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PEN PHOTOGRAPHS 
 
 or 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 ©aken from %iU 
 
 By KATE FIELD. 
 
 NEW AND EXLAEGED EDITION, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 / 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 Late Ticenok & Fields, aks Fqxss, Osgood, & Co. 
 
 1871. 
 
l?7l 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1871, 
 
 BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., 
 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 University Press: Welch,- Bigelow, & Co., 
 Cambridge. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 -=♦- 
 
 TT^O connect this book with the art of Photography, by 
 even the slight link of a title, may be considered 
 presumptuous ; but when it is remembered that the best 
 photographs fail to do justice to their originals, and that 
 the most interesting subjects generally receive the worst 
 treatment, I hope to be exonerated from so grave a 
 charge. 
 
 The following pages are the inspiration of gratitude. 
 Owing to Charles Dickens twenty-five of the most de- 
 lightful and most instructive evenings of my life, I 
 have photographed them with the hope of clinching 
 their recollection in the minds of many, and of giving 
 to others some faint outline of a rare pleasure, the 
 like of which will ne'er come to us again. Now that 
 the great man has "vanished forevermore" from the 
 " garish lights " of St, James Hall, the republication 
 of this book, in an enlarged and more durable form, 
 is deemed opportune, and that I have been unable to 
 
iv PREFACE. 
 
 catch the fleeting power of Dickens's last and finest 
 reading, " The Murder of Nancy Sykes," declared by 
 the veteran Macready to be "two Macbeths rolled into 
 one," will ever remain a source of keen regret. 
 
 " It being low water, he went out with the tide." 
 
 The joy of yesterday is the dead past of to-day, and 
 I lay this offering at the feet of Charles Dickens, the 
 actor, responsive to his prayer, " Lord, keep my memory 
 green ! " 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 December 25, 1870. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 ■ ♦ 
 
 Paoe 
 
 The Welcome in Boston 1 
 
 The Welcome in New York 12 
 
 The Desk and the Reader 19 '^ 
 
 A Christmas Carol 23 ^ 
 
 David Copperfield 37'' 
 
 Nicholas Nickleby at the Yorkshire School . . 50'' 
 
 The Story of Little Dombey 63 "" 
 
 Doctor Marigold ........ 75' 
 
 Boots at the Holly-Tree Inn 85' 
 
 Mr. Bob Sawyer's Party 92'' 
 
 The Trial from Pickwick . 100' 
 
 Mrs. Gamp 114^ 
 
 Farewell 138 
 
 The Verdict 143 
 
THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 
 
 " A hundred thousand welcomes : I could weep, 
 And I could laugh ; I am light, and heavy : welcome : 
 A curse begin at very root of his heart 
 That is not glad to see thee I " 
 
 /^NCE in a generation all hearts throb in unison to 
 ^-^ the music of some great master whose humanity is 
 broad enough to embrace mankind. Charles Dickens is 
 such a master. His hand has struck chords that scarce 
 a loving Christian soul has not echoed, with a silent 
 blessing upon Him who sent so humane a genius into 
 the world. It is not strange, then, that on a raw, gray 
 morning in December, 1867, Boston experienced a new 
 sensation in watching a motley crowd, ranged in single 
 file before the door of Messrs. Ticknor and Fields's pub- 
 lishing house, pursuing its winding way thus 
 
 along Hamilton Place, and dragging its slow length 
 dovTD. Tremont Street, with the distance of an eighth 
 
2 THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 
 
 of a mile between its head and tail. So closely packed 
 was the human file as to seem as if the livmg mass had 
 been caught and skewered for some especial cannibalistic 
 festival, preparatory to being roasted on a spit. Had 
 such a fate been in reserve, it would have been hailed 
 with delight, for the choice between freezing and roasting 
 is easily made while undergoing either process. Those 
 who roast prefer to freeze, and those who freeze prefer 
 to roast. On this eventful morning, fire in any form 
 would have been regarded as "a blessing in disguise"; 
 and if any clerical believer in the good old-fashioned 
 hell had then and there improvised a revival, he would 
 have made converts of them aU. 
 
 Truckmen, porters, clerks, "roughs," clergymen, mer- 
 chants, gamblers, speculators, gentlemen, loafers, white 
 men, black men, colored men, boys, and three women ! 
 Broadcloth, no cloth ! Fine linen, doubtful linen, no linen ! 
 The lion stood up with the lamb. The wild animals of 
 Boston were merged into one unhappy family, and the great 
 democratic principle on which our glorious institutions 
 are founded was more practically illustrated than it will 
 ever be again, if good republicans haye a voice in the 
 matter. " Here 's yer Boston aristocracy ! " screamed 
 out a young gentleman bearing a striking likeness to 
 Young Bailey, of "Mrs. Todgers's Commercial Board- 
 ing-House." This pleasantry seemed to afford infinite 
 deliglit to a " party " who replied with a wink of the eye 
 and a grin that broke over his piebald countenance as 
 
THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 3 
 
 the sun breaks upon the dawn, that " the people of Bos- 
 ton had never before had an opportunity of seeing the 
 elight of the city standing in a row." The purity of this 
 " party's " French accent was only equalled by the purity 
 of his breath, the architecture of which might have been 
 attributed to the composite order, consisting as it did of 
 bad whiskey and stale tobacco, injudiciously mingled. 
 
 The Dickens fever set in as early as half past six 
 o'clock. Victims whom the epidemic had marked for its 
 own, and who in consequence had passed a sleepless 
 night, rose before the sun got out of bed and, chewing the 
 cud of fancy, on which substantial food several hundred 
 of the Boston aristocracy breakfasted in honor of Charles 
 Dickens, rushed to the scene of action. Among these 
 enthusiastic Dickensites were two of the three heroines 
 whose unexampled fortitude should be remembered in 
 their epitaphs. Eeinforcements came thick and fast, 
 until, at half past seven o'clock, seventy-five human be- 
 ings were going through the various stages of congela- 
 tion. One hour before noon the human sandwiches were 
 counted by hundreds, and could they have eaten them- 
 selves would have done so with pleasure. 
 
 To stand "a long way on the frosty side of cool" 
 from half past six to nine o'clock at the earliest, — for 
 not until then were the doors of Messrs. Ticknor and 
 rields's establishment thrown open, — and several hours 
 longer at the latest, was not conducive to a rapid circu- 
 lation of the blood; yet there never was a more good- 
 
4: THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 
 
 natured crowd. They looked their situation coolly in the 
 face, and determined to secure their prize or perish in the 
 attempt. They stamped their feet and sent forth their 
 voices in song. Perhaps the singing was more boisterous 
 than hilarious, for it requires a singularly vivid imagina- 
 tion to be joyful when undergoing the experience of Sir 
 John Franklin in his search for a northwestern passage ; 
 nevertheless, the attempt denoted an amiable disposition, 
 and this was significant. In compliment to the great 
 man on whose altar they were sacrificing themselves, they 
 sang " The Ivy Green," as appropriate to the season of 
 the year. Then, making a diversion, they violently at- 
 tacked " John Brown," in whose soul they seemed to take 
 great satisfaction for the reason of its " marching on ! " 
 
 " Bully for John Brown ! " exclaimed a " Pahdee." " I 
 congratulate the gintlemun wid all me heart, I do. Shure 
 an' if he 'd say a good word for us, I 'd remember it next 
 election time. By me sowl, it ud be a blissid thing now 
 if our soles was marching on, gintlemin ! " 
 
 " You 're right there, my friend," replied a voice at- 
 tached to a genteel suit of clothes. " Old Milton may 
 have thought that ' they also serve that only stand and 
 wait,' but I don't think lie ever tried it when the ther- 
 mometer was below zero." 
 
 " Milton ? an', faith, who 's Milton ? Is he a mimber 
 of Congriss ? " 
 
 " No, my friend, a poet." 
 
 " A poet indade ! Be jabers, he must have took out 
 
THE WTELCOME IN BOSTON. 5 
 
 a poetical license for such blathering stuff as that. I 'm 
 a porter, an' if Milton wants to know the facts o' stand- 
 in' an' waitin', I 'm the man. John Brown 's the boy for 
 my money." 
 
 " Dr. Kane can't hold a candle to us," muttered another 
 voice. "The open polar sea won't be discovered in a 
 hurry, if it depends upon me." 
 
 Stamping, singing, fun, and profanity ruled the long, 
 cold hours, and when these staple articles failed, cigars 
 and "pocket-pistols" came to the rescue. It was astonish- 
 ing to see how many gentlemen were armed with this 
 peculiar weapon, and how often they defended themselves 
 with it. Substitutes were provided to relieve guard ; 
 many were visited by friends whose money they held, and 
 who, acting in the professional capacity of bottle-hold- 
 ers, exhorted them to stand firm. Some, however, were 
 obliged to drop from the line from sheer exhaustion ; and 
 others, having put too large a number of enemies into 
 their mouths, were assisted to a neighboring station by 
 the gentlemanly police. The Chinese article, " tea," seemed 
 to be held in universal esteem, and it was quite remarka- 
 ble to notice how many persons stepped round the corner 
 to get a cup of a beverage that is said to cheer but not in- 
 ebriate. Strange to relate, however, the " tea " drunk on 
 this occasion had so peculiar an aroma as to warrant the 
 belief that it must have been drawn from Mrs. Gamp's 
 favorite tea-pot. 
 
 When the crowd was densest and the humor at its 
 
6 THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 
 
 height, a calm stranger, evidently from parts unknown, 
 approached, and, animated by a sentiment of curiosity, 
 asked a bystander the cause of so large and excited a 
 gathering. " 'T ain't election-time down here, is it ? " 
 
 " no, we 're buying tickets, sir." • 
 
 " Buying tickets ? — for what ? " ^ 
 
 " For Dickens's Eeadings." 
 
 " Dickens ! Who the d— 1 is Dickens ? " 
 
 " Why, don't you know ? — the great novelist." 
 
 " Never heard of him in all my born days, hut if there 
 is any critter on airth that can keep such a crowd together 
 with the mercury clean way out of sight, d — d if I don't 
 see him !" 
 
 Wliereupon the previously calm stranger took his place 
 in the line and enthusiastically proposed three cheers for 
 Dickens ! His ultimate opinion is robed in impenetrable 
 mystery. 
 
 Besieged without, Ticknor and Fields's establishment 
 was finally besieged witliin, and let it be recorded that 
 when the sale of tickets did begin, one of the heroines 
 who had held her position to the last was, by a common 
 impulse of generosity, and by a unanimous vote, allowed 
 to take the precedence. 
 
 While the heroic woman within the building was re- 
 ceiving the reward of virtue, — it is a great comfort to 
 know that virtue does occasionally get rewarded, — a 
 gentleman in the line outside took occasion to address 
 his neighbors in the following eloquent and impressive 
 
THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 7 
 
 words. He had been consoling himself with a great deal 
 of " tea." " Gen'lemen," said he, waving his right hand 
 on high and contemplating the spire of Park Street 
 Church with peculiar affection, — " gen'lemen, there are 
 but three men who have stamped themselves upon the 
 ci\'ilization of the Nineteenth Century. Those men, 
 gen'lemen, are Charles Shakespeare, William Dickens, 
 and — myself. Let any one deny it who dares ! " Here 
 the peer of Charles Shakespeare and Wniiam Dickens 
 looked so determined to stamp upon humanity particu- 
 larly, as well as upon civilization generally, as to be 
 unceremoniously removed by a ^usfrdian of the peace. 
 O Dickens, how much " tea " was that day drunk in thy 
 name ! How many pairs of lungs had " damp door-steps 
 settled on them " because of thee ! 
 
 " Dickens ! " exclaims a young man of ardent tempera- 
 ment, " if I did not love his genius I should wish he had 
 never been born. To please the object of my affection 
 and other less particular friends, I stood eight hours in 
 ' the cold, cold blawst,' with a viUanous tobacco-pipe be- 
 fore me and a shocking bad hat immediately behind, the 
 owner of which last-named article beguiled the time by 
 poking me in the back, and asking me whether I would 
 n't swap tiles and improve my personal appearance. 
 After enduring several hours of puffing and poking, I 
 rather wished that Charles Dickens had never crossed 
 the Atlantic. Wlien I did reach the ticket-office, my 
 patience was requited with reserved seats in a rear 
 
8 THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 
 
 gallery ! The friends for whom I fought and froze failed 
 to appreciate my valuable services, and assured me that 
 it would have been better to have remained at home and 
 saved their money. The object of my affections could 
 only be appeased by my purcliasing tickets of specu- 
 lators, at ten dollars apiece. Upon going down town 
 after my arctic expedition, I discovered that I had lost 
 an opportunity of making five thousand dollars in stocks ; 
 but then, as an offset, I did gain, at considerable cost, 
 a first-class influenza that terminated in acute rheu- 
 matism, to which I am likely to be subject for the re- 
 mainder of my life.' The British government owes me 
 a pension." 
 
 Such was the excitement attending the sale of tickets 
 for the first course of Dickens's Eeadings in Boston, and 
 the second was like unto it ; yet, lest the seemingly 
 Munchausen tale be received with incredulity, the report 
 of a Boston journal is here, given, verhatim et literatim: — 
 
 "As early as half past seven o'clock in the evening 
 the crowd commenced to gather, and a few persons sta- 
 tioned themselves at the door of the Meionaon, deter- 
 mined to secure good seats even at the cost of a night of 
 waiting. From that time to the opening of the doors 
 the numbers gradually increased. At ten o'clock p. m., 
 about fifty persons had assembled ; at eleven, the number 
 had increased to sixty ; at midnight, there were one hun- 
 dred in line ; and at two o'clock, from one hundred to 
 two hundred were waiting. The line by this time ex- 
 
THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 9 
 
 tended into Montgomery Place, and various were the 
 means devised by those who composed it to make the 
 time pass quickly and agreeably. 
 
 " Some of those in waiting brought arm-chairs in which 
 to rest their weary limbs, and one person, determined 
 to be as comfortable as possible, rolled himself up in 
 blankets and stretched out on a mattress which he had 
 provided. The crowd were in good spirits, and every 
 lititle incident was made the subject of a joke and laugh. 
 As usual on such occasions the musical element was not 
 wanting, and by the singing of popular airs — ' Johnny 
 comes marching Home,' ' John Brown's Body,' ' We won't 
 go home till ]\iorning,' etc., etc. — the hours were beguiled, 
 more to their own amusement, probably, than to the grati- 
 fication of the residents on Montgomery Place, whose 
 slumbers must have been somewhat disturbed by the 
 noise without. The crowd was not altogether composed 
 of representatives from the better portion of our com- 
 munity, and ominous black bottles were frequently passed 
 from one to the other, the contents of Avhich seemed to 
 add not a little to the hilarity of the occasion. 
 
 " This morning the crowd was very great. Many late 
 comers not inclined to play fairly were assembled about 
 the entrance, determined, if possible, when the doors 
 were opened, to make a rush and obtain an early admis- 
 sion. Others formed an additional line up Tremont 
 Street as far as Montgomery Place. The ' genuine ' line 
 extended down the north side of Montgomery Place, 
 1* 
 
10 THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 
 
 across the end, and out to Tremont Street again. Citizens 
 on their way to business were much amused at the bus- 
 tling among the crowd of waiters, and the strife after a 
 good position in line, and many stopped opposite to view 
 the exciting spectacle. The steps and windows of the 
 Tremont House were crowded with spectators, and all 
 teams stopping in the vicinity were put into requisition 
 for standing-places. 
 
 " At about half past eight o'clock the outside door was 
 opened. The rush towards it was for a while terrible, 
 and it was only by the most strenuous efforts that the 
 force of fifteen policemen who were present could hold 
 them at bay. As it was, quite a number who had not a 
 position in line succeeded in getting within the doors, to 
 which so many were anxiously looking forward. In a 
 few minutes, however, the police force rallied, and with a 
 free use of their clubs, giving not a few an aching head, 
 and one at least a wound from which the blood flowed 
 freely, they succeeded in clearing the sidewalk of all but 
 the original line. After this, the long procession moved 
 steadily forward with little interruption until about five 
 minutes of nine, when the checks which gave the right to 
 purchase tickets, five hundred in number, having been 
 all distributed, the doors were closed. The line, which 
 even then was some two hundred feet long, was broken 
 up, and many of the persons in waiting went away 
 disappointed. Others remained to purchase tickets of 
 those more fortunate. Several ladies were noticed in 
 
THE WELCOIVIE IN BOSTON. 11 
 
 line among those who succeeded in obtaining admis- 
 sion." 
 
 With this chronicle we may well exclaim " Ohe ! jaTn- 
 satis" and, turning to New York, mark the ravages made 
 by the Dickens fever upon metropolitan constitutions. 
 
THE WELCOME IN NEW YORK. 
 
 ~VT"OT being a bird, and consequently having no par- 
 -^ ^ ticular fondness for worms as an article of diet, I 
 never could be made to see the beauties of early rising. 
 It is a poetical delusion. It means wet feet in summer 
 and cold feet in winter. It means a total want of appre- 
 ciation of those delightful day-dreams that possess the 
 brain which refuses to wake up all over and emulate the 
 lark in a very bad habit. It is satisfactory to look back 
 upon my life and know that larks have received no moral 
 support from me ; and yet I must confess that when I 
 took up the Tribune on the 29th of November, 1867, at 
 the respectable and civilized hour of ten o'clock A. M., my 
 young blood froze and each particular hair stood on end 
 as I read with terror and dismay that tickets for Charles 
 Dickens's readings had been selling for two hours ! My 
 first impulse was to drink a cup of cold poison and quietly 
 retire from this vale of tears in a way becoming disap- 
 pointed affections ; but I finally decided that before going 
 to the Dickens by a process which would seriously in- 
 terfere with my return to a mundane sphere, — a return 
 
THE WELCOME IN NEW YORK. 13 
 
 which might be desirable should a change of base not 
 prove all that fancy painted it, — I would follow the im- 
 mortal Mrs. Chick's advice and " make an effort." 
 
 It is an immutable law that " things " are never to be 
 found when one's salvation depends upon their imme- 
 diate possession. The agony I endured in collecting 
 myself on that Friday morning no words can describe. 
 Never in my life had I played such an aggravating game 
 of hide-and-seek, and I finally rushed out of the house 
 witli a white glove on one hand and a black glove on 
 the other. Perhaps I walked to Steinway Hall, but my 
 private opinion is that I flew on the wings of that bird 
 of which I so much disapprove. Whether I walked or 
 flew, I know that at eleven o'clock I stood in front of 
 Steinway Hall, hopelessly gazing at a queue of my fel- 
 low-beings that extended far beyond the bounds of hu- 
 man patience. Encountering the glance of a benevolent 
 policeman, who seemed to feel for me, and having heard 
 that there is safety in the law, I ventured to address 
 this imposing guardian of the peace. 
 
 " How long have these people been standing here ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " Well, some on 'em two and some on 'em three hours." 
 
 " And when did people hegin to stand here ? " 
 
 " Nigh about seven o'clock, and they wriggled round 
 Irving Place just like a snake." 
 
 " I suppose all the good seats are gone." 
 
 " Certain sure." 
 
14 THE WELCOME IN NEW YOEK. 
 
 " Wliat do you think my chances would be if I should 
 take my place at the end of that file ? " 
 
 " Well, I would n't give twenty-five cents for 'em. By 
 the time you get to that 'ere ticket-office, there won't be 
 standing-room for sale." 
 
 I gazed at that ticket-office and thought of the touch- 
 ing song, " Thou art so near, and yet so far." Once more 
 the idea of cold poison suggested itseK, but suddenly I 
 was seized with a brilliant inspiration. 
 
 " Have members of the press no privileges ? " I in- 
 quired, endeavoring to look like a distinguished indi- 
 vidual. 
 
 I am afraid I did not succeed in my attempt, for a 
 man in the file, who, under the crushing influence of 
 humanity before and behind him, was gradually being 
 deprived of his breath, panted out in a shrill voice, 
 " Eeckon we 're all wcm&ers of the press to-day ! " 
 
 I glanced reproachfully at that man, nor was I con- 
 soled by the tender interest of the policeman, who evi- 
 dently regarded members of the press as something lower 
 than angels, — which they are. Many are a great deal 
 lower. 
 
 " The best thing for you to do is to see Mr. Dolby, and 
 you '11 find him inside, — perhaps." 
 
 I went inside. I wandered up and down that capa- 
 cious building in vain. Nobody seemed to know that 
 any one bearing the name of Dolby had ever been born. 
 One Teutonic individual had the impertinence to ask me 
 
THE WELCOME IN NEW YOEK 15 
 
 " how I spell him, and what for I want him ? " This was 
 too much. I was about to beat a hasty retreat when I 
 encountered a person who looked as if he possessed con- 
 siderable information, but had an inborn reluctance to 
 part with any of it. Nevertheless, I ventured tp address 
 him in a persuasive voice. 
 
 "Is Mr. Dolby here, sir?" 
 
 "No." (Spoken as if it had been bitten in two.) 
 
 " Has he been here ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Do you know where he is?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Can you tell me the name of his hotel ? " 
 
 " Westminster." 
 
 Delightful man •! " Conversational " man ! " What a 
 noticing " man ! " What a " man " for repartee " ! At last 
 I had a lever with which to work. I would employ 
 strategy. The greatest battles had been won by it. INIr. 
 Dolby was a scholar and a gentleman ; Mr. Dolby was 
 handsome ; Mr. Dolby was good-natured. I would appeal 
 to him as one human being to another. I would ap- 
 peal to him as a son, as a brother, as a husband, as a fa- 
 ther ! He might not be a brother, nor a husband, nor a 
 father, but he could not possibly escape being a son, and 
 the reference to him in oth-er domestic relations would be 
 accepted as a tribute to bis worth ; it would signify that, 
 if he is not, he ought to be a brother, a husband, and a 
 father. I would tell him of the tremendous influence 
 
16 THE WELCOME IN NEW YORK. 
 
 of the press, and as an original peroration which could 
 not fail to take his reason captive, I would tell him that 
 " the pen is mightier than the sword ! " 
 
 I did. I wrote Mr. Dolby a letter which would have 
 "drawn tears from even the manliest eye," and then 
 retired to my native heath to recuperate my shattered 
 forces. Need I say that Mr. Dolby hearkened to my 
 petition ? There stood beside him as he opened that 
 letter a guardian angel in tlie garb of man, who said unto 
 Dolby, "The press is a miglity organ; respect its or- 
 ganists." 
 
 The way in which I went about with those tickets in 
 my pocket ; the way in which I exhibited them to those 
 who had no tickets, and, what was more, never expected 
 to get any, not being i)eople who would encourage specu- 
 lators, ought to make Mr. Dolby feel that he has not lived 
 in vain. I slept with those tickets under my pillow, " lest 
 somebody should get over the wall of the back yard and 
 steal them " ; and had I not lost confidence in banks, I 
 should have deposited my treasures in a vault during 
 the day. 
 
 Such a crowd as assembled in front of Steinway Hall 
 on the night of the first reading ! Carriage after car- 
 riage deposited its burden on the sidewalk, while a 
 throng of men and boys, who may be called the " outs," 
 choked up the passage-way and gazed at the fortunate 
 possessors of tickets with about the same expression 
 as that with which hungry children eye the contents 
 
THE WELCOME IN NEW YOEK. 17 
 
 of pastry-cool^s' windows. Speculators to right of us, 
 speculators to left of us, speculators in front of us, vol- 
 leyed and thundered. The very best seats in the house 
 were held by these vampires. They knew it, and great 
 was the profit thereof ; for it would Imve cost some people 
 a gTeat deal more — in feelings — to have remained away 
 than to have paid ten or twenty dollars for a ticket. An 
 American public is not to be held in check by gigantic 
 swindling ; hence the breed of vampires. 
 
 Past "outs" and speculators, we began the ascent of 
 stairs that never were quite so long as on this occasion, 
 but which, accomplislied, we felt as Hercules must have 
 felt after the termination of one of his labors. The en- 
 trance into the hall was quite curious, the assemblage 
 being one vast interrogation point. Everybody was on 
 the qui.vive to see who had been shrewd enough to secure 
 seats, and apparently seemed astonished that anybody 
 had been as clever as himself The salutation between 
 friends was not the ordinary " How are you ? " but, for 
 this night only, " Wliere did you get your ticket ? " Then 
 followed a thrilling narration of hairbreadth 'scapes, lis- 
 tened to with breathless attention. 
 
 Once seated, it- was a pleasure to look upon the mul- 
 titude that completely filled the vast hall. If Charles 
 Dickens was not to be tried by his peers — a good fortune 
 that never yet befell genius — he had invoked the best 
 audience that New York can produce. There were poets, 
 authors, artists, actors, and managers ; there were women 
 
 B 
 
18 THE WELCOME IN NEW YOKK. 
 
 of culture, lawyers, doctors, bankers, and merchant- 
 princes. The foiirth estate shone with unusual lustre. 
 " Dailies " and " Weeklies " were scattered in every 
 direction, and the very air seemed redolent of printer's- 
 ink. 
 
 Then Charles Dickens came, and we saw and heard, 
 and he conquered ; not all at once, but gradually, slowly, 
 and surely. However, " let me not anticipate " ; yet 
 must I say that 
 
 "All my reports go with the modest truth ; 
 No more, nor clipped, but so." 
 
THE READING DESK. 
 
PEN^PHOTOGRAPflS. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE DESK AM) THE EEADEE. 
 
 /^NE glance at the platform is sufficient to convince 
 ^-^ the audience that Dickens thoroughly appreciates 
 " stage effect." A large screen of maroon cloth occu- 
 pies the background ; before it stands a light table of 
 peculiar design, on the inner left-hand corner of which 
 there peers forth a miniature desk, large enough to accom- 
 modate the reader's book. On the right hand of the 
 table, and somewhat below its level, is a shelf, where 
 repose a carafe of water and a tumbler. 'T is " a combi- 
 nation and a form indeed," covered with velvet some- 
 what lighter in color than the screen. No drapery- 
 conceals the table, whereby it is plain that Dickens 
 beheves in expression of figure as well as of face, and 
 does not throw away everything but his head and arms, 
 according to the ordinary habit of ordinary speakers. 
 About twelve feet above the platform, and somewhat in 
 advance of the table, is a horizontal row of gas-jets with 
 a tin reflector ; and midway in both perpendicular gas- 
 
20 PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S HEADINGS. 
 
 pipes there is one powerful jet with glass chimney. By 
 this admirable arrangement, Dickens stands against a 
 dark background in a frame of gaslight, which tlirows 
 out his face and figure to the best advai*tage. With the 
 book " Dickens " stranded on the little desk, the come- 
 dian Dickens can transform a table into a stage ; and 
 had the great novelist concluded, at the last moment, not 
 to appear before us, this ingenious apparatus would have 
 taught us a lesson in the art of reading. 
 
