edwin Drood," the novel on which 
 Mr. Dickens was at work when he died, were left com- 
 plete, in addition to those already published ; this being 
 one-half of the story as it was intended to be written. 
 These nimibers will be published, and the fragment will 
 remain a fragment. Messrs. Chapman & Hall add, " No 
 other writer could be permitted by us to complete the 
 work which Mr. Dickens has left." 
 
 Says " The New- York Tribune '' very truly, " Ten or 
 twenty millions of people keep a corner in their hearts 
 for Dickens, because he has seen so perfectly the poetry, 
 the beauty, the hundred lessons, which the life of the 
 masses contains ; and in all that he has done he has 
 striven for their good. ' I have always had, and always 
 shall have,' said he on his first visit to tliis country, 'an 
 earnest and true desire to contribute, as far as in me 
 Hes, to the common stock of healthful cheerfulness and 
 enjoyment. I believe that Virtue shows quite as well 
 in rags and patches as she does in purple and fine linen. 
 I believe that she, and every beautiful object in external 
 nature, claims some sympathy in the poorest man who 
 breaks his scanty loaf of daily bread.' So, in the faith 
 that literature was not for the rich alone, and the no- 
 blest work was the work done for the poor, he bent 
 himself bravely to his splendid task." 
 
372 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 Mr. Dickens died on the 9th of June. 1870. " The 
 London News " thus gives particulars : — 
 
 " He was at Rochester the 7th instant : on Wednes- 
 day, he was employed at his Uterary labors until dinner. 
 When at dinner, he was seized with a violent pain in 
 the head, and fell down, becoming totally unconscious. 
 He was placed on a sofa in the dining-room, as it was 
 not considered advisable to remove him up stairs. Mr. 
 S. Steele of Strood, his local medical adviser, was sent 
 for, and found him laboring under a severe form of apo- 
 plexy. Stertorous breathing had taken place ; and the 
 extremities very soon became cold. Mr. Steele re- 
 mained with liim until near midnight, when Mr. F. Carr 
 Beard, surgeon, of Welbeck Street, London, an old per- 
 sonal friend of Mr. Dickens, arrived, with Mrs. Collins 
 and Miss Dickens, daughters of the great novelist. Mr. 
 Beard immediately consulted with Mr. Steele ; but they 
 had little hope. Mr. Dickens was still unconscious, and 
 remained in that state up to the time of his death. Mr.- 
 Beard remained with him all night. Dr. J. Russell 
 Reynolds, the eminent physician of Grosvenor Street, 
 was telegraphed for, and arrived on Thursday after- 
 noon. He agreed with Messrs. Beard and Steele in 
 considering the case a hopeless one from the first. His 
 death took place at half-j)ast six o'clock. Mr. Dickens 
 was well on Wednesday, and wrote a great deal during 
 the day. He had lately had no premonitory symptoms 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 373 
 
 of an affection of the brain. A post-mortem examination 
 is to be made. A contemporary states, that, when Mr. 
 Dickens sat down to dinner on Wednesday, his sister- 
 in-law, Miss Hogarth, observed an unusual appearance 
 in his face, and became alarmed, and said she feared he 
 was ill, proposing in the same breath to telegraph for 
 medical assistance. Mr. Dickens replied, ' No, no, no : 
 I hctve got the toothache, and shall be better presently.' 
 He then asked that the window might be shut; and 
 almost immediately he lapsed into unconsciousness, from 
 which state he never recovered till the moment of his 
 death. Mr. Charles Dickens, the younger, was tele- 
 gKxphed for on Wednesday evening-; but the message did 
 not reach London till Thursday morning. He started 
 instantly for his father's residence, and was present at 
 the death-bed, with two of his sisters. Miss Hogarth, 
 and the medical attendants. The day of his death was, 
 strange to say, the anniversary of the Staplehurst acci- 
 dent, in which, it will be remembered, he was in great 
 peril, and from which some of those nearest to him con- 
 sider he received a physical shock from which he never 
 really recovered. The friends in the habit of meeting 
 Mr. Dickens privately, recall now the energy with which 
 he depicted that dreadful scene, and how, as the climax 
 of his story came, and its dread interest grew, he would 
 rise from the table, and literally act the parts of the sev- 
 eral sufferers to whom he had lent a helping hand. Now 
 that he is gone, it is remembered with absolute pain, 
 
374 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 that one of the first surgeons of the day, who was pres 
 ent when this Staplehurst story was told, soon after its 
 occurrence, remarked, that ' the worst of these railway 
 accidents was the difficulty of determining the period at 
 which the system could be said to have survived the 
 shock; and that instances were on record of two or tliree 
 years having gone by before the life-sufferer knew that 
 he was seriously hurt.' But the medical testimony as to. 
 the immediate cause of Mr. Dickens's death is definite 
 and precise. A^^oplexy, an effusion of blood on the brain, 
 — the cause an overstrained system, and the result 
 one which was only staved off twelve months ago, when 
 he was induced to obey his doctor's injunctions, and sus- 
 pend his readings in public, — has carried him away at a 
 comparatively early age ; and all that remains to his sor- 
 rowing friends is to recall with affection the many tiaits 
 which made this great man so lovable." 
 
 The cause of the death of Dickens is attributed by 
 a London correspondent of " The Scotsman " to th^ 
 mental labor of writing " Edwin Drood." The writer 
 says, — 
 
 " Since his sudden seizure in the midst of his read- 
 ings last 3^ear, Mr. Dickens has never been the same 
 man. After a little while, he began to go about as be- 
 fore ; flitted to and fro in his ardent, restless way ; took 
 long walks, after his favorite fashion, starting on the 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 375 
 
 whim of the moment, at any hour, for anywhere ; and 
 resumed his writing and other labors, but not with the 
 same lightness and vivacity as before. Though a sturdy 
 walker, there had always been something of a limp in 
 his gait ; and this now became more marked. He had 
 more need of his stick, and stooped perceptibly. He 
 grew sooner wearied, both in walking and in work, and 
 complained, at times, of a strange supineness of mind, 
 and labored slowness with the pen. Those who had 
 not seen him for some time were most struck on meet- 
 ing him, within the last few months, with the sudden 
 whiteness of his hair. From gray, he became all at 
 once white, — just as Mr. Bright did not long since. I 
 saw him a few weeks ago, just before he left town ; and 
 his sunburned face seemed set in snow, his beard and 
 hair were bleached so perfectly. Beyond question, I 
 think it was ' Edwin Drood ' that killed him. He went 
 back to work too soon. He had had the idea of the 
 story for some time in his mind, I believe ; but, after 
 the first impulse of the start was off, he found the de- 
 velo^jment of the uicidents and characters slow and 
 painful. Within the last week or so, he was planning 
 much of this. He seemed to make so little progress, 
 and at the cost of such an effort. Perhaps it was the 
 hot weather, he thought, or he was out of sorts, and 
 would get into better trim by and by. But the disorder 
 was deeper and more fatal. Even before his illness last 
 year, however, he had had warnings of exhaustion. He 
 
376 LIFE AND WJIITINGS. 
 
 suffered, at times, from a terrible sleeplessness, which 
 often drove him forth at midnight to walk — his fa- 
 vorite remedy for all troubles — till dawn. Like 
 Wordsworth, he belonged to the school of peripatetics. 
 Much given myself to walking at all hours, I have 
 come across him often in his rambles, always marching 
 swiftly, with earnest, resolute air, as if bound to be at 
 some given spot by the hour and minute ; his quick, 
 glancing eye scanning every thing and everj'body. In 
 the story of ' The Two Apprentices,' Avhich he wrote 
 with Wilkie Collins, he described his own restless, im- 
 petuous activity, — laborious idleness he called it. All 
 this wear and tear of writing, public readings, and per- 
 petual movement, told even on his elastic and vigorous 
 constitution in the end. The American trip brought 
 him close upon thirty thousand pounds ; but, otherwise, 
 'I doubt whether it did him much good. Altogether, 
 the strain was too severe. Then came ' Edwin Drood ' 
 to put the finishing-stroke to the work." 
 
CHAPTER XVin. 
 
 LAST WORDS. 
 
 Laat Letters of Mr. Dickens. — The Queen's Sorrow. — A Nation moams. — The 
 Funeral of the Great Novelist. 
 
 "There is no name so sweet on earth, 
 No name so sweet in heaven, — 
 The name before his wondrous birth 
 To Christ the Saviour given." 
 
 Anontmods. 
 
 " A name which is above every name."— Phii.. ii. 9. 
 
 N the day that Mr. Dickens was seized 
 with apoplex}^ he wrote the following 
 letter : — 
 
 Gad's-Hill Place, Higham by Rochester, ICent, 
 Wednesday, the 8th .June, 1870. 
 
 Dear Sir, — It would be quite inconceivable to me, 
 but for your letter, that any reasonable reader could 
 possibly attach a scriptural reference to a passage in a 
 book of mine, reproducing a much abused social figure 
 of speech, impressed into all sorts of service, on all 
 sorts of inappropriate occasions, without the faintest 
 connection of it with its original source. I am truly 
 
 877 
 
378 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 shocked to find that any reader can make the mistake. 
 I have always striven in my writings to express venera- 
 tion for the life and lessons of our Saviour, because I 
 feel it, and because I re-wrote that history for my chil- 
 dren. — every one of whom knew it, from having it re- 
 peated to them, long before they could read, and almost 
 as soon as they could speak. But I have never made 
 proclamation of this from the housetops. 
 Faithfully yours, 
 
 Charles Dickens. 
 