 He comes ! A lithe, energetic man, of medium stature, 
 crosses the platform at the brisk gait of five miles an 
 hour, and takes his position behind the table. This is 
 Charles Dickens, whose name has been a household word 
 in England and America for thirty years ; whose books 
 have been the joy and solace of many a weary heart and 
 head. A first glance disappointed me. I thought I 
 should prefer to have him entirely unlike himself ; but 
 when I began to speculate on how Charles Dickens ought 
 to look, I gave the matter up, and wisely concluded that 
 Nature knew her own intentions better than any one 
 else. 
 
 Dickens has a broad, full brow, a fine head, — which, 
 for a man of such power and energy, is singularly small 
 at the base of the brain, — and a cleanly cut profile. 
 There is a slight resemblance between him and Louis 
 Napoleon in the latter respect, owing mainly to the 
 nose ; but it is unnecessary to add that the faces of the 
 two men are totally different. Dickens's eyes are light- 
 
THE DESK AND THE READER. 21 
 
 blue, and liis mouth and jaw, without having any claim 
 to beauty, possess a strength that is not concealed by the 
 veil of iron-gray mustache and generous imperial. His 
 head is but slightly graced with ii'on-gray hair, and his 
 complexion is florid. 
 
 If any one thinks to obtain an accurate idea of Dickens 
 from the photographs that flood the country, he is mis- 
 taken. He will see Dickens's clothes, Dickens's feat- 
 ures, as tjiey appear when Nicholas Nickleby is in the 
 act of knocking down Mr. Wackford Squeers ; but he will 
 not see what makes Dickens's face attractive, the genial- 
 ity and expression that his heart and brain put into it. 
 In his photographs Dickens looks as if, previous to posing, 
 he had been put under an exhausted receiver and had had 
 his soul pumped out of him. Tliis process is no beauti- 
 fier. Therefore let those who have not been able to judge 
 for themselves believe that Dickens's face is capable of 
 wonderfully varied expression. Hence it is the best sort 
 of face. His eye is at times so keen as to cause whoever 
 is within its range to feel morally certain that it has pene- 
 trated to his boots ; at others it brims over with kindliness. 
 " It is like looking forward to spring to think of seeing 
 your beaming eye again," wrote Lord Jeffrey to Charles 
 Dickens years ago, and truly, for there is a twinkle in it 
 that, like a promissory note, pledges itself to any amount 
 of fun — within sixty minutes. After seeing this twinkle 
 I was satisfied with Dickeijs's appearance, and became re- 
 signed to the fact of his' not resembling the Apollo Belve- 
 
22 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 
 
 dere. One thing is certain, — if he did resemble this 
 classical young gentleman, he never could have written 
 his novels. Laying this flattering unction to my soul, I 
 listen. 
 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 23 
 
 II. 
 
 A CHEISTMAS CAEOL. 
 
 "TN December, 1843, all England was roused from selfish 
 -^ slumbering by the sound of a carol. It was no carol 
 by a bird ; it was sung by a man, and that man Charles 
 Dickens. He called it " A Christmas Carol," but the 
 Anglo-Saxon world has known it ever since as Tlie Christ- 
 mas Carol ; as if, since the birth of Him who made a holy 
 day of the twenty-fifth of December, humanity had heard 
 no song worthy of being hkened unto it. How wonder- 
 fully significant may so small a particle of speech be- 
 come ! Twenty-seven years this Carol has been sung, 
 yet every twelvemonth its pure melody receives as hearty 
 a welcome as Christmas itself. Hungry ears have lis- 
 tened to no better hymn of praise, hungry eyes have 
 feasted on no truer or more loving counsel. 
 
 Immediately after its first publication, and while the 
 Carol was running tlirough twenty editions, that master 
 of English, and therefore most genial critic, William M. 
 Thackeray, being then on the Continent, received a box of 
 novels. It was a welcome box to Thackeray, notwith- 
 standing it entailed the necessity of reviewing, for among 
 those novels, off which he skimmed the cream, lay the 
 Carol that originated a new field of literature, — Dickens's 
 
24 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 holiday romance, — without which the world of to-day 
 would be poor indeed. • 
 
 "Who can listen to objections regarding such a book as 
 this ? " wrote big-hearted Thackeray in Eraser's Magazine. 
 " It seems to me a national benefit, and to every man or 
 woman who reads it a personal kindness. The last two 
 people I heard speak of it were women ; neither knew 
 the other, or the author, and both said, by way of criti- 
 cism, ' God bless him ! ' A Scotch philosopher, who 
 nationally does not keep Christmas day, on reading the 
 book, sent out for a turkey, and asked two friends to 
 dine, — this is a fact ! Many men were known to sit 
 down, after perusing it, and write off letters to their 
 friends, not about business, but out of their fulness of 
 heart, and to wish old acquaintances a happy Christmas. 
 Had the book appeared a fortnight earlier, all the prize 
 cattle would have been gobbled up in pure love and 
 friendship, Epping denuded of sausages, and not a turkey 
 left in Norfolk. His royal highness's fat stock would 
 have fetched unheard-of prices, and Alderman Bannister 
 would have been tired of slaying. .... 
 
 " As for Tiny Tim, there is a certain passage in the 
 book regarding that young gentleman^ about which a man 
 should hardly venture to speak in print or in public, any 
 more than he would of any other affections of his private 
 heart. There is not a reader in England but that Httle 
 creature will be a bond of union between the author and 
 him ; and he will say of Charles Dickens, as the woman 
 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 25 
 
 said just now, ' God bless him ! ' "Wliat a feeling is this 
 for a writer to be able to inspire, and what a reward to 
 reap ! " 
 
 Well, on the 10th of January, 1853, Mr. Arthur Ry- 
 land, a member of the Birmingham Philosophical Insti- 
 tution, read a letter from Dickens, received the day after 
 a Literary and Artistic Banquet, containing an offer to 
 visit Birmingham the following Christmas, and read his 
 Christmas Carol, in the Town Hall, for the benefit of 
 an embryonic Scientific and Literary Society, to which 
 Dickens insisted that as many as possible of the working 
 class should be admitted free. " The reading," he said, 
 " would take about two hours, with a pause of ten mm- 
 utes half-way through. There would be some novelty in 
 the thing, as I have never done it in public, though I 
 have in private, and (if I may say so) with a great effect 
 on the hearers. I was so inexpressibly gratified last 
 night by the warmth and enthusiasm of my Birmingliam 
 friends, that I feel half ashamed this morning of so poor 
 an offer. But as I had decided on making it to you 
 before I came down yesterday, I propose it neverthe- 
 less." A poor offer indeed ! Dickens had distinguished 
 himself in private theatricals ; he had read selections 
 from his works before delighted audiences of friends ; 
 he had given evidence of such unusual dramatic aljil- 
 ity as to render it almost criminal for him to longer 
 hide his light under a domestic bushel. To appear as 
 a reader of his own writings would be of great pecu- 
 
 2 
 
26 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S KEADINGS, 
 
 niary benefit to tlie Birmingham Association, besides i ' 
 adding one more link to the chain that bound Charles ■ 
 Dickens to the people of England. Birmingham ac- i 
 cepted the offer with delight, and Charles Dickens made 
 a reality of his ideal Christmas Carol. So great a tri- 
 umph was then and there achieved as to cause Dick- i 
 ens to discover that he had been living but half a life ; I 
 and from 1853 to 1869 Great Britain and Ireland hailed I 
 Dickens the actor with as much enthusiasm as Dick- 
 ens the novelist. 4 
 The amateur reader, however, did not visit Birmingham 
 entirely ignorant of the effect he was likely to produce, 
 having been coaxed and argued into giving an experimen- 
 tal reading in the sleepy old city of Peterborough, for the 
 purpose of helping the Mechanics' Institute out of debt. 
 " Here is an opportunity," wrote Dickens's tempter, 
 "for testing the matter without risk. An antediluvian 
 country town, an audience of farmers' sons and daughters, 
 rural shopkeepers, and a few country parsons, — if inter- 
 est can be excited in the stolid minds of such a Boeotian 
 assemblage, the success of the reader will be assured 
 wherever the English language is spoken. On the other 
 hand, if failure results, none will be the wiser outside 
 this Sleepy-Hollow circle." The tempter triumphed, | 
 Dickens's sole stipulation being that the prices should 
 range from a sixpence to two shillings, in order to meet 
 the limitations of working-men's incomes. He stipulated 
 in vain. Every place was taken a fortnight before the 
 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 27 
 
 reading, and guineas and haK-guineas were paid for front 
 
 seats ! 
 
 There was little in the paraphernalia of Dickens's first 
 reading to remind the public of his last. At one end of 
 the large Corn Exchange, where the entertainment was 
 given, Dickens caused to be erected a tall pulpit of 
 red baize, looking not unlike a Punch-and- Judy show with 
 the top taken off. But as the tall red rostrum sug- 
 gested a comical, lank oasis left blooming alone in a 
 desert of space, it was supported on each side by two 
 dummy pulpits of similar construction. Once moimted 
 into the middle box, nothing of Dickens was visible but 
 his head and shoulders, which perhaps was fortunate, 
 if we are to believe a tell-tale supernumerary, who de- 
 clares that the great author's legs shook from the begin- 
 ning to the end of the reading. For the first time in 
 his life, Dickens was reduced to extremities. How little 
 he had to fear ! His " uneducated audience " was com- 
 posed of the gentry of the country round about ; and 
 the vote of thanks which closed the proceedings was 
 moved by the senior Marquis of Scotland, and seconded 
 by the heir of the wealthiest peer in England. 
 
 The verdict of Peterborough received " confirmation 
 strong " in Paris, where Dickens won his most enviable 
 laurels from Polyglot audiences, half English and half 
 French. Yiardot-Garcia, sister of Malibran, -and the 
 greatest living lyric artist, journeyed from her home 
 
28 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS's READINGS. 
 
 in Baden to pay homage to a brother actor, whenever 
 Dickens appeared in the French capital. He never had 
 a finer criticism than this, and having had it can 
 dispense witli any other. 
 
 Having thus, by way of preface, crossed the Atlantic 
 and wandered into the past, I return to Dickens in 
 America. 
 
 " Ladies and Gentlemen, — I am to have the pleasure 
 of reading to you first, to-night, ' A Christmas Carol ' in 
 four staves. Stave One, Marley's Ghost. Marley was 
 dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about 
 that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergy- 
 man, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. 
 Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 
 'Change for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old 
 Marley was as dead as a door-nail." 
 
 At the close of tliis paragraph the critic beside me 
 whispers, " Dickens's voice is limited in power, husky, 
 and naturally monotonous. If he succeeds in overcoming 
 these defc».cts, it will be by dramatic genius." I begin 
 ' to take a gloomy view of the situation, and wonder why 
 Dickens constantly employs the rising inflection, and 
 never comes to a full stop ; but we are so pleasantly and 
 naturally introduced to Scrooge that my spirits revive. 
 " Foul weather did n't know Avhere to have him. Tlie 
 heaviest rain and snow and hail and sleet could boast of 
 the advantage over him in only one respect, — they often 
 ' came down ' handsomely, and Scrooge never did." Here 
 
A CHKISTMAS CAROL. 29 
 
 the magnetic current between reader and listener sets in, 
 and when Scrooge's clerk " put on his white comforter 
 and tried to warm himself at the candle, — in which ef- 
 fort, not being a man of strong imagination, he failed," — 
 the connection is tolerably well established. I see 
 old Scrooge, very plainly, growling and snarling at his 
 pleasant nephew, and when that nephew invites that 
 uncle to eat a Christmas dinner with him, and Dickens 
 says that Scrooge said " that he would see him — yes, 
 I am very sorry to say he did, — he went the whole 
 length of the expression, and said he would see him in 
 that extremity, first," — he makes one dive at our sense 
 of humor and takes it captive. Dickens is Scrooge 
 most decidedly, — just as we have seen him in the book. 
 There are the old features, the pointed nose, the thin lips, 
 the wiry chin, the frosty rime on head and eyebrows, and 
 the shrewd, grating voice. He is the portly gentleman 
 with the conciliatory voice on a mission of charity, — 
 just the voice in which gentlemen-beggars deliver their 
 errands of mercy ; he is twice Scrooge when, the portly 
 gentleman remarking that many poor people had rather 
 die than go to the workhouse, he replies, " 0, well, you 
 know, upon the whole, if they 'd rather die, they had 
 better do it and decrease the surplus population " ; and 
 thrice Scrooge when, turning upon his clerk, he says, 
 " You 11 want all day to-morrow, I suppose ? " It is the 
 incarnation of a hard-hearted, hard-fisted, liard-voiced 
 miser. 
 
30 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 " If it 's — if it 's — qiiite convenient, sir." A few 
 words, but they denote Bob Cratchit in three feet of 
 comforter exclusive of fringe, in well-darned, threadbare 
 clothes, with a mild, frightened, lisping voice, so thin 
 that you can see through it ! 
 
 Then there comes the change when Scrooge, upon 
 going home, " saw in the knocker Marley's face ! " Of 
 course Scrooge saw it, because the expression of Dick- 
 ens's face, as he rubs his eyes and stares, makes me see 
 it, " with a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a 
 dark cellar." There is good acting in this scene, and 
 there is fine acting when the dying flame leaps up as 
 though it cried, " I know him ! Marley's ghost ! " ' 
 
 Scrooge bites his fingers nervously as he peers at 
 the ghost, and then with infinite gusto Dickens reads 
 that description of Marley, how, "looking through this 
 waistcoat, Scrooge could see the two buttons on his coat 
 behind" ; how Scrooge grew wondrously perplexed as 
 to whether his old partner could sit down after under- 
 going such atmospheric changes ; how Scrooge would 
 persist in doubting his senses because Marley might be 
 "an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb 
 of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There 's 
 more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you 
 are " ; and how Scrooge finally listens to Marley, yet, 
 believing that business habits of despatch are quite as 
 good for the next world as for this, exclaims with comic 
 earnestness, " For Heaven's sake, don't be flowery, Jacob, 
 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 31 
 
 "W'hatever you are ! " It is excellent, and at the conclusion 
 of Stave One, my friend, the critic, and I say, " Dickens 
 is an actor." 
 
 Nothing can be better than the rendering of the Yez- 
 ziwig party in Stave Two. You behold Scrooge grad- 
 ually melting into humanity ; Scrooge as a joyous 
 apprentice ; that model of employers, Fezziwig, with 
 his comfortable, jo^-ial voice; Mrs. Fezziwig, "one vast 
 substantial smile " ; and all the Fezziwigs. Dickens's 
 expression, as he relates how "in came the housemaid 
 with her cousin the haker, and in came the cook with her 
 brother's particular friend the milkman" is delightfully 
 comic, wliile his complete rendering of that dance where 
 " all were top couj)les at last, and not a bottom one to 
 help them," is owing to the inimitable action of his 
 hands. They actually perform upon the table, as if it 
 were the floor of Fezziwig's room, and every finger 
 were a leg belonging to one of the Fezziwig family. 
 This feat is only surpassed by Dickens's illustration 
 of Sir Eoger de Coverley, as interpreted by Mr. and 
 Mrs. Fezziwig, when " a positive light appeared to issue 
 from Fezziwig's calves," and he "cut so deftly that he 
 appeared to wink with his legs ! " It is a maze of humor. 
 Before the close of the stave, Scrooge's horror at sight 
 of the young girl once loved by him and put aside for 
 gold, shows that Dickens's power is not purely comic. 
 
 Ah, but the best of all is Stave Three ! I distinctly 
 see that Cratchit family. There are the potatoes that 
 
32 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 " knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and 
 peeled " ; there is Mrs. Cratchit, fluttering and cack- 
 ling like a motherly hen with a young brood of chick- 
 ens ; and there is everybody. The way those two 
 young Cratchits hail Martha, and exclaim, " There 's 
 such a goose, Martha ! " can never be forgotten. By 
 some prestidigitation Dickens takes off his own head 
 and puts on a Cratehit's ; and when those two young 
 gentlemen cry out, " There 's father coming ! Hide, 
 Martha, hide ! " they not only clap their hands, but 
 they seem to be dancing round Dickens's table. Then 
 Bob Cratchit and Tiny Tim come in, and Bob's thin 
 voice iDipes out, " Hullo ! I say ; why,^ where 's our 
 Martha ? " accompanying the question with a perfect 
 presentment of humble, simple-hearted disappointment; 
 while Mrs. Cratchit shakes her head importantly, and 
 replies, " Not coming ! " But murder will out ; and then 
 Bob relates " how Tiny Tim " behaved ; " as good as 
 gold, and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by 
 himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you 
 ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped 
 the people saw him in the church, because he was a 
 cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to rememberj 
 upon Christmas day, who made lame beggars walk and 
 blind men see." There is a volume of pathos in these 
 words, which are the most delicate and artistic rendering 
 of the whole reading. 
 
 Ah, that Christmas dinner ! I feel as if I were eating 
 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 33 
 
 every morsel of it. Peter mashes the potatoes with in- 
 credible energy ; Belinda sweetens the apple-sauce, and 
 smacks her lips so loudly in the tasting as to prove 
 that it could not be better ; " the two young Cratchits/' 
 " cram spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek 
 for goose before their turn " ; and Tiny Tim " beats on 
 the table with the handle of his knife, as he feebly cries, 
 ' Hoorray ! Hoorray ! Hoorray ! ' " in such a still, small 
 voice. Moreover, there is that goose ! I see it with 
 my naked eye. And 0, the pudding ! " A smell like a 
 washing day ! Tliat was the cloth. A smell like an 
 eating-house and a pastry-cook's next door to each other, 
 with a laundress's next door to that ! That was the pud- 
 ding ! " Dickens's sniffing and smelling of that pudding 
 would make a starving family believe that they had 
 swallowed it, holly and all. It is infectious. 
 
 "What Dickens does is frequently infinitely better than 
 anything he says, or the way he says it ; yet the doing 
 is as delicate and intangible as the odor of violets, and 
 can be no better indicated. Nothing of its kind can 
 be more touchingly beautiful than the manner in which 
 Bob Cratchit — previous to proposing " a merry Christ- 
 mas to us all, my dears, God bless us " — stoops down, 
 with tears in his eyes, and places Tiny Tim's withered 
 little hand in his, " as if he loved the child, and wished 
 to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be 
 taken from him." It is pantomime worthy of the finest 
 actor. 
 
 2* C 
 
34 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS's READINGS. 
 
 Equally clever is Bob's attempt to pacify Mrs. Cratcliit, 
 when, vipon being desired to toast "Mr. Scrooge, the 
 Founder of the Feast," this amiable lady displays an 
 amount of temper of which we never believed her capa- 
 ble. " My dear ! " says Bob, in an expostulatory tone, 
 " my dear ! the children ! Christmas day ! " pointing mys- 
 teriously to each one with inimitable naivete. Bob's 
 picture ought to be taken at this moment. Indeed, now 
 I think of it, I am astonished that artists who illustrate 
 such of Dickens's books as are read by him do not 
 make him their model. They can never approach his 
 conception, they can never equal his execution, and to the 
 virtue of truth would be added the charm of resembling 
 the author. 
 
 Admirable is Mrs. Cratchit's ungracious drinking to 
 Scrooge's health, and ]\Iartha's teUing how she had 
 seen a lord, and how he " was much about as tall as 
 Peter ! " 
 
 It is a charming cabinet picture, and so likewise is 
 the glimpse of Christmas at Scrooge's nephew's. The 
 plump sister is " satisfactory, 0, perfectly satisfactory," 
 and Topper is a magnificent fraud on the understand- 
 ing, a side-splitting fraud. I see Fred get off the sofa 
 and stamp at liis own fun, and I hear the plump sister's 
 voice when she guesses the wonderful riddle, " It 's your 
 uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge ! " Altogether, Dickens is better 
 than any comedy. 
 
 What a change in Stave Four! There sit the gray- 
 
BOB CRATCIIIT AND TINY TIM. 
 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 8§ 
 
 haired rascal, old Joe, with his crooning voice, Mrs. 
 Dilber, and those robbers of dead men's shrouds. 
 
 There is something positively and Shakespearianly 
 weird in the langh and tone of the charwoman. " Let the 
 charwoman alone to be the first," she cries. " Let the 
 laundress alone to be the second ; and let the undertaker's 
 man alone to be the third. Look here, old Joe, here 's 
 a chance! If we have n't all three met here without 
 meaning it ! " Unconsciously the three witches of " Mac- 
 beth " arise before the imagination, which perceives by 
 Dickens's treatment of this short but graphic scene how 
 fine a sketch he would make did fate ever cast him for 
 one of the sisters three. 
 
 One turn of the kaleidoscope and we stand before the 
 body of the plundered unknown man ; another, and there 
 sit the Cratchits weeping over Tiny Tim's death, a 
 scene that would be beyond aU praise were Bob's cry, 
 " My little, little child ! " a shade less dramatic. Here, 
 and only here, Dickens forgets the nature of Bob's 
 voice, and employs all the power of his own, carried 
 away apparently by the situation. Bob would not 
 thus give vent to his feelings. Finally, there is Scrooge, 
 no longer a miser, but a human being, screaming at the 
 " conversational " boy, the " Itinerary of London," in 
 Sunday clothes, to buy him the prize turkey " that never 
 could have stood upon his legs, that bird. He would 
 have snapped 'em off in a minute, like sticks of sealing- 
 wax." There is Bob Cratchit behind time, trying " to 
 
1 
 
 36 PEN PHOTOGEAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS, | 
 
 overtake nine o'clock " that fled fifteen minutes before ; , 
 there is Scrooge poking Bob in the ribs, and vowing he 1 
 will raise his salary ; and there is at last happiness for all, ' 
 as Tiny Tim exclaims, " God bless us, every one ! " 
 
 I do not see how " The Christmas Carol " can be read 
 and acted better. The only improvement possible is in 
 " The Ghosts," who are perhaps too monotonous, — a way 
 ghosts have when they return to earth. It is generally 
 believed that ghosts, being " damp, moist, uncomfortable 
 bodies," lose their voices beyond redemption and are 
 obliged to pipe through eternity on one key. I am at a 
 loss to see the wisdom of this hypothesis. Solemnity and 
 monotony are not synonymous terms, yet every theatrical 
 ghost insists that they are, and Dickens is no exception 
 to the rule. If monotony be excusable in any one, how- 
 ever, it is in him ; for when one actor is obliged to rep- 
 resent twenty-three different characters, giving to every 
 one an individual tone, he may be pardoned if his ghosts 
 are not colloquial. " 
 
 Talk of sermons and churches ! There never was a 
 more beautiful sermon than this of " The Christmas 
 Carol." Sacred names do not necessarily mean sacred 
 things. 
 
l|Sa. 
 
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 37 
 
 III. 
 
 DAVID COPPEEFIELD. 
 
 'XTOTHIISl'G is more unjust than severe criticism of an 
 -^ ^ artist heard or seen but once. Dickens's first ren- 
 dering of " David Copperfield " disappointed me sadly in 
 the more serious portions, and had I been obliged to give 
 an opinion then and there, I should have declared that 
 his tragedy needed force, and that his description of the 
 shipwreck at Yarmouth lacked vividness and intensity. 
 Second and third hearings proved to me that Dickens de- 
 pends upon the sympathy of his audiences for inspiration, 
 and does not do -himself full justice, unless warmly sup- 
 ported by them. This dependence is especially apparent 
 in " David Copperfield," wdiich is undoubtedly the most 
 difficult and most exhausting of his five readings, — being 
 the most dramatic. I write of the reader at his best. 
 
 Ordinarily, descriptions are " most tolerable and not to 
 be endured." In novels the eye -blinks at them, and 
 rushes off in pursuit of dialogue. In hearing them read, 
 the ear stops itself with imaginary cotton until the plot 
 thickens and somebody says something to somebody else. 
 But with Boz all signs fail. You cannot possibly over- 
 look his descriptions if you would. He runs his pen 
 through the heart of a fact so dexterously — after the 
 
3S PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKEXS'S READINGS. 
 
 manner of naturalists — as to cause it to lie before you 
 in all its length, breadth, and local coloring, and you can 
 no more ignore it than you can ignore sunshine. Attrac- 
 tive, then, as Dickens's descriptions are in reading, they 
 become doubly so when read by him. "Without being an 
 orator, possessing (as has been previously stated) a natu- 
 rally monotonous voice, he, by the keen appreciation of 
 his own meaning and by a most original emphasis, devel- 
 ops every possibility of his text, and what was previously 
 latent stands out in bold relief. It did not take me long 
 to discover that " Dickens," however familiar, becomes a 
 revelation when interpreted by the author. 
 
 Thus when Dickens begins his reading of " David Cop- 
 perfield " with the description of the interior of Mr. Peg- 
 gotty's boat-house, I realize that I have never before had 
 a good look at the walls whereon " were* colored pictures 
 of Abraham in red going to sacrifice Isaac in blue, and 
 of Daniel in yellow being cast into a den of green lions." 
 I never clearly saw Mrs. Gummidge until I looked 
 into Ms face, and heard her declare that she was " a lone, 
 lorn creetur, and everythink went contrairy with her." 
 It is the look and querulous voice of the good old grum- 
 bling soul. Soon we are in the presence of generous, 
 genial Mr. Peggotty, who grows quite red in the face 
 with delight at sliaking hands with Copperfield and 
 Steerforth, and chucks little Em'ly under his arm 
 just as if she were there to be chucked. In his broad, 
 hearty, tarpaulin voice, he joyfully and simply tells of 
 
DAVID COPPEEFIELD. 39 
 
 Ham's courtship, concluding with those mighty blows 
 upon Ham's imaginary shoulders that make us wonder 
 how Dickens can poke tlie air so naturally as to make us 
 believe it to be Ham. Yet surely this is Ham, bash- 
 ful, rubbing his hands with emotion, and, with a tear in 
 his voice, saying, " I 'd lay down my life for her, Mas'r 
 Davy, — 0, most content and cheerful. There ain't a 
 gentl'man in all the land, nor yet a sailing upon all the 
 sea, that can love his lady more than I love her, though 
 there 's many a common man as could say better what 
 he meaut." Childlike, noble-hearted Ham! — childlike 
 saving in the kiss Dickens wafts after Em'ly, wherein 
 there is more of the salon than of the boat-house. 
 