 He wrote that letter because a friend had written to 
 him, calling attention to a passage in " Edwin Drood," 
 which, to some readers, appeared to savor of irreverence. 
 
 Charles Dickens, it is said, was never formally con- 
 ]iected with any religious sect ; but his rule was to wor- 
 ship with the Unitarians. While hving in London, he 
 attended one of their places of worship regularly, and 
 had a family-pew there. He held similar views to 
 those of Canon Kingsley, and believed most firmly in 
 the final triumph of the Almighty Power and Goodness 
 over all evil. He wrote his books, as he once told an 
 American whom he met on the Oliio River, to show 
 that there was not one beyond the reach of infinite 
 mercy ; that, to use his own expression, " God never 
 made any thing too bad to be saved." 
 
 Dean Stanley at the funeral read the following ex- 
 tract from his will, dated May 12, 1869 : — 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 379 
 
 " I direct that my name be inscribed in plain English 
 letters on my tomb. ... I enjoin my friends on no 
 account to make me the subject of any monument, 
 memorial, or testimonial whatever. ... I rest my 
 claims to the remembrance of my country upon my 
 published works, and the rememljrance of my friends 
 upon their experience of me in addition thereto. . . . 
 I commit my soul to the mercy of God, through our 
 Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ ; and I exhort my dear 
 children to try and guide themselves by the teaching 
 of the New Testament in its broad spirit, and to put no 
 faith in any man's narrow construction of its letter." 
 
 " In that simple but sufficient faith," said the dean, 
 " Charles Dickens lived and died. In that faith, he 
 would have you all live and die also ; and if you have 
 learned from his words the eternal value of generosity, 
 purity, kindness, and unselfishness, and to cai'ry them 
 out in action, those are the best ' monuments, memo- 
 rials, and testimonials ' which you, his fellow-country- 
 men, can raise to his memory." 
 
 Well says a writer in " The Gospel Banner," — 
 " When Uncle Tom shall lead some soul away from 
 Christ, or little Eva lead a troop of children to perdi- 
 tion, or Aunt Winnie shut the gates of heaven, which 
 are now ajar, against some struggling spirit, it will be 
 time enough for stupid pharisees to preach against all 
 
880 LIFE AND WRITINGS Ot 
 
 fictitious literature (save what is sanctioued by the pub- 
 lishing committees of large religious book-concerns), 
 and especially against such creations as Little Dorritt, 
 Paul, and Little Nell. We cannot form the acquaint- 
 ance of such characters, whether in real life or romance, 
 witliout being elevated and enriched by the association. 
 He has' peopled the world of imagination with visions 
 of immortal worth and beauty ; and they will henceforth 
 be a part of the heart-treasures of mankind. How could 
 he cause his creations to move in the very atmosphere 
 of Christianity, and to be moved by its most elevated 
 motives, if he himself had not bathed in its light, and 
 received its holy influences into his heart ? As well 
 could artist bring forth finished photographs from the 
 dark caverns of the earth, as any man incai-nate the very 
 principles and spirit of Christianity in his creations with- 
 out himself having tasted of the word of life." 
 
 His personal independence was illustrated by his rela- 
 tions with Victoria. The queen was among his admir- 
 ers. As an expression of her appreciation, she invited 
 him to read to her. He declined with a manly spii-ii-, 
 saying that he would not enter any house professionally 
 that he could not socially. Afterwards, «the queen, 
 waiving the etiquette of the court, received him as her 
 friend. He could have had a title and high office ; but 
 he refused them. 
 
 An incident is mentioned as showing in how great re- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 381 
 
 gard Mr. Dickens, as a man and as an author, was held 
 by the Queen of England : shortly befoic his deatli, he 
 sent to her Majesty an edition of his collect(id works ; 
 and when the clerk of the council went to Balmoral 
 last week, the queen, knowing the friendship that ex- 
 isted between Mr. Dickens and Mr. Helps, showed the 
 latter where she had placed the gift of the great novel- 
 ist. This was in her private librar}^ ; and her Majesty 
 expressed her desire that Mr. Helps should inform Mr. 
 Dickens of this arrangement. The day after his death, 
 she sent a special messenger with a letter of condolence 
 to his family. Sadly appropriate are his own words now 
 to his friends : — 
 
 "There is nothing — no, nothing — beautiful and good, 
 that dies, and is forgotten. An infant, a prattling child, 
 dying in its cradle, will live again in the better thoughts 
 of those who loved it, and play its part, though its body 
 be burned to ashes, or buried in the deepest sea. There 
 is not an angel added to the hosts of heaven but does 
 its blessed work on earth in those who loved it here. 
 Dead ! Oh, if the good deeds of human creatures could 
 l)e traced to their source, how beautiful would even 
 death appear ! for how much charity, mercy, and puri 
 fled affection, would be seen to have their growth in 
 lusty graves ! " 
 
 Suiiu- ouo has gathered these sweet flowers from Dick- 
 ens's writings, and strewn them on his grave : — 
 
382 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 ..." The spirit of the child, returning, innocent and 
 radiant, touched the old man with its hand, and beck- 
 oned him away." . . . 
 