 " Mr. Peggotty," says Steerforth, " you are a thorough- 
 ly good fellow and deserve to be as happy as you are 
 to-night, my hand upon it. Ham, I give you joy, my 
 boy. My hand upon that, too ! " Dickens's change of 
 intonation and expression in addressing the father and 
 son is striking, but I am inclined to think too striking, 
 for had Steerforth exhibited the hatred of Ham that 
 darkens Dickens's face, it could not have passed un- 
 noticed. It is a hatred admirably suited to Steerforth 
 when later he calls Ham " a chuckle-headed fellow " 
 and vehemently rails at himself " in that devil's bark of 
 a boat," but not before. Ah, Steerforth, other actors 
 may interpret yo2/. better, but I doubt whether any one 
 can equal the solemn yet tender sorrow with which 
 Dickens, as Copperfield, exclaims, "0 God forgive you. 
 
40 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 Steerforth, to touch that passive hand in love and friend- 
 ship, never, never more ! " It is a sigh from a heavy, 
 heavy heart. 
 
 First, in Chapter Second, is that second glimpse of fret- 
 ful Mrs. Gummidge, who is as complete a character as 
 if she were a whole play, and then Dickens again be- 
 comes old Mr. Peggotty. There never was more rough- 
 shod naivete than his when he calls himself a " babby in 
 regard o' Em'ly ; not to look at, but to — to consider on, you 
 know," and thinks his beautiful love for his little niece 
 must be " along of my havin' played with Em'ly so much 
 when she was a child, and havin' made believe as we was 
 lions, and whales, and sharks, and French, and Turks, and 
 porpuses, and every variety of forriners." We could listen 
 to the simple prattle of this overflowing heart all the 
 evening ; but alas ! the pleasant comedy must give way 
 to drama. Quickly the scene changes. Here is Ham, 
 with horror-stricken face, whispering that " Em'ly 's run 
 away " ; here is Copperfield reading in a plaintive voice 
 Em'ly's touching letter to her old lover. Dazed and 
 stunned, the loved and loving uncle asks, in a gTuff voice, 
 "Who's the man? I want to know his name." Poor 
 Ham ! "It is your friend Steerforth," he says to 
 Copperfield with concentrated emotion, "and he 's a 
 damned villain ! " Is tliis caged lion thirsting for ven- 
 geance upon Em'ly's seducer the genial soul of a min- 
 ute ago ? I see Mr. Peggotty pull down' his great-coat 
 from its peg in the corner and struggle to put it on 
 
DAVID COPPEKFIELD. 41 
 
 as he cries out, " Bear a hand with this ! I 'm struck of 
 a heap, and can't do it" ; and as his mind wanders in the 
 agonized refrain, " I 'm going fur to seek my niece. I 'm 
 going fur to seek my Em'ly. No one stop me ! I 'm 
 going to seek her fur and wide ! " Who could have 
 believed that in fretful Mrs. Gummidge Mr. Peggotty 
 had cherished unawares an angel of peace that would 
 bring comfort to his bruised s .")ul in its hour of trial ? 
 Yet it is even so, and here she stands, her trembling 
 liands affectionately stroking Dan'l, her querulous voice 
 softened, reproaching herself for ever having been a 
 " worrit," and gradually soothing the old man to tears. 
 
 How Dickens can pass from grave to gay without a 
 moment's pause is a problem difticult to solve. He does, 
 however; and while eyes are still dimmed by the sad 
 scene in the boat-house, we find ourselves laughing 
 heartily at David Copperfield in his " top set of chambers 
 in Buckingham Street Strand," where he "lived princi- 
 pally on Dora and coffee," and at which ecstatic era of 
 his existence he "laid the foundation of all the corns he 
 ever had." " If the boots at that period," declares Cop- 
 perfield, in a tone that is Dickens's own, and nobody's 
 else, "could only be produced and compared with the 
 natural size of my feet, they would show in a most affect- 
 ing manner what the state of my heart was." More ri- 
 diculous still is Mrs. Crupp, the housekeeper, whose voice 
 and facial expression are as good farce acting as humanity 
 deserves. If her manner of asking for " a little tincture 
 
42 PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 of cardamiims, mixed with rhubarb, and flavored with 
 seven drops of the essence of cloves ; or, if he had not 
 such a tiling by him, vnth a little 'brandy" could be im- 
 possibly caught, transfixed, and perpetuated forever, so 
 that everybody might have it in the house and take it 
 whenever a depressed state of the market or of individual 
 finances required, it would harden many a softening brain 
 and materially decrease the number of suicides. Mrs. 
 Dickens Crupp, or Mrs. Crupp Dickens, whichever she 
 may be, is a fascinating woman. " What makes you sup- 
 pose there is any young lady in the case, Mrs. Crupp ? " 
 asks Copperfield. 
 
 It is worth a day's imprisonment, with Tupper's Pro- 
 verbial Philosophy as an article of diet, to hear Mrs. 
 Crupp's reply : — 
 
 " Mr. Copperfull, I 'm a mother myseK Your boots 
 and your waist is equally too small, and you don't eat 
 enough, sir, nor yet drink. Sir, I have laundressed other 
 young gentlemen besides you. It was but the gentleman 
 who died here before yourself that fell in love, — with 
 a bar-maid, — and had his waistcoats took in directly, 
 though much swelled by drinking. Keep a good heart, 
 sir, and know your walue. If you was to take to some- 
 tliing, sir, — if you was to take to nine-pins now, which 
 is a wery healthy game, — you might find it divert your 
 mind and do you good." 
 
 Well, Mrs. Crupp no sooner makes her exit than 
 Copperfield gTcets his friends, the Micawbers, and Trad- 
 
DAVID COPPEKFIELD. 43 
 
 dies. Traddles says but three words, "Not at all," 
 during the entire visit; nevertheless, three words are 
 quite enough for Dickens to make a man out of, and 
 Traddles is no myth, but a confiding human being, with 
 a propensity to eat his own fingers. Traddles is "not 
 at all," and " not at all " is Traddles. 
 
 In Micawber, Dickens undergoes as much of a trans- 
 formation as if he enjoyed a patent-right to the nec- 
 romancer's " Presto, change." I see him " swelling wis- 
 ibly before my wery eyes," as he tips backward and 
 forward, first on his heels and then on his toes. Before 
 he stops swelHng, he becomes just about the size of our 
 ideal Micawber ; his face, quite apoplectic in hue, is 
 fenced in by a wall of shirt-collar ; he twirls his eye-glass 
 with peculiar grace ; and when he exclaims, " My dear 
 Copperfield, this is lux-u-rious ; this is a way of life 
 which reminds me of the period when I was myself in a 
 state of celibacy," — nearly choking himself to death be- 
 fore he arrives at " a state of celibacy," — the picture is 
 complete. It is Micawber in " one of those momentous 
 stages in the life of man," when he has " fallen back /or a 
 spring," and, previous to " a vigorous leap," is quite ready 
 to fortify himself and the dearest partner of his greatness 
 with a bachelor dinner and punch. Micawber's waiting 
 for things to " turn up " ; his eloquent tribute to " the 
 influence of Woman in the lofty character of Wife " ; 
 his magnificent trifling with the word " Discount " ; and 
 the all-pervading cough, as inseparable from his speech 
 as oxygen from air, are delectable. 
 
44 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 Dickens could no more be Micawber without that 
 cough than Micawber could have ever been at all with- , 
 out Dickens. It is the salt that gives the character 
 savor. None but a great man misunderstood ever had 
 such a propensity to choke. And when Mr. Micawber I 
 does cough, the two lapels of hair brushed above Dick- j 
 ens's ears, appear to be drawn by capillary attraction 
 towards the sentiments spoken, and, waxing rampant, nod 
 approvingly, as if to say, " Just so." Neither cough nor 
 lapels are to be found in the text, but when did finite 
 words ever express a man's soul ? ■ 
 
 Mr. Micawber is so great a man as to render it im- 
 possible for Mrs. Micawber to be a greater. Never- 
 theless, she is. Those lapels subside, and Mrs. Micaw- 
 ber sits before you, sipping her punch, smoothing her 
 hair, "comparatively lovely," as Copperfield observes, 
 and blandly discusses Mr. Micawber's prospects. To de- 
 scribe the indescribable is absurd ; yet it must not go 
 unrecorded that Mrs. Micawber's sublimest moment is 
 reached when she heroically remarks, " That, at least, is 
 mi/ view, my dear Mr. Copperfield and Mr. Traddles, of 
 the obligation which I took upon myself when I repeated 
 the irrevocable words, ' I, Emma, take thee, Wilkins.' I 
 read -the service over with a bedroom candle, on the 
 previous night, and the conclusion I derived from it was, 
 that I never could or would desert. Mr. Micawber." As 
 she utters these words, Mrs. Micawber is not to be 
 trifled with. There is a determination in her eye that is 
 
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 45 
 
 equal to any amount of opposition ; yet, if possible, her 
 courage takes still another flight, and her mien becomes 
 still more majestic in her final answer to her final argu- 
 ment : " And here is Mr. Micawber without any suitable 
 position or employment. Where does that responsibility 
 rest ? Clearly on society. Then I would make a fact so 
 disgraceful known, and boldly challenge society to set it 
 right. It appears to me, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that 
 what Mr. Micawber has to do is to throw down the 
 gauntlet to society, and say, in effect, * Show me who will 
 take that up. Let the party immediately step forward.' " 
 Why the party does not immediately step forward, the 
 party alone can explain, for Mrs. ]\Iicawber has her eye 
 on him, and looks as if the secrets of his prison-house 
 were no secrets at all to Imr, and that the perennial 
 employment of Mr. Micawber, on remunerative terms, 
 would be but slight compensation for her discreet si- 
 lence. 
 
 Then the account of that dinner ! Language is usually 
 thrown away upon readers ; it is snubbed unmercifully, 
 as if every word wore the same hue instead of being 
 possessed of a peculiar coloring, wdiich is shaded, how- 
 ever, according to situation. Dickens is an artist, and 
 therefore never takes language in vain. He embraces 
 every opportunity ; hence, when he tells us that " the 
 pigeon-pie was not bad, but it was a dchisive pie, the 
 crust being like a disappointed phrenological head, — 
 full of lumps and bumps, with nothing particular under- 
 
46 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 neath ! " that adjective " delusive " prepares us for all the 
 good things to come. It takes aim and fires at the pie, 
 bringing down pigeons, crust, and all. 
 
 The pie no sooner disappears than merriment ceases, 
 and Mr. Peggotty in all his noble simplicity relates to 
 Copperfield how he went through France "fur to seek 
 his niece." " And many a woman, Mas'r Davy, as has 
 had a daughter about Em'ly's age, I 've found a-waiting 
 for me, at our Saviour's cross outside the village, fur to 
 do me sim'lar "kindnesses. Some has had daughters as 
 was dead. And God only knows how good them moth- 
 ers was to me ! " Tears ? yes, tears are in the old sailor's ij 
 eyes, and he is not the only one who brushes them away. 
 " I never doubted her. No ! not a bit ! On'y let her see. 
 my face, — on'y let her heer my voice, — on'y let my 
 stanning afore her bring to her thoughts of the home she 
 fled away from, and the child she had been, — and if shq 
 had growed to be a royal lady, she 'd have fell down al; 
 my feet ! " Wliat a lesson of love and charity -is taught 
 in these few solemn words and that expressive gesture J 
 of the arm ! " All that troubles me is, to think that any 
 harm might come to me afore this money was give back. 
 If I was to die, and it was lost or stole, or elseways 
 made away with, and it was never know'd by liim but 
 what I 'd accepted of it, I believe the t' other world 
 would n't hold me ! I believe I must come back ! " I 
 Grand old Mr. Peggotty! (for it is he, not Dickens, 
 that speaks,) well may everything be hushed in reverence 
 
 I 
 
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 47 
 
 as he steps out into tlie rigorous night, for there is har- 
 bored within liis breast an angel of the Lord. 
 
 The snow has suddenly ceased to fall, and all is 
 again sunshine. Copperfield is steeped in Dora, and 
 romantically calling on the night to shield his Dora 
 "from mice, to which she had a great objection." There 
 are not many more delightful comedies than this short 
 scene at Miss Mills's. On the stage Miss Mills would 
 be a silly supernumerary, in a doubtful white muslin 
 dress, with no more idea of the importance of her one 
 little remark than a dejected canary-bird has of the 
 importance of sj)ecie payment. But the art with whicli 
 Dickens rescues the most trifling character from ob- 
 scurity is positively marvellous. Wlien Miss Mills is 
 " very sorry her pai^a is not at home," that young lady 
 proves herself to be an admirable actress. The love- 
 making between Dora and Copperfield is perfect; per- 
 fect also is the little dog Jip, though he does noth- 
 ing but bark. When Copperfield asks Dora if she 
 can love a 'beggar, and she begins to cry and "take 
 on" and wants to go to Julia Mills, and Copperfield 
 ravages a work-box for a smelling-bottle, and applies an 
 ivory needle-case instead, and drops all the needles over 
 Dora ; and when at last the pretty doll is soothed and 
 her lover asks, " Is your heart mine still, dear Dora ? " 
 
 " yes ! yes ! it 's all yours. Only don't be dread- 
 ful ! Don't talk about begcrars ! " 
 
 " My dearest love, the crust well earned — " 
 
48 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 " yes ; but I don't want to hear any more about 
 crusts. And after we are married Jip must have a viut- 
 ton-chojp every day at ttvclve, or he 'II die I " — Dickens is so 
 funny as to make any one who loves humor as tenaciously 
 as most people love their lives, feel deeply indebted to him. 
 
 " 0, because I am such a little goose, and she knows 
 I am ! " she being Mary Anne, the servant who had " a 
 cousin in the Life Guards, with such long legs that he 
 looked like the afternoon shadow of somebody else ! " Well, 
 into that short sentence, with its accompanying expres- 
 sion, Dickens condenses the whole of Coiiperfield's Child- 
 wife ; yet not the whole, for the pretty little creature 
 has a heart full of love for her husband, and signs her 
 own death-warrant as she says, with plaintive sentiment, 
 "When you miss what you would like me to be, and 
 what I think I never can be, say ' StiU my foolish child- 
 wife loves me ' ; for indeed I do." 
 
 But the childlike prattle is soon forgotten in the storm 
 raging at Yarmouth on that terrible September night ; in 
 the appearance off the coast next morning of a shipwrecked 
 schooner from Spain or Portugal ; in the mad frenzy of 
 the sea ; in the daring of the solitary man who wears 
 a singular red cap, that he waves while clinging to the 
 mast, and who was the once dear friend, — Steerforth ; 
 in the sublime courage of Ham, who " watched the 
 sea until there was a great retiring wave, when he dashed 
 
 in after it At length he neared the WTeck. He 
 
 was so near that with one more of his vigorous strokes he 
 
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 49 
 
 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 loith a mighty hound, and the 
 ship loas gone I " 
 
 With the going down of that ship, — with the solemn, 
 significant nod of the fisherman who leads Copperfield 
 to the shore where Steerforth lies " with his head upon 
 his arm, as he had often lain at school," — all doubt as to 
 Dickens's tragic power is at an end. Thrilling as this 
 fine description is in reading, it becomes still more so 
 when recited by the author ; yet it is no ill compliment 
 to him to say that it is capable of even greater eftect. 
 The scene admits of wonderful scope for a mighty voice 
 and mighty action. 
 
 Take it for all in all, David Copperfield is an extraor- 
 dinary performance. On the stage, fine actors might 
 render Steerforth and Copperfield better, and might 
 do as much justice to Mr. Peggotty and Ham. A 
 fine actress might throw more pathos into Emily's let- 
 ter ; but Mrs. Crupp, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, Traddles, 
 Dora, and Julia Mills are incomparable, and no one 
 actor living can embody the twelve characters of this 
 reading with the individuality given them by Dick- 
 ens, unaided, too, as he is, by theatrical illusion. Few 
 realize what a triumph of art it is to overcome the 
 depressing influence of the lecture-room. 
 
50 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY AT THE YOEKSHIRE 
 
 SCHOOL. 
 
 ""VTO Englisli novelist, living or dead, lias created as 
 -^ ^ many dramatic pictures as Dickens, therefore it is 
 not surprising that a large majority of liis novels should 
 have been adapted to the stage. Born an actor, Dickens 
 regards everything from a dramatic stand-pomt. Even in 
 reading you see his characters talk. So natural is his 
 dialogue, that whole scenes may be taken from his books 
 for private theatricals, without any adaptation whatever. 
 They will play themselves, provided the amateurs are 
 endowed with ordinary intelligence, and it is whispered 
 in Gath that private theatricals are the severest test to 
 which any literary work can be put. This power is pecu- 
 liarly Dickensesque, and certainly other noA^elists could 
 not publicly interpret their own works with similar effect. 
 They may read skilfully from the poets, or they may 
 gracefully deliver lectures, as Thackeray once did, but 
 their novels are constructed on entirely different prin- 
 ciples, and cannot possibly be set before an audience after 
 the manner of Dickens. It is in the genius of Dickens 
 to hold the mirror up to nature on the stage. 
 
 That wonderfully knowing person, Monsieur On Dit, 
 
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY AT THE YOEKSHIEE SCHOOL. 51 
 
 who is perpetually " cooling his eyes " and ears at other 
 people's key-holes, most positively declares that Dickens 
 seriously objects to the dramatization of his novels ; but 
 as Dickens is held responsible for many opinions that 
 never entered into his most fantastic dreams, it is quite 
 safe to conclude that he makes no such wholesale opposi- 
 tion. For an author to protest against very bad adapta- 
 tions very badly acted, is natural ; but a clever dramati- 
 zation cleverly delineated is far more likely to please 
 than displease him. Dickens's real opinion is probably 
 better defined in that chapter of "Mcholas Nickleby" 
 descriptive of the supper given to Manager Crummies 
 prior to his departure for America, at which a very signifi- 
 cant conversation ensues between Nicholas and a literary 
 gentleman who had dramatized two hundred and forty- 
 seven novels as fast as they liad come out, — some of 
 them faster than they had come out, — and was a literary 
 gentleman in consequence. 
 
 " ' Did you ever hear a definition of fame, sir ? ' asks 
 
 the literary gentleman ' When I dramatize a book, 
 
 sir, that 's fame — for its author.' 
 
 " ' So Richard Turpin, Tom King, and Jerry Abershaw 
 have handed down to fame the names of those on whom 
 they committed their most impudent robberies ? ' said 
 Nicholas. 
 
 " ' I don't know anything about that, sir,' answered the 
 literary gentleman. 
 
 " ' Shakespeare dramatized stories which had previously 
 appeared in print, it is true,' observed Nicholas. 
 
52 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 " ' Mecaning Bill, sir ? ' said the literary gentlemarL ' So 
 he did. Bill was an adapter, certainly, so lie was — and 
 very well lie adapted too ^- considering.' 
 
 " ' I was about to say,' rejoined Nicholas, ' that Shake- 
 speare derived some of his plots from old tales and le- 
 gends in general circulation ; but it seems to me that 
 some of the gentlemen of your craft at the present day 
 have shot very far beyond him — ' 
 
 " ' You 're quite right, sir,' interrupted the literary 
 gentleman, leaning back in his chair and exercising his 
 tooth-pick. ' Human intellect, sir, has progressed since 
 his time — is progressing — will progress — ' 
 
 " ' Shot beyond him, I mean/ resumed Nicholas, ' in 
 quite another respect, for, whereas he brought within 
 the magic circle of his genius traditions peculiarly 
 adapted to his, purpose, and turned familiar things into 
 constellations which should enlighten the world for ages, 
 you drag within the magic circle of your dulness sub- 
 jects not at all adapted to the purposes of the stage, and 
 debase as he exalted. For instance, you take the uncom- 
 pleted works of living authors, fresh from their hands, 
 wet from the press, cut, hack, and carve them to the 
 powers and capacities of your actors, and the capability 
 of your theatres, finish unfinislied works, hastily and 
 crudely vamp up ideas not yet worked out by their 
 original projector, but which have doubtless cost him 
 many thoughtful days and sleepless nights ; by a com- 
 parison of incidents and dialogue, down to the very last 
 
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY AT TH^ YOEKSHIRE SCHOOL. 53 
 
 word he may have ^^Titten a fortnight before, do your 
 utmost to anticipate his plot ; all this without his per- 
 mission, and against his will ; and then, to crowTi the 
 whole proceeding, publish in some mean pamphlet, an 
 inimeanin;^ farrago of garbled extracts from his work, 
 to which you put your name as author, with the honor- 
 able distinction annexed, of having perpetrated a hundred 
 other outrages of the same description. Now, show me 
 tlie distinction between such pilfering as this and pick- 
 ing a man's pocket in the street ; unless, indeed, it be 
 that the legislature has a regard for pocket-handkerchiefs, 
 and leaves men's brains, except when they are knocked 
 out by violence, to take care of themselves.' 
 
 " ' ]\Ien must live, sir,' said the literary gentleman, 
 shrugginu; his shoulders. 
 
 " ' That would be an equally fair plea in both cases,' 
 replied Nicholas ; ' but, if you put it upon that ground, I 
 have nothing more to say than that if I were a writer of 
 books, and you a thirsty dramatist, I would rather pay 
 your tavern-score for six months — large as it might be 
 — than have a niche in the Temple of Fame, with you 
 for the humblest corner of my pedestal, through six 
 lumdred generations.' " In this stinging retort, Nicho- 
 las Nickleby is evidently the mouthpiece of his author, 
 who has been subjected to similar treatment, without 
 any power of redress. It is hardly possible to conceive 
 of more flagrant injustice, yet Dickens is as much a vic- 
 tim to this species of robbery as he was thirty years ago. 
 
54 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DIGKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 Many critics are opposed to the dramatization of any- 
 novel whatsoever, on the ground that no play can give 
 the original work entire, and that at best it must be a 
 sketch with much left to the imagination. As a rule, 
 this opposition is wise, because, as a rule, novels are 
 imfit to be trusted outside of their covers. Dickens is 
 an exception ; and any one who remembers Burton's 
 " Captain Cuttle," the late J. M. Field's " Mantilini," Mrs. 
 Field's " Smike," Charlotte Cushman's " Nancy Sykes," E. 
 L. Davenport's " Bill Sykes," and James W. Wallack's 
 " Fagin," will never cease to congratulate himself upon 
 seeing Dickens embodied. To condemn a sketch, is to 
 be ignorant of the fact tliat an artist frequently puts 
 more inspiration into it than into more lengthy and elab- 
 orate work, for the reason that the colors can be laid en 
 in a moment of enthusiasm. The sketch of a master 
 is a daring concentration of his genius. Putting Dick- 
 ens on the stage finely, is stamping every character in- 
 delibly upon the mind. It is quite j)ossible to forget 
 ■what we read, but it is impossible to forget a fine picture 
 that talks as well as looks. Tlie terrible lesson of " Oliver 
 Twist " is not fully learned until taught by the actor. If 
 we object to Sketches from Boz in the theatre, we must, 
 to be logical, object to Sketches from Boz hy Boz in the 
 lecture-room. What lover of Dickens is prepared to do 
 this ? And who will forego the delight of supping upon 
 delicious tidbits because he cannot have put before him 
 the entire joint off which these tidbits have been cut ? 
 
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 55 
 
 Of all the Dickens dramatizations, tliat of " Nicholas 
 Nickleby " is, perhaps, most familiar to the public. In 
 spite of this fact, Dickens more fully fills out the picture 
 than we can ever expect to see it filled on the stage. 
 Small parts, however important to the ensemble, are in- 
 variably delegated to incompetent actors, and theatrical 
 children are the dreariest of all spectacles. 
 
 Dickens's Squeers is a complete embodiment. From 
 beginning to end he is the brutal, cunning, diabolically 
 funny beast the author's fancy paints him, and it is com- 
 plimentary to Dickens's versatility of facial expression to 
 sa5^ that with his one eye, with the blank side of his face 
 much puckered up, and with the corners of his mouth 
 drawn the wrong way, he looks the monster he depicts. 
 
 " This is twopenn' 'orth of milk, is it, waiter ? " The 
 mug is not on that desk, but it seems to be, as Mr. 
 Squeers looks into it and gives his order. " What a rare 
 article milk is, to be sure, in London ! Just fill that mug 
 up with lukewarm water, William, will you ? " 
 
 Then both eyes are wide open, the sinister appearance 
 vanishes, and there stands the waiter, William, asking if 
 it must be filled, " To the wery top, sir ? Why, the milk 
 will be drownded ? " 
 
 " Serve it right for being so dear " ; and back comes 
 Squeers in a jiffy. His stirring of that milk and water, 
 exclaiming the while, " Here 's richness," and his talking 
 to those hungry little boys looking on with hungry eyes, 
 about conquering their passions and not being eager after 
 
56 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 •■'vittles," must rejoice the soul of the devil, if that distin- 
 guished individual has such an unnecessary appendage. 
 There is an " atmosphere " about Dickens's Squeers 
 which impresses us with the belief that he enjoys be- 
 ing a brute and is not an actor trying to be brutal. 
 Mrs. Squeers, too, — she who thanked God for not being 
 a grammarian, — is quite as well indi\ddualized as her 
 more important husband. The short dialogues between 
 Squeers and herself are quite entertaining, — after tlieir 
 pecidiar fashion, — the climax being attained when, with 
 an eye to ISTickleby's accommodation, Squeers asks, " Who 
 sleeps in Brooks's bed, my dear ? " " In Brooks's bed ? " 
 replies IVIrs. Squeers, in her most winning manner ; " well, 
 there 's Jennings, — there 's little Bolder, — there 's Gray- 
 marsh, — and there 's "What's-his-name." Mrs. Squeers 
 makes each syllable an independent name, so that our 
 mind's eye contemplates ten boys in Brooks's bed. 
 
 " So there is. Yes ! Brooks's is full " ; and Squeers 
 out-Squeers himself when, turning to poor Nickleby, he 
 asks, " Do you wash ?" " Occasionally," replies the aston- 
 ished young A. M. 
 
 " Umph ! T don't know what towel to put you on. T 
 know there 's a place on somebody's towel ; but if you '11 
 make shift with your pocket-handkerchief to-morrow 
 morning, Mrs. Squeers will arrange that in the course of 
 the day." 
 
 Search through every edition of Dickens known to the 
 public, — their name is legion, — and you will not find 
 
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY AT THE YOKKSHIRE SCHOOL. 57 
 
 that inquiry about washing, nor Mcldeby's reply, nor that 
 place in the towel, nor that pocket-handkerchief, nor in 
 fact many of the cleverest "points" made by Dickens, 
 which interpolations flash upon us as unexpectedly as 
 comets, and give some good people much concern because 
 they are not down in the book ! These comets dash about 
 most wildly in the first school-room scene, where, in re- 
 viewing the first class, Squeers is in Ms element. " W-i-n, 
 
 win, d-e-r, der, winder, preposition, a casement B-o-t, 
 
 hot, t-i-n, tin, n-e-y, ney, bottinney, adjective, a knowl- 
 edge of plants. Wlien he has learned that bottinney 
 means a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows 'em. 
 That 's our system, ISTickleby. It 's exactly like the use 
 of the globes." 
 
 " Third boy, what is a horse ? " 
 
 " A beast, sir ! " (Poor little boy, what a frightened 
 little voice it is !) 
 
 " So it is, ain't it, Nickleby ? " 
 " I believe there is no doubt of that, sir." 
 " Of course there ain't. A horse is a quadruped, and 
 quadruped 's Latin, or Greek, or Hchreiv, or some other 
 language that 's dead and deserves to he, for beast." No- 
 body who has not heard Dickens's Squeers make this 
 profound explanation knows lioiv satirical and funny it is. 
 Squeers's reading of the, boys' letters is good enough to 
 make us wish those letters would never finish. When 
 " Graymarsh's maternal aunt " thinks Mrs. Squeers " must 
 be a Acmgel," and when Mr. Squeers, in acknowledging the 
 
 3* 
 
58 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 eulogy upon himself, sagely observes that " a good man 
 struggling with destiny is — a spectacle for things i7i general" 
 fiendish humor runs riot, yet does not attain its climax 
 until the delivery of the Christian communicEftion from 
 " Mohhss mother-in-law." " Mobbs's mother-in-law took to 
 bed on hearing that he would n't eat fat and has had a suc- 
 cession of cold and hiling water alternately running down 
 her lack ever since. She wishes to know, by an early post, 
 where he expects to go to, if he quarrels with his vittles ; 
 and with what feelings he could turn up his nose at the 
 cow's-liver broth, after his good master had asked a bless- 
 ing on it. This was told her in the London newspapers, 
 — not by Mr. Squeers, for he is too kind and too good to 
 set anybody against anybody. Mobbs's mother-in-law is 
 sorry to find Mobbs is discontented, which is sinful and 
 horrid, and hopes Mr. Squeers will flog him into a hap- 
 pier state of mind. With this view she has also stopped 
 his halfpenny a week pocket-money, and given a double- 
 bladed knife with a corkscrew in it, which she had 
 brought on purpose for him, to the missionaries. A sulky 
 state of feebng won't do. Cheerfulness and contentment 
 must be kept up. Mobbs, come to me ! " What varnish 
 is to an oil-painting, Dickens's delivery is to this letter, 
 wherein satire and humor share equal honors ; and if in 
 Squeers's first interviews with Nickleby, Dickens had 
 introduced the following speech wherein the proprietor 
 of Dotheboys Hall attains a more characteristic latitude 
 than on any other occasion, he would have drawn, if not 
 
NICHOLAS AND SMIKE. 
 
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 59 
 
 a full-length, at least a three-quarters portrait of his 
 devilish hero. 
 
 " ' Measles, rheumatics, whooping-cough, fevers, agues, 
 and lumbagers,' said JNIr. Squeers, ' is all philosophy to- 
 gether, that 's what it is. The heavenly bodies is phi- 
 losophy, and the earthly bodies is philosophy. If there 's 
 a screw loose in a heavenly body, that 's philosophy, and 
 if there 's a screw loose in a earthly body, that 's philos- 
 ophy too ; or it may be that sometimes there 's a little 
 metaphysics in it, but that 's not often. Philosophy 's 
 the chap for me. If a parent asks a question in the 
 classical, commercial, or mathematical line, says I, grave- 
 ly. Why, sir, in the first place, are you a philosopher ? — 
 No, Mr. Squeers, he says, I ain't. Then, sir, says I, I am 
 sorry for you, for I sha' n't be able to explain it. Natu- 
 rally the parent goes away and wishes he was a philoso- 
 pher, and, equally naturally, thinks I 'm one." 
 
 The remaining scenes of Mr. and Mrs. Squeers are 
 portrayed as well as they can be. Tomkins, who, upon 
 hearing the missing Smike inquired for by his watch- 
 ful master, makes his entrance and his exit in the shrill 
 answer, " Please, sir, I think Smike 's run away, sir," is 
 quite as much of a little boy as ever lived and talked 
 incessantly ; and the school-room melee between Mckleby 
 and Squeers is vividly and vigorously related. 
 
 There are invariably three degrees of excellence. In 
 "Nicholas Nickleby" Dickens is not his best until the 
 appearance of Panny Squeers, 'Tilda Price, and John 
 
60 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 Browdie. Very comical is the interview between Fanny 
 Squeers and Nickleby. By means of leger-cU-Jigure 
 Dickens portrays Nickleby on one side of his face, and 
 the susceptible Fanny on the other, for that simper, lisp, 
 and mien certainly belong to Mr. Squeers's offspring. 
 Her " thank you " is perfect, and her reply to Nickleby's 
 question, " Shall it be a hard or soft nib ? " — referring 
 to the pen wliich is her excuse for appearing before 
 the young master of arts, — "As soft as possible, if you 
 'please','' deserves to be perpetuated Ijy a John Leech ; 
 although, now I think of it, could only one moment of 
 this dialogue be made enduring, I should fasten my af- 
 fections upon that wherein, walking away with the pen, 
 she exclaims, in a Squeersian ecstasy, " I never saia such 
 legs in the ivhole course of my life ! " — (" the general run 
 of legs at Dotheboys Hall being crooked.") 
 
 But there are more plums in tlie memoi-able tea-party. 
 Fanny's introduction of Nickleby to ]\Iatilda Price — 
 "Mr. Nickleby, 'Tilda; 'Tilda, I\Ir. Nickleby"— is a fit- 
 ting overture to one of the cleverest of 2'c/i;!c comedies. 
 John Browdie, with his rich Yorkshire dialect and volu- 
 minous laughter, is absolutely equal to an epidemic. He 
 breaks out in every direction, and when the interest in- 
 creases by the appearance of the green-eyed monster, 
 which in Fanny Squeers assumes the spiteful, and in 
 the Yorkshireman displays itself in flattening his nose 
 with his clenched fist, it increases after the spectator's 
 own heart. Then when John Browdie " dangs his boans 
 
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY AT THE YOEKSHIRE SCHOOL. 61 
 
 and "bocldy," and Miss Squeers makes a face at 'Tilda (no 
 child, however cultivated in the art, can "make a face" 
 superior to Dickens), and the two bosom friends call each 
 other names, winding up with that beautiful climax, 
 " 'Tilda, artful and designing 'Tilda ! — I would n't have a 
 child named 'Tilda, — not to save it from its grave," — • 
 tlie Tragic Muse herself would be reprehensible did she 
 refrain from smiling, and even laugh outright at John 
 Browdie's retort, " as to the matther o' thot, it '11 be time 
 eneaf to think aboot neaming of it when it cooms." 
 Glorious John Browdie ! there 's not a trace of Dickens 
 in him. Yorkshire triumphs over the dress-coat even, 
 and the scene closes while we, like Oliver, long for 
 "more." How Dickens ne'er o'ersteps the modesty of 
 nature is particularly apparent in this speech of Brow- 
 die. Few are the actors who would not transcend the 
 bounds of propriety, but Dickens is never more a gentle- 
 man than in dealing with passages that are capable of 
 being vulgarly construed. His humor, though always in 
 character, is never tinged with coarseness of manner. 
 
 At the conclusion of this admirable reading, impartial 
 criticism declares that, of the eight characters portrayed, 
 Fanny Squeers, 'Tilda Price, and John Browdie are unap- 
 proachable ; that Mr. and Mrs. Squeers could be equally 
 well done by actors born for the purpose ; that Mcholas 
 Nickleby might be better done on the stage, but never 
 is ; and that Smike is the only character wherein Dickens 
 fails. To demand of Dickens that he shall equal the 
 
62 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 finest Smike of the stage is asking too mucL Dickens 
 is human, not superhuman. Let it be. remembered also 
 that the word " failure " is used with reservation. Dickens 
 has set a very difficult task for himself, and one to which 
 nobody else is equal. Compared with his other charac- 
 ters, Dickens's Smike is unsuccessful because it is vul- 
 nerable. Smike is not poorly .done, but it can be better 
 done. Dickens's Smike is earnest, pathetic, and his sigh- 
 ing is as truly touching as it is artistically fine. But 
 Smike is not pathetic enough, and his monotonous voice 
 frequently degenerates into a whine. This voice undoubt- 
 edly arises from Dickens's desu*e to give Smike a distinct 
 individuality, and to prevent the intonation of one char- 
 acter from encroaching upon that of another. Tliis indi- 
 viduality he most certainly preserves. There is not a 
 trace of the Squeerses, or of Mckleby, or of Browdie in 
 it, but the monotonous intonation is unnatural, and there- 
 fore unworthy of Dickens, whose best manner is thorough 
 naturalness. Dickens could give more variety of tone and 
 still keep Smike intact, and had he but this one charac- 
 ter to assume, it would undoubtedly be vastly better car- 
 ried out. At the same time it must be confessed that 
 the finest Smike known thus far could not embody the 
 seven remaining dramatis pcrsoncc, whose idiosyncrasies 
 Dickens puts on as easily as he would put on old gloves. 
 It is this versatility that almost silences criticism ; yet 
 loyalty to art demands the noting of spots upon the 
 sun. 
 
o 
 
 Q 
 < 
 
 m 
 o 
 
 Q 
 
THE STORY OF LITTLE DOJVIBEY. 63 
 
 THE STOEY OF LITTLE DOMBEY. 
 
 " /^HAKLES DICKENS is only a caricaturist." And 
 ^-^ he wrote the story of " Eichard Doubledick, the 
 poor soldier," which, for naturalness and pathos, is un- 
 ri\^alled in the English language. " Charles Dickens is 
 only a liumorist." And one half of his creations is as 
 tragic as the other half is comic. " Charles Dickens is 
 only a farce actor." And the tears are stiU fresh that 
 fell in listening to " The Story of Little Domhey." Ah, 
 well ! whoever escapes being misinterpreted, likewise es- 
 capes being head and shoulders above his fellows. Who 
 wears a crown at all must wear a crown of thorns. 
 
 Dickens's Eeading of Little Dombey is peculiar; for 
 wdiile the tragic element enters largely into several other 
 Eeadiugs, still laughter holds the balance of power. 
 Every chapter of Little Dombey, on the contrary, is writ- 
 ten in a minor key. Here and there scherzos are inter- 
 spersed ; but the voice of the " old, old-fashioned child " 
 returns like a sad refrain, and the general effect is melan- 
 choly. It is the only one of Dickens's Eeadings that con- 
 tains a death-bed scene. The Angel of Death hovers over 
 " David Copperfield," but we do not see Ham Peggotty 
 and Steerforth die. The ocean yields up its victims and 
 
64 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 lays their bodies upon the shore at our feet. There is 
 solemnity without pathos. But the spirit of Little Dom- 
 bey takes wing before our eyes, and in its flight touches 
 heart-strings that respond with saddest music. There- 
 fore " The Story of Little Dombey " is the least popular 
 of all Dickens's Headings. He, the comedian, the farce- 
 actor, succeeds in making people very miserable ; and 
 people dishke to be made miserable. They prefer to 
 laugh. They object to any draft upon their sympathies. 
 Put tragedy before them in such guise as to excite no 
 emotion, and they enjoy it. Make them feel it, and it 
 ceases to be an amusement. "I don't like Eistori's 
 ' Marie Antoinette,' " said an unknown voice, behind me, 
 not long ago. " I don't call that acting ; it is real. If 
 she did n't make me cry, I 'd enjoy it. I tell you, that 's 
 not what I call art." In the most popular of all diction- 
 aries art is defined thus: "Art, n., The reverse of na- 
 ture." 
 
 We are first ushered into the presence of "rich Mr. 
 Dombey," who " sat in the corner of his wife's darkened 
 bedchamber, in the great arm-chair by the bedside," and 
 of "rich Mr. Dombey's son," who " lay tucked up warm in 
 a little basket, carefully placed on a low settee in front of 
 the fire and close to it, as if his constitution were analo- 
 gous to that of a muffin, and it was essential to toast him 
 brown while he was very new." In the reading of one 
 sentence Dickens places before us both father and son. 
 " Mr. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and rather stern 
 
THE STOKY OF LITTLE DOMBEY. 65 
 
 and pompous. Mr. Dombey's son was very bald, and very 
 red, and rather crushed and spotty in his general effect, — 
 as yet." AVith Dickens, one or two adjectives answer the 
 purpose of a whole paint-box. 
 
 " ' He will be christened Paul, of course. His father's 
 name, Mrs. Dombey, and his grandfather's. I wish his 
 grandfather were alive this day.' And again he said, 
 ' Dombey and Son.' " After this Mr. Dombey, Sr., takes 
 positive form and substance. Mr. Micawber is pompous. 
 Dr. Blimber is pompous ; but the pomposity of this rich 
 gentleman, in a blue coat and bright buttons, is as unlike 
 other styles of pomposity as Anno Domini is unlike Autw 
 Domlei. Mr. Dombey is . so pleased with himself — and 
 his firm — that he is absolutely genial — for him ; so 
 much so as to acknowledge the presence of that other 
 child, six years old, saying, " Florence, you may go and 
 look at your pretty brother, if you like. — Dont touch 
 Mm ! " " How is it possible," asks Scudo, " to trans- 
 mit to posterity, through tlie medium of cold language, 
 an inflection of voice, a look, a gesture, a pause, those 
 thousand shades of art and beauty that characterize 
 the style of a great virtuoso?" I think of this, and 
 nothing but this, when Dickens pauses and sums up 
 " rich ]\Ir. Dombey and Son " in a motion of the hands 
 and that one short command, " Dont touch him ! " Did he 
 crush Florence beneath his heel, her insignificance could 
 not be made more apparent. 
 
 She is not a Dombey. IMrs. Chick is, and Vvdien the 
 
66 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 sister of her brother flings her arms about that brother s 
 nack, exclaiming, " My dear Paul ! This last child is quite 
 a Dombey ! He 's such a perfect Dombey ! " Dickens as- 
 sumes the air of that lady whose immortal receipt will be 
 incorporated in the world's proverbial philosophy as the 
 grand moral panacea. How like a Dombey she is, in her 
 exhortation there in the chamber of death ; how she ad- 
 vises Fanny " to make an effort " ; how she places her ear 
 close to the mother's face in expectation of a reply ; how 
 she touches her, and almost shakes her, in order that Mrs. 
 Dombey may be roused " to make an effort " ! It is very 
 real, this monologue of Mrs. Chick's, but no more real 
 than Florence's appealing cry, " ]\Iamma ! dear mamma ! 
 dear mamma ! " — no more real than the silence of tliat 
 departing spirit, — no better than the closing of this scene. 
 " The doctor gently brushed the scattered ringlets of -the 
 child aside from the face and mouth of the mother. And 
 thus, clinging fast to the frail spar witliin her arms, the 
 mother drifted out upon the dark and unknown sea that 
 rolls round all the world." The reading is wortliy of the 
 writing. 
 
 In scene second the " odd child " is no longer " crushed 
 and spotty in general effect," but sits in a little chair 
 beside his father and talks, and it seems to me that 
 Dickens is particularly happy — if such an adjective 
 can be applied to so unhappy a subject — in the voice 
 of Little Dombey. It is almost the same voice em- 
 ployed by him in Smike ; but what is objectionable in 
 
THE STORY OF LITTLE DOMBEY. 67 
 
 the latter appears to be eminently characteristic of the 
 former. Smite is a youth of nineteen, and may possess 
 variety of intonation ; whereas a treble monotone har- 
 monizes with Paul's years. Dickens's management of 
 this voice, too, completely expresses physical exhaustion 
 and premature decay ; it is far removed from anything 
 groion up or manly, and, having once heard his Little 
 Dombey, it is difficult to conceive how else the child 
 could be successfully treated. The dialogue between 
 Dombey and Son about money is a wonderful contrast of 
 two natures, considering that the two natures are deline- 
 ated by one man, and when Paul silences his father by 
 saying, "As you are so rich, if money can do anything, 
 and is n't cruel, I wonder it did n't save me my mamma. 
 It can't make me strong and quite well either. I am so 
 tired -sometimes, and my bones ache so, that I don't know 
 what to do," — a feeling of utter weariness possesses the 
 attentive listener. 
 
 Dickens is also very effective in his description of 
 :Mrs. Pipchin, the great manager of children, "whose 
 husband had broken his heart in pumping water out of 
 some Peruvian mines." — " Well, a very respectable way 
 of doing it," mused Mr. Dombey, to whose voice Dickens 
 accords a hard metallic ring. Miss Pankey is never quite 
 so much of "a mild, little blue-eyed morsel" as when 
 Dickens relates how " she was led in from captivity by 
 the ogress herself, and instructed that nobody ivJio sniffed 
 before visitors ever ivent to heaven," and Master Either- 
 
68 TEX PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 stone's perennial agony at being borne away "to have 
 something else done to him with salt-water, from which 
 he always returned very blue and dejected," is not fully 
 realized until the author's reading throws light upon it. 
 But the comedy does not get fully under way until the 
 interview between Little Dombey and the exemplary 
 Pipchin, where the old-fashioned child so " fixes " his 
 teacher that she finally says, — 
 
 " Xever you mind, sir. Eemember the story of the 
 little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for ask- 
 ing questions." 
 
 " If the bull was mad, how did he know that the boy 
 had asked questions ? iSTobody can go and whisper secrets 
 to a mad bull. I don't believe that story." 
 
 " You don't beHeve it, sir ? " 
 
 " Xo." 
 
 " Not if it should happen to have been a tcunc bull, you 
 little infidel ? " 
 
 The weird, reasoning boy is seen one moment, the mot- 
 tled-faced, hook-nosed,' hard gray-eyed Pipchin next, and 
 Little Paul's earnestness is inexpressibly droll. 
 
 Although Dickens never waits for his " points " to 
 " tell," — insisting that they shall take effect as they fly 
 or pass unrecognized, — he neglects no word that can be 
 dressed up to make an appearance. Little Paul on the 
 sea-shore dislikes the company of his nurse., and is well 
 pleased when she strolls away to "pick up shells and 
 
THE- STORY OF LITTLE DOMBEY. 69 
 
 acquaintances!' It never occurred to me that tliere was 
 a world of meaning in this final word, and yet, after 
 Dickens pronounces it, its significance dawns upon me, 
 and I behold that nurse in all manner of situations, with 
 all manner of people. 
 
 Solenmly funny with Mrs. Pipchin, Paul is solemnly 
 grave with Florence. 
 
 " If you were in India, Floy, I should — what is it 
 that mamma did ? I foro'et." 
 
 " Love me ? " 
 
 " No, no. Don't I love you now, Floy ? Wliat is it ? 
 — Died. If you were in India, I should die, Floy." 
 
 How the tired head grows more and more tired in the 
 endeavor to remember what mamma did ! But there is 
 hope in the voice and eagerness in the look when Paul 
 points to the horizon and asks what it is that the sea 
 keeps on saying. 
 
 " Very often afterwards, in the midst of their talk, he 
 would break off, to try to understand what it was that 
 the waves were always saying ; and would rise up in his 
 couch to look towards that invisible region, — far aivay." 
 
 Dickens is not a reader as others are readers. He is 
 something better. There is a death-knell in those con- 
 cluding words, "far away'.' 
 
 Dropping the minor and taking up a major key, Dick- 
 ens introduces us to Dr. Blimber's hot-house for the 
 blowing of young gentlemen. He dives into the iutel- 
 
70 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS, 
 
 lectual garden and brings forth plums, upon wliich we 
 feast as if they were a fruit just discovered and eaten for 
 the first time. When Dickens produces the plum, Mrs. 
 Blimber, it cannot be truthfully said that the lady " who 
 was not learned herself, but pretended to be, and that did 
 quite as well," is good enough to eat ; but this particu- 
 lar plum is most certainly good enough to stuff and 
 put under a glass case. She makes but one remark: 
 " that if she could have known Cicero " (going from the 
 bottom to the top of a vocal staircase on the name of 
 this distinguished Eonian gentleman), " she thought she 
 could have died contented." Given a bone, the natu- 
 rahst can draw the skeleton. Given Mrs. Blimber, as 
 she vocally goes up stairs with Cicero, and the mother of 
 Miss Blimber lives as long as we live. 
 
 As for Dr. Blimber, he may at any moment burst with 
 importance. " ' And how do you do, sir ? ' he said to Mr. 
 Dombey, ' and how is my little friend ? ' " When the 
 doctor left off, the great clock in the hall seemed (to 
 Paul, at least) to take him up, and to go on saying, 
 over and over again, " How, is, my, lit, tie, friend ? — 
 how, is, my, lit, tie, friend ? " Dickens defies the great 
 clock by ticldng himself 
 
 Ah, but Toots, Young Toots, otherwise " P. Toots, Es- 
 quire, Brighton, Sussex ! " You may have loved him 
 from childhood, you may have seen him without his 
 boots, and sympathized with him in his unrequited af- 
 fection, but until you have made Toots's acquaintance 
 
THE STOEY OF LITTLE DOMBEY. 71 
 
 tlirougli the medium of Dickens, you have no idea how- 
 he looks or how he talks. When Toots puts his thumb 
 in his mouth, looks sheepish, and roars forth, " How are 
 you ? " I feel as the man in the play must feel when, for 
 the first time, he recognizes his long-lost brother with 
 the strawberry-mark on his left arm. Dickens's Toots 
 bears the unmistakable strawberry-mark. His sheepish- 
 ness is by no means that of a country bumpkin. Toots 
 is a gentleman. It is such sheepishness as only can 
 accompany a voice that appears to proceed from some 
 cavern ingeniously concealed in Toots' s boots. 
 
 Dramatic genius may soar higher than Dickens soars 
 in Toots, but when this heavily good-natured young 
 gentleman says, " Sit down, Dombey " ; when, after in- 
 specting Dombey, he asks, " Who 's your tailor ? " when, 
 turning the crank of his organ with one tune, he stares 
 and puts the question, " I say, — it 's not of the slightest 
 consequence, you know, but I should wish to mention it, 
 — how are you, you know ? " wdien he dashes into Paul's 
 bedroom and blurts forth, " I say — Dombey — what do 
 you think about ? " — "0, I tliink about a great many 
 things." — " Do you, though ? — I don't myself " ; when Mr. 
 Toots finishes his academic career, puts on a ring, and calls 
 his former /iccifZ-gardener, " Blimher !" when at the Blimber 
 party his brain and fingers become chaotic in buttoning 
 and unbuttoning the bottom button of his waistcoat, and 
 turning his wristbands up and down ; when finally, upon 
 
72 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 
 
 being asked by ]Mr. Baps, the dancing-master, what is to 
 be done with " your raw materials," he replies, " Cook 
 ^em" — I fear that I am tempted to throw off my allegiance 
 to the Tragic Muse and acknowledge that comedy is, 
 after all, the greatest blessing in life. The oftener Toots 
 says, " How are you ? " the better you like this profound 
 question. It improves upon acquaintance, and you would 
 very gladly take it three times a day all the year round — 
 before eating. I hope, therefore,. I may be pardoned if I 
 venture to declare that the tout ensemUe is perfect. 
 
 Who can ever forget little Briggs that has seen Dickens 
 mournfully rub his face, — I mean Briggs's face, — mut- 
 tering that " his head ached ready to split, and that he 
 should wish himself dead if it was n't for his mother and 
 a blackbird he had at home " ? That blackbird brings out 
 the boy-nature as nothing else can. When Miss Blimber 
 tells Dombey that she is " going out for a con -sti-tu-tion- 
 al," she is just as comical as such a " dry, crisp, sandy 
 Ghoul " can be, — and more so. As Miss Blimber pro- 
 nounces " con-sti-tu-tion-al " it sounds like a vocal illustra- 
 tion of a Virginia fence. It is here, there, and everywhere. 
 Miss Blimber peppers Dombey with it ; and although 
 nobody in the flesh ever took such liberties with a 
 respectable word of five syllables, yet the effect of this 
 " con-sti-tu-tion-al " is sufficiently exhilarating to. disarm 
 the sturdiest Pre-Eaphaelite. " Se non e vero, e hen tro- 
 vato." Mr. Feeder, B. A., also comes out beautifully in 
 the recitation of that remarkable poetry, — 
 
THE STORY OF LITTLE DOMBEY. . 73 
 
 "Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 
 I ne'er could injure you ! " 
 
 But the old refrain of the old, old-fashioned child 
 breaks in upon the merriment, and while laughter still 
 rings through the air we stand upon the verge of a 
 young grave. The little, thoughtful face, the tired, 
 treble voice, come back and ask, " ' What do you think I 
 mean to do when I grow up, Mrs. Pipchin ?...,-! mean 
 to put my money all together in one bank, — never try to 
 get any more, — go away into the country with my darling 
 Florence, — have a beautiful garden, fields, and woods, and 
 
 live there with her all my life That 's what I mean 
 
 to do when I ' — he stopped and pondered for a moment, 
 — 'if I grow up.' " Dombey, Sr., Dombey, 3r., if one of 
 your type be within sound of that piteous voice, his heart 
 will soften, and his godless pride fail him ! 
 
 To describe a death-bed scene, which is its own best 
 description, is to attempt to paint the lily. Dickens 
 breathes a vital spark into the text, and fills out what 
 was previously an outline. There stands the stern father 
 who bends down to the pillowed head, listening as the 
 child murmurs, " Don't be so sorry for me ! Indeed, I am 
 quite happy ! " — There is the loving nurse who holds the 
 wasted hand in hers and puts it to her lips and breast. — 
 There are brother and sister locked in each other's arms. — 
 There is the final moment when, folding his hands prayer- 
 fully behind his sister's neck, the dying boy exclaims, 
 " Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face ! 
 
74 PEN PHOTOGEAPHS OF DICKENS'S HEADINGS. 
 
 But tell them that the picfure on the stairs at school is. 
 not divine enough. The light about the head is shining 
 as I go !" 
 
 o^ 
 
 1 
 
 "The golden ripple on the wall came back again, andl 
 nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion ! 
 The fashion that came in with our first garments, andl 
 will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and I 
 the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, 
 old fashion, — Death ! " ,4 
 
 " 0, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion 
 yet, of Immortality ! And look upon us, angels of young 
 children, with regards not quite estranged, when the swift 
 river bears us to the ocean ! " 
 
 Why is it that through glistening tears we see the 
 imaginary pillow illuminated ? Why do we know that 
 mothers who have lost young children listen with bowed 
 heads and yet with overflowing gratitude ? Because the 
 reader leads us through the dark valley of the shadow 
 of Death into the bright gladness of Life Eternal. 
 