 ..." A cricket sings upon the hearth, a broken 
 child's toy lies upon the ground, and nothing else re- 
 mains." . . . 
 
 ..." I felt my old self as the dead may feel if they 
 ever revisit these scenes. I was glad to be tenderly 
 remembered, to be gently pitied, not to be quite for- 
 gotten." . . . 
 
 ..." When I die, put near me something that has 
 loved the light, and had the sky above it always." . . . 
 
 ..." Lord, keep my memory green ! " . . . 
 
 . . . " ' Now,' he murmured, ' I am happy.' He fell 
 into a light slumber, and, waking, smiled as before ; 
 then spoke of beautiful gardens, which he said stretched 
 out before him, and were filled with figures of men, 
 women, and many children, all with light upon theii' 
 faces ; then whispered that it was Eden, — and so 
 died." . . . 
 
 ..." Died like a child that had gone to sleep." . . . 
 
 ..." And began the world, — not this world, oh ! 
 not this, — the world that sets this right." . . . 
 
 ..." Gone before the Father, far beyond the twi- 
 light judgment of this world, high above its mists and 
 obscurities." . . . 
 
 ..." And lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no 
 marvel now." ... 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 383 
 
 ..." It being high water, he went out with the 
 tide." . . . 
 
 " Dickens's obsequies were simple, as he desu'ed. The 
 news that a special train left Rochester at an early hour 
 yesterday morning, and that it carried his remains, was 
 ^oon telegraphed to London : but every arrangement 
 had been completed beforehand ; and there was no one 
 in the Abbey, no one to follow the three simple mourn- 
 ing-coaches and the hearse ; no one to obtrude upon the 
 mourners. The waiting-room at Charing-cross Station 
 was set apart for the latter for the quarter of an hour 
 they remained there ; the abbey doors were closed di- 
 rectly they reached it ; and even the mourning-coaches 
 were not permitted to wait. A couple of street-cabs, 
 and a single brougham, took the funeral-party away 
 when the last solemn rites were over ; so that passers-by 
 were unaware that any ceremony was being conducted : 
 and it was not until a good horn- after that the south 
 transept began to fill. There were no cloaks, no weep- 
 ers, no bands, no scarfs, no feathers, — none of the 
 dismal frippery of the undertaker. Let the reader turn 
 to that portion of ' Great Expectations ' in which the 
 funeral of Joe Gargery's wife is described, he will 
 there find full details of the miserable things omitted. 
 In the same part of the same volume, he will find rever- 
 ent allusion to the time when ' these noble passages are 
 read which remind humanity how it brought nothing 
 
384 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 into the woi'lcl, and can take nothing out ; and how it 
 fleeth hke a shadow, and never continneth long in one 
 stay ; ' and will think of the solemn scene in Westminster 
 Abbey yesterday morning, with the dean reading our 
 solemn burial-service, tlie organ chiming in subdued 
 and low, and the vast place empty, save for the little 
 group of heart -stricken people by an open grave. A 
 plain oak coffin, with a brass plate bearing the inscrip- 
 tion, — 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS, 
 
 Born Eebkuary 7th, 1812. 
 
 Died June 9th, 1870. 
 
 a coffin strewed with wreaths and flowers by the female 
 mourners, and then dust to dust, and ashes to ashes, 
 — such was the funeral of the great man who has 
 gone. In coming to the Abbey, in the first coach were 
 the late Mr. Dickens's childi-en, — Mr. Charles Dickens, 
 jun. ; Mr. Harry Dickens ; Miss Dickens ; Mrs. Charles 
 Collins. In the second coach were Mrs. Austin, his sis- 
 ter; ;Mrs. Charles Dickens, jun. ; Miss Hogarth, his sis- 
 ter-in-law ; Mr. John Forster. In the third coach, Mr. 
 Frank Beard, his medical attendant ; Mr. Charles Col- 
 lins, his son-in-law; Mr. Ouvry, his solicitor; Mr. Wilkie 
 Collins ; Mr. Edmund Dickens, his nephew. 
 