 Ten characters ! and Dickens fills them all without 
 fear and without reproach ! 
 
DOCTOR MARIGOLD. 
 
DOCTOE MAEIGOLD. 75 
 
 VI. 
 
 DOCTOR MAEIGOLD. 
 
 /~\r all Dickens's Eeadings, this of " Doctor Marigold" 
 ^-^ is, from a literary point of view, the most complete. 
 It is the most complete, because, with the exception of 
 a few paragraphs here and there, it embraces the entire 
 story as originally written. " Doctor Marigold's Prescrip- 
 tion " is given and taken without any perceptible diminu- 
 tion of the original dose. What a happy, healthy world 
 this would be if all prescriptions were equally beneficial 
 in their results ! 
 
 Who that has grown heart-sick at the hollowness and 
 conventionality of" society " wonders why Dickens selects 
 his heroes and heroines from humble life ? No author 
 has done so much to raise the level of human nature by 
 simply laying bare the generous impulses of the lowly. 
 The obscurer the profession, the more tenderly Dickens 
 treats its followers ; carrying out the scriptural prophecy 
 of the first being last, and the last first. 
 
 In rescuing the Cheap Jack from the inevitable ob- 
 livion entailed by the expanding network of railroads, 
 Dickens has laid a beautiful offering upon a neglected 
 altar ; and in himseK assuming the character of " Doctor 
 Marigold," he has made at least one Cheap Jack known 
 
( 
 
 76 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENs's READINGS. 
 
 to thousands who otherwise would have passed him by 
 on the other side, failing to recognize an innate nobility 
 worthy of the highest station. 
 
 Less difficult of portrayal than any other Eeading, — 
 changes of character being fewer, — " Doctor Marigold " 
 is nevertheless more entirely sympathetic, for, to use 
 one of the Doctor's own expressions, liis simple, touching 
 story takes hold of you and " rolls upon you " at the 
 beginning and continues to roll on to the end. The 
 moment that Dickens stands before his desk, which on 
 this occasion is transformed into the footboard of a Cheap 
 Jack Cart, he makes you feel that Doctor Marigold is a 
 man to be loved. How is it possible, then, being en rap- 
 port with his second self, not to love him ? 
 
 To all intents and purposes Dickens appears in a 
 sleeved-waistcoat, " the strings of which is always gone 
 behind " ; and those who may boast of their eyes as " a pair 
 o' patent double million magnifyin' gas microscopes of 
 hextra power," can very distinctly perceive an old white 
 hat reposing peacefully upon Dickens's head. | 
 
 Perhaps Dickens does not give as much color and effect 
 as might be given to the parallel dra^vn between Cheap 
 Jacks and Dear Jacks, — as fine a satire on political 
 hawkers as ever was written, — but the moment Doctor 
 Marigold arrives at the Ipswich market-place and notices 
 his wife that is to be " appreciating him wery highly," 
 the admirable portraiture begins. 
 
 Doctor Marigold's description of his wife is inimitable. 
 
& 
 
 DOCTOR MARIGOLD. 77 
 
 "A man can't write his eye, nor yet can a man write his 
 voice, nor the rate of his talk, nor the quickness of his 
 action, nor his general spicy way," remarks the original 
 Doctor Marigold, so it is useless to make the attempt ; 
 but those who have not heard and never can hear it will 
 go down to their graves in complete ignorance of what a 
 " temper in a cart " means. " Thirteen years of temper 
 in a palace would try -the worst of you ; hut thirteen years 
 of temper in a cart would try the best of you. You are 
 kept so very close to it, — in a cart, — you see. There 's 
 thousands of couples, among you, getting on like sweet- 
 ile upon a whetstone, in houses five and six pairs of 
 stairs high, that would go to the Divorce Court, — in a 
 cart. Whether the jolting makes it worse, I don't under- 
 take to decide ; but in a cart it does come home to you and 
 stick to you. Wiolence — in a cart — is so wiolent, and 
 aggrawation — in a cart — is so aggrawatin'." No one 
 but Dickens would have dreame,d of this conceit. No 
 one but Dickens can endow the doleful confession with 
 such unconscious humor. There never was so much good 
 humor in so much bad humor. 
 
 And what an important creature Doctor Marigold's dog 
 becomes just from one or two references to his extraor- 
 dinary sagacity ! " My dog knew as well when she 
 was on the turn as I did. Before she broke out, he 
 would give a hoiol — and bolt." (The tone of the " howl" 
 and action of the " bolt " are unutterably expressive.) 
 " How he knew it, was a mystery to me ; but the sure 
 
78 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 
 
 and certain knowledge of it would wake him out of his 
 soundest sleep, and he would give a liowl, — and bolt. 
 At such times I wished I was him." As the dog bolts I 
 think I recognize the breed, but, not being quite certain 
 on this point, I shall not commit myself. 
 
 " The worst of it was," continues Doctor Marigold, " we 
 had a daughter born to us, and I love children with all 
 my heart." When the good Doctor clasps his hands and 
 presses them to his breast, as if he were embracing that 
 pretty daughter with the dark curling liair, you feel as if 
 he really did love children. Moreover, you feel morally 
 certain that Dickens loves children too. Does he not put 
 a child into liis books whenever an opportunity offers ? 
 And does he not make opportunities when they refuse to 
 offer themselves ? Think of Little Nell, the Marchioness, 
 Paul and Florence Dombey, Oliver Twist, Little Dick, 
 Tiny Tim, and the many outlines of little folks that are 
 as good and better than most people's real children. 
 Then he has written " A Child's History of England," 
 and I am quite sure that he did not undertake it because 
 children's books "pay." Of course Doctor Marigold 
 loves children. Most expressive of tenderness is the 
 way in which he holds a book to his breast when he is 
 supposed to be selling goods with the suffering little 
 Sophy clinging around his neck. The curly head is 
 surely there, and the transition from the Cheap Jack 
 wit, which Marigold hurls at his gaping audience, to the 
 
DOCTOR MARIGOLD. 79 
 
 caresses and questionings of the father are as artistic 
 as they are natural. "When, however, little Sophy dies 
 without warning in Marigold's arms, and he staggers 
 back into the cart, exclaiming to his wife, " Quick ! Shut 
 the door ! Don't let those laughing peoiDle see ! . . . . 
 woman, woman, you '11 never catch my little Sophy by 
 her hair again, for she 's dead and has flown away from 
 you ! " the father's expression of grief is too loud for the 
 situation. Marigold's endeavor is to keep the crowd in 
 ignorance of his sorrows ; therefore, however terrible his 
 agony, he must surely muffle the cry of his heart. Did 
 Doctor Marigold shout as Dickens does, he would alarm 
 the entire neighborhood. Therefore, in spite of his ear- 
 nestness at this particular moment, Dickens may be 
 criticised on the score of exaggeration. The same words, 
 delivered in an undertone, would be equally intense, and 
 much more natural. 
 
 All liberally educated persons have seen at least one 
 giant, and some of us have speculated with melancholy 
 interest upon the private lives of giants in general ; but 
 none of us knew what any giant in particular went 
 through until Doctor Marigold became acquainted with 
 " Einaldo di Velasco, otherwise Pickleson," who, when on 
 view, figured at length " as a hancient Eoman." " He had 
 a little head, and less in it ; he had weak eyes and weak 
 knees ; and altogether you could n't look at him without 
 feeling that therR vms greatly too much of him, loth for his 
 
80 PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S HEADINGS, 
 
 jints and his mind" Add Dickens's manner to Dickens's 
 matter, and what wonder that our feelings are too much 
 for us, and find vent in laughter over the "hancient 
 Eoman's " extremities ? This " giant, otherwise Pickleson," 
 confides to Doctor Marigold the sad story of Mim's deaf 
 and dumb step-daughter, whereupon the Doctor remarks, 
 "He was such a wery languid young man that I don't 
 know how long it did n't take him to get this story out ; 
 hut it passed through his defective circidation to his top 
 extremity in course of time." Well, I don't know how 
 Dickens does it, and I almost believe he does not know 
 himself, — the inspiration of the divine afflatus descends 
 upon him, — but the complete vacuity of his face as he 
 pronoimces the word " loery" and the languor which accom- 
 panies his delivery of this sentence, absolutely make you 
 as limp in joints and mind as Einaldo di Velasco himself 
 You begin to feel attenuated, and are only saved from 
 long-drawn agony by Doctor Marigold's presentation to 
 the giant of a sixpence, " and he laid it out in two three- 
 penn'orths of gin-and-water, which so brisked him up 
 that he sang the Favorite Comic of SJiivcry Shakey, aint 
 it cold ? — a popular effect which his master had tried 
 every other means to get out of him, as a hancient Ro- 
 man, wholly in vain." The ludicrousness of " a hancient 
 Eoman " singing the " Favorite Comic of Shivery Shakey " 
 is brought out so cleverly by Dickens as to cause you to 
 become enamored of the Queen's English, convinced that 
 no other language, living or dead, can express such humor . 
 as this. 
 
DOCTOR MARIGOLD. 81 
 
 Then Dickens goes to work — no, lie never seems to 
 work, and that 's the beauty of his Headings ; everything 
 comes without any apparent effort — and makes a char- 
 acter out of two remarks. Nobody can forget Mim, the 
 " wery hoarse man," the giant's master, after his declara- 
 tion, in a bronchitis-ial voice, — sounding as if it had been 
 rasped with a blunted file aU the way down, — that he will 
 exchange his deaf and dumb step-daughter for a "pair 
 of braces " ; and nobody can forget the tender humor of 
 Doctor Marigold in his narration of how he taught his sec- 
 ond Sophy her alphabet ; nor the Doctor's account of his 
 loneliness when Sophy is sent to school. At last the two 
 years pass by, and Doctor Marigold goes to fetch Sophy. 
 " The new cart was finished, — yellow outside, relieved with 
 vjcrmilion, and brass fittings." Now the words, " relieved 
 with wermilion," as words, are not funny ; and yet when 
 Dickens is " relieved with wermilion " his face looks such 
 unutterable things that even the most stoical fancies, as 
 did Sophy herself once, that the Doctor is the c-a-r-t. 
 But it is only a fancy. Dickens is the living, loving Doc- 
 tor Marigold, when he starts at sight of Sophy, who has 
 grown up to be a woman ; when he dares not go to her, 
 but rubs his hands together, and, looking down, says, 
 timidly, " I feel that I am but a rough chap in a sleeved- 
 waistcoat " ; when he at last takes courage to give her 
 the old sign, and Sophy clasps him round the neck. 
 ■ " I don't know what a fool I did n't make of myself," 
 says the Doctor, "until we all three settled down into 
 
 4* F 
 
82 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKEXS'S READINGS. 
 
 talking without sound, as if there was a something soft 
 and pleasant spread over the whole world for us." 
 
 That is it. Dickens has spread something soft and 
 pleasant over the whole world for us. 
 
 Having acquired an affection for " Einaldo di Velasco, 
 otherwise Pickleson " (" whose mother let him out and 
 spent the money "), it is with delight that we at last hear 
 him speak. " ' Doctor Marigold/ — I give his words with- 
 out a hope of conveying their feebleness, — ' who is the 
 strange young man that hangs about your cart ? ' ' The 
 strange young man ? ' I gives him back, thinking he meant 
 Sophy, and his languid circulation had dropped a syllable, 
 ' Doctor,' he returns, with a pathos calculated to draw a 
 tear from even a manly eye, ' I am weak, but not so 
 weak yet as that I don't know my words. I repeat them. 
 Doctor. The strange — young — man ! ' " 
 
 "Bottom" once saw a voice. If everybody could be 
 " Bottom " and see the giant's voice, everybody might go 
 about with his own theatre in his mind's eye. Dickens 
 outdoes himself. The contrast between the giant's pur- 
 ple face, swelling with effort, and the trickle of sound 
 squeezed out at the risk of breaking every bloodvessel 
 in Pickleson's head, is absolute perfection. A moun- 
 tain never brought forth a smaller mouse, nor one that 
 was so much worth the trouble. 
 
 What can be said of the remainder of Doctor Mari- 
 gold's story, saving tliat it is charmingly narrated? 
 "When the unselfish Doctor puts Sophy's hand in that 
 
DOCTOR MARIGOLD. 83 
 
 of her young husband, saying, "Doctor Marigold's last 
 prescription, to be taken for life," — it seems very life- 
 like; when Sophy writes from China, "Dearest father, 
 not a week ago I had a darling little daughter, but I 
 am so well that they let me write these words to you. 
 Dearest and best father, I hope my child may not be deaf 
 and dumb, but I do not yet know," — Sophy herself 
 could hardly read the letter with more feeling ; when 
 the Doctor " knocks up " his Christmas-eve dinner, and 
 declares that such a beefsteak pudding as he made "is 
 enough to put a man in good-humor with everything 
 except the two bottom buttons of his waistcoat," — even 
 the occupant of a boarding-house inclines to the belief 
 that he too has had a sufficiently good dinner to be at 
 variance with the two bottom buttons of his waistcoat ; 
 and when the Doctor is startled out of his after-dinner 
 nap by the real tread of a real child, who peeps in at the 
 door of the cart, exclaiming, " Grandfather ! " and the 
 grandfather cries out, " my God ! she can speak ! " and 
 when Sophy, and her husband, and their child, and the 
 Doctor are " shaking themselves together, and the happy 
 yet pitying tears fall rolling down the Doctor's face," — 
 those tears steal into our eyes as well ; and when Dickens 
 hurries away, there seems to be more love and unselfish- 
 ness in the world than before we took Doctor Marigold's 
 prescription. 
 
 " If that fellar has n't a heart," muttered a broad- 
 shouldered, fine-looking countryman who sat behind me 
 
84 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 at a reading of Doctor Marigold, and who emphasized his 
 words by thumping a soft felt hat, — "if that fellar hasn't 
 a heart, may I be everlastingly skewered ! He 's made 
 me make a fool of myself, and I swiney ! I wish Sal was 
 here ! " 
 
BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE miif. 85 
 
 VIL 
 
 BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TEEE INK 
 
 rr^HERE are some things that, once possessed, become 
 -■- so inalienably portions of ourselves as to render it 
 a marvel how any one ever lived without them. Rubber 
 boots for women, horse-cars, and watches are among them. 
 What rubber boots, horse-cars, and watches are to the 
 outer man and woman, certain works of art are to the in- 
 ner man and woman. The light of the world would grow 
 dim to many were certain bits of music, of canvas, of 
 sculpture, and of architecture annihilated. This feeling 
 is especially excited by particular books. Some books Ave 
 approach on state occasions with much dignity and cere- 
 mony, knowing it to be highly literary and respectable 
 to claim their acquaintance. "We bind them in calf and 
 give them the place of honor on our library shelves, 
 where we permit them to remayi undisturbed the greater 
 part of the year. There are other books that we love 
 just as we love intimate friends. "VVe care not how they 
 look, whether they are well or ill dressed, and in all prob- 
 ability we never ask them into the library. But we do 
 ask them into our private room, and insist upon their 
 remaining, that we may enjoy their companionship at all 
 times and seasons. These are the human books. They 
 
86 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 are not too good to speak to us in a language that we all 
 understand, and confess to a sympathy with the frailty 
 of our common nature. Such are the books of Charles 
 Dickens. Occasionally we do permit his two-volume 
 novels to go down stairs, and be imposing ; but when it 
 comes to his shorter stories, particularly those inspired by 
 the approach of Christmas, we oblige them to remain en 
 deshabille up stairs, that we may be talked to whenever 
 we are in a receptive mood. 
 
 Unique, among these Christmas Stories, is " The Holly- 
 Tree." That cold, heartless monster, the snow, never did 
 a better deed than when it snowed up the bashful man, 
 " Charley," at the Yorkshire wayside inn, in consequence 
 of which the bashful man " began to associate the Christ- 
 mas time of year with human interest, and with some in- 
 quiry into, and some care for, the lives of those by whom 
 he found himself surrounded." The snow, I repeat, never 
 did a better deed, for otherwise, by the bashful man's own 
 confession, we never should have been made the happier 
 by his " Christmas Carols," and Boots never would have 
 related the adventures of Mr. and Mrs. Harry Walmers, 
 Junior. So for once the snow thawed when it was 
 coldest. 
 
 "But Boots's story is utterly impossible." "Why, so 
 much the better ! Are not some of the most delightful 
 stories in the world as removed from fact as fancy can 
 make them ? Was not fancy made for this purpose ? Are 
 we always to sit on a Pre-Eaphaelite stump and contem- 
 

 
 < 
 
BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TKEE INI^. 87 
 
 plate a Pre-Eaphaelite cabbage ? Do any of us believe 
 in the possibility of " The Tempest," or of " Midsummer 
 Night's Dream," and yet could we live as comfortably 
 without them ? If no one ever dreamed, where would be 
 the consolation of waking hours ? Fancy is the oil that 
 keeps Reality's wheels in motion. Mr. and Mrs. Harry 
 Walmers, Junior, never thought of running away to Gretna 
 Green. Of course not ; but the charmingly quaint story 
 is as pure and fresh as mountain dew. I would not 
 lose the recollection of that little creature in the sky- 
 blue mantle tucked under the arm of her young lover, 
 who walks off " much bolder than Brass " (with a capital 
 B), for a wilderness of disagreeable facts. Truth is not 
 necessarily a virtue. 
 
 There are three branches on the original " Holly-Tree." 
 Leaving untouched the first and third branches, which 
 are better on the tree than off it, Dickens cuts down the 
 second and brings it into the lecture-room that we may 
 enjoy its refreshing verdure. In Dickens's rendering of 
 The Boots, criticism does not know " where to have 
 him." Search as you may for a weak point, the search is 
 in vain ; and after a first hearing you abandon yourself to 
 unalloyed pleasure. Boots stands before you telling his 
 story in Ids own naive way. 
 
 And Boots is a captivating fellow. I am not sur- 
 prised that Mr. and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, were 
 excessively fond of him, and decided to give him two 
 thousand guineas a year as head-gardener, — when the 
 
88 PEN PHOTOGEAPHS OF t)ICKENS'S HEADINGS. 
 
 time should come for them to have a house in a forest, 
 keep bees and a cow, and live entirely on milk and honey. 
 Such a man deserves such a salary, particularly if con- 
 demned to such a diet. You cannot avoid liking Boots 
 when you read him ; but when you see and hear him, 
 the relationship is of a tenderer nature. For Boots is a 
 diamond in the rough. He is distantly related to Sam 
 Weller. He is a Sam Weller whose natural keenness has 
 received no polish from city life, and whose humor has 
 been softened by sentiment and a contemplation of nature 
 as seen in garden-bulbs. I am not quite sure, — it is 
 very difficult to make up one's mind on such an important 
 point, — but I think that if I were in affliction, or even 
 comfortably unhappy, I should prefer the services of Boots 
 to those of Sam Weller. Prosperity, and the prejudice 
 Tony Weller entertained against poetry, rob Sam of the 
 one attribute needed to make him an angel. This attri- 
 bute Boots possesses. He is a poet in disguise. This 
 is proved by his delicate appreciation of the loves of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior. " On tlie whole, 
 sir, the contemplation o' them two babbies had a ten- 
 dency to make me feel as if I was in love myself, — 
 
 only I did n't exactly know who with I don't 
 
 know, sir, — perhaps you do, — why it made a man fit to 
 make a fool of himself, to see them two pretty babbies 
 a-lying there in the clear, still, sunny day, not dreaming 
 half so hard when they was asleep as they done when 
 they was awake. But Lord ! ivhen you come to think of 
 
BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TEEE INN. 89 
 
 yourself, you know, and what a game you have been up to 
 ever since you was in your own cradle, and what a poor 
 sort of a chap you are, arter all, that 's ivhere it is ! Dent 
 you see, sir ? " " Here 's wisdom for you ; chunks of it ! " 
 Boots's sum-total of life is as philosophical as his con- 
 templation of youthful innocence is poetical. 
 
 "What was the curious-es-est thing Boots had seen? 
 Well, he did n't know. He could n't momently guess 
 what was the curious-es-est thing he had seen, — unless 
 it was a Unicorn, — and he see him once in spirits at a 
 fair." However clever we may be in the specialty for 
 which we were naturally designed, not one of us but 
 desires to be considered as born for something else, and 
 we are never so complacent as when attempting that un- 
 attainable something. Even Boots betrays this amiable 
 weakness. He approaches the word "curious-es-est," 
 with a look of admiration, clings to every syllable with 
 'affection, and only lets go his hold because conversation 
 would otherwise come to a dead lock. Therefore Boots 
 goes on, and the richness, the flavor, the bouquet of his 
 tone is as appetizing as transfigured bitters. When 
 Master Harry says, " Cobbs, how should you spell Norah 
 if you was asked ? " and when Cobbs gives him "" his 
 individual views, sir, respectin' the spelling o' that 
 name," one understands what is meant by the rar§ word 
 "unction." The dialogue between Master Harry and 
 Cobbs respecting Norah, is to the manner born, and child- 
 hood never was more deliciously illustrated than in the 
 
90 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 
 
 air and expression assumed by Master Harry when, stop- 
 ping at " The Holly-Tree Inn " en route for Gretna Green, 
 he gives his orde'rs to Cobbs. "We should like some 
 cakes after dinner, and two apples — and jam ! " If you 
 have ever been a child and loved jam to distraction, — 
 you never were a child unless you did love jam to dis- 
 traction, — and remember how you gazed at it in her- 
 metically sealed glass jars, with eyes as big as saucers, — 
 wishing your eyes were saucers full of jam, — you know 
 ho^v• Dickens treats this cabalistic word. It is your youth- 
 ful asj)iration, your eyes, your hermetically sealed jars 
 reduced to sound. While Cobbs describes Master Harry 
 sitting " behind his breakfast cup a-tearing away at the 
 jelly, as if he had been his own father," you understand 
 just how he is tearing. 
 
 " The way in which the women of that house," says 
 Cobbs, "without exception, — every one of them, mar- 
 ried and single, — took to that boy when they heard the 
 story, is saperizing." (Cobbs is almost as devoted in his 
 attentions to this word as to his former verbal Dulcinea.) 
 " It was as much as could be done to keep 'em from 
 dashing into the room and kissing him. They climbed 
 up all sorts of places, at the risk of their lives, to look at 
 him through a pane of glass, — and they was seven deep at 
 the key-hole." By means of this key-hole, Cobbs unlocks 
 the door to such sense of humor as has not been ex- 
 hausted by the previous drain upon it. 
 
 Great as Master Harry is at the moment of his calling 
 
BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TKEE INN. 91 
 
 for "jam" I think he is equally so when, upon heing 
 asked whether Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, is fatigued, 
 he replies, " Yes, she is tired, Cobbs ; but she is not used 
 to be away from home, and she has been in low spirits 
 again. Cobbs, do you think you could bring a baked 
 apple, please ? Norah 's rather partial to baked apples, 
 and I think one would rouse her." A father of a large 
 family — John Eogers, for example — could not speak, 
 with more confidence, or with greater knowledge of 
 human nature. 
 
 But the pretty story, perfect as it is, will come to an 
 end, and when — Master Harry stooping down to kiss 
 Norah for the last time — one of the many chamber- 
 maids, peeping through the door, shrilly cries out, " It 's 
 a shame to part 'cm ! " that chambermaid springs from 
 Dickens's head as IVIinerva sprang from the head of Jove, 
 and stands armed and equipped for the fray. 
 
 Who, after listening to Cobbs, does not wish with him 
 "that there was an impossible place where two such 
 babies could make an impossible marriage, and live 
 impossibly happy ever after ? " and who does not shudder 
 at thought of the era when universal education will have 
 made such inroads upon even " The Holly-Tree Inn " as 
 to abolish all use of bad grammar, and proclaim Cobbs's 
 occupation gone ! See Dickens in his Boots, and you wish 
 universal education at the bottom of that well where 
 truth is said to lie. 
 
92 PEN PHOTOGEAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 MR BOB SA^VYER'S PAETY. 
 
 " rrr HEPiE 's a destiny in these things, gentlemen, we 
 -'- can't help it," said Dickens's Bagman, upon re- 
 counting the prowess of his uncle in absorbing the con- 
 tents of quart measures. The Bagman was undoubtedly- 
 correct in his deduction. There must be a destiny in these 
 things and in all things, else Dickens would have gone 
 down to his grave before being able to decide upon what 
 selections from " The Pickwick Papers " to make for his 
 Pteadings. To the mind unillumined by destiny, there 
 seems no good reason why " Mr. Bob Sawyer's Party " 
 should have been preferred to a thousand and one equally 
 good episodes. In reading the book, this particular party 
 takes no more hold of our affections than many others. 
 Hence it is safe to conclude that there is a destiny in these- 
 things, and that Dickens was as much born to read " Mr. 
 Bob Sawyer's Party " as he was to create it. After seeing 
 him at this party, the hypothesis becomes as self-evident 
 as any axiom in Euclid. WHiat has struck you heretofore 
 as a diamond no better than its fellows is magically trans- 
 formed into a Kohinoor. 
 
 And when I say " magically transformed," I mean it in 
 all soberness of criticism. ^\Tio ever thought, in reading 
 
MR. BOB SAWYER AND MR. BEN ALLEN. 
 
MR. BOB sawyer's PARTY. 93 
 
 Pickwick, of giving any special attention to Mrs. Eaddle's 
 housemaid ? Her appearance and disappearance are al- 
 most simultaneous. She is a dirty, slip-shod girl, in 
 black cotton stockings. That is all. And what does she 
 say ? " Please, Mr. Sawyer, Missis Eaddle wants to speak 
 to yau." 
 
 Anything else ? Yes. 
 
 " Does Mr. Sawyer Hve here ? " mildly inquires Mr, 
 Pickwick at Mrs. Eaddle's front door. 
 
 " Sawyer ! " slowly echoes the Black Stocldngs, whose 
 mental circulation is almost as languid as Einaldo di 
 Velasco's physical circulation, " yes. Sawyer ; he lives 
 here. Sawyer 's the first floor. It 's the door straight 
 afore you, when you gets to the top of the stairs." 
 
 And is this all ? No ; there is one more scene. 
 
 " You can't have no warm water," 
 " No warm water ? " exclaims the horrified host, Bob, 
 "No," continues Betsey. "Missis Eaddle said you 
 warn't to have none." 
 
 " Bring up the water instantly, — instantly ! " 
 "No, I can't. Missis Eaddle raked out the kitchen 
 fire afore she went to bed, and locked up the kittle." 
 
 Here is the whole of Betsey. From this small side 
 bone that any but a consummate artist would throw 
 away as having very little meat upon it, Dickens creates 
 an incomparably comic character. The moment Betsey 
 opens her mouth she is an accomplished fact. A dirtier. 
 