 " Charles Dickens lies surrounded by poets and men 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 385 
 
 of genius. Shakspeare's marble effigy looked yesterday 
 into his open grave ; at his feet are Dr. Johnson and 
 David Garrick ; his head is by Addison and Handel ; 
 while Oliver Goldsmith, Rowe, Southey, Campbell, 
 Thomson, Sheridan, Macaulay, and Thackeray, or their 
 memorials, encircle him ; and ' Poets' Corner,' the most 
 familiar spot in the whole Abbey, has thus received an 
 illustrious addition to its peculiar glory. Separated 
 from Dickens's grave by the statues of Shakspeare, 
 Southey, and Thomson, and close by the door to ' Poets' 
 Corner,' are the memorials of Ben Jonson, Dr. Samuel 
 Butler, Milton, Spenser, and Gray ; while Chaucer, Dry- 
 den, Cowley, Mason, Shadwell, and Prior are hard by, 
 and tell the bystander, with their wealth of great names, 
 how — 
 
 ** * These poets near our princes sleep, 
 And in one grave their mansion keep.' " 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 AMERICA S SYMPATHY. 
 
 How the News of Mr. Dickens's Death -was received. — Henry Ward Beecher's Btl* 
 mon. — The Voice of the Press. 
 
 " Man is one ; 
 And he hath one great heart. It is thus we feel, 
 With a gigantic throb athwart the sea, 
 Each other's rights and wrongs : thus are we men I " 
 
 Bailey's Festds. 
 
 "And whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it." — 1 C!OK. xli. 29. 
 
 ITH simple truth " The Monthly Religious 
 Magazine " remarks, — 
 
 " It was a great surprise of grief which 
 fell upon men of letters, and upon the 
 multitude to whom the name of .Mr. Dickens had long 
 been a synonyme for all that is most charming in the 
 literature of fiction, when it was announced that he had 
 suddenly ceased from his labors, and fallen asleep. The 
 press of two continents, of all shades of opinion, politi- 
 cal and religious, though almost stunned by the tidings, 
 quickly rallied, as under one universal inspiration, with 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 387 
 
 only here and there a dismal exception, to utter its 
 grateful memory, and to pour out its mighty sorrow. 
 
 " No single quality so much distinguishes the pages 
 of this admired and lamented child of genius as their 
 natural, broad, genial, exquisitely delicate and tender 
 humanity. Indeed, this is not so much a quality as the 
 animating spirit of them, glowing in all . their descrip- 
 tions, in their incomparable humor, their ready, ingenuous 
 wit, their tearful but quiet pathos. Mankind is his 
 debtor, not only for the healthful pleasure which has 
 sprung up under the magic of his pen in thousands 
 of homes and millions of hearts, but for putting into 
 forms so attractive and fascinating so much of the finest 
 essence of Christianity. We say this with careful 
 deliberation. In all the volumes which Mr. Dickens 
 has given to the world, we remember nothing which 
 should make a Christian blush or grieve ; whilst we do 
 discover pervading them, as electricity the atmosphere, 
 the humanities, the charities, the noble aspirations, the 
 enriching faiths, the tender and soothing hopes, which 
 are the sweet and beautiful vintage of the True Vine. 
 . . . Religion, in the restricted sense of the word, is 
 not the only chord in the many-stringed harp of human- 
 ity which may lawfully be touched with Christian 
 fingers ; but he who brings forth dulcet sounds in due 
 proportion from each, blending them all, is master of 
 the divine harmonies, and the true ' man of God.' He 
 is the real artist, trained for his calling by apprentice- 
 
388 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 ship to truth, beauty, and love. In the roll of such 
 artists, representatives of the best literature, with the 
 heartfelt assent of their readers, have hastened to place 
 the brilliant and beloved name of Charles Dickens. He 
 is at rest ' with kings and counsellors of the earth ' All 
 ranks, from the most humble to the most exalted, mourn 
 for him, even as they have rejoiced in him ; but they 
 mourn, not as though he had just begun his splendid 
 career of beneficent ministration to human happiness, 
 but as for one who has finished well the tasks of life ; 
 for he had done enough for his fame, and far more than 
 his part for humanity ; and, after all, he has left the 
 most and the best of himself behind. Let his requiem 
 be the thanksgiving-psalms of the vast multitude whose 
 eyes have glistened, and whose hearts have throbbed, 
 under the wondrous speU of his creative fancy. His 
 ' funeral anthem,' let it be ' the glad evangel ' of sym- 
 pathy with man in his loneliness, want, struggle, sorrow, 
 and sin, which his silent word shall preach from genera- 
 tion to generation." 
 
 " The Boston Transcript " publishes this extract from 
 a private letter from Jean Ingelow : " You know by 
 this time the loss we have sustained in the death of 
 Charles Dickens. Literature seems to have lost her 
 king, and one to whom almost all were loyal." He was 
 the lord of laughter and of tears. The old dress in 
 which mortals used to be presented to us by authors 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 389 
 
 had grown shabby ; but he dressed human natui-e anew, 
 showed it to us as we had never seen it before. He 
 made what was homely and lowly draw near to be 
 looked at and loved." 
 