94 PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 more slip-shod, more stolid, more irretrievably stupid girl 
 never lived. Dickens's list of her clothes includes noth- 
 ing but a pair of black cotton stockings, but when he 
 brings her on the stage she not only wears black stockings 
 with slippers down at the heel that drop off on the stairs, 
 but a short gown, the original color of which is cleverly 
 concealed by dirt, and a check apron, one half of which 
 is conspicuous by its absence. Her sleeves are rolled up, 
 displaying very red arms, and that portion of her scrubby 
 hair which is not standing on end is maliciously attempt- 
 ing to put out Betsey's eyes. Betsey's legs look like sticks 
 of black sealing-wax, as if in mourning for the rest of 
 her neglected person, and are finished off at the knees 
 with white strings. An owl in the brightest noonday 
 sun never was more dazed or more incapable of an idea. 
 A voice never expressed more thorough individuality, for 
 Betsey has a cold in the head. She could not possibly 
 fulfil her mission on earth if she had 7iot a cold in the 
 head. It gives a muffled, sepulchral tone to her words 
 absolutely necessary to make what she says produce the 
 desired effect upon Bob Sawyer and his guests. Betsey, 
 however, is not such a fool as to be unaware that some- 
 thing must be amiss between Mr. Sawyer and his land- 
 lady. Consequently, the ai^ of mystery with which she 
 idiotically glares at Mr. Sawyer, or darts her head for- 
 ward, — like a turtle from beneath its shell, — or slowly 
 shakes that head, is not without solemnity. The amiable" 
 landlady, Mrs. Eaddle, is quite as well portrayed; but 
 
 t 
 
MR. BOB sawyer's PARTY. 93 
 
 something is expected of Mrs. Eaddle, whereas Betsey 
 takes you entirely by surprise. If a donkey lisped in 
 numbers you could not be more astonished. The former 
 merely realizes fond hopes. The scene between Mrs. 
 Eaddle, Mr. Sawyer, and Mr. Ben Allen is a farce in 
 itself, while Mrs. Eaddle's final expose of Mr. Sawyer's 
 delinquencies, as she scolds over the balusters, the rum- 
 bling of Mr. Eaddle's voice, proceeding from beneath 
 distant bed-clothes, and the lady's parting compliments to 
 inoffensive Mr. Pickwick, " Get along with you, you old 
 wretch ! Old enough to be his grandfather, you villain ! 
 You 're worse than any of 'em," — are rich in humor. 
 
 Mr. Bob Sawyer is not every inch himself, for the 
 reason that Mr. Sawyer labors under depressing influences 
 throughout the entire evening. He is as much himself 
 as he can be, considerincj the condition of his mind and 
 pocket, and is really sublime in his impudence, when, 
 seeing his guests ordered out of the house by Mrs. Ead- 
 dle, he turns to Jack Hopkins with an injured look, and 
 informs Jack that it is all his fault, " because he will sing 
 chorus, — that he was born chorus-y, lives chorus-y, and 
 will die chorus-y." This impudence is rather the more 
 delightful for being an interpolation. 
 
 The only time we hear dear Mr. Pickwick's voice is on 
 this occasion. He says very little, merely putting a few 
 leading questions that keep conversation afloat, yet we 
 recognize our old benefactor at once in the countenance 
 that " glows with an expression of universal philanthropy," 
 
96 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 
 
 and in a blandness of speech that cannot belong to any 
 one else. Several young gentlemen who attended the 
 original party are not present at its repetition, Mr. Gun- 
 ter, among others, being absent. His share in the quar- 
 rel with Mr. Noddy is necessarily transferred to Jack 
 Hopkins, and the quarrel is really so enlivening that you 
 long to have it become general ; but at the most promis- 
 ing moment Mr. Noddy " allows his feelings to over- 
 power him," and Mr. Hopkins prefers Mr. Noddy " to Ids 
 own mother" whereupon the combatants shake hands 
 with so much effusion as to strangle your blood-thirsty 
 aspirations. 
 
 Jack Hopkins is what Bob Sawyer would have been, 
 had not Mrs. Eaddle's " malevolence " thrown cold water 
 upon his ardent spirits. He is the ideal of all the medi- 
 cal students that ever had a talent for lying combined 
 with a tendency to black velvet waistcoats, thunder-and- 
 lightning buttons, blue striped shirts, and false white col- 
 lars. The general inflation of Jack Hopkins's person; 
 the professional cast of countenance; the voice which 
 ma^ves its escape as best it can between closed teeth, and 
 from a mouth apparently full of mush ; the hands that 
 are thrust into pantaloon-pockets, as if to be carefully 
 preserved for the next surgical operation, — an attitude 
 that, when accompanied by an oscillation of the body, as 
 in Jack Hopkins's case, always indicates superior wisdom, 
 — are sui generis. He represents a type in caricature. 
 All Jack's medical stories are good, but all are obscured 
 
MR. BOB sawyer's PARTY. 97 
 
 by the boy that swallowed a necklace. Even Betsey is 
 obliged to divide the honors with this infant phenom- 
 enon. It may be doing Dickens great injustice, but it 
 really seems as if he were as funny as he can be in this 
 absurdest of burlesques. The law of self-preservation 
 should prevent him from being any funnier, for, if he has 
 no regard for his own feelings, he should consider those 
 of others, and remember that people have been tickled to 
 death. Peggotty would burst every button, hook-and- 
 eye that ever approached her jovial person. Dickens 
 makes the story ; the story does not make him. The in- 
 flections of his voice are in themselves mirth-provoking, 
 the mere pronunciation of the word " necklace " inspiring 
 as much laughter as is usually accorded to a low-comedy 
 man's best " point." In one short sentence he rushes up 
 and down the gamut most originally. Words can give no 
 idea of the effect produced ; perhaps a wretched outline 
 drawing may. For example : — 
 
 " ChHd 
 
 toys, 
 
 being fond of 
 
 lass, 
 cribbed / 
 
 neck 
 
 Md lass, 
 
 neck 
 
98 PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 
 
 lasSy 
 
 neck 
 
 of 
 
 cut string lass ! 
 
 neck 
 
 of 
 
 and bead * 
 
 swallowed 
 
 Those who have heard Dickens will understand this 
 illustration, and may perhaps thank me for it. Those 
 who have not heard him will not understand it, and will 
 not thank me. When, after hearing a noise " like a small 
 hail-storm," the father exclaims, — 
 
 %/" 
 " DonH ■ my 
 
 do that, 
 
 and the child replies, " I ain't a-doin' nothing," where- 
 upon the father rejoins, — 
 
 gai7i ! " 
 a 
 "Well, do it 
 
 don't 
 
 — fun appears to have reached its perihelion, but when, 
 after shaking the boy, the father cries out, — 
 
"Why, 
 
 ME. BOB sawyer's PARTY. 99 
 
 God bless my soul. 
 
 it's the child! 
 
 in the place!" 
 
 got the croup 
 
 He's 
 
 wrong 
 
 — nothing is left for human nature but to laugh at every 
 pore. If the public eye were not upon you, you would 
 abandon yourself to an ecstasy of delight. Dreading that 
 public eye, you swallow, not a necklace, but a pocket- 
 handkerchief, and rather fear spontaneous combustion. 
 Indeed, this story puts you in such good-humor that you 
 are quite ready to shake hands with your worst enemy, 
 quite ready to withdraw your former desire that he might 
 write a book, and you go home from "Bob Sawyer's 
 Party," wishing that aU parties were equally select and 
 equally entertaining. 
 
100. TEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE TEIAL FEOM PICKWICK. 
 
 npHEEE have been many trials for breach of promise 
 -*- of marriage, but none ever shook the world to its 
 centre as that of " Bardell versus Pickwick " has shaken it. 
 Building his reputation on a Pickwickian foundation, the 
 corner-stone of which is this same renowned Trial, it was 
 meet that Dickens should again bring this interesting 
 case into court to be sat upon by an impartial jury 
 of a New World. 
 
 Dickens's manner of conducting The Trial is irreproach- 
 able, saving in one respect.' In other Headings he has 
 displayed great art and sagacity in the selections made 
 from his novels, and in the trimming down of these selec- 
 tions ; but in depriving The Trial of its fair proportions he 
 subjects us to the "most unkindest cut of all." Assuredly 
 the reader should be the best judge of what is and what 
 is not suited to his purpose, and yet there seems to be no 
 good reason for the wholesale employment of a pruning- 
 knife in this particular instance. What Dickens sup- 
 presses would not materially add to the length of the Eead- 
 ing, while the amount of effect lost is very considerable. 
 Dickens is guilty of unjustifiable homicide. How he can 
 wilfully cut the throat of Thomas GrofQn, the chemist. 
 
 I 
 
THE TEIAL FROM PICKWICK, 101 
 
 f 
 
 thereby preventing him from being sworn in as a juror 
 and indulging in an edifying conversation with Mr. Jus- 
 tice Stareleigh, passeth all understanding. Eobbing Ser- 
 geant Buzfuz of one of the greatest points in his address 
 to the jury is even more extraordinary. "Let me tell him " 
 (Pickwick), "gentlemen, that any gestures of dissent or 
 disapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will 
 not go down with you ; that you will know how to value 
 and how to appreciate them ; and let me tell him further, 
 as my lord will tell you, gentlemen, that a counsel, in the 
 discharge of his duty to his client, is neither to be intimi- 
 dated, nor bullied, nor put down ; and that any attempt to 
 do either the one or the other, or the first or the last, will 
 recoil on the head of the attempter, be he plaintiff or be 
 he defendant, be his name Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, 
 or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson ! " That Dickens should 
 ignore this sentence, which may be called the heart of the 
 address, and is full of just such effects as he best knows 
 how to produce, appears almost incredible. Less strange 
 is the suppression of Mr. Winkle's cross-examination by 
 Mr. Phunkey and Sergeant Buzfuz, although no one who 
 has seen Dickens in his great character of Winkle will 
 ever cease to sigh over its omission. The most unpardon- 
 able sin of all, however, is Dickens's inhuman treatment 
 of Sam Weller. He actually prevents Sam from making 
 two of his best speeches. Said Sam, " I had a reg'lar fit 
 out o' clothes that mornin', gen'l'men of the jury, and that 
 was a wery particler and uncommon circumstance with 
 
102 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS's READINGS. 
 
 me in those days." " The little judge, looking with an 
 angry countenance over his desk, said, 'You had better 
 be careful, sir.' " 
 
 " ' So Mr. Pickwick said at the time, my lord,' replied 
 Sam, ' and I was wery careful o' that 'ere suit o' clothes ; 
 wery careful indeed, my lord.' " Astounding though it 
 be, the little judge does not give Sam his cue, " You had 
 better be careful " ; consequently Sam cannot make the 
 retort courteous. And what is worse, — so bad that if 
 there were a degree beyond the superlative it should be 
 expressed by it, — Sam's final interrogatory remark to 
 the Court, " Would any other gen'l'man like to ask me 
 anythin' ? " is treated with as much silent contempt as 
 if it had never been made. The friends of Sam Weller 
 should protest as one man against this indignity, and 
 demand satisfaction of Dickens. Is this indignity to be 
 taken " in a common sense " ? or is it to be regarded from 
 " a Pickwickian point of view ? " 
 
 It may be ungrateful to look a gift-horse in the mouth ; 
 but when that horse has a beautiful mane and tail which 
 are unnecessarily curtailed by too much "Englishing," 
 should we not demur, particularly when that horse is 
 Dickens's cheval de hataille ? 
 
 Inner consciousness will accomplish miracles. It once 
 evolved a camel ; and I thought, not long ago, that it had 
 evolved this famous " Pickwick Trial " so completely as 
 to contest the honors with reality. I was mistaken, and 
 now confess that I never knew Tiow great The Trial wa3 
 
THE TKIAL FROM PICKWICK. 103 
 
 until Dickens made a panorama of himself, turned a 
 crank, and unwound the entire scene. The eight char- 
 acters that figure in the court-room are matchlessly 
 delineated, while the assumption of the court itself is 
 truly wonderful. When Dickens appears as " the little 
 judge," the theory of metempsychosis seems to be prac- 
 tically carried out, Dickens steps out of his own skin 
 which, for the time being, is occupied by Justice Stare- 
 leigh. His little round eyes, wide open and blinking ; 
 his elevated eyebrows that are in a constant state of 
 interrogation ; his mouth, drawn down by the weight of 
 the law; the expression of the ensemble, which clearly 
 denotes that everybody is a rascal whether found guilty 
 or not ; and the stern, iron-clad voice, apparently measur- 
 ing out justice in as small quantities as possible, and 
 never going faster than a dead march, — make up an 
 impersonation that is extraordinary, even for Dickens. 
 
 Court. " Wlio is with you. Brother Buzfuz ? . . . . 
 Anybody with you. Brother Snubbin ? " 
 
 " Mr. Phunkey, my lord." 
 
 Coitrt. " Go on." This " go on " seals Justice Stare- 
 leigh's fate. The door of the court seems to shut with a 
 gruff click, and the satire is complete. 
 
 Though a less original creation, Sergeant Buzfuz is 
 truly admirable. He whispers to Dodson, confers briefly 
 with Fogg, settles his wig, and proceeds to address the 
 jury. The rising inflection — which, if not natural to 
 Dickens, has been adopted by him to overcome the 
 
104 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 defects of an imperfect voice — here produces most 
 comical effects. "Never, from the very first moment 
 of his applying himself to the study and practice * 
 
 law, 
 the 
 of 
 
 had he approached a case with such a heavy re-spon-si- 
 bi-li-ty imposed 
 
 him, — 
 upon 
 
 a re-spon-si-bi-li-ty he could never have sup- 
 
 ed, 
 
 port 
 
 were he not buoyed up and sustained by a conviction, so 
 strong that it amounted to positive 
 
 cer^ y 
 tain 
 
 that the cause of truth and justice, or, in other words, the 
 cause of his much-injured and most oppressed client, 
 
 vail — 
 must 
 
 pre' 
 
 must vail I ** 
 
 pre^ 
 
THE TRIAL FROM PICKWICK. 105 
 
 The intonation and action accompanying the repetition 
 of these final words are delightfully burlesque. Sergeant 
 Buzfuz draws back his head and then throws* it forward 
 to add impressiveness to speech, while a muscular contor- 
 tion going on at the back of his neck and rippling down 
 his shoulders suggests memories of a heavy swell on the 
 ocean. Truth and justice are evidently convulsed. 
 
 The Sergeant thrills his auditors by suiting the action 
 to the word, and bringing down his hand with a mighty 
 bang on the " box " in which " the unimpeachable female," 
 Mrs. Bardell, is to be placed. 
 
 " Here one poor word a hundred clinclies makes ! " 
 He is no less affecting when, speaking of his client 
 as a widow, "yes, gentlemen, a widow," he produces a 
 pocket-handkerchief for appropriate application, and re- 
 fers to the late Mr. Bardell's having "glided almost 
 imperceptibly from the world to seek elsewhere for that 
 repose and peace which a custom-house 
 
 never ford ! " 
 
 can 
 
 af 
 
 mj," 
 
 bo" 
 
 " lit-t\e 
 If the 
 
 on whom Mr. BardeU " stamped his likeness," was ever as 
 funny as Sergeant Buzfuz's mention of him, he ought to 
 
 5* 
 
106 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 have fully compensated " the unimpeachable female " for 
 the loss of her custom-house officer. The same learned 
 gentleman's 'rendering of the inscription, " Apartments 
 furnished for 
 
 sin gentleman. 
 
 a gle. 
 
 Ill in!" 
 
 quire with 
 
 is such oratory as might move the most obdurate to tears. 
 (I do not specify what kind of tears.) 
 
 A single gentleman is no sooner invited to inquire 
 within than a juror, with an anxious countenance, expres- 
 sive of a profound sense of responsibility, starts up and 
 inquires without, " There is no date to that ; is there, 
 sir ? " If I were a court, I should always insist upon 
 having that conscientious man impanelled. 
 
 Mr, Pickwick merely writhes in silence, but when 
 Sergeant Buzfuz directs attention to him, — "if he be in 
 court as I am informed 
 
 is!" — 
 he 
 
 and aims the forefinger of his right hand at the defendant's 
 head, it becomes a query whether grotesque action is not 
 as difficult to excel in as absolute grace. Dickens has 
 learned its secret. 
 
THE TRIAL FKOM PICKWICK. 107 
 
 The great points of Mr. Pickwick's having once patted 
 Master Bardell " on the head," 
 
 * head ! " 
 
 "on 
 
 the 
 
 and of his having made use of the remarkable expres- 
 sion, " How should you like to have 
 
 yOth ther?" 
 
 an er fa 
 
 are brought out most effectively, while " Chops ! Gracious 
 heavens ! and Tomato sauce ! " and that other very re- 
 markable expression, "Don't trouble yourseK about the 
 warming-pan," together with the Sergeant's surprised 
 inquiry, " "Why, gentlemen, what lady 
 
 trouble herself about 
 does pan ? " 
 
 a warnung 
 
 are received with aU the approbation they so richly de- 
 serv^e. When Sergeant Buzfuz appeals for damages "to 
 an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscien- 
 tious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative, 
 and I may say a highly poetic jury of her civilized country- 
 men," his peroration takes instant effect, and he retires 
 behind a round of applause. 
 
 Mrs. Cluppins is no sooner called than she appears, and 
 in voice and physiognomy does ample justice to i' Mrs. 
 
108 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 Bardell's bosom-friend, number one." She assures my 
 lord and jury that she will not deceive them, whereupon 
 the little judge almost entirely covers himself with glory, 
 by slowly shaking his profound head at her, and saying, 
 " You had better not, ma am" The little of the little 
 judge left unadorned by the before-mentioned enviable 
 article of apparel is quickly covered, upon Mrs. Cluppins's 
 remarking that she " see Mrs. Bardell's street door on the 
 jar. 
 
 " On the what ? " asks the judge in a state of owl-like 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Partly open, my lord, partly open." 
 
 " She said on the jar " ; and the little judge is at this 
 moment a parody on all the legal stupidity that ever or- 
 namented England's bar. 
 
 " liathaniel Winkle," cries Mr. Skimpin. 
 
 " He-ah, he-ah," replies an embarrassed voice, and we 
 meet face to face our old friend of the green shooting- 
 coat, plaid neckerchief, and closely-fitted drabs. This 
 easily discomposed gentleman is surely he who was so 
 brave at duelling ; who attempted to mount his horse on 
 the wrong side, and when he got off the animal's back 
 could not possibly get up again ; who fired at rooks and 
 brought down the left arm of his friend, Mr. Tupman. By 
 the professional way in which Mr. Skimpin badgers our 
 sporting friend and rolls the badgering as a sweet morsel 
 imder his tongue, — the expression of his countenance 
 denotiTig positive delight in the work before him, — one 
 
2 
 
 CO 
 > 
 
 O 
 w 
 
 > 
 
 D 
 
 S 
 w 
 
 o 
 
THE TRIAL FROM PICKWICK. 109 
 
 might believe that Dickens had passed the greater part 
 of his life in trying the law, or being tried by it. The 
 scene wherein the little judge browbeats Winkle on the 
 subject of the latter's name ought to be handed down to 
 posterity ; but alas ! it never can be, and this is the worst 
 of acting — and of posterity. 
 
 Court. " Have — you — any — Christian — name, sir ? " 
 
 " Nathaniel, sir ? " 
 
 Court. " Dan-iel. Have — you — any — other — 
 name ? " 
 
 " 'Sdithaniel, sir, — my lord, I mean." 
 
 Court. " 'Nsi-thaniel Dan-iel, — or i^a^i-iel "Nathan- 
 iel ? " 
 
 "No, my lord, only N&tJianiel ; not Dan-iel at all, 
 my lord, Neithaniel." 
 
 Court. " What — did — you — tell — me — it — was 
 — Daniel for, then, sir ? " 
 
 " I did n't, my lord." 
 
 Court. " You — did — sir. How — could — I — pos- 
 sibly — have — got — Daniel — on — my — notes — un- 
 less — you — told me so, sir ? " 
 
 The contrast between the flustered stammering of poor 
 Winkle and the impenetrable infallibility of Justice 
 Stareleigh, delivered in a slow, authoritative tone, as if 
 founded on the Eock of Ages, is remarkable. Then Mr. 
 Skimpin resumes his pleasant pastime, — which may be 
 likened to a mental bull-fight, Mr. Skimpin being the 
 triumphant bull engaged in goring Winkle, the inexpe- 
 rienced matadore. 
 
110 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 "0, you don't know the plaintiff, but you have seen 
 her ? Now will you please to tell the gentlemen of the 
 jury what you mean by that, Mr. Winkle ? " 
 
 After hearing Mr. Winkle's reply to this aggravating 
 question, it is possible to believe that " even a worm will 
 turn." Our sporting friend, as we all know, is not very 
 combative, but wherever his combativeness may be situ- 
 ated, the goring has at last reached it. Mr. Winkle does 
 not assault Mr. Skimpin, — for under greater provocation 
 it would be contrary to our friend's constitution to assault 
 anybody, — but he does all that may become a Winkle. 
 He writhes in the witness-box ; he grows so red in the 
 face as to render his plaid neckerchief pale by compari- 
 son, and is only saved from strangulation by finding vent 
 for his feelings in the words, " God bless mi/ soul ! I mean 
 that I am not intimate with her, but that I have seen her 
 when I went to call on Mr. Pickwick in Goswell Street." 
 
 At this crisis Mr. Winkle is immensely satisfactory to 
 his friends, yet he is almost as delightful when he 
 endeavors to gulp down the confession that he did see 
 Mrs. Bardell in Mr. Pickwick's arms, and did hear him 
 ask " the good creature to compose herself" Mr. 
 Winkle's attempt to swallow several of the most impli- 
 cative words, which attempt is finally overwhelmed by a 
 stern devotion to truth that draws out the facts with a 
 species of mental corkscrew, leaves nothing more to be 
 desired. 
 
 At the close of this incomparable examination, Su- 
 
THE TRIAL FROM PICKWICK. Ill 
 
 sannah Saunders, "bosom-friend number two," performs 
 her small part with credit to herself and Mr, Saunders, 
 after which Sergeant Buzfuz rises to the occasion and 
 cries out, " Call Samuel Weller ! " 
 
 If conclusions may be drawn from the applause that 
 greets this announcement, there never was so universal a 
 favorite as Samuel Weller. Everybody looks intensely 
 pleased and everybody settles himself as if saying, " Now 
 I shall enjoy myself more than I ever did in my life." Is 
 it strange that many are disappointed ? Almost every- 
 body has a pet theory with regard to Sam Weller, and 
 no two of these innumerable theories agree. Surely, 
 then, it is not astonishing that Dickens's interpretation 
 fails to satisfy unreasonable expectations. People look 
 upon Sam as neither fish, flesh, nor fowl ; as some 
 lusus naturce to be impossibly portrayed. Dickens's 
 Sam Weller is a human being, very like other human 
 beings belonging to the same profession. Sam has com- 
 13aratively little to do in court, yet he is expected to 
 crowd his entire life into a few sentences, that, from the 
 very nature of the case, must be delivered quietly and 
 with sly rather than boisterous humor. Sam never is 
 boisterous, however. If ever there was a cool, selfrpos- 
 sessed individual with a supreme contempt for people 
 who, like Weller Senior, are given to explosions of mirth, 
 it is Sam. It does not necessarily follow, because Dickens 
 has created Sam, that he is therefore most competent to 
 delineate him. Shakespeare never soared higher than 
 
112 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 the Ghost in " Hamlet," and the impression left upon 
 posterity is that he was a better manager than actor. 
 Lee read Ms dramatic works like an angel ; but when 
 he strode the stage, the angel became a walking-stick. 
 Sheridan Knowles was a shocking bad actor. But 
 Dickens is so saturated with dramatic ideas, and em- 
 bodies these ideas so weU, as to render it safe to declare 
 him the best judge of Sam's nature. If Americans were 
 Englishmen, they would see the truthfulness of this por- 
 traiture. But nothing in the world can save Sam from 
 being entirely eclipsed by Justice Stareleigh. 
 
 " Little to do and plenty to get, I suppose," exclaims 
 Sergeant Buzfuz, referring to Sam's situation with Mr. 
 Pickwick. 
 
 " 0, quite enough to get, sir, as the soldier said ven 
 they ordered him three hundred and fifty lashes." 
 
 Coiirt. " You - must - not - tell-us-what-tlie-sol-dier-said. 
 The-evi-dcnce-o/-tJiat-sol-dier-can-not-he-received-ionless-tJiat 
 -soldier-is-i'n-court,-cind-is-ex-am-ined-in-the-%isual-way" 
 
 The little judge covers himself with a second coat of 
 glory, and the text furnishes Sam with no opportunity to 
 establish his superiority over the most stupid and learned 
 bigwig. As before intimated, Sam's best chance of being 
 as slyly funny as he can be is in the expurgated ques- 
 tion, " Would any other gen'l'man like to ask me any- 
 thin' ? " By restoring it, and by illustrating how Sam 
 retires from the witness-box, Dickens might add another 
 green leaf to his laurels. 
 
THE TEIAL FROM PICKWICK. 113 
 
 No one is disappointed in Tony Weller, because Tony 
 Weller's most remarkable characteristics are his " hoarse 
 voice, like some strange effort of ventriloquism," "the 
 extreme tip of a very rubicund nose/' " an underdone 
 roast-beef complexion," and an unbounded stomach. Con- 
 sequently Tony "Weller has but to open his mouth to 
 stand before us in his full proportions; that is, when 
 Dickens assumes the roU. His exclamation, " Quite 
 right too, Samivel, quite right. Fut it down, a we,, my 
 lord, put it dovj7i a we ! " takes the audience by storm, 
 the author's identification with the character being com- 
 plete. He not only talks like Tony, but, expanding under 
 the influence of beer and countless wrappers, he suggests 
 the immortal stage-driver's personnel ; and when the trial 
 is over, and Tony Weller moralizes over it, saying, " I 
 know'd what 'ud come o' this here way o' doin' bisniss. 
 Samivel, Samivel, vy warnt there a alley bi ! " it seems 
 hardly possible that the slight, energetic man, who, a 
 moment later, walks briskly off the stage, can have pro- 
 duced so perfect an illusion. 
 
114 PEN PHOTOGEAPHS OF DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 
 
 X. 
 
 MRS. GAMP. 
 
 T I 1HERE still live Americans who, forgetting the con- 
 dition of this country thirty years ago, insist upon 
 taking their Dickens with a difference. But, young as 
 we still are, — for we have not yet shed our sophomoric 
 skin, — I do not believe there is an American " erect upon 
 two legs " who is capable of writing a book as " a just 
 retaliation" upon English criticism of these thoroughly 
 pure and perfect United States. There once did live 
 such a being. In 1837 one "Ml Admirari, Esq.," felt 
 himself called upon to resent foreign insult in " a satire " 
 entitled " The Trollopiad ; or. Travelling Gentleman in 
 America." It is a sorry satire, yet it points a moral of 
 such homely use as to be worthy of resuscitation to the 
 extent of a few lines of " verse " that now pass for some- 
 thing worse. 
 
 " Ingenious Trollope ! name forever dear, , 
 
 Well known at home, but quite notorious here ; 
 To you, as first and foremost in the band, 
 I bow my obsequious head and kiss ony hand ! 
 0, smoothly — softly, flows this verse of mine, 
 So sweet a name should grace a lay divine. 
 Yield up the palm, ye scribblers great and small. 
 Faux — Fearon — Fiddler — Stuart — Captain Hall, 
 Behold your chief." 
 
MES. GAMP. 115 
 
 Fanny Wriglit is vitiiperously anniMlated as " "brawling 
 Fanny," and Fanny Kemble, the woman whom we are 
 all pleased to honor, is impaled through pages of invec- 
 tive. 
 
 ** Since truth must out ; in vain tlie trutli we fly, 
 We ' can't be silent,' and 'we will not lie.' 
 Wlien known Initials meet the public gaze, 
 And Fanny's pointless chatter sues for praise, 
 The rising voice of censure wherefore hush ? 
 For cheeks no longer conscious of a blush." 
 
 This is American susceptibility thirty years ago ; and 
 although when, five years later, " American Notes " were 
 put in circulation, and were succeeded by " Martin Chuz- 
 zlewit," the indignation of no Nil Admirari, Esq., rose to 
 the lofty height of a book, the press and people shrieked 
 with rage, and Charles Dickens was more roundly rated 
 than ever man or woman can be as^ain, thank Heaven ! 
 It was foolish, unnecessary rage, that reflected discredit 
 upon this country without in any way injuring Dickens. 
 It was foolish, because it was childish ; it was unneces- 
 sary, because, under the most aggravated circumstances, 
 such an exposition is beneath the dignity of a self-re- 
 specting people. 
 
 No impartial, clear-headed reader of the present gen- 
 eration can lash himself into a fury over the " American 
 Notes." He is amazed that anybody ever did become 
 infuriated, and closes the book with a feeling of agreeable 
 disappointment. For myself, I honor Dickens for speak- 
 
116 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 ing the Trutli ! He did not come to America as a politi- 
 cal economist, and therefore did not attempt to deal in ' 
 profundities after the manner of De Tocqueville. He 
 reported society as he saw it, knowing full well the con- 
 sequences it entailed, yet knowing also, as he then said, 
 " that what I have set down in these pages cannot cost 
 me a single friend on the other side of the Atlantic who 
 is in anything deserving of the name. For the rest, I put 
 my trust implicitly in the spirit in which they have been 
 conceived and penned ; and I can bide my time." That 
 time has arrived, and when George William Curtis spoke 
 for himself at the dinner given to Dickens by the New York 
 Press, he spoke for the majority of his countrymen : — 
 
 " Fidelity to his own observation is all that we can ask 
 of any reporter. However grateful he may be for our hos- 
 pitality, we cannot insist that he shaU pour our cham- 
 pagne into his eyes so that he cannot see, nor stuff our 
 pudding into his ears so that he cannot hear. Dickens was 
 obliged to hear and see and report many things that were 
 not pleasant nor flattering. It is the fate of all reporters. 
 I do not remember that those very competent observers, 
 Mr. Emerson and Mr. Hawthorne, whom we sent to 
 England, represented that country as altogether a paradise 
 and John Bull as a saint without blemish. They told a 
 great deal of truth about England, as it seems to me our 
 friend told a great many wholesome and valuable truths 
 aboiit us. Naturally we did not find every part of his 
 report very entertaining ; but neither, I suppose, did Lord 
 
MRS. GAMP. 117 
 
 Dedlock find " Bleak House " very amusing, and I am sure 
 that to this day neither Sergeant Buzfuz nor the Lord 
 Chief- Justice Stareleigh have ever been able to find the 
 least fun in Pickwick. For my undivided thirty-millionth 
 part of the population, I thank the reporter with all my 
 heart ; and I do not forget that if his touch, like the ray of a 
 detective's lantern, sparkled for a moment upon some of 
 our defects, the full splendor of its light has been always 
 turned upon the sins and follies of his own country." 
 
 I honor Dickens most especially fbr daring to enter his 
 solemn and indignant protest against the great wrong 
 that in those distant days spread its virus over all the 
 land, and made America a republic but in name. The 
 ■wrong now righted, our flag is no longer a caricature on 
 liberty. So to-day, conscious that we can look Europe 
 in the face without danger of being upbraided for a na- 
 tional sin, wiser in head, calmer in temper, and with 
 more regard for the amenities of life, we accept the 
 " American Notes " as a record of" a past to which we can 
 never return, and agree with Lord Francis Jeffrey in the 
 estimate which he made of the book in a letter that I 
 cannot forego transplanting to American soil. 
 
 "Ceaigcrook, 16th October, 1842. 
 
 "My dear Dickens, — 
 
 "A thousand thanks to you for your charming book, 
 and for all the pleasure, profit, and relief it has afforded 
 me. You have been very tender to our sensitive friends 
 beyond sea, and really said nothing which should give 
 
118 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 serious offence to any moderately rational patriot among 
 them. The slavers, of course, will give you no quarter; 
 and I suppose you did not expect they should [sic\. 
 But I do not think you could have said less ; and my 
 vrhole heart goes along with every word you have writ- 
 ten. Some people will be angry, too, that you have been 
 so strict to observe their spitting, and neglect of ablutions, j 
 &c. And more, that you should have spoken with so I 
 little reverence of their courts of law and State legisla- , 
 ture, and even of their grand Congress itseK. But all j 
 this latter part is done in such a spirit of good-humored 
 playfulness, and so mixed up with clear intimations, that 
 you have quite as little veneration for things of the same 
 sort at home, that it will not be easy to represent it as the 
 fruit of English insolence and envy. ': 
 
 "As to the rest, I think you have perfectly accom- 
 plished all that you profess or undertake to do, and that 
 the world has never yet seen a more faithful, graphic, 
 amusing, kind-hearted narrative than you have now be- 
 stowed on it. Always graceful and lively and sparkling 
 and indulgent, and yet relieved, or ratlier (in the French 
 sense of the word) exalted, by so many suggestions of deep 
 thought, and so many touches of tender and generous 
 sympathy (caught at once, and recognized like the signs 
 of Freemasonry by all whose hearts have been instructed 
 in these mysteries), that it must be our own fault if we 
 are not as much improved as delighted by the perusal. 
 Your account of the silent or solitary imprisonment 
 
MES. GAMP. 119 
 
 system is as pathetic and powerful a piece of writing 
 as I have ever seen ; and your sweet, airy little snatch 
 of the happy little woman taking her new babe home to 
 her young husband, and your manly and feeling appeal in 
 behaK of the poor Irish (or rather of the affectionate poor 
 of all races and tongues), who are patient and tender to 
 their children under circumstances which would make 
 half the exemplary parents among the rich monsters of 
 selfishness and discontent, remind us that we have still 
 among us the creator of Nelly and Smike, and the school- 
 master, and his dying pupil, &c., and must continue to 
 win for you still more of that homage of the heart, that 
 love and esteem of the just and the good, which, though 
 it should never be disjoined from them, I think you must 
 already feel to be better than fortune or fame. 
 
 "Well, I have no doubt your three thousand copies 
 will be sold in a week, and I hope you will tell me that 
 they have put £ 1,000 at least into your pocket. Many 
 people will say that the work is a slight one, and say it, 
 perhaps, truly ; but everybody will read it, and read it 
 ^vith pleasure to themselves and growing regard for the 
 author. More — and perhaps with hctter reason, for I 
 am myself in the number — will think there is rather 
 too much of Laura Bridgman and penitentiaries, &c., in 
 general. But that, I believe, is chiefly because we grudge 
 being so long parted from the personal presence of our 
 entertainer, as we are by these interludes, and therefore 
 we hope to be forgiven by him." 
 
120 PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS S READINGS. 
 
 As for certain American portraits painted in " Martin 
 Chuzzlewit," I should as soon think of objecting to them 
 as I should think of objecting to any other discovery in 
 natural history. To deny the existence of Elijah Pogram, 
 Jefferson Brick, Colonel Diver, Mrs. Hominy, and Miss 
 Codger, is to deny facts, somewhat exaggerated, that are 
 potent to any keen observer who has ever travelled 
 through the United States. The character of Elijah 
 Pogram is so well known as to constantly figure in the 
 world of illustration, and we can well afford to laugh at 
 foibles of native growth when Dickens devotes the 
 greater part of this same novel to the exposition of Eng- 
 lish vice and selfishness. But if ever Americans thought 
 they had reason to feel aggrieved, the night of the 18th of 
 April, 1868, closed the old w^ound forever. Erank, gen- 
 erous, and just, every inch the man we beheve him to be, 
 he stood up before the Press of New York and pledged 
 his manhood in these memorable words : " I henceforth 
 charge myself, not only here but on every suitable occa- 
 sion, whatsoever and wheresoever, to express my high and 
 grateful sense of my second reception in America, and to 
 bear my honest testimony to the national generosity and 
 magnanimity. Also, to declare how astounded I have 
 heen by the amazing changes that I have seen around me 
 on every side, — changes moral, changes physical, changes 
 in the amount of land subdued and cultivated, changes in 
 the rise of vast new cities, changes in the growth of older 
 cities almost out of recognition, changes in the growth of 
 
MRS. GAMP. 121 
 
 the graces and amenities of life, changes in the press, 
 without whose advancement no advancement can take 
 place anywhere. Nor am I, believe me, so arrogant as 
 to suppose that in five-and-twenty years there have been 
 no changes in me, and that I had nothing to learn and 
 no extreme impressions to correct when I was here first. 
 .... Wliat I have intended, what I have resolved upon, 
 is, 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 the 
 gigantic changes in this country as I have hinte.d at to- 
 night. Also, to record that wherever I have been, in the 
 smallest places equally with the largest, I have been re- 
 ceived with unsurpassable politeness, delicacy, sweet tem- 
 per, hospitality, and consideration, and with unsurpass- 
 able respect 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 de- 
 scendants 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 mere love 
 and thankfulness, but because I regard it as an act of 
 plain justice and honor." \\niat more can the most ram- 
 pant patriot demand of Dickens ? Who is there that can 
 henceforth refuse to do justice to his manhood, if not to 
 his art ? 
 
 I may be accused of having wandered far away from the 
 
 6 
 
122 PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 heading of this chapter, and yet liow can any of us think 
 of Mrs. Gamp without first recalling Martin Chuzzlewit ? 
 and how can the mind dwell upon Martin Chuzzlewit 
 Avithout reviving memories of the " American Notes " ? 
 It seems to me that at the present time such a digression 
 is most pardonable, as it brings America and Charles Dick- 
 ens face to face, and leaves them shaking hands in great 
 good-humor. 
 
 "When Sam Weller concluded the valentine which he 
 wrote to the young lady whom he regarded with a favor- 
 able ey.e, he remarked to his father, " She '11 vish there 
 vos more, and that 's the great art o' letter- wiitin'." In 
 Ids reading of Mrs. Gamp, Dickens seems to act upon 
 this .Wellerian principle, for we most certainly wish there 
 was more, and look upon it as an aggravation. To be 
 deprived of an introduction to Mrs. Todgers and her Com- 
 mercial Boarding-House ; not to hear the sound of Mark 
 Tapley's voice ; not to listen to Elijah Pogram as he ex- 
 claims, " Our fellow-countrymen is a model of a man, 
 quite fresh from Nature's mould ! He is a true-born 
 child of this free hemisphere ! Verdant as the mountains 
 of our country ; bright and flowing as our mineral Licks, 
 unspiled by withering conventionalities as air our broad 
 and boundless Perearers ! Kough he may be, so air our 
 Barrs. Wild he may be, so air our Buffalers. But he is 
 a child of Natur', and a cliild of Freedom ; and his boast- 
 ful answer to the Despot and the Tyrant is, that his briglit 
 home is in the Settin' Sun " ; — not to witness the presen- 
 
MKS. GAMP. 123 
 
 tation of Miss Toppit and Miss Codger to the honorable 
 Pogram, and hear their eloquent outpourings on that 
 thrilling occasion, — " To be presented to a Pogram by a 
 Hominy, indeed, a thrilling moment is it in its impressive- 
 ness on what we call our feelings. But why we call 
 them so, or why impressed they are, or if impressed they 
 are at all, or if at all we are, or if there really is, gasp- 
 ing one ! a Pogram or a Hominy, or any active principle, 
 to which we give those titles, is a topic, Spirit searching, 
 light abandoned, much too vast to enter on at this un- 
 looked-for crisis." " Mind and matter glide swift into 
 the vortex of immensity. Howls the sublime, and softly 
 sleeps the calm Ideal, in the whispering chambers of 
 Imagination. To hear it, sweet it is. But then, out 
 laughs the stern philosopher, and saith to the Grotesque, 
 What ho ! arrest for me that Agencj. Go bring it 
 here ! and so the vision fadeth." — To be deprived of 
 all these inalienable rights, I repeat, is bad enough, 
 but when Mrs. Gamp's identical self is presented to us 
 in a mangled condition, we are impelled to expostulate 
 seriously. Mrs. Gamp is seen in sections. Large slices 
 liaving been taken out of her, she is put together again so 
 deftly as to look like quite a good-sized individual, but 
 those of us who " know her for our own " perceive that 
 she has been " led a martha to the stakes " of inexorable 
 time's decrees, and that her garrulous tongue has been so 
 reefed as to carry but half sail. Such liberties are " Bra- 
 gian boldness," and quite sufficient to draw tears from 
 
124 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 Mrs. Harris's eyes ; but by Mrs. Gamp's own confession 
 her " constitooshun " is made of Bricks, and therefore is 
 capable of untold endurance. Besides, Mrs. Gamp is re- 
 ligiously submissive, as she herself confesses. " We gives 
 no trust ourselves, and puts a deal o' trust elsevere ; these 
 is our religious feelin's, and we finds 'em answer." And 
 Mrs. Harris also will take comfort, for "seech is life. 
 Vich likeways is the hend of all things ! " 
 
 Nevertheless, even in the form of a pasticcio, Mrs. 
 Gamp is exceedingly palatable, for no one knows better 
 than Dickens what ingredients to put into a pasticcio, 
 or how to cook it. Taking that portion of Mrs. Gamp 
 which is to be found in the beginning of the nineteenth 
 chapter of "Martin Chuzzlewit," where this celebrated 
 lady is first brought before the public, the feast is not 
 permitted to be a movable one, but, by extracting a 
 speech here and a speech there, and by addressing con- 
 versations to different characters from those in the novel, 
 the entire scene is made to transpire at the house of 
 Jonas Chuzzlewit. The episodes, the dialogues, are well 
 chosen, — nothing could be better, — until the closing 
 .scene, when the human mind revolts at a gross injustice 
 to Mrs. Gamp, and her great contemporary, Betsey Prig. 
 It was not to be expected from the very nature of the 
 case that the whole of the immortal forty-ninth chapter, 
 " in which Mrs. Harris, assisted by a tea- pot, is the cause 
 of a division between friends," should have been added to 
 Mrs. Gamp's remains at the Chuzzlewit mansion ; but it 
 
MRS. GAMP. 125 
 
 loas to be expected, in bringing Mrs. Gamp to a conclu- 
 sion by the introduction of her difference with Betsey 
 Prig, that the finale of this difference would be given in 
 its entirety. What disappoints in Mrs. Gamp is the ab- 
 sence of a climax. It is the only one of Dickens's Head- 
 ings that is not thoroughly worked up. Extreme length 
 cannot be advanced as a plea, because Mrs. Gamp is 
 provokingly short. Indeed, it may be truthfully claimed 
 of her that she is as broad as she is long. 
 
 " Man needs but little here below," 
 But ' ' needs that little " strong. 
 
 No one is better acquainted with this universal law 
 than Dickens. Yet in the face of what Mrs. Gamp would 
 call a " mortar," he concludes his Eeading with this brief 
 extract from the Battle of the Tea-Pot : 
 
 " ' Mrs. Harris, Betsey — ' 
 
 " ' Bother Mrs. Harris ! ' 
 
 " Mrs. Gamp looked at Betsey with amazement, incre- 
 dulity, and indignation. Mrs. Prig, winking her eye 
 tighter, folded her arms and uttered these tremendous 
 words : — 
 
 " ' I don't beheve there 's no sich a person ! ' 
 
 " With these expressions, she snapped her fingers once, 
 twice, thrice, each time nearer to the face of Mrs. Gamp, 
 and then turned away as one who felt that there was now 
 a gulf between them wliich nothing could ever bridge 
 across." 
 
126 PEX PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 Fancy tlie hardness of a heart that can steel itself 
 against tlie Gampian exclamation, "Who deniges of it, 
 Betsey ? Betsey, who deniges of it ? " when the tone of 
 that exclamation might have been everlastingly em- 
 balmed in our memories ! Think of the mental deprav- 
 ity which ignores that solemn injunction, " No, Betsey ! 
 Drink fair, wotever you do ! " — that turns its meta- 
 phorical back upon the sage proverb, " We never knows 
 wot 's hidden in each other's 'arts ; and if we had glass 
 winders there, we 'd need to keep the shutters up, some 
 on us, I do assure you." Finally, — and this is the rank 
 offence, — think of the inhumanity of an author who 
 puts aside so touching and recriminating a peroration 
 as the following : " The words Betsey Prig spoke of Mrs. 
 Harris, lambs could not forgive. No, Betsey, nor worms 
 forget ! .... Betsey Prig, wot wickedness you 've 
 showed this night, but never shall you darken Sairey's 
 doors agen, you twining serpiant ! " With this jDero- 
 ration all the other reefs in the Gampian sails might 
 have been overlooked ; without it, we 
 
 " will fight with him upon this theme 
 Until' our 'eyelids will no longer wag." 
 
 " Her name was Gamp." AVliat the philosophy of the 
 fact may be I am not prepared to state under oath ; but 
 it is a fact, that, of all the characters brought before the 
 public by Dickens, at his Readings in America, but two 
 have had what, on the stage, is called a " reception." 
 
MRS. GAMP. 127 
 
 These are Sam Weller and Mrs. Gamp, the first mention 
 of either name being sufficient to evoke a round of ap- 
 plause. Why Sam Weller should be hailed with demon- 
 strations of regard is ob\dous enough; but why Sairey 
 Gamp should be honored above the good, the true, and 
 the brave, is almost as great a mystery as the existence 
 of Mrs. Harris herself. For Sairey Gamp is not beautiful 
 to sight, or sound, or sense of smell. She takes snuff ex- 
 ternally as well as internally ; she wears a rusty black 
 gown and a red, swollen nose, and is irretrievably given 
 over to cant and lying. AVhat, then, is the secret of her 
 immense popularity ? If I am not mistaken, the ap- 
 plause that greets her name is the homage man pays to 
 mother-wit as wit, regardless of its tenor. Man, in a 
 sympathetic state of culture, can no more help appre- 
 ciating humor than he can helj) being born. Now Sairey 
 Gamp is a delightful old wretch because her mother-wit 
 leads her into labyrinthine humor, the virtue of which 
 lies in its unconsciousness, and the end of which is ar- 
 rived at by means of a special providence. " II parait 
 qu'elle fait de la prose sans le savoir^ Wlien Sairey 
 Gamp once begins to talk, there seems to be no good 
 reason why she should ever stop ; but she does stop, 
 and always at the proper time. Some people who never 
 wish to give credit where credit is due, insist that this 
 is entirely owing to Dickens, who reports only so much 
 of her conversation as suits his purpose ; but / believe 
 that Mrs. Gamp is a spiritual medium, in more ways 
 
128 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S KEADINGS. 
 
 than one, and speaks when the spirit moves. Hers, too, is 
 satisfactory hypocrisy. It is no " huge translation," but, 
 like her false curls, so visible to the naked eye as to " be 
 innocent of deception." She is her own signboard, and 
 points in the direction in which she is sure to go. And, 
 after all, Mrs. Gamp is not without sympathies ; she does 
 go down to see poor Mrs. Jonas Chuzzlewit off on that 
 " Confusion steamer," the " Ankworks package," and de- 
 livers a feeling oration. Human nature is very much 
 according to circumstances, and, did we occupy Mrs. 
 Gamp's position in life, it is quite possible that we 
 might look upon death and disease from a purely com- 
 mercial point of view, and heartily sympathize with the 
 nurse as she wishes Betsey Prig "lots o' sickness, my 
 darlin' creetur ; . . . . and may our next meetin' be at 
 a large family's, where they takes it reg'lar, one from 
 another, turn and turn about, and has it business-like." 
 
 "When Mr. Pecksniff applies himself to the knocker of 
 Mrs. Gamp's front door in Kingsgate Street, High Hol- 
 born, and the neighborliood becomes " alive with female 
 heads," Dickens's eyes are so distended at the extraordi- 
 nary spectacle as to remove all doubt as to the possibility 
 of such a commotion. Wlien these ladies cry out with 
 one accord, in a peculiarly anxious and feminine voice, 
 " Knock at the winder, sir, knock at the w^inder. Lord 
 bless you, don't lose no more time than you can help, — - 
 knock at the winder," the evidence is conclusive. The 
 street is alive with married ladies, and they cry aloud 
 
MRS. GAMP. 129 
 
 " as one man." There is the lady of measured medium 
 voice and scrutinizing eye, who mentally sketches Mr. 
 Pecksniff, and observes, "He's as pale as a muffin." 
 There is the lady of nervous-sanguine temperament, who 
 quickly retorts with a toss of the head, " so he ought to 
 be, if he 's the feelings of a man." There is the lady of 
 a melancholy turn of mind and cast of countenance, the 
 born victim of circumstances, who sees in Mr. Pecksniff 
 her unrelenting Nemesis, and in a dejected but just-what- 
 was-to-be-expected tone of voice remarks that " it always 
 happened so with hcr^ The three types of character are 
 defined ^\\i\\ photographic accuracy. The old motto 
 " Life is short and Art is long " finds no exemplification 
 in Dickens. He so fully appreciates human exigencies 
 as, by a graphic short-hand of his own, to bring a vast deal 
 of art within the boundaries of no time at all. Thus 
 when Mrs. Gamp's dulcet voice is heard for the first time 
 in answer to Mr. Pecksniff's raid upon the flower -pots, 
 and she replies, " I 'm a-comin'," Mrs. Gamp is her " indi- 
 wig'le " self The recognition is immediate, and the ap- 
 plause enthusiastic. Were Dickens nothing more than a 
 voice, this most expressive she would still live, for it is 
 such a voice ! Take a comb, cover it with tissue paper, 
 and attempt to sing through it, and you have an admira- 
 ble idea of the quality of Mrs. Gamp's vocal organ, pro- 
 vided you make tlie proper allowance for an inordinate 
 use of snuff. 
 
 Mrs. Gamp in the distance behind her flower-pots is — 
 6* I 
 
130 PEX PIIOTOGRArHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 Mrs. Gamp ; but when she throws open the window and 
 exclaims, " Is it ISIrs. Perkins ? " eye as well as ear ac- 
 knowledges an unswerving faith in her identity. Mr. 
 Pecksniff repudiates the Perkinsian theory, whereupon 
 Mrs. Gamp again dmws upon her imagination in the ex- 
 clamation, " What, Mr. Whilks ! Don't say it 's you, Mr. 
 Whilks, and that poor creetur Mrs. Whilks with not even 
 a pincushion ready. Don't say it 's you, ]\Ir. Wliilks ! " 
 I have said that ]\Irs. Gamp exclaims. It is a mistake. 
 This pride of her sex never exclaims. There is an intel- 
 lectual ponderosity about her that renders an exclamation 
 impossible. She carries too much ballast in the guise of 
 that ale known as " Brighton old tipper," likewise of "gin- 
 and-water, vmrm" to give way to anything like impulse. 
 The exclamation of ordinary mortality is with her a good 
 solid period. She scorns staccato passages, and her vocal- 
 ization may be said to be confined to the use of semi- 
 breves, on which she lingers as if desirous of developing 
 her voice by what is technically known as " SM'elling." 
 She holds all notions of light and shade in contempt, and 
 with monotonous cadence produces effects upon her hear- 
 ers undreamed of by her readers. 
 
 " It is n't ^Ir. Whilks. It 's nothing of Mr. Whilks's 
 sort," responds Mr. Pecksniff, somewhat testily. It is 
 very funny, but Dickens is not ]\Ir. Pecksniff. We do 
 not " behold the moral Pecksniff." Dickens's throat is 
 not moral, nor does his collar say, " There is no deception, 
 ladies and gentlemen, all is peace ; a holy calm pervades 
 
MRS. GAMP. 131 
 
 me." His hair does not stand bolt upright, nor are his 
 eyelids heavy, nor is his person sleek, nor is his manner 
 soft and oily. It must be allowed that Mr. Pecksniff is 
 hardly more than a supernumerary in this serio-comic 
 afterpiece, but Dickens always treats supernumeraries 
 with distinguished consideration, and with him we are 
 nothing if not critical. The old bookkeeper Chuffey, on 
 the contrary, who is seen and heard but once, stands out 
 vividly. " My old master died at threescore and ten, — 
 ought and carry seven. Some men are so strong that 
 they live to fourscore — four times ought 's an ought, 
 four times two 's an eight — eighty. Oh ! why — why — 
 why — did n't he live to four times ought 's an ought, and 
 four times two 's an eight — eighty ? Why did he die 
 before his poor old crazy servant ! Take him from me, 
 and what remains ? I loved him. He was good to me. 
 I took him down once, eight boys in the arithmetic class 
 at school. O, God forgive me ! Had I the heart to 
 take him down ! " The fine " points " of this short mono- 
 logue are seized by Dickens. The picture of the meek, 
 heart-broken, maundering, faithful servant, with decrepit 
 figure, quavering voice, and trembling hands, w^hose rul-" 
 ing, passion is strong even in the presence of death, and 
 who can only calculate grief as an arithmetical problem, 
 is painted in natural colors ; nor is there exaggeration 
 in the drawing. No less clever is the suggestive sketsli 
 of Jonas Chuzzlewit. " There is n't any one you 'd like 
 to ask to the funeral, is there, Pecksniff? .... Because if 
 
132 PEX PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 there is, you know, ask him. "We don't want to make a 
 
 secret of it We 'II have the doctor, Pecksniff, because 
 
 he knows what was the matter with my father, and that 
 it could n't be helped." With nervous manner, twitching 
 lingers, and with terror written upon his face, the bully- 
 ing coward, .now bullied by his own conscience, gasps 
 rather than speaks in a hoarse voice, laying liis hand to 
 his throat as if ready to choke down tell-tale words, 
 should any inadvertently escape his lips. Dickens may 
 not be able to look like a Pecksniffian hypocrite, but he 
 certainly can look like a murderer. 
 