 Thus echoes Henry Ward Beecher the cry of mourn- 
 ing from across the sea : — 
 
 " His works generally produced a powerful impression 
 upon the many wrongs and vices which they sought to 
 remedy. 
 
 " And while the question of Mr. Dickens's spiritual 
 work is perhaps one that we are not authorized to de- 
 cide, and must not decide, and while, certainly, we can- 
 not reckon him as among the highest natures, we cannot 
 withhold from him our gratitude ; and we cannot but 
 be grateful to God for the fact that he was raised up to 
 do in a lower sphere a greatly needed work ; which he 
 did well. 
 
 " And, having done his work, he passed from the stage 
 of life as one might wish to die, — one moment in the 
 full enjoyment of his faculties, and the next moment 
 gone, as it were. I will still cling to that old heresy, the 
 Episcopal prayer-book to the contrary notwithstanding. 
 I should never pray to God to keep me from sudden death. 
 Instead of that, my prayer to God is, that he will cut me 
 off suddenly. I do not want to be like an old harness 
 that i^ always broken, that always has to be tied up 
 
390 LIFE AND WRITINGS OS* 
 
 with strings, or that is always being carried to the shop 
 for repairs, and is always good for nothing. At the full 
 of life, while yet his mind was vigorous, he was stricken 
 down. And he has died at the right time, — at the 
 right time for himself, and at the right time for the 
 world. He had done his work ; and, such as it was, he 
 had done it well. I, for one, thank God for the life of 
 Charles Dickens ; and I thank God for his work. 
 Though I do not regard it as the highest, I regard it as 
 eminently noble and useful. 
 
 " It win always be a pleasant thing for me to remem- 
 ber that he spoke in our church, using it as a reading- 
 haU." 
 
 A beautiful tribute is that of George William Curtis 
 in " Harper's Weekly : " — 
 
 " The great story-teller is the personal friend of the 
 world ; and, when he dies, a shadow falls upon every 
 home in which his works were familiar, and his name 
 tenderly cherished. When the news came that Dickens 
 was dead, it was felt that the one man who was more 
 beloved than any of his contemporaries by the English- 
 speaking race of to-day was gone. While he yet lay in 
 his own house, unburied, the thoughts of the whole 
 civihzed world turned solemnly to the silent chamber, 
 and gratefully recalled his immense service to mankind. 
 What an amazing fame ! What a feeling to inspire 1 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 39i 
 
 When Walter Scott drew near his end, he said to his 
 Bon-in-law, Lockhart, as if it were the chief lesson of his 
 accumulated experience, ' Be a good man, my dear.' 
 Nothing else seemed important then. Charity, patience, 
 love, — these he saw, in the dawn of heavenly light, to 
 be the only true possessions, the sole real successes. 
 And who of all men that ever lived has done more 
 to make men good than Charles Dickens ? and what 
 praise so pure as that simple truth spoken by his open 
 grave ? . . . 
 
 " Even at the very moment that the cunning hand was 
 suddenly stilled forever, how many thousands of readers 
 in England and America, as they finished the beautiful 
 tenth chapter of ' Edwin Drood,' were declaring that 
 Dickens was never so delightful as in his latest work ! 
 
 " And so our friend — the friend of all honest men and 
 women stumbHng and struggling in the great battle — sud- 
 enly ceases from among us, — how much happier for him, 
 and for all of us, than the sad decline of the good Sir 
 Walter, whose powers were slowly extinguished, star by 
 star, before the eyes of all men, who therefore could not 
 hear of the end but with a tear of relief! Now we can 
 percei"'3 how prophetic was the feeling of sadness with 
 wliich we watched Dickens withdrawing from the plat- 
 form at his last reading in Steinway Hall. All the 
 evening, as he said, the shadow of one word had im- 
 pended over us. He had not faltered for a moment ; 
 but, strangely, even Pickwick did not seem gay. The 
 
391^ LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 feeling of deep and inexpressible affection for the man 
 who had so nobly made his talent ten talents, and who, 
 evidently ill, was now passing from our sight forever, 
 overpowered all other emotion. The vast audience 
 stood cheering and tearful, as, gravely bowing, and 
 refusing all assistance, as if in that final moment he 
 wished to confront us alone, the master lingered and 
 lingered, and slowly retired. In that moment, after the 
 long misunderstanding of years between him and this 
 country, and after his wholly manly and genefous speech 
 at the press dinner, our hearts clasped his, as he and 
 Mark Lemon grasped hands over the grave of Thack- 
 eray ; and henceforward, and for all the future, there 
 was to be nothing in American hearts but boundless 
 love and gratitude for Charles Dickens." 
 
 " The Overland Monthly " contained a poetic tribute 
 of rare beauty, entitled 
 
 " DICKENS m CAMP. 
 
 " Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting ; 
 The river sang below ; 
 The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 
 Their minarets of snow. 
 
 " The roaring camp-fire with rude humor painted 
 
 The ruddy tints of health 
 On haggard face and form, that drooped and fainted 
 
 In the fierce race for wealth, 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 393 
 
 " Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure 
 
 A hoarded volume drew ; 
 And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure 
 
 To hear the tale anew. 
 
 " And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, 
 
 And as the firelight fell. 
 He read aloud the book wherein the master 
 
 Had writ of Little Nell. 
 
 " Perhaps 'twas bojdsh fancy, for the reader 
 
 Was youngest of them all ; 
 But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 
 
 A silence seemed to fall. 
 
 " The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, 
 
 Listened in every spray ; 
 While the whole camp, with Nell, on English meadows 
 
 Wandered, and lost their way. 
 
 " And so in moimtain solitudes o'ertaken, 
 
 As by some spell divine, 
 Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken 
 
 From out the gusty pine. 
 
 " Lost is that camp, and wasted aU its fire ; 
 
 And he who wrought that spell — 
 Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire I 
 
 Ye have one tale to tell. 
 
 " Lost is that camp ; but let its fragrant story 
 
 Blend with the breath that thrills, 
 With hop-vines' incense, all the pensive glory 
 
 That fiUs the Kentish hills. 
 
>94 LIFE AND WRITINGS. 
 
 " And on that grave where English oak and holly 
 
 And laurel-wreaths intwine, 
 Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, 
 
 This spray of Western pine." 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Sympathy for the Poor. — Love for the Young. — The Golden Rule. 
 
 *' Rugged strength and radiant heauty, 
 These were one in Nature's plan : 
 Humble toil and heavenward duty, 
 These will form the perfect man." 
 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 " Love worketh no ill to his neighbor : therefore love is the fulfilling of the law." 
 ■Rom. xiil. 10. 
 
 AMES T. FIELDS bears testimony to the 
 unvarying kindness and sympathy, both 
 of heart and manner, which were charac- 
 teristic of Charles Dickens, and says, — 
 
 " It was his mission to make people happy. Words 
 of good cheer were native to his lips ; and he was 
 always doing what he could to lighten the lot of all 
 who came into his beautiful presence. His talk was 
 simple, natui-al, and direct, never dropping into circum- 
 locution nor elocution. 
 
 "• Now that he has gone, whoever has known him in- 
 
396 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 timately for any considerable period of time will linger 
 over his tender regard for, and his engaging manner 
 with, children ; his cheery ' Good-day ! ' to poor people 
 whom he happened to be passing in the road ; his trust- 
 ful and earnest ' Please God ! ' when he was promising 
 himself any special pleasure, like rejoining an old friend, 
 or returning again to scenes he loved. At such times, 
 his voice had an u^esistible pathos in it, and his smile 
 diffused a sensation like music." 
 
 The beautiful tribute which Lydia Maria Child paid 
 to Charles Dickens in her " Letters from New York," 
 so long ago as 1844, deserves a place here. Speaking 
 of " The Christmas Carol," she says, — 
 
 " It is a most genial production, — one of the sunniest 
 bubbles that ever floated on the stream of light litera- 
 ture. The ghost is nothing more nor less than memory. 
 
 " About this ' Carol,' I will tell you ' a merry joy,' as 
 Jeremy Taylor was wont to say. Two friends of mine 
 proposed to give me a New- Year's present, and asked 
 me to choose what it should be. I had certain projects 
 in my head for the benefit of another person ; and I an- 
 swered, that the most acceptable gift would be a dona- 
 tion to carry out my plans. One of the friends whom 
 I addressed was ill pleased with my request. She either 
 did not like the object, or she thought I had no right 
 thus to change the appropriation of their intended 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 897 
 
 bounty. She at once said in a manner extremely la- 
 conic and decided, ' I won't give one cent ! ' Her sister 
 remonstrated, and represented tliat the person in ques- 
 tion had been very unfortunate. ' There is no use in 
 talking to me,' she repUed : ' I won't give one cent ! ' 
 
 " Soon after, a neighbor sent in Dickens's ' Christmas 
 Carol,' saying it was a new work, and perhaps the ladies 
 would like to read it. When the story was carried 
 home, the neighbor asked, ' How did you like it ? ' — 'I 
 have not much reason to thank you for it,' said she ; 
 ' for it has cost me three dollars.' — ' And pray, how is 
 that ? ' — 'I was called upon to contribute towards a 
 charitable object which did not in all respects meet my 
 approbation. I said I wouldn't give one cent. Sister 
 tried to coax me ; but I told her it was of no use, for I 
 wouldn't give one cent. But I have read " The Christ- 
 mas Carol," and now I am obliged to give three dollars.' 
 