 Dickens is not as successful in the slight character of 
 Mr. Mould, because of Mr. ]Mould's strong resemblance 
 to IMr. jNIicawber. The little bald undertaker is very highly 
 tinctured with the essence of the incomparable Wilkins, 
 and although the essence is in itself good, nevertheless, 
 when employed as a flavoring extract, it fails to perform 
 its earthly mission. Tliere is undoubtedly something 
 Micawberisli in tlie vast importance of ]\Ir. Mould's 
 manner, but j\Ir. jMould is too excellent a character not to 
 be originally delineated. Dickens's Mr. jNIould is a very 
 amusing person, — especially wlien, turning to Mr. Peck- 
 sniff, he says in an aside, " Very shrewd woman, Mr. 
 Pecksniff, &ir," referring to Mrs. Gamp. " Woman whose 
 intellect is immensely superior to her station in life ; sort 
 of woman one would really almost feel disposed to bury 
 for nothing, and do it neatly, too," — but Mr. Mould can 
 
SAIREY GAMP AND BETSEY PRIG. 
 
MRS. GAMP. 133 
 
 never hang in the Dickens Portrait Gallery. " C'est magni- 
 fique, 77iais ce tiest pas la guerre." 
 
 Nor, alas ! can we ever see there the classic features of 
 Betsey Prig. The outline drawn by Dickens is not the 
 " counterfeit presentment," but a hasty limning, executed 
 apparently without any careful study of the original. 
 This is the only theory upon which the absence of a 
 speaking likeness can be accounted for. Mrs. Prig has " a 
 gruff voice and a beard," — a mannish voice, if you like, — 
 but is not " a man for a' that " ; and as the author of her 
 being depicts this " interesting lady," she is superlatively 
 a man. It does not for an instant occur to us that 
 Dickens is anybody but Dickens in a demoralized con- 
 dition of mind and countenance. There is no illusion, 
 and notwithstanding that " the best of creeturs " bothers 
 Mrs. Harris, assumes an attitude of defiance, winks her 
 eye, declares " there 's no sich a person," and snaps her 
 fingers in Mrs. Gamp's face, it is not the Mrs. Prig we 
 have known these many years. With Beau Brummel's 
 unaccomplished neckties, this present portrait must be 
 recorded as among " our failures," — a failure that were 
 easily retrieved did the artist pose his model carefully 
 and begin on a new canvas. Should he do so, may he 
 not forget to introduce a " cowcumber." 
 
 " Nous revenous ton jours a nos premiers amours," and 
 Mrs. Gamp so generously overflows the measure of our 
 content as to soften the heart toward her professional 
 partner. " And so the gentleman 's dead, sir ! Ah ! The 
 
13-i TEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 
 
 more's the pity. But it's what we must all come to. 
 It 's as certain as being born, except that we can't 
 make our calkilations as exact. Ah ! Poor dear ! " 
 Mrs. Gamp's "All's," like Mr. Mould's coffins, are ready- 
 made to suit all customers, and are as long or as short 
 as circumstances require. Sighs become the lady's sta- 
 tion in life. 
 
 " When time shall serve, there shall be smiles," 
 
 and whenever Mrs. Gamp sighs, she smiles in obedience 
 to Shakespeare's text. The expression of her glowing 
 face at this juncture defies language, however live, par- 
 ticularly as she remarks to Mrs. Harris, with a pendulum 
 wag to her head in the tempo of a funeral march, " If I 
 could possible afford to lay all my feller-creeturs out for 
 nothink, I would gladly do it, sich is the love I bears 'em." 
 Dore in his best manner, which was years ago, could not 
 have been more grotesque than Dickens is, when Mrs. 
 Gamp's " half a pint o' porter fully satisfies ; perwisin', 
 Mrs. Harris, which I makes confession, that it is brought 
 regular, and draidd mild." Like the warrior's charger, 
 she smells, not the battle, but the bottle afar off, and her 
 whole spiritual nature expands under the genial influence. 
 " She would infect the north-star." 
 
 But there are chords in Mrs. Gamp's heart that porter 
 cannot reach. Those chords are only touched when Mrs. 
 Gamp appears in the beautiful character of wife and 
 m.other. " The blessings of a daughter was deniged me," 
 
MRS. GAMP. 135 
 
 slie informs j\Ir. ]\Iould with a maternal tremolo in her 
 voice, " which if we had had one, Gamp would certainly 
 have drunk its little shoes right off its feet, as with our 
 pregious boy he did, and aterwards send the child a 
 errand, to sell his wooden leg for any liquor it would 
 fedge as matches in the rough ; which was truly done be- 
 yond his years, for ev'ry individgle penny that child lost 
 at tossing for kidney-pies, and come home aterwards 
 quite sweet and bold, to break the news, and offering to 
 drown himself if sech would be a satisfagion to his 
 parents." Mrs. Gamp may not speak the Queen's Eng- 
 lish in obedience to royal commands ; but the sublimity 
 of her ignorance raises her so far above the rules regu- 
 lating ordinary humanity as to render her conversation 
 infinitely superior to that of the schools. A little learn- 
 ing is not only dangerous but stupid ; whereas a great 
 deal of human nature " in the rough," carries a force tliat 
 bigwigs confess while they condemn. Wliat flight of 
 rlietoric, for example, can equal Mrs. Gamp's reply to 
 Mrs. Harris's " awful " question, " Sairey, tell me wot is 
 my individgle number ? " referring to family extension. 
 " No, Mrs. Harris, e^c-cuge me, if you please. My own 
 family has fallen out of three-pair backs, and has had 
 damp doorsteps settled on their lungs, and one was turned 
 ujj smil'in' in a bedstead unbeknown." (Here Mrs. Gamp 
 suits the action to the word and smiles the smile of 
 confiding youth and innocence. Its appeal is irresisti- 
 ble, and we rather wish Vesuvius were conveniently 
 
136 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKEXS'S READINGS. 
 
 near, and would repeat, in a small way, its dramatic per- 
 formance entitled " Pompeii," that we might possess a 
 cast in lava of an extraordinary countenance.) " There- 
 fore, ma'am, seek not to protigipate, but take 'em as they 
 come and as they go. Mine is all gone, my dear young 
 chick. And as to husbands, tJiere 's a wooden leg gone 
 likewise home to its account, which in its constangy of walk- 
 ing into public- ouses, and never coming out again till 
 f edged hy forge, was quite as loeak as flesh, if not weaker." 
 (Could a constant stream of molten lava play over Mrs. 
 Gamp's features, and by this peculiar form of douche- 
 bath obtain her lasting impression, it would be better 
 still.) As that wooden leg goes home to its account, the 
 bereaved widow follows its translation with moist up- 
 turned eyes, while her reference to its superiority in 
 weakness over flesh, is made in tones that carry enthusi- 
 astic con\dction to *the greatest sceptics. After this 
 insight into Mrs. Gamp's domestic relations, it does not 
 seem strange that the thrifty relict should have " dis- 
 posed of her husband's remains" — particularly the 
 wooden leg — " for the benefit of science." 
 
 Lastly, Mrs. Gamp is a philosopher, and shines as 
 brightly in this capacity as in all others. She is a pro- 
 verbial philosopher and brings wisdom to a focus in fewer 
 words than many another of greater repute. There is a 
 sibylline tendency in her look as she ecstatically gazes 
 toward heaven and speaks of " this Pilgian's Progiss of a 
 mortal wale," giving as her text for the sermon of life, 
 
MRS. GAMP. 137 
 
 " You oiiglit to know that you was born in a wale, and 
 that you live in a wale, and that you must take the con- 
 sequences of sich a sitivation." Thus is the whole 
 ground of existence covered. Misery can find no greater 
 consolation unless it hug itself with the equally incon- 
 trovertible Gampian proverb that " Eich folks may ride 
 on camels, but it ain't so easy for them to see out of 
 a needle's eye. That 's my comfort, and I hope I knows 
 it." Soothed by these reflections, we take the conse- 
 quences of our situation, and depart in peace as Mrs. 
 Gamp withdraws from view. 
 
FAREWELL. 
 
 " Should we be taking leave 
 As long a term as yet we have to live, 
 The loathness to depart would grow." 
 
 " i^THELLO'S occupation's gone." The last reading 
 ^-^ has been heard ; the last photograph has been taken, 
 and the camera-obscura, which has done its work so im- 
 jjerfectly, is put aside. There is nothing left, alas ! but 
 leave-taking, and for the last time we sit in Boston's 
 Tremont Temple to listen to the voice that has swayed 
 us to smiles and tears so many, many nights. Crowded 
 to its utmost capacity, the brilliant hall might be called, 
 in honor of Mrs. Fezziwig, " one vast substantial smile," 
 were it not for the clouds flitting over sunny faces at 
 thought of the fleeting pleasure. There is a cordial 
 warmth in the atmosphere, for the audience has been mag- 
 netized into perfect sympathy and feels how good it is to 
 be bound together by a common interest. The Eeading- 
 Stand wears an unaccustomed look, concealed as it is 
 by a Florentine mosaic of nature's making. Eoses, full 
 blown, blossoming, and of every hue, — roses without 
 thorns, — breathe their silent language of love ; the he- 
 
I 
 
 FAEEWELL. 139 
 
 liotrope proclaims devoted attachment ; " violets dim " 
 grow bold to catch a glimpse of the hero of the night ; 
 imperial lilies bow their gracefid heads in homage ; the 
 palm -leaf, flower-laden, tells the story of a himdred vic- 
 tories ; 
 
 " And there are pansies, that 's for thoughts," 
 
 which rear their little smiling heads that they may whis- 
 per in genial Boz's ear the words, " Forget me not." 
 
 We shall not forget the hearty welcome that greets 
 the entrance of Charles Dickens, nor will he forget this 
 red-letter night, the 8th of AprO, 1868. The reception, 
 so full of tenderness and regard, steals away the art- 
 ist's self-possession, and lays bare the emotion of the 
 man. Looking at his new friends, that do not applaud 
 and yet dare encroach upon his stand, Charles Dickens 
 says : " Before allowing Doctor 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." This graceful, characteristic acknowledgment 
 brings speaker and audience still nearer, and the " liands 
 unknown " wish the path, as well as the table, were 
 strewn with flowers. Then follows the story of " Doctor 
 Marigold," never better told, never heard with more re- 
 sponsive appreciation. The story is well chosen, for the 
 marigold is "the flower of the calends" that blossoms 
 the whole year and symbolizes grief, yet turns towards 
 tlie sun as it speeds from east to west. However, the 
 good Doctor's grief merges itself in joy, and so does ours 
 
140 FAREWELL. 
 
 AvLile Mrs. Gamp discourses ; but Mrs. Gamp is a fleeting 
 shadow, and we stand at last in the presence of that grim 
 skeleton, Farewell. It is in vain for Charles Dickens to 
 attempt to retire. Persistent hands demand " one word 
 more." Eeturning to his desk, pale, with a tear in his eye, 
 that finds its way to his voice, Charles Dickens speaks. 
 
 "Ladies and Gentlemen, — My gracious and gener- 
 ous 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 anything for the 
 last time, and I cannot conceal from you, although my 
 face will so soon be turned towards my native land and 
 to aU 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 rely upon it that that spirit will abide with 
 me as long as I have sense and sentiment left. 
 
 " I do not say this with any limited reference to private 
 friendships that have for years upon years made Boston a 
 memorable and beloved spot to me, for such private refer- 
 ences have no business in this public place. I say it 
 purely in remembrance of, and in homage to, the great 
 public heart before me. 
 
 f 
 
FAREWELL. 141 
 
 " Ladies and Gentlemen, I beg most earnestly, most 
 gi'atefuUy, and most affectionately to bid you each and 
 all farewell." 
 
 " Forevermore." "We seem to hear a funeral knell. 
 The sad, earnest words, so exquisitely spoken that they 
 are set aside as never to be equalled, go straight to every 
 heart, and when " farewell " is said, there 's not an eye 
 in the vast assemblage that does not glisten, there 's not 
 a face that does not reflect the hour's solemnity. Yet 
 cheer after cheer resounds through the hall, hats go up, 
 and fluttering handkerchiefs wave in the air, until Charles 
 Dickens, fearing " the httle more " that is too much for 
 fortitude, passes out of Boston's sight. The good, true 
 Commonwealth has taken Charles Dickens to its good, 
 true heart, and there will his memory Qhii\.Q forevermore. 
 
 We follow Boz to New York, and on the 20th of April 
 witness the " last scene of all." Suffering physically, sit- 
 ting, not standing, Charles Dickens goes through the final 
 ordeal, readincj " The Christmas Carol," and " The Pick- 
 wick Trial " weU, although but half himself. New York 
 pays floral tribute as welj as Boston ; New York applauds, 
 and then comes the second leave-taking : — 
 
 " Ladies and Gentlemen, — The shadow of one word 
 has impended over me all this evening, and the time has 
 come at last when the shadow must fall. It is but a very 
 short one, but the weight of such things is not measured 
 by their length; and two much shorter words express 
 
142 FAREWELL. 
 
 the whole realm of our human existence. Wlien I was 
 reading ' David Copperfield ' here last Thursday night 
 I felt that there was more than usual significance for me 
 in Mr. Peggotty's declaration : ' My future life lies over 
 the sea.' And when I closed this book just now I felt 
 keenly that I was shortly to establish such an alibi as 
 would have satisfied even the elder Mr. Weller himself. 
 The relations that have been set up between us in this 
 place, — relations sustained on my side at least by the 
 most earnest devotion of myself to my task ; sustained by 
 yourselves, on yoitr side, by the readiest sympathy and 
 kindliest acknowledgment, — must now be broken forever. 
 But I entreat you to believe that in passing from my sight 
 you will not pass from my memory. I shall often, often 
 recall you as I sec you now, equally by my winter fire 
 and in the sreen, En'dish summer weather. T 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." 
 
 Rise, one and all ; follow him with your cheers, and let 
 silvery-tongued George AVilliam Curtis speak for America 
 as he exclaims, " Old ocean, bear him safely over ! Eng- 
 lish hedges, welcome him with flowers of the May ! Eng- 
 lish hearts, he is ours as he is yours ! We stand upon the 
 shore ; we say farewell ; and as he sails away we pray, 
 with love and gratitude, may God bless him ! " 
 
THE VERDICT 
 
 rriHE curtain has fallen, and nothing remains but to 
 -■- hear the final verdict passed upon Charles Dickens. 
 The impanelled jury pronounce him guilty of all the 
 charges brought against him, and now, as in duty bound, 
 sum them up. 
 
 FIRST CHARGE. 
 
 That as an author Charles Dickens is without a peer. 
 William Makepeace Thackeray, foreman of the jury, 
 claims that he is the master of all the English humor- 
 ists now alive. 
 
 SECOND CHARGE. 
 
 Tliat Dickens is one of the best of actors, and, as an 
 interpreter of himself, stands unrivalled. Our indebted- 
 ness to him is vastly increased by his visit to this 
 country, for he has demonstrated by personal illustration 
 the meaning of the long-neglected art of reading. He 
 has shown us that it means a perfectly easy, unaffected 
 manner, a thoroughly colloquial tone, and entire ab- 
 sence of the stilted elocution that has heretofore passed 
 
144 THE VERDICT. 
 
 current for good reading, the virus of which has well- 
 nigh ruined our school of public speaking. Dickens has 
 done more : he has proved that the very best reading is 
 such as approaches the very best acting, and in adopting 
 the actor's profession he has paid the highest tribute 
 to a noble art, — one to which he has always been an 
 earnest and devoted friend. Charles Dickens is now 
 twice Charles Dickens. He is author and actor, as only 
 Shakespeare has been before liiin ; and the balance be- 
 tween the two may be considered almost even, for while 
 Shakespeare is, of course, the greater author, it is safe to 
 regard Charles Dickens as the finer actor ! Herein the 
 latter resembles the magician who pours out numberless 
 wines and liquors from one small black bottle. He 
 " costumes his mind," as Carlyle once declared, and with- 
 out change of scene presents a repertoire of eighty-six 
 characters ! This is but a small percentage of his Fancy's 
 children, — the dramatis persona of his fourteen principal 
 works numbering no less than seven hundred and ninety- 
 two, — yet it is enough. Nevertheless, were we the jury 
 omnipotent, we would have Dickens luxuriously incarce- 
 rated until he had made a dramatic study of all his 
 books, and was prepared to read them by instalments. 
 Perhaps in another world, where time is of no conse- 
 quence, Dickens may give his mind to a like occupa- 
 tion. With such audiences as he can there draw around 
 him, it will indeed be " a feast of reason and a flow of 
 soul." 
 
THE VEEDICT. 145 
 
 THIRD CHARGE. 
 
 That, gladly borrowing the language of Horace Greeley, 
 we regard him as " the most thoroughly successful literary 
 man of our time " whose success " is an encouragement 
 to every one of us." All reporters, all editors, cannot 
 be Charles Dickens, but did all reporters report, did all 
 editors edit, as their great example reported and edited, 
 then might their light shine as it is not wont to shine. 
 Let those who would know the secret of this success turn 
 to "David Copperfield," wherein there is undoubtedly 
 more of the author's personality than can be found else- 
 where. 
 
 " I have been very fortunate in worldly matters. 
 Many men have worked much harder and not suc- 
 ceeded half so well ; but I never could have done what 
 I have done without the habits of punctuality, order, and 
 diligence ; without the determination to concentrate my- 
 self on one object at a time, no matter how quickly its 
 successor should come upon its heels, which I then 
 formed. Heaven knows I write this in no spirit of self- 
 laudation. The man who reviews his own life, as I do 
 mine, in going on here, from page to page, had need to 
 have been a good man indeed, if he would be spared 
 the sharp consciousness of many talents neglected, many 
 opportunities wasted, many erratic and perverted feel- 
 ings constantly at war within his breast, and defeating 
 him. I do not hold one natural gift, I dare say, that I 
 
 7 J 
 
146 THE VERDICT. 
 
 have not abused. My meaning simply is, that whatever 
 I have tried to do in life, I have tried with all my heart 
 to do well; that whatever I have devoted myself to, I 
 have devoted myself to completely; that in great aims 
 and in small, I have always been thoroughly in earnest. 
 I have never believed it possible that any natural or 
 improved ability can claim immunity from the compan- 
 ionship of the steady, plain, hard-working qualities, and 
 hope to gain its end. There is no such thing as such 
 fulfilment on this earth. Some happy talent and some 
 fortunate opportunity may form the two sides of the 
 ladder on which some men mount, but the rounds of 
 that ladder must be made of stuff to stand wear and tear ; 
 and there is no substitute for thorough-going, ardent, and 
 sincere earnestness. Never to put one hand to anything 
 on which I co.uld throw my whole self, and never to 
 affect depreciation of my work, whatever it was, I find 
 now to have been my golden rules." 
 
 FOURTH CHARGE. 
 
 That Cliarles Dickens has ever been faithful to the 
 profession of letters ; that his career, as George William 
 Curtis says so admirably, " illustrates what Charles Lamb 
 called the sanity of genius. He has never debased it to 
 unworthy ends. He has shown us that he is not a deni- 
 zen of Bohemia only, but a citizen of the world. He has 
 always honored his profession by asserting its dignity in 
 
THE VERDICT. 147 
 
 his name." Asserted by the man, it has been maintained 
 by the author. The preface of the first book piibHshed 
 by Boz — " The Pickwick Papers/' — is a grateful dedica- 
 tion to Thomas Noon Talfourd, in acknowledgment of his 
 efibrts in behalf of an author's copyright. Never has 
 this subject, so vital to wTiters, been out of his thoughts. 
 "With regard to such questions as are not political," 
 remarks Mr. Gregsbury, the member of Parliament to 
 whom Nicholas Nicldeby applies for the situation of 
 secretary, "and which one can't be expected to care a 
 damn about, beyond the natural care of not allowing 
 inferior people to be as well off as ourselves, else where 
 are our privileges ? I should wish my secretary to get 
 together a few little flourishing speeches of a patriotic 
 sort. For instance, if any preposterous bill were brought 
 forward for giving poor grubbing devils of authors a right 
 to their own property, I should Uke to say, that I, for ^ 
 one, would never consent to opposing an insurmountable 
 bar to the diffusion of literature among the people, — you 
 understand ? that the creations of the pocket, being man's, 
 might belong to one man, or one family; but that the 
 creations of the brain, being God's, ought, as a matter of 
 course, to belong to the people at large; and if I was 
 pleasantly disposed, I should like to make a joke about 
 posterity, and say that those who wrote for posterity 
 should be content to be rewarded by the approbation of 
 posterity. It might take with the House, and could 
 never do me any harm, because posterity can't be ex- 
 
148 - THE VERDICT. 
 
 pected to know anj-thing about me or my jokes either, — 
 don't you see ? . . . . You must always bear in mind, in 
 such cases as this, where our interests are not affected, to 
 put it very strong about the people, because it comes out 
 very well at election-time ; and you could be as funny as 
 you liked about the authors, because I believe the greater 
 part of them live in lodgings and are not voters." 
 
 Some years after the publication of " Nicholas Nickle- 
 by," at that memorable dinner given to Charles Dickens 
 by the young men of Boston, in 1842, the subject of 
 international copyright found expression in words that, 
 be it said to our shame, still remain unlieeded. " Before 
 I sit down," said the honored guest, " there is one topic 
 on which I am desirous to lay particular stress. It has, 
 or should have, a strong interest for us all, since to its 
 literature every country must look for one great means of 
 refining and improving its people, and one great source of 
 national pride and honor. You have in America great 
 writers — great wTiters — who will live in all time, and 
 are as familiar t(j our lips as household words. Deriving 
 (which they all do in a greater or less degree, in their 
 several walks) their inspiration from the stupendous 
 country that gave them birth, they diffuse a better knowl- 
 edge of it, and a higher love for it, over the civilized 
 world. I take leave to say, in the presence of some of 
 those gentlemen, tliat I hope the time is not far distant 
 when thev, in America, will receive of ri'dit some sub- 
 stantial profit and return in England from their labors ; 
 
THE VERDICT. 149 
 
 and when we, in England, shall receive some substantial 
 profit and return in America from ours. Pray, do not 
 misunderstand me. Securing to myself from day to day 
 the means of an honorable subsistence, I would rather 
 have the afiectionate regard of my fellow-men than I 
 would have heaps and mines of gold. But the two things 
 do not seem to me incompatible. They cannot be, for 
 nothing good is incompatible with justice. There must 
 be an international arrangement in this respect ; England 
 has done her part ; and I am confident that the time is 
 not far distant when America will do hers. It becomes 
 the character of a great country, firstly, because it is 
 justice ; secondly, because without it you never can have, 
 and keep, a literature of your own." With this noble 
 record Charles Dickens may rightly claim " that the cause 
 of art generally has been safe in his keeping, and that 
 it has never been falsely dealt with by him ; that he has 
 always been true to his calling; that never unduly to 
 assert it on the one hand, and never, on any pretence or 
 consideration, to permit it to be patronized in his person, 
 has been the steady endeavor of his life, and that he will 
 leave its social position in England better than he found 
 it." Thank God that " morals have somethinsr to do with 
 art," and that the genius of Dickens has realized this 
 solemn fact. 
 
150 THE VERDICT. 
 
 FIFTH AND LAST CHARGE. 
 
 That by liis second visit to America Charles Dickens 
 has fulfilled the prophecy that he would "lay down a 
 third cable of intercommunication and alliance between 
 the Old "World and the New." Twelve years ago he 
 wrote of the American nation : " I know full well, what- 
 ever little motes my beamy eyes may have descried in 
 theirs, that they are a kind, large-hearted, generous, and 
 great people." In that faith he came to see us, in that 
 faitli he is more fully confirmed than ever ; in that faith 
 he, on the 18th of April, 18G8, pledged himself in the 
 presence of tlie New York Press, " to be in England 
 as faithful to America as to England herself." " Points 
 of difference there have been," he said, " points of differ- 
 ence there are, points of difference there probably always 
 will be, between the two great peoples. But broadcast in 
 England is sown the sentiment that tliose two peoples 
 are essentially one, and that it rests with them jointly to 
 uphold tlie great Anglo-Saxon race, to wliich our presi- 
 dent has referred, and all its great achievements before 
 the world. If I know anything of my countrymen, 
 and they give me credit for knowing something, — if 
 I know anything of my countrymen, gentlemen, the Eng- 
 lish heart is stirred by the fluttering of those stars and 
 stripes as it is stirred by no other flag that flies except 
 its own. If I know my countrymen, in any and every 
 relation toward America, they begin, not as Sir Anthony 
 
THE VERDICT. 151 
 
 Absolute recommended lovers to begin, with "a little 
 aversion," but with a great liking and a profound re- 
 spect ; and whatever the little sensitiveness of tlie mo- 
 ment, or the little official passion, or the little official 
 policy, now, or tlien, or here, or there, may be, take 
 my word for it, that the first, enduring, great popular 
 consideration in England is a generous construction of 
 justice. Finally, gentlemen, and I say this subject to 
 your correction, I do believe that from the great majority 
 of honest minds on both sides there cannot be absent the 
 conviction that it would be better for this globe to be 
 riven by an earthquake, fired by a comet, overrun by an 
 iceberg, and abandoned to the arctic fox and bear, than 
 that it should present the spectacle of these two great 
 nations, each of which has, in its o\vn way and hour, 
 striven so hard and so successfully for freedom, ever again 
 being arrayed the one against the other." 
 
 Amen, amen, amen ! 
 
 With Landor of old, we of to-day are ready to exclaim, — 
 
 "Here comes tlie minister I 
 Yes, thou art he, although not sent 
 By cabinet or parliament : 
 Yes, thou art he." 
 
 Charles Dickens is a minister of peace and light, and 
 the toast once given by him in Boston is the fitting con- 
 clusion to a manly, generous speech : " America and 
 England ; may they never have any division but the 
 Atlantic between them ! " 
 
152 THE VERDICT. 
 
 In Charles Dickens, author and actor, man and minis- 
 ter, the New AVorld bids the Old World welcome, and 
 thus "putting a girdle round the earth," we say, as the 
 new " minister " has often said, " God bless us, every 
 one!" 
 
 THE END. 
 
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