 " It is indeed a blessed mission to write books which 
 abate prejudices, unlock the human heart, and make the 
 kindly sympathies flow freely." 
 
 Useless is it, and worse than useless is it, to attempt 
 to gauge the character of Charles Dickens by his pro- 
 fession or non-profession of religion. His life and works 
 attest that he believed in the golden rule. Well says 
 a Chicago writer in " The Liberal Christian," — 
 
 " Wherever the English tongue is spoken, he has 
 
898 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP 
 
 gone, helping to make the world brighter and better by 
 the gift of his peerless genius ; and the whole world is 
 in mourning because he is not. The rare old motto, 
 ' Speak nought but good of the dead,' comes before us 
 now ; and for the sake of all he has been, for the sake 
 of all he must continue to be, it were only a loving- 
 kindness that can now find expression in no other way, 
 to speak nought but good of the great soul that was too 
 human to be faultless, but so tender and pitying, that it 
 is the least tribute that can be given to him to see 
 through our tears nothing but his virtues. He was the 
 children's friend ; and none loved them so well or appre- 
 ciated them so well as he. And in that home whither 
 he has gone from out our longing hold, there must have 
 been a great chorus of sweet child-voices welcoming 
 their friend ; and Little Nell and Walter, Paul Dombey, 
 and all the dear children that owed their place in the 
 world to him, were realities that welcomed him to that 
 fairer home. 
 
 " To us who are left, there is only a memory and the 
 priceless creations of his pen ; for there can never be 
 another to wear his mantle of genius, or to hold us cap- 
 tive as he has done." 
 
 " Let us do him no injustice," adds " The Independ- 
 ent." " We content ourselves with what he was, — a 
 lover of bis Jdnd, a friend of the friendless, a champion 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 399 
 
 of the poor, the degraded, the outcast, the forlorn. Hia 
 career was a prolonged beneficence to his fellow-beings. 
 It may be said of his books that they made ' a circum- 
 navigation of charity.' 
 
 " We have a special love for each particular one. 
 They form a library of remembrance that fills an inner 
 niche in our heart of hearts. It is hard to realize that 
 the world is to have no more droppings from the same 
 pen, which are now ended in the dropping of the pen 
 itself." 
 
 Of the many friends of Dickens, perhaps the most 
 intimate was Mr. John Forster, the biographer of Gold- 
 smith and Landor, to whom Mr. Dickens dedicated the 
 last editions of his works ; and it seems likely that upon 
 Mr. Forster wUl devolve the duty of writing the life of 
 his friend. Meanwhile, this memorial volume, by an 
 American woman, though but a compilation, will pre- 
 sent him in a pleasant light to the homes of America into 
 which it shall enter. It shall be closed with a few 
 grand words from the eloquent discourse of Rev. Wil- 
 liam R. Alger, of Boston, as follows : — 
 
 " Dickens has ever been pre-eminently distinguished 
 for the democratic breadth of his affections, which irra- 
 diate all his works like a divine sunshine, revealing the 
 most beautiful qualities in the lowliest places. He 
 
400 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 
 spread his heart out to embrace all that was human, and 
 to lift it up for the admiring recognition of the highest. 
 His writings honor human nature, and wUl for ages be 
 an influence to increase the sum of human kindness and 
 enjoyment. 
 
 " His task is done. It is all peaceful and well with 
 him. Advanced above pale envy's threatening reach, 
 he recks not how they rave. His works will live ; and 
 his name and fame are safe. He who has done so much 
 to unfreeze the hearts of the upper classes; he who 
 has written so many passages of tenderness which none 
 can read without tears, and thousands have read with 
 convulsive sobs, — will never fail to be remembered 
 with affectionate honor. He did well to refuse to be 
 baroneted. Kings take not rank from their inferiors: 
 they bestow it. 
 
 " I am glad they laid him in Westminster Abbey with 
 such democratic simplicity, on that June day, when, as 
 their reverential hands bore him through the low arch- 
 way, the same English birds that sang to Chaucer, 
 Shakspeare, and Milton were warbling from every 
 branch and coigne of vantage. With instinctive fitness, 
 they buried him in the corner of the poets ; for he, too, 
 was a great poet, whose words will make millions enjoy 
 nature more, and love men better. How sweet sleep 
 was to the worn and sensitive worker ! How unspeak- 
 ably welcome was every soothing tone or touch of love I 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 401 
 
 And now, deeply and forever, the weary child rests in 
 the embrace of the Infinite Father, where the perfect 
 intercommunication of spirits supersedes every symbol, 
 martial and ecclesiastical and literary alike, and all 
 truth is at once its own pulpit and preacher." 
 
